Ripped, a Jack the Ripper Time-Travel Thriller

by Shelly Dickson Carr

  “Thank you, sir. The pleasure is all mine.” Stoker shook Pinker’s hand vigorously. “I am familiar with your good works. If I, or the theater, can assist you at any time with your charitable endeavors, please do not hesitate to ask.”

  “Omigod! That’s Bram Stoker. He wrote Dracula!” Katie gasped.

  “Dracula?” Collin looked confused.

  “You know! Count Dracula, the vamp—” Katie bit back her words. Dracula must not have been written yet. Damn, damn, double-damn. I have to be more careful, Katie told herself. But it was hard. She had fallen into a rhythm with the people in this century. And Collin looked so much like her own cousin, Katie kept forgetting which was which.

  Oscar gawked at her. “Certainly not!” he sputtered. “I mean to say, to be sure it is Bram Stoker. But he’s no more a writer than a flea. His last endeavor, The Primrose Path, was an abysmal failure. And Dracula, you say? As in Vladimir the Impaler?” Oscar’s lips curled in disdain. “The man doesn’t have it in him to write a decent grocery list, let alone—” He drew in a sharp breath and jumped to his feet.

  “Ahem!” Oscar wagged his finger in Mr. Stoker’s direction. “You’re not writing anything gothic and ghoulish per chance, are you, old boy? It’s a morbid fancy if you are. The reading public won’t go in for folklore about vampires.” The two men’s eyes met, and for a moment there was silence.

  “How could you possibly know?” Stoker’s voice was a husky croak.

  The Reverend H. P. Pinker dropped his opera glasses with a loud clunk!

  Bristling like a porcupine, all quivers and whiskers, Stoker picked them up. It appeared that he might hurl them at Oscar. His grey-gloved hand shook with rage.

  “My advice to you, old boy,” Oscar said cheerily, “is stick to what you do best—managing a theater. For pity’s sake, leave the scribbling to us who scribble for our livelihood.” He sniffed at the flower in his lapel. “Every jack-a-napes and his great aunt believe they can put pen to paper and write novels with the abandonment of a whoremonger. The world is a stage, but the play is badly cast, I fear.”

  “Oscar, please!” Lady Beatrix implored.

  “You, sir, are mistaken. I have been doing some little research . . . er . . . on . . . European folktales, to be sure. And vampires in particular. But how on earth did you . . .?” Bram Stoker stroked his fanlike beard. “Only my wife knows . . .” His voice trailed away. He looked devastated.

  “Ah. And how is your dear, sweet Florence? Give her my regards. Perhaps it was she who told me you were meandering down the supernatural primrose path,” Oscar said with all the vitriolic acerbity of a poison arrow aimed straight for the heart.

  Bram Stoker sputtered indignantly: “Y-you haven’t spoken to my wife. You wouldn’t dare!”

  “Daren’t I?” Oscar’s left eyebrow shot up.

  “My wife and I have no secrets from each other.”

  “Ah! I am sorry to hear that. It has always been my contention that the proper basis for marriage is mutual misdirection.”

  A shudder passed through Bram Stoker, and his bushy beard twitched convulsively, then he turned on his heels and darted down the aisle, disappearing through the curtained archway.

  “Oscar. You are a beast!” Beatrix chided. “I won’t have you acting like a truculent schoolboy whilst a guest in my grandfather’s box. Go apologize to the man at once. The fact that you were his wife’s former suitor is no excuse. And when did you last see Florence?”

  “Spurned suitor. I fled Ireland when she accepted that pitiful excuse for a man, and I haven’t clamped eyes on her since. Very well, I’ll apologize. I was rather monstrous.” Oscar smiled in mock contrition. “Everyone knows that Mr. Stoker is so desperate to be a writer he’d stab his own mother in the heart just to inscribe an epigram on the poor woman’s tombstone.”

  Katie laughed out loud. The history books didn’t lie. Oscar Wilde was witty and snarky. But he was wrong about Bram Stoker’s writing abilities. Dracula would be the bestselling horror novel of all time, with a gazillion knock-off movies and vampire books all thanks to Bram Stoker who started it all. And a good thing, too, Katie thought, because I love the TV series True Blood.

