Simon paused. I glanced up at him. The moon shone just brightly enough to illuminate the blond curls across his scalp and forehead. He began to speak again and then hesitated.
“Go on, please.”
He hesitated for two seconds more, glancing down at me before continuing. “As I told you this morning, William has not been himself lately. He has become distracted in his duties to the hospital.”
I said nothing. Nothing needed to be said in that moment. Simon knew the root of William’s malaise. As did I. This break between us had hurt him, but his sudden plunge into irresponsibility only solidified my views that he was terrible for me.
A silence, awkward and heavy, settled between us. Simon spoke quietly. “I’ve heard that Scotland Yard did a thorough search of Highgate Cemetery, and of Brompton Cemetery today.”
“And they found nothing?”
“Nothing. No hiding lunatics, and I did not see any indication in the newspaper’s story that there had been evidence of a cult at work. This has been a suggested theory. But there were no signs of occult ritual. No candles. Nothing.”
“Of course. But particularly in Highgate Cemetery, there are a thousand places to hide ritual objects.” I said this more for my own reassurance; fears continued to rise within me.
Simon peered calmly down at me. I began to speak, but he hushed me with his eyes. Max was somewhere. Still alive. He had beckoned me. And he would draw me closer and closer until …
Moths fluttered around the lamplight in front of the Rossetti house.
Simon seemed like a lighthouse, a safe beacon in a storm at that moment.
“I am afraid,” I whispered. The admission felt soothing, like a loosened belt.
Simon peered at me momentarily before his attention became focused on the moths.
“I fear, Abbie, that … ” He paused. I could barely hear him.
“That everything is not over.” I completed his sentence. My words had almost no volume, but they carried such weight for me.
Simon nodded and sighed, seeming unwilling to say more. “No more late-night walks, Abbie,” he said lightly.
I laughed a little.
He became serious again. “Believe it or not, I am not only concerned about William’s depression in terms of his work performance. I am concerned about how his problems might endanger himself and us. He is not thinking clearly—he had allowed himself to become overwhelmed by his feelings. If what we fear is correct, then this is not good. Who knows what William might say or do? We are all in danger, and William is blinded by his emotions.”
My feelings piqued at this. I had not thought of this side of things. If we were all in danger, this would be a very bad time for William to lose his judgment or his mind.
Simon drew a deep breath and his marble-smooth forehead wrinkled slightly. “I am going to speak to him tonight, about securing the hospital and about being careful. I’ll consider the best approach to this before I walk back inside.”
We exchanged silent glances of amusement, as we both knew how resistant William could be to advice. I nodded to let him know that I would be careful.
Then, in a single feather-brush, Simon swept a lock of hair away from my forehead. I remembered when he had bandaged my hand; once again, I had forgotten how cool his touch could be. I felt a rush of warmth inside of me and silently cursed. Nothing. Nothing needed to become more complicated for me at the moment.
I stilled my feelings.
“Take my carriage home, Abbie.”
“But … ” Night had already fallen upon us. It had to be close to eight o’clock. I felt so agitated, suddenly nothing appealed to me more than a long brisk walk home.
Simon steadied his expression, and I knew that there would be no arguing with him, so I departed in his carriage. I settled back in the plush seat, shivering. These cool spring nights chilled me to my bones, and I longed for summer. The carriage jolted along the cobbled streets, and I hoped that I would indeed be home before Grandmother returned from Lady Violet’s house. Grandmother’s mood would be heightened by the wine and cordials, and her thoughts would revolve around the most current Kensington gossip. If I could rush to my bedroom before her arrival, I would not have to endure her reprimand, her prying questions. She would not even have to know that I had seen William Siddal.
The carriage had only gone a few blocks when the vision came. Everything became dark and shadowed. Then I saw the glow of gaslight in the night mist … I saw Londoners in dampened dark coats, the drawn collars of pedestrians out walking on a rainy evening. Then my vision became more focused and I saw Inspector Abberline leaving a pub.
My vision focused, blurred, rippled, and sharpened again. High Holborn. Abberline was leaving a tavern, somewhere on High Holborn. It was one of those rare moments when he was not at his office at Scotland Yard. High Holborn. My heart raced and I focused on the vision; he was less than a mile away from me.
In the vision, Abberline appeared older—paunchy and weary. He had always seemed so confident to me. But I saw that when alone with his own thoughts, he was almost … frail. Although I still did not like him, I felt pity for him. I realized that he was not a happy man. I had seen a photograph of a woman, presumably his wife, on his desk last year; that picture was all that I knew of his private life. I had an odd curiosity about his personal life. How consuming was his work? Then he turned off High Holborn, away from the moderately crowded street to the more shadowed, Bedwell. That street was smaller, much less crowded. Darker. Emptier.
My heart began pounding as the vision played out before me, and I suddenly sensed that Abberline was in danger. In the darkness, from the building alongside where he walked, a shadow crawled stealthily down the bricks. I watched in horror as the shadow moved closer and closer to Abberline, closing in on him like a spider descending upon a fly caught in his web.
Max.
