by Jill Jones
Only then did she withdraw from his arms and realize to her horror not only that she’d broken down in the arms of a man she hardly knew, but that she’d done it in a public place. “I’ve got to go,” she said, sniffing into the handkerchief he’d given her during the flood. “I’m…I’m so embarrassed.”
“Don’t be,” he said gently. “No one saw you. This place emptied out a while back.”
“I probably ran them off,” she said with a small laugh.
“It was closing time at the bar. Come on.” He took her elbow and helped her to her feet. “Let’s get you home.”
Victoria’s head was light and her sinuses soggy as she rode the elevator with Jonathan. As had happened earlier, neither of them spoke. They just stood quietly watching the numbers on the lighted panel above them as they were lifted to the sixth floor. Gone was her earlier hot passion, washed away by her grief, leaving her spent and drained.
“Got your key?” Jonathan asked as they stepped into the corridor.
She reached into the small bag she carried and brought it out, handing it to him with shaky fingers. She did not know if he expected to be invited into her room. If he did, he was in for a disappointment. She could easily turn him away now. She was no longer sexually vulnerable to him. At least not tonight. Those old horrors had seen to that.
He did come in, however, and she didn’t protest.
“Will you be all right?” he asked, looking into the closet as if he thought the bogey man might be hiding there. The only bogey man stalking Victoria was the haunting memory she’d just tried to wash away with her tears. Surprisingly, she did feel a little better for having done that, although she found her behavior in a public place appalling.
“Sure. I’ll be fine. I really do apologize…”
He came to her, standing an arm’s length away. He placed his hands on her shoulders. “Do you have nightmares?”
His question, and the tender concern in his voice, took her by surprise. “I used to, all the time. They’ve faded over the years though, thank God.”
“You may have one tonight, thanks to Mr. FitzSimmons’s bringing all this up for you again. I’m in room 708. Call me if you need me. Will you join me for breakfast?”
Morning seemed an eternity away, and the thought of food was repulsive at the moment. But she nodded. “Not too early.”
“Nine-ish?”
She nodded again and gave forth a small hiccough.
“I’ll give you a call,” he said. He gazed at her for a long moment, as if contemplating something, then lowered his lips to her forehead, brushed it with a gentle kiss, and was gone.
Victoria stared at the door as it closed behind him. She hadn’t wanted him to stay, but a part of her wished he had. For his kiss, so chaste and tender, had lit a tiny glow deep within her, a glow that if fanned ever so slightly, would burn hot once again.
No, it was better he was gone.
It had not been as difficult as he had anticipated. Not difficult at all, once he surrendered to his destiny. When he did not fight it, his consciousness melded with the master’s, and the work was accomplished with a natural ease and flow. He became one with the night, and the knife, and the blood.
She had been an easy mark. A woman alone on a dark street. A whore no doubt. But he had not even accosted her. He had simply approached her silently from behind, strangled her, laid her down and laid her open. A simple exercise, too simple almost, not as satisfying as he had expected. It was over in five minutes. The master’s design, executed with perfection. He had not a spot of blood on him when he finished. The souvenir secured in a bag in his coat pocket, he’d wiped his knife on the woman’s skirt and hidden it away in its most ingenious little hiding place.
It had been an easy kill, but it was only an exercise. Practice for the play that was to come. Already he needed more. Already he grew hard thinking of the blood, thinking of the game, thinking of the women who would die…
Chapter Seven
Trinity College, Cambridge
Nine September 1884
I am bereft. My beloved Prince has been taken from me, if only for a short while, and my days without him are long and empty. He has gone to Sandringham with his mother, who insisted he join her there for a fortnight of some banal frivolity. He did not wish to go, but he was not strong enough to withstand her demands.
Eddy fares no better at the hands of his mother than I. Mother Dear, as he calls her when in public, selfishly manipulates his life, breezing in when the fancy strikes, demanding his full attention and love, and then blowing away again without so much as a farethewell, leaving him bewildered and forlorn. She does nothing to protect him from the open ridicule I have witnessed among the court. I hate her and wish she would leave us in peace.
Perhaps it is as well he is gone, though, for tonight I happened into a pub and heard a raucous and obscene song that referred to me as the “Bastard Stephen” and to Eddy as the “suckling.” Enraged, I challenged the cowards who were singing it to stand and fight, but they slunk off into the night. The incident sickened me, for I realized that we have not been as discreet as I had hoped in our affair.
Leaving the pub, I wandered for hours along the darkened streets of Cambridge, wanting to choke the life out of those singers, wanting to be with Eddy, wanting to kill Mother Dear who has the unfair power to separate us. In the past, when rage is upon me, or black despair, I have found comfort in blood sport, for spilling the lifeblood of quail or boar serves to ease the anguish, at least for a time. I taught Eddy this means of assuaging the demons that torment us, and we have often joined together in the hunt.
