by Amy Cross
“Yes,” I tell her. “Yes, it is quite wrong and unnatural. You should be ashamed of yourself.”
She lowers her head, and I am sure that my words have cut through to her.
Still, she seems to be a more unusual woman than I had ever realized. In the past, whenever I met her in the street with her husband, she would be mostly quiet save for some outbursts of over-exuberance. Now I find that she possesses some degree of depth, and that she is thoughtful, and that for a woman she seems unusually perceptive and self-critical. These qualities can be troublesome in a wife, of course, and I am starting to realize that Culpepper must have had his hands full. Perhaps I am starting to understand why he used to strike her.
“It's a boy, you know,” she says suddenly.
“I beg your pardon?”
“In here.” She places a hand across her belly, drawing my gaze. “I know. I don't know how I know. I just do. Tell me, do you think a mother's intuition can perhaps give her some insight into such things?”
“Of course not,” I reply. “There is no such instinct.”
“But there might be.”
“There is no science to support just a thing.”
“And yet I feel it.”
“That is an illusion,” I tell her. “You wish it to be so, and therefore you imagine various symptoms. In truth, the child is connected to you merely by a single cord that runs into its belly. There can be no emotional connection, no instinct, whatsoever.”
“You seem so certain,” she says meekly, setting her other hand on her belly as if she thinks she might feel something. She is of course far too early in her pregnancy to show, let alone to feel the child's kicks.
I open my mouth to explain why I am right, but suddenly I am very much aware that my eyes feel dusty. I have been careful not to blink for several minutes now, and this has left me with an extremely unpleasant sensation. Indeed, as I sit here now, I have to fight constantly to resist the urge to close my eyes for even a second.
“Are you alright?” Delilah asks.
“Of course,” I reply. “Why do you ask?”
“Your eyes...”
She hesitates, and a moment later I lose my focus and make the mistake of blinking. I see Catherine, of course, as if the dream is leaking into this real world. And she is getting closer.
“Might I speak to him?” Delilah asks suddenly.
“To whom?”
“To... him...”
At first, I assume she cannot possibly mean Jack, but then it occurs to me that I have once again under-estimated her. Perhaps, in some pathetic way, she actually believes that Jack has value.
“That is out of the question,” I tell her.
“Only for a moment.”
“To say what?”
“That would be private between the two of us.” She hesitates, and I believe she might even be blushing. “I know I am not reacting properly,” she adds, “but I wish to speak to Jack alone.”
“He is from the street,” I point out, “and just an hour or so ago he killed your husband in cold blood.”
“I know.” Again, she looks down at her hands. “I know, I know. It's just that for some reason I feel drawn to him. I should like to hear him explain why he did what he did, so that I might better understand. I think I should like very much to hear the explanation in his own words, and in his own voice.”
As she says those words, it is I who reach a better understanding. She might not be willing to admit so much, not openly, but I believe Delilah Culpepper is actually pleased that her husband is dead. She knows she cannot celebrate, but at the same time she can only do so much to hide her true feelings. The whole situation is quite extraordinary, and for a moment I am minded to wonder whether Delilah is in fact a very deep and thoughtful woman. She cannot be, of course, but this is certainly the impression she gives.
“You must wait here,” I tell her.
“I should like to get some air.”
“And you shall in due course, but please... Just wait here for a short while.”
She hesitates, as if she means to argue with me, but then she nods obediently.
Getting to my feet, I take a moment to adjust my shirt before heading over to the closed door. The room is so utterly silent, save for the sound of the floorboards creaking beneath my feet, and this silence compels me to wonder whether I might say a few more things to the woman, just to set her mind at ease. When I glance back at her, however, I realize that it makes no difference whether or not she is at ease. All that matters is that she remains here until I am ready for her. And barring one or two complications, I shall be ready for her very soon.
After a moment, as she begins to sob, I cannot help but look once again at her belly. Perhaps that awful dream earlier was a sign, a way for my mind to show me the way. I cannot give up yet, and the final solution to this nightmare is growing in soft tissue before me. All that remains is for me to extract that solution and prepare it for Catherine.
Chapter Seventeen
Maddie
Today
“Where the hell have you been?” Alex yells excitedly, rushing over to me before I've even got to my feet after climbing through the broken window. “Maddie, this craziness just got really real!”
“Actually -”
“We've hit the jackpot!” she adds, grabbing me by the shoulders and shaking me hard. “This is so unreal, my head is spinning!”
“What's wrong?” I ask, pulling away. “Alex, can you just calm down and tell me what happened?”
“This way!”
Grabbing my arm, she starts pulling me toward the door on the far side of the hallway, but I quickly slip free.
“Maddie, you have to see this!” she continues, trying again to grab my arm. “You won't believe what we've discovered! It's like the craziest, most insane thing ever, and the best part is that I think it might actually be our ticket off the streets! When you see what Nick and I have found, and what we've figured out, this whole house is actually gonna start making sense. He was joking earlier, but now I think he's actually right!”
She grabs my arm again, and again I pull free.
