Stalking Jack the Ripper

by Kerri Maniscalco

  Pulling my dark hair into a simple braid and pinning it about my crown, I tucked a few wayward strands behind my ears. My dress was a simple design with long fitted sleeves, a small bustle, and light cotton fabric. I ran my hands down the front of it, enjoying the softness and fine craftsmanship of the garment.

  I stared at the dark circles under my eyes that told of many sleepless nights. The paleness of my already sallow-looking skin was heavily contrasted by the black clothing, so I pinched my cheeks, giving them some much-needed color.

  Mother never had to worry about doing such things. Her skin was a beautiful honey, showing off her ancestry from India, and mine was a cream-laden imitation of hers. I reminded myself I need not be fashionable; I was going for stealth. Though my aunt would be pleased I’d taken an interest in my appearance.

  Unbidden, a wretched thought flashed through my mind. Thomas and Uncle were out the evening of the first murder… they were interested in studying the human body. And Thomas had flat-out lied about it. If I discovered them doing treacherous things, would they harm me? I laughed, covering my mouth to stifle the sound.

  What a ridiculous notion.

  My uncle was not capable of such acts. Thomas, however… I couldn’t say for sure, but refused to follow that trail of thought.

  I imagined the murderer was a physician traveling abroad or someone who was working for a physician to locate organs for study. Or perhaps some wealthy man or woman was willing to pay dearly for a transplant of some sort.

  Though, that science hadn’t been effective yet. No one had ever accomplished a successful organ transplant. Either way, I doubted highly that Leather Apron was hanging around, stalking women of the night. I’d be fine, cloaked under darkness.

  Without allowing myself a moment’s hesitation, I swiftly sneaked down the stairs, crept into the drawing room, and latched myself in. Glancing about the empty room, I released a sigh. All was quiet. I tiptoed across the floor, then opened the window farthest from the door.

  Placing both hands on the windowsill, I glanced over my shoulder, checking the lock once more. Father was sleeping, and he wasn’t quite mad enough to check on me during the night, but the thought of being caught had my heart running double its speed.

  A thrill twirled through my veins as I pushed off, dropping a few feet to the patch of grass set between stones. The few seconds of weightlessness made me feel as free as a bird soaring in the heavens.

  I smiled as I wiped my soft leather gloves off and slunk into the shadows surrounding the building. Father would lock me in the old coal cellar if he knew I’d sneaked away so late, which made my night adventure all the more appealing.

  Let him discover I was out at this indecent hour and was more than capable of taking care of myself. I welcomed the chance not only to ferret out helpful clues for our investigation but to prove Father’s fears irrational as well.

  Even if there was potentially a madman on the loose.

  My quest began losing its appeal the longer I slipped in and out of the dimness of London’s abandoned streets.

  I couldn’t take the carriage without Father learning of my shameful activities, and trekking through the cobblestone streets for nearly an hour wasn’t as bold and daring as I’d imagined it to be. I was cold, and the streets stank of waste. Needles pricked between my shoulder blades. I had the horrible feeling I was being watched. I nearly fainted when a silly old cat ran into my path.

  Down the block, I heard a commotion and slipped into the closest alleyway to avoid being seen. Voices carried over the rolling fog, adding a haunted feeling to the already eerie streets. I counted my breaths, waiting for the people to pass by, praying no one would slink into my hiding place. Wind tickled the back of my neck, raising gooseflesh. I didn’t like being trapped between buildings.

  I hadn’t really thought of what I’d say should I encounter someone at this hour. All I’d been thinking was I’d spy on the pubs Miss Nichols had visited prior to her death, possibly learn some new fact or clue from the people deep in their drink, and outsmart Thomas Cresswell. Perhaps I should’ve prepared myself a bit more instead of being motivated by the desire to show off my own intelligence to such an obnoxious yet damnably brilliant boy.

  I glanced up through the light fog at the cross street. Hanbury. How had I gotten this far over? I was nearly to the Princess Alice but had traveled a touch out of the way. The next few streets should take me to Wentworth and Commercial.

