The Beast of London: Book 1 of the Mina Murray series

by Goffigan, L. D.

  “I assume you didn’t travel all the way from Amsterdam to mock my engagement,” I said instead. “What do you want to discuss?”

  “A friend of mine from university summoned me to London. His wife Lucy is suffering from a strange malady. I have thoroughly examined her and I do not believe it is an illness at all—not one with a natural cause,” he added, grimly meeting my eyes. “She is exhibiting behavior that we have both heard of before—in Transylvania.”

  My entire body froze in disbelief. Abe held my gaze for a long moment, allowing time for his disturbing words to settle, before reaching down into a bag resting on the carriage floor, extricating a small stack of documents. He plopped them onto my lap, giving me a sharp nod to indicate that I should read them.

  My hands trembled as I picked up the documents and began to rifle through them. They were mostly newspaper clippings, consisting of various headlines:

  HORROR IN WHITECHAPEL!

  JACK THE RIPPER CLAIMS 5th VICTIM!

  THE BEAST OF LONDON STRIKES AGAIN!

  GHASTLY MURDER IN THE EAST END!

  As I read the headlines, my turmoil increased. Why did he want me to look at these? Like most Londoners, I was well aware of the Whitechapel murders. The Ripper had been in my thoughts only moments earlier when I’d sensed I was being followed.

  I looked up at Abe, confused, but there was a quiet insistence in his eyes that urged me to continue. I looked back down, continuing to flip through the newspaper clippings, until I arrived at a grisly photograph.

  The photo was of a crime scene. A young woman lay dead on the dingy floor of a lodging house. Her throat had been violently torn out, her eyes wide and unseeing. A wave of nausea rose in my stomach as an image from my memories replaced the image from the photo—an image from my nightmares.

  The forest. The rain. The unseeing eyes of Father.

  I shut my eyes, roughly shoving the documents back at him.

  “An immigrant family of ten residing in a lodging house in Whitechapel vanished last night. The only person left behind was this poor young woman. I have a contact at Scotland Yard who is on the team that investigated the Ripper murders. He is the one who gave me this photograph. There are—”

  “Why did you want me to see these? Everyone in London—in Europe—knows about the Ripper. And what does this have to do with Mister Holmwood’s wife?” I demanded.

  “You know exactly why,” Abe replied. “I need you to listen to me. We know your father was likely investigating the—”

  “And look what happened to him,” I interrupted bitterly. I expelled a sharp breath and closed my eyes, pressing my shaky fingers to my temples. His words were bringing back dark and painful memories that I desperately wanted to forget.

  “I am sorry, I do not mean to upset you. But I believe that you and I may be the only ones in London who have seen this before. We could perhaps help the—”

  “No,” I said, reaching past him to rap on the carriage window. “I told you years ago I want nothing to do with any of this. Had Father never gone to Transylvania, he would still be alive. Now let me out.”

  “Let us at least take you home.”

  “I prefer to walk.”

  Abe studied me, quiet frustration and something else I couldn’t identify lurking in his eyes. He finally turned away from me, reaching out to open the carriage door and stepping out. I hastily climbed out after him, waving away both his and the driver’s offer of help.

  “Mina—” Abe began, when we were once again facing each other.

  “Please do not contact me about this again,” I said, looking away from the distress in his eyes. It was an echo of our parting years ago, and my chest tightened at the memory. “Goodbye.”

  I didn’t dare look back as I walked away, and to my relief he did not try to stop me.

  When I reached Highgate, I was still disconcerted. Walking along High Street, I tried to focus on the trees that lined Waterlow Park as they danced with the late afternoon breeze, a sight which usually filled me with tranquility. But the sight had no effect as I recalled both Abe’s words and the lifeless eyes of the woman from the photograph.

  She is exhibiting behavior that we have both heard of before—in Transylvania.

