by Jill Jones
“Kidney?” Adele Quigley’s eyes widened.
Jonathan appeared to realize suddenly that he might have gone too far in suggesting unpleasant details at the luncheon table, for he looked around uneasily at the others. Victoria waited with hidden glee to see how he would sidestep the matter. To her amazement, he didn’t.
“I’ll be talking about these things in this afternoon’s presentation, but briefly, a third communication was received shortly after the letter and post card, but this time, the Ripper sent his correspondence to Mr. George Lusk, a civilian who was chairman of the Mile End Vigilance Committee.”
“But what does that have to do with a kidney?” Adele asked, her eyes shining with morbid fascination.
“What was sent to Mr. Lusk, along with a note, was…one-half of a human kidney.”
“Come on,” Trey growled. “We’re about to have lunch.”
“Indeed, Mr. Blake,” sniffed Lady Chastain.
Victoria agreed, thinking the inspector had truly overstepped the bounds of good taste, but she said nothing. She found it rather amusing, in a macabre sort of way, and waited to watch Jonathan Blake bury himself.
“I apologize,” Jonathan said, sounding sincere. “We should wait until later…”
“Oh, no,” Adele pressed. “Was it…was the kidney from one of those poor murdered women?”
Jonathan paused, now looking seriously distressed. He nodded slightly. “Yes,” he said in a low voice, “it was.”
The wait staff arrived at that moment, bearing trays of steaming hot pastries. “Oh, at last,” Roger Hammersmith exclaimed, obviously relieved to be able to change the subject. “What have we here?” he asked as the waiter placed one in front of him.
“House specialty, sir. Steak and kidney pie.”
Chapter Four
Sandringham, Norfolk
Fourth June 1883
After meeting today with the Prince, I must admit to these pages my trepidation in the matter of his education. I must not fail, and yet, all that his former tutor Dalton relayed to me appears to be true. He seems to be distinctly dull-witted and absent minded, a tabula rasa, as he is called behind his back—an empty mind. It is Dalton’s opinion that he simply cannot learn.
And yet there is something behind his dark eyes that reaches into my soul and makes my heart ache for him, for in him I sense a kindred spirit. According to Dalton, the Prince’s father makes fun of him, calling him “Collars and Cuffs” in disparaging reference to the high collars and wide cuffs he wears in an effort to disguise a too-long neck and arms. Having been the brunt of my own father’s derision, I can guess how this fragile boy must suffer. Perhaps it is this mutual anguish that will bind us together and allow me to succeed where Dalton and others have failed.
As he listened to the inspector’s presentation later that afternoon, he followed the story closely, keeping an ear out for mistakes, for he’d read the true account a thousand times in the old book and knew by heart what had really taken place in Whitechapel over a hundred years ago. It had first been nothing more than a fascinating tale, until he began to feel the pull of his ancestor’s emotion, instilling in him a sense that one day he must follow in his footsteps.
He straightened in his chair as a profound notion suddenly struck him, nearly taking his breath away. “One day” was now. It was no accident that he’d been summoned to this symposium. He was being called to his destiny at last.
It was an unsettling notion, although exciting. Nervous perspiration dampened his skin, and his heart thundered in his chest. His destiny. Was he ready? He had read and memorized the words of the master. He had practiced the skills, but only once. Did he have what it would take to step into the very substantial shoes of a legend?
His mind raced as he considered the challenge. Yes. It was unquestionable. His time had come. Tonight, here in London, in Whitechapel where it all began, he must take up the knife and assume the legacy of the man whose tormented life paralleled his own in so many ways. The work had brought consolation and relief to the master; perhaps it would bring an end to the anguish and despair that had been his hidden companions for as long as he could remember.
By the end of the afternoon, Jonathan was ready for a stiff drink, but he didn’t dare seek one in the hotel lounge. As he passed by, he could see it was packed with symposium attendees. Although he had given them a complete and intensive crash course in Ripperology, and in spite of the dozens of questions he had fielded afterward, their appetite for information seemed insatiable. He knew he would be assailed if he showed up in the bar. He felt badly, too, about the incident at lunch, and he didn’t relish the thought of running into those poor souls again. No one had touched their savory pie except him.