  Without waiting for the drunken couple to pass, I willed myself to take on the stealth of an apparition, floating soundlessly down the alley and across the road. My feet took sturdy steps, though a feather could have knocked me over my heart was pounding so hard. Halfway through the alley, a pebble knocked out of place behind me. I whirled to see… nothing.

  No scythe-wielding murderer or drunken bar patron. Only an empty black space between buildings. Must have been a rat crawling through rubbish.

  I stood for a few more beats, waiting, my heart thrashing against my ribs like a fish taken from water. I feared a monster would be standing behind me, breathing its rotten breath down my neck should I turn around, so I closed my eyes. Somehow, everything seemed easier to manage when I couldn’t see. Though it was a foolish, foolish thing to do. Pretending a monster wasn’t there didn’t make it go away. It only made one vulnerable to its attack.

  I listened hard. When no other sounds occurred, I moved swiftly away, tossing glances over my shoulder to be certain I was alone.

  Once I saw the lively pub in front of me, I took a deep breath. I’d much rather take my chances with drunken ruffians than the shadows stalking the night. The brick building stood three stories tall and was prominently placed between two streets, giving it a triangular shape in the front.

  Noise and the clinking clatter of plates and glasses filtered out through the front doors along with bawdy laughter and words no lady should hear. Sinking my teeth into my lower lip, I eyed some of the more surly patrons in view.

  I rethought my earlier fear of shadows.

  Some men were covered in soot, while others had blood splatter along the cuffs of their rolled sleeves. Butchers and factory workers. Their arms were corded with the look of hard labor, and their rough accents spoke of poverty. My fragile aristocratic bones stuck out even in my plainest dress. I cursed the bustle and finely stitched seams—apparent even in the dark—and contemplated turning back.

  I refused to be defeated so easily by fear or a well-made garment.

  Squaring my shoulders, I took one giant step toward the crowd before being dragged backward by an unseen force. I opened my mouth to scream, but was quickly silenced by a large hand covering the lower half of my face.

  The grasp wasn’t hard, but I couldn’t gain enough leeway to bite down on my assailant. I kicked and jerked about to no avail. The only thing I managed to do was to wrap my blasted skirts about my legs, tumbling into my assailant, allowing him a bit more ease in his unholy mission. I was at the mercy of this invisible demon, powerless to break free of its supernatural grasp.

  “Please. Don’t scream. You’ll ruin everything.” His voice was far too amused given the situation. At least he wasn’t an apparition, then. I wrestled with everything I had, twisting and knocking my head against his chest. If he wasn’t so tall, I might have connected with his head. “We’re going somewhere quiet. Then we can talk. All right?”

  I nodded slowly, collecting my racing thoughts. Somehow, that voice was familiar. He gently pulled me into the shadows, our bodies pressed together most inappropriately, and even though I thought I recognized his voice, I didn’t make his job easy. I’d show him how right my mother was about roses having both petals and thorns.

  Digging my heels in, I kicked and tried scratching his arms, with little success. We stumbled into the alley, our limbs knocking together, and he ooomphed as my elbow connected with his stomach. Good. If I died now, at least I’d have some satisfaction of having injured the beast. My momentary victory was short-
lived—my bulky skirts weighed down any more attempts at fleeing, and the monstrous fog finally swallowed us whole.

  Once we were far enough away from the pub and the gas lamps lining the cobbled streets, my attacker released me as promised. My chest heaved with fear and rage. Bracing myself for a fight, I spun on my heel, blinking disbelief away.

  Thomas Cresswell stood with his arms crossed at his chest, a slight frown turning down his handsome features. He, too, was dressed solidly in black, with the addition of a cap pulled low over his brow. His profile cast sharp shadows in the waning light.

  There was an almost dangerous aura about him cautioning me away, but anger seethed through my veins. I was going to kill him.

  “Are you completely mad? Was that necessary?” I demanded, both fists planted on my hips to avoid strangling him. “You could’ve simply asked me to follow you! And what do you think you’re doing skulking along the streets at this ungodly hour?”

  He eyed me warily, then ran a hand down his tired-looking face. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think he’d possibly been worried. “I could ask the same of you, Miss Wadsworth. But I’d rather save that spectacle for your brother.”

  “My—” I didn’t have time to finish my sentence before Nathaniel appeared like the Ghost of Christmas Past, looking less than amused. For once, I was without words.

  Nathaniel nodded toward Thomas, then grabbed me roughly by my elbow, pulling me deeper into the shadows and out of earshot. I wrenched around, glaring, but Thomas’s attention was fixed on the arm Nathaniel was latched onto, the muscle in his jaw clenching. His reaction confounded me enough to go along with my brother peacefully.

  “Please spare me any of your ridiculous stories, Sister,” Nathaniel whispered harshly when we were far enough away. “I don’t even want to know why you thought it a fine idea to traipse around darkened streets while a murderer is stalking women. Do you have some sort of death wish?”

  I got the impression this was a rhetorical question. I kept quiet by squeezing the material of my skirts between my fingers. What I wanted to do was shake his rough hand off my elbow where he was still gripping me a bit too hard. I also wanted to scold him for being as overprotective as Father and reacting hysterically.

  But couldn’t bring myself to do either of those things.

  Nathaniel released me, then tugged at his fine leather gloves until his face slowly returned to a more natural color instead of the blazing red of the Queen’s Guard.

  He sighed, running a hand through his fair hair.

  “Losing Mother was bad enough.” His voice caught and he coughed the emotion away, yanking his comb out from beneath his overcoat. “Don’t expect me to sit back and watch you recklessly endanger yourself, little sister.” His eyes dared me to say one stupid thing. “It would destroy me. Understand?”

  As quickly as my temper flared, my ire was quelled. For the last five years it was the two of us against the world. Father was too lost in sorrow to really be present. Putting myself in Nathaniel’s place, I could see the minute cracks of my emotions shattering should I ever lose him.

  “I’m sorry for worrying you, Nathaniel. Truly.” I meant every word of the apology. Then a thought struck. I narrowed my eyes. “Why, might I ask, are you trolling around back alleyways with that devil Mr. Cresswell?”

  “If you must know,” Nathaniel said a bit haughtily, adjusting his collar, “we’re not the only ones out here.”

  Now this had my full attention. I raised a brow, waiting while my brother scanned the abandoned area around us. “A group of us are doing a bit of our own inquiry. We’ve taken up posts throughout Whitechapel and are looking for suspicious persons. We’re calling ourselves the ‘Knights of Whitechapel.’”

  I blinked. The only people who looked sorely out of place were my well-dressed brother and his ridiculous hat-wearing lackey. I could only imagine what the rest of the highborn boys looked like in this neighborhood.

  “The Knights of Whitechapel,” I repeated. My brother wasn’t capable of hurting a common housefly; I hated imagining what some diabolical killer might do to him out here in the dark. “You cannot be serious, Nathaniel. What would you possibly do if you came face to face with this murderer, offer him a silver comb or perhaps some French wine?”

  A dark look crossed my brother’s face.

  “You’d be surprised what I’d manage should the need arise.” Nathaniel gritted his teeth. “He’d soon discover he’s not the only one who can induce fear. Now, then”—he angled me back down the alleyway toward the lone figure standing near the end—“Mr. Cresswell will see that you make it home safely.”

  The last thing I wanted was to be escorted home by Mr. Thomas Cresswell. He was quite smug enough. “If you’re staying out here, then so am I.”

  I planted my feet, refusing to budge, but Nathaniel simply dragged me behind him as if I were made of feathers.

  “No, you’re not.” He handed me off to my classmate. “Take the carriage to my house, Thomas. I’ll come back on foot later.”

  If Thomas was annoyed with Nathaniel bossing him around like a common servant, he didn’t show it. He simply wrapped his long fingers around my arm, tethering me to his side. I hated the surge of my pulse at his touch, but no longer struggled to break free. I stole a glance, noticing the smirk on his face.

