Ripped, a Jack the Ripper Time-Travel Thriller

by Shelly Dickson Carr

  No longer laced into stiff, bone-crunching, ankle boots, but soft, red, high-topped sneakers, Katie wiggled her toes. I’m home . . .

  She slung her backpack over her shoulder and hurried from the glass-enclosed room, not even bothering to glance back at the London Stone.

  I never want to see that stupid rock again!

  When she’d left Victorian England, the Duke of Twyford had been busy planning Collin’s wedding to Prudence Farthington. Major Brown was alive and pledging his troth to Lady Beatrix. And Toby had vowed to make sure Collin didn’t murder any more girls.

  After laying all the facts at Toby’s feet and convincing him that Collin was Jack the Ripper, Katie had helped Toby hatch a plan to ensure that after producing an heir, Collin would meet with a fatal accident on the windswept moors near Bovey Castle.

  At the thought of Toby’s sending Collin to his death a second time, Katie shivered. Toby was on his own.

  But now was the future, and that was the past.

  Had he succeeded? Katie wondered. Had he managed to make Collin’s death appear an unfortunate accident and save Lady Beatrix and the others?

  There was one way to find out.

  Katie shot down the hall toward the bank of elevators that gleamed like stainless-steel refrigerators. Sweeping past The Old Curiosity Gift Shop, where a girl stood in the doorway wearing combat boots and earrings the size of Hula-Hoops, Katie turned the corner and raced toward the Chamber of Horrors.

  As she approached, she could see electric candles flickering on either side of the archway, but couldn’t make out the neon sign above. A slow-moving line of elderly people shuffled toward the entrance with an air of courtesy alongside a faster-moving gaggle of children pushing and shoving with clumsy anticipation.

  Katie lifted her gaze. And there it was. The sign above the exhibit:

  Jack the Ripper.

  The most notorious murderer in British history.

  Enter If You Dare!

  Ignoring the disdainful glances as she cut the queue, Katie elbowed her way into the exhibit hall, shrill and noisy as a toy store. A row of waxwork people dressed in Victorian costumes stood in arched niches up and down the walls on either side of the room. She hurried into the gallery and stopped midway. She stood very still. What if he didn’t do it? What if Toby couldn’t save those girls?

  Katie remembered the expression on Toby’s face when he’d kissed her just minutes ago. They had been standing in the churchyard of St. Swithin’s saying good-bye. Knowing the identity of Jack the Ripper and the task set before him, Toby’s face had looked cold and hard and determined.

  Until he kissed her.

  I’ll never forget you, lass. And in my heart, I’ll always love you . . .

  That’s when his tongue probed hers, and she tasted the tart sweetness of apples on his breath, smelled the rich essence of him—like salt sea air and saddle leather.

  There had been a soft lurch as his body pressed against hers and he guided her finger into the fissure of the London Stone. The last thing Katie saw before hurtling through time and space was Toby’s face in profile: the crooked line of his broken nose, the strong jaw, the muscular, ropy neck. He looked so composed. But she could feel the beat of his heart, see color burning on the crest of his cheekbones. And at that exact instant, Katie felt a strange sort of grief, persistent and overwhelming, as if she were drowning. Their eyes met, and a moment later Katie was hurtling through time and space . . . until she landed with a thunk in the musty, mothball smelling world of Madame Tussauds.

  Katie opened her eyes and peered around at the crowd. Adults and children, pushing and pointing, shoving and laughing. The long gallery was illuminated by low-hanging chandeliers giving off a fluorescent, neon-yellow glare. Extending down the middle of the room was a flat, glass-topped display case with Jack the Ripper memorabilia.

  Katie inched closer.

  Nestled in velvet in the case nearest to her, lay a Bible with a gold clasp. Reverend Pinker’s? And there were the opera glasses! Lady Beatrix’s opera glasses.

  Katie peered into the case and read the inscription:

  Replica of the opera glasses believed to have been found upon the first victim, Mary Ann Nichols,

  Later Pawned by a Market Porter Boy Named Georgie Cross. Initials in the Handle, Bft, Unknown.

  No mention of Lady Beatrix, Katie thought. She studied the replica of the rose-gold opera glasses. The tiny faux rubies and diamonds, the mother of pearl handle with the initials.

  The case also held an artist’s anatomy sketch book.

