by Cross, Amy
I wander over to the dresser, where I see ashtray after ashtray filled with cigarette butts. There are several soda bottles lined up against the wall, and it's pretty obvious that Alex is up to her old tricks and using her home-brewed set-up to extract codeine from paracetamol tablets. On a chair by the door, several dirty old pairs of underwear have been tossed aside and left to hang. There are plenty of books scattered about the room as well, and when I pick a few up I find that they're mostly philosophical works the likes of which I've never read in my life. All things considered, it's pretty clear that Alex has made herself pretty much at home here.
Heading back to the window, I pull the net curtains aside and look out at the street. There are plenty of people out there, although after a moment I hear voices yelling in the distance. I look along the street, just in time to spot a bunch of black-coated people running this way. I feel a shudder in my chest as soon as I realize that they're wearing the same masks as the people on the TV report. There's no way they could have made it all the way to Stratford so quickly, so it's obvious that this is a completely separate group of Ripper worshipers. Clearly this new little cult is growing fast.
They shout and scream at passersby, and then one of them spots me.
Before I can pull back out of the way, he sticks his fingers up and then mimes a stabbing motion with his right hand, and I can just about see a pair of eyes staring at me from behind the mask.
Then he turns and runs, quickly catching up to his friends just as they start pushing over market stalls and generally causing chaos. I hear some of the locals shouting at them, but none of the vandals seem to care. I crane my neck to get a better view, and sure enough they've started smashing a burger van. It's clear that they only care about causing as much wanton destruction as possible.
And then, as the chaos continues, I notice that one of the masked figures is coming back this way, carrying a baseball bat slung over his shoulder. He slows as he gets closer to the corner of the street, and then he stops and looks up at me. From the coat, I can tell that it's not the same guy who gave me the finger just now, but this person seems to be staring at me as if he's surprised by something.
For a few seconds, I start to feel really creeped out, and then to my horror the figure starts walking toward the gate at the front of the house. He kicks the gate open and starts making his way along the path, only to stop below the window and stare straight up at me again. He clearly doesn't care that I can see him, and then after a moment he reaches up to loosen his mask.
Holding my breath, I watch as the mask comes off, and then I feel a punch to the gut as I realize that I recognize his face.
Chapter Eleven
Doctor Charles Grazier
Monday October 1st, 1888
“You'd better run, you little toad! You're nothing but a thief!”
Startled, I stop in the middle of the street as a young boy – certainly no older than seven or eight years old – comes hurtling out of a nearby shop with his arms full of small cloth bags. He batters into me, almost knocking me off my feet, but by the time I raise my cane to strike him it's already too late. He runs across the cobbles and disappears down a nearby alley, and a moment later I turn to see that an angry shopkeeper is trying to catch his breath in a nearby doorway.
“Little runt,” he gasps. “He was away with half a dozen loaves of bread. Probably to feed his fellow robbers in some rundown hovel somewhere.”
“Quite,” I mutter, and then I look down at my sleeve. To my extreme displeasure, I find that the boy left a scuff mark against the fabric, and no end of brushing with my gloved hand seems to have any impact. When I get home, I shall have to get Catherine to -
Stopping suddenly, I realize that Catherine cannot do anything for me. Not at this particular moment, anyway. I am so used to relying upon her, and even now – in the back of my mind – I forget several times a day that she is gone. Still, I know that her absence is merely temporary, so I turn and continue my way along the street, avoiding the alley that Jack took me down last night and taking a more conventional route that eventually brings me to Cathmore Road.
As I walk toward my house, I cannot help but think of the new discoveries I made while I was reading at the club. In fact, I have several new theories and -
I stop in my tracks, and my heart misses a beat as I see that several police officers are walking up the steps toward my front door. It's over. I've been found out, and they will surely drag me away before I am able to bring Catherine back! There is no point running, so I suppose I shall just have to accept my fate. Even if that means that I shall be led to the gallows.
***
“I'm so very sorry to have disturbed you at your home,” Inspector Sanderson says as he leads me along the corridor. “I also know, Sir, that you recently retired. It's just that we're badly in need of some additional expertise and, well, Doctor Brown mentioned you as somebody who could be relied upon to render an expert opinion.”
“Of course,” I reply, although in truth my heart is still pounding. Even after the police officers explained why they had come to find me, I cannot entirely relax. What if this is some kind of trick, designed to fool me into revealing myself as this so-called Jack the Ripper individual?
“I should warn you,” Sanderson adds, stopping at the next door and turning to me, “that the body's in a grim state. It's a couple of days since it was found in Mitre Square and, well, it wasn't in a very good way to begin with.”
“I can assure you,” I say, trying to appear nonchalant, “that in my time as a surgeon I have seen some truly wretched sights. I am certain that this shall be no worse.”
“Perhaps, Sir,” he replies, and then he opens the door and gestures for me to go through. “Please, if you'd be so kind.”