  Oscar Wilde leaned over to Katie and said in a stage whisper: “Did you notice the perspiration bursting out across Mr. Stoker’s forehead like noxious dew? And that stony face? So like marble in its melancholy? Vampires indeed. No one will read such drivel. What next, ma cherie? Werewolves? Witches? Wizards? All cultivating their supernatural proclivities at my alma mater, Oxford College?”

  “Or an English boarding school,” Katie said. She grinned, thinking of Hogwarts.

  “How droll! Vampires at Eton.” Oscar roared with laughter, but sprang to his feet when Lady Beatrix demanded he leave at once and make amends.

  “Go with him, Pinker, do,” Lady Beatrix implored Reverend Pinker. “Make sure Oscar gives the poor man a proper apology.”

  Pinker nodded, and a moment later he was propelling Oscar Wilde down the aisle and out the archway at the rear.

  A bell chimed. Then chimed again. The play was about to begin.

  Ushers in velvet uniforms scurried about the theater turning down gas jets in brass sconces. A bellboy dressed all in blue with gold braid at his shoulders strutted across the stage in front of the curtain, holding a large sign for all to read:

  STRANGE

  CASE OF

  DR JEKYLL AND

  MR HYDE

  ACT I

  The orchestra struck up something in a minor key, and when the red curtain began slowly to rise, the chandelier suspended high above flickered and went dim.

  “Beatrix. Lend me your opera glasses,” Collin whispered.

  “I don’t have them,” she whispered back.

  “I can’t bloody well see without them. Deuce-it-all.” Collin snapped his fingers as if a thought had just occurred to him. “I remember now. You gave them to Major Brown.”

  “Did I? I thought Reverend Pinker was holding them for me.”

  “No. I distinctly recall you gave them to Major Brown.”

  “Well, then. He’ll bring them later. He’s joining us after the second act.”

  “Where is Stink Pink? Why hasn’t he returned?” Collin demanded, craning his neck around. “He’s got a pair. I saw him using them.”

  “Shh.” Beatrix put a gloved finger to her lips just as a dozen drums, reeds, horns, and xylophones rang out all at once.

  Katie clasped the armrests of her chair and peered down at the stage. Her heart was pounding. This is amazing! I’m about to see the first-ever, opening night of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde. How crazy is this? Her stomach tightened. She could almost feel the jangle of musical notes from the orchestra rising inside her along with the swell of anticipation from the crowd.

  “I can’t see without opera glasses! I’m nearsighted as a church mouse. That blighter Major Brown botches everything.”

  “Hush, Collie,” Lady Beatrix whispered. “Your vision is fine. Mr. Whistler says you have the eye of a true artist. An eye for detail. So stop this foolishness.”

  “My own sister knows naught about me,” Collin grumbled. “I can’t see in the dark. No one can.”

  Collin whispered something to Katie, but she ignored him as she stared down at the stage. The view from the Duke’s private box was amazing. Grandma Cleaves often took Katie to the National Theater, but their seats were never this good. Last month they saw the musical Backbeat about the Beatles, and when Katie had texted Courtney to tell her how fabulous the songs were, her sister texted back: “Poor you. Grandma Cleaves hates music. Did she ruin it for you?”

  Courtney and Grandma Cleaves are like oil and vinegar, thought Katie. They don’t mix.

  Katie tugged her thoughts back to the present. The velvet curtain had risen fully above the stage now, revealing an English sitting room. An actor with a long, lean jaw hastened across the stage to thunderous applause. So thunderous that the backdrop scenery — painted to resemble a wall, with
a real door but fake windows — wobbled slightly.

  He must be famous, Katie thought, judging by the still roaring crowd. There were no movie stars in this century, she reminded herself. Stage actors were the mega celebrities here. Katie’s eyes grew wide with excitement. She loved historical novels and old plays. Loved acting them out in her bedroom. But Courtney was the showbiz type — the true actress in the family.

  When the clapping finally died down, the actor strode to a writing desk at the front of the stage, near the footlights. “I thought it was madness!” he boomed out, flinging a sheaf of papers onto the desk. “But if anyone can help, it will be Dr. Lanyon. He is Henry Jekyll’s oldest friend. I shall go to Lanyon’s house immediately.”

  A solemn-faced butler shuffled forward. “Very good, Sir. Your coat, Sir.”

