by Jill Jones
But Jonathan had other plans for the evening. “Thanks. But we’ve a lot to do ourselves. Rain check?”
“Of course. Now, down to business.” He held out the envelope and studied it before handing it over to Jonathan. “The person who asked me to give this to you has also asked to remain anonymous. That person told me that this is just a small sample of what can be made available to you, provided this is returned to me in three days. I do not know what it contains, but I can assure you, it came from a most remarkable source.” Without further comment, he handed over the package.
Jonathan wanted to open it on the spot, but if the donor insisted on such secrecy, he thought it better to wait until they reached the privacy of his flat. “Thanks. I’ll see what we have, and get it back to you in three days. Have fun at the theater.”
Outside, a light drizzle had begun to dampen the chilly air. “Let’s go home,” Jonathan said, taking Victoria’s hand and hurrying toward the parking garage where they’d left his car. He unlocked it and held the door for her, thinking it strange that he was taking a woman to his home. He’d rarely done that before. His quarters were his refuge, and the only woman allowed in was the housekeeper, Mrs. Dunstan. But it seemed natural that Victoria should be going there with him.
Natural? Jonathan shuddered, and blamed it on the cold.
His flat was in an old townhouse that had been renovated and subdivided into five sets of living quarters, one on each floor. His was on the second floor. He pitied the poor buggers who lived on the fifth, for all the residences were accessible only by stair.
“A very tall house,” Victoria remarked as they parked on the street in front of it.
“And no elevator. I hope you find it comfortable. It’s not exactly the Ritz.”
She covered his hand with hers. “Are you sure this is a good idea?”
The sizzle hadn’t diminished. “No.”
“I can go back to the hotel. I’m sure I’d be safe enough there.”
“No.” This time he was emphatic. “You’re staying with me.”
“This isn’t totally about my safety, is it?” she asked softly.
And Jonathan realized she’d cut to the heart of the matter. He’d pretended that it was for her safety, but he had to stare the truth in the face. He’d brought her here because he wanted her here. In his home. All to himself.
“No,” he replied after a long moment. “No, it isn’t, Victoria. The thing is, I don’t know exactly what it is about.”
“I think I have a clue,” she said with a short laugh.
“It’s…it’s not about sex, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“Actually, I was.” Her voice was low and husky. Sexy.
“Victoria.” He said it somewhere between a groan and a plea.
She removed her hand. “Okay, okay. Let’s go in and see what’s in that package.”
But Jonathan knew it wasn’t the end of that discussion.
Chapter Twelve
Victoria shared Jonathan’s apprehension about her returning with him to his flat. Each time she was with him, it grew harder to maintain any semblance of objectivity. It appeared the night of wicked romance she’d wished for had become first a little weekend fling, and then something that had gotten out of hand altogether. And she wasn’t quite sure what to think about that.
Jonathan’s flat was clean and attractive, although modestly furnished. “No frills” came to her mind. Jonathan deposited her suitcase in the small foyer. “Welcome to my humble abode,” he said.
Victoria surveyed her surroundings. There were several doors off the foyer, all closed except the one to her left. Through it she entered a living area that included a wooden table and four chairs, unadorned by tablecloth or cushions. A worn but comfortable-looking sofa faced a fireplace with a wonderful old marble mantel above it. Two upholstered chairs were placed on either side with a low table in between. The walls were adorned with prints of traditional English artwork, mainly of the hunt.
The most remarkable aspect of the room, however, was the bookshelves. They filled the entire far end of the room, bracketing the window that overlooked the street, and extending along both side walls for at least six feet. They were laden with books of all shapes and sizes, some stacked sideways on top of others.
“You must be Roger’s best customer,” she remarked, both surprised and impressed.
“Some people play the ponies. I buy books.”
“Have you read them all?” she asked, going to the shelves and turning her head to read the titles. There were classics, both in fiction and non. How-to books. Cookbooks. True crime. History. Travel. Even some in foreign languages.
“Not all. But most. Sometimes I buy a book just because I want to own it.”
She turned to him, thinking what a package he was. Lover and literati all rolled into one. Something akin to joy swelled inside of her, a feeling of immense happiness and pleasure, and she had to work not to fling her arms around him. Instead, she took a deep breath and said, “So, shall we see what’s in Roger’s mysterious package? Or is it marked ‘For Your Eyes Only?’”
“It’s not marked at all,” he noted. They went to the table, where he unlaced the old-fashioned tie that held the envelope closed, and carefully slid the contents onto the table.
The papers were yellow and brittle with age. Printed at the top of each page were the words “Metropolitan Police, Criminal Investigative Division.”
“These look similar to the kind of forms we use for our official reports,” Jonathan remarked, picking up one of the sheets.
“They look old to me,” Victoria added, her pulse picking up a beat. “Is there a date on them?”
Jonathan let out a low whistle. “A very interesting date. This one is marked 1 September 1888.”
“You’re kidding. Wasn’t that the day after the first Ripper murder?”
