by Amy Cross
“He had this, like, operating theater down in the basement. I'll show you, when my friends are, uh... finished.”
“What kind of operating theater?”
“There's a slab in the middle of the room, with gutters that I think are for draining blood away. There's also a load of old surgical equipment.” I pause for a moment, worried that maybe I sound crazy. “I mean, it's possible that there's a simple explanation for that, right? Maybe he just liked working from home? Maybe back then it was totally normal to have an operating theater in your basement?”
“No,” he replies, “I don't think that quite cuts it.”
“There are more notebooks,” I explain, starting to feel as if I'm being useful. “I gave some of them to the guy who lives next door. He's been researching the house, he knows a lot about its history and about the people who lived here. I'm not certain, but I think maybe he's got his suspicions about Doctor Grazier as well.”
“I'd very much like to speak to him.”
“And there are other weird things,” I add. “Like a knife that was hanging from a tree in the garden, and some of the details about Doctor Grazier's life. He had a wife who was sick, and she disappeared around the time of the Jack the Ripper killings. Clearly Grazier knew Delilah Culpepper, and Delilah's husband Thomas also disappeared. Then there's the fact that Grazier committed suicide, right after the last of the confirmed Jack the Ripper murders. And there are the letters.”
“Letters?”
“We found old letters,” I continue, “and we think they might have been drafts of the letters that were sent to the newspapers. Like the famous 'From Hell' letter, things like that. It's almost like he was practicing before he sent them out.”
“And you have those here in the house?”
“I can show you all of it.” I pause again. “Do you think we might be onto something?”
“I've been looking into the Delilah Culpepper case,” he continues. “A few days after she was found dead, her body was stolen from the mortuary. She was due to undergo a second examination, but somebody broke in during the night and she was never seen again.”
“So she and her husband both vanished?” I point out.
He nods. “What about supernatural activity?”
“I'm sorry?”
“There'd be ghosts here.” He looks past me, watching the far side of the room with eager concern. “If this is the house of Jack the Ripper, then people most likely died within these walls. There would have been misery and pain here, and so much suffering. People screaming and crying out as they suffered the most unimaginable pain. I find it very difficult to believe that all of that misery wouldn't result in some serious supernatural presences. Of all the places in London, this would have to be one of the most likely to suffer hauntings.” He turns to me. “Have you seen or felt any ghosts here, Maddie?”
“Well, I...” My voice trails off for a moment as I realize that he's serious. “I don't know that I exactly believe in ghosts...”
“But have there been things? Things you've maybe dismissed?”
“I...” Again, I can't quite figure out how to reply, but finally I realize that maybe I should just be honest. “Yeah,” I tell him, “sure. There have been things I've kind of ignored because they seemed a little weird. I've... seen a few things. I heard a bell.”
“And you've felt the atmosphere in this place, right?”
“Atmosphere?”
“I felt it as soon as I got close to the house, and then it got much stronger when you opened the door and I came inside. It was like a barrier, like something physical that marked the door, almost as if it was trying to keep me out. I'm not joking, I had to really force myself to come inside after you opened that door. There's something here, Maddie. It's so powerful, it's almost overwhelming. Are you seriously telling me that you don't feel it?”
“I just feel a little cold,” I reply, although I'm a little freaked out by the fact that he sounds a lot like Jerry right now. “It's an empty, slightly damp old house.”
“That's not right,” he mutters, staring at me. “It's so strong. Why don't you feel it?”
Lost for words, I simply shrug.
“And you've spent nights here?” he continues. “Alone?”
I nod.
“You weren't scared?”
“It was too busy to be scared,” I tell him. “Too cold. I was kind of hurt, too.”
“And nothing happened?”
“Little noises. Creaks, things like that. But nothing crazy.”
“Then the presence must know about you,” he adds. “It's aware of all of us, but it must be particularly aware of you. It must be strong, so it could have reached out to you if it wanted. That means it's choosing to leave you alone instead, although I think maybe there's more than one thing here. The feeling is so powerful, I wouldn't be surprised if there are two or three very strong presences, and maybe several others that aren't quite as forceful. Either way, there has to be a reason why you're oblivious.”
“I don't know,” I tell him, although I'm starting to feel a little concerned by the fact that he's so certain. I would never have guessed that Matt's this willing to accept the idea of ghosts. “I'm just telling you, I don't feel anything here. Apart from the first night, nothing strange has happened.”
“The first night?”
Sighing, I realize that maybe it's best to open up to him. I try to figure out how to explain what happened, but then I figure I should just show him.
“I was hurt when I got here,” I explain, as I start lifting the side of my shirt a little. “It was even before I met you. Don't overreact, but I'd been stabbed. A little.”
As soon as my shirt is above the wound, I see that the stitches are still in place and that the inflammation is barely visible. Still, the whole thing looks pretty gruesome, and I can already tell that I won't be able to play this off as simply being nothing. I watch as Matt reaches out to touch the stitches, but he holds back and then moves his hand away. I'm about to tell him that it's healed a lot, but I guess maybe that would just make him worry more.
“Exactly what happened here?” he asks.