Entering an elevator, he considered skipping the dinner and costume ball that evening, for he was hungry only for the quiet sanctuary of his own small flat. PR was far more demanding than police work, he decided. He was beat. He’d made the presentation. He’d done his duty. The Commissioner would never know if he cut out now.
Just as the elevator doors began to close, he saw a slender woman in a deep red suit walk into the lobby and search the various seating areas as if looking for someone. Unexpectedly, his heart took a tumble. Victoria Thomas. He was surprised at his reaction to her. He remembered her scarcely concealed hostility toward him before lunch, and he was certain he had mortified her with the kidney incident. She’d made it clear she didn’t like him much. But all afternoon during his presentation, his gaze had returned repeatedly to her. He couldn’t help it. He didn’t understand his attraction to her, but it was there and it was real.
She turned and began to walk toward the elevator, and without thinking he stuck his hand between the doors, sending them open again.
“Going up?”
She hesitated a moment, then smiled tenuously and nodded. “Yes. Thank you for holding the elevator. Sixth floor, please.”
An awkward silence stretched between them as they began to ascend. Jonathan looked up at the lighted panel indicating the floor numbers as they passed, trying to ignore the seduction of the light floral scent that surrounded her. He glanced in her direction to see she, too, was staring at the panel. “Have you ever noticed how people in an elevator never speak? They just stand there and watch the numbers.”
She smiled. “That’s true. I didn’t mean to be rude. I enjoyed your presentation this afternoon, Mr. Blake,” she said. “Very detailed and engrossing. Are you sure you haven’t deduced who committed the crimes?”
Jonathan took this as high praise coming from her. He hoped she was sincere. During the afternoon session, he had tried hard not to dwell on the importance of scientific method, in deference to his respect for her kind of work. Criminal profiling wasn’t for him, but he knew many excellent professionals in the field who used it with good results.
“I have my pet suspects, just like everyone else.” The doors opened, but suddenly Jonathan was not ready to let her go. “Who are yours?” he asked, following her out of the elevator.
“Well, professionally speaking, I’d have to go along with John Douglas’s profile on him.”
“Who’s John Douglas?”
“One of the pioneers in profiling with the FBI,” she replied. “He thinks it was someone from the area, an asocial loner who hated women, who was probably raised in a family with a domineering, perhaps alcoholic mother and a weak or absent father.”
“Sounds like a stereotype to me.”
She scowled. “Of course it is, in a way. Profilers look for patterns, similarities in behavioral traits among perpetrators of sexual crimes, and a great number of them fit this type.”
Jonathan didn’t want to offend her again, so he dropped further protest, although he thought the traits she’d listed were nothing particularly unusual or revolutionary.
“You said ‘professionally.’ Do you have another opinion…personally?”
She gave him an amused look. “I’ve always been partial to the theory that
the Prince did it. It’s the most romantic hypothesis at any rate. But I doubt if you have room for such romanticism in your own investigation.”
Jonathan didn’t respond to her little barb, because what she said was true. “It’s a tantalizing theory, that there was a royal cover-up, but there’s not a shred of hard evidence to support it,” he said. “In fact, there is no hard evidence to support any of the major speculations.”
She cocked her head to one side. “Then I guess we’ll never know for sure, will we?”
“Not unless something new turns up.”
“Like what?” She looked skeptical.
Jonathan had never told a soul about his continuing search for that evidence. His colleagues already thought him daft for his obsessive interest in the Ripper murders. But suddenly he felt compelled to reveal his folly to this woman, a virtual stranger.
“I…ah…have a standing order at Roger Hammersmith’s bookshop for anything that might be relevant to the subject. Roger buys entire libraries from England’s old estates and noble families,” he said, feeling a little foolish. But he went on. “I’m hoping that one day, the missing police files might surface. Or an authentic diary. Something that could be forensically tested that would lead to a definitive identification the Ripper.”
“Missing police files? You think they were deliberately removed? I thought you said today they were lost when Scotland Yard moved premises to New Scotland Yard.”
“I gave the official line.”
Victoria looked intrigued. “What are you implying? Do you believe there was a cover-up?”
“I don’t believe anything until I have proof.”
“Of course not.”
“But I do believe it is suspicious that those particular papers disappeared.”
“Be careful. You’re bordering on speculation.” Her lips parted in a smile, and Jonathan was overcome by an urge to reach out and touch them. But he didn’t.
“Speculation based on fact,” he went on, trying to ignore the disturbing effect she was having on him. “There are other papers missing that might have some bearing on the case as well.”
“Oh?”
“The Prince was in very ill health during the time of the murders,” he said. “Syphilis. But although the physician to the royals, Dr. Gull, kept meticulous notes about other family members, there seems to be nothing in his records to indicate he treated Prince Albert Victor Edward for anything other than an early bout with typhoid fever.”
“What does that have to do with the murders?”
“Victims of syphilis, in the final stages, go insane. I’m not saying the Prince was Jack the Ripper. All I’m saying is that his medical records are missing, as well as the police records. Don’t you find that an odd coincidence?”
“You’re speculating again. If there was some kind of a cover-up, don’t you think those papers would have been destroyed?”
He found it odd to be talking so easily to her. Normally, he was shy around women he didn’t know well. “I suppose you are right,” he admitted. “But I just can’t seem to give it up. I think one day, those papers, or something definitive, is going to show up in some long-forgotten file, or in a chest stored in someone’s attic or a cache buried behind a barn.”
“Now who’s being romantic?”
“Well, yes,” he said, suddenly abashed. “I suppose I am.” He hadn’t meant to act like an overeager schoolboy. He looked at his watch. “I’m sorry to have kept you so long.” Liar. He wanted to detain her longer, but he feared he might make an ass of himself. “I must go now. I have some telephone calls to make on one of my cases.”
“Not me. I’m under strict orders not to call in.” Another smile lit her lips, tilting the edges upward in the most tantalizing manner. “My boss ordered me to take this vacation, so I guess I’d better follow his wishes.”
“Sounds like a great sort of boss,” Jonathan replied, watching those lips. “But attending a Jack the Ripper symposium seems an odd notion of a holiday for someone in your line of work.”
She laughed. “My boss didn’t know about that part. But in truth, this weekend’s event is relaxation of a sort for me. The crime is in the past, not something I’m pressured to solve in order to stop a killer. With this, I can just enjoy playing with the possibilities, even if it is a crime that can never be solved.”
“Maybe.”
At that moment, the doors to the elevator opened again, and Trey Delaney emerged. “There you are,” he said to Victoria, taking in the pair of them with his dark gaze. “I see I’ve fallen down on the job,” he said, placing an arm possessively around her shoulder. “Sorry. I had an errand to run. Everything okay?”
For the first time, Jonathan saw Victoria’s composure slip. She acted as if she were a little embarrassed to be caught alone with him, and he wondered uncomfortably if Trey Delaney was the jealous type.
“I’m fine,” she said. “We were just talking about the possibility of finding new evidence to prove the identity of Jack the Ripper.”
Delaney gave Jonathan an appraising look. “What kind of evidence?”
Jonathan had no interest in confiding in this man as he had just done with Victoria. What was their relationship? he wondered. He downplayed his answer. “It’s unlikely that any evidence will ever surface, but it would be interesting if those missing police records I mentioned today turned up. Or an authentic diary.”
Trey laughed. “Fat chance. I hardly think Jack the Ripper was the type to keep a diary.” He turned to Victoria. “Come on. It’s time to get ready for the big bash tonight.”
Victoria hesitated, then looked up at Jonathan, her amber eyes wider than he’d seen them, her expression softer. “I’d be interested in discussing this further with you. You are coming to the costume ball, aren’t you?”
