“Come in.”
The door swung open. “Good morning.” Teddy smiled. “I passed the girls on the stairwell, and Miss Edith told me to come up.”
Alba drew her dressing robe together. “This is highly unusual, Teddy—”
“I know. But I have breakfast and a newspaper.”
She laughed as she held hers up for him to see.
He shook his head as he stepped into the bedroom. “That’s my girl. Always one step ahead.”
Teddy took a large book from a shelf and set a paper bag on top of it. When he brought the makeshift tray to Alba, she extracted a scone and took a bite.
“Good?” he asked as he sat on the bed with her.
She nodded since her mouth was full.
Teddy looked rather dashing this morning. His clean-shaven face showcased his strong jaw, and the silver suit he wore highlighted his steely eyes. He smelled of citrus cologne and expensive soap, and when he smiled his eyes crinkled handsomely at the corners.
“Did you get the scones from the Captain?”
The Captain was a colorful street vendor who always positioned his cart outside the dormitory. Word had it that he was an ex-captain in Britain’s Royal Navy who had gladly hung up his military hat for a life of freedom as a vendor.
“Yes,” Teddy replied. “His apple ones are your favorite, right?”
“They are.” She took another bite.
“So what do you make of this ‘vampire killer’?” he queried. “Do you think he’s some crackpot trying to steal Jack the Ripper’s thunder? Or do you think our sadistic serial killer has changed his modus operandi?”
“Jack the Ripper a merciless vampire? I don’t think so.” Alba scrunched her nose in refusal. “The Ripper is a monster who will stop at nothing to satisfy his lust for blood—but I think he prefers to draw blood another way.”
It frightened her to think this killer’s anger stretched beyond the furthest realm of violence the authorities had ever seen. He seemed capable of anything.
“I suppose you’re right.” Teddy pointed to the newspaper that lay on top of the coverlet. “This is probably the work of an imitator. I just hope London doesn’t become infiltrated with crazies trying to snatch up the criminal spotlight.”
She nodded. Realizing that she’d lost her sleep cap in the middle of the night, she became self-conscious of her rumpled hair. She tried to fix it with her fingers, but her mane had tumbled impossibly loose from its braid.
Silence fell between them. Teddy reached over and slipped a finger into one of her large, lazy curls.
“You look beautiful, Alba,” he whispered. “I know it isn’t proper to call on you alone—or this early in the morning. But I wanted to see you.”
She said nothing as he cupped her chin in his hand and leaned in for a kiss. His lips were soft and cool, contrasting Dimitri’s fiery ones. His tongue flickered gently across her mouth, as if it were knocking on the door for entry. Parting her lips mechanically, she allowed Teddy’s tongue to intertwine with hers. How she wanted to love him—to desire him the way she had swooned under Dimitri’s hot kiss. But to her enormous disappointment, nothing about Teddy excited her.
He took her in his arms and cradled her against him. With the hand that rested on her shoulder, he slipped her dressing gown to the side and exposed a patch of bare skin. Ever so lightly, he caressed it with his fingertips, then circled his touch downward toward her breast. She froze. As mad as she was at Dimitri, she felt like a betrayer of the worst kind being here with Teddy. Of course, Teddy knew nothing of her encounter with Dimitri—and she wasn’t about to tell him—but Alba wanted to feel clean before she allowed any intimacy between them. The last thing she wanted to do was hurt Teddy.
She was about to break free of his contact when Justina, her Persian cat, leapt across the newspaper. Nerves jittering, Alba cried out. Teddy managed to grab Justina before the creature pounced to the ground.
“Are you all right?” he asked, studying Alba’s pale face.
She gulped and nodded.
Teddy turned his attention to the cat. “I know, pretty girl.” He stroked its silky fur and smiled. “You were protecting Alba, weren’t you? But you must know that I would never hurt her.”
Justina, as if she understood what Teddy was saying, purred excitedly before she shot off his lap.
Alba blushed furiously. “I should get dressed.”
Teddy looked embarrassed as well. “Forgive my forwardness.”