“It's nothing, I just -”
“Maddie, tell me!” he says firmly. “This is not nothing. What happened to you?”
“I just got followed one night, in the street.”
“By who?”
“I don't know. I didn't see his face.”
“And he attacked you?”
“I got away!”
“Why didn't you mention this the other night?”
“I didn't want to make a fuss,” I explain. “I thought you'd get funny about it. And as you can tell, I'm fine. It healed by itself. Well, not by itself, but I think I stitched myself up.”
“You stitched yourself up?” he asks incredulously.
“Sure.” Taking a deep breath, I can't help thinking that I must sound completely insane. “People can do stuff like that, right?” I continue. “When they're in a bad way, they can do things they can't do usually. So I figured that's what it was, and I just...”
My voice trails off as I start to realize how crazy that sounds. Then again, if I didn't stitch my own wound, who saved me?
“Maddie,” Matt says cautiously, “I think -”
Suddenly the door swings open, banging hard against the wall and revealing Alex and Nick staring at us.
“Hey!” Nick yells angrily. “Maddie, what's going on in here? Who's your new buddy?”
Chapter Three
Doctor Charles Grazier
Thursday October 4th, 1888
Finally I feel something in the blood. It is barely the size of a grape.
***
“Doctor Charles Grazier! Well good afternoon, old thing, it has been a while since you were last here! How the devil are you, man?”
I had not expected to be greeted so soon. Indeed, I am barely through the front door, and already it seems that I am to be assailed from all directions. Ordinarily I would glance over at Doctor M
arkham (for it is he who has greeted me, that much I can tell from the sound of his voice alone) and offer some pleasantries, but on this occasion I am forced to think for a moment. I came here to prove to myself that I can move through the world without anybody noticing my affliction. Now, however, I am momentarily a little concerned.
“I am quite alright,” I say cautiously, stopping so that the doorman can take my coat. As he does so, I adjust me spectacles to make absolutely certain that my damaged eyes cannot be seen. “I am afraid I have simply been far too busy to come to the club.”
“Well, I can't argue with that,” Markham says with a smile. “Not everyone can spend their days in idleness, sitting around here reading the newspapers. You're not like the rest of us, Doctor Grazier, are you?”
“I suppose not,” I reply, making my way over to where Doctors Markham and Shaw are enjoying a glass of brandy over lunch. I suppose I should have known that they would be here.
“Aren't you going to take those spectacles off?” Doctor Markham asks, peering up at me. “They're tinted awfully dark.”
“A mere precaution to fend off headaches,” I explain, as I reach up and adjust the spectacles to ensure that they completely cover my damaged eyes. At the same time, I am continually rotating my eyeballs as much as possible, to moisten them and alleviate – as much as possible – the sensation of dust and scratches. “You must excuse me if I seem rude.”
“Not at all, old boy.” Markham turns to Shaw. “Don't you think Doctor Grazier actually might start a new fashion?”
He waits, but Doctor Shaw is engrossed in a newspaper, and I cannot help but notice that the headline concerns another murder supposedly committed by Jack the Ripper. I was not out last night, of course, so any murder must have been committed by somebody else, but it seems that the newspaper industry is rather keen to promote the idea that a madman is wandering the streets at night. This Jack the Ripper craze seems to be about 5% rooted in truth, and 95% concocted as a means to sell lies to the unsuspecting and gormless populace. I suppose the general fuss and bother is a useful smokescreen, making it somewhat easier for the true facts to remain concealed.
“Huh?” Doctor Shaw says suddenly, glancing at us as if he has only just realized that we are here. “Did somebody say something?”
“You must forgive him,” Markham tells me with a chuckle. “The old fool has become utterly fixated upon the foul details of these murders. A week or so ago, it was only the women who were taken up with the matter, but now the whole thing seems to be spreading further and further up the chain of civilization. Why, at this rate, they'll soon be nattering about the killer at the palace!”
“A lady of the night was found in Watchworth Road,” Shaw says keenly, his eyes wide with horror. “They say her head had been cut cleanly away, and that various unpleasant things had been done to her nether regions. Things that are too gruesome to publish.”
“Some of the details that one hears,” Markham adds, “are quite alarming. One barely dares read what he's been doing to his victims, yet at the same time one cannot look away. This Jack the Ripper fellow must be completely out of his mind. He can't possibly be English, of course. Somebody like that can only have been imported from some wretched, far-flung corner of the world.” He takes a sip from his glass. “Foreigners,” he adds under his breath.
“At least he most likely won't strike tonight,” Shaw replies.
“And why is that?” I ask.
“Apparently he very rarely attacks on Thursdays,” he continues. “I don't know who worked it out, but for some reason the police and everybody else seem to believe that Thursdays are comparatively safe. Not that there haven't been murders in the middle of the week, of course, but still it seems that there might be a pattern. I say, perhaps the killer has a recurring engagement on Thursday evenings. Do you think anybody has thought of that? Might it be worth my dropping around to Scotland Yard with the suggestion?”
“I'm sure the police don't need help from the likes of us,” Markham says with a smile.
