by Quinn Loftis
“And just what am I supposed to do in the mean time?” Sophia asked.
“Look pretty and enjoy your last days of freedom.”
Sophia laughed and tossed the pillow she’d been holding at her sister. “You’re simply a mess.”
“There’s another body,” said Foster as he came marching through his office door, tea in one hand, a sack lunch in another.
“It’s London. There’s always a body,” responded Hill lazily as he scanned the newspaper he was holding in front of his face.
“Yes, but this one might be one of ours.”
“How so?” said Thomas, perking up.
“Prostitute found in a park. There’s a pattern.”
“Did she have a whole in her chest? That’s also part of the pattern.”
“No,” admitted Foster, “but maybe we should go watch the autopsy. Wouldn’t be shocked if someone had already done some cuttin’ on the girl before they left her for dead.”
“I guess you’re right. Where is she being taken?”
“Baker Street Station. Let’s go now, before Quincy gets to hacking her up.”
“Let me grab my cloak.”
Twenty minutes and some thirty blocks of brisk walking later, the inspectors made their way into the medical examination room at Baker Street Station. They found Dr. Adams, having already stripped the body and adorned his rubber gloves, cleaning and preparing his tools for the autopsy. Hill and Foster could immediately see that the woman was their third victim, as she had a long vertical scar, pink and fresh, running the length of her chest. Unlike the previous two victims, however, this one’s body still seemed to be intact.
“Oh, good,” said Dr. Adams as they entered the room. “A gorilla in a bowler hat, and he’s brought his gentleman handler. Inspector Hill, I told you not to bring that caveman around me anymore.”
“Oh, calm down, Quincy. We’re hear on a case. I promise I won’t hurt ya,” said Foster, shouldering up next to the medical examiner and leaning over the body lying on table.
“That’s Dr. Quincy to you, John Boy. And I’ll let you stay, but only if you promise not to touch anything, and only because I know that is probably one of yours, as you can tell by the fresh scar.”
“Alright, alright,” grumbled Foster, “I’ll behave like a good little inspector. Now let’s get her open.”
Dr. Adams breathed a deep sigh as he picked up his scalpel. He began to cut into the woman’s chest, following almost the exact line as the original incision, only he cut further, and then made two additional cuts branching out from the first. He peeled back the skin, and the men saw her breastbone had been broken and then cleaved together with some sort of wire. Quincy grabbed a pair of side cutters and popped the wire loose. The bones fell apart, revealing what they already knew they would find—a mechanical heart.
Adams reached down slowly and held his hand a few inches above the metal organ. He hesitated then quickly tapped the device and jerked his hand back. Nothing. There was no shock and no heat. It was as if this one was completely dead, in contrast to its other two counterparts, which had remained volatile long after the women’s deaths. Quincy began carefully severing the veins and arteries that held the contraption in place. When that was done, he removed the heart, grabbing a bowl of water and washing the gore from its surface. Also, unlike the previous two machines, this one looked completely intact.
“Pop it open, doc,” commanded Foster.
Dr. Adams ran his thumb along the groove in the front of the device, prying open the front hatch. The inner workings of the machine looked much like the previous two. At first glance, no one in the room could determine any difference.
“Wonder why this one doesn’t bite like the others,” said John.
“Can’t say,” responded Hill. “Doctor, please hold it up to the light.”
Quincy held the device up close to the room’s only window. He shifted it this way and that, until they finally saw the tiny crystals embedded into the inside wall of the device reflecting the window’s light.
“It contains crystals, just like the others,” said Adams.
“And these appear to be red,” mused Hill. “And what color were the other two?”
“The first was sorta pink,” said Foster.
“And the other was brown,” remarked Adams.
“So, we know our killer is trying out different crystals, based upon the colors of the stones,” said Thomas. “Why would he be doing that?”
“Experimenting,” replied Quincy. “He’s testing the qualities of the different stones. Why else would he be changing out the crystals? I don’t understand how they work, but I would assume different crystals do different things. He’s trying to find out something.”
“If we only knew what,” said Hill, “I could sleep better tonight.”
Assistant Inspector Foster met Ruth at the front of the Fox and Hound and escorted her back to Baker Street station. When they arrived, he walked her straight into the exam room. It had been four hours since the autopsy and Dr. Adams had thoroughly cleaned the body, removed the organs, and found no additional abnormalities besides the mechanical heart. He did, however, discover that the victim was three months pregnant at the time of her death.
A sheet rested on the corpse, concealing everything but the victim’s head. Ruth burst into tears as soon as she saw the woman on the table. This was all the confirmation Foster needed. He now knew the identity of the third victim—Mary Knight. He also had a fair description of the murderer, based upon Ruth’s earlier statement. Now if he could only find the tall, slender man with the scar on the left side of his face, he could put an end to this madness.
He put his arms around Ruth and consoled her while the woman wept over her dead friend, possibly the only friend she had in the world.
Chapter Fourteen
Tuesday, 10th May 1887
Sometime around 10:00 a.m.