  Collin’s?

  Katie hurried toward a group of people waiting in line to view the first victim. Each waxwork figure was positioned well back in an arched niche along the far wall. But in order to fully see the display you had to stand directly in front of the alcove, sunk deep into the wall.

  When it was her turn, Katie hastened to the first wax statue. Larger than life and with a realistic expression painted on her face, Mary Ann Nichols had green marble eyes that glistened with reflected light from the chandeliers above.

  Mary Ann Nichols. Died at the hands of Jack the Ripper,

  August 31, 1888, in Buck’s Row, Whitechapel

  Wearing a feathered hat and clutching a parasol, with a red petticoat peeking out from below her brown skirt, Mary Ann Nichols seemed to be smiling down at Katie.

  Katie swallowed hard and continued along the line to the next waxwork victim.

  Annie Chapman. Dark Annie. Tall, thin, and high-shouldered, Dark Annie’s eyes held a measure of realistic fear. Katie forced herself to study the wax face. The artist had captured her angular, frail features and pale skin with blue veins showing through. With an embroidered cap, lacy shawl, and long, white gown, she looked like a frightened bride.

  Annie Chapman. Died at the hands of Jack the Ripper,

  September 8, 1888, on Hanbury Street, Spitalfields

  Katie shuddered, remembering how Dark Annie had tried to protect poor Georgie Cross. This was a mistake, Katie thought. It’s too painful. I knew this woman!

  She forced herself to move on.

  The next two victims were standing side by side on a double pedestal. Elizabeth Stride and Catherine Eddowes.

  Elizabeth Stride. Died at the hands of Jack the Ripper,

  September 30, 1888, on Berner Street, Whitechapel

  Catherine Eddowes. Died at the hands of Jack the Ripper,

  September 30, 1888, in Mitre Square, Aldgate

  The caption below hailed their deaths as a despicable double murder. They had died on the same night. Katie blinked up at the wax figures, trying to be impartial and detached. But one look at Catherine Eddowes and Katie couldn’t help but feel overwhelming anger at the brutality of her death.

  The artist had captured Catherine’s face and buxom figure so realistically, Katie’s breath caught in her throat. The wide-spaced eyes, sensual mouth, enormous white-powdered cleavage. It’s as if she’s alive! Katie thought. Any minute now, Catherine Eddowes would step off the raised platform, coyly flash her pantalooned calves, and start belting out the lusty lyrics of “Ta-ra-ra-Boom-de-ay!”

  Katie forced herself to continue.

  The next Ripper victim was Mary Jane Kelly. The waxwork face showed how strikingly beautiful she was. With delicate hands pressed to her cheeks, and lips forming a perfect, round “O,” Mary Jane Kelly looked like a heraldic angel.

  Mary Jane Kelly. Died at the hands of Jack the Ripper,

  November 9, 1888, in Miller’s Court, Dorset Street, Spitalfields

  Toby obviously hadn’t been able to save her. Katie quickly moved on.

  And froze.

  She blinked. And blinked again.

  At first Katie showed no outward reaction, but when the prickles of unease at the back of her neck slowly died away, she fisted the air over her head, jumped up and down, and hooted, “He did it!” Her knees felt like jelly. She had to stop jumping. She grinned so hard her cheeks hurt. Emotions swirled inside h
er, a whiplash of joy and triumph. He did it!

  The Ripper had taken only five victims: Mary Ann Nichols, Annie Chapman, Elizabeth Stride, Catherine Eddowes, and Mary Jane Kelly.

  Toby saved Lady Beatrix, Dora Fowler, and the pregnant Molly Potter.

  “You are the man!” Katie whispered under her breath. “You are my man,” she cried aloud.

  “Who’s your man?” came a low, masculine voice from behind her.

  Katie spun around and saw Toby striding toward her—the twenty-first century Toby—his duster coat rippling in his wake.

  “We did it, Toby!” Katie shouted. “We did it! Your great-great-grandfather—”

  “Do I know you, luv?”

  His words drove into her like nails.

  Oh, no! What have I done now? Katie cast her mind back trying to think what she’d done wrong. Had she forgotten to tell Toby—the other Toby—something important? Katie’s nerves were blazing. Her eyes swept over the crowd, frantically searching for a thatch of red hair.

