Stalking Jack the Ripper

by Kerri Maniscalco

  Her skin was paler than the finest hand-painted pottery Mother had inherited from her grandmother in India, except along her jawline where dark bruising was evident. Hard living stole the softness I imagined she once had, and death was not gentle when it took her in its unforgiving embrace.

  At least her eyes were closed. That was where the semi-peacefulness ended. According to Uncle she was missing five teeth, and her tongue had also sustained a laceration, indicating she was likely struck to either stun or knock her unconscious before the throat slitting. Those were the kinder injuries.

  My gaze drifted to her lower abdomen, where a major injury was located on her left side. Uncle Jonathan hadn’t exaggerated in class; this cut was jagged and extremely deep. A few smaller slices ran along the right side of her torso but weren’t nearly as bad, from what I could tell.

  I saw why Uncle thought someone who had use of both hands might be responsible. The bruising on her jaw indicated someone had grabbed her face with the left hand, and the incision on the left side of her body was most likely made by someone using the right. Unless there was more than one butcher on the loose…

  I shook my head and focused on her upper body again. The knife wounds to her neck told of an attack bred by violence. They were surprisingly easy to look at in my new emotionally detached state, however, and I wondered briefly if Aunt Amelia would say that was another strike against my moral character.

  “Girls should be concerned with lace, not moral disgrace,” she’d say.

  I dreamed of a day when girls could wear lace and makeup—or no makeup at all and don burlap sacks if they desired—to their chosen profession without it being deemed inappropriate.

  Uncle suddenly jumped back and sneezed. Thoughts of contracting airborne diseases crowded into my brain. I collected myself for a minute. Father’s fears would not become my own and hold me back from what needed to be done.

  Uncle snapped his fingers, pointing to one of four surgical knives lying on a metal tray. I snatched it up and handed it to him, grabbing each used tool and setting it in an alcohol bath after he was through with it. When it came time for the organ removal, I had individual trays and specimen glass ready before Uncle asked for them.

  I knew my job well.

  He grunted his approval then weighed the kidneys one at a time.

  “The left kidney is approximately one hundred and thirty-seven grams.” Thomas scratched the information down, quickly returning his focus to my uncle’s next words. He was silent while absorbed in his work, my presence like a piece of furniture, wholly unnoticed until needed. “The right is a bit on the small side, coming in around one hundred nineteen.”

  Uncle removed a small piece of each organ, placing them on Petri dishes for further testing. This same routine went on for the heart, liver, intestines, and brain. My uncle’s clean white apron gradually became bloodier, but he methodically washed his hands after each dissection to avoid contaminating the evidence.

  There was no proof such contaminations could occur, but Uncle had his own theories on the matter. “Conventional society be damned,” he’d bellow. “I know what I know.”

  Not much separated him from a butcher in appearance. I supposed even deceased humans were nothing more than animals being flayed open in the name of science instead of nourishment.

  Everything looked the same when you removed its top layers.

  I nearly laughed out loud at my absurd thoughts. Twice a year Aunt Amelia and cousin Liza stayed with us. Part of their visit included socializing me with girls my age by hosting lavish tea parties. Aunt Amelia hoped I’d continue attending them on my own, but I’d put an end to that. The girls at tea didn’t understand my mind, which was precisely why I’d declined their invitations over the last several months. I hated the pity in their eyes and couldn’t imagine explaining my afternoons to them.

  Some of them found it obscene to dip their butter knives into lemon curd. What horror they’d feel at seeing my scalpel disappearing into bloody tissue!

  Something cool and wet seeped into the bottom of my shoes. I hadn’t noticed the pool of blood I’d been standing in. I quickly fetched a bag of sawdust and sprinkled it across the floor like a fine layer of tan-colored snow. I’d have to get rid of my slippers before I went home later, no need to frighten my newest lady’s maid any more than I normally did when I came home splattered in the day’s work.

  Uncle snapped his fingers, returning me to the task at hand.

