Ripped, a Jack the Ripper Time-Travel Thriller

by Shelly Dickson Carr

  Katie’s mind flashed to the portrait of Lady Beatrix over her mantel. The artist had captured a certain likeness, but hadn’t conveyed Beatrix’s golden-blonde coloring or charm, the sparkle in her eyes, the laugh lines around her mouth. Those dark blue eyes were staring at Katie with interest, and Katie quickly glanced away. She felt like an impostor, a fake. She was being deceitful. But she had to be! Beatrix’s life depended on it.

  But can I really change the past? Katie wondered, a prickle of apprehension tingling up her spine. And if I can . . . does that mean the future will change as well? She remembered reading that if time travel really existed, a person might inadvertently stop herself from being born by interfering with a chance encounter between her great-great-grandparents, resulting in her own instantaneous death. Don’t be silly, Katie told herself. I’m here. I’m alive. I can’t make myself not be born . . . right?

  She wouldn’t think about that now, Katie told herself. The London Stone had transported her back in time for a reason. To stop Jack the Ripper!

  Katie dragged her attention back to the others. Lady Beatrix, with her golden curls and sealskin cloak, was sitting next to the Reverend H. P. Pinker, a baby-faced, roly-poly, affable young man of twenty-four, whose nickname when he was playmates with Lady Beatrix growing up—Katie had learned—was “Stinker Pinker.” Collin still called him this, which seemed odd to Katie, given that he was a minister, newly ordained. From the moony, hound-dog look on Pinker’s face when he gazed at Lady Beatrix, Katie knew he was in love with her.

  Next to the Reverend Pinker sat Collin, his red hair slicked back from his temples, his black frock coat giving him the appearance of a somber funeral director. And then there was Toby, who refused to look Katie in the eye. He seemed to be brooding or bracing himself for something.

  The horses whinnied as they swung into a wide driveway, and the carriage jostled to a shivering halt. Katie thrust her head out the window to see what was happening. A high wall of rough stone rose up in front of them, pierced by iron gates. From a guardhouse just inside the wall emerged a squat little man in knee breeches and gaiters. He opened the gate and stood at attention. A loud crack! snapped from the coachman’s whip, and the carriage wheeled briskly down the broad drive beneath a canopy of tree branches full of lush, gold foliage.

  Something felt oddly familiar.

  With a jolt of recognition, Katie let out a yelp, bumping her head on the top of the window frame. The grand façade coming into view—a massive oblong of smooth stone—was that of the very building she and her grandmother lived in! It was a condominium complex in the twenty-first century, with a parking garage instead of this sweeping front lawn. Katie’s grandmother owned the western wing to the left as one approached, but the modern building had no glass conservatory, or gargoyles on the parapet of the roof, or battlement tower on each corner of the house rising up into the sky, giving the place—at once so familiar, yet so unfamiliar—a medieval eeriness.

  As the horses trotted on, stopping beneath a porte-cochere along the side of the house, Katie could see that the cobbled pathway, which didn’t exist in her own century, continued into a courtyard with stables beyond.

  Collin and Toby jumped out of the carriage before the top-hatted coachman had time to step down and open the door. Collin raced ahead, bounding up the granite steps. Toby strode to the front of the carriage to quiet the horses, which were shifting and prancing in place.

  “Thank you, Mr. Parker,” Beatrix said brightly to the coachman when they had all emerged from the glossy black carriage. “I shan’t need you again today. But tomorrow, at seven o’clock in the evening, would you be so kind as to arrange for the larger brougham? We shall all attend the new play Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde at the Lyceum Theatre.”

  “Very good, m’lady.”

  When the carriage rolled away toward the stables, Katie clutched her hands to her stomach. How in the world was she going to pull this off? Her legs were quivering, her palms sweating, and her heart racing. Why was she here, of all places? What did it mean?

  “Make haste, make haste!” Reverend Pinker cried, scurrying to Katie’s side. “I promised your godfather we’d have you home in plenty of time for tea. Mustn’t keep him waiting.”

  “My . . . g-godfather . . . ?” Katie stammered.

  “The Duke of Twyford. He hasn’t seen you since you were christened. Come along.”

