Stalking Jack the Ripper

by Kerri Maniscalco

  SEVEN

  A STUDY IN SECRETS

  WADSWORTH RESIDENCE,

  BELGRAVE SQUARE

  10 SEPTEMBER 1888

  I pushed the herbed potatoes around my plate until they formed a question mark in my gravy.

  Two days had passed since my father had been escorted to the country and Thomas and I had discovered our murderer’s actual first victim. Not much progress was made in the interim. Now the space at night formerly haunted by the ghosts of things I couldn’t control was filled with questions I couldn’t answer. I swear I ate them for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. When I thought I’d had my fill, an entire new course brimming with more questions was served on a silver platter.

  Nathaniel watched me over the rim of his wineglass, his expression a mixture of worry and annoyance. Our aunt and cousin were arriving within a week, so I needed to get myself together by then. I hadn’t made for an amusing housemate, and my brother’s patience was quickly evaporating. Uncle swore me to secrecy; even if I wanted to share my thoughts with Nathaniel, I couldn’t.

  Not to mention, the subject matter was hardly appropriate for the dinner table. Discussing missing ovaries, then asking him to pass the salt would be revolting for anyone, let alone a girl of my station.

  I took a small bite, forcing the food down as best I could. Martha did an exceptional job making roast turkey, braised carrots, and rosemary herbed potatoes, but the aromatic scent and congealing dark brown gravy was turning my stomach. Giving up all pretense of eating the vegetables, I pushed my turkey around the crisp white plate instead.

  Nathaniel slammed his glass down, rattling my own with the force. “That’s quite enough! You haven’t eaten but a few bites in the last two days. I’ll not allow you to continue assisting that madman if this is the result.”

  I stared at him, fork poised over my uneaten dinner. We both knew it was an empty threat. Nathaniel broke away from our locked gazes first, rubbing circles in his temples. His suit was exceedingly fashionable this evening, made of imported fabrics and tailored to his frame perfectly. He called for a servant to bring in a bottle of his favorite wine, crafted in a year not even Father was alive in.

  I could tell by the way his shoulders slumped slightly forward, as if they were growing weary from carrying a heavy load, that Father’s ill health was weighing on him.

  He’d always been the more sensitive and kind one, setting every bug that found its way into our house free. Feeding each stray that ended up on our doorstep more food than it needed, while I imagined what the insides of the animal would look like should it expire. He saw a butterfly as an object of beauty, deserving to flutter about the world, sharing its multitoned splendor. I saw the shiny metal needle I longed to slide into its body, pinning it to a board for further scientific inspection.

  He took after our mother.

  “I cannot have you starve, Sister.” Nathaniel pushed his own plate forward, pouring himself another glass of wine from the freshly filled crystal decanter set before him. I watched, fascinated, as little spots of red splashed onto the white tablecloth like blood splattering on the walls near the victims’ heads.

  I closed my eyes. Everywhere I looked there was some reminder of the atrocious acts being committed in Whitechapel.

  Perhaps I was too preoccupied with death. I sincerely doubted my cousin, Liza, would think of blood splatter. She’d probably bid an attendant to come and address the stain before it had time to set. Aunt Amelia had raised her well and was undoubtedly hoping I’d turn out the same with a little polishing.

  Nathaniel took a long pull from his drink, then set it down gently. His fingers tapped a slow beat against the stem of the glass while he came up with another tactic to dissuade me from my studies. This deliberate show of parental guidance was growing tedious.

  Like a white flag, I held my hand up and waved it, too tired to argue when he got this way. If keeping myself away from Uncle’s laboratory for a few days would appease my brother, then so be it. I didn’t need to conduct my research from there.

  But he needn’t know that.

  “You’re right, dear Brother. Some time away from all this unpleasantness is precisely what the doctor ordered.” I offered him my most sincere smile, pleased to see him slowly return it with one of his own. “I promise I shall have a snack before bed later.” I placed my napkin on the table and stood. “If you don’t mind, I think I’ll retire for a bit. I’m exhausted.”