Stepping into the examination room, I'm immediately shocked by the pungent aroma. A woman's naked body has been set out on a slab in the center of the room, and she is open from the neck to the groin. Making my way closer, I look down at her bloodied face and realize that, yes, this is indeed the second of the two women I killed the other night. I recall seeing her face briefly when I followed her into that dark little square, although it is somewhat sobering to witness her injuries now in the cold light of day.
For a moment, I am plunged back into the most vivid memory of that night:
Stopping at the end of the street, I see the most perfect and unimaginable gift.
A woman is making her way into a small square. She appears unsteady on her feet, as if she has been drinking. I watch as she walks, and I listen to the sound of her footsteps echoing in the night air, and already I am starting to feel as if fate has guided this wretch into my path.
Fate?
Did I really think such a thing?
In the cold light of day, I am reminded that there is no such thing as fate. There are only the actions of men, and their consequences.
The rest of that night flashes rapidly through my mind, as I recall removing the organs that I required. In the darkness, I could barely see what I was doing, and now I feel rather shocked as I make my way around the table and peer into the empty, yawning abdominal cavity. I am sure that several police surgeons will have examined the body by now, so I can only assume that the general damage to the corpse was caused by their hands and not mine. After all, I am far too skilled a surgeon to hack at somebody in such a blunt manner. My hands are far too refined.
“She'd been drinking on the evening she was killed,” Sanderson explains. “She'd been found in Aldgate High Street by a PC Robinson, and taken to Bishopsgate to sleep it off. She gave a false name, but we've since established her identity as one Catherine Eddowes. Anyway, she was released from the station after a few hours, and we've got some witnesses who place her near Duke Street shortly before she was killed. There are other reports, but we've managed to narrow it all down to quite a specific location and we're sending men out to ask around. We're supposing that she went on to Mitre Square and that, well, that's where the at
tacker got her. It seems the actual attack itself was most likely rather quick, so at least she probably didn't suffer too long.”
“Indeed,” I mutter, stopping next to the dead woman's head and looking down again at her face.
Did I cause such damage to her features? I never realized. Then again, I never paid too much attention, either. It was her torso that interested me, and that alone.
“She was spotted with a man shortly before her death,” Sanderson continues. “A fellow with a dark jacket and a peaked cap, and maybe a red scarf too. And a mustache.”
“Really?” I reply, barely able to suppress a smile as I realize that they are searching for a man who looks so utterly unlike me in almost every respect. These so-called investigators really are the most dreary, incompetent bunch of fools. Then again, I suppose they are relying upon the eye-witness testimony of drunks, blaggards and outright thieves.
“As you might be able to tell,” Sanderson says, coming over to stand at the other side of the slab, “her guts had been all pulled out, and the left kidney's missing. Her face was also messed with, but that might have been caused by the struggle and the fall. Doctor Brown has produced a full report, I can get a copy of that for you.”
“And why exactly have I been brought down here today?” I ask cautiously, still worried that this is a trap.
“For a second opinion, Sir. Or rather a fifth opinion. Doctor Brown thinks the killer must have had some knowledge of anatomy, although this could've come from animals. We've got another chap, Bond, who disagrees and reckons the killer didn't really know what he was doing. Doctor Sequeira and Doctor Saunders are of the same opinion, so as you can tell we're struggling to come up with anything conclusive. We're leaning toward it being the work of someone who didn't possess too much knowledge or skill, but we thought we'd get you to take a look.”
“You did, did you?”
Peering down into the abdominal cavity, I cannot help but note that the body is a complete mess. I already remember the cuts and incisions that I made, of course, so I pretend for a moment to be taking a closer look. Indeed, I even take a scalpel from the side and use it to move some sections of damaged flesh apart, and I make a few muttered observations that I suppose will make me seem curious. Although I am fairly sure that this Sanderson fellow does not suspect me at all, it would be as well to make sure.
“So you agree, don't you?” Sanderson continues after a moment. “It's the work of an amateur, isn't it?”
I pause for a few seconds, before looking up at him.
“On the contrary,” I say finally, “I believe this to be the work of a skilled surgeon. In fact, I don't understand how anybody could think otherwise.”
“Are you sure?”
“I am.” Reaching into the cavity, I point out where the kidney was cut out. “These incisions show that the killer is someone who has a great sense of judgment when it comes to these things. To my mind, it's rather obvious that this is somebody with knowledge and experience. Why, I would honestly say that the murderer must be better than most of the top surgeons in London. There is simply no way that anybody could perform this work without having had proper training. The idea is simply absurd.”
I know I should not say these things, but at the same time I feel as if I must defend my work. Even if nobody knows that it is my work. I simply cannot allow a bunch of low-skilled police surgeons to denigrate the extreme delicacy and finesse demonstrated by my actions the other night. After all, good work demands recognition.
“I would wager,” I continue, “that there must be no more than a dozen men in the whole country who could work so brilliantly, especially in such squalid conditions.”
“Is that right?” he asks with a sigh.
“Without a shadow of a doubt. The signs are clear.”
