by Cross, Amy
“Nonsense,” I mutter, thinking back to the killings and feeling certain that I did not cut any ears. Not intentionally, at least. “These letters are the work of madmen.”
“As are the murders themselves,” Culpepper suggests. “I am quite sure that this Jack the Ripper fellow must be utterly demented. He's probably an immigrant, probably under-educated, and most likely deficient in some mental capacity.”
“You seem so sure of that belief,” I reply.
“It's evident from every scrap of information one learns.”
I want to argue with him, to tell him that the man who killed those women is in fact a great surgeon who knew exactly what he was doing, but I suppose I should hold back. It will all come out in the letter, anyway, and then men such as Culpepper will have to eat their words. I dearly wish that I could be around to see this cretin's face, but I shall have to take heart from the certainty of what will happen.
“I picture a man with flaming eyes,” Delilah whispers, her voice filled with a faraway quality as she stares at the window, “and the smell of sulfur about him. I picture a grin with sharpened teeth, and fingers with claws. I'm quite sure he ravages his victims as he kills them. The newspapers don't report such things, because it would be unseemly to do so, but there is no doubt in my mind. He ravages them, he takes what he wants from them in that way, and then he splits them open down the middle and lets their innards fall out. Then he takes what he wants from their bodies before running off in the night, cackling with glee.”
She pauses, before blinking and turning to us, as if she has only just remembered that we are here.
“I suppose I could be wrong,” she continues, with a faint, embarrassed smile. “That's just the picture that I have in my head.”
She turns to Culpepper.
“I'm sorry if I spoke out of turn,” she tells her husband.
“I've seen him,” Jack says suddenly.
We all turn to see that he has not, in fact, left the room. Indeed, he is loitering near the door.
“That's enough,” I tell him. “Please leave us.”
“You've seen who?” Culpepper asks. “You don't mean...”
“You don't mean Jack the Ripper, do you?” Delilah asks. “Or do you?”
“The very man,” he replies, before taking a few steps toward us. “As a matter of fact, it was just last night. I happened to be out for a stroll after midnight, and I came upon the most frightful sight. Well, I say frightful, but there was also something rather majestic about this scene, about this... vision.”
He wanders closer, and it is clear that he has the rapt attention of both Culpepper and his wife. He reminds me, indeed, of one of those theatrical types who hold their audience in trances.
“There was nothing I could do,” he continues. “The woman was most certainly dead, but I saw a figure hunched over her, working fast to take what he needed from her body. There wasn't much light in that dark little square, but I was mesmerized by the way the killer's hands moved. He was working in terrible conditions, of course, and in great haste. He knew he might be interrupted by the police at any moment. Still, despite all of that, he was very clearly a skilled man.”
“Oh, I hope you were careful!” Delilah says. “I hope you didn't let him see you!”
“Do you believe I would have lived to tell the tale?” he asks.
“No,” she replies, “of course not. Although, perhaps he does not kill men. Only women.”
“Perhaps,” Jack purrs. “Still, I watched him for a while. And then, when the police finally showed up, he took off into the night with such grace and elegance, I can still scarcely believe that he was just a man. There was no cackling, I'm afraid, nor did I smell sulfur or see eyes aflame. What I did see, however, was the work of a genius. So if you ask me, he's a man with surgical training. Indeed, it would not surprise me if he turned out to be the greatest surgeon in all of London. In all the world, even.”
“Do you really think so?” Delilah asks.
“I know so. I've seen him work.”
“I know surgeons,” Culpepper replies, staring at Jack with almost the same reverence shown by his wife. “They're all good men. Not one of them would ever do something so awful.”
“Ah,” Jack replies, “but there's the rub, isn't it? One of them is doing such things. And since surgeons are always good men, well-educated and of the finest class, then shouldn't we assume that this Jack the Ripper fellow has a reason for doing these things? We might not know that reason, we might never know it, but shouldn't we... I don't know, shouldn't we trust him?”
“Trust him?” Delilah asks.
“Trust that he is not a monster,” Jack explains. “Trust that he has some higher purpose. After all, if he is doing anything wrong, I'm sure God will intervene.”
He steps around the table and stops directly behind me, and a moment later I feel his hand upon my shoulder. I immediately feel the urge to push the hand away but I do not do so, for fear of drawing attention to myself. Culpepper and Delilah, meanwhile, are staring at Jack as if they are utterly enthralled by what he has been saying. A moment later, as if he has realized that he overstepped the mark, Jack slips his hand away.
“I for one think this man should be allowed to complete his work,” Jack continues. “He shouldn't be harassed by common police officers, or by screaming merchants who happen upon him. He should be given space and time to perform his procedures. The real monsters, if you ask me, are the ruffians who disturb his work and chase him away night after night.”
For a moment, the room falls silent.
“Well,” Culpepper says finally, “that is certainly an unusual way of looking at things. I've never heard it put like that before.”