  Nathaniel rose and tipped his head forward. In his mind as long as I was eating and sleeping regularly, I was bound to feel right as the sunshine on a summer’s day. “I’m very pleased you’re listening to your big brother for once. A little time and distance from all the misery in the world will do you good, Audrey Rose.”

  “I’m sure you’re right.” I gave him one more smile before leaving the room. The servants closed the wooden doors behind me, securing my brother and themselves on the other side. I took a few breaths, then glanced down the darkened hallway.

  There was another reason for my early departure from dinner. Father kept records of all our servants, and I was hoping to discover something useful regarding Miss Mary Ann Nichols.

  I crept toward Father’s study, carefully avoiding every spot in the floor that creaked. I didn’t want Nathaniel or any of the servants knowing about this. Pausing at the door, I stared at the ornate handle. Father would murder me should he ever find out I’d sneaked into his private workspace.

  While it had never been expressly stated, it was a known fact Father’s rooms were all off-limits after Mother’s death. I was like an unwelcome shadow lurking around corners in my own home.

  A clanking din rose from the back staircase, where most of the servants were below cleaning up from supper. Now was the ideal time to sneak into the study undetected. My palms itched with the need to turn the brass handle and slip inside, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it.

  What if he could tell I’d been in there? I doubted he’d come up with anything elaborate, but perhaps he’d set some sort of trip wire up to sound an alarm…

  I leaned against the wall, nearly giggling. How absurd! To think Father would do such a thing, especially when maids would be in and out cleaning. I was being a foolish child, terrified of unknown things hiding beneath the bed frame.

  Taking a deep breath, I steadied my heart. I hadn’t realized how it had accelerated its beat in the last few moments. Surely if I could wander the streets at night while a murderer was on the prowl, I could sneak into my own father’s study while he was away.

  Voices sounded from the kitchen, growing louder. They must be bringing up a decadent dessert course for Nathaniel. My pulse galloped through my veins.

  It was now or never. As the voices came closer, I shot across the hall, turned the knob, and slipped inside, closing the door with a slight click that sounded much too like a bullet sliding into its chamber for my comfort.

  I stood with my back pressed firmly against the wooden door while the sound of footsteps echoed, then disappeared down the corridor. For added measure, I turned the key, locking myself in and anyone else out. The room was exceptionally dark.

  I blinked until I was acclimated to the blackness covering everything like spilled ink. Father had had the deep green drapery pulled shut, keeping both the cool September chill and evening light out.

  The result was a room as welcoming as a crypt.

  Even Uncle’s laboratory with its cadavers had more warmth between its walls. I rubbed the coldness from my arms while slowly making my way toward the fireplace, my silk skirts rustling treacherous whispers behind me.

  The smell of sandalwood and cigars evoked the ghost of my father, and I couldn’t stop myself from continually checking over my shoulder to be certain he wasn’t standing behind me, waiting to pounce. I swear eyes watched me from the shadows.

  A few tapers in hurricane lamps dripped waxy tears and a giant candelabra decorated the mantel next to a photograph of my mother. We had very few images of h
er, and each one was a treasure I held dear to my heart.

  I studied the graceful curve of her lips, tilted into the sweetest smile. It was like peering into a looking glass showing me in the future; even our expressions were similar. A heart-shaped locket with tiny gears was clasped in her hands, and on her finger was the very ring I never took off. Tearing my gaze away, I returned to my purpose.

  All I needed was to light one of the lamps so I could go through Father’s records; I hoped no one would notice the slight flicker coming from under the door.

  As I picked up the base of the hurricane lamp, an object clanked to the floor. Every muscle in my body froze. I waited a few beats, certain I’d be discovered by someone—anyone—but the solemn sound of silence echoed back at me. Forcing myself into action, I lit the lamp. The hiss of the flame sparking to life had me holding my breath a second time; every little sound seemed like a cannon going off, announcing my whereabouts. Finally, I bent and retrieved a small brass key.

  How odd.