  Two years prior to my father’s death, we had journeyed to the Transylvanian countryside to observe the abundant animal and botanical species native to the Carpathian mountains. The villagers in the region told us supernatural tales of evil spirits that lurked in the surrounding mountains. When they told us of bodies viciously torn apart or drained of blood, we had assumed there was a rational explanation, and dismissed their tales as superstitions born of ignorance. But the villagers persisted with their tales, and they had many names for the preternatural creature they thought was responsible. Strigoi. Blutsauger. Kisertet.

  Vampire.

  Fear stirred in me, but I pushed it aside, unearthing the house keys from my bag as I turned on to my street. Such a creature did not exist—could not exist. I still did not know exactly what I’d seen the night of Father’s death. My vision had been distorted through a fog of shock and grief. Abe had no right to try and pull me back into our shared gruesome past, as if it were something to which I would forever be entwined. I had slowly been untangling myself from the cords of the past . . . day by day, year by year. What had happened in Transylvania was far behind me, and there it would remain.

  I arrived at my front door and unlocked it. Stepping into the entrance hall, I welcomed the sense of calm that settled over me.

  After Father’s death, I had worried that living in the home I grew up in and shared with him would be too painful. But my home provided a comforting familiarity I needed in the early days of my bereavement. It was a four-story terraced home, its walls adorned with paintings of nature that Father had inherited from his own family or purchased, as well as framed copies of scientific drawings of plant and animal species that I’d done for his publications. The wide windows in most of the rooms let in an abundance of light, even on the most dreary days. I would truly miss it when I moved into Jonathan’s Mayfair home after we were wed.

  I smiled at the thought of Jonathan. I would not let Abe’s visit mar the rest of my day. I was to have dinner with Jonathan and his mother later. He could always tell when I was upset, and I was uncertain that I even wanted him to know about Abe’s appearance today.

  “Mina? Are you all right?”

  Clara stepped out of the drawing room, frowning as she studied my anxious features with motherly concern.

  Clara had worked as a housekeeper for my family since I was a small child, but she seemed ageless to me. Her warm brown eyes, strong features, and long, graying brunette hair that she wore in an ever-present bun had hardly changed over the years. She started not long after my mother’s death, and she was the closest person in my life that I had to a mother. She was well aware of the tragic past Abe and I shared, and I knew it would only cause her great worry if she were to know of his visit.

  “Yes. Just trouble with Horace again,” I lied, forcing a smile. But I was unable to meet her eyes. I could never truly lie to Clara; a half-truth would have to do. Clara stepped forward to collect my bag, her mouth narrowing into a thin line of dislike at the mention of Horace.

  “He should be grateful ta have you. You don’t even need ta teach there,” she said, scowling.

  “I like teaching there,” I returned, with a patient smile, moving past her towards the stairs at the side of the entrance hall.

  My father had earned good wages as a professor at Cambridge, but he had a large inheritance from his family that he’d barely touched during his lifetime. As an only child, his home and inheritance all went to me. But I intended to keep teaching, and Jonathan had raised no objection when I informed him that I’d like to keep working after we were wed, something unheard of in his family.

  As I started up the stairs, a sudden urge came over me, and I turned back towards Clara.

  “Where are the keys to Fath
er’s study?”

  “In t’ top desk drawer int’ library. Why do you—” Clara began, looking at me with surprise. I never went into Father’s study.

  “I need one of his maps for a lesson plan,” I interrupted, avoiding her probing look. I hated how the lies were increasing, but if she pushed for details, I would be forced to tell her of Abe’s visit, and I refused to worry her. I hurried up the stairs before she could question me further, though I could feel her puzzled eyes on my retreating back.

  Ever since his death, I had taken to avoiding Father’s study. Father had spent many long hours there, and when I was a child I’d often rush in, wrapping my arms around his legs and begging him to read to me. On the days when Clara had not whisked me off with hushed admonishments, he would indulge me, swinging me up into his arms as he told me tales of lands that seemed so far away and exotic to my young mind—whether they were nearby countries such as France, Germany, or the Low Countries, or faraway lands like India or the Americas. When I travel to these places, he had once promised, leaning in close as my eyes went wide with excitement. You’ll come with me, poppet.