  “B-but—”

  “Katherine!” Collin called impatiently from the top step. “The guv’nor hates to be kept waiting. He made a special trip in from Bovey Castle, our country seat in Devon, just to see you. Come on!”

  Okay, how do I address a duke? Katie wondered. Do I curtsy? She vaguely recalled that a duke was addressed as “my lord” or “your lordship,” but wasn’t sure. As she climbed the steps, a glow of gaslight shone from either side of the door, flanked by stone lions. A portly, middle-aged butler swung open the door, and they proceeded into an entrance hall. The black-and-white tiled floor spanned out in all directions like a giant chess board, but instead of chess pieces, there stood several suits of armor in stands against the walls.

  I can do this. I can do this. I can do this! Katie told herself as the butler reached for Lady Beatrix’s sealskin cloak. How difficult could it be to pretend to be an American girl visiting her British godfather in a house that had been in Katie’s family for generations . . . which meant that Katie was related to these people, right? A great-great-granddaughter, yet to be born? Is that who she was?

  “Toby?” Katie whispered, hanging back as the others ambled ahead through an arched doorway bracketed by giant potted ferns. “What do I call the Duke? Do I curtsy when I meet him?”

  Toby shot her an odd look, then bent low and whispered, “You drop a curtsy, miss. Sir Godfrey likes to be called ‘guv’nor’ or ‘sir.’ He fair flies into a rage if you address him as ‘m’lord.’ ”

  Still, Katie hung back. Her legs were shaking uncontrollably. It was one thing to vow to catch Jack the Ripper and another thing altogether to impersonate someone from a different century.

  Seeing her falter, Toby’s expression softened. He said in a coaxing voice, “Not to worry, luv. Mr. Oscar Wilde will be joining you for tea. He’s a great wit. Lady Beatrix invited him because he always amuses the guv’nor. Come along, now. The guv’nor hates—”

  “Oscar Wilde? The Oscar Wilde . . . I mean, er . . . the writer?”

  “Heard of him, ’ave you?” Toby gently propelled Katie forward by the elbow.

  “Of course I’ve heard of him! Who hasn’t—” She stopped. “I mean, er, I think so, yes.” Katie couldn’t be sure if Oscar Wilde was famous in the year 1888. When exactly had he written The Importance of Being Earnest? She took a deep breath. Well, this will be interesting, she told herself. I’m about to have tea with a nineteenth-century celebrity, a duke, and a future Jack the Ripper victim!

  And just this morning, when Katie awoke in her bedroom at Grandma Cleaves’s house—in this very house, or a portion of it — she had bemoaned the fact that her life was boring, colorless, and uneventful.

  “Toby?” Katie swallowed hard. “Have you ever heard of . . . um, that is to say, is there anyone by the name of . . . what I mean is . . . do you know anything about . . . Jack the Ripper?”

  “Who, miss?”

  “Jack the—” Katie glanced down. She had grabbed Toby’s sleeve and was twisting it in a viselike grip. She didn’t know whose face looked more astonished, hers or Toby’s, but a thought had just occurred to her. At Madame Tussauds, a waxwork figure had borne this inscription:

  What sort of man could walk the streets of London and not look out of place?

  What manner of individual would be above suspicion? Could Jack the Ripper have been a minister?

  . . . The Right Honourable Jack?

  That’s it! That’s why I’m here, Katie told herself. The Reverend Pinker must be Jack the Ripper! The wax statue at Madame Tussauds had shown an elderly minister with a white clerical
collar, a bulging Adam’s apple, and red blotches in his cheeks extending to the tip of his long nose. But he looked nothing like Lady Beatrix’s childhood friend. And besides, the Reverend H. P. Pinker was in love with Beatrix. He wouldn’t slash her to ribbons. A less likely candidate for a serial killer, Katie couldn’t imagine. Still . . .

  “Miss Katherine?” Toby fastened his dark eyes on hers, then glanced away, but not before Katie saw doubt and puzzlement reflected in them. And something else. Fear?

  Chapter Nine

  Kettles and Pans say the Bells of St. Anne’s

  Gas lamps on the oak-paneled walls threw flickering shadows across Katie’s face as Toby led her down a hallway papered with blue wisteria against a background of green ivy. In the front entrance hall, the butler turned to Toby and announced that Lord Twyford wished to see Miss Katherine in his study.