Olivia hurried down the street, her feet moved swiftly and surely. Though she was fully aware of her surroundings, she was also lost in thought, trying to determine the number of people she absolutely had to see this morning. She’d awoken after a restless sleep. The conversation she’d had the day before with her sister kept ringing in her mind. She wanted Sophia to have her absolute dream wedding and, if Olivia had anything to say about it, that was exactly the wedding her sister was going to have.
When she arrived at Lady Templeton’s shop, Olivia said a little prayer that the woman would be feeling generous. Lady Templeton was not unkind, but fabricating a wedding dress at little to no cost would test the magnanimity of even the most generous of persons. She pulled the door open, causing the little bell at the top to ring, and heard a feminine voice call from the back of the room.
“Give me just a moment and I will assist you.”
Olivia walked further into the room and looked over the various samples of the Lady Templeton’s work. The dresses were exquisite, true works of art. She ran her fingers down the soft silk and fine lace. They weren’t really the style she would choose for her own wedding, but she knew her sister would love any one of them.
“Olivia.” Lady Templeton’s voice came from just behind her. “How good to see you!”
She turned to face the woman and smiled at the genuine pleasure in the lady’s eyes. Templeton truly was happy to see her, and that helped calm Olivia’s nerves. “It is good to see you, as well.”
“What brings you in today?”
“It’s Sophia,” she began. “She’s to be wed. We haven’t formally announced it, mainly because we haven’t had the invitations made just yet. Dr. Jackson Elliot proposed to her just two days ago. They are to be married in twelve days.”
Lady Templeton couldn’t help the tears that welled up in her eyes. She loved the Hill family. They had endured so much and were continuing to endure much with what Sophia was facing. Knowing that she would have some joy in her life, no matter how short, warmed her heart. “Well, it’s about time,” she said through her
tears.
Olivia laughed. “That’s what I said. I finally got Sophia to remember that she’s still alive. Cruel as it sounds, she isn’t dead, yet and she desperately needed to be reminded of that.”
“Bless you for being willing to speak the words that the rest of us aren’t bold enough to say,” Lady Templeton said.
“Now,” Olivia’s voice grew businesslike. “I realize twelve days is not a lot to work with—”
Lady Templeton held up her hand, stopping the young girl from continuing. “I can handle it. This isn’t my first dress, you know.”
Olivia smiled. “No, I suppose it isn’t.” She paused and then gathered her nerves. “In regards to payment…”
Again, Lady Templeton held up her hand. “Your money is no good here, nor is any other form of payment you might come up with. This is my wedding gift to your sister. And please do not argue with me.”
Olivia wasn’t about to argue. She was proud, as was Sophia. But Olivia’s pride had limits, and anything that would help her sister have the special day she deserved was worth swallowing a little pride over. She shouldn’t have doubted for a second that Lady Templeton would do such a thing. The woman’s charitable heart was known around the neighborhood, and Templeton certainly knew the position of the Hill family after their father’s passing. “Then I will simply say thank you, so very much.”
“That I will accept. Now…” Lady Templeton walked over to her work table and picked up her measuring tape. “You and your sister are basically the same size, minus a few inches for her, I think, mostly around the bosom—no offense dear.”
Olivia snorted at the lady’s bluntness. “None taken,” the curvy Olivia said, though she couldn’t suppress a shade of redness that passed across her face.
“I’ll do your measurements, minus an inch of fabric here and there, and then a couple days before the wedding you bring her in for the final fitting so I will have a day to make adjustments.”
Over half an hour later, Olivia was walking down the street once again. Lady Templeton had told her to go on to Mr. Crawley, the baker, and let him know he was to assist Olivia in any way she needed. When Olivia gave her a questioning look, Lady Templeton explained that she used Mr. Crawley’s services for every event she hosted and encouraged all of her brides to do the same. If the man wasn’t willing to do as she wanted, then she would take her business elsewhere. Olivia smiled to herself as she thought about the influence Lady Templeton had in their community, not because she was a bully, but because she was only willing to give her business to people in the neighborhood. She expected kindness and good customer service in return.
When she opened the door to the baker’s shop, another brass bell announced her arrival. The scent of bread and freshly baked cakes enveloped her sense of smell and reminded her of a time when those same aromas came from their own kitchen. It seemed like ages ago since their old cook was working away, baking, and making dinner. She remembered, as a child, running though the kitchen with Sophia getting their hands slapped with a spoon when they tried to snatch food behind the cook’s back. It seemed like a lifetime ago, rather than a decade.
“How can I help you?” A booming voice startled her from her thoughts.
Olivia stepped up to the counter and faced the large man who stood on the other side. Mr. Crawley looked like a man for which quality control was of the utmost importance. Judging by his width, he didn’t let a pastry pass his counter without first having sampled a part of the batch from which it came.
“Lady Templeton sent me,” she said. Mr. Crawley laughed, the sound jovial and lighthearted.
“Did she now? Well, I suppose you better go on and tell me what it is you need. You know it’s never wise to keep the good lady waiting.”
