Ripped, a Jack the Ripper Time-Travel Thriller

by Shelly Dickson Carr

  Next to Toby, Collin looked less glum, but equally stiff in a black dinner jacket, with a monocle dangling foppishly (and foolishly, Katie thought) from a cord around his neck. Collin’s hair, slicked back with oil, made him look like a red-haired seal rising from the water’s depths, wet and glistening. Between Toby and Collin sat the Reverend Pinker in dog collar and tail coat, staring over, not through, a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles.

  Lady Beatrix, hands folded in her lap, wearing an orange-and-blue gown, a single large diamond pinned at her throat, appeared radiant and happy on Katie’s right, with Oscar Wilde in velvet smoking jacket, knee-breeches, and patent-leather boots on Katie’s left. The men all wore silk top hats, and flowers poked from the lapel buttonholes of their jackets. Oscar Wilde’s flowers were large, flamboyant, and a deep scarlet color.

  A jangle of harness bells rang out as the coach clattered to a stop in front of the Lyceum Theatre. Katie heard the distinct crack! of a horse whip and craned her neck to get a view out the open window. Dozens of carriage lamps, burning bright, flickered on the sides of the cabs and coaches lined up in front of the theater. Horses whinnied. Amidst the crush of people thronging toward the entrance doors, Katie felt tension in the air and could see anticipation on almost every face.

  The opening night of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde was obviously a big event, Katie thought. She’d seen reruns of the famous story on TV, but this was different. This was the real thing. She wondered if Robert Louis Stevenson had written it as a play first or as a novel. She couldn’t remember. But she did know that the gothic horror story was going to be a great success and would someday—a century or so in the future — even become a Broadway musical.

  The footman, dressed in purple and yellow livery, jumped down to the curb, clicked the latch, and swung the carriage door open. Katie gathered up the folds of her velvet gown in her right hand, while awkwardly clutching an enormous ostrich feather fan and a satin purse in the other, and attempted to climb out of the jiggling carriage with grace. With the footman’s help, she eased first one foot, then the other, down the wooden carriage steps, but the train of her gown kept getting tangled around her ankles.

  “Dexter.” Lady Beatrix turned to the footman when they were all standing on the curb. “We shan’t stay long after the final curtain call. We’re expected at the Thespian Club for dinner.”

  “Very good, m’lady,” Dexter answered with a sweeping bow, elbows rigid by his side, reminding Katie of a parrot whose wings had been clipped.

  Katie took a deep breath. Yesterday she’d been in the twenty-first century. Today she was in Victorian London, and would stay here until Jack the Ripper was caught. That was her mission. She could go home anytime, she told herself. But first she had to save Beatrix Twyford.

  She took another deep breath, and glanced around. The night air smelled of horse sweat, clashing with warring perfumes wafting from all the ladies who swept past. Across the cobblestone street, the gleaming white theater with its giant columns rose like a Greek temple beneath a bright full moon ringed with mist. Katie remembered something about Jack the Ripper slashing his victims around the time of a full moon, and gave an involuntary shudder.

  She took a tentative step, trying hard not to stumble, but the bulky opera cape weighed her down, and her hair, piled high in coils above her head and woven with thick strands of pearls, felt as cumbersome as a beehive helmet. If it hadn’t been for Agnes, Beatrix’s lady’s maid, Katie would never have been able to dress herself. Wriggling into her gown had been more complicated than getting into a fancy prom dress. The silk gloves alone, reaching past her elbows, were fastened with twenty tiny pearl buttons each. And then there were the flounces of beaded material draped over the horsehair bustle in the back that had to be snapped, pinned, and tugged into place like a jigsaw puzzle.

  Grandma Cleaves always told Katie to wear sensible shoes. Forget sensible shoes. This century didn’t know from sensible anything! In the past (or was it the future?) when Katie was writing a research paper on nineteenth-century costumes, she had admired the romantic pictures of women in long, billowing gowns. But the reality was different. It wasn’t romantic at all. Just a total pain! Hard to stand up and impossible to walk. And it took hours to dress! The heavily boned corset was a torture device. The inside had actual bones—bones!—and metal wire strips to cinch her waist and hold the shape of the dress in place. When she was finally dressed, powdered, and misted with perfume, Katie had made a promise to herself. She would never ever complain about wearing her bulky ski parka when it was cold. The heavy opera cape made her ski parka feel like air.

  Katie tugged at the lower half of her gown, trying to untangle it from around her calves. Her gaze swiveled to Lady Beatrix standing to her right. I’ll just imitate Beatrix. If that doesn’t work, they’ll have to carry me into the theater!

  Lady Beatrix, with a dexterous sweep of her right arm, gathered up the folds of her train over her wrist and began gliding effortlessly toward the marble steps. Damn. How does she do it? Katie wondered. It looks so easy! But it wasn’t. Katie felt as if the velvet gown would swallow her up and make her lose her balance like one of those roly-poly dolls that wiggled and jiggled from cars’ rear windows. She lurched, jerked, and stumbled forward.

  Noting her distress, Oscar deftly grasped Katie by the elbow, pinching the folds of her gown between his fingers and Katie’s wrist, making it appear as if Katie herself were clutching the material, and guided her up the moonlit marble steps. At the same instant, Toby flanked her other side, positioning himself in such a way that if Katie tottered, he and Oscar, between them, could straighten her up.

  Silhouetted against the shimmering light from the enormous gas jets flaring up on either side of the pillared theater doors, Toby watched Katie from the corner of his eye. Cor blimey, what’s wrong with the girl? he wondered. When she first arrived from America, Toby had thought that Miss Katherine, with her amber-eyed beauty, flawless complexion, and glossy chestnut hair, was the most graceful creature in all of London. Now the girl was tottering as if punch-drunk. She seemed awkward, hesitant, unsure of herself.

  Toby’s heart gave a great leap in his chest. She must have hurt herself when she took that tumble yesterday in front of the London Stone. Two days ago, Miss Katherine hadn’t paid him the least notice, but yesterday after she’d fallen, her eyes seemed constantly to seek him out, intently peering at him beneath their long, dark lashes. And in the library she had asked him, no, begged him, to correct her if she acted strange or forgot which fork to use. He watched as her lips pressed together in a baffling sort of determination, as if she were willing herself to walk without wobbling. She glanced up, and her gaze burned into him.

  Toby drew a sharp breath and staggered back, distancing himself from her, allowing Mr. Wilde to escort her through the arched doorway. Toby was accustomed to girls’ sidelong glances at him, but to actually stare like this? He didn’t know what to make of it. Proper young ladies didn’t look a bloke full in the eye. Barmaids, tavern girls, dance-hall chits, perhaps. But not high-born, well-bred girls. It simply wasn’t done. Perhaps it was because she was from bricks and pates — the States. That must be it. Yanks were a different kettle of fish.

  No sooner had Toby stepped away from Katie than Collin sprang forward and took his place at her side.

  Toby watched them all move forward in the dusky twinkle of the gas lamps and again felt his heart thud in his chest. Yesterday morning, before visiting the London Stone, the girl had seemed cold and petulant, with a smooth, porcelain hardness to her skin. The lip salve on her mouth had stood out like a bruise. Now he could swear the girl wore no salve, yet her mouth was the color of rose petals.

  Stop it! Miss Katherine is as far from my reach as the moon from the sun, Toby chided himself. She was a rich American heiress sent to London to find a suitable husband. One with a title! An earl, a viscount, a baron. Not the illegitimate son of a Cockney lacemaker. Toby’s brown-bread father, to be sure, was the younge
st brother of the Duke, but Toby could never inherit a title or land because he’d been born on the wrong side of the blanket. The Duke of Twyford, out of loyalty to his dead brother, afforded Toby a certain stature in the household. Not quite a servant, nor quite a family member. Toby was given an education of sorts, and the job of companion to Collin. His latest task was to make sure Collin didn’t get into any more trouble with dance hall girls, or rack up any more gambling debts.

  Katie peered back over her shoulder, a tight little smile twisting round her lips. She shrugged her shoulders as if to say, I feel as out of place as you do, Toby.

  He tore his eyes away. The Duke would boil him in oil if he overstepped himself with this American twist ’n’ swirl, who also happened to be the Duke’s godchild. The guv’nor would cut me into pieces and feed me to the dogs. And rightly so, Toby thought. No, I’ll not be going near the chit, no matter how often she makes simmering-stew eyes at me. Not in this lifetime. Not in a hundred years!

  Katie and the others waited in line behind a gaggle of elderly ladies decked in sparkling diamond tiaras, accompanied by a red-faced, portly man adorned with medals and ribbons.

  Oscar whispered in Katie’s ear: “Overdressed dowagers and a tedious cabinet minister. Peacocks in everything but beauty and brains.” With his free hand he tapped impatiently at the toe of his patent-leather boot with his ebony cane.

  Minutes later they advanced into the crowded lobby, festooned with framed posters of upcoming productions of Macbeth, Othello, and The Duchess de la Vallière. Katie noted that each man, upon entering the lobby, instantly snatched off his silk top hat and tucked it under his arm. She swiveled around, seeking out Toby, and when she caught sight of him passing the ticket-seller’s window, he stopped midstride, studied her quizzically for a moment, then darted off into the crowd.

  “The Lyceum is more crowded than usual, even for opening night,” the Reverend Pinker commented, glancing over his gold-rimmed spectacles.

  Oscar continued his tap-tap-tapping. “Oh, look!” he twittered in a low theatrical voice. “There’s Princess Sophia of Karlsruhe!”

  “Where?” Katie asked, eager to see what a princess looked like.

  Oscar nodded in the direction of the princess. “That plump woman in purple plumage with tiny black eyes and those wonderful emeralds!” He lowered his voice. “She’ll be talking interminable bad French during intermission and laughing immodestly at everything that is said to her.”

  “Oscar! Hush, do,” Lady Beatrix chided in a soft whisper, the glitter of the diamond pinned to her throat matched the glittering laughter in her eyes. “She’ll hear you.”

  “My darling Lady Beatrix. When will you ever learn . . . there is only one thing in the world worse than being talked about, and that is not being talked about.” Oscar shot her a mischievous grin.

  At the top of the grand staircase, an usher in red velveteen escorted them into a private salon where blue flames crackled in a fire grate flanked by stone gargoyles. The walls of the long gallery were embedded with mosaic tiles, and the ceiling, inlaid with thousands of tiny square mirrors, made the polished floor sparkle and dance.

  “Ah. The Byzantine Room,” Oscar said, cocking an eyebrow around the salon. “No doubt, we’re to imagine ourselves in an El Greco painting,” he harrumphed. “But it’s a sham, and not a good one at that. All paste and mirrors.”

  Crossing the room, they proceeded into a narrow hall and stepped through a curtained archway that opened into an ornate private box with plush seats, four on one side of the aisle, four on the other. This is wonderful! Katie thought, leaning over the padded rail and looking directly down onto the stage. A domed ceiling overhead, painted in bright popsicle colors, showed winged cherubs and wood nymphs leaping over the proscenium arch.

  Katie gave a great sigh. She’d never seen such an opulent theater in her life. It was dreamlike and breathtaking. She’d been to plays with her grandmother, but never like this.

  Noticing that the others were settling into their seats, Katie unclasped her cape and, careful not to upset the bustle—like a camel hump—at the back of her gown, sank into the seat between Collin, fiddling with his dangling monocle, and Oscar Wilde, smoothing the folds of his velvet knee-breeches.

  Lady Beatrix, with the grace of a ballet dancer, lowered herself into the seat across the aisle. She looked beautiful and serene in her orange-and-blue gown, the single, large diamond sparkling at her throat. The Reverend Pinker plunked himself down next to Lady Beatrix and proceeded to read the playbill.

  Katie took a deep breath. The air wasn’t musty, like in the old London theaters she was used to, but crisp and clean with a hint of fresh paint and lemon polish.

  Oscar drew out a pair of opera glasses from his waistcoat and thrust them into Katie’s gloved hands. “Take a gander over there, ma chère.”

  “Where? What should I be looking at?” Katie asked, raising the binocular-like glasses to her eyes. She swept them toward the stage, but the curtain was drawn and the orchestra pit, hidden behind large ferns.

