by Cross, Amy
“She's my friend.”
“Is that right?”
“Absolutely.”
Even as I say that word, however, I can tell that I sound pretty pathetic and desperate.
Simon pauses, before getting to his feet and setting the lid back on the bottle.
“Her room's the one on the top floor, on the right when you go up the stairs,” he explains. “If you want to grab a nap, feel free to head on up there. If you and her are friends, I guess she won't be too bothered when she comes home and finds you crashing there.”
“Thank you,” I reply, although I wince as soon as I try getting up. Simon reaches out and steadies me, and I take a few stumbling steps toward the doorway. I stumble slightly and bump against the wall, and when I glance back at Simon I immediately see that he noticed.
“You're the kid from the park the other day, aren't you?” he continues.
I turn to him.
“We were in the van while she was talking to you,” he says. “You looked more together back then, less like you were in trouble. We told Alex you could come along, but she said you wanted to stay. What changed your mind? Had a rough few days?”
“Something like that,” I reply, feeling a flicker of concern. Did Alex really tell them that I didn't want to come to Stratford? “It's complicated.”
Grabbing a remote control from the sideboard, he switches the TV on.
“Make yourself at home,” he says, “but don't touch anything in the fridge. That's all spoken for, and believe me, people'll notice if there's so much as a drop of milk missing. You can have water from the tap, and there are some old bananas on the side that need eating. Help yourself to one, if you want. But only one.”
“Thank you,” I mutter, starting to head toward the door, before spotting a banner on the TV screen. Turning to look, I see something about a man named Adam Michael Devenzies being taken to court. There's a huge crowd of reporters all around him, with camera flashes going off constantly. “Who's that?” I ask, surprised that anything could dislodge copycat murderer from the headlines. “Did something happen?”
“Didn't you hear?” Simon asks as he sets the remote control back down. “They finally caught that asshole who was pretending to be Jack the Ripper.”
Chapter Nine
Doctor Charles Grazier
Monday October 1st, 1888
“The truth is absolutely clear to me,” Doctor Francis Markham is saying as I enter the club and start removing my gloves so that I can hand them to the doorman. “This awful killer is a trained surgeon. From the descriptions in the newspapers, he quite clearly knows his way around a cadaver.”
“Ah,” Doctor Lucas Shaw replies, “but I have heard this his technique is sometimes rather rough. That he tears as much as he cuts. I think he's a rank amateur, at best. He certainly can't take much pride in his work.”
“I believe there to have been a confluence of different criminals,” Doctor Markham explains rather haughtily. “There is one killer who possesses these fine skills, and there are several others who merely try to copy him in their own savage, uneducated manner. Perhaps a proper gentleman has turned into a savage, and several other brutes are attempting to follow his example. What do you think, Doctor Culpepper?” He turns to Thomas Culpepper, who is sitting in an armchair near the roaring fire. “My theory makes perfect sense, does it not?”
Turning to the doorman, I hand him my gloves and cane.
“I think,” I hear Culpepper saying, “that there is a man here who can tell us definitively about this Jack the Ripper fellow. Isn't that right, Doctor Grazier?”
I freeze, convinced that I must have misheard him. After a moment, however, I turn and look across the smoke-filled room, and I see that Doctors Markham, Shaw and Culpepper are all staring at me as they puff on their pipes. Evidently my arrival has brought their conversation to a crashing halt.
“I beg your pardon?” I stammer. “I'm afraid I didn't quite follow the gist of your conversation.”
“You must have an opinion,” Culpepper continues. “I know you claim to be above all this tawdry gossip, but it's the only thing anybody in London is talking about. And after all, Delilah left all those newspapers for you to read.”
“Did she really?” Markham says, raising a skeptical eyebrow. “Women, eh? So gossipy and melodramatic.”
“What's your view of this Jack the Ripper, then?” Culpepper asks. “Tell us, Charles. We'd all like very much to hear your opinion. Is he a master surgeon struggling in uneven circumstances, or is he just a madman who wants to copy the work of the greats? Or is he, perhaps, some weird and twisted combination of the two.”
“I rather think I don't know,” I explain cautiously, making my way across the room. “Gentlemen, you must excuse me, but I only came today to use the library and -”
“I heard that all the cuts and incisions are rather sloppy,” Doctor Shaw says, interrupting me. “Hardly the work of anybody with even a modicum of pride. If the man is a surgeon, then he is undoubtedly one of the sloppiest, least able men in the whole country.” He chuckles and takes a sip of port. “Why, I don't know which crime is the greater. Killing all those ladies of the night, or claiming to be a trained -”
“We know nothing of this man's background!” I say firmly, cutting him off before he can finish with his ludicrous theorizing. “He kills at night, does he not? In conditions that are far from ideal. If you ask me, the fact that he is able to operate at all is testament to some higher degree of skill that the rest of you in this room could never possibly claim. Furthermore, I would argue that if such a man is indeed harvesting these organs, then he must have a good reason.”
I wait for them to admit that I'm right, but they're staring at me now with rather startled looks on their faces. For my part, I am actually a little breathless after launching that brief tirade, and I rather feel as if I allowed them to get too easily under my skin. Even the doorman, having taken my coat, seems a little put off.