  Toby grinned. “S’right, Katie. I know who you are. Just having a bit of a rum ’n’ coke.”

  Katie whirled on him. “You jerk! You idiot! I could rip your head off! Don’t ever scare me like that again.”

  “Can’t a bloke have a bit of a leg-pull with a beautiful twist ’n’ swirl?” He was laughing, grinning from ear to ear. “You should see your face, Katie. Like a wet hen about to peck my eyes out. Sorry, ham shank. I couldn’t resist.”

  “Where’s Collin?” Katie demanded, glaring at him.

  “Round here somewhere. Look, Katie. Let me make it up to you. There’s a teashop downstairs with soupy little biscuits. Care to join—”

  A vibrating ping rang out.

  “Hold up, luv—” Toby tugged his cell phone out of his pocket and glanced down. “Text message.” He quickly thumbed a reply and shoved the phone back into his pocket. “He’s a bit of a wonk, but he’s the only tartan plaid I’ve got.”

  “Tartan plaid? Dad?”

  “Tha’s right. Now about those soupy little biscuits and—”

  “Your father’s alive?”

  Toby looked startled. “Wasn’t brown bread last I looked.”

  “He didn’t fall off a scaffolding painting a house?”

  “Huh?”

  “He’s a house painter, right?”

  “No. He works for Scotland Yard. I come from a long line of—”

  “Toby! Do you know anything about your great-great-grandfather? I know it was a long time ago, but—”

  “Course I do. He was my namesake.”

  “W-what happened to him? I mean . . . do you know anything about him?” Katie crossed her fingers.

  Toby glanced down at her fingers and shook his head gravely. “Came to a bad end, that one. Lost his arm to gangrene and was mixed up in some sort of skullduggery. Prosecuted for murdering his best friend. Poor sod died a penniless drunk and was buried in a pauper’s grave.”

  Katie gasped. She felt a stab of pain deep in her gut. This is all my fault! I’ve got to go back! Then she saw the smile spreading across Toby’s face.

  “Sorry, luv,” he laughed. “Couldn’t resist. No worries. My great-great-grandfather, Tobias Becket, rose from humble beginnings to become the Commissioner of Scotland Yard. He was best known for apprehending the Demon Duchess of Devon, a Victorian ax-murderess, but he solved a slew of other famous cases. He was eventually knighted by the king.”

  “You mean the queen. Queen Victoria—”

  “Nope. The king. King Edward. For his service to the crown. He lived into his eighties.”

  “Does that mean you’re actually Sir Toby Becket?” Katie felt so relieved that Toby—her Toby—hadn’t died in a pauper’s grave, she wanted to hug his great-great-grandson.

  “My namesake, Tobias, was awarded a life-time peerage. Meaning you can’t pass the title to your sons. It dies with you in the grave.”

  In the grave.

  Toby was in his grave now. But he’d lived a long, prosperous life. Katie reached up and threw her arms around his great-great-grandson’s neck. “I’m so happy for him.”

  “You sound as if you knew him.” Toby raised an eyebrow. “The old geezer died a few decades before you and I were born. But if you’re interested in ancient stuff like that, there’s a rather good—if stern—portrait of him at Scotland Yard. Not much to look at, but sharp as a tack, from what I’ve been told.”

  Katie linked her arm through his and tugged him across the room. “I am interested. OK, smart aleck. Any idea who Jack the Ripper really was? If you guess correctly, I’ll let you take me to Starbucks for a mocha Frappuccino.” It was Katie’s turn to grin ear to ear.

  “Bloody good gambit,” Toby said as they moved toward the row of waxwork suspects on the other side of the room. “Seeing as nobody knows who the Ripper really was.”

  “Ah . . . come on,” Katie teased. “Take a guess.”

  They traversed through the crowd, toward a sign that read

  Who was Jack the Ripper?

  Was he a supernatural phantom who could materialize at will? Or a flesh and blood man bent on harrowing destruction?

  Katie hurried over to the first niche in the wall. Standing upon a pedestal was an exact likeness of Reverend Pinker. Tall and gaunt with a white clerical collar; the light from above caught the bulge of his Adam’s apple.

  Was Jack the Ripper a Minister?

  Authorities at the time suspected several clergymen, among them, The Right Honourable Reverend H. P. Pinker.

  The next sign read

  Or Was Jack the Ripper a Butcher Lad?