“Stop! Stop!” I shouted at Simon’s driver, leaping out before the vehicle even came to a complete stop. Simon’s driver shouted to me, but I couldn’t stop to listen. I ran fast toward Bedwell Street, feeling déjà vu as I kept thinking of that night of the double murder all over again—that terrible night when my visions led me to Liz and Cate, just in time to see them murdered.
No. No. My heart pounded as the shadow came closer. Look up, Abberline. Look up.
The memories propelled me to run faster and faster along High Holborn Road. I slammed into three pedestrians, but I refused to let this evening end as the night of the double murders had. I would not let Abberline die.
I turned a corner onto the smaller street—I could hardly breathe; my chest heaved from the sprint. I could barely regain my breath after the run in my tight corset. As my eyes adjusted in the dewy darkness, I saw Abberline’s form ahead of me, walking in great strides, still unaware that he was being hunted, unaware of the killer closing in on him from the shadows.
Quickly, I scanned the tall, worn buildings and pulled the knife out of my boot. Part of me wanted to shout, but I feared that a shout might only spur Max on toward his deadly purpose.
Everything surrounding me was enshrouded in darkness, as Bedwell had no working lamps. I looked up at the building where, moments before in the vision, I had seen Max creeping downwards. But now I saw nothing.
Where was he?
I heard a thud, and saw Abberline pulled into the shadows of an alley with great force.
I heard him cry out.
Bloody hell! I hoped I was not too late.
I ran. Hard. My mind raced with terrible thoughts of Abberline being sliced apart, cut into pieces as the Whitechapel Hospital patients had been. Foolish Abberline! I desperately wished that he could forget about the Ripper case.
As I bolted toward the alley, I heard only my own breath, my blood pounding in my ears. Then I saw, in the dimness, the shadowy figure moving almost too fast for me to see. He had Abb
erline smashed against the brick wall of the urine-stenched place. I knew how fast Max could be and I had no time to hesitate, so I threw my knife hard, aiming at the figure.
Damn! I had missed. Max whipped away, my knife stuck into a bag of debris. Abberline collapsed upon the littered ground nearby; I saw the flash of Max’s knife and my heart pounded. Then I could not see Max any longer, and I rapidly contemplated my next move.
Think, Abbie.
Think.
But in that split-second chaos, I could not decide what I should do next—whether to retrieve my knife or remain where I was, ready to fight. I whipped my head around, scanning the alley, trying to see everything at once.
I heard Abberline struggling to get up from where he had collapsed. He was still alive. Thank God! I moved to attend to him, but then Max was behind me. With great effort, I suppressed a shudder. In the darkness, I smelled the strong scent of an oriental cigar, and I felt his breath against the back of my neck.
“Max.” I whispered his name into the shadows. My voice did not sound like my own. It exuded hate, revenge. I felt an alarming fire inside me, pulsing—the same fire I had that night before killing the other Conclave members; that was how much I wanted him dead.
“Excellent work, Arabella Sharp. I knew you would take the bait,” he whispered from behind me. I smelled blood on his palm. He ran his finger along my left jawline; he continued to stand immediately behind me, whispering into my right ear. “Always so concerned for mortals.”
One. Two. I gave a great kick backward, but my heel struck only air. I had forgotten how unbelievably fast Max moved; I had forgotten how strong he was. With the knife in his teeth, he whipped me toward him. It was a fast, hard spin—a grotesque ballroom twirl where he was the unchallenged partner. This could not be. I regained control, trying to summon my strength. Our fight was a sick one, a twisted dance where only one of us would survive. I had to make certain that it would be me.
Then he was gone.
For a few seconds I stood there stunned, gasping for breath and trying to ignore Abberline’s labored breathing; I tried to focus on Max’s scent, tried to see anything in the darkness now that my eyes had adjusted.
But he was gone. When I felt certain of it, I rushed toward Abberline. My chest tightened as I saw the black shine of blood on his hand and coat.
“Abberline,” I said, quickly. “Did he … ”
But without my assistance, Abberline managed to stand. He was physically built like an ox—not easy to bring down. Whatever wounds he had, I saw that he would survive.
Max could have killed him so easily, if he had been determined to do so.
“Miss Sharp,” Abberline said in the darkness. A streak of light from a streetlamp showed me his face. Astonishment marked his features as his eyes focused on me. “What are you doing here?”
Without a word, I walked past him to retrieve my knife from where it remained stuck in the bag of debris.
“I just saved your life, Inspector.” Although I felt fairly certain that Max had left by now, I remained alert. We needed to get out of this alley. I motioned for Abberline to follow me out, back to the street. Although uncrowded, unlit, and secluded, Bedwell Street seemed infinitely safer than this alley.
I glanced rapidly around me as I stepped out onto Bedwell, then turned to consider Abberline, who had followed me without a word. I didn’t care a shred for him. But I felt terrible when I saw that the middle finger of his right hand had been completely severed—the white bone showed through the blood and skin. I felt a twist of surprise that he grimaced very little as he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and began wiping the blood away, struggling to wrap his finger using the cloth as a tourniquet. As a long-time investigator in Scotland Yard, he knew what to do.
“Who is he?” Abberline asked, before I could say a word.
I said nothing. I just stared at him in the darkness.