“I’m sorry, I’m just not ready,” she murmured softly.
“Then we shall take things as slowly as we need to.” His eyes sparkled with kindness.
She slipped out of bed and walked him to the front door.
“I would like to take you for a ride in the park today,” he said. “Are you free?”
“I would love to, but it’s my turn to clean the dormitory.”
“Have you no maid?” he asked in mock horror.
“Not all of us are as rich as you, Teddy.” She laughed.
“If and when you become Mrs. Theodore Rollingsworth, you shall have five maids attending to you. No more cleaning for you.”
She studied her slippers.
“Would you like me to help you?”
“Thank you, but I can manage it.”
“Then I shall see you bright and early at the office Monday morning?”
“Yes. We still have a lot of work to do to prepare for the Crowe trial.”
“We do, indeed.” He turned to go.
“Teddy?”
“Hmm?” He spun around.
“Thank you for the scones. They were delicious.”
“You’re welcome.” He gave her a peck on the cheek before he left.
Alba knew she should get started on the washing up, but she sank on the sofa instead. Since the moment Dimitri told her Ileana knew where she was, she’d become a bundle of nerves. Few people knew what her stepmother was capable of, but Alba did. It frightened her. It also incensed her—as did the fact that Dimitri hadn’t been loyal enough to tell her about Ileana right away. But this wasn’t about loyalty. She refused to let someone who underestimated Ileana protect her.
Sighing, she rose and began her housework.
Dimitri had instructed the hansom driver to deposit him at Alba’s dormitory, where he’d stolen across the street. Swathed in the cold shadows, he had watched the building until the sun began to rise . . . until he knew Simona would have to sleep too.
Under the purplish glow of dawn, Dimitri morphed into a bat and streamed home. As all the signs of night disappeared, he entered his house like a quiet thief. He began to tiptoe toward the basement door when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He sucked in a startled breath.
“Are you all right?” Jochen asked.
Dimitri pivoted around. His shoulders sagged when he spotted his friend. “Yes, I’m fine.”
Jochen, with his puffy face and uneasy eyes, looked as though he’d been awake all night too. Dimitri had given his new butler the evening off, but the whiskey fumes on Jochen’s breath told him that his friend had already squandered his first round of wages.
“Jochen, don’t you think you ought to stay away from the pub? It’s where you seem to get into trouble.”
“I did my best to stay away.” The butler clenched his fists. “In the future I will, I promise.”
Dimitri gave him a casual smile. “I’m not chastising you. I’m just offering some sound advice as a friend.”
“I appreciate your concern,” Jochen said as anger flashed in his shifty eyes. “But what I do on my off hours needn’t worry you. I will always abide by my work schedule.”
“Good,” Dimitri said as he felt the weariness of dawn drape over him. He made a move to open the door. “Now I must get some sleep.”
“I left this morning’s newspaper on the entry table,” Jochen called out before he disappeared into the kitchen.
Dimitri retrieved it and stopped when he read the headline. Bloody hell. The
police had already been on high alert for the Ripper, but now they were hunting for vampires. Then he looked at the report a different way as he descended the stairs to the basement: maybe the police would capture Simona during their new search.
Chapter Twelve
Two weeks had passed since Alba’s tense parting with Dimitri. She’d spent the better part of them tormenting herself with the presumption that he’d left town, and with nothing left to do but prepare for Greta Crowe’s trial, she had purposefully thrown herself into work.
On this chilly October morning, the Old Bailey, London’s foremost courtroom for press-worthy crimes, smelled of tradition, honor, and real-life drama. Sunlight slanted into the room through high, rectangular windows—and when it settled on the tiered seats designated for those lucky enough to gain entry as audience members, the entire place came to life.
This is the culmination of all my years of schooling, Alba considered.
Donning her spectacles, she pushed herself to her feet and met a sea of riveted eyes. Trying not to brim with pride, her gaze shifted to Harold Rollingsworth. He nodded as if to say, “Have the courage to proceed.”