“I'm sure the police will apprehend the fellow in good time,” Culpepper says finally, clearly trying to lighten the mood. “If you ask me, we should all have a lot more faith in the good chaps at Scotland Yard. I mean, the killer's identity will surely be unveiled soon. It's not as if, one hundred years from now, men will still be wondering who he was. The idea is absurd.”
“There was another murder in the night,” Markham mutters. “Some poor wench was found all cut up across her belly. They haven't said it was the same killer yet, but it's only a matter of time. If you ask me, they're downplaying the number, to avoid a panic. I reckon this murderer has had a dozen victims so far, maybe more.”
“You don't know what you're talking about,” I mutter under my breath.
“Actually,” Shaw says, “I believe there was another murder too, even beyond that one. Some poor bint was found dead in Hackney.”
“Oh, I hadn't heard about that one,” Markham replies. “Was she killed by this Jack the Ripper too?”
“From what I heard,” Shaw continues, “some of the victims have been messed with.”
“Messed with?” Markham asks, clearly engrossed as he leans forward. “In what manner?”
“Down below,” Shaw says dourly. “There are rumors that Jack the Ripper is, well, a maniac of the sexual sort. They're saying that he does the most awful things to some of the women he kills. Why, I shouldn't even speak of such things in polite company, but I've heard mention of sodomy as well as the insertion of...”
He glances around, as if he's worried about being overheard, and then he leans forward toward the other men.
“The insertion,” he continues, lowering his voice, “of hot items into the delicate areas of his victims. One witness even reported seeing him gratifying himself sexually over the -”
“What are you talking about?” I spit angrily.
“What was that, Grazier?”
“There is nothing sexual about it!” I continue, filled with a sense of blustering anger. How dare th
ese idiots spread such disgusting ideas? “What kind of utter monster could possibly be responsible for such crimes?”
“I'm only repeating what I've heard,” Shaw says. “In the strictest confidence, of course.”
“It wouldn't surprise me if he is a maniac of the sexual persuasion,” Culpepper adds, nodding sagely. “These brutes often are.”
“That is a pitiful deduction,” I splutter.
“You think so, Charles?” Culpepper continues. “And why is that?”
“I do not have time for this,” I mutter, before making my way between them and heading toward the door that leads into the library. At least in that sanctuary of learning, I shall be able to enjoy a little peace and quiet. Honestly, if I have to listen to any more of this inane chatter, I think I shall be compelled to confess to my crimes simply so that I can put the idiots straight. “I came not to drink today, gentlemen, but to take advantage of the library.”
“I thought you'd retired,” Culpepper says.
“From my job,” I reply, “but not from life itself. Not from the pursuit of knowledge.”
“And how is Catherine doing?”
I stop at the door and turn back to him, and once again I find that all three of the men are staring at me.
“Catherine is going to recover very soon now,” I explain, although my throat feels rather dry. “There are already some extremely positive signs.”
“But I thought she had...”
Markham's voice trails off for a moment, before he leans back and turns to the others for help.
“I think what Francis is trying to say,” Culpepper mutters finally, clearly choosing his words with great care, “is that we had all heard that Catherine's condition was... not good. Charles, everybody was under the impression that she was suffering from terminal cancer. Are you saying that the diagnosis was incorrect?”
“Not at all,” I reply.
“Then -”
“But she is improving,” I add, before he has a chance to spew more of his meaningless tripe. “I have been treating her at home. The hospital was fine for a while, but Catherine grew tired of their constant failures and it reached the point at which I agreed she was better off in the comfort of her own bed.”
“Yes,” Shaw grumbles, “we were all surprised when we heard you'd taken her out of the hospital.”
“I believed that I knew better than those fools,” I continue, “and so far, I have been proven correct.”
Markham leans forward again, causing the armchair beneath his bulk to creak loudly. “You mean you've cured her cancer?”
“I cannot say any more than that,” I tell him, although I must admit that I am extremely pleased to see the expression of shock on his face. These intellectual pygmies would never understand my work anyway. “There'll come a time when I can explain, when I can demonstrate the details of my recent work. Let us just say for now, gentlemen, that I am on the verge of proving a truly astonishing breakthrough. When that day finally comes, I assure you that you may have front row seats for the very first demonstration. That shall be my gift to you all, just as my work shall be a gift to the entire world.”
“Oh it will, will it?” Shaw mutters, before turning to the others. He seems almost... amused. “The man claims to have cured cancer. If this is true, I believe we shall have to rename the Royal Society in his honor.”
“I care not for such things,” I announce, turning and striding toward the doors that lead into the library. “I do not seek glory, gentlemen. I only wish to add to the sum of mankind's knowledge. And, of course, to bring my wife back to full health. I am, as you will all no doubt be aware, at heart a most humble man.”
Chapter Ten
Maddie
Today
“Adam Michael Devenzies,” the reporter continues, speaking over images of a man being led from a police van with a coat over his head, “aged twenty-nine, of Somarton Road in Reading, appeared in court this afternoon in connection with a series of letters taking credit for the so-called Jack the Ripper murders.”
“Bet it's not him,” Simon mutters, before taking a sip of beer. “My gut's always right about these things, and right now my gut's telling me this isn't the end of what's going on. Not by a long shot. This Adam whatsisname is probably just some basement-dwelling freak. He'll turn out to be some idiot who spends too much time on the internet.”
“Police figures aren't commenting,” the reporter says, as the camera cuts to her standing on the steps outside the court building, “on reports appearing online that state Mr. Devenzies has confessed to all three of the murders. However -”
She pauses, and after a moment she touches her left ear, as if she's hearing something.
“In fact,” she adds, “we're just receiving confirmation from our colleagues inside the court that Mr. Devenzies did, in fact, enter a guilty plea in relation to the murders. Just to repeat that, he entered a guilty plea and we're waiting now for more developments. We're also expecting a statement from the police regarding the investigation, and we're hopeful that this statement will clarify the circumstances surrounding the capture and arrest of Mr. Devenzies. But now, my colleague Simon Bart has been speaking to neighbors of Mr. Devenzies in Reading.”
“I never saw him outside very much,” an elderly woman says as the picture changes. “He spent a lot of time at home, I think. He didn't have a job or anything, I think he just lived with his parents and helped out now and then. But I never would've thought he could do anything like this. I thought he was harmless.”
“I still reckon it's not him,” Simon says as the report switches to another interviewee, and then he lets out a loud burp. “Why would the killer confess like that, eh? It doesn't make any sense.”
“Maybe he wanted glory?”
“That's the kind of thing that happens in movies, not real life.” He lets out a derisory sniff. “Too dramatic.”
“Maybe he made a mistake.”
“That's possible, I'll grant you, but I still reckon there's more to it.”
“Maybe he realized the police were closing in,” I point out, keeping my eyes fixed on the screen.
“Then why didn't he decide to go out in a blaze of glory?” he asks. “Don't be a pussy and let them catch you. Nah, something's not right about this. The guy's a glory-hunter. The only thing he's gonna go down for is wasting police time. I'm sure he wrote some of those letters, but I don't reckon the real Jack the Ripper ever wrote any letters back in the nineteenth century either. Too much melodrama. Too much fussing about.”
He burps again as he takes a swig of beer.
“If you ask me,” he adds, clearly warming to his theme, “the type of person who'd commit those murders isn't anything like the type of person who'd write a bunch of angsty letters. The two types of pretty much mutually exclusive. This Jack the Ripper nonsense has just brought out the worst in a bunch of other lowlife idiots. It'll all come out in the wash, but for now I wouldn't assume the streets are any safer.”
On the screen, the reporter is waiting outside the front of the court building. The news broadcast has been so fascinating, I've actually managed to forget about the pain in my belly for a few minutes. Now, however, the throbbing, burning sensation has started to reassert itself, and I wince when I move and feel the stitches pulling against swollen and inflamed skin.
“Hurts, doesn't it?”
Turning, I see that Simon's watching me.
“I'm fine.”
“You're not fine,” he replies. “Not by a long measure. You need serious help.”
“It already feels better.”
“Liar.”
Suddenly he looks past me, and he seems shocked by something on the TV screen. Following his gaze, I see to my surprise that there reporter seems to be being mobbed by a bunch of people wearing horrific masks and large, matted black wigs.
“That's his fans showing up,” Simon explains. “His groupies. Another bunch of pathetic characters.”
I turn to him. “Group
ies?”
“It's sick, isn't it? Maybe that's the reason this idiot's trying to take credit for the murders. You've got all these groupies who worship the killer as some kind of idol, and now they've shown up to support him. They're just kids, mostly, using their pocket money to act like idiots.” He takes yet another swig of beer, before balancing the can on his considerable belly as he continues to watch the screen. “They reckon he's the second coming, or something like that. If you ask me, some people can be really sick in the head. They're a bunch of wannabe Manson cult members, bigging up the latest fashion. The one plus is that they'll probably be bored by the end of the week, and they'll go back to their laptops.”
Looking back at the screen, I see that the so-called groupies are trying to storm the court building, although they're being beaten back easily enough by a wall of police officers.
“Why would people worship a killer?” I ask.
“Maybe they wanna be like him.”
I turn to him again.
“I'm not even kidding,” he adds. “Never underestimate how truly sick some people are in the head. They wanna be like this killer, but the thing is, it's blatantly not him. That's the most worrying part. I reckon the real killer's gonna strike again soon, to put this lanky little git properly in his place. It's gonna get worse out there before it gets better.”
I open my mouth to ask whether he truly believes that, but suddenly the wound in my belly starts throbbing harder than ever. I'm sweating again, too, and I think maybe I need to rest.
***
Alex's room turns out to be a dark, garbage-strewn mess with clothes all over the bed and bin bags overflowing. I knew she wasn't the tidiest of people but, as I pick my way carefully to the window and pull the curtains open, I'm already starting to notice a foul smell.
Turning, I look back across the room and see that there are pizza crusts littering the floor next to the bed, along with scores of dirty glasses that seem to have been dropped randomly all over the floor. The place is such a disgusting mess, I wouldn't be surprised to find rats or cockroaches nearby.