“Yes, it was. Or at least the first attributed to him.” Jonathan picked up the first sheet and read aloud. “Unidentified female found dead approximately 3:40 am on 31 August 1888 in Buck’s Row near the Board School by PC John Neil 97J. Body examined by Dr. Llewellyn, who determined life extinct. Time of death estimated no more than thirty minutes before, due to severe injuries to the throat. Body was moved to the mortuary in Old Montague Street, where I, Inspector John Spratling, discovered additional injuries, to wit: her abdomen had been cut open from breast bone to pubis and her intestines were exposed. Llewellyn in his post-mortem examination noted bruising about the face and lower part of the jaw. Possible cause: pressure of fingers. Due to the small amount of blood at scene of murder, Llewellyn now suspects strangulation, not incisions, was the cause of death.” He stopped reading aloud, but his eyes ran over the rest of the report.
“What does it say?” Victoria wanted to know.
Jonathan raised his eyes. “It’s a description of the injuries. Graphic, but if you want…” He held out the paper to her.
She shook her head, remembering how FitzSimmons’s detailed description of the last Ripper murder had affected her. “I don’t need to know the details,” she told him. “But what do we have here? Could these be…?”
“…the missing police files?” Jonathan shook his head. “I don’t know. There’s nothing here that strikes me as new ground. It could be our killer is playing with us again.”
Heads together, they scanned the rest of the reports. There were five of them, dated from 1 September to 15th September 1888, each containing details of the murders of Mary Ann Nichols and Annie Chapman, the Ripper’s first two victims during that bloody autumn.
“Where do you think Roger got these?” Victoria asked. “It seems too coincidental that they would surface the same day as I was sent what might be another artifact from that time.”
“I doubt if they are real,” Jonathan replied. “And I don’t think it is a coincidence at all. I think our killer is having fun with us, showing off so to speak. Letting us know how knowledgeable he is on the murders.”
&
nbsp; “He’s going to strike again.” Victoria shivered. “Soon.” She knew it would happen as well as she knew her own name.
“If he is trying to replicate history,” Jonathan said, “then I expect our copycat will strike again next Saturday night in Whitechapel.”
“Jonathan,” she said urgently, “we have to stop him.”
“Inspector Sandringham’s already on it. He kind of thinks like you do,” he added with a little grin. “I forgive him for it, though.”
Victoria ignored him. “What do you mean, he’s on it?”
“He expects the killer to make another move on Saturday, unless we find him between now and then. He’s assigned more officers than you would believe to the area starting at sundown.”
“I just hope that’s good enough,” Victoria said, filled with foreboding. “As I recall from your presentation, Whitechapel was crawling with cops once they realized there was a maniacal killer on the loose, and it made no difference whatsoever.”
“That was then and this is now. We’re a little more sophisticated these days. They’ll be using infrared viewers and radios, and they’ve implemented a curfew. If he does try it, he’ll find it dicey.”
Victoria failed to be reassured. “Can’t we speed things up in your forensic lab? If those letters I received today were from the killer, there might be something in them that will lead us to him before Saturday.”
“I doubt if they’ve had time, but I’ll check.” Jonathan picked up the phone and dialed the lab. It was late, but he knew the dedication of the team in that department. “Any fingerprints on those two specimens I dropped off earlier?”
Victoria saw him shake his head and felt her own disappointment. She had hoped the tools of modern investigation, not available to the police in the days of the original Ripper murders, would identify this killer before he had a chance to strike again.
Jonathan murmured responses to what he was being told, then said, “Thanks for getting to it so quickly. I know you have a lot going on. I’ll be by in the morning. I’ve come across some other rather interesting items for you to take a look at. Carry on and call me if anything interesting turns up.”
He rang off and turned to Victoria. “They’re already well into their exam of the two messages you received today. No fingerprints, and as I suspected, the handwriting on neither matches that on the new Ripper messages.” He sighed and ran his hands through his hair, glancing at the old CID reports on the table. “No sense in taking these in tonight. They couldn’t get to them until tomorrow anyway.”
Silence fell between them. There was nothing more they could do on the murder investigation tonight. Now they had to face their personal dilemma.
What to do about them.
Victoria read the ambivalence in his eyes that she felt in her heart. She wanted him. He wanted her. But neither was ready for the intensity of emotion that had unexpectedly surfaced along with their desire. It was too much, too soon. And in a way, it was frightening as the events that swirled around them.
“I’ll take the sofa.” Jonathan thought it was the decent thing to offer, although he no more wanted to sleep alone on the couch than eat a bug.
Victoria gave him a rueful smile. “You know that’s not going to solve the problem.”
“What is?”
“What’s the problem? Or what’s going to solve it?” she asked quietly.
Jonathan wasn’t certain exactly what the problem was, but he thought it might have something to do with life structures being altered. “We need to talk about both,” he said, “but let’s do it over something to eat. I’d cook something, but there’s not much in the refrigerator. There’s a great Indian-style takeout around the corner, however. Could you go for a little tandoori?”
They walked through the thickening shroud of fog and drizzle to the restaurant, picked up their food and a couple of beers to go with the spicy meal, and returned to Jonathan’s flat twenty minutes later. Neither had said more than was necessary to transact their business.