  Butcher boys proudly walked the streets of London, their trademark leather aprons smeared with blood.

  This waxwork figure showed a boy wearing knee-breeches, cap, and vest, with a blood-crusted apron looped around his waist.

  Or Was Jack the Ripper a Writer?

  Novelist Jack? . . . Journalist Jack?

  This platform depicted two waxwork suspects, Oscar Wilde, flamboyantly dressed in maroon velvet with a red gardenia sprouting from his lapel, and Bram Stoker in a vampire cape and top hat.

  Katie laughed.

  Toby shook his head and frowned. “Bleedin’ far-fetched, if you ask me. These two were mortal enemies, for one thing. Just because they were famous and living in London at the time shouldn’t make them suspects. Says here they were questioned by the police because their books were full of scenes of grotesque and supernatural death. That’s a right good Turkish bath.”

  “A total laugh, I agree.” Katie nodded, thinking how Oscar Wilde and Bram Stoker would have hated being showcased on the same platform.

  The next plaque read

  Or Was Jack the Ripper a Police Officer?

  Several members of the Queen’s own Privy Council postulated that a Cockney officer at Scotland Yard, Major Gideon Brown, was Jack the Ripper.

  Rumors ceased after Major Brown married

  a member of the nobility,

  Lady Beatrix Twyford.

  Here Katie paused. The waxwork display looked exactly like Major Gideon Brown. So he married Beatrix after all. . . . She smiled, wondering if Toby had had a hand in that as well.

  “But at least he lived,” she murmured to herself.

  “As opposed to died?” Toby chuckled. “They’re all brown bread now.”

  The last waxwork figure was the most interesting.

  Was Jack the Ripper a nobleman,

  whose family connections would make it impossible to prosecute him?

  Sir Jack? . . . Lord Jack? . . . The Duke of Jack?

  This statue showed a perfect likeness of the Duke of Twyford! Though younger-looking and less formidable, the duke had the same sour expression on his bulldog face, the same bald head and protruding stomach.

  Could the Duke of Twyford have been the most vicious murderer in British history?

  Mid-century historians hypothesized that the Duke or one of his henchmen in Queen Victoria’s government was responsible�
��or at least aware of who the culprit was.

  Katie smiled. She knew exactly who Jack the Ripper was.

  He wasn’t a butcher boy.

  Or a minister.

  Or a writer.

  Or a police officer.

  Or a duke.

  From over Katie’s shoulder came a voice she knew only too well.

  “My money’s on that old guy, the Duke of Twyford. Madness ran in his family, that’s what the sign says. Whoever killed those girls must have been crazy. Someday scientists will discover a mutation or a gene that runs in families for things like serial killers and psychopaths.”

  Let’s hope not, Katie thought, spinning around.

  Standing behind her was her cousin Collin, his flame-red hair spiking out in all directions, his face peppered with a gazillion freckles. He wasn’t wearing a stiff winged collar; his hair wasn’t parted with razor precision and slicked flat back; and his eyes weren’t a steely, heartless blue . . . but a coppery color above his long, freckled nose.

  Katie threw her arms wide to embrace him, but he ducked out of her reach, looking alarmed. Collin hated displays of emotion.

  If he’s not careful, Collin will grow up to be a decayed little prig, Courtney used to say of their cousin. Katie inwardly chuckled. “I’m leaving now,” she said to both boys. “I’ve got a date—”

  She was about to say “with destiny,” but decided against melodrama. I’ve had enough drama for a lifetime! Katie just wanted to get home as fast as possible and read Toby’s letter—the one he promised to leave for her in the stuffed vulture.

  “A date?” Toby frowned.

  “Not a date,” Katie said. “More like an assignation with an old . . . manuscript. Something I’ve got to read, waiting for me at home.”

  “At least let me walk with you.” Toby gave her a crooked grin. “We can stop for mocha fraps.”

  Katie nodded.

  “Well, count me out,” Collin said, looking miffed. “I haven’t seen the London Stone yet. Toby, want to join me?”

  “No!” Katie and Toby said in unison, then eyed each other with an equal measure of suspicion and curiosity.

  “Suit yourselves.” Collin tugged on his lower lip. He dug his hands into the pockets of his purple striped shirt—a gift from Aunt Pru—and started to saunter away.