Next to him, his wife sits fidgeting with her fingers, as if she feels a little uncomfortable. She's squirming a little, too.
“Just my opinion, you'll understand,” Jack adds airily. “I didn't mean to say anything I shouldn't have, and I'm sure gentlemen such as yourselves have a much more refined view of these matters. I really shouldn't have interjected at all. After all, I'm just a humble servant, and you're all so much better than I could hope to be. I suppose I just couldn't hear a good man being maligned in such a manner, but now I really shall leave you in peace. Please, if I have intruded, accept my most heartfelt apologies.”
With that, he turns and leaves the room, and this time he pulls the door shut as he goes.
“Well,” Culpepper says after a short silence, “he's a rather odd fellow, isn't he? Charles, wherever did you find him?”
Chapter Fourteen
Maddie
Today
“There's no-one out there,” Wallace says with a sigh, still squinting as he peers out the window. “All I see is rain and more rain.”
“He's right there!” I hiss, keeping my eyes fixed on the silhouetted figure that I can – just about – see standing out there in the darkness. Filled with desperation, I point straight at the figure, convinced that finally Wallace has to see. “He's about ten or fifteen feet from the car!”
“I don't see any -”
“HE'S RIGHT THERE!”
Sighing, Wallace leans past me a little, squinting harder than ever, but I can already tell that he can't see the figure.
I can still see it, though, and I'm starting to get really freaked out by the way it's just standing there. I mean sure, there are no lights nearby and torrential rain is still falling, so visibility isn't exactly great. There's definitely someone standing out there, however, and he must be able to see us sitting here in the police car. I never realized that my vision was so good but, then again, maybe Wallace's is just really bad.
Or maybe I'm losing my mind.
“Okay, then,” he mutters, suddenly reaching over to the back seat and grabbing a waterproof jacket, “I'll go take a look.”
“What?”
I turn to him just as he opens the door on his side.
“No!” I yell, grabbing his arm and holding hi
m in the car, before reaching over and slamming the door shut again. “Are you crazy?”
“I'm going to go check it out,” he replies. “If there's someone out there, I'll ask him if he's okay. I'm a police officer, it's my job to do things like this.”
“You can't go out there! What if it's...”
My voice trails off as I realize how ridiculous I must sound. At the same time, as I turn and cup my hands around my eyes so I can see outside a little better, I see the figure again. Rain is streaming down the window, but I can just about make out the figure standing a little way off, and he still seems to be watching us. My heart is pounding, and I honestly can't think of a single innocent reason why someone would anyone would just stand out there in the rain for minutes on end, staring at two people in a car.
“Do you really see someone?” Wallace asks after a moment. “This isn't some kind of game, is it? Because if it is, I'd really appreciate it if you could just admit that right now.”
“I really see someone,” I reply, turning to him again. “Why would I lie about that?”
He pauses, staring at me, before starting to slip into his waterproof jacket.
“Okay,” he mutters, “I believe you. And that means I have to go out and take a look for myself.”
“No, you -”
“Because it's my job,” he adds, and for the first time he sounds pretty confident, like an actual police officer. “I'm not joking. If you really see someone, then I don't have a choice.”
“What if it's not safe?” I ask.
Lifting up the side of the jacket, he shows me the black handle of what looks like a gun.
“It's like a Taser,” he explains. “A similar brand. My unit couldn't afford the real thing, but these work pretty well too. So it's not like I'm going out there undefended, and I'm not an idiot. Believe it or not, I've even used this thing a couple of times. You just have to promise me that I can trust you alone in here for a few minutes.”
“You can't go,” I tell him, trying not to panic.
“And why's that?”
“I'll steal your car. That's why!”
“Well, I'll have the keys with me,” he replies, “and anyway, I'm pretty sure you're just saying that to make me stay. I'll be two or three minutes, that's all. There's really not going to be any discussion about this, okay? I'm a police officer and this is my job, and I'll be right back. So just sit tight. If it makes you feel any better, you can lock the doors after I'm out. Just, whatever you do, don't touch the radio. I'd lose my job if they found out that I'm leaving you alone in here.”
I open my mouth to argue with him, but then he opens the door and steps out into the rain. As the doors swings shut, I see him activate a flashlight, and the beam swings out across the front of the car. I reach over and lock the door, before making sure that all the others are locked too. Turning, I look out into the rain, and to my horror I see that the figure is still out there, with the light catching the lower part of his body. And then, slowly, the light moves closer to him and I realize that Wallace is walking over to speak to the guy.
“Be careful,” I whisper, while trying to remind myself that this guy probably isn't dangerous at all. He's probably just weird. “Please be careful. Please be nothing.”
Wait, do Taser guns work in the rain?
I reach up to knock on the window, so I can ask Wallace whether he's thought of that, but at the last moment I decide to stay quiet. Instead, I watch through the rain-dashed window as Wallace stops in front of the man, and now they seem to be talking. The flashlight is aimed down, picking out the strange man's dark trousers. When I look at the man's face, I can barely make out anything at all, other than what I think might be a stubbly chin. He's speaking, though, and so far everything seems to be going okay. My heart is still racing, but with each passing second I'm starting to become a little less freaked out. The conversation they're having out there, whatever it's about, seems pretty normal.