He grunted in irritation and continued attending to the wound.
“Your finger, sir,” I said, walking toward him. “Please allow me. It would be easier for me to secure the tourniquet.”
But Abberline looked up at me sharply, his eyes gleaming in irritation as he pulled his hand away from me like an angry child. I could understand his reaction—perhaps it was wounded pride that a girl had just saved his life. Still, I thought that a shred of gratitude would be nice.
Abberline’s eyes narrowed. “Who are you, Miss Sharp?” he growled.
I resisted the urge to turn on my heel, to leave him there alone.
“I’m Arabella Sharp, sir,” I said, putting the knife back into my boot. Only then did I think about the problem of finding Simon’s carriage again. I doubted the driver had waited for us on High Holborn Road. “I’m the granddaughter of Lady Charlotte Westfield. But you know all that.”
He said nothing, merely stood there, irritated and perplexed as he held his wounded hand.
“Watch your back, Abberline,” I said as I scanned the street and tried to decide whether to return to High Holborn Road or not. I didn’t know what else to say to him. He needed the warning, but I needed to think. I began to walk away, rapidly.
Max was most certainly back. Everyone I loved would be in danger.
Something made me pause and turn toward Inspector Abberline. I knew he wouldn’t stop—he would keep pursuing this until he was in too deep. At this point, I might, just might, be able to save his life. He still must not know enough yet, or Max would have already killed him. This would be his last chance.
I had to be direct. “Where did you see that symbol you asked me about, Inspector?”
He paused, as if sensing the foolishness of discussing classified evidence with a seventeen-year-old girl, a girl who had been merely a pawn for him when he’d tried to solve the Ripper murders. I saw the indecision in his eyes.
“Abberline,” I said quickly. “I remember, last autumn, you warning me that I was caught up in a dangerous game. Now it is my turn to tell you that you are the one in grave danger. You had better tell me where you saw that symbol.”
His response came out gruff and defensive. “You know, of course, that the symbol is on a small picture in the laboratory closet of Whitechapel Hospital.”
Yes, of course. I remembered Simon’s suggestion that Abberline might have seen the Conclave’s symbol on that painting.
He continued. “I also saw the symbol on Dr. Bartlett’s arm once, during the autopsy on Annie Chapman.”
He paused, hoping that I would say more, but I said nothing. I was beginning to see that he truly did not understand the significance. This was a great relief to me.
Abberline sighed and lowered his voice. “The same symbol was found on a tomb in Highgate Cemetery, close to where the bodies of the resurrection men were discovered. Only myself and a few others know of this. We also found it on a tomb near the bodies at Brompton Cemetery. We are doing our best to keep it out of the Times; in fact, we will go to great effort over the next few weeks to keep this out of the newspapers, as much as possible. We don’t want a massive panic.”
My heart pounded with this information. The symbols in the cemeteries indicated, possibly proved, a connection between the recent graveyard murders and the Conclave. My mind swirled, this would also explain why Abberline knew about the symbol and was still alive. Max wanted him to know. For some reason, he was playing a game now with not only me, but also with Scotland Yard, just as he had done last October.
“Miss Sharp?” Abberline pressed.
“Yes, I know about the symbol, Abberline. In fact, I know a great deal.” I looked at him sharply, and I saw from his expression that he had no idea how much danger he was in, even now, having lost a finger. “You have to trust me. You’re involved in something much larger than you can imagine. If you choose to proceed in your investigation … watch yourself. I can’t always be around to protect you.”<
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“Miss Sharp … ” He wanted to press me for more. He sounded angry, frustrated, and undoubtedly thought I was being cheeky.
“Be careful, Inspector,” I said once again, walking away, knowing instinctively that he would not listen.
“Abbie!”
I heard the loud halt of carriage wheels on the cobbled street. Then I saw Simon’s tall figure leap out of his carriage as he ran toward me. When he reached me, I told him quietly what had happened, and I saw his gaze move past my head toward Inspector Abberline, who was approaching us in the darkness with his wrapped hand.
“Miss Sharp refuses to give me any information regarding these graveyard murders.” Inspector Abberline cocked his head under the dim streetlight. “Perhaps you can help me, Dr. St. John.”
“Wait for me in the carriage, Abbie,” Simon said quietly. I ignored him and stayed where I was.
“I will look at your wound, Inspector,” Simon said quietly to Abberline; the Inspector appeared almost annoyed that everyone seemed to care so much about his severed finger. I couldn’t help feeling a bit impressed by his continued disregard for it.
Gently, Simon took his hand and unwrapped the bandage. “The cut is clean, the flesh not torn too severely. It should heal well. Go to Whitechapel. Or to London Hospital. It must be cleaned to prevent infection and then sutured. I can take you there myself if you would like.” Simon’s voice, as usual, came out cool and reserved, but outstandingly polite.
Inspector Abberline said nothing, but he looked hard at me, then at Simon.
“Would you like us to take you to the hospital?” Simon repeated, his expression unphased by Abberline’s agitation.
“No,” Abberline growled. I knew he realized that I would not help him, and Simon would aide him only in the capacity of a physician. “I can get there myself. Good night.”
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