  Not wanting to waste precious moments figuring out what it opened, I quickly replaced the key and grabbed the lamp again.

  I held the light up, my eyes trailing over every object in the room as if it were the first and last time I’d ever see them. I longed to catalog each piece within the shelves of my mind and visit them whenever I’d like.

  A large portrait—presumably of one of our ancestors—was mounted on the wall between floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. His chest was puffed up with self-importance and his foot rested atop the carcass of an enormous bear he’d slain. Strange it hadn’t been there the last time I was here, though it had been quite a while.

  “How charming,” I whispered to myself. An ocean of blood surrounded the furry corpse island he was standing upon. The artist captured a deranged essence in our ancestor’s eyes that chilled the very marrow in my bones.

  I scanned the room again. Everything was dark: the wood, the rug, the large settee, a few spots of brocade wallpaper visible from behind artifacts collected over several lifetimes. Even the marble making up the fireplace was a deep green with darker veining. No wonder Father couldn’t move past his grief; darkness was his constant companion.

  I walked over to his desk, a mammoth thing taking up most of the room, threatening me with its hulking form. I rolled my eyes. Leave it to me to give an ordinary desk that much of a villainous personality. Hulking form indeed.

  Sitting in Father’s plush leather chair, I set the lamp down, taking great care not to disturb any of the papers scattered about. I couldn’t help noticing Father had made quite a few mechanical sketches. The detail he managed to capture using only charcoal and paper was astounding. I swear I almost heard the cranking of gears and smelled the oil greasing their parts.

  There was beautiful destruction all across the page.

  Flying ships with guns bolstered to their sides and other miniature wartime toys took up each inch of paper. Shame he stopped creating clockwork pieces; judging from the images I saw, he hadn’t lost his talent.

  I stopped ruminating and slid open each drawer of the desk, searching with renewed purpose for files he kept on all our servants, both past and present. Even though our butler tended to the records, as was customary, Father was quite insistent he have his own. When I reached the bottom drawer, I discovered it was locked. I leaned closer. It looked as if Father had created the locking mechanism himself.

  “Where would I hide something important?” I tapped my fingers on the arms of the chair. Then I remembered the key that had fallen from beneath the lamp. Running to the mantel, I obtained it, then quickly ran back to his desk.

  Time was ticking away, and dessert was nearly over and servants would be busy in and out of the hall shortly.

  It was a long shot the key would work, but I had to try.

  I shifted the light closer. With shaking hands, I slowly pushed the key into place. I turned it to the left, certain it would have opened already if it were the correct one, when a small ‘click’ sounded and the drawer cracked open. Thank the heavens.

  Opening the drawer fully, I ran my fingers over the tops of files, which were smashed together. There were so many I feared it’d take all evening to locate what I needed. I couldn’t even recall how many maids we’d gone through over the last five years. Luckily, Father organized this drawer better than the top of his desk.

  Little name tags peeked out above the folders like islands breaking through an ocean of ink on paper. I thumbed through them once, then twice before finding Miss Mary Ann Nichols’s folder.

  Checking over my shoulder to be sure the door was still locked, I pulled the file out and quickly read a lot of… nothing. There was only a ledger with her payments.

  No background reference. No letter of recommendation.

  Not a single glimpse into her life prior to working for us. I couldn’t believe Uncle had recognized her so easily. According to Father’s records, she’d been in our employ for only a fortnight. I slumped into the chair, shaking my head.

  I removed a random file, drawing my brows together. This was for our cook, Martha, also our longest servant, as she didn’t interact with us often and Father loved her black pudding.

  It contained a letter of reference from her previous employer, a letter from Scotland Yard stating she’d never been under investigation, her monthly wages, allowances, and board wages, and a photograph of her in her typical cook’s attire.

  I scanned a few more files, finding they all resembled our cook’s.

  On a hunch, I dug around in the drawer until I found another servant who’d been dismissed for no better reason than having stayed with our family more than a month. Her file looked precisely like Miss Nichols’s, confirming my suspicion that Father must clean out the majority of their information once they were no longer employed.