This night, I could not settle for the blood of bird or beast. Only the blood of a woman would quell my rage against Mother Dear for taking my Prince away. On those dark streets, I happened upon a whore eager to sell her puss for a small sum. I paid it, but it was not her puss I wanted. I wanted her life. I had no weapon upon me other than my great hands, which I nearly used in my madness, but when she raised her skirts to reveal the disgusting thing, I turned in abhorrence and ran until my feet carried me to my doorstep and the darkness of my lonely room. I tremble still with the rage. I wish I had killed her…
I should not mind
If she were done away with, killed or ploughed.
She did not seem to serve a useful end
And certainly she was not beautiful.*
If she had suffered a nightmare, Victoria did not remember it the next morning. She had slept well and awoke refreshed. She stretched lazily, trying to remember where she was and what she was supposed to do today. The conference would reconvene at ten, she remembered. Today’s program would be on a lighter note than yesterday’s. The morning session would feature two movies shown back-to-back in which Sherlock Holmes endeavored to solve the mystery of Jack the Ripper. In the afternoon, a play in which Sherlock would come face-to-face with Jack the Ripper, written by one of the London Sherlockians, would be performed. The evening was to be a round-table discussion of whether Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, creator of the world’s most famous sleuth and a contemporary of Jack the Ripper, had missed the mark completely when he was asked to look into the Ripper case, or if he had known more than he ever revealed.
She would enjoy all of the events, Victoria thought, but wrinkled her brow, thinking there was something else she’d planned to do. And then she remembered. Jonathan Blake. She had agreed to meet him for breakfast. Sitting up, she looked at the bedside clock. It was nearly nine. Good grief. Hadn’t they agreed on nine-ish for breakfast?
Rushing to the mirror, she saw that she looked even worse than she had feared. Her eyes were still swollen from her crying jag, and her hair was a tangled mess. She couldn’t let Jonathan see her like this. Going to the telephone, she dialed his room to tell him she needed more time. The phone rang six times before it was answered by the voice mail system. She replaced the receiver. She found it curious that he wasn’t there. Was he already on his way to her room?
Damn.
Victoria thought he’d promised to call her first. She grabbed a hairbrush and attacked the thick brown curls and had made some small measure of progress when the phone rang.
She jumped, startled, but answered it on the first ring, her heart racing. “Hello? Jonathan?”
“This is the concierge desk. We have a message for you. Is this a convenient time to deliver it to your room? We were asked to wait until nine o’clock.”
A message? Her pulse slowed. “Of course. I’m awake.” She hung up, perplexed, and donned her robe.
The message arrived moments later. She took the envelope and gave the young man a tip before closing the door. She tore open the envelope. The note inside was written on hotel stationery.
“Dear Victoria, I’m sorry but I won’t be able to meet you for breakfast. Something has come up, and I had to go into the Yard. I’ll try to break loose later in the day and come by the hotel. Please give me a rain check. Jonathan.”
Victoria did not want to admit the depth of her disappointment. Since he had not tried to take advantage of her vulnerable state the night before, she’d decided she might be safe enough around him, if she could keep her own desire in check. Now, it looked like she’d spend the morning at the movies.
Oh, well.
She showered and dressed, paying more attention than usual to her hair and makeup, knowing it was for Jonathan’s benefit, in case he showed up. If his job was anything like hers, he might not be able to get away, but she sincerely hoped she would see him later in the day.
Checking her image one last time in the entry hall mirror, she opened the door to leave and noticed a small package on the floor next to the wall just outside the door. It was a square, white box tied with a wide red ribbon. Had it been there when the bellhop had delivered Jonathan’s message? Maybe it had accompanied the note, and he’d set it down to knock on the door and forgot to give it to her. Her stomach did that same strange little dance it had done yesterday when she’d first seen Jonathan’s smile. He must really have wanted to see her again to send a present in apology, she thought, bending to pick it up.
She pulled the ribbon loose and raised the lid. Whatever was inside was hidden by fluffy white tissue. She took it to the desk and lifted the entire contents out with the paper, which fell away when she placed it on the flat surface. Victoria’s eyes widened, and she covered her mouth with the back of her hand to stifle a scream.
Before her lay a small zipper style plastic bag containing something soft, red and wet. Something that looked horrifyingly biological, like an animal gland one might purchase at a butcher shop. Tucked into the tissue was a note, written on hotel stationery:
“Yours truly, Jack the Ripper.”
The sun slitted in through a crack between the drawn curtains, striking him right in the eye and awakening him from an erotic dream. It took a moment for him to remember what had taken place the night before, but when he did, to his amazement, his cock hardened. A slow smile crawled across his lips. He was a man once more. He rolled over in his bed and felt peaceful for the first time in as long as he could remember.
Victoria kept her eyes on the grisly little packet that sat on the desk in front of her as she reached for the phone. Her hands were shaking so badly she could hardly press the numbers. She managed to dial room 708, then remembered that Jonathan wasn’t there. He’d been called in to Scotland Yard. Scotland Yard. How could she reach him there?
She found a telephone book in a drawer and looked up the listing for the agency, only to find there were many numbers. What division was he in? She dialed the main number, and after long minutes, she was connected to his line. To her dismay, it was answered by voice mail. Hastily, she left a message for him to return her call as soon as he could.
Hanging up, she fought back the nausea at the pit of her stomach. Was this a prank? Who would have done such a thing?