“Smells divine,” Victoria remarked as they took the food out of the bag. “I didn’t know I was so hungry.” Spreading the low table by the fireplace with newspapers, they laid out the cartons. Jonathan brought plates, mugs and utensils from the kitchen, then turned on the gas logs and poured the beer into the mugs. These things were important, he told himself—these preparations, the meal, the drinks. But that was bullshit, and he knew it. All it did was postpone the inevitable. It was time to face reality.
“So where were we?” he asked, taking a seat on the floor next to her.
“The problem,” Victoria said, struggling to cut a piece off the bright red tandoori chicken.
“Use your fingers. It’s the only way.” She did, and he regretted making the suggestion, for watching her lips engage the chicken leg did nothing to solve his problem.
“As I see it,” she said, dabbing at her mouth with a napkin when she finished, “we have a simple case of undernourished libidos. From what you’ve told me, there haven’t been many ladies in your life, and I haven’t had a real date in years. It makes sense that…well, all those libidinous urges that have gone unfulfilled for so long would now surface and beg for attention.”
Jonathan laughed out loud. “You sound like one of those nutty psychologists on television talk shows,” he said.
“I am a nutty psychologist.”
He grinned at her. “Okay, tell me then, professor, why are those urges surfacing now? Between you and me?”
Her gaze found his and locked onto it. She wasn’t smiling. “I don’t know, Jonathan. And frankly, it scares me. I find you attractive and all that, but I’m not one to jump into bed with a virtual stranger. And yet I did.”
“I seem to recall having done some of that same kind of jumping,” he said. The memory of their stolen hours in Kent rekindled his barely controlled longing for her. She looked exquisite in the firelight. She had removed the blazer and scarf, and the softness of her blouse and the glow of her skin invited his touch. Her eyes seemed to darken as he gazed at her, and he guessed she was fighting her own desire as well.
“So,” she said slowly, lifting her mug to her lips, “have we defined the problem?”
“It’s a theory I could live with.”
“Then how do we solve it?”
The answer was obvious. But it wasn’t an easy solution. Because it raised all kinds of other problems. Still, Jonathan knew nothing else would suffice, at least for him, at the moment. He moved closer to her, but did not touch her. His solution might not be hers.
“We could feed the hungry libidos until they are satiated, and then maybe they’ll go away.”
He saw her swallow. “Or we could try to starve them out,” she said, her voice hoarse.
“Didn’t work before. They came after us with a vengeance.” He lowered his lips until they were almost touching hers. She did not move away.
“How hungry do you suppose they are?” she murmured, raising her head slightly.
With his foot, Jonathan edged the table away from them. He drew her onto the sofa and found her lips once again. “Ravenous,” he said as he crushed her against him.
Victoria was beside herself with desire as Jonathan’s lips touched hers. Good God, where was this going to end? Her behavior was appalling, but there seemed to be nothing she could do about it. When she was around Jonathan, she was out of control. It frightened her even as she answered the call of the whatever-it-was that seemed to draw her to him like the proverbial moth to the flame. A hungry libido? Perhaps that was part of it. But there was something more, something deeper than unmitigated physical lust. It had something to do with completion. Fulfillment. The end of a journey she had not known she was on.
Later, her hunger for him sated momentarily, she lounged against Jonathan’s body, luxuriating in their nakedness.
“Cold?” he asked, cradling her in his arm.
“Not yet. It’ll take me some time to cool down after that.” But moments later
, the chill of the room settled around her, and she shivered.
“We’d better get some clothes on,” Jonathan said, shifting his weight and sitting up.
“Or turn up the fire.” Victoria didn’t know where these naughty thoughts kept coming from. But the truth was, she didn’t want to get dressed again. Already she longed for the feel of Jonathan’s body against hers.
She watched as he slipped on his slacks, regretting that her view was obstructed. He had great buns, and the rest of him…Well.
“Come on,” he said gently, prodding her from the couch. “I’ll get your bag for you.” They returned to the small foyer, where he snagged her suitcase and led her into the single bedroom of the apartment. She dug into the bag, found her robe, and slipped it on.
“You can forget the couch,” she said, noting he had a double bed. “I wouldn’t want you to get cold.”
Jonathan came up behind her and encircled her with his arms. “You’re chilled, aren’t you?”
His body heat warmed more than her skin. “You Brits don’t know beans about effective heating.”
He nuzzled her ear. “Maybe not. But we have hot water. Would you like to warm up in a bath?” Jonathan asked. “This place has got a great tub.”
“Great” was the operational word here, Victoria thought when Jonathan showed her the bath. It was huge.
“Looks like there’s room enough for an army,” she commented.
“I’ve never tried that, but I’m sure there’s room enough for two.”
“Jonathan!”
“I’m still hungry.”
She turned to see that disarming grin on his face and knew that she was lost all over again. She sighed.
“Do you have any bubble bath?”
The water nearly reached the top of the tub once they got in, and it felt delicious. He hadn’t come up with any bubble bath, but they’d used some shower gel to raise a head of foam on the surface. They sat facing each other, one at each end of the mammoth tub, the most distance they’d put between them in a couple of hours. Jonathan smiled at her, sheepishly it seemed.
