by Cross, Amy
“I do apologize,” Jack says, turning to her. “I didn't mean to offend your ladylike senses.”
“I'm afraid that I'm frightfully busy this morning,” I explain, stepping over to Culpepper and reaching out to shake his hand, before realizing that the bandages perhaps make this task rather difficult. “Perhaps we could arrange for you to visit some other time, when I am more able to receive guests.”
“Quite,” Culpepper stammers. “That seems reasonable.”
An awkward silence falls upon us all, one that I do not quite know how to break.
“We really only came to give you these,” Delilah says suddenly, holding out some newspapers for me. “We thought that perhaps you would like to read the latest news on the awful killings. There have been two more. Two, in one night! I thought people were talking a lot before, but now it's the only topic of conversation across the whole of London. Of course, the details aren't out yet, on account of Scotland Yard still trying to figure it all out themselves. But people are starting to think that this killer must be a real monster.”
“I'm sure they are,” I reply, taking the newspapers and pretending to find them interesting. “I shall doubtless read these at my leisure, later today.”
“Surely a fine lady such as yourself,” Jack says, stepping around to the other side of Delilah, “does not pay any attention to such horrific events. Does your husband not make any effort to shield you from such things?”
“It's his newspapers that I read,” she replies, wrinkling her nose as Jack gets closer.
“I'd never let such a delicate lady hear of such horrors,” Jack continues. “Why, if you were my wife, you'd know nothing of the awful things that happen in the world. Indeed I'd barely let you out into the rough streets. Instead, I'd insist on you staying at home and enjoying the finer things in life. It can't be pleasant for you to hear of all the death and murder that goes on out there.” He looks over at Culpepper. “Shame on you, for allowing your wife's mind to be so polluted.”
“I like reading about the killings,” Delilah says meekly.
“Is that so?” Jack says, seemingly surprised, before placing his filthy hands on her shoulders from behind. “Then perhaps you'd like to come down to the basement that lies beneath our feet, and I can show you a -”
“No!” Culpepper and I both say at the same time.
“Unhand my wife!” Culpepper adds, as Delilah steps away from Jack. “You would do well to remember your place here. You're a tradesman!”
“Of course,” Jack replies, bowing again. “I am so very sorry for overstepping my limits. I forgot myself for a moment.”
Delilah mutters something as she tries to brush away dirt from her shoulders.
“I've cleared up the glass, Doctor Grazier,” Jack says, coming over to me with the shards still jostling in his hands, “and now I shall set about the repairs. I do hope I haven't disturbed you so far. I must go down to the basement now and see what I can find.” As he says those words, his stomach rumbles mightily. “I shan't be too long.”
With that, he turns and heads across the hallway, and then he starts humming to himself as he hurries down the stairs that lead to the basement. I stand completely stunned for a moment, before noticing the cracks in the basement door, evidently caused when Jack forced his way out earlier. Worried that perhaps Culpepper will notice this damage, I realize that I need to get these visitors out of my house as quickly as possible.
“Wherever did you find that awful man?” Culpepper asks, clearly shocked. “He stinks like a sewer!”
Chapter Twelve
Maddie
Today
So this is his idea of a compromise.
The rain sounds so much louder now that we're sitting in Wallace's police car, with the engine switched off. In fact, as more and more rain batters the roof, I can't help looking out through the windshield and watching the downpour, and wondering whether I'd be better off out there. At least the only sound would be the constant hiss, instead of this incessant crashing cacophony. Then again, I have time to think while I'm in here.
Well, that's what I keep telling myself. The truth, though, is that so far I haven't come up with any ideas.
“It's only my third week,” Wallace says suddenly.
I turn to him.
“I shouldn't even be out alone,” he continues, his voice sounding a little uncertain. “On patrol, I mean. But things are pretty stretched right now, and the guy I should be with had just finished eighteen hours without a break, so he needed to get home for a bit. People are even getting called in from leave.”