  Oscar raised an eyebrow, reached for the glasses and plunked them snugly against his eye sockets. “There is no dearth of opportunity here, young lady. One comes to the theater to spy and to be spied upon. Surely you didn’t think we were here for the literary enlightenment and pedantic posturing of an underpaid playwright? Tut-tut, how very American of you. Look there, second balcony below, an unsuspecting peeress—lovely in pink brocade and pearls—chatting affably with that notorious rascal—” He swiveled around to the left like a sea captain sighting land. “Ho-ho! And there’s poor Lady Fermor who doesn’t care a whit for music, but is very fond of musicians. And over there is Lady Windermere. When she married the Duke of Mandeville he had eleven castles, and not a single house fit to live in. Now, his grace has twelve houses, and not a single castle. There’s Monsieur de Koloff, the Russian Ambassador, who has gout and keeps a second wife in Bayswater. And in the royal box, my dearest, darling Lillie Langtry, looking wonderfully munificent with her grand ivory bosom, large, forget-me-not eyes, and those luscious coils of golden hair—not straw-colored hair, mind you, but the golden red that is woven into sunbeams and hidden in amber. She has the face of a saint, but the fascination of a sinner, n’est-ce pas?” He thrust the glasses back into Katie’s hands. “You must see the world for yourself, ma chère.”

  Katie stared at him. Did everyone in this century talk like this, or was it just Oscar Wilde? She raised the opera glasses and scanned the crowd. All around her the flash of satin and the sparkle of glittering jewelry caught the winking light from the gaslit chandeliers.

  “Who’s that bald guy—er, I mean, gentleman, in the box next to ours?” Katie whispered. The man looked familiar. His bald head was shining like the dome of St. Paul’s, rising above thick shoulders draped in a ruby-red sash.

  “That’s His Royal Highness, the—”

  “—King?” Katie sputtered.

  “Are you daft?” Collin cut in. “That’s the Prince Regent. The Prince of Wales. He won’t inherit the throne until his mother, the Queen, dies.”

  Of course, Katie muttered to herself. There wasn’t a king during Victoria’s reign. The Queen’s husband was Prince Albert. Get your head out of the clouds, Katie chastised herself. Pay attention, and stay focused!

  After the shock of seeing the future King Edward VII up close and personal and looking more . . . well, real, than his waxwork replica at Madame Tussauds, it took Katie several minutes before she realized that Toby was not sitting with them.

  Was that him in the gallery far below, in the wings off to the left? She raised her glasses and searched the crowd, but with no luck.

  Chapter Twelve

  You Owe Me Ten Shillings say the Bells of St. Helen’s

  Katie scanned the crowded theater. “Where’s Toby?”

  “Dunno.” Collin shrugged, the gleam of gaslight from the wall jets making his face appear ghostly pale.

  “Mr. Wilde? Do you know wh
ere Toby is?”

  “My dear girl, you must call me Oscar. I insist,” said Oscar. “As to Master Tobias, the dear boy could be here, he could be there. He could be anywhere. Such is the insouciance of youth!”

  “Reverend Pinker? Have you seen—” But H. P. Pinker was busying himself looking through his own opera glasses as if fascinated with the winged cherubs carved overhead in the proscenium arch.

  Just then, a short man with a thick body and almost no neck—but sporting a profusion of side whiskers and a brown, feathery beard—appeared through the curtained archway and strode down the aisle. When he caught sight of Oscar, he stopped short.

  Oscar scowled at the man, then kicked moodily at the balcony footrail. Katie heard him curse under his breath. The whiskered man’s beard spread fanwise over his collar with what appeared to be bristling indignation. He pivoted, and bowing low, spoke to Lady Beatrix, but the words seemed wrung out of him almost against his will.

  “Lady . . . Beatrix . . . an honor . . . as . . . always. I brought you a little something. A playbill signed by the playwright, Mr. Robert Louis Stevenson, with my compliments.” He gave a curt nod and handed Beatrix the playbill.

  “How very kind of you, Mr. Stoker. Let me introduce you to my friends. This is the Reverend H. P. Pinker who runs the East End Charity Mission for Widows and Orphans. Rev. Pinker, this is Mr. Bram Stoker, the theater manager.”

  “A pleasure, Mr. Stoker. A pleasure indeed. A lovely theater. Quite outstanding, I must say. The recent renovations do you credit.”