Capturing the Devil

by Kerri Maniscalco

  “Ah. I see.” Thomas sat back on his heels, tapping his pen against his journal. “If this were a scientific experiment, then we’d have the control and variables.”

  “Measuring the differences will assist with eliminating Jack the Ripper as the murderer,” I said, understanding Uncle’s methodology better.

  “Good. Both of you. Now, then”—Uncle pointed to the neck again—“what would the Ripper have done? What did he do with each of his victims?”

  For a brief moment my heart lurched into that dark space I’d fought so hard to overcome. I despised thinking of the Ripper case, but I could no longer hide my grief or ignore the evil that had been done last autumn. It had been five months now since his first murder; it was time once and for all to face the truth and move on.

  Thomas half turned in my direction, running his attention over me in a swift, analytical way. I knew he’d not interrupt or offer his opinion unless I gave the signal to do so. While it was tempting to have him confront that monster for me, it was my duty. He might be heir to a dynasty saturated in blood, but so was I.

  I clutched my unoccupied hand at my side, holding tightly to my cane with the other. “Jack the Ripper strangled his victims before slitting their throats. Every one of them. Even Miss Elizabeth Stride.”

  “Indeed. He’d been interrupted during that murder, but he still slit her throat before attacking Miss Catherine Eddowes later that same evening. This murderer”—Uncle motioned to the victim lying before us—“had more than enough time to commit his darkest fantasies. He was presumably here with her for hours, more than enough time to carve her up. Miss Mary Jane Kelly’s corpse was nearly unrecognizable as human. There were similar circumstances with that crime when compared to this one. It was committed inside. Miss Kelly was a prostitute. She’d been drinking. Yet this murderer did not follow that same familiar technique of slitting her throat and viciously cutting her up. Yes, this victim may have an organ missing, but it’s not in the same careful manner as our previous cases in London. Now, tell me, what else doesn’t fit with Jack the Ripper?”

  I mulled over details of the Ripper case. Each murder scene had been burned into my memory—I didn’t have to dig too deeply to recall their facts. I doubted I’d ever forget those crimes. I stared down at this victim. The bruising on her neck was different. Instead of the Ripper’s long fingerprint blossoms of crushed flesh, this pattern was more akin to striations. I noticed a pair of torn stockings on the floor.

  “This victim, given the marks on her neck, was likely strangled with her own stockings. The Ripper committed his crimes by use of his hands.” Uncle’s expression shifted once again to pride. His acknowledgment was welcome, yet felt a bit strange given the circumstances. I wasn’t sure I wanted my premier talent to be deciphering corpses, but there were worse titles to hold. “The knife”—I nodded toward it—“is also another difference. Jack the Ripper never left a weapon behind.”

  “Excellent.” Uncle inhaled deeply. “What is a more obvious difference?”

  Thomas pushed himself into a standing position and tucked his journal into an inner pocket on his jacket. “This victim is older than each of the Ripper victims by at least a decade.”

  I stopped listening to Uncle and Thomas as they traded theories like weather statistics. A hint of a memory tried surfacing from the depths of my mind. It was hazy, however, similar to squinting at an object through thick fog. I could almost make out the shape of it…

  “The unsolved murder from the Etruria,” I said as the memory finally broke free. “That crime was similar in nature to this one.”

  In fact, if I recalled correctly, Thomas and I had worried we’d unleashed a Ripper-inspired murderer in America. The conversation between my uncle and Thomas halted immediately. Both men slowly blinked at the connection. For a few cursed moments, the only sound was our breath juxtaposed with the utter silence coming from the victim splayed out on the bed.

  “What we need to do is get a look at the passenger log of the Etruria,” I continued when it became clear my uncle and Thomas were flummoxed by my deduction. “It might be the best way of hunting down this murderer.”

  “Assuming the murderer used his actual name.” Thomas looked skeptical. “Proof is not required when booking passage across the sea.”

  “You’re right. I doubt he used his true name,” I said, leaning on my cane. “But, at the very least, it could potentially give us an alias that might be his undoing.”

