Ripper

by Stefan Petrucha

  B. Rowley, B. Rowley. There was something familiar about that, but what?

  “Buck’s Row,” he said aloud.

  “What about it?”

  “B. Rowley. B. Row. Buck’s Row. It’s where Mary Ann Nichols, the first victim, was killed. The B is part of Rowley’s middle name, the first victim here.”

  Delia stiffened, then sat back down. “Not just her middle name. It’s the custom for women to use the initial of their maiden name.”

  They hovered over the list. “Jane H. Ingraham. Can we find her maiden name?” Carver asked.

  They pulled out the articles covering Ingraham’s death, nearly ripping the pages in their haste to split them up.

  “Here!” Delia shouted, her voice echoing in the empty space. “In the obituary. Jane Hanbury Ingraham!”

  “Annie Chapman, second original Ripper victim, killed on Hanbury Street,” Carver said. “So there’s got to be more, right?”

  Though they failed to find anything spelling out Reza M. Petko’s middle name, Carver uncovered a social announcement listing Rowena Parker’s father as John Dutfield. Elizabeth Stride had been killed in Dutfield’s Yard.

  “Which means,” Delia announced, “the next victim would have a married name beginning with E and a maiden name beginning with M, for Miller’s Court.”

  Carver slowly nodded. “Where Mary Kelly, the Ripper’s final Whitechapel victim, was found. She was… she was the most brutally butchered of all. But we’d still have to go through each name beginning with an E. It would take hours, maybe days.”

  “We should get started, then,” Delia said, grabbing the directory from the table.

  “Wait,” Carver said, snapping his fingers. “The analytical engine. Emeril said it contains most of the upper-class citizens in the city, and there’s no one here to stop us from trying it out.”

  Delia made a face. “But you don’t even know how to work it. And wouldn’t we have to create our own punch card to ask the question in the first place?”

  Carver headed for Beckley’s desk. “I know where the instructions are. We could at least take a look. And you’re good at puzzles! A monkey could do it, right? What’s the worst that could happen?”

  66

  DESPITE Delia’s protests, Carver handed her a thick manual explaining how to create a punch card. Apparently, it wasn’t as difficult as she feared.

  “Huh,” she said. “The cards are a little like the patterns they use in an automatic loom. I saw one once in the Garment District. Instead of making a shape, each hole in the first two rows represents a letter. The rest of the rows tell you which bit of information it refers to, first name, last name, street, and so on…”

  But Carver wasn’t listening. He was too busy fretting over the second manual, the one explaining how to get the labyrinth of spindles, rods and dark gears moving.

  In less than half an hour, Delia produced a card she was reasonably certain asked for any women with a last name starting with E and middle initial M and was eager to try it out. Carver was still busy reading, though.

  “Can you do it or not?” she asked.

  Carver frowned, stared, but then suddenly grinned and said, “Yes!”

  “You’re sure?”

  “No,” he said. “Not at all.”

  Taking Delia’s card, he headed for one end of the huge machine. There, he carefully positioned the round holes in the thick cardboard over a set of matching metallic fingers. Before trying to start the engine, as the manual said, he checked to make sure the main gear wasn’t engaged and the boiler had sufficient water.

  As Delia looked on, he put paper and coal in a small furnace alongside the boiler and set a match to it. As the fire heated the water, the pressure gauges rose. In short order, the main gear began to turn.

  “That’s it!” Carver said, terribly pleased with himself.

  “But it’s not doing anything,” Delia said, pointing to the rest of the machine.

  “Not yet,” Carver said. “I have to engage the gear.”

  When the needle on the gauge was in the green, Carver pulled a lever that lowered the turning gear. For a moment he was afraid nothing would happen, but the whole machine shuddered. Its pieces began to move. He understood at once why Beckley hated the sound. It was dreadful, as if they’d been locked in a closet with a locomotive, but still, amazing to watch.

  Spindles, with steel wheels imprinted with numbers and letters, turned. Rounded metal fingers poked up and down, grabbing this and that. Within the frame, scores of punch cards shifted, faster and faster, almost like marbles rolling down a maze. Hypnotized by all the moving pieces, the cards that seemed to magically sort themselves, neither Delia nor Carver noticed for several minutes that the athenaeum was filling with smoke.