  I halted in my tracks as I reached the door to his study, blinking back the tears that pricked at my eyes, until I forced myself unlock the door and step inside.

  The lone window in the room was covered by thick curtains, so I lit the gas lamp next to the door, and the room filled with a soft and hazy light. The study looked as it had for years: brimming with books, journals, drawings and maps. But everything was now coated in a thick layer of dust; it had the look of a room frozen in time.

  I had forbidden Clara to clean or touch anything in the study until I could sort through Father’s things. But the pain that filled me every time I entered the study had been too overwhelming, and though years had passed, I still had not done so.

  I entered the room further, approaching the desk. I opened the top drawer, picking up the spectacles that rested inside. Since he frequently lost them, Father had kept several pairs of spectacles. He had left this pair behind right before his last trip. Still clutching them in my hands, I reached down to pick up a framed photograph inside the drawer, covered in dust. I blew the dust away, and studied it.

  In the photo, Father sat in this very study, a handsome and gay man in his fifties, staring politely at the camera. He had been tall and robust, with laughing brown eyes and the dark curly hair that I’d inherited. I lovingly traced my fingers over the image of his face, and this time I allowed my tears to fall as grief seized me once more.

  After several moments, I wiped my eyes and placed the photograph and spectacles back in the drawer, firmly reminding myself why I’d come into the study.

  I reached further into the drawer, searching for Father’s most recent journal. It was not in the rear of the drawer where he usually kept it. Frowning, I searched the other drawers, but it was nowhere to be found.

  It was missing.

  3

  The Harkers

  Later that evening, as I sat in the opulent dining room of my future mother-in-law’s home, Father’s missing journal was still on my mind. Clara had assured me that she hadn’t removed anything from the study. I told myself that the journal could simply be with his other belongings that I had stored in the cellar, or that it had been misplaced at some point during the last three years. But my disquietude lingered, and I had to force a polite smile as Mary droned on about wedding invitations.

  I shifted in my tightly corseted gown of lavender silk, an outfit much smarter than the simple cotton dresses I wore to school. But dinners at Mary Harker’s home were never less than formal affairs, even when it was just me, Jonathan, and Mary. I suspected that Mary used the dinners as an opportunity to both show off her wealth and subtly remind me that I would be expected to carry on the tradition of hosting elaborate dinners after Jonathan and I were wed.

  I pretended to listen to Mary, picking at my meal of mulligatawny soup, roast chicken, potatoes and damson pudding, sliding a glance across the narrow dining room table towards my fiancé.

  Jonathan was youthfully attractive, with dark hair and expressive hazel eyes that shifted from light brown to green depending on his mood, and a generous mouth that seemed to always border on a smile. He usually gave me sympathetic looks or sly winks during the long arduous dinners with his mother. But now he looked distracted, his gaze intent on the elaborate floral arrangement in the center of the table as he absently sipped his wine.

  “We must invite the Crawfords, they will certainly expect us to do so,” Mary said, delicately dabbing at her lips with a napkin. “I expect you have no objections, Mina?”

  Her smile was as forced as mine as she looked at me, her eyebrows raised as she waited for my reply. Mary disapproved of me, and she did a poor job of hiding it. Before our engagement, Jonathan had been one of the most eligible bachelors in London. His deceased father had been a wealthy barrister, and Jonathan was the sole heir to his fortune. I was certain Mary had a slew of society women in mind to wed her son before he chose me, the daughter of a social outcast by choice, who fit nowhere in the stratified society to which the esteemed Harker family belonged. It didn’t seem to matter to her that I had an inheritance of my own, and though I had tried many times to fall into her favor, I soon realized that I would never be the type of woman she wanted her son to marry. Now, for Jonathan’s sake, we simply endured each other.

  “None at all,” I returned with stiff politeness. I didn’t know who the Crawfords were, but I suspected they were another stuffy family well acquainted with Mary Harker.

