by Jill Jones
“It does seem unlikely that he could travel all the way from Windsor to Whitechapel, kill those women, and make it home again undetected.” This from Roger Hammersmith. “That is some distance to cover.”
“Maybe ze story about Dr. Gull is true,” piped up the young French woman whom Trey had called Chantal, surprising everyone. “I read that he was suspected at one time. Maybe he was ze facilitator and transported ze Prince to ze East End to do his dirty work, then brought him safely home by private carriage.”
Victoria blinked in surprise. She would never have expected such an intelligent pronouncement to come from her, and she wondered suddenly who these two were. They were dressed like French hookers, but if this one was a hooker, she at least had a brain. As if he read her confusion, Trey leaned over and whispered, “They’re med students from Paris. And history buffs.”
She gave him a skeptical glance, but he just grinned and shrugged. One thing was clear, however. As her escort, Trey considered himself off duty.
“From what I’ve read, I think we can discount Dr. Gull as an accomplice,” Jonathan told the young woman. “But the Prince could have arranged for his own transportation. He was good friends, I understand, with Lord Somerset, the superintendent of the royal stables.”
Reginald FitzSimmons snickered. “Very good friends, I understand. They were both caught at the male brothel in the Cleveland Street scandal.”
“What was that?” Victoria asked. It was obvious these people knew a lot more about the case than she did.
Jonathan explained. “The Prince was homosexual. In those days, homosexuality was severely punished. Look at what happened to Oscar Wilde. Eddy was caught in a police raid on a known male brothel, but he was immediately released, and the incident was hushed up by royal command.”
Victoria thought about that a moment, then said, “Well, if they would cover up something like that, think to what lengths they would go to cover up his serial killings.”
Those gathered around the table grew quiet. “Good point,” Jonathan said. “If we just had…”
“…hard evidence,” she said, stepping on his words and giving him a wry grin.
“What is it like, zis Whitechapel area?” Nicole, the other supposed med student, asked.
“Nothing like in those days,” Roger replied. “It was a slum of the very worst kind. Now, it’s just an inner city neighborhood, not really very far from here.”
“Let us go zere,” Chantal said, her eyes bright.
“When?” Trey looked dismayed.
“Tonight. Right now. Zis band is a bore.”
Jonathan withdrew his hand from Victoria’s, leaving hers feeling cool and empty.
“Not a good idea,” he said. “Even though I suppose it is safe enough, we shouldn’t go down there dressed like this. We’d be accused of slumming.”
“Which we would be,” Roger pointed out.
“Nonsense,” FitzSimmons huffed. “It’s perfectly safe. I could go for a pint of something besides champagne. Let us be off for the Ten Bells.”
“Ten Bells?” Victoria was not at all sure she wanted to participate in what sounded like an ill-advised adventure.
“Well, it used to be the Ten Bells. It’s a public house in the East End. Now it’s called the Jack the Ripper pub.”
“All right!” Chantal said, drawing her arm down in a very American-style gesture.
Jonathan looked at Victoria, and she just shrugged. “I’m game if you are,” she said. As long as they went as a group, she supposed they would be safe enough. Safer than if she stayed here and chanced to run into Billy Ray again. Safer as well on a personal level, for if she stayed here with Jonathan Blake, she might well end up in his bed.
Chapter Six
Trinity College, Cambridge
Eleventh October 1883
The unthinkable has happened, and I am awash in both joy and terror. Today, in the privacy of our new quarters in Neville’s Court, Eddy told me a story that exposed his secret inner anguish, then revealed to me the dark longings that lodge within his breast, longings that match my own in passion and despair.
While on a world tour, which his father insisted he must take, he was forced to sleep with a native whore in the West Indies. He wept when he described his shame in succumbing to the woman’s seduction, and how he felt so unclean afterwards it made him ill. It was then he told me that he could love no woman and that he harbors feelings for me that mirror the desire that has been building in my heart for him. He told me of his love in an outpouring so tender and simple, I wept to hear it. Yet I cautioned him against letting our true feelings be known. I pray in his simple mind he comprehends the consequences of our relations becoming public knowledge.
My beloved Prince is sweet and vulnerable and tries hard to please me, and I am a compassionate master. I know his weaknesses, but unlike his pig of a father, I do not demand what he cannot give. Instead, I guide him where he can succeed. I show my love in this way and hope to engender within him a loyalty so strong he will never leave me, for he is my whole world now, my life. I will never betray his love as long as I live.
The early autumn night was chill and damp with a heavy fog enshrouding the streets of London. What used to be the Ten Bells public house was now both the “local,” the drinking establishment for the working man in the neighborhood, and because of its name, a tourist destination. When the merrymakers from the convention spilled out of the two taxis they had hired to bring them here, Jonathan reluctantly went to the front door of the pub and peered in. He shook his head. “This is a mistake,” he said to Victoria. “There don’t appear to be any tourists here tonight. Only locals. I think it would be the better part of valor if we got right back into those taxis and returned to the hotel.”
“Oh, don’t be such an old stick, Inspector,” said Reginald FitzSimmons. “I frequent this place from time to time. It’s not too rough a crowd.”
Chantal and Nicole, like decorative bookends at Trey’s side, pushed past them. “We’ve come all this way to do, how do you say, ze Jack ze Ripper thing,” Chantal said. “I’m going in.”
Behind them, Jonathan escorted Victoria, who hugged her wrap tightly over the bodice of her gown. They were followed by the others, all of whom had chosen to come along, surprisingly even Elizabeth Huntley-Ames, although she looked thoroughly unhappy. Her husband, Jonathan had noted, had been openly enjoying the view of the long legs that extended from beneath the outrageously short skirts worn by the two French beauties and the outline of breasts revealed by their tight sweaters. He had no doubt Elizabeth had noted that, too.
Inside, the air smelled of stale smoke, even though smoking had been banned in English pubs for years. Jonathan figured the odor permeated the very walls and would never go away. The pub was filled mostly with men, although there were some women among them. When Nicole and Chantal made their entrance, the boisterous chatter subsided as the regulars scoped out the newcomers. But when the rest of the group entered, dressed as if they’d just returned from the Victorian age in H.G. Wells’s time machine, the place went completely silent. Jonathan placed a hand protectively at Victoria’s waist.
“I don’t like this,” she whispered to him.
“Neither do I. We’ll only stay a little while,” he promised.
But Reginald FitzSimmons was right at home. “What are you staring at, man?” he blustered at a rather bemused looking patron. “You’ve seen stranger sights, I’m sure.” He headed for the bar. “Ansel, a round for the house, please,” he said in a voice loud enough for all to hear. At that, a communal cheer went up and the noise level returned to normal. Jonathan wondered what FitzSimmons did that he could afford such a generous gesture, but he obviously knew the bar keeper, and the man didn’t bat an eye at the order.
There were no tables available, so the group gathered along a stretch of the wall where a wooden plank served as a bar. FitzSimmons brought him a pint of stout and handed Victoria a half-pint of a light colored ale. “Used
to be my second home,” he said, “before I moved to Kent.” He raised his glass. “Cheers.”
“You lived around here?” Alistair Huntley-Ames sounded incredulous.
“Oh, no, no, my good man. But I’ve always been haunted by this neighborhood, and what went on here a hundred years ago. Jack the Ripper could have stood on this very spot and quaffed a pint or two before picking out his victime du jour,” he said with a mischievous gleam in his eye. “You know, the site where he butchered his last victim is not far from here.”
“Butchered?” Elizabeth stared at him aghast and brought a pudgy white hand to her throat.
“Oh, yes, my dear,” FitzSimmons told her, warming to the story. “Just like the good inspector described this morning, only it was worse than his most polite telling of the matter.” He nodded in Jonathan’s direction. “Unlike the Ripper’s other victims, who were homeless, Mary Kelly had a small room, and she took her client home, where he not only killed her, but because of the privacy it allowed him, he engaged in a bloody orgy that must have lasted more than two hours. He cut her throat so deeply it nearly severed her head. When her remains were discovered the following morning, she had been disemboweled, skinned, and disfigured in every grotesque way imaginable, and her body parts were lying on the bed and a nearby table. Everything, that is, except her heart. It was removed and never found.”