  “I’ll take her, Stebbins,” Toby said.

  “Very good, Master Tobias.” The butler gave a curt nod.

  Katie bit back a bubble of laughter. Tobias was such an old-fashioned name. But of course, this was the olden days. She smiled at Toby, the corners of her mouth twitching from the effort not to laugh.

  Toby shot her a dark look and turned away. Who was she to be mocking him? The duke’s godchild, that’s who, Toby reminded himself.

  “This way, miss,” Toby grunted, a hard edge to his voice as he led Katie past the drawing room where the others were gathered for tea, and along a doglegged hallway hung with portraits of ancestors. Passing the dining room on their left and a music room to the right, they came to the library—a long, lofty room with an iron balcony circling above, accessed by a corkscrew staircase.

  Katie glanced around the library trying to get her bearings. Were they at the front of the house or the back? The entire far wall, soaring two stories high, was filled with books, the top section reached by a giant ladder anchored on brass rollers. In the middle of this wall, at floor level, ran a wide archway through the bookshelves.

  “Where are we?” Katie asked, turning in a full circle to take in the vastness of the room.

  “The library,” Toby answered testily.

  “I know this is the library.” Duh. “But what side of the house are we on? East, west, north, south?” The long windows on either side were draped in a gauzy fabric that let light stream in, but filtered the view to the outside.

  “This is the western wing, miss. I thought Stebbins gave you the grand tour when you arrived.”

  Katie bit down on her lower lip. “He might have . . . but I . . . er . . . don’t remember.” she rubbed the back of her head as if it still hurt.

  “Shall I fetch the doctor—?” The gruff edge in his voice was gone, replaced by genuine concern.

  “No! I mean, that won’t be necessary. You see, well, I sometimes forget things . . . I was born with it . . . er . . . this forgetfulness. It comes and goes. It’s nothing. But if I do happen to forget something . . . important . . . will you help me, Toby?”

  Seeing him hesitate, she quickly added, “I wasn’t laughing at you just now. I was laughing at your name. I’m sorry if I offended—”

  “W’at’s wrong wiff my name?” Toby sputtered. Whenever he got flustered, his Cockney accent grew thick. He was usually careful not to let it slip.

  “Where I come from, it’s not a name you hear very often.”

  “In the States? I thought it was a right common name.” Toby narrowed his eyes and studied her closely. “You pulling m’leg, miss?”

  She shook her head. “I’ve never met anyone named Tobias. It’s sort of”—Katie thought for a minute. She remembered reading that if you lie, you should keep as close to the truth as possible—“unusual. It’s an old-fashioned name in Boston. The only other Tobias I ever met was a dog.”

  He raised a dubious eyebrow.

  “Look, Toby,” Katie pushed on, tucking a strand of hair behind her ears. “If I act strange or say anything odd . . . will you correct me? I don’t want to rouse anyone’s suspicions.” And if the Reverend Pinker turns out to be Jack the Ripper, I’ll need your help.

  “Suspicions? What about, miss?” A nerve twitched beside Toby’s cheekbone.

  “Well . . . that I’m not who I appear to be. That I’m not some sort of aristocratic girl who knows what she’s doing. I don’t want to make mistakes. If my manners or something I say sound out of place—”

  “Needn’t worry ’bout that, miss. Everyone here thinks you Yanks are an ill-bred lot who don’t know the first thing about manners. You’re all a bunch of Wild-West cowboys as far as we’re concerned.”

  It was Katie’s turn to peer at him doubtfully. Surely Toby was pulling her leg. “Just promise you’ll help me, if I need it. That’s all I ask.”

  Toby felt instantly sorry for the girl. He knew how it felt to be seated at a formal dinner table and stumble over which fork to use. The Twyford household boasted ten types of forks, each with a different set of prongs. There were your basic fish, meat, and dessert forks, as well as a five-pronged sardine fork, a long-pronged pickle fork, a two-pronged snail fork similar to the three-pronged oyster fork, and a fruit fork, a knife-edged pastry fork, and even an ice-cream fork shaped like a spoon. God ’elp you if you used the wrong one. “Right-o, Miss Katherine. I shall endeavor to do m’best.”

  He motioned her through the archway of books into a billiard room where stained-glass windows cast a kaleidoscope of colors onto a green-covered billiard table. Wedged between a stand of gleaming suits of armor at the other end of the room stood a narrow, iron-studded door.

  Toby strode past the ancient armor and heaved open the door. “Guv’nor’s chambers are through here, miss. I’m a bit out of favor with the old gent at present. Likely as not he’d fly into a fair tiger’s cage if he spied me—”

  “Tiger’s cage?”

  “Rage. So I’ll just practice m’rail shots and wait fer y’ here. Though truth to tell, the old Rob Roy is all bluff and bluster.”

  “Rob Roy?”

  “The old boy. He’s all bark and no bite. He’ll put on airs and graces, to be sure. But he’s not such a bag of sand—grand—as yer might be expecting. Nasty bark he has to be sure, but no bite. The duke is an old softie at heart.” Holding the door open with one hand, Toby reached for a cue stick with the other. “Just remember to curtsy.” He winked reassuringly.

  Katie nodded her thanks and hastened through the door but was surprised to find herself standing at the foot of a long greenhouse, or rather, a conservatory, with an arched roof rising overhead like a glass bubble and catching twinkling glints of late afternoon sunlight. Long rows of potted plants in pebbled trays formed aisles extending to the back. Katie stepped down several stone stairs until she was fully submerged among the tropical foliage, and when the flickering sunlight overhead grew steady, she could just make out a glass-paneled door at the end of a row of potted orchids.

  Brushing past a small tree with tiny orange fruit, Katie hurried to the glass door which was slightly ajar, but paused with her hand on the white porcelain knob when she heard voices on the other side—angry voices.

  Not wanting to eavesdrop, she released the knob and stepped away, then halted abruptly. She was here to stop Jack the Ripper. She was supposed to eavesdrop. And anything else necessary to save Lady Beatrix Twyford. She was here for a reason. And that reason did not include being polite and on her best behavior.

  With this thought firmly in mind, Katie inched forward and cupped her ear to the glass.

  “Blast it, Major Brown!” boomed an elderly voice. “You have the effrontery to ask me such a thing?”

  “I do, sir,” shot back a younger man’s voice, polite but firm.

  Katie wiggled closer, peering through the crack in the door jamb, but could make out only a fraction of a fireplace on the opposite wall, flames blazing in the hearth.

  “Beatrix is my granddaughter! And need I remind you, her forebears were kings, princes, noblemen. You can’t honestly believe I would consent to
her marriage to a commoner? Her parents would turn over in their graves, and our family would be the laughing stock of the peerage. Now, if you held a title, even a lowly one, and were the Commissioner of Scotland Yard, say . . . or even Chief Constable . . . rather than a mere assistant deputy . . . that would be a different kettle of fish. But as I foresee neither a knighthood, nor a commission in your future—”

  “Grandfather!” came Lady Beatrix’s voice, clearly distraught. “We’re in love. Surely that counts for—”

  Katie’s eyebrows shot up. Lady Beatrix was in the duke’s study.

  “It counts for nothing, my girl, nothing.” The duke drew in a wheezing breath. “And you, Major Brown. Damn your eyes! You have the audacity to ask me such a thing and bring my granddaughter with you? No self-respecting gentleman asks for the hand of a man’s granddaughter and brings her along with him. Only a toady—”

  “Grandfather! Stop! Gideon . . . I mean, Major Brown, was dead set against it, but I insisted. You know how apoplectic you get. It isn’t good for your health! And I wanted you to understand how in love I am. I’ve accepted his proposal.”

  “Humph! I’ve a good mind to take you over my knee. Bah! You don’t know the first thing about love. And it is I who shall tell you to whom you will become affianced! You’re a disobedient, young flit of a girl barely out of the schoolroom. I should send you back to—”

  Lady Beatrix began to sob, slowly at first, then long, heartwrenching, gulping sobs. “I-I lost my parents when their carriage overturned. Please don’t let me lose the person who’s most dear to me.”

  “There, there, m’girl. There, there,” the duke’s voice softened considerably. “This won’t do. Won’t do at all. Run along now. Major Brown and I need to have a little talk. That’s my good girl. Never could deny you anything,” he muttered. “Run along now.”