Ripped, a Jack the Ripper Time-Travel Thriller

by Shelly Dickson Carr

  Though raised in Boston for the first twelve years of her life, Katie could easily affect an English accent, but she couldn’t give up her American addiction. I guess I wouldn’t make it as a Victorian, she chuckled, envisioning a plump Queen Victoria sucking down a Starbucks Frap.

  “Don’t call me Collie. I’m not a bloody pet dog.” Her cousin scowled up at her, his thatch of red hair catching the light from the domed glass ceiling high above. Large brown freckles dusted his sunburned face, as if someone had gone over his pink skin with a nutmeg grinder.

  “Sure, Collie. Whatever,” Katie whispered, biting back a smile. Her cousin, though two years older, was way too serious. And as fond as she was of Collin, she was fonder still of kidding around with him, hoping he’d lighten up. He never did.

  Katie was halfway down the oak staircase when she remembered her grandmother’s warning that it might rain. “Hold on a sec,” she called out, and bounded back up the stairs. Grandma Cleaves was adamant about shutting windows and locking them if the forecast predicted storms.

  After closing the diamond-paned window, which snapped shut like a small door, Katie glanced over her shoulder and watched a glob of purple plasma in the lava lamp heave and split in two.

  Just like my life, she thought. Split apart from the people I love. And she hadn’t even been back to Boston to visit her best friends. Not since the double funeral.

  Katie turned to look at the portrait above the mantel. “I wish I lived in your century,” she said to Lady Beatrix. “Life was so much easier back then.”

  The blue-black eyes in the painting seemed to shift and flicker. A trick of the light? Something soft as a kiss brushed against Katie’s cheek. She jerked back. The muscles in her shoulders tensed. A strand of hair falling from her ponytail had skimmed her face. That must be it, Katie thought, and raced out of the room.

  Chapter Two

  Bull’s-eyes and Targets say the Bells of St. Margaret’s

  Katie and Collin stood in the gleaming glass lobby of Madame Tussauds, waiting in a long line to buy tickets for the Chamber of Horrors. This Jack the Ripper exhibition was the most popular attraction in London, with three-dimensional holograms; walls that closed in with spikes and knives; and real actors who “came alive” during the presentation, screeching and screaming.

  “There he is. That’s Toby,” Collin said as a guy in a long, black trench coat strode through the revolving door. Collin raised two fingers to his wide mouth to let out a shrill whistle. “Toby! Over here!” He waved his friend over and introduced him to Katie.

  “Hey,” she said, nodding a greeting as she slurped up the last gurgle of her mocha Frappuccino. The tall, dark-haired boy looked to be sixteen or seventeen. He had a chiseled face with cliff-hanger cheekbones and penetrating eyes that gleamed like polished chestnuts. Katie quickly averted her gaze and read the sign over the entrance door:

  In the Chamber of Horrors

  evil walks.

  See the psychopathic mass murderer

  Jack the Ripper

  and the disemboweled bodies of his victims.

  Don’t assume any creature is just a waxwork figure.

  The most terrifying sights and sounds in human history are ready to haunt your steps and reach out cold, dead hands toward your flesh as you move through the chamber.

  The line, or queue, as the English said, inched forward. Katie found herself studying Toby, who was talking excitedly to Collin about some new, supersonic jet that ejected a microfiber parachute from its fuselage if it took an unexpected, terrorist-induced nosedive.

  The two boys were total opposites, Katie thought, as the pair discussed the merits of titanium versus Teflon microfiber. Collin, with his red hair, sandy eyebrows, and beakish nose, was what their grandmother called “a level-headed” young man. His high forehead and narrow jaw showed intensity, but those solemn eyes reflected no humor, and his face was seldom animated except—Katie smiled to herself—when he was angry. Then he’d screw his face up, go bright pink all over, and rail at the top of his lungs like a malevolent gnome.

  Toby, on the other hand, was tall and muscular. A mass of black curls framed his strong, dimpled chin and the crooked smile that played around his generous mouth. Unlike Collin’s serious, coppery eyes, Toby’s dark ones shone with a sort of secret amusement. He reminded Katie of one of those characters in the books she liked to read, carrying with him an energy that drew others into his sphere.

  He was definitely hot, Katie had to admit, but maybe she thought so because she didn’t meet many boys. She attended an all-girls school, which was okay, but sometimes she yearned to hang out with a guy, other than her cousin who was totally self-absorbed. Whenever she texted Collin, his messages (when he got around to texting her back) were short, dour, and to the point.

  Poor Collin. It wasn’t his fault he took himself so seriously. He couldn’t help being the favorite, coddled son. Collin was the model of soft-spoken integrity and unerring exactitude, according to his mum, Aunt Pru, whose greatest delight in life was poring over picture albums of infant Collin.

  Courtney liked to joke that if Collin wasn’t careful, he’d grow up to be a “decayed little prig.” Katie laughed at the thought.

  Hearing her laugh, Toby looked at her, his face breaking into a wide grin. Katie bent her head and began to suck furiously on the tip of her empty straw.

  “So you’re American,” Toby said. “Lucky you.”

  “Lucky because—”

  “Hmmm. Let’s see . . .” He stroked his chin. “You Yanks have J-Lo, Beyoncé, and the super hot Courtney of the Metro Chicks. Need I say more?”

  Katie shot a furtive glance at Collin, who motioned back a barely perceptible no. Katie let out her breath. Collin hadn’t told his friend he had a famous cousin. Two points for Collin. Or two points against. It was possible Collin was embarrassed by Courtney’s music, especially the lyrics of her hit single “Dangerous Love.”

  Toby turned back to Collin and began to compare American and British actresses. By body type, not acting ability.

  So much for Toby’s eyes, Katie thought, feeling the unpleasant sensation of heat creeping up her face. I pegged him all wrong! He was obviously the type who knew everything about movie stars, rock stars, and super models and nothing about current events or world politics. She’d met plenty of boys like him in LA. Shallow and empty-headed.

  “Smashing set of bacon and eggs on that one,” Toby pronounced, nodding toward a girl in line who wore a polka-dot miniskirt, fishnet stockings, and high-heeled ankle boots.

  “Bacon and eggs?” Katie realized too late she had spoken the question aloud.

  “Smashing set of legs. Bacon and eggs. It’s Cockney rhyming slang. You been here before?”

  “To London?”

  “No. Madame Tussauds.”

  Katie shook her head.

  “Know how Madame Tussaud got started?” Toby pressed.

  Katie shrugged and scanned the room, attempting to look bored. Across the lobby, tourists laden with cameras were asking the guard at the front door for directions.

  “It began with the French Revolution,” Toby said. “How many waxwork museums were around back then, do you think?”

  “Let me see . . .” Katie rolled her eyes. “I can probably count them on one hand. Zero.”

  Toby laughed, a deep, rich but not unkind laugh. For a boy who probably chugs beer, plays video poker, and reads nothing but comic books.

  “They do teach you about the French Revolution in the States, don’t they? No?” He grinned in mock surprise. “They should, you know, because Thomas Jefferson was here in London at the time, secretly supporting the off-with-your-head revolution.”

  “No way.”

  “Yes way. Bet you a mocha Frappuccino,” Toby said, reaching for her empty cup.

  Katie thrust her hand forward to shake on it, but when he raised a fist to bump, she brushed her knuckles against his. “You’re on,” she countered. “And since you’re going to
owe me big time, how did Madame Tussauds get started? Don’t tell me Thomas Jefferson was in on that, too?”

  “If I tell you, you’ll squirm and squeal like a bleedin’ girl.”

  “As if,” Katie said with a pitying expression. She glanced at the tourists by the exhibit entrance and with a start realized that the guard on duty wasn’t real. He was a wax figure. But he looked real. She had walked past the guard when they arrived, and his skin and eyes looked real.

  Collin roused himself and, turning to Katie, began in his slow, methodical way to lecture her. “During the French Revolution, Marie Tussaud was thrown into prison. She shared a cell with the future Empress of France, Josephine—”

  “As in Josephine and Napoleon,” Toby cut in, grinning at Katie and enunciating slowly as if to say ever heard of them?

  “I know all about Josephine and Napoleon.” Duh.

  “Marie Tussaud was forced to make death masks to prove her loyalty to the cause,” Collin continued, his face unsmiling, his voice grave. “She had to pick through piles of corpses, most of them friends of hers.”