She took a deep breath and tried to remain calm, tried to think like an investigator, not a victim. What should she do? Call hotel security, for one thing. But her knees were weak, and she wished she wasn’t alone. Suddenly, she remembered Trey, and relief washed through her. Thank God he had come with her. She needed him now like she hadn’t needed him in a long time.
Hastily, Victoria replaced the plastic bag in the box, then dashed down the hall to his room. She’d call hotel security from there, but at the moment, she needed his presence to steady her. She pounded loudly on his door and heard a muffled “just a minute.” Moments later, a tousled looking Trey stuck his head around the door.
“What do you want?” he growled. She could tell he was naked, at least above the waist.
She didn’t care if he was stark buck naked. She was desperate. “Trey,” she said, pushing through the door. “Let me in. Something’s happened…”
It was then she heard the giggles. She froze. Oh, cripes. He wasn’t alone. She’d forgotten the French women. Wondering which one he’d ended up with, she jerked her head toward the bedroom, and was shocked to see not one, but both women in Trey’s bed. Chantal giggled again and gave her a little wave.
Her face flamed, and she turned to Trey, who stood wrapped only in a towel, eyeing her with a look that told her she should have minded her own business. “You didn’t!”
He shrugged. “Don’t tell mother,” he said with a sardonic smirk.
“Good grief, Trey. I can’t believe it.”
“Whatcha got there?” he asked, changing the subject and poking his nose toward the box she clutched tightly.
Victoria stared down at the box, then looked at Trey, then at Chantal and Nicole.
“Uh…nothing,” she said, feeling sick all over again. “It’s nothing.” Damn him. How could he let her down like this? “Forget it,” she snarled at him and turned on her heel to leave. “You make a damn lousy bodyguard,” she muttered as she passed him. “You’re fired.”
Back in her room, Victoria took a bottle of spring water from the small refrigerator and guzzled the whole thing, as if the cool water could wash away her fear and confusion. She felt hot tears threaten and blinked them back furiously. Damn him! Damn the son of a bitch. She’d never been angrier at Trey in her life.
But Trey was not her primary problem at the moment. The little white box taunted her from atop the desk. At last, she picked up the phone and dialed hotel security.
Moments later, the short, balding manager appeared at her door, his face as white as the bed linens. With him was a uniformed guard. “I’m told we have a problem here,” he said, and Victoria explained to him what she had told the guard.
“Are you certain it contains…uh…animal glands?” he asked nervously.
Irked, Victoria picked up the box and held it out toward him. “Want to see?” Did he think she was making this up?
“No…uh, no thank you,” he stammered. “I believe you. Maybe we’d better call the police.”
The police. Yes. One policeman in particular would do.
As if summoned by the gods, Jonathan knocked on her door only moments later. “I picked up your message on my cell phone. What’s wrong?”
“Oh, thank God,” she said, grabbing his arm and yanking him into the room. He was unshaven, and his face looked haggard, as if he hadn’t slept. His eyes narrowed when he saw the two men in the room.
“What’s going on, Victoria? What’s happened?” It was his turn to take hold of her arms, and she saw alarm in his eyes.
“It…it’s probably nothing, just a prank, but I had a rather bizarre little present left at my door this morning. I was just talking with Mr. Adams here to see if we could sort out where it came from.”
“A present? What kind of present?”
She nodded to the white box on the desk. “A rather meaty one, if I do say,” she replied, wishing her attempt at levity would lift the rock in her stomach.
Jonathan went to the desk and opened the package just as Victoria had done earlier. When he saw what was inside, he went white.
Jonathan had a
nswered the phone in his hotel room a little after two am to be informed by his supervisor that a woman’s body had been found less than two blocks from where he and the others had gone on their little adventure to the Jack the Ripper Pub. With a deep sense of foreboding, he’d dressed and headed out into the night in a car that had been sent by New Scotland Yard to take him directly to the scene of the crime.
When he saw the victim, his stomach had turned. She was lying in shadow on the pavement, her skirts raised above her knees, her legs apart. Her throat had been deeply slashed, and her abdomen ripped open. Blood puddled beneath her, its metallic odor tainting the air. Jonathan thought he was going to be sick.
It wasn’t the blood that distressed him. Or the horrific wounds. He’d seen it all before. It was the killer’s MO that rocked him to the core. His style. For it was the style he had only yesterday described to the Sherlockians gathered in the old hotel.
The style of Jack the Ripper.
He’d spent the early hours of the morning leading the investigating team, making sure the crime scene was secure, taking care that no one contaminated any possible evidence. But a profound misgiving knotted his stomach.
Had he in some way been responsible for this woman’s death?
It was just too coincidental that on the night after a symposium about Jack the Ripper such a murder as this would take place. He strongly suspected the killer had sat in his audience earlier in the day. Taking notes, so to speak.
Later at the morgue, the coroner compounded his fears. “It was brutal, but swift,” he’d said after examining the body. “Reminds me of the old Ripper murders.”
Now, standing in Victoria’s hotel room, looking at the contents of the package she’d received, his fear turned to horror.