  He didn’t grip me as if I were an unruly child in need of scolding, choosing instead to hold me back from Nathaniel, as if he were the one in need of rescuing. It was high time someone noticed I was capable of looking after myself. Even if that someone was an infuriating boy. An intelligent, arrogant, handsome boy. I stood a little straighter, and Thomas chuckled—a delicious, rumbling sound I wouldn’t mind hearing again. My brother spared me one last look.

  “Be sure to place a stick atop that windowsill in the drawing room.” He smiled broadly at the death glare I leveled at him. “Sorry, little sister. But I do believe you’ve had enough excitement for one evening. Count your blessings you encountered only the two of us out here and not someone more sinister.”

  “Come,” Thomas said, directing me toward the carriage. “Your brother’s right. Something wicked lurks in these shadows.”

  I twisted around to stare at him. “Something more wicked than you?”

  Thomas opened his mouth before catching on to my teasing, then laughed in a way that set my heart racing again. Perhaps he was the most dangerous thing I could encounter out here, and my brother hadn’t a clue. One fact was slowly taking shape: I was in jeopardy of admiring Mr. Cresswell against my better judgment. A gust of wind tangled my hair, bringing with it a chill that caressed my skin.

  I glanced around for my brother, but he’d already been taken by the fog.

  FIVE

  DARK AND HIDEOUS THINGS

  WADSWORTH RESIDENCE,

  BELGRAVE SQUARE

  8 SEPTEMBER 1888

  “You’re looking rather unwell this morning.” Father glanced at me over his paper. “Perhaps you ought to return to bed. I’ll send up some broth. Last thing we need is to have you coming down with an influenza or worse. Especially as winter draws near.”

  He set the paper down and wiped his brow with a handkerchief. Out of our family members, Father was the only one who appeared unwell. He’d been perspiring a lot lately.

  “Are… are you feeling all right, Father? You look a bit—”

  “How I look is not your concern,” he snapped, then quickly amended. “You needn’t worry about my health, Audrey Rose. Attend to yourself. I should like it very much if you didn’t leave the house again for some time. I’ve heard more disease is spreading in the slums.”

  After adding a few drops of tonic to his tea, he continued reading the news. I wanted to point out that gaining an immunity to certain things would keep me healthier, and the only way to gain such immunity was by leaving the house, but he’d never tolerated my knowledge of science or medicine. Keeping me in a bubble equaled safety to him, no matter how wrong that notion was.


  He sipped from his tea, his presence filling the room but not warming it. My attention drifted to the clock. I needed to meet with Uncle soon. Nathaniel was still sleeping, so I was on my own for leaving the house.

  I politely cleared my throat. “I’m in need of some new dresses and shoes”—I dropped my gaze, peering up through my lashes, feigning embarrassment—“and other more delicate items…”

  Father waved me off, thoughts of corsets and undergarments too much for him to hear about despite his fears of my poor health. He blotted at his nose with the same handkerchief, then returned it to his pocket.

  “Do what you must,” he said. “But be home in time for supper and your lesson on running a proper household. Your aunt says you showed little improvement last time she visited.”

  I fought the urge to roll my eyes at his predictability. “Yes, Father.”

  “Oh,” he said, wiping his brow once more, “wear a mask when you leave today. There’s talk of more East End sickness.”

  I nodded. The “mask” was nothing more than a cotton neckerchief I tied about my nose and mouth. I doubted it would protect me from anything. Satisfied with my obedience, he went back to reading, the sound of his teacup hitting the saucer, his sniffling, and the flipping of pages our only talkative companions.

  GHASTLY MURDER IN WHITECHAPEL

  I read the headline aloud to my uncle while he paced in front of the specimen jars in his basement laboratory. The deep burgundy wallpaper was normally a warm backdrop against the frigid temperature and even colder bodies adorning the examination table most days.

  Today, however, the red tones reminded me of spilled blood, and I’d had my fill of that substance lately. I rubbed my hands over the thin sleeves of my muslin day dress and scanned the article. There was no mention of the new body they’d found this morning; it was still detailing poor Miss Nichols’s death. The killer had taken mercy on her, compared to the nefarious acts he’d committed on victim number two.