“They don't seem to be doing a very good job as it is!” Shaw protests. “I'd say they're probably rather desperate! We'll see, but I imagine the killer won't strike tonight.”
“I would not wager any money on that idea,” I tell him, amused by the idea that these fools think the streets will be safe tonight. “Indeed, I have a very strong feeling that there will be a murder tonight. Call it a hunch, if you will, but I would be very surprised if some lady of the night is not found dead when the sun rises tomorrow morning.”
Even if I have to commit the deed, purely to show the fellow that he is wrong.
“Really?” Shaw asks. “What makes you think that? Have you been following the newspaper reports as well?”
“Hardly,” I mutter, making my way over to the bar, where a drink is already waiting for me. “This Jack the Ripper individual is clearly a man of great intelligence and skill,” I explain, taking a sip from the glass and then turning to them. My eyes are burning, but of course I can no longer blink. “Why, I dare say that he might very well be a more skilled surgeon than half the men who currently practice in the hospitals of this great city.”
“You cannot be serious!” Markham splutters.
“London is awash with charlatans and criminals,” I explain, “but this Ripper man is most certainly a cut above.”
“But the newspapers -”
“Dash the newspapers!” I announce. “Why, I'd even say that they are worse than the killer himself. At least there is a chance that he has a noble cause, whereas those newspaper men are merely making a profit from the murders.”
“It is the talk of the town,” Shaw points out, sounding a little deflated.
“Fortunately I am not replying solely upon the newspapers for my information,” I continue, cutting him off before he can issue some new and undoubtedly vapid opinion. “It might interest you to learn, gentlemen, that I myself have been called in to assist the police. Why, I spent a great deal of time advising Inspector Sanderson of Scotland Yard about the murders.”
“You did?” Markham says, clearly shocked as both he and Shaw lean forward in their chairs. “Did you see any of the bodies?”
“I saw all of them,” I reply dismissively, with a wave of my hand. “Honestly, gentlemen, that in itself was hardly anything. Many of the supposed Ripper victims were in fact killed by lowly copycats who lacked the real killer's grace and finesse. As I walked through that room of corpses, I could instantly tell which had been murdered by the real Jack the Ripper, and which had been merely slaughtered by one of his artless followers.”
“And you saw the victims?” Markham asks. “You actually saw them with your own eyes?”
“My dear fellow,” I reply, adjusting my spectacles once again, “I examined some of them very closely indeed.”
“How?” Shaw asks indignantly. “What I mean is, why would they ask you to look at the bodies, rather than -”
“Rather than you?” I say with a faint smile. “I can only assume that it was my expertise that they required, that they deemed me to be the most reliable expert witness. Perhaps word reached them about my prowess. I can't help it if people talk about me.”
At this, the two men turn to one another, and it's clear that they're equally startled. Markham and Shaw have both, over the years, given subtle indications that they believe themselves to be my superiors, that they in some manner begrudge my every success. Now it seems that they are having trouble wrapping their heads around the idea that the police came to me for assistance, and I cannot deny that I am highly amused by this development. Both men are positively oozing resentment.
Finally, Markham turns to me.
“Can we come next time?” he asks plaintively.
“I beg your pardon?” I reply.
“Can you take us? Next time the police ask for your help, I mean. Would it be possible for you to let us come with you, to see the bodies? We wouldn't say anything. We'd just stand behind you and... lo
ok...”
“For research purposes, of course,” Shaw adds. “To aid our understanding.”
“Please,” Markham continues. “I'll do anything you want in return. I'll even pay you!”
“I rather think that will not be possible,” I tell the gentlemen. “When I was asked to help, I was told that everything was to be kept in the strictest confidence. As you will no doubt understand, the police are rather keen to avoid turning these murders into a spectacle.”
“Of course, of course,” Markham nods, before hesitating for a moment. “Still, if they do want another opinion, would you be so kind as to pass them my contact details?”
“And mine!” Shaw says keenly.
“I shall do what I can,” I reply, “but please, do not expect much. After all, this is a serious murder investigation, not some freak show for the masses. The police are hardly likely to invite people in to see such gruesome corpses, not unless they believe that they have something to gain.”
“Quite right,” Shaw grumbles, sinking back into his chair and clearly feeling rather aggrieved. “One only wished to offer one's help, that is all. One likes to contribute to society when one can.”
“Are you sure you're alright?” Markham asks, still staring at me. “No offense, old chap, but those spectacles look awfully funny when you wear them inside. Can't you take them off, not even for a moment?”
“Alas not,” I reply, forcing a smile. “I must keep them on at all times. I am afraid to say that I have had rather an unusual twenty-four hours. Indeed, if I were to tell you everything that has happened to me, I am quite sure that you would never believe a word.”
“Too busy running around helping the police?” Shaw mutters, his tone positively dripping with resentment and irritation. “Well, I'm sure that's alright for some. I'm glad that you have a hobby.”
“Indeed,” I reply, “and in actual fact, I have been asked to visit Scotland Yard again today. It seems that the esteemed Inspector Sanderson requires my help yet again.” I take another sip from my glass. “And really, when the city of London is suffering through its darkest hour, how could I possibly refuse?”
