by Robyn DeHart
“You could apologize to me as well.”
“I don’t recall being rude to you at the theatre.”
“No, but your demeanor was appalling the night I stitched you up.” The moment she said the words, her mind was filled with images of his bare chest. Her cheeks flamed.
“You don’t believe I should be given some leave considering I’d just been beaten in the street? That tends to tax one’s congeniality.”
“Is that your excuse?” she asked. “You were rather insulting about my choice in profession.” What was the matter with her? That made it seem as if his attitude affected her in some fashion, which it most certainly did not. “Not that I’m not accustomed to that attitude, I assure you.”
“You attend the London School of Medicine for Women.” He was quiet a moment.
Here it came, the typical response. She waited for him to say something rude or condescending. Lady Finkle had once commented on how wonderful modern conventions were so that if a girl couldn’t snag a husband, she had options other than becoming a governess. She’d also overheard Elizabeth Frank gossiping with a group of girls and then saying that her parents had to put her in medical school because she simply didn’t have the requisite skills to manage a household.
People made all sorts of excuses for why Anna wanted to be a physician, but no one ever thought the reason might simply be because she wanted to help people. And because she had always been fascinated by the human body and all the ways in which it worked.
“Yes, I suppose I was rather beastly about your profession. For that I do owe you an apology.”
She opened her mouth to defend herself, then realized he had, in fact, apologized. “You do not think I am foolish?”
He frowned. “Why would it be foolish for someone to go to medical school?”
“Because I am a woman.”
“And therefore incapable in some way?” he asked.
She watched him, expecting him to start to laugh, jest over the entire scenario, but he seemed completely honest. But how could that be? As far as she knew there were exactly three people in the world who thought her becoming a doctor wasn’t so unusual; her late father, her brother Simon, and her professor.
“Besides, is it not a medical school designed for women specifically? Certainly you are not the only one there?”
“Well, of course not. There are plenty of other women in the school with me. I merely . . . The other evening, that is, you seemed rather indignant about the fact that you did not wish to have a woman tend your injuries.” She shook her head. “Never mind.” It would seem that Andrew Foster was not at all the man she’d expected him to be.
“Perhaps I was merely embarrassed at being bested by some drunkards.”
***
They sat in quiet, each reading their own material for the better part of an hour. Annabelle Jacobs was a fascinating woman; Drew couldn’t deny that. Though she wore no fiery red gown that molded to her curves, she still looked lovely in her simple day dress in a muted green. It seemed Annabelle was quite multifaceted. Not only did she make no apologies for being a medical student, she was obviously quite talented. His stitches, though uneven at best, had healed nicely. He had been an ass to her in Simon’s study, but damned if he hadn’t been angry and humiliated.
He knew that women had begun studying medicine like their male counterparts, but he had not been aware genteel women would be able to stomach such a profession. As it was, most genteel women looked down upon anyone of their class having a profession at all. It would seem the Jacobs family was quite forward-thinking.
The notes in front of him were beginning to blur together. Simon was thorough and detailed, and those details were horrific. Drew needed a break.
He leaned back in his chair and pinched the bridge of his nose. His cup sat mocking him, half-filled with lukewarm coffee. He took a deep swallow, then a slow breath. He wanted a drink. Simon’s decanter sat across the room on a credenza behind the man’s desk. It was full; Drew had already noticed that. More than once.
Damnation, but he wished the desire would simply disappear.
One drink wouldn’t hurt.
He heard that voice in his head a hundred times a day. Thus far he’d been able to ignore it. Perhaps this desire would be like that of the desires of the flesh. Once he slaked himself with a willing woman, he was sated, fulfilled. Perhaps one small glass of brandy would do the same for this urge.
“Do you want me to call for some fresh coffee?” Anna asked.
“Pardon?” He met her gaze, and she looked up at him with those bright blue eyes.
“You obviously want some brandy, but are choosing to drink coffee, and it would seem as though you could use a fresh cup.” She didn’t wait for him to answer; instead, she rang the servant bell and then asked Rutherford to prepare fresh coffee.
Damnation, he wouldn’t have thought he was that transparent. He might be tempted to have one drink to test his limits and his control, but he sure as hell wouldn’t do it while Anna Jacobs was around.
“I can ring for my own coffee, when I require refreshments,” he said tightly.
“There was never a question of your skill, Mr. Foster. I merely detected some stubbornness.” She shrugged.
Her feminine shoulders drew his attention to her frame. Curves. Luscious curves. Yet she sat there so casually, as if she were not aware that her body was made for sin.
“I thought merely to help.”
He sure as hell didn’t need a woman taking pity on him and thinking to take care of him. No matter how attractive said woman.
There was a slight rap at the door and then the butler stepped inside, saving Drew from saying anything unnecessary to Anna. “My Lord, there is an Inspector Jeffries to see you.”
“I wasn’t aware anyone knew I was here, but by all means,” Drew said.
The butler opened the door and in walked a stout yet strong-looking man in a tweed overcoat and matching hat.