“Maddie, seriously!”
“I need to talk to you,” I tell her. “Alex, the guy next door has offered to -”
“It's Jack the Ripper!” she blurts out.
I stare at her, and I honestly think she might have lost her mind.
“What?” I ask finally, before realizing that this is just another of Alex's dumb ideas. “Listen, the -”
“We've found it all!” she continues. “I know this is gonna sound totally nuts, but Nick and I have found a whole ton of stuff. It doesn't make any sense at all, until you take one tiny leap into the unknown and realize that there's a possibility that ties it all together! We're sitting on some grade-A shit here, Maddie!”
Grabbing my arm for a third time, she starts dragging me toward the study. This time, I can't quite twist free.
“Alex...”
“It's gonna blow your mind!”
“I don't want my mind blown,” I tell her, glancing briefly – and with a flash of fear – toward the staircase that leads up into the darker upper floor of the house. “Alex, I just need to tell you that I'm -”
“Get your ass in here, dummy!”
With that, she grabs my arm and manhandles me through the doorway. I open my mouth to tell her that I don't even want to be here, but then I see that Nick is sitting cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by scores of open notebooks as well as various other pieces of paper. And when he looks at me, I see a sense of absolute awe.
“Tell her!” Alex says, stopping behind me. “Tell her, Nick! Show her!”
“Do you know what this place is?” Nick asks, his voice trembling slightly.
“It's a house,” I reply, although I already know that's not going to be the right answer. “It's just a big, empty house.”
Reaching down, he picks up one of the framed photographs from upstairs, and then he holds it out
so that I can see the happy, smiling couple. Or at least, I'd be able to see them if his hand wasn't shaking.
“This guy,” he says cautiously, “is -”
“Charles Grazier,” I reply, interrupting him. “Sure, I know. He's the doctor who used to live here.”
“He was Jack the Ripper.”
I wait for him to start laughing, but he seems deadly serious.
“Charles Grazier,” he continues after a moment, “was Jack the Ripper. The Jack the Ripper.”
“Isn't this intense?” Alex says, placing a hand on my shoulder. “We're geniuses. We figured out something that no-one else, not even the police, could ever get right. They've had over a hundred years to work out the guy's real name, and we did it in, like, less than twenty-four hours.”
“What makes you think Doctor Grazier was Jack the Ripper?” I ask, trying to sound like I'm taking them seriously even though the whole idea is totally ludicrous.
“I need to do some research to be certain,” Nick replies. “This is one of those times I actually wish I had a smartphone. I'll have to go out later and nick one from somewhere, just to pin down a few details, but I'm already pretty much there. The basic profile fits, Maddie. This Grazier guy was a doctor, a surgeon, and it's obvious that he was into doing stuff at home. I mean, he's basically got a full-on operating theater down there in the basement.”
“Maybe he just liked working from here,” I point out.
“It was more than that,” he says, before holding up one of the notebooks. “These are his ideas, all written down and explained. He was carrying out some kind of research, and he needed body parts to do it. My theory is that he operated on women here at the house, but that sometimes he went out and ripped organs out of prostitutes he found in the street. The police always said that they thought Jack the Ripper might be some kind of trained surgeon, and they were right. Now we just need to figure out why he was doing all these operations, 'cause I don't think he was simply insane. I think he was trying to achieve something specific.”
“You're making a lot of assumptions,” I point out.
“And then there are these,” he adds, setting the notebook down and picking up an old, fragile-looking piece of paper from a nearby pile. “These are the proof, Maddie. Whatever else you might think, you cannot argue with these little beauties.”
“They're the letters,” Alex whispers in my ear.
“What letters?” I ask.
“The ones that were sent to the police,” Nick explains. “Taunting letters, telling the cops how they'd never catch him. You must have seen movies about Jack the Ripper. He was always sending letters in, sometimes he even gave them tips about who he was gonna kill next. He was like the original Zodiac. Jack the Ripper was the first killer who properly made fun of the cops for not being able to catch him.”
“Why would he even do that?” I ask. “You make it sound like he wanted to get caught.”
“That's a good question,” he replies, turning the piece of paper so that I can see the blood-stained page. “It does seem a little theatrical, but then maybe he just liked having fun. Some of these letters are early drafts of the famous 'From Hell' letter, like he had to do it several times before he felt it was ready. Or maybe he was kinda crazy after all, in a little way. I don't know, it's almost like one guy had two completely different sides, but we can figure out the details later. Right now, Maddie, you've got to face facts. We solved one of the biggest mysteries in history. We found the true identity of Jack the Ripper!”
“We're gonna be rich,” Alex says.
I turn to her.
“We are!” she continues, her eyes bright with excitement. “Maddie, we're gonna be rolling in it! I'm gonna buy a goddamn gold-plated mansion and a Ferrari and a swimming pool and all that shit! None of us will ever have to sit freezing on the street again!”
“We...”