Jonathan cringed. What FitzSimmons said was true, but he wished the man would be a little less graphic. He was speaking of the murder of Mary Jane Kelly, a young prostitute who had had the misfortune of meeting up with the killer somewhere close by. Maybe in this pub. It was possible.
He could see FitzSimmons had scared the living daylights out of Elizabeth. She was as pale as the frock she wore. Victoria wasn’t much better when she turned to him. “Could we leave now? I…this…is just too much.” To his shock, her eyes were brimming with tears. Perturbed and perplexed, Jonathan wished they’d never come along. Things were much more interesting on the dance floor.
“Of course,” he replied to Victoria, and turned to Huntley-Ames. “I believe your wife is rather distressed,” he said. “Ms. Thomas and I are going to hail a taxi. Will you join us?”
Lord Chastain shot his wife a disgusted look. “I suppose. Elizabeth, you simply have no sense of adventure.”
The look she shot back could have killed. “You may stay, Alistair. I’m sure I will be safe with Mr. Blake and Ms. Thomas.”
“And I’d never hear the end of it,” he grumbled, downing the last of his beer.
Trey, Chantal and Nicole decided to go off in search of some hotter action, leaving Roger, Janeece and FitzSimmons to rehash the gory days of yesteryear. As the taxi pulled away from the curb, Jonathan caught sight of a brawny young man in the circle of light beneath a streetlamp across from the pub. He couldn’t be sure, but he thought it was the man who’d given Victoria a hard time earlier in the evening. He glanced at her to see if she’d noticed him, but she seemed to be intently studying her hands that were clasped in her lap. He said nothing, for he didn’t want to alarm her. Besides, the fellow had as much right to come here as they did. He guessed many of the conference-goers would make their way into Whitechapel before it was over.
The atmosphere in the taxi was frigid as tension stretched between Alistair Huntley-Ames and his wife, and Jonathan didn’t attempt to make small talk with them. He was more concerned about those tears he’d seen in Victoria’s eyes and wondered what had triggered them. She didn’t seem the type to become so upset over graphic descriptions. She must have seen many gruesome crime scenes in her line of work. He said nothing, but took her hand, which was as cold as the atmosphere in the cab.
When at last they arrived at the hotel, they left the Huntley-Ameses to their private concerns, and Jonathan felt sorry for them both. They reminded him of his parents, mismatched and miserable after the glow of young love had worn off. They were one reason he’d remained single for the entire thirty-five years of his life. Who wanted to live like that?
They bade goodnight to the unhappy couple, and Victoria turned to Jonathan.
“Thanks for getting me out of there. That’s two rescues in one evening. I’m sorry I’m such a dud.” Her heart was heavy, but not because she’d caused them to leave the pub. For some reason she could not fathom, FitzSimmons’s graphic description had brought back her own horrific visions of how Meghan’s body had been defiled. She was surprised at herself, because in her work, she had seen many dreadful sights, and they hadn’t fazed her. Why tonight?
Jonathan laid a hand on her shoulder. “You’re not a dud by any stretch,” he said, tilting her head up slightly with his other hand. “Do you want to go back to the dance, or would you rather have a quiet nightcap with me in the lounge?”
She noticed he didn’t give her the option of saying goodnight, which is what she ought to do. The magic of the evening was ruined. “I’d probably better go,” she said, but he slid his hand along the length of her arm, and her body responded with the same disturbing sensations as before.
“Don’t. Not just yet. There’s a fireplace in the lounge, and I heard they have devilishly divine Irish coffee. It’s only half past ten.”
Victoria gazed at him, aware that his hand was still on her arm. Very aware. She was chilled from the night air and the haunting memories, and she shivered. Suddenly she did not want to be alone.
“One drink.”