“Foster, Chief Inspector Jacobs told me I’d probably be able to locate you here. You’ll be working with me while he’s away,” the man said.
Drew frowned. “I thought my position was a secret.”
“It is, insomuch as we’ll be keeping your name out of the newspapers. But within the ranks of the Metropolitan Police, you are officially Inspector Foster. If the Ripper still intends to target you, we don’t want him to know you’re with us in any official capacity.”
“I see,” Drew said. He had not realized he’d been hired in any proper sense, nor that he had jumped in rank directly to inspector. “It makes no difference to me.” He’d stand on a street corner with a bell around his neck if made the Ripper come out to find him.
“Oh, Lady Annabelle, I did not see you there,” the inspector said.
“Bernard, lovely to see you,” she said politely, though her manner seemed tense.
“It would seem we have a murder scene to attend to. I came to retrieve you,” he said to Drew.
“Another murder?” Anna asked. “London is quickly becoming a veritable cesspool of violence.” She shuddered.
“I am sorry to discuss such matters in front of you, my lady,” Inspector Jeffries said. “But Simon said I was to work with Mr. Foster here.”
“It is inconsequential, Bernard. Of course you must attend to the victim,” Anna said.
Drew listened to them speak as if he wasn’t in the room. “I suppose this first murder is to introduce me into the department. Pub fight, or has a man beaten his wife?” Drew asked, knowing those types of crimes made up the vast majority of the city’s violence.
Jeffries shook his head. “No. It appears as if the Ripper has returned.”
Drew’s blood went cold. Damn, he hadn’t meant to be flippant about matters. Perhaps a sign that he wasn’t cut out for this position. “I see. Well, let us be off then.” He nodd
ed to Anna. “My lady,” he said.
She smiled, but quickly returned her attention to her books.
The journey to the crime scene took them close to the river. They traveled next to the Thames and then under Waterloo Bridge. “Where are we going?”
“Whitechapel,” Jeffries said.
“So he is back,” Drew said. His stomach tightened with revulsion. “His original hunting ground.”
“It would seem so.”
“Perhaps Mayfair proved too risky for him. And with the injury he’s been nursing, he’s returned to more familiar territory. Her body was found in the early hours, but the constables who were sent to the scene didn’t believe it was the same killer, so we were not called in right away.”
“Apparently not.” Drew checked his pocket watch. “It is nearly noon now. And the body is still there?”
“Indeed. And I’m certain a crowd is as well.” He eyed Drew for a moment. “You’ll want to wear your hat and try to keep your head down until we can disperse the crowd. It will hide you as well as possible.” Drew nodded. They passed several pubs and two factories. Vendors walked the streets selling their wares and Drew realized that this part of London was so very different from the posh, comfortable side he lived on. How had he never noticed that before?
The carriage stopped. Drew took a deep breath. He’d seen death before, but his father’s death from a lung disease was quite different from that of a butchered woman. Just this morning Drew had seen the morgue photographs of the previous victims and illustrations, yet he knew this would be something else entirely.
Jeffries stepped down, and Drew followed him to the alleyway. As Jeffries predicted, a sizeable crowd huddled on every side of the alleyway. Constables were doing their best to keep the onlookers at bay, but they were demanding. And bloodthirsty, it would seem.
The constables had covered the woman’s body with a sheet, and blood had soaked through near what was probably her throat and then again further down the body. Drew would guess cuts had been made into her abdomen.
“Get them back,” Jeffries demanded. He motioned to the crowd. “I want this area cleared.” The constables stepped into action, yelling at the bystanders and pushing them back with their truncheons.
“Out of the alleyway; you’ve seen enough,” one of them said.
The crowd protested, but the constables were able to push them far enough away. Jeffries knelt by the body. Drew inhaled slowly. The street smelled of urine and body odor, rotting food and death.
Jeffries lifted the sheet. The dead woman’s eyes were locked open in the horror and pain she’d felt at the end. The slash across her throat severed through the vertebrae, and her head lolled off to one side.
Drew swore, then wiped at his mouth. “He nearly took her head clean off.” He’d seen note of that in Simon’s records, but to see it firsthand on a real victim made it more real. Drew’s stomach churned. He couldn’t look away from her face. The terror he saw locked in her eyes chilled him. He would do this for her, hunt this killer for her and for the rest of the women.
“Standard fare, I’m afraid,” Jeffries said. “You certain you’re up for this, Foster? You look a little gray around the gills.”
Drew nodded.
Jeffries moved the sheet down, revealing her torso.
The dress had been cut open, her breasts had cut marks on them and her abdomen had been sliced. “He probably took something. We’ll know more once we get her to the morgue. Damned bastard,” Jeffries said. “I don’t know what he does with the little tokens he takes. Eats them or keeps them—either way, it is damned revolting.” He stood, scrubbed his hand down his face.
What had made Drew believe he was capable of assisting with such an investigation? He had no prior skills in that area, not to mention that the sight of that poor women left him feeling sick and rattled. It was unclear if he had what it took to endure this ordeal.