Alba called Tabitha Crowe to the witness box. Rosy-cheeked and freshly powdered, the old woman stood on unsure feet. As she walked past the members of the jury, she gave them a gentle smile. Then, with a sense of frailness, she grasped an officer’s arm and teetered to her place inside the box.
Alba plastered a smile on her face. “Please state your name for the court.”
“My name is Tabitha Loretta Crowe.”
“How are you today, Mrs. Crowe?”
“With the shock of my Seymour passing, I’m feeling very weak, Miss Spencer. After all, I am ninety years old—and an old woman’s heart is a very delicate thing.”
“I’m sorry for your failing health. Do you think you can answer my questions?”
Tabitha clutched her handbag to her chest and nodded. “I’ll try.”
“On August tenth of this year, your son, Seymour Darby Crowe, died from strychnine poisoning in the Chelmsford home you shared with him and his family. Is that correct?”
“I think we’ve established that over these long, arduous weeks, haven’t we?” Tabitha flung her eyes wide.
The response brought out a few chuckles, as well as stains of humility on Alba’s cheeks. She laced her hands together tensely. “Mrs. Crowe—”
“Please call me Tabitha.”
“Very well, Tabitha. Did you ever see your daughter-in-law administer poison to your son?”
“No,” the elderly woman replied carefully. “But my rooms were on the top floor of the flat. And I take frequent naps.”
“I see. So you are saying that you didn’t see much of Greta and Seymour Crowe?”
“That’s right.” The elderly woman sat back in her seat, her lips pressed together.
Alba moved to the defense counsel’s table to retrieve a piece of paper. “I beg to differ, Mrs. Crowe. Your daughter-in-law has stated that you ate every meal with her, Seymour, and their three children. She says you took tea together as well. Furthermore, Greta Crowe helped you with your knitting projects, hosted your bridge games, took you to your doctor’s appointments, and accompanied you to church.”
Tabitha’s expression darkened. “What are you getting at?”
“Did you witness any rows between Greta and Seymour?”
“They were always fighting. I daresay Greta nagged Seymour incessantly about his being out of work.”
“I believe with six mouths to feed, I would have insisted my husband look for work too,” Alba said as diplomatically as she could.
Tabitha made a disgruntled noise.
“Mrs. Crowe, isn’t it true that you were the one who fought with Seymour most frequently?”
“Not at all!” Tabitha put a hand to her heart.
Alba straightened her horsehair wig and looked at the paper again. “Mildred and Harry Willows. Frank Tatino. Sisters Erin and Heather O’Rourke. These neighbors have provided sworn testimony that you argued with your son night and day.”
The elderly woman’s lips quirked and quivered as if they were playing a harmonica. Tears sprang to her eyes as she glared at Alba.
“Mrs. Crowe,” Alba continued firmly, “during your police interview, you asserted that you think Greta Crowe took your son’s life via a slow and methodical exposure to poison. Is that still your belief ?”
“Yes. She was depressed and she was very frustrated with Seymour,” Tabitha said, dabbing her tears with a lace handkerchief. Her soft sobbing drew empathetic stares from several reporters.
“May I remind you that our expert witness, Dr. Clive Hughes, has testified that one cannot tolerate the taste of strychnine by itself,” Alba said. “Rather it is best administered in something like tea. Such as the tea you always insisted on preparing for Seymour Crowe yourself.”
Tabitha merely shook her head and blew her nose loudly into her handkerchief.
Alba took a breath. It was just as she and Harold Rollingsworth had planned. She would ask Tabitha the easy questions first, leading the jury to suspect the elderly woman before she went in for the kill, but a sense of hesitation was beginning to seize her.
She moved to the witness box. Tabitha continued to dab her nose, unable to hide the fact that she was twittering uncontrollably. Alba placed her hands on the wooden frame and leaned forward.
“Now, Mrs. Crowe,” she began, “we can’t have these lovely people believing anything that contradicts the evidence we have against you. Bill Plumpton, shop owner of Plumpton’s Apothecary, says it was you who sent your daughter-in-law, Greta, in to purchase large doses of strychnine. You told her that you needed the poison for your own medicinal purposes. But you never provided a physician’s order, did you?”