“Because of this killer?”
He nods.
“And how do I know you're not the killer?” I ask. “I mean, you might've killed the real cop and taken his place. It's not like a normal cop would sit here babysitting someone like this.”
“Does this help?”
Reaching up, he switches on a small light next to the rear-view mirror.
“Does turning on a light make you seem less like you could be a serial killer?” I reply, although to be honest I'm kind of touched by his effort. “A little bit.”
“I also have this.”
Reaching into his pocket, he takes out his badge and holds it up for me to see. There's even a photo of him, and I can't help but notice that he looks kind of weird in the picture, like he's not very good at smiling.
“I couldn't have left you wandering about out there,” he explains as he puts the badge down. “I'd never have been able to live with myself. I'm supposed to be patrolling and looking for people who are still living on the streets, but I guess this counts as doing that. Sort of.”
“Is he really copying Jack the Ripper?”
He hesitates for a moment. “I can't really talk about the details,” he says cautiously.
“Are they classified?”
“Something like that. You know what the papers are like, they go nuts with everything. They get in the way more than they help, usually.”
“I've barely seen the news,” I tell him, “but I've seen a few clips. They're saying this person is copying the way Jack the Ripper used to kill his victims.”
“That's what they're saying,” he replies. “Sure. I mean, I guess that information's out there. He's been...”
He pauses, before reaching down and miming a cutting motion across his belly.
“Like that,” he continues. “It's in the news now, anyway. He's been cutting them open and taking things from them.”
“Things?”
“Kidneys. A liver, I think. A uterus from one.”
“That's gross. What does he do with them?”
He shrugs.
“Does he eat them?” I ask.
“It's possible. We're not ruling anything out.”
“Did Jack the Ripper eat the things he took from his victims?”
“Nobody knows,” he replies. “I've been reading up on Jack the Ripper a lot since these murders started. Looking at all the theories for who he was, that sort of thing. Some accounts claim he must have been a master surgeon, others reckon he was too crude in the way he worked. I've read all these theories on his identity, but none of them quite match up. None of them make sense of the contradictions. Sometimes I think...”
His voice trails off.
“Sometimes you think what?” I ask.
“I shouldn't bore you.”
“Please. Bore me. On a night like this, being bored would be an improvement.”
“Sometimes,” he continues, “I wonder if he was really just one person, you know? Like maybe it was just a series of similar but unrelated murders, and they just got linked together in the public imagination. Or failing that, maybe it was a couple of people working together. Or my big pet theory at the moment is that it might have been someone who was a trained surgeon, but who panicked or rushed during the murders. Whoever he was, or whoever they were, I guess we'll never find out now. It's been too long. It's been almost a hundred and thirty years since the la
st of the canonical five murders, so it's not as if any more evidence is ever going to show up. It's just one of those things we're going to have to get used to not knowing.”
He pauses, seemingly lost in thought as he stares out at the rain, and then he turns to me.
“I was only researching it for my job,” he adds. “I'm not obsessed or anything.”
“Clearly not,” I reply, and I can't hide a faint smile as I see that he seems flustered.
“Hey Wally, where are you?” a voice suddenly asks over the radio.
“I'm right here!” He grabs the radio, almost dropping it in the process, and then he puts a finger against his lips to let me know I should keep quiet. “I'm right here,” he says again, doing a very bad job of sounding like he's not doing anything wrong. “I'm out on Carlisle Street, checking on reports of a girl who was seen down near the water.”
“Any sign of her?” the voice asks.
“I think...” He pauses, staring at me for a moment, clearly not quite knowing what to say. “I think maybe I spotted something,” he continues finally. “I'm just going to check it out a little and make sure. I wouldn't want to think of anyone out in this rain on a normal night, let alone when we've got something like this going down.”
“Is that the same area where you thought you saw someone this morning?”
“Uh, yes. Yes it is.”