Victoria was disturbed by the strength of her attraction to Jonathan Blake. Even this morning, when she’d been irked by what she perceived to be his condescending manner, she’d felt it. And it grew stronger during the afternoon session, when he repeatedly looked in her direction. Just now, in the corridor of the hotel, even though their conversation had been purely academic, her insides had been turning little flip-flops.
She had no room in her busy life for romance, she warned herself. And she wasn’t interested in a weekend fling. Still, she couldn’t shake thoughts of him as she donned the elegant costume for the gala ball.
Victoria hadn’t tried on the dress she’d rented in DC; she’d been in too great a hurry. She hoped it was presentable. She raised it over her head, and in a rustle of satin and velvet, the rich golden garment fell over her shoulders, its skirts tumbling to her ankles. She blinked when she looked in the mirror. It fit her like a second skin. “Oh, dear,” she murmured at what she saw.
Always careful in her manner of dress, Victoria avoided anything that could be considered sexy. She considered it unprofessional. The only things she owned that were sexy were certain pieces of her favorite underwear that nobody saw but her. But this costume was more than sexy. It was way sexy. On the hanger in the costume shop, it had looked like it came from the wardrobe of a perfectly proper Victorian lady. But on her body, it projected a completely different image.
It had a high lace collar, but the open pattern of the lace was unlined at the top of the bodice, and it dipped in the front to a dangerous V just at her cleavage, revealing curves she normally kept hidden. Velvet and satin took over at that point, cleverly cut to accentuate the roundness of her breasts and the narrowness of her waist. Behind was a large bustle that made her doubt she would be able to sit down, but which showcased her derriere in a surprisingly appealing manner. Victoria had thought the Victorians were prim and proper. The costume designer must have taken some license with this dress.
“Oh, dear,” she said again, wishing she’d chosen something more demure. But it was too late now. It didn’t much matter anyway, she told herself. She was with Trey, and he probably wouldn’t even notice. But the image of Jonatha
n Blake stole into her mind again, and she suspected he would notice. An unfamiliar sensation rippled through her, a mix of excitement and anticipation, and she was too honest to deny that she wanted him to notice.
Twenty minutes later, as she was arranging a coil of dark hair in her final attempt to look like a member of Victorian society, she heard a knock at the door. She opened it to find Trey in full period costume looking as dapper as any young noble of the time ever could. Dapper. And sexy. Funny, she’d never noticed Trey was that good looking.
“Damn,” she uttered, ushering him in. “You’re a real lady-killer tonight.” She took in every inch of him, from the high round hat to the white spats and elegant walking cane. She should have known a costume ball would strike Trey’s fancy, for he had never dealt well with reality. He was sweet, but irresponsible, and lived his life as if it were some kind of game.
His eyes traveled approvingly over the length of her body as well. “Your mother would wash your mouth with soap,” he remarked, kissing her on the cheek. “Been around the cops too long.” He eyed her again. “You’re a knockout yourself, Tori. You look real sexy in that. Now I know why you wanted an escort. I’ll have my hands full tonight keeping the men away.”
Heat rose in her cheeks. She didn’t want Trey to think she was a knockout. Or sexy. Those were inappropriate descriptions coming from someone in a brother/protector role. She reached for the wrap that went with the outfit, and Trey draped it over her shoulders.
“That’s a good idea,” he said with a slanted smile. “I don’t want to have to work too hard tonight.”
The Sherlockian society had chosen this hotel as the venue for the conference because of its authentic Victorian ambience, and as she descended the stairs with Trey, Victoria had the peculiar sensation that she was stepping back into the golden age of the queen whose name she bore. Gas lamps, not electricity, illumined the mirrored corridors, shedding a magical glow on the richly polished mahogany of the furnishings. They strode over ornate Oriental carpeting which she suspected was laid when the hotel was built over a century before. The sumptuous decor was embellished with large and lush tropical greenery, hothouse plants that would not survive naturally in any English garden.