  Uncle stared at the room and I wondered what he was actually seeing. After a minute he motioned toward the corpse. “Let’s finish with our inspection. I’ll ask Inspector Byrnes to send someone over and fetch any information they can get from the Etruria passenger manifest.”

  With that settled, I faced the body and tried calming the excited thrum of my pulse. I licked my lips, hoping the hunger didn’t show in my face. It was hardly the time to appear flushed and bright-eyed. Though if Thomas could dance around earlier as if we’d been invited to a grand ball, then I ought to be forgiven for this transgression in decorum.

  I felt the pressure of Thomas’s look almost as acutely as if he’d reached over and touched me. Uncle might be preoccupied, but Thomas never missed any shift in my mood.

  I glanced at him, unashamed. His eyes were dark with worry. He had cause to be afraid; I hardly recognized myself. I shouldn’t delight in such violence, yet there was no denying how extraordinarily alive I felt while studying death.

  Perhaps it was the devil in me, begging to be set free. Without further ado, I obliged.

  FIVE

  A HAUNTED PAST

  AUDREY ROSE’S ROOMS

  FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK CITY

  21 JANUARY 1889

  Before we left the hotel, Inspector Byrnes promised to call on us with more details of who the victim was, and without permission to perform or observe the postmortem, Thomas, Uncle, and I retired to our home to await the news. After supper, I excused myself to change and noticed an envelope postmarked from London waiting on my vanity.

  Curious, I slit it open with a swift flick and read the neat, unfamiliar script.

  Word has reached me about your upcoming nuptials. I am en route to New York and shall arrive in two weeks’ time. Do tell Thomas I wish to speak with him before the wedding ceremony.

  It’s of the utmost importance. I have something he needs.

  Odd. Neither Thomas nor I had spoken to anyone other than Liza and my father about our hope to marry. And my father certainly wouldn’t have told anyone we wished to be engaged without granting Thomas an audience with him first. There were certain customs that needed to be met in the correct sequence. Once my father agreed, Thomas would need to write to his family. Until all of the necessary paperwork had been drawn up, no one outside of our immediate families would be privy to an engagement. And yet… someone else knew it was possible. In fact, they seemed already convinced a wedding was in our near future.

  Rubbish.

  I crumpled the letter and fed it through the ornate grate covering the fireplace, watching as its edges shifted from black to orange before fully catching fire. I waited until it had disintegrated to ash before turning away. An uneasiness settled into my stomach, making itself quite cozy. There wasn’t anything menacing about the note, but the lack of signature was troubling.

  If it were Thomas’s sister, Daciana, she would’ve surely signed her name, and the note would’ve been as warm and friendly as she was. I imagine she’d send a letter directly to her brother if she had a message specifically for him. It made no sense that she’d write to me instead, asking me to pass her wishes along. If not Daciana or her beloved Ileana, then who would ask to speak with Thomas before our wedding?

  Part of me worried it was something devised by the impish ringmaster with whom I’d played a dangerous game of illusion. Would Mephistopheles have spies in New York? I inhaled deeply. There was no way the ringmaster would trouble himself with our lives anymore. He knew my heart belonged only to Thom
as. He wasn’t that much of a devil.

  A soft knock came at the door, dragging my mind away from its endless circling. My imagination often crafted elaborate tales. This was likely another one of them. “Come in.”

  Liza waltzed in with a fragrant cup of tea, then stopped short, crinkling her nose as she waved her free hand about her face. “It smells like burnt parchment in here. You’re not setting our plays on fire, are you?”

  I set my cane against the settee and plopped down. I traced the brocade pattern on my aquamarine skirts, hesitating. It all seemed so silly now. “I received a letter.”

  Liza crossed the room and handed me the tea. “Yes, I imagine with a possible wedding coming up you’ll receive quite a few of those. Did you burn this particular letter?”

  I nodded, taking a quick sip. There was an earthy yet spicy taste to it that wasn’t at all unpleasant. I managed to drink a bit more before answering. “I—It seems I’m the recipient of a possible veiled threat. Though the more I think on it, the more I may be overreacting. Perhaps I’m suffering from jitters before Father gives his blessing. That’s normal, isn’t it?”