  Carver’s eyes snapped toward the boiler. Cotton-thick clouds rolled from beneath it.

  “The fire’s not vented!” he cried, rushing for it.

  No sooner did he yank open the little iron door than a lungful of smoke sent him staggering back. He’d only made things worse. Now sparks flew from the fire as well. If one red ember should hit a book or paper sheet, the whole place would go up. Perfect. First he nearly destroyed the place with a flood, now he was on the verge of completing the job with fire.

  “Water! Get a bucket of water!” he called to Delia, but he couldn’t even see where she was.

  Eyes tearing, he forced his way back toward the boiler. Wrapping his shirt around his hand, he managed to close the door. Then, holding his breath as long as he could, he headed for the back of the machine, hoping to find the equivalent of a chimney flue.

  But he could hold his breath only so long, and time was running out. There had to be a vent; there had to be. At last his teary eyes spotted a tin cylinder leading up from the back of the furnace. There was a knob on its surface. He lunged for it, twisted it and stepped back.

  Above the din of meshing gears, he heard a small electric whir. He staggered back into vaguely cleaner air, gasping and coughing as Delia rushed up, water sloshing in the basin she carried.

  Between gasps, he stopped her. “Wait… I think…”

  As he spoke, the air already seemed clearer. Soon, while there was still a substantial haze, most of the smoke had cleared.

  “Whew,” he said.

  Delia seemed equally relieved, but then she pointed at the analytical engine. “The gears are still turning, but the cards aren’t moving anymore. Is it broken?”

  Carver walked up to the far end of the machine. “I think it means it’s finished.” He reached down and withdrew a piece of cardboard with several freshly drilled holes. “And this is our answer.”

  “One card?” Delia said.

  He shrugged. After sorting through hundreds of Jay Cusacks, it did seem strange. “Maybe the list is incomplete. The machine could be broken, or maybe there really is only one possibility.”

  “What does it say?”

  He handed her the card. “You’ll have to tell me.”

  Delia seemed to have forgotten all about returning to the Times as she worked, checking through the codebook. A few minutes later, her face went white.

  “What is it?” Carver asked.

  “Samantha Miller Echols,” she said hoarsely. “Finn’s mother.”

  67

  CARVER tried calling the Echolses, but their butler wouldn’t put him through.

  “I work with Mr. Hawking!” he said, frantic.

  “We’ve received dozens of prank calls about the murders,” came the dull response. “Why can’t the operators show at least some judgment in who they patch through?” The line went dead.

  Hoping he could get Hawking to call, Carver tried Blackwell, but his mentor wasn’t there. Had the man abandoned him completely? Now? Carver stormed around, growing more and more agitated.

  A worried Delia tried to calm him. “It might not be Mrs. Echols. You said yourself the machine could be broken.”

  “Of course it’s her!” Carver snapped. “Don’t you
get it? He knew I was at Ellis. That’s where he sent the letter. That means he’d know about Finn, too. And thanks to Echols, Finn’s face has been all over the papers. It’s a connection to the press, to the wealthy, to the clues and to me! I’ve got to go there. They’ll recognize my face at least.”

  “Then let’s go,” she said.

  They emerged from Devlin’s a little after five. The rush-hour streets were jammed, the waiting line for cabs as thick as the foot traffic. As Carver led Delia across Broadway, he nearly yanked her into the path of an oncoming streetcar.

  “Carver!” Delia shrieked. “You’ve got to relax!”

  “The Echolses are on Fifth and 84th,” Carver said. “We can take the Third Avenue El at Fulton Street up and then walk over. That’ll be fastest.”

  Delia eyed the Times Building. “Wait! I can tell Jerrik! He can call the Echolses.”

  Carver shook his head. “Echols won’t listen to a reporter; he only likes talking to them.”

  “The police, then,” Delia said.