  Once I’d disinfected the bone saw Uncle used to open the cranium and laid it back on the shelf, the autopsy was complete. Uncle Jonathan stitched the body together like a skilled tailor whose medium was flesh instead of fine fabric. I watched as the Y incision he’d made earlier turned from darkened crimson to black thread.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Thomas furiously sketching the body in its last state. His pencil slowing, then speeding across the paper. I grudgingly had to admit his drawing was really quite good. The details he captured would aid us with the investigation once the body was taken back to the morgue.

  “Do you recognize the deceased, Audrey Rose?”

  My attention snapped to Uncle. He was removing his apron, his gaze locked onto mine. I bit my lip, studying the woman’s mangled face. There was that gnawing sense of familiarity, but I still couldn’t place her. I slowly shook my head, feeling defeated.

  “She worked in your household. Briefly.” Guilt sunk its claws into me—I still didn’t recognize the poor woman. What a wretched thing; taking no notice of someone in my very own home. Miss Nichols deserved better from me. And the world. I felt utterly terrible. Uncle turned to the sink. “You would’ve been ill at the time.”

  Thomas jerked his attention up, reading my body for any signs of lingering disease. As if he even cared. He was probably worried this news might pose some sort of potential hazard for himself. My face burned, and I busied myself with the specimens.

  “What have either of you learned from our little exercise today?” Uncle Jonathan interrupted my thoughts, scrubbing his hands and forearms with a block of carbolic soap. “Any interesting theories?”

  I jumped at the opportunity to speak my mind now that we weren’t surrounded by students. A small part of me was also excited for a chance to show off my theories in front of Thomas. I wanted him to see he wasn’t the only one with an interesting mind.

  “Whoever is responsible for the murder must have some sort of training in the medical field,” I said. “He might even be a mortuary student. Or someone who’s taken surgical classes at the very least.”

  Uncle nodded. “Good. Tell me more.”

  Feeling bolstered by Uncle’s approval, I circled the body. “She might’ve been grabbed by her face, then received a blow rendering her unconscious.” I thought of the incisions and areas of the body that were injured. “Also, she might have been brought elsewhere. Our murderer needed time to perform his surgery without interruption.”

  An image of our former servant being beaten, then dragged to some forgotten cellar or other damp, shadowy place set my skin crawling around my body like worms in a graveyard. Though I didn’t remember her, the mere thought of her living and breathing and working in my house made me feel responsible for her in a way. I wanted to help her now in death, though I’d failed her miserably in life. Maybe she’d still be alive and reputably employed if I’d been brave enough to speak out against Father’s chronic need to change staff every few weeks.

  My hands fisted at my sides. I refused, absolutely refused to let this cruel treatment of a woman stand. I’d do everything in my power to solve this case for Miss Nichols. And for any other voiceless girl or woman society ignored.

  Mother would’ve done the same.

  All other thoughts left my mind in place of the horrific reality we were dealing with. “He must have slit her throat in a location where a large amount of blood wouldn’t draw attention. Possibly he took her to the slaughterhouse and did it there.”

  Thomas snorted
from his station near the body. I whipped around to properly glare at him, removing the ties from my apron with as much venom as I could inject into the action, and tossing it into a laundry bin. I knew my face must be flushed again, but hoped he’d misinterpret the cause.

  “Why is that funny, Mr.…?”

  He composed himself and stood.

  “Mr. Thomas Cresswell at your service, Miss Wadsworth.” Bending slightly at the waist in a mock bow, he came to his full, impressive height and smiled. “I find it amusing because it’s an extraordinary amount of work for our murderer. Hauling her off to the slaughterhouse after he went through the trouble of knocking her unconscious.” He tsked. “Seems rather unnecessary.”

  “Pardon me, but you don’t—”

  Thomas closed the journal he’d been sketching in and walked around the corpse, rudely speaking over me. “Especially when he could easily slice her open at the river, allowing evidence to wash away without dirtying his hands further. Not to mention”—he pointed to her soiled boots—“the mud caked onto her heels.”