They found a settee near the crackling fire, and the warm glow of the flames raised her spirits. The Irish coffee lived up to its reputation, sending fluid warmth to her insides, where it mingled with another kind of warmth generated by the man sitting next to her. He wasn’t touching her. He didn’t have to. Just his presence seemed enough to warm her from the inside out.
“Want to tell me about it?”
His question interrupted her rather disturbing thoughts, and she blushed slightly. “About what?”
“What brought the tears back there in the pub? Were you afraid?”
Her inner glow was doused instantly, and Victoria stiffened. It was none of his damned business. She still could barely talk about Meghan’s murder with close friends and family. To speak of it to someone who was virtually a stranger was unthinkable. “It…was nothing.”
“I’m a better detective than that,” he pressed gently, and began to massage the back of her neck. At his touch, Victoria’s usually staunch defenses began to crumble. Still, she fought to keep that nightmare to herself.
“It’s not something I want to talk about. Or think about, for that matter.”
Jonathan did not reply. He simply worked on releasing the tension in the muscles at the back of her neck. Gently. Quietly. Victoria wished he could work out that other, deeper pain that she’d carried with her for so many years.
“My sister was murdered.” The words were out before she knew they were coming. “Seven years ago. It was a brutal slaying. Her body was butchered in a similar manner to what FitzSimmons described as having happened to Mary Kelly. It…it brought it all back, that’s all.” Her throat was so tightly constricted she could barely manage the last words, and hot tears burned her eyes.
Jonathan’s hand paused in its ministration. “That’s all? Good God. I’d like to throttle that old man.” He leaned forward so he could see her face, and brought his hand around to cup her chin. “Oh, Victoria, I am sorry. I’m so sorry.”
Victoria looked for the pity she usually saw in the faces of those who knew, pity she hated. But instead she saw compassion. Still, she was too private a person to accept it. “Don’t be. It wasn’t FitzSimmons’s fault,” she said. “He didn’t know. And it’s been a long time. I should be over it by now.”
“It’s not something one gets over easily.”
Victoria wondered if he knew what an understatement that was. No, it wasn’t easily gotten past. Not with therapy. Not with time. Not with the work that drove her so hard to prevent other brutal crimes. “I saw her body just after it happened.” Where d
id these snatches of the story keep coming from? Victoria did not mean for them to surface. She had no wish to expose her still-raw wounds to anyone.
“My God. Why? Were you asked to identify it?” Jonathan removed the mug of coffee from her shaking hand and set both of their drinks on a nearby table. Then he took her hands. She raised her eyes to his.
“I…I’m the one who found her.”
“Christ.”
“She’d gone to a motel room, to meet a man. We didn’t know that, of course, until after she disappeared. When we discovered the next morning that she hadn’t come home that night, I went to her room and found her diary. She’d written about her plans for the liaison, and where they would meet. The only thing she didn’t write was the man’s name.”
She began to worry the skin on his fingers with her thumbs. “Meghan got a little wild, I guess. Our parents had always been so demanding. She was a rebel, or at least a rebel wannabe. This was her way of getting back at them, I suppose. Anyway, I knew her pretty well, enough to know that by that time, she would probably be ready to be rescued. I…I went to the motel she’d noted in her diary and showed her picture to the manager, who remembered her. When no one responded when we knocked on the door, he let me in with his key. She was…she was…”
Victoria’s world turned blood red, and she crumpled against Jonathan, not caring that she was making a spectacle of herself. For some reason, she’d allowed him to open that Pandora’s box, and she did not have the strength to shut it again. Instead, she let all the nasties out, where they attacked her heart and mind and spirit with a vengeance.
Memories of the blood that was swashed throughout the room, the sight of her sister’s mutilated body, the smell of death pervaded her senses, and she choked on them. Her stomach turned and blinding tears spilled from her eyes again. And again she had not the strength to suppress them.
Instead, she leaned into the warmth of Jonathan’s arms and the harbor of his embrace and cried. Cried like she had not cried since that awful time. Cried until her stomach wrenched and her eyes ached. Cried until the pain grew numb, and the memories hid themselves away once again in the darkness.