  “No! They’ve already passed judgment on me and my stories thanks to Mr. Hawking, remember?” He stopped and looked at her. “Delia, I don’t want to lose you. You’re… the only person I have left here, but you should do whatever you think is right. If you want to go tell Jerrik and see what he can do, fine. I have to go find Finn.”

  She shook her head. “Then I’m with you.”

  They dodged, ducked and, when a gap in the crowd allowed, ran. They crossed beneath the steel girders of the elevated tracks just as a squat locomotive and its four passenger cars came to a halt above them, sending flecks of rusted steel tumbling like burnt orange rain.

  As they raced up the stairs, Carver said, “No time for tickets. We’ll have to jump the gate. Ready?”

  “It won’t be the first time. I’m an orphan, too, remember?” Delia said with an odd pride.

  The crowd made it easy. They made it onto the platform and boarded the most densely packed car. That way, there’d be no room for a conductor to move around, let alone check for tickets. The train’s loud hiss and lurch as it pulled out reminded Carver of a fire-belching black dragon he’d once seen in a painting, being slain by some saint or another. And the black dragon reminded him of his father.

  He was wedged against a businessman attempting to read the evening news. The car was a sea of open papers, all with loud headlines about Jack the Ripper and the body atop 300 Mulberry Street. The last time he’d been on a train, people read, but they also spoke to one another. Now the only sound was the chuff-chuff of steam escaping the valve cylinder as the piston pushed the wheels.

  They’d be there soon enough, but how would he approach Finn? The last time they met, they’d beat each other senseless. The whole fight seemed so petty now. So what if Finn had stolen some necklace? He had been returning it. And Carver had done worse since. Delia was right.

  She always did seem to side with Finn, though. Oh, what did it matter if she had feelings for him? Carver’s own heart was such a muddle. It wasn’t as if he had anything to offer beyond his horrifying lineage. Bodies flashed in his mind’s eye, his father in the alley, the man’s speed, his strength—Carver’s scrawny hopelessness. He had to calm down, keep his head, or all would be lost.

  As it was, he barely noticed the train coming to a halt at 84th Street. Delia had to pull him out to the platform, where the disembarking passengers scattered quickly, eager to get home.

  It was fully dark now, overcoats melding with shadow, faces tinted by electric streetlamp. Even so, it was easy to see they’d entered a different world. Delia and Carver weren’t dressed badly, but not nearly well enough for this neighborhood, full of expensive hat and clothing stores, furriers, tobacconists, ritzy dining establishments and upper-class homes. Even the horses didn’t smell as bad.

  As they walked, their clothing was noticeable enough to attract attention, not from the police, but from a group of men in three-piece suits. They were marching along like they were soldiers, headed straight for them. Carver and Delia looked down at their feet and tried to walk past but had to stop when the barrel of a rifle appeared beneath Carver’s chin.

  The others formed a semicircle around the youths, some hitching their thumbs in their pleated pants to reveal holstered pistols. Carver put his hand around the stun baton, but there were so many of them.

  “Do you have business on these streets?” said an earnest, unfriendly man with deep-set eyes.

  “We’re visiting a friend, if it’s any concern of yours,” Delia said.

  “Delia,” Carver cautioned. His eyes were on the rifle.

  “You should be more careful about where you walk. Women have been turning up dead lately, in case you haven’t been reading the papers.”

  “I not only read the papers,” Delia said, glaring, “my father is Jerrik Ribe, the reporter covering the murders for the Times.”

  “Oh, is he?” the man said.

  “Are you with the police?” she demanded. “And if not, what do you mean by interrogating us?”

  He sneered. “The police? If they did their job, we wouldn’t be out here, trying to keep our homes safe.”

  Before Delia could say anything that might agitate them, Carver said, “I work with Albert Hawking. He thinks the police are idiots, too.”

  The man’s eyes opened wider. “Hawking? The detective Echols hired? What a famous pair, then. How lucky to run into you. I’m Abraham Lincoln’s nephew!”

  The men laughed. “My name is Carver Young,” Carver said. “Check a newspaper if you like. I’m the one who found Hawking at the murder site on Leonard Street. We’re heading to the Echolses’ with a message from him.”