  “Brown bread friends,” Toby put in.

  “Brown bread?”

  “Dead. As in: Chop chop. Off with your head.” Toby made a theatrical slashing gesture across his throat.

  Collin nodded. “Madame Tussaud took the severed head right out of the guillotine box and made a mold, then plugged the victim’s own hair into the wax skull, and painted and sculpted the face until it looked lifelike. Her most famous heads were of Marie Antoinette and—”

  “Her idiot husband,” Toby interrupted, his eyes bright with amusement. “After escaping across the channel, Madame Tussaud set up shop in London, charging people tuppence and a ha’penny to see her heads, and voila! she was off and running like a true American capitalist. Like Donald Trump. But when the pickings got slim and people grew tired of the French Revolution, she opened a special room with gruesome exhibits of famous criminals and weapons of torture, and called it the Chamber of Horrors. Charged extra bread and honey just to enter.”

  Katie raised an eyebrow. “Bread, meaning—”

  “Money.” Toby grinned, chucking her empty cup over the heads of people in line. Cup, straw, and melted ice sailed through the air toward the ticket counter, landing with a rattling thunk in a rubbish bin overflowing with chocolate wrappers and ticket stubs. “I’m Cockney. Can’t you tell?”

  “Is that where the word ‘bread’ for money comes from? Cockney slang?”

  “She’s bleedin’ fast, this cousin of yours,” Toby mocked, a gentle smile playing on his handsome face. Too handsome, Katie thought, as Collin nudged her forward in line.

  “So,” Toby continued. “Are you ready to see the Ripper victims? Up close and personal. In your face, as you Americans say.”

  Did Americans say that, or was Toby making fun of her again?

  “Katie’s not just here for the Ripper exhibit,” Collin announced. “She also wants to see the London Stone.”

  Katie shot Collin an annoyed look. She’d confided in him earlier, thinking he’d keep it confidential. But it didn’t matter. Collin knew that she wanted to rub the stone but not why. There was an ancient legend attached to the limestone rock, that if you rubbed it—

  “The Stone of Brutus?” Toby asked. “You want to see the Druid altar?”

  Katie shook her head. “It wasn’t a Druid altar. It was part of a pre-Roman stone circle. Like Stonehenge.”

  “Bloody Druid altar,” Toby repeated.

  “And you know this because . . .?”

  “I’m a history buff.”

  “And I thought you only cared about—”

  “Movie stars?” Toby grinned, reading her thoughts. “History’s my tripe and fashion. My passion. Course I’d trade it all in for Courtney and the Metro—”

  “You like history?”

  Toby nodded. “But my true passion is crime. Gut-wrenching, knuckle-biting crime. Think Scotland Yard. Think CID.”

  “Is that like CSI?” British cable TV showed reruns of CSI Miami.

  “Sort of,” Toby answered. “ ‘CID’ stands for the criminal investigation division of Scotland Yard. If I pass my A levels, I’ll have a crack at it.”

  “And it won’t be difficult,” Collin sighed. “Toby has a full scholarship at Eton. Rocket-scientist brain.”

  Toby winked at Katie. “And you thought I liked nothing more than ogling the bacon and eggs of beautiful twist ’n’ swirls. Well, I do like ogling—”

  “—the legs of beautiful girls.” Katie finished his sentence with a throaty grunt. Hopeless. All boys are hopeless.

  “Cockneys always rhyme. If I say I like your mince pies, it means—” He stared pointedly into her eyes.

  “Eyes,” Katie said.

  “Right.” He pronounced it roit. “And if I say my strawberry tart belongs to you,” he clamped his hand to his chest. “It means my heart belongs to you. If I say I like your harper and queens, I like your jeans. Rum and coke means joke. I’m having a good rum and coke with you right now. Tit for tat means hat. Got it?”

  In spite of herself Katie smiled, then hastened to add, “It’s not exactly rocket science. I’m a twist ’n’ swirl—”

  “Or a lamb to the slaughter.”

  “Lamb to the slaughter?”

  “Daughter.”

  Katie shied back. She wasn’t anyone’s daughter. “How do you say . . . dead?” she asked quietly.

  “Brown bread.”