And why not?
There are more weirdos in the world than serial killers. At least, that's what I hope.
I take a deep breath.
So far, so normal.
In fact, the sound of rain is starting to feel a little soothing. I wish I could hear what Wallace and the man are saying, but there's no chance of that, not in this bad weather.
“Everything's going to be okay,” I whisper, trying to calm my fear. “Just stick it out and you'll be fine. Stop imagining the worst.”
I wait.
Rain falls, but Wallace and the man are still talking.
“Everything's going to be fine,” I say out loud. “Hang on a little longer, and he'll come back, and you'll find out that there's nothing wrong.”
Suddenly Wallace turns and walks around the car. For a fraction of a second, I feel relieved at the thought that he's coming back so he can tell me what's going on, but then I realize that he's actually walking away. Before I even have a chance to wonder what to do, I see him disappearing into the darkness, and finally even the light from his flashlight fades into the night. Where he was standing a moment ago, there's now nothing but rain. Trying not to panic, I lean over and tap the window, hoping to attract his attention, but I'm too late.
He's gone.
“Where are you going?” I whisper, trying to stay calm. “Please come back.”
I hesitate for a moment, before slowly turning to look at the figure.
He's still there.
He's still watching the car.
And although I can't make out his face, I feel certain that he's staring straight at me.
Officer Wallace wouldn't leave me alone like this. Sure, we only just met, but he seems like a nice guy and there's no way he'd just leave me here at the mercy of a murderer. At least, that's what I keep telling myself as I stare out at the silhouetted figure. As the seconds tick past, I can't help imagining how helpless I must look right now, and how – no matter hard I try – I must seem completely defenseless. At least I had someone with me before, but now I'm all alone and I'm starting to wonder whether I misjudged Wallace completely.
Maybe he's working with the killer.
Maybe he tipped him off to come find me.
Maybe this is how they find their victims, working as a kind of team.
Reaching over, I double-check that the doors are all locked, and then I turn to look out the window again. I consider switching the light off, so that I can see a little better, but I guess that wouldn't do much good.
Suddenly the silhouette steps forward a couple of paces, coming closer to the car. I instinctively gasp and pull back, scrambling over to the driver's seat, but now I can't see outside properly and I have no idea where the figure went. After a moment I climb back over to the passenger side and peer out the window again, but this time the silhouette is nowhere to be seen. With all the rain pounding down, there's no way I'd be able to hear his footsteps.
I turn and look out the front of the car, but all I see is more rain crashing down against the bonnet.
I look out toward the driver's side window again, but there's no sign of anyone.
I turn and look out through the car's rear window, and again there's nobody to be seen. Still, the figure could be much closer now and I might never see him, not until it's too late. As I look around at each of the windows in turn, I can't help imagining them suddenly smashing, and a gloved hand reaching in to grab my throat. Sure, I might be overreacting, but something about this whole situation feels really wrong.
I reach up and switch off the lights inside the car, plunging myself into darkness.
Now all I can see, on each window, is thousands and thousands of raindrops running down the glass. I thought that by switching the lights off, I'd make it so I can see better, but there are far too many raindrops getting in the way. I reach up to switch the lights back on, but then I decide that I should keep them off. At least this way, the guy out there can't see me, although I don't suppose that's much use. I mean, he still knows that I'm in the car.
Chapter Fifteen
Doctor Charles Grazier
Sunday September 30th, 1888
“We shall see you again soon, I'm sure,” Culpepper says as I follow them to the front door. “Men such as ourselves must stick together in tough times, Charles. There aren't many of us around these days.”
“I trust that you shall steer your wife's mind from this topic,” I reply, seeing that Delilah still seems utterly lost in a trance after Jack's comments. “I do not think such matters do any good to a lady's mind. In my experience, they can be unduly troubled by thoughts of such dark matters. I certainly made sure that Catherine never had to take stock of the darker elements of the world. I protected her, and she was better for that.”
“I'm sure Delilah will be just fine,” he says, turning to his wife and placing a hand on her shoulder. “Won't you, Delilah?”
She takes a moment to even notice his hand, and then she turns to us both with a rather blank expression. It is quite clear that I am right, and that all this talk of serial killers in London has sent her mind into something of a spin. I'm sure she'll recover, but if she were my wife I would already be taking steps to counter all this nonsense. Then again, Culpepper has always seemed to lack control in his marriage.
“I'm sorry,” she stammers, “I... Did you say something to me?”
“I shall get you home, my darling,” Culpepper says with a smile, “and perhaps you should take a rest for the remainder of the day. There's no sense in pushing yourself too hard. After all, you did have that dizzy spell yesterday, and you said you felt a little queer this morning.”