“But -”
“There's no debate to be had here,” I continue, cutting him off. “Your Doctor Brown is absolutely correct, although I imagine that even he has underestimated the level of skill that the killer would have required. In fact, I can only assume that the work here is so good and so accomplished, it is difficult for a common surgeon to recognize.”
“Huh.”
Sanderson pauses, clearly rather stumped as he stares down at the body, and then he turns to me again. Indeed, I feel that he seems almost disappointed that I have voiced such an opinion, since it evidently contradicts his pet theory.
“Do you have this level of skill, Doctor Grazier?” he asks suddenly.
“Of course,” I reply, before realizing that it is perhaps time to row back a little and avoid incriminating myself. “Among others. Not many others.”
“How many in London?”
“Very few. In fact -”
I catch myself just in time. This is not the time for pride.
“I could not possibly say,” I tell him finally. “You asked for my opinion, and I have given it. That is all.”
“I suppose it is,” he mutters with a sigh, as he puts his hands in his pockets. He is such a slovenly man, with such bad posture. “Thank you, Doctor Grazier. We'll most certainly keep your thoughts in mind. Unfortunately, the bodies are piling up faster than we can get the autopsies finished. Most of them turn out not to be this Jack the Ripper chap, but we have to check them all. Would you mind taking a look at a few more for us? Just to get your thoughts, so to speak.”
I want to tell him that I'm far too busy, but I suppose perhaps it would be wiser to appear more cooperative.
“Of course,” I say, forcing a smile. “Please. Lead the way.”
I follow him across the room, toward a set of double doors at the far end. I am about to ask him some casual questions about the investigation, for the purpose of making myself sound merely curious, but then Sanderson pushes the door open and leads me into a much larger room. The next sight silences me immediately, for I see a dozen dead women laid out on slabs, all of them with their bellies and chest torn open. Some of them are most certainly my victims, but the rest are assuredly the work of madmen and fools who wish to mimic my work. And as I stare at all these bodies, I feel a rather unlikely emotion bubbling up through my chest as I recognize the few that were killed by my own hand.
I feel a great sense of pride.
Chapter Twelve
Maddie
Today
“Maddie!” Nick yells, stepping toward me and giving me a big, bearish hug. “What are you doing here?”
Too shocked to know how to react, I remain a little stiff until he pulls away from the hug and steps back. He's still holding his Jack the Ripper mask, and he's grinning at me like crazy.
“You remember me, don't you?” he asks. “We used to see each other at the bridge sometimes. You were down there the other day, asking about Alex.”
“Of course I remember you,” I reply, “but... Why are you wearing that thing?”
His grin grows, but then he holds the mask up and puts it over his face. I can just about see his eyes through the holes on the front, and I can hear him sniffing loudly as he laughs.
“Isn't it cool?” he says, his voice slightly muffled. “Everyone's wearing them. They're like those V masks, but even cooler. I think they're from a movie too, but I'm not sure which one. Someone thought they looked a bit like AMD, and they just kinda stuck.”
“AMD?” I ask.
“Adam Michael Devenzies. Where have you been, under a rock?”
Suddenly he holds the mask out and tries to place it over my face, but I instinctively pull back.
“What's the matter?” he continues. “Did you lose your sense of humor?”
“Those people were smashing the market up,” I point out.
“Don't get hung up on the details,” he mutters, trying again to push the mask onto my face.
I pull back, and he rolls his eyes.
“They caused a lot of damage!” I say firmly.
“So do the people at the market. They cause damage by conforming to the system. They damage the very fabric of freedom.
”
“So that gives you the right to smash the place up?” I ask, genuinely shocked by his attitude.
He sighs. “You don't know what it's like round here,” he says after a moment. “Those market people are complete assholes. Some friends and I tried to get a stall, and would they let us? Absolutely not. They're a bunch of self-serving, protectionist elite scum, and they deserve to have their feathers ruffled. I even saw Alex down there yesterday, and she was arguing with one of them. Some snooty old cow wouldn't buy any of Alex's jewellery.”
“That doesn't give you the right to vandalize the place,” I point out.
“Yeah, well, this disagrees with you,” he says, holding the baseball bat out toward me and using it to tap the wall hard a couple of times. “It's nothing serious, Maddie. No-one's getting hurt, are they? You should come and join us some time.”
I honestly don't know how to reply to that. I always thought Nick was a good guy, but now it's clear that he's fallen in with a crowd of people who worship the copycat killer. Looking at the mask in his hands, I genuinely don't understand how he could feel anything but disgusted by what's been happening.
“He's a symbol of the future,” he says suddenly.
“He murdered a bunch of people,” I remind him.
“To prove that the system is against us.”
“What system?”
Smiling, he steps closer and puts a hand on my arm.
“The system that's all around us, Maddie. Adam Michael Devenzies wants to bring the whole thing crashing down. The media's basically portrayed him as a bad guy, but most of what they're saying is completely untrue. For one thing, there are rumors that his supposed victims were already dead. They were girls who died on the street while they were sleeping rough, and he simply took their bodies and used them to make a statement.”
“They said on the news that he's confessed to the killings,” I point out.
“That's just part of the artistic and political process.”