Chapter Four
Drew stood with Jeffries off to the side while the police surgeon finished his examination. The body had been photographed and then cleaned. Despite the cleansing, the flesh had already begun to decompose, and the stink made Drew’s eyes water.
The surgeon walked toward them, wiping his hands on a towel. “She bled to death before he did the rest of the damage.” The man went on about the measurements of the injuries. His examination had indicated the victim had recently had intercourse and also that she had given birth before.
“No organs were removed?” Jeffries asked.
The surgeon shook his head. “There were arbitrary cuts made inside of her, into several of the organs, but nothing was excised.”
“Very good,” Jeffries said. “Thank you, Doctor.” The surgeon nodded and left the room.
Drew stepped closer to the woman. Now that she’d been bathed, he could clearly see her injuries. The incision into her stomach was jagged on one end. There were other cuts into her torso, small licks of the knife. The slice at her throat was thorough, deadly. Other than that, the woman’s body was clean of injuries.
There had been one other previous victim that hadn’t been so heavily mutilated, but she hadn’t even been cut in the stomach. The injuries on this woman appeared more haphazard, less controlled and methodical. Or perhaps she seemed that way to him because she was the first he’d seen in person. Reading about injuries in a report was quite different than seeing them on a real body.
He was likely wrong, but still it wouldn’t hurt to ask. “Does this victim seem different to you?” Drew watched Jeffries carefully, but the man merely shrugged.
“Not particularly.” He approached the table and pointed to the woman’s abdomen. “The mutilation of her stomach is incomplete, but that’s happened before.”
“Elizabeth Stride,” Drew said.
“Correct. Someone interrupted him. Perhaps that happened again tonight and he didn’t get enough time to finish what he started,” Jeffries said. “Or could be he’s out of practice. It has been a while since he last killed.”
And as Jeffries said, there was the Ripper’s injury to consider. Mia had shot him. Alex had searched the countryside around Edward’s estate, but they’d only ever found a blood trail. They’d never found a body, so everyone assumed Jack the Ripper was still out there. Alive. And judging by the woman on the table, he was as bloodthirsty as ever.
If the gunshot wound had damaged his arm or he was still healing, perhaps he’d had to use his other hand. One that wasn’t dominant. Still, the cuts seemed less thick and heavy than those on the previous victims. Again, Drew’s perception could be wrong, since he only had reports and drawings and photographs to go by on the previous victims.
Obviously the surgeon hadn’t noticed any discrepancies or he’d have made note of it. More than likely all of this was Drew’s inexperience.
Drew simply needed to go over Simon’s notes again. Studying those and combining them with his own notes of this victim would perhaps help him make more sense of things.
Jeffries turned to him. “We’re done here. We can meet tomorrow and settle up our notes. I’ll write up the report. But I’d like your thoughts as well. Simon brought you in on this for a reason,” he said, nodding to Drew, “and I trust his judgment.”
Drew looked at the woman’s lifeless body once more and suppressed a shudder. Death would be something he’d have to get accustomed to if he was going to succeed in this position.
“You did well today,” Jeffries said. “First murder?”
Drew released a short chuckle. “That obvious?”
“No, not really. You didn’t lose your lunch, so you’re already doing better than many of the other men.”
Afterward, Drew left the Scotland Yard building and returned to Simon’s residence. The butler did not seem surprised to see him. “I’ll see to it some dinner is brought in,” the man said.
Drew nodded. “Give me
half an hour,” he said. He hadn’t been ill, but he wasn’t ready to put anything in his stomach, either.
He stepped into the study, and there sat Anna.
“I would have thought you’d have returned home by now,” he said.
She looked up, then turned to see the window. “It’s getting dark. What time is it?” She stood and stretched her arms over her head, and the lamplight silhouetted her body in a way that made his throat go dry. What he would not give to caress those lush curves.
“Nearly six,” he managed to say.
She sat again. “Does my presence disturb you?” she asked.
Only if she meant that his thoughts were plagued with wanting to press her to the table and kiss her senseless. “No, I was merely surprised you were still here.” Her hair was mussed now, the neat knot at the crown of her head coming loose, and soft tendrils fell to her face. She tucked an errant curl behind her ear.
“I have an important examination coming up.” she paused, her gaze softening. “This was the first murder you’ve seen?”
“Yes, I’ve never . . . I could never have imagined . . .” He came around the table and sat. He eyed Anna. She was the veritable epitome of femininity, with her soft curves and pinkened cheeks and lush eyelashes, yet he found himself wanting to share everything about the last few hours, if for no other reason than he wanted to get it out of his mind. That hollow, terrified expression locked on the woman’s face—it would haunt his dreams tonight. He knew that much. “How much does your brother usually share with you?”
Her delicate shoulders rose in a slight shrug. “He tends to use me to work out his thoughts. He likes to talk things through.”
Drew considered his options for another moment, but the thought of having to go to bed tonight without having discussed everything he’d seen left him feeling restless. If her own brother saw fit to share the morbid details with her, who was Drew to argue? “It was in Whitechapel. Another prostitute.”
She sucked in her breath. “The Ripper is back?”
“It would seem so.”