  Thus far, Jonathan and I had made only vague plans for our wedding, and we only recently set a date for next spring. Mary was consistently suspicious of my lack of interest in the wedding, especially considering that I was twenty-five and creeping towards spinsterhood in her opinion. It is a woman’s only day, she would often chide, studying me with narrowed eyes.

  For Mary’s sake, I tried to appear enthusiastic about my upcoming wedding, not wanting to reveal that I found the pomp of society weddings silly and quite unnecessary. As a girl, I never dreamed of getting married—my only desire then was to become an adventurer and a scientist. But I pushed those dreams aside after Father’s death. Now, I just wanted to teach and have a quiet life with Jonathan, and an elaborate wedding simply did not matter to me.

  “Wonderful,” Mary said, her eyes still trained on me. “We have not discussed what you plan to do about your teaching position after you are wed. When do you plan to leave your post?”

  I tensed, and her words seemed to pull Jonathan from his distracted thoughts. He looked at his mother with a frown.

  “What do you mean, Mother?” he asked.

  “Our Mina can hardly work at that . . . school, once she is married,” Mary sniffed, her nose crinkling in disgust at the very thought of the school where I taught. “If she insists on teaching, we can have her placed at a private one in a better neighborhood. Perhaps one here in Kensington—or Mayfair. I worry about my future daughter-in-law traveling to the East End every day,” she added, her hand straying to her heart in an exaggerated gesture of concern. But Mary was a terrible liar; her words were blatantly insincere.

  “Mother . . .” Jonathan began, his voice tight with warning.

  “I’m sorry, darling,” Mary said, not sounding at all apologetic. “I just hear the most terrible rumors about those—what are they called? Ragged schools? For poor children? I think it is rather noble that she chose to teach there, but once Mina is officially a Harker—”

  “The school is quite understaffed,” I said, trying to hide my irritation behind a smile. “And I enjoy teaching the children there. It’s hardly their fault they were born poor.”

  “Oh, I agree. But as Jonathan’s wife, you can hardly be expected to—”

  “Mina is happy teaching where she is. If she is happy, then so am I,” Jonathan interjected.

  A rush of love and gratitude towards Jonathan swirled within me, and I gave him a small smil
e, which he returned. Jonathan shared none of the snobbery that his mother and others of his class wore with pride. Mary bristled, irritated by our solidarity.

  “Very well,” she said, though I knew the matter was hardly settled as far as she was concerned. “Will you be able to join me for tea this Sunday afternoon, Mina? I want to discuss more wedding details.”

  I involuntarily stiffened. My Sunday afternoons were either spent with Jonathan taking walks around a different part of the city, or reading at home with a cup of tea. I enjoyed my Sunday afternoons. The thought of spending it with Mary and the haughty society women she often invited filled me with dread. With all of the turbulent emotions that had swirled through me since Abe’s reappearance, I needed an afternoon of relaxation.

  My reluctance didn’t escape Mary’s notice. Nothing did, unfortunately. She raised an eyebrow.

  “Is there a problem, my dear? You have been engaged to my son for six months, and you have only just set a date. People are beginning to talk.”

  “Well, then we should wed right away. We certainly would not want people to talk,” I coolly returned.

  Though it was somewhat satisfying to see Mary’s angry flush at my retort, I felt a twinge of regret. I didn’t need to deepen Mary’s disapproval of me. Mary scowled, and even Jonathan gave me a slightly disapproving frown.

  “I’m sorry, Mary,” I said hastily, giving her as warm of a smile as I could muster. “I’ve had a bit of a stressful day. Tea on Sunday would be lovely.”

  Mary nodded, but she still looked greatly offended. I turned to give Jonathan an apologetic look, but his focus had returned to the tablecloth, and he again seemed to be lost in his own thoughts.

  The remainder of the meal was brief. I tried to engage Mary in conversation, inquiring about the many social functions she was to attend over the course of the next month. I even made suggestions for wedding decorations, but Mary offered only stilted replies.