  I closed the folders, taking pains to place everything back exactly where I’d found it.

  Cursing my father for keeping pointless records, I wished I could set the whole mess of papers ablaze.

  As I slid the last file into place, a familiar name caught my attention. I hesitated briefly before removing the folder and flipping it open. It contained a lone newspaper clipping. A brutal coldness enveloped me where I sat.

  Why did Father have an article on Miss Emma Elizabeth Smith’s murder?

  EIGHT

  BRING OUT YOUR NEARLY DEAD

  GREAT WESTERN ROYAL HOTEL,

  PADDINGTON STATION

  11 SEPTEMBER 1888

  The tearoom in the Great Western Royal Hotel was unbearably warm.

  Or perhaps it was simply the fiery rage burning inside me. Sitting with my hands folded politely in my lap, I prayed for the strength I’d need to stop myself from reaching across the table and wrapping my fingers around a neck instead of cucumber sandwiches and petits fours. “You look as if you’ve not slept, Mr. Cresswell.”

  “Who said I did, Miss Wadsworth?”

  I raised my brows. “Doing subversive things at indecent hours?”

  “Would it offend you if I were?” Thomas smiled at the waiter and leaned in, whispering in his ear. The waiter nodded, then marched off.

  Once we were alone, he turned his steady focus on me, calculating a thousand things simultaneously. I lifted the porcelain cup to my lips, forcing a sip of tea down.

  I’d agreed to meet him here only to go over case details. Now he was doing that infuriating thing where he’d inevitably guess my secret plans, and I’d have to murder him. In front of all these witnesses, no less. What a pity.

  “Sir.” The waiter came back to the table, presenting Thomas with three things: a silver ashtray laid out with cigarettes, matches he produced from his black trousers, and an orchid. Thomas handed the flower to me then plucked a smoke from the tray, allowing the waiter to light the end. A gray cloud puffed into the air between us. I purposely coughed, batting the smoke back toward his side of the table.

  “I cannot believe you’d buy me a beautiful flower only to ruin it w
ith smoking,” I said, scowling. “How incredibly rude.”

  Smoking in front of a girl without her permission was against social mores, but Thomas didn’t seem to care for that rule one bit. I set the orchid down, staring at him through a fringe of slitted lashes, but he only took another drag, slowly letting the toxic air out before dismissing the waiter.

  He reminded me of the caterpillar from Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, sitting upon his giant mushroom, lazing about without a care in the world. If only he were small enough to squish beneath my boots.

  “That’s a disgusting habit.”

  “So is dissecting the dead prior to breakfast. But I don’t scorn you for that unseemly habit. In fact”—he leaned closer, dropping his voice into a conspiratorial whisper—“it’s rather endearing seeing you up to your elbows in viscera each morning. Also, you’re quite welcome for the flower. Do place it on your nightstand and think of me while dressing for bed.”

  I dropped my finger sandwich onto my plate, shoving it away with as much vehemence as I could muster. Thomas pulled in another lungful of smoke, meeting my gaze with a flash of defiance and something else I couldn’t quite read.

  “Well, then. I see there’s nothing more to say. Good day, Mr. Cresswell.” Before I stood, Thomas’s hand shot out, gently circling my wrist. I gasped, drawing my hand back, and glanced around. Thankfully, no one had seen his indiscretion. I swatted away his second attempt to hold me, though I didn’t exactly mind his touch. “I see your addiction has addled that brain of yours.”

  “On the contrary, dear Wadsworth,” he said between puffs, “I find nicotine gives me an added boost of clarity. You ought to try it.”

  He flipped the awful thing around, offering it to me, but there were limits I’d set for myself as far as amateur sleuthing was concerned. Smoking was one of them. He shrugged, returning to his nicotine intake.

  “Suit yourself,” he said. “Now, then, I’m coming with you.”

  I looked him squarely in the eye. Thomas was no longer showering me with cool indifference; he was warm as an August afternoon, his lips turned up at the corners.