“The order isn’t for her. It’s for my sister, Sophia.”
“Oh?” he asked, his face puzzled. Mr. Crawley couldn’t imagine why Sophia would need his baked goods.
Olivia nodded. “She is to be married in twelve days. Dr. Jackson Elliot asked her, and she said yes.”
He smiled and clapped his hands together, rubbing them as if they were cold. “That is wonderful news.” And he meant it. Everyone was aware of what poor Sophia Hill was facing, and they all wanted to see the young woman have some happiness in her life. “So we need a cake, I presume.”
“Yes, sir.” Olivia beamed back at him. “Lady Templeton—” she began, but as with the dressmaker, Mr. Crawley held up his hand and stopped her.
“This one will be on me. Your sister is a saint. After all she’s done for our community, it’s the least I can do. Do you have any idea of what you’re looking for, or would you like to see some of the samples I have in the back?”
“Actually,” Olivia said with a grin, “I know exactly what she wants.”
Another half hour later, Olivia was standing on the doorstep of Sir and Lady Grummons’ floral boutique. The couple was known to have the most beautiful flowers in all of London, and she could only hope they were feeling just as generous as the first two people she’d seen that day.
“Why are you standing out there staring at my shop, Olivia Hill?” Lady Grummons said as the door flew open, and a woman poked her head out of the building. “We have work to do.”
“I’m sorry, what?” Olivia asked, her brow drawing tightly together.
“I said we have work to do. You’re too young to be going deaf. Now get in here so we can talk about the flowers and decorations for Sophia’s wedding.”
“How did you—” Olivia began but stopped when Lady Grummons snatched her arm and tugged her into the boutique.
“Lady Templeton isn’t one to stand around when there is work to be done,” she told Olivia. “And neither am I.” The woman pulled her to the middle of the shop and flung her into a chair. “Before you ask, dear child, payment has already been arranged. No need to bother yourself about it. Now let’s get decorating.”
Olivia wiped the tears from her eyes and patted the hand that was still gripping her arm. “Thank you so much,” she said and truly meant it.
“Now, now,” Sir Grummons said as he came in from the back room. “We don’t have time for tears. We have a wedding to plan!”
Acres of manicured garden rolled past Inspectors Hill and Foster as their hansom cab travelled to the estate of Dr. Frederick Vincent located several miles outside the city close to Watford. Inspector Hill had decided on hiring a driver to escort them to the residence so they could ride in the cab and discuss their case on the journey. During the trip, which had taken the better part of an hour, the pair had bounced theories off of one another, each more fanciful than the last.
“Let’s assume for a minute that the guild, or someone working for the guild, is responsible for the murders,” offered Hill. “What is their endgame?”
“Can’t say,” replied Foster, “but you can bet Grey is behind it somehow. “He and Tesla are like peas in a pod. You never see one without the other.”
“Even more unlikely,” said Thomas. “Lord Grey is an elected member of Parliament. He answers to the people. He wouldn’t be mixed up in something like this.”
“Wouldn’t he?” questioned Foster. “Rumor has it that Grey is trying to wrest power away from the Queen. He’s a hero to the people. Each day he grows stronger, and Parliament grows stronger with him. As his power increases, Victoria’s fades. I don’t trust the man. He has a lean and hungry look about him that makes me nervous. You mark my words.”
“When did you become such an astute observer of crown politics?” asked Inspector Hill.
“Bah, I just know a rat when I see one. And Grey is a rat.”
“Probably wouldn’t do for the chief inspector to hear you talking like that. He’s a Grey man through and through. Grey is the people’s one great hope, according to Cox.”
“Yeah, right,” responded Foster. “Hope for him and his cronies is all. He’s pulling the wool over the common man’s eyes, you wait and see. If it were up to Grey, every able-bodi
ed bloke in Cheapside would be shipped off to the mines in India. Why pay the Indians anything when we could do it ourselves and keep all the profits? Who cares if the mortality rate in the mines is over thirty-three percent?”
“And what does that have to do with our murdered women?” asked Thomas, hoping to bring Foster back around to their immediate predicament.
“Well, nothing, I guess. But that doesn’t make it any less true.”
“You just hate Grey because you’re infatuated with the queen.”
Foster made a noise halfway between a sputter and a gag. “Infatuated? How dare you? Just because I admire our country’s God-appointed, rightful monarch, who also happens to be wise, virtuous, and kind, doesn’t mean I’m infatuated.”
“You forgot incredibly beautiful,” said Hill smirking.
“I don’t know what her looks has to do with anything,” said Foster.
“It has everything to do with your infatuation.”
“I thought we were supposed to be talking about the case,” growled Foster.
“Ah, yes, I suppose your right,” replied Hill. “We’ll save your infatuation with Victoria for another day. I do hope this trip to the countryside yields us some sort of lead. It’d be a shame to come all this way for nothing.”
“I doubt it will. This bloke has nothin’ to do with it. You heard his assistant’s description ’a the doctor when we called at the man’s office—short, round, as wide as he is tall. Definitely not our man.”