  I’m no one’s lamb to the slaughter, Katie thought, because my parents are brown bread . . .

  Chapter Three

  Brickbats and Tiles say the Bells of St. Giles

  Collin leaned toward Toby and whispered something in his ear.

  Toby looked startled, then fastened his eyes on Katie. His face was flushed and grim when he turned to her. “I’m a jabbering ass, Katie,” he spoke softly, sounding sincere. “I talk a lot of rot, mostly. Can you forgive me?”

  Katie stiffened. “Nothing to forgive.” She shifted on her feet and wrenched her gaze away from Toby’s intense dark eyes. Collin had obviously just told Toby about her parents’ accident.

  At the front of the line now, they handed their tickets to an usher and moved through a mechanical turnstile. With dozens of others, they climbed a set of stairs before entering the first gallery leading to the Jack the Ripper exhibit. Several life-size Victorians who had resided in London in the year 1888, during Jack the Ripper’s murderous rampage, were on display in this antechamber.

  Queen Victoria stood at the entranceway as if to be first to greet visitors, but for all her real hair and soft-looking skin, this version of the queen didn’t look real, not like the guard at the front door. Instead, her face appeared textbook imperious, and slightly smug as she clutched the royal scepter in her bejeweled, sausage-plump fingers. Dressed in the actual ermine-trimmed gown Queen Victoria had worn at her Diamond Jubilee, a tiara anchored on her ash-grey head, the wax figure reminded Katie of a glum troll. Same worn-eraser skin, strawlike hair, and mothball smell.

  Next to the queen was her son, the Prince of Wales, dressed in striped trousers and frock coat, a monocle squeezed into the doughy folds around his marble-blue eye. Arthur Conan Doyle stood beside the future king, looking wiry and vital in deerstalker cap and plaid cape that matched the clothing of his fictional character Sherlock Holmes.

  Toby strode past Katie toward a tall, motionless figure with high cheekbones, a broad forehead, and crisp, curling dark hair. He was dressed in a velvet smoking jacket, scarlet knee breeches, and flowing opera cape. A spotlight ran up his face, emphasizing glassy-brown eyes that had an odd quality of watchfulness. Katie had the distinct impression they were staring at her.

  She scooted closer to read the inscription: Oscar Wilde.

  “Katie?” Collin said, circling the wax figure of the famous writer. “Remember last year when I was in Oscar Wilde’s play The Importance of Being Earnest?”

  “Uh-huh,” Katie sai
d, remembering how stiff and wooden Collin’s performance had been.

  “Wilde was a genius,” Collin said reverently, still circling the black-caped statue.

  “Too bad he was sent to prison for being straw and hay,” Toby said, then to Katie, “Ever read Oscar Wilde?”

  “A little,” Katie answered, though she’d read everything he’d written. Her favorite novel was The Picture of Dorian Gray, about a man who makes a deal with the devil never to grow old.

  The three teenagers moved past Lillie Langtry, who looked as if she’d just stepped out of a Pre-Raphaelite painting, her beautiful gown spilling to the ground. One gloved hand clutched a lace parasol, the other a bouquet of lilies. Katie thought that of all the wax figures Lillie Langtry looked the most lifelike, as if she would gladly step into the room and escort them to the next gallery. Her skin was silken and soft-looking, her lips curved upward in a playful smile, and she smelled strongly of rosewater.

  They moved past Bram Stoker, whose vacant, sightless eyes in a mild-looking face gave no hint of the famous vampire character he had created. Except for a drooping left eyelid, he appeared to be the picture of happy optimism, his lips puckered as if about to whistle a tune, one hand positioned rakishly on a hip.

  They proceeded under an archway painted with winged cherubs that were being strangled by two-headed serpents, down a winding corridor sectioned off by velvet ropes, and toward a room with flashing lights and a peal of screeching, howling noises.

  “Enter if you dare!” blared a voice, followed by a high-pitched scream. Smoke billowed up through the floorboards. A bright light momentarily blinded Katie. She heard the sound of glass crunching and the shrill blast of an air-raid whistle. She reached out in the dark, disoriented. Toby took her hand.

  You are about to enter a life-size model of a condemned cell from old Newgate Prison, made from the original bars and timbers of the actual cell that held prisoners on their last night on earth.