  I scrunched my nose as if something worse than rotten flesh was in the air. I hated the fact I’d missed making the connection between the dirt on her boots and the muddy banks of the river. I hated even more that Thomas hadn’t missed it.

  “Hasn’t rained here in almost a week,” he went on, “and there are a number of dark corners near the Thames ripe for Leather Apron’s picking.”

  “You just stated it was ridiculous to presume he killed her at the slaughterhouse,” I said, narrowing my eyes. “Now you’ve gone and called him a leather apron?”

  “I was referencing the Leather Apron. Haven’t you seen a paper this afternoon?” Thomas studied me as if I were a specimen he’d possibly like to dissect. “Surely choosing the perfect silken shoes isn’t more important than finding a blood-crazed murderer. Yet… look at those things on your feet, getting all stained and gory. Is your interest in science simply an attempt at finding a husband? Shall I grab my coat, then?”

  He flashed a roguish grin at my scowl. “I’m sure your uncle won’t mind stopping his investigation to chaperone us”—he turned to Uncle—“would you, Dr. Wadsworth? I do admit your niece is quite beautiful.”

  I averted my gaze. I’d forgotten less frilly shoes in my mad rush to exit the house. Not that there was anything wrong with my slippers. If I chose to wear them to postmortems it was my choice and my choice alone.

  Perhaps I’d do it from now on simply to irk him.

  “You know an awful lot about how this murderer thinks,” I said sweetly. “Perhaps we should investigate your whereabouts that evening, Mr. Cresswell.”

  He gazed at me, a dark brow arched in contemplation. I swallowed hard, but held his stare. A minute later he nodded as if coming to some sort of conclusion about me.

  “If you’re going to follow me around at night, Miss Wadsworth” —his attention flicked to my feet—“I’d advise you to wear more sensible shoes.” I opened my mouth to retort; however, Mr. Thomas Cresswell spoke over me again. Brash fool. “The Leather Apron is what they’re calling our murderer.”

  He moved around the examination table, stalking closer to where I stood. I wanted to back away, but he held me in his magnetic orbit. He stopped before me, a softness briefly flashing across his features, and my heart picked up speed.

  Lord help the girl he set those eyes on for good. His boyish vulnerability was a weapon, powerful and disarming. I was thankful I wasn’t the kind of girl to lose my mind over a handsome face. He’d need to work a bit harder to gain my affection.

  “To answer your earlier question, Dr. Wadsworth,” he said, tearing his gaze from mine, his tone more serious than before, “I fully believe this is only the beginning. What we have on our hands is the start of a career murderer. No one with that kind of surgical prowess would commit one murder then stop.”

  His lips quirked slightly when he noticed my incredulous expression. “I know I wouldn’t. One taste of warm blood is never enough, Miss Wadsworth.”

  The Princess Alice, c. 1880s

  FOUR

  A DANCE WITH THE DEVIL

  WADSWORTH RESIDENCE,

  BELGRAVE SQUARE

  7 SEPTEMBER 1888

  Leather Apron and the Whitechapel Murderer were the headlines of the last week.

  Everywhere I looked, a new theory was introduced by another supposed expert in the field. Detective inspectors had several doctors examine the body of Miss Nichols and, for the most part, they’d all come to the same conclusions as Uncle Jonathan.

  Most everyone disagreed with Uncle’s theory of her being assaulted while standing, however. They did agree her throat was slashed prior to the incisions made along her abdomen, and that whoever was responsible was unlikely to simply stop now.

  East End residents were terrified to go out after sunset, fearing every shadowy figure was the depraved murderer. Prostitutes were warned to be on high alert, but their need to pay for lodging kept them from completely abandoning the streets.

  My father was worse than ever, coming unhinged, it seemed, every time I left the house. It was becoming harder to sneak about or come up with excuses for leaving that he didn’t question. He’d let go of all our maids and hired a whole new lot, his paranoia of them infecting our family with Lord only knew what overshadowing his reason. There was no point telling him that new servants were more likely to bring infection in, as they’d been outside our home and in the scary, disease-spreading world.