  The leader looked back at the others. A thin man with a paper under his arm nodded. “Okay, then. Give Mr. Echols our regards. And be careful.”

  “We will,” Carver said. He took Delia by the elbow and hurried away.

  She turned to him, exasperated. “Militia on the street? It’s insane. They’re more dangerous than the Ripper.”

  “If only that were true,” Carver said.

  68

  WORRIED another group or the police might stop them, Delia and Carver rushed past homes that were each more lavish than the last. Servants peered from behind satin curtains, tall windows suddenly darkened. Neither had ever been to the Echolses’, so they passed the large marble building front three times, both thinking something so large must be a museum or a gallery. At last recognizing the number, they mounted the wide steps, both adjusting their clothes to make themselves more presentable.

  “What should we say?” Carver asked. “The butler didn’t believe who I was on the phone.”

  Delia pushed ahead. “Let me do the talking. I can be more diplomatic.”

  “Like you were with the militia?” Carver said with a smile.

  Ignoring him, she turned a golden knob that caused a pleasant ringing sound. The wide black door opened a crack and a sour-faced butler peered at them. “Yes?”

  Delia cleared her throat. “Good evening. We’re friends of Phineas.”

  “Are you?” he asked dubiously. “You don’t look like garbage shovelers.”

  “Why on earth should we?” Delia answered, already looking annoyed. “Is he in?”

  Carver rolled his eyes.

  Not caring for the tone, the man was about to turn them away when a voice called, “Delia!”

  The butler looked as if he still wanted to close the door but, with an exaggerated sigh, pulled it open. A posh entry hall and an enormously wide staircase appeared behind him. Finn was on the fifth step, looking, if possible, even more out of place than Delia and Carver.

  He galumphed down the stairs, his heavy footfalls echoing. Seeing Carver, he stopped short.

  “I’m not here to fight,” Carver said. He wanted that to be enough, but Delia nudged him. “I’m sorry… about all that,” he added halfheartedly. “We have to talk to you about something important.”

  “Very important,” Delia
added.

  Finn’s glance moved between their faces, his expression changing depending on whom his eyes fell on. Looking at Delia, he nodded. “Fine. Come in, but be quiet. Mr. Echols is in the study.”

  They stepped onto the tiled marble floor and stared up, slack-jawed, at the crystal chandelier hanging from the high ceiling.

  “It’s from Europe or someplace,” Finn grunted. After an annoyed look at the butler, who was obviously listening in, he nodded at a hall to the right of the stairs. “There’s a garden. Cold, but private.”

  “You won’t be requiring refreshments, then,” the butler said with a sneer.

  “He doesn’t like me,” Finn said as he marched them past a series of paintings, small statues and delicate vases. He eyed a particularly old vase as if he wanted to smash it. “He thinks I’m a rap… rap…”

  “Rapscallion?” Carver offered. Finn looked at him the same way he looked at the vase.

  In the center of the house, they reached a set of framed glass double doors. Finn didn’t bother turning the finely wrought handle; he just pushed, nearly cracking the wood. He stalked into a courtyard with a garden. Its flower beds and fountains were covered up for the winter months.

  Delia paused by the doors to close them quietly.

  “You’re lucky that giant pulled me off you,” Finn said to Carver.

  Carver felt himself tense. “I’m… ? I’m… sorry about all that.” He still didn’t sound like he meant it but thought it was an improvement.

  Finn slumped into a chair, looking embarrassed. His face and bull-like body half in shadow, he said, “What do you want?”

  “Maybe I should start,” Delia said. Carver grunted.

  As she spoke, Carver looked around. It was a cool night, but warmer and quieter in this protected space. Tall columns ran up to the full height of the three-story building, ending in a rectangle of sky. The window lights dimmed the pinprick stars but not the moon. It was out and bright, half-hiding behind a wide, oddly shaped chimney.

  It was hard to tell what Finn was thinking as he listened to Delia. Carver thought he’d be upset, worried to hear of the threat, but he reacted so little. Delia, who knew him better, paused several times to ask, “You believe us, don’t you?”