My voice trails off, as I start to realize that maybe they're onto something after all. I mean, the idea is totally crazy, and both Alex and Nick seem to be running far too easily with the whole Jack the Ripper thing, but I can't deny that there are a lot of coincidences starting to pile up here. In fact, as I stare down at the photo of Charles Grazier and his wife, I can't help wondering whether I really am looking at the face of Britain's most notorious serial killer.
“We should call someone,” I say finally. “We have to call the police. We have to tell people. Whether it's right or wrong, we have to get an outside opinion.”
“Not so fast,” Alex says, gripping my arms from behind and leaning close to my ear. I swear, I can hear the anticipation in her voice. “We can't let anyone steal this from us, Maddie. We have to be smart and figure out what to do. Right now, the three of us are the only people in the world who know. Right now, Jack the Ripper is all ours!”
Chapter Eighteen
Doctor Charles Grazier
Tuesday October 2nd, 1888
“Leave? But where shall I go?”
“Just across the city for a few hours,” I tell Jack as we stand in the garden, out of Delilah's earshot. “I have some items that I need you to fetch. I would go myself, but I have far too much work to get done here.”
“But -”
“I also wish you to bring more information about the unnatural phenomena you mentioned earlier.”
“But Delilah -”
“She does not want to see you at this moment.”
“Did she say that?” he asks plaintively, clearly disappointed. “Did she use those very words?”
“She did,” I reply. “You must understand, she loved her husband very much. Whatever foolish notions you allowed yourself to pursue, you must realize they were quite wrong. An elegant lady such as Delilah Culpepper would never see you as anything more than a brute. And that was true before you killed her husband. Now, she would spit on your face if she saw you. Why, it is a miracle that I persuaded her not to call for the police yet.”
“Of course,” he says, shaking his head. “How could I have believed that she might think differently?”
“At this moment,” I continue, “she sits in my study, plotting furiously to gain revenge. She wants you dead.”
“Perhaps she is right to think that way.”
“I need time to make her see otherwise,” I tell him. I hesitate, before placing a hand on his shoulder. I do not wish to touch the man, of course, but perhaps at this moment it would be wise to make him think that I am on his side. “Go and fetch the things I need. Take your time, do not come back for an hour or two. I promise that by then, I will have made Delilah see sense. She is in shock, but she might yet be persuaded to see you in a more gallant light. All is not lost, Jack. You must simply trust me. Perhaps, if you are lucky, you might be able to touch her leg again.”
“Her leg?” He furrows his brow. “Her leg is not my concern at this moment.”
“You know what I mean,” I say with a sigh. “I mean that the whole mess can be salvaged, but only if you go away for a few hours.”
“And the basement?” he asks. “What shall we do with the thing in the basement?”
“Upon your return, I shall listen to your suggestions,” I lie, “and do whatever you think best. Do you understand now? You must trust me in this matter, and in return I shall trust you in others. That is only fair, is it not? Perhaps then you can write some more of those awful letters to the newspapers. That was your intention when you first came here, was it not? It might be good for you to remember that.”
“Of course,” he replies, clearly exhausted by all that has happened. “You are right, Doctor Grazier. I should never have doubted you.” He hesitates, staring at me. “Are your eyes alright, Sir? They -”
“My eyes are fine!” I snap.
As if to prove him wrong, I blink, but of course I immediately I see Catherine again. With each blink, she is getting closer to me across the shore. I must act before she reaches me.
“If they are irritated,” he says, “I -”
“Thi
nk not of my eyes,” I say firmly, “and instead attend to your own tasks. I have told you what you must do, Jack. Now get out of here and do it!”
He pauses, and then he nods.
“Of course,” he says, turning to leave. “Please, tell Delilah that I am sorry for what happened. Tell her that if I could take back my rash actions, I would. I know it will be scant consolation for her, but please let her know that I am sickened by my rashness.”
As he slopes away, heading toward the gate, I cannot help but feel desperately sorry for the brute. He has surprised me by imitating the ways of high society, although he has never risen above a mere imitation. Now, as he leaves, he has no way of knowing that by the time he returns, his poor dear Delilah will be no more, and that he himself shall swiftly join her in the grave. Then, finally, this madness will be over and life can go back to normal.
And then I blink, and I see Catherine reaching for me, and I realize that there is no time to spare.
***
“He left? But where did he go?”
“Who can say?” I reply, as I sit next to Delilah and hold her trembling hands. “A creature such as Jack most likely skulks back to the sewers. I doubt he'll ever trouble you again.”
“And he did not even want to say goodbye?”
“In all honesty, my dear, I doubt he even remembered you. I believe his brain is not fully developed, which means that he cannot retain very much information. You must not take this personally. It is merely his nature. I do understand your confusion, though. He was able to fool many people.”
She stares at me for a moment, and I dare say I can see more and more tears welling in her eyes until finally she lets out a sob and buries her head in her hands. Great convulsing fits shake her shoulders, and the sobbing sound quickly gives way to a series of whimpering moans.
“There there,” I say, patting her gently on the shoulder. “You have been through so much. Certainly more than any woman might reasonably be expected to endure.”
“What will the police say?”