  Pretty soon I feared he’d be escorting me everywhere himself. Unfortunately, that meant attending Uncle’s forensic medicines class had become nearly impossible, though I was fortunate I could still make it to the laboratory.

  “I fully believe this is only the beginning.” Mr. Thomas Cresswell’s ominous warning replayed through my mind each passing day. It felt like the uneasy stillness before the storm, and I found myself even more restless than usual at night. I had a hard time fully believing his theory, though. The thought of any more murders taking place was simply out of the question. I’d never heard of a career murderer before.

  It seemed Thomas was looking for another outlet to show off his brilliance, and I wanted nothing more than to prove him wrong, potentially earning more of Uncle’s respect in the process.

  Between my desire for Uncle’s approval and my connection to Miss Nichols, I was determined to help solve this case.

  I tried approaching my brother to discuss his thoughts on it, but he’d been preoccupied with studying and couldn’t spare any time. Which left me with too much time to think about death and the finality of it all.

  Nathaniel always assured me what happened wasn’t my fault, but his comfort didn’t take the sting out of my chest each time Father stared at me with such overwhelming fear. As far as he was concerned, it was his duty to protect me against everything in the world. Mother didn’t die nursing Nathaniel back from scarlet fever, after all. He didn’t have to watch her face flush with that horrible rash and see her tongue swell because my brother had been weak. Her already damaged heart didn’t break fully because Nathaniel had brought infection to our home.

  I couldn’t help feeling as if I were Father’s useless, murdering daughter who looked too much like her mother—a constant reminder of all he’d lost. Of all I’d stolen away from him the night I took my first fever-free breath, and Mother took her last.

  I was the reason for his growing madness, and I never let myself forget it. When I closed my eyes, I still saw the hospital staff in their long dresses and starched aprons. Their solemn faces turning away from my earsplitting screams as Mother’s chest stuttered and fell still forever. I banged on her sternum with both fists, my tears falling on her beautifully stitched dressing gown, but she didn’t stir again.

  No twelve-year-old should watch her mother’s soul drift into the abyss. It was the first time I’d ever felt helpless. God had failed me. I’d prayed and prayed the way Mother always said I should, and for what? Death still claime
d her in the end. It was then I knew I’d rely on something more tangible than holy spirits.

  Science never abandoned me the way religion had that night.

  Forsaking the Holy Father was considered a sin, and I did it repeatedly. Each time my blade met with flesh, I sinned more and welcomed it.

  God no longer held dominion over my soul.

  This evening my thoughts were treacherously loud and impossible to quiet down. I tossed back and forth in my thin nightdress, kicked my sheets off, and finally poured myself a glass of water from a pitcher on my bedside table. “Blast it all.”

  Sleep wasn’t going to find me. That much I was certain of. My limbs itched with the need to get out and do something. Or perhaps I simply needed to escape from the confines of my room and all the woeful thoughts that came with the darkness.

  Each day that passed was a failure to help Miss Nichols’s family find peace. I’d already failed her once; I wouldn’t fail again so miserably.

  I clenched my fists. I could do the safe and reasonable thing, waiting in Uncle’s laboratory until another victim showed up. Or I could act now. Tonight. I could gather clues that might help, impressing both Thomas and Uncle in the process.

  The more I thought on it, the surer I became of my decision. Mother used to say, “Roses have both petals and thorns, my dark flower. You needn’t believe something weak because it appears delicate. Show the world your bravery.”

  Mother had had a weak heart and was kept from much physical activity as a child, but she’d found other ways to prove her strength. One needn’t be strong in only physical matters—a strong mind and will were fierce to behold as well.

  “You’re right, Mother.” I paced along the deep gold Persian rug in my room, relishing the coldness of the hardwood when my soles found the edges of the carpet. Before I knew what I was doing, I found myself standing in front of my looking glass, dressed all in black. “It’s time for bravery.”