“Okay, but don't waste too much time,” the voice replies. “Even if there was someone out there, he'd have bolted as soon as he saw you.”
“I know that,” Wallace replies. “I'll let you know if anyone shows up. Over.”
As he sets the radio back down, he seems relieved that the conversation is over.
“Wally?” I say after a moment.
“Huh?”
“That's what they call you?”
“I asked them not to,” he replies.
“Did that work?”
“No. It actually made them do it more.” He pauses again, before suddenly fixing his posture, as if he realized he was starting to slouch in his ill-fitting uniform. “Anyway, we're not here to talk about any of that. We're just here to keep you out of the rain.”
“I'm already pretty soaked,” I point out. “Sorry, I think I've made your car a bit wet.”
“It'll dry.”
“You had to take your trousers off earlier, didn't you?” I continue with a smile. “I saw you. You got them covered in mud.”
“Absolutely not.”
“I'm sure it was you.”
“It wasn't.”
“But -”
“You can check the boot if you like,” he adds. “There's not plastic bag with muddy trousers in it.”
“I didn't say anything about a plastic bag,” I point out with a smile.
“This weather's really getting bad,” he replies, clearly changing the subject as he peers out at the pitch-black night. “There are actual rivers of water running along the streets. Hopefully it keeps people inside a little more.”
“So they're gonna catch this guy, right?” I ask. “I mean, Jack the Ripper was in the nineteenth century, so I can kinda understand how he got away with it. But this is the twenty-first century, so there's no way some maniac can go around doing this without getting caught.” I wait for a reply. “Is there?”
“You might be surprised how creative some maniacs can be,” he replies finally. “And how much they can get away with before we track them down. But no, you're right, we'll get him. He's flesh and blood, and I'm sure the forensics guys are going strike gold soon. Maybe one of the letters we've received is going to turn out to be authentic, and we've got a whole lot of very smart people working on this case. My bet is that he's in custody within twenty-four hours. Forty-eight, tops.”
“Before he can kill anyone else?”
He swallows hard. “That's the hope. And then we can get some answers.”
Looking out at the rain, I squint slightly as I realize I can just about make out some buildings nearby. As soon as the rain starts to ease, I should get going. There's no point allowing myself to become too comfortable, or too dry.
“The profilers are working on something right now,” Wallace explains, starting to sound a little tired. “Trying to figure out what kind of person could be behind all of this. They're analyzing the letters, trying to figure out if any of them are genuine. There are a lot of nutters out there. I shouldn't really be telling you this, so keep it under your hat, but there are a few letters that they've started focusing on. Just the ones they haven't been able to dismiss out of hand, you know?”
“Letters from the killer?”
“Maybe, maybe not. I've got a lot of faith in the guys who are dealing with that side of the investigation. By the time morning comes, they'll be able to tell us where to look. I mean, this guy must have been triggered by something. He can't have just burst into existence out of nowhere. There must be a reason why he's so fixated on the Jack the Ripper story. Maybe something happened the other night, on the night of the first murder, that finally tipped him over the edge. There has to have been a trigger of some sort.”
Still watching the rain, I suddenly realize that I just saw something move in the corner of my eye. I turn and look out the side window, but now there's nothing.
“Or maybe it's the ghost of the real Jack the Ripper,” Wallace continues, “in which case, we're all screwed.”
I look out through the rear window, terrified in case I see anything move again.
“That was a joke,” Wallace says. “Don't worry, I don't believe in ghosts.”
I look out the side again, and this time I squint as I try to peer deeper into the darkness.
“I suppose it's natural to start thinking crazy thoughts,” Wallace mutters. “The mind plays tricks, doesn't it? Especially at night. Especially when -”
“Someone's out there!” I yell, as I finally see a silhouetted figure standing in the rain no more than ten, maybe fifteen feet from the car. Just like the figure on the beach. “There's someone watching us!”
Chapter Thirteen
Doctor Charles Grazier
Sunday September 30th, 1888
“I think he must be a demon of some sort,” Delilah Culpepper says, with a glint in her eyes, as we sit in my drawing room. “I think he must have come up from the depths of Hell, and he means to bring great suffering to our city. Perhaps it's because we've all become so frightfully godless.”
“Nonsense,” I mutter under my breath, as I stand at the window and look out at the busy street. I've been trying to work out what to do next, and how to get the Culpeppers out of here without arousing suspicion, but so far I haven't quite come up with an appropriate lie.
I had thought that they might sense the uneasy situation and leave of their own accord, but evidently they intend to stay and gossip about the murders.
“I keep thinking about what it'd be like if he got me,” Delilah adds.
“Oh darling,” her husband says, “you mustn't think like that.”
“But I do!” she continues. “Imagine being grabbed by a pair of brutish hands and then held down! Imagine behind utterly powerless while some monster tears your clothes aside and slices a cold hard blade deep into your body! Oh, imagine being unable to cry out in any way, and feeling your own hot blood running from your own savaged body. Why, the beast would be able to do anything he wanted! Anything at all! Do we know whether any of the victims have been disturbed in a... I suppose, there's been nothing sexual about it, has there?”
“Of course not!” I snap, turning to her. “What are you talking about, woman?”
Horrified by her question, I turn to Culpepper.
“Do you have no control over your wife at all, man?” I ask.
“Delilah was only thinking out loud,” he says, as Delilah stares into the distance and no doubt continues to fantasize about being the next victim of this so-called Jack the Ripper figure. “It's quite dreadful, and you have to admit, the killer must be an absolute monster. It d
oes all rather get the imagination going. As you know, Charles, I'm a man of science. Still, there have been moments when I've wondered whether Delilah is right. It does feel a little as if this fellow has emerged from the fires of Hell.”
I open my mouth to tell him that he has allowed his mind to weaken, but suddenly I hear the door opening. Turning, I'm horrified to see Jack entering the room, carrying one of my silver trays filled with cups and a teapot. If I did not know better, I would actually believe that this ruffian has made -
“Tea?” he asks with a smile, setting the tray down on the table in front of Culpepper and his wife. “I hope you don't mind, Doctor Grazier, but I took the liberty of preparing something for your guests. That's alright, isn't it?”
I watch as he sets out the cups. He's not exactly delicate, and he makes several mistakes, but I suppose I can't fault his ambition. All I want right now is to tell this awful man to leave the room immediately, and I can see that both Culpepper and his wife realize that something is very wrong. They cannot possibly have guessed the truth, however, and I suppose I shall just have to hope that they leave soon. Jack's stench is foul enough to drive anyone away, so they shall surely leave us before too long. Then I shall have to deal with Jack once and for all, and then...
Catherine is still waiting for me, and I must still go to her. As soon as I have settled matters here in the house, I fully intend to reopen my wrists so that – wherever my darling wife has gone – I can follow her there. Just a few more hours, that's all. The letter will explain everything.
“Shall I pour?” Jack asks.
“That's quite alright,” I mutter darkly. “Please, leave us.”
“Of course,” he replies, taking a step back. “If there's anything else you would like at any point, please do not hesitate to call for me, and I'll come running.”
With that, he turns and heads toward the door. He is quite clearly attempting to pass himself off as a manservant, although his grubby clothes and even grubbier demeanor betray him.
“They say Jack the Ripper could strike again at any moment,” Delilah tells me, still with a hint of excitement in her voice. “Some say he must be an eminent surgeon, a real man of learning. Others say he tears the parts from his victims' bodies, like some kind of savage beast. Did you hear about the letter that the newspapers received just the other day? They say the killer threatened to cut off the ears of his victim, and then when they found that second poor woman in Mitre Square, part of her ear was gone. It's the latest news! Didn't you hear? He's cut her ear off, just like he said he would!”