  A doorbell chimed from somewhere off stage. “Now who the devil can that be?” intoned the actor, stroking his long, lean jaw, and then in exaggerated surprise: “Why! It’s Dr. Lanyon. The very person I meant to consult! Come in. Come in.”

  “Katherine!” Collin hissed. “Did you bring opera glasses? I can’t see their faces! Blast it all. How can I watch the play?”

  “You have ears don’t you?” Lady Beatrix whispered angrily from across the aisle. “You don’t need to see. Just listen.”

  Katie nudged Collin’s elbow and pointed to the monocle dangling from a black ribbon around Collin’s neck. She’d never seen a real monocle before today, only in the movies. She assumed that the circular lens was a sort of magnifying glass.

  Collin stared down at the monocle and let out the same exaggerated gasp of surprise as the actor had just exhibited on stage. Scooping up the lens, Collin plunked it into the folds of his left eye and leaned over the padded handrail, peering down at the people below like a jeweler examining rare gems. He was bending so far over the railing, it was no surprise to Katie when the monocle popped out of his eye. She watched it sail outward on its black ribbon, only to swing back and thump him on the chest.

  Collin yelped and cried out: “Pinker’s down there. I saw him. Near the orchestra.” He turned and shouted in Katie’s ear. “Quick as a wink I’ll go fetch Stink Pink.” And with that, he leapt up and hurried away through the darkness.

  Katie bit back laughter. Quick as a wink I’ll fetch Stink Pink. Collin was a comedian. Whether or not he meant to be, he was funny—and quite endearing, unlike her own, twenty-first-century cousin Collin who was serious and pedantic. Katie drew in a breath. The word “pedantic” was on her vocab quiz this week.

  But my vocab quiz is thousands of days and millions of minutes into the future.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Mary Ann Nichols, Ripper Victim no. 1

  London Hospital to the south was an indistinguishable blur in the swirling fog as the police surgeon’s carriage turned into Buck’s Row. Dr. Ralph Llewellyn, a thin man with a drooping moustache, drooping eyes, and an underhung jaw like a basset hound’s, had been sitting in the carriage, ready to jump out, make a cursory examination of the girl’s body, and return home as quickly as possible. He was thoroughly annoyed at having been roused from his sleep to attend to a corpse in the foggy East End. It could easily have waited until morning.

  So when the four-wheeler shuddered to a halt on the curbside near the dead girl, Dr. Llewellyn flung open the carriage door and stepped down gingerly. Leaning heavily on his cane, he clumped quickly across the dark street. His left foot, particularly his big toe, was riddled with gout, and it throbbed painfully. All he wanted to do was get back home and climb into bed with a hot brandy.

  Peevishly, he looked around. He didn’t like being in this area of Spitalfields with its slaughterhouses and damnable foul stench. True, some sections of London were far worse, full of thieves, vagabonds, and beggars, but even so, Dr. Llewellyn did not take kindly to being near slaughterhouses that reeked of fetid odors. The girl should have had the decency to die somewhere well lit and clean.

  Moving closer to the body, he glanced with disgust at the curiosity seekers who had begun to gather, along with the newspaper reporters. Why, oh why, was the world riddled with news reporters? They’ve got to sell papers, he told himself, but it was thoroughly distasteful all the same.

  Dr. Llewellyn knew he should order the police constables to erect screens around the body so that he could proceed with his examination in privacy. But as he didn’t intend to stay long, he decided against it. Let the onlookers have their sport. It was only some parlor maid or shop girl, after all. What did her privacy matter? The sooner he was rid of this whole business and back in his warm bed, the better.

  He advanced toward the body. From the look of the girl’s clothing, the rusty-colored coat with seven large brass buttons, her black stockings and worn brown boots, Dr. Llewellyn deduced that the victim was just another female from the lower orders, not worth bothering about, especially at this hour. She and her ilk were like barn swallows: Shoot ten out of the sky and twenty more took their places. Common, foul little things, thruppence a dozen.