  At this confession, Liza’s eyes nearly popped from her head. She hurried over and—after setting my tea down—clutched my hands in hers, face alight with excitement. “A scandal! Intrigue! You do get to have all the fun. Do you believe it’s a scorned lover, seeking revenge?”

  “What? Why would you believe that?” I stared into my cousin’s expectant face and finally relented. “Well, to be truthful, Mephistopheles did cross my mind. He enjoys meddling, but we were hardly lovers. And while I might have had a momentary lapse in judgment, there was never any true danger of me falling in love with him.”

  Liza looked at me sadly. “Sweet cousin, I know you didn’t harbor feelings for Mephistopheles. I was actually talking about Thomas.”

  I opened my mouth and shut it as I turned the notion over. “Thomas has not…” I shook my head. “He’s not courted anyone before.”

  There was an uncomfortably long beat of silence that stretched between us.

  Liza plucked at the frills of her skirts. “Are you certain? Has he actually said those words to you, or are you guessing?”

  “I—” I went to argue, but—as was the case where matters of the heart were concerned—my cousin was blastedly correct once again. “I imagine he would’ve mentioned by now if he’d courted anyone in the past. He’s always been so serious about his work with Uncle.” Liza seemed ready to say something else but pressed her lips together instead. I sighed. “This is ridiculous. Thomas doesn’t have a former lover who’s seeking to ruin our wedding. Say that were even possible, how might she know of our betrothal plans?”

  “Rumors. Gossip. You know there’s nothing quite as scandalous or delicious as a good romance. Especially since you and Thomas have become well-known in London. A butler or servant might’ve seen correspondence and started a chain of ill-kept secrets.”

  “If we’d sent out invitations or even letters to our families, that might be.” I picked my tea up and let the fragrant steam soothe me. “Maybe it’s Jian or Houdini or someone else from the Moonlight Carnival who’s playing a rather cruel joke. I wouldn’t be surprised if they sent an anonymous letter to someone. You know their sense of humor is a bit warped.”

  The more I rambled, the more unlikely my guesses became and the more uneasy I felt. My cousin’s expression hardly helped mend my worries. Liza plastered on a smile. “You’re probably right. I’m sure after ten days of annoying you, kissing you once for all of two seconds, then running off to the next city to find another conquest, the ringmaster has set spies on you and wishes to ruin your hypothetical wedding by sending notes to newspapers across the pond.”

  Bloody hell. I regretted telling her about the unfortunate kiss. Thomas, however, took it all much better than I deserved. He only wished I’d kneed Mephistopheles in a sensitive body part for taking advantage of me.

  “Brat.” I finished off my tea, grabbed my cane, and headed for the door with as much confidence as I could muster. “I’ll simply ask Thomas about any romantic entanglements right now.”

  “Excellent idea.” Liza eyed the bookshelves near my fireplace. “Would you like me to stay until you return?”

  I knew she’d like nothing more than to curl up with a good romance novel, and I didn’t want my worries to stop her from enjoying her evening. I shook my head. “I’ll be fine, thank you.”

  It was much harder to creep around a house I was unfamiliar with at night, and my cane clicking against the thin carpet didn’t aid my stealthy pursuit. I cringed each time it made contact with the floor, praying Uncle was preoccupied with sleep. Though after our morning of investigating, he was likely awake studying his journal entries, hoping Inspector Byrnes would still send word at this hour.

  Mrs. Harvey was staying on the same floor as Liza and me and wouldn’t mind if she did catch me sneaking around. In fact, she might push me off toward Thomas’s chambers all while humming pleasantly to herself. During our time on the RMS Etruria, she’d gone as far as practically encouraging me to sneak off to visit Thomas after she’d given me a note from him requesting a midnight meeting.

  I was extra grateful that my father and aunt hadn’t arrived yet. There would be no predicting where either of them would be at this hour. Ever since Mother’s death several years ago, Father rarely slept and wandered the halls of our home late into the night like a restless ghost.

  When I came upon Thomas’s door, I found it partially open. I peered in through the crack, curious as to what he might be doing. It wouldn’t have surprised me if he’d deduced my unannounced arrival. The lamp on his bedside table was on and the fire was softly crackling in the corner. The room itself was a deep blue, like the darkest part of the ocean.

  With its carved mahogany furniture and strong color scheme, it fit Thomas perfectly. I tried to keep my attention from lingering on his bed, but its rumpled state was hard to ignore. Papers lay scattered about it and journals were stacked in chaotic towers. I half expected to find him propped up against the headboard, dozing like a tired prince resting on a throne of books.

  My stomach turned a few times when I recalled he was reading Jack the Ripper’s entries. He’d mentioned it once in Romania and had tried again while we were crossing the Atlantic. I still wasn’t ready to know what my brother had to say about his crimes. I felt relief knowing the journals were with us, though, safe from anyone who might harm them or share their secrets.

  Feeling like an intruder, I knocked. “Thomas?” I called softly. The aromas of cinnamon and sugar wafted nearby. I pushed his door open wider, mindful of any creaking hinges. “Cresswell?” I craned my head into the room. “Where in the—”

  “Please tell me all of my salacious dreams are finally coming true.”

  I jumped backward and cursed as my cane clattered to the floor. I spun around as gracefully as I could and glared. “What are you doing sneaking about corridors at this hour?”

  A sly grin slid across Thomas’s features as he motioned me into his chambers. “You realize the irony of you asking that whilst you are, in fact, sneaking about the corridor at this hour as well, don’t you?” At my annoyed sigh, he held up a plate stacked with treats and eased the door shut with his foot. “The cook made cinnamon buns slathered in melted butter and sugar. Apparently they’re for the morning, but I couldn’t help myself.” At my incredulous look, he added rather indignantly, “You try turning down the scent of cinnamon and sugar and my ultimate love: butter.”

  I snatched a piece of the dessert bun off his plate and groaned in sheer bliss as it melted on my tongue. The well-balanced flavors and sweetness were enough to make me forget why I’d initially marched down here at this hour. Thomas set the plate on a dresser and eyed me with the same sort of hunger and devotion he’d gazed at the pastries with.

  Without taking his attention from me, he reached over and wiped a bit of icing from the corner of my lip; then his mouth was
on mine. It was warm and sweet. And wholly unexpected. The pastries had been good, but this was much better. He slowly backed us into the dresser so I could sit against it, taking my weight from my leg. While we kissed, he gently cradled my face between his hands as if I was the most precious thing in his world.

  Somehow, both his consideration and our new position awakened something untamable in me. I longed for more. I pushed off from the furniture and leaned him against the bed, enjoying the flash of surprise as I deepened our kiss. Thomas recovered quickly, opening his mouth to taste me, his hands running along my spine. After a moment or two, neither one of us seemed satisfied with the distance remaining between us. His hands drifted down to my hips, gripping them in a way that was both sweet and possessive. I slipped mine under his jacket and went for the cravat at his throat, before he leashed himself.

  “Wait,” he said, breathless.

  I drew back, startled. “I—Is this too much?”

  Thomas hooked an arm around me and tugged me near, dropping kisses from my lips to my heart and back again. Like his demeanor in the laboratory, his attention to detail was slow and deliberate. He listened to each thrum of my heart, each inhalation of breath, and used his powers of deduction for my pleasure. When he finally managed to pull away again, his breathing was as heavy as his lids. “No, Wadsworth. It’s not too much at all. It’s just—”

  “It’s your virtue, isn’t it?” I teased. “You want to wait until we’re properly married.”

  “God, no.” He snorted. “I’ve wanted to ravish you for an indecently long while. If I was a more selfish creature, I’d take you right this moment if you’d have me.” My attention moved from his mouth to his bed, considering. “However”—he sat down on the mattress and patted the spot next to him—“you might not wish to take things any further tonight. I—”