“No,” Tabitha said after a long hesitation.
“You knew Mr. Plumpton would fill the order because he was familiar with Greta, a diabetic.”
The elderly woman’s cheeks went pale.
“Mrs. Crowe, it is common knowledge that strychnine, even if it’s given in small grains over a long period of time, is toxic.”
“I didn’t kill my son!” she cried. Her face drained completely of color and she started to unravel like a ball of yarn.
Alba glanced at Greta, who sat between Teddy and his father. Greta’s face had turned crimson and she looked as if she were about to bolt out of her seat. Teddy grasped one of one the defendant’s arms to steady her.
“I know everything about your murderous plan, Mrs. Crowe,” Alba said. “There is no denying that you kept the poison in a brown paper package beneath your washstand. You wouldn’t allow Greta to open it, but you urged her to purchase the poison in the first place. You claimed you were too ill to go out, but that was a lie.”
“You’re wrong.” Tabitha sobbed.
Alba’s heart surged. It was a pitiful to watch a ninety-year-old woman fight for her life.
“The truth is”—she softened her tone—“your son was a brute. A bad lot who drank too much. He was a man who refused to work. A man who abused you with his words and his lack of respect. He was a man who deserved to die, wasn’t he?”
Tabitha raised her watery, forlorn eyes. “Yes!”
Everyone in the courtroom gasped. Even the Honorable Judge Oliver Wentwood sank back in his seat with disbelief.
Tabitha sputtered, “Seymour was rotten, even as a child. He was all the things you’ve mentioned, but the worst thing about him was his lack of respect. He would deny me food and beat his children!”
“Still, you were going to let me hang for his death!” Greta sprang up.
“I’m truly sorry, my dear, but I do hate the idea of a noose around my neck. I tried my best to convince them that you had a good reason to kill Seymour. Can you ever forgive me?”
Judge Wentwood hammered his gavel to subdue the chaos in the courtroom. “In light of your admission, Mrs. Crowe, I hereby release your daughter-in-law, Greta Crowe, from the
crime she’s been accused of.”
There was a final slam of the gavel and Greta dropped back into her chair with relief.
Alba joined Harold Rollingsworth and Teddy at counsel’s semicircular table as the bailiff escorted Tabitha Crowe out of the courtroom.
“Good show, Alba!” Teddy said.
Harold untied his cravat. “Your steady questioning made for a more dramatic reveal.”
Teddy looked at Alba admiringly. “You were brilliant.”
“Thank you.”
“It will be your turn to shine next, my boy,” Rollingsworth promised. “After all, the old woman’s confession dispelled any need for closing arguments.”
Teddy cast his eyes down. “Oh. Of course.”
Alba’s gut wrenched. She glanced at the spot where Tabitha Crowe had stood. She’d won her first case. Why did she feel so bad?
Harold noticed her queer expression. “What’s wrong, Alba?”
“I know justice has been served, but I can’t help feeling sorry for Tabitha,” she said. “Her son was a lousy degenerate and she refused to put up with him any longer. Perhaps one can admire a woman like that.”
“She killed her own son and didn’t care if her daughter-in-law hanged for it,” Teddy reminded her.
Alba knew what it was like to detest a relative, but he wouldn’t understand.
“I admit this was a very unusual case, Alba,” Rollingsworth said. “But you’ll harden in the courtroom eventually. Besides, if we had the chance to bring someone like Jack the Ripper to justice, you would have no problem condemning him to the gallows.”
Alba supposed he had a point there.
With the eyes of a hawk, Jack the Ripper watched Alba Spencer move about the courtroom. She was a smart, sophisticated, and savvy woman—unlike the tarts he had killed.
The ruthless killer reached down and patted the leather bag secured against his chair. Last night, he had cleaned his set of sharp, gleaming instruments to a high shine. Now he longed to run his fingertips over them and kill again.
He had cleaned off every last trace of Polly Nichols’s, Annie Chapman’s, Elizabeth Stride’s, and Catherine Eddowes’s blood because the ritual of cleaning meant a new start and an erased past.
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