  He knelt down. He had a good memory, especially for small details, so he didn’t bother with his notepad and pencil. The girl was lying on her back with her legs straight out, as though she had been formally laid out, not as if she’d fallen into a heap. Her throat had been cut from ear to ear, completely severing the carotid arteries, but only a small pool of blood had collected in the street from the throat wound. “Not more than would fill two wineglasses,” Dr. Llewellyn muttered to himself. He always measured blood loss in terms of wineglasses, beer steins, and gin tumblers. Perhaps, given the paucity of blood, the girl had been murdered elsewhere and her body carted here to Buck’s Row.

  A comb and a small looking glass were in her coat pocket, but nothing that might identify her. He opened her mouth to check her teeth and gums. The girl’s upper teeth were crooked, but strong and white with no sign of decay, indicating she was fairly young. Tooth rot told a lot about a victim’s age and general health. Her gums were healthy as well, but two teeth from her lower jaw were missing. He placed her age as somewhere between seventeen and twenty-one, and speculated to the constable leaning over his shoulder that she might be one of the many milliner’s assistants who trolled the Haymarket trying to pick up a few farthings by flirting with the lads—and then something had gone terribly wrong.

  “ ’Twas a blessing she died young, saving her from a life of poverty and destitution . . . or worse,” Dr. Llewellyn muttered more to himself than to the constable.

  “Right you are, sir,” Constable Jones nodded in agreement. “Once the likes of her gets a taste of the extra ready, it’s only a matter of time before she becomes a full-fledged Whitechapel whore using her earnings to buy gin and Lord knows what else.”

  “True enough, Constable. True enough,” Dr. Llewellyn agreed. In no time at all she’d be aged beyond her years. Drunk and brawling, she’d look like an ugly hag before her twenty-fifth birthday. ’Twas a blessing she died young.

  Dr. Llewellyn called over his shoulder to the sergeant on duty, who was holding back the crowd of onlookers. “My job is finished. Take the body to the mortuary, Sergeant.”

  “Yes, sir. Right away, sir.”

  Dr. Llewellyn returned the comb and looking glass to the girl’s coat pocket. He was in such a hurry to get back to his warm bed and even warmer brandy that he left before the body had been taken away, which was against procedure. But it was a foggy night, so no one would blame him. Except, of course, the assistant deputy CID of Scotland Yard, Major Gideon Brown. Major Brown was a stickler for protocol and demanded that corpses, all corpses, be treated with respect. Young fool. The very idea was ludicrous. I’ve done all that I can here. Silly girl probably provoked her lover and had it coming. Most of these girls deserved their fate. It was unfortunate, but there it was. Nothing more to be done.

  Later, police surgeon Dr. Ralph Llewellyn would curse himself for making critical oversights that might cost him his job. Had he lifted up the girl’s dress a
nd two flannel petticoats, he would have made a startling discovery. The girl had been disemboweled, a condition her tightly laced stays served partly to conceal. Dr. Llewellyn justified this oversight by telling himself that anyone in his position would have done the same. The death had not impressed him as anything more than a lovers’ altercation. True, it wasn’t every day that a girl had her throat cut, but this girl was a member of that trivial class not worth exerting extra time, effort, or grievance over.

  Still later, however, when Dr. Llewellyn was pressed by reporters and almost sacked by Major Gideon Brown, he would regret his hastiness and amend his impressions: “I have seen many terrible cases,” he would tell the pressmen solemnly, “but none so brutal as the murder of that poor young girl. An innocent dove struck down in the flower of her youth. A senseless tragedy.”

  But for now, climbing back into his curtained carriage, Dr. Llewellyn didn’t give the body of Mary Ann Nichols a second thought.

  Chapter Fourteen

  When Will You Pay Me say the Bells of Old Bailey

  After the curtain fell to thunderous applause and a standing ovation, the spectators in the private boxes drifted down the hall into the Byzantine Room to await their carriages. The rest of the theater crowd—those not in private boxes—began pouring down the grand staircase into the lower lobby.

  In the Byzantine Room Katie came face to face once again with Major Gideon Brown. During the last act of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde he had entered the duke’s box and slipped quietly into the seat next to Lady Beatrix. Collin, who had returned only moments before, caught sight of Major Brown across the dark aisle and began kicking moodily at the balcony footrail.

  “Bloke’s a blighter and a commoner,” Collin had hissed to Katie. “He’s got no business seeking out my sister’s company. The duke will put a stop to it, by god. And if he doesn’t,” Collin said with unsmiling satisfaction, “I will.”