Stalking Jack the Ripper

by Kerri Maniscalco

  “Wake up! You must fight your way out of this.” A sob broke in my throat and I shook him until my own teeth rattled. I couldn’t lose him, too. Not after losing Mother to death, and Father to both laudanum and grief. I needed someone to stay. “I cannot do this without you! Please.”

  Blackburn reached over, gently pulling my hands away. “Come. I’ll fetch a doctor to watch after him. There isn’t anything more we can do for him tonight. Once the drug is out of his system, he’ll be able to speak with us.”

  “Oh?” I asked, wiping my face with the back of my hand. “How can we be sure this doctor of yours isn’t the one who administered this… cruelty to begin with?”

  “I apologize, Miss Wadsworth. I’m fairly positive it was just a routine procedure,” he said. “Know this—I’ll make sure everyone is aware there’ll be a steep penalty if your uncle is dosed again.”

  His tone and the expression darkening his features were menacing enough to make me believe him. Satisfied as much as I could be, I allowed Blackburn to guide me from the cell, but not before I kissed the top of Uncle’s head good-bye. My tears had already dried when I whispered, “By my blood, I will make this right or die trying.”

  Once we were back in the carriage, Blackburn gave the driver my address in Belgrave Square. I’d had enough of men telling me where I was going, and rapped my knuckles on the side of the carriage, startling them both. I didn’t care what Nathaniel wanted, what Aunt Amelia would say, or what Blackburn would think of me.

  “Actually, you can drop me at Piccadilly Street,” I said. “There’s someone I need to speak with urgently.”

  London Necropolis Railway, c. 19th century

  EIGHTEEN

  NECROPOLIS RAILWAY

  THOMAS CRESSWELL’S FLAT,

  PICCADILLY STREET

  25 SEPTEMBER 1888

  I stood half a block away, hiding, as Thomas opened the door to his flat then peered around, looking as sharply put together as if it were nine in the morning instead of nearly ten at night.

  I wondered if he ever looked unkempt or frazzled. Perhaps his hair was permanently plastered to the side of his head for less hassle. My brother ought to take a lesson.

  I watched silently, gathering courage to walk over to him, but some innate force whispered for me to remain hidden. I half expected him to come marching over, but he didn’t notice me standing half in the shadows several yards away.

  I’d lied and told Blackburn that Thomas lived two blocks down and had been slowly making my way toward the correct address.

  I wasn’t sure what I was doing here so late at night and was collecting my thoughts. Silly fears had bubbled up. What if the girls at tea were wrong and he did live with his family? They’d be scandalized by my unchaperoned presence at this hour.

  It’s not as though he’d offered me his address. I’d found it in one of Uncle’s ledgers and was contemplating simply going home. Now I was hesitating because he was acting… suspiciously.

  I held my breath, certain Thomas had somehow spotted me or deduced my arrival, but his attention never touched on my location. He flipped the collar of his overcoat up, then strode down the gaslit street, his footsteps purposely quiet.

  “Where are you off to?” I whispered.

  Fog hovered in steamy puffs, obscuring everything from the ground up. All too quickly I lost sight of him. Cool fingers of fear slid down my spine, coaxing gooseflesh to rise. Though it was a fashionable neighborhood during the daytime, I didn’t want to be stuck alone when everyone shuttered up for the evening.

  Gripping my skirts, I scurried after Thomas, carefully sticking to shadows between the lamps.

  A minute later I caught up with him near the end of the block. He’d stopped and was looking one way then the next. My heart crashed into my ribs, and I prayed he wouldn’t turn around. Quickly stepping back into the fog, I let its icy wall envelop me.

  Thomas cocked his head but continued down the next road, resuming his silent yet fast pace. Exhaling, I counted three breaths then followed, taking more cautious steps.

  We traveled through deserted streets, meeting only one horse-drawn cart returning from the park. The scent of manure followed in its wake, and I fought the urge to sneeze, lest I give myself away.

  Thomas didn’t halt again, his long legs carrying him in great strides toward Westminster Bridge Road and the River Thames. In the distance I made out the stone archway of the London Necropolis Railway Station.

  The station had been built thirty years ago to help ferry the dead from London to Surrey, the site of the Brookwood Cemetery. The spread of disease—like scarlet fever and other contagious infections—made extra graves necessary, and the distance from the city helped keep contamination away from the living.

  Another chill tangled itself in my hair the closer we drew to the water. I hadn’t forgotten the river was one of the places Thomas suggested our murderer had committed his heinous deeds. So why, then, was he stalking that very location this late at night? Before I thought on it too much, a second figure emerged from a sunken access road where carriages delivered corpses to the Necropolis under the river.

  I didn’t mind the bodies as much as I feared the living, breathing creatures lurking about such a place. I had a terrible suspicion this wasn’t some secret meeting of the Knights of Whitechapel. Sneaking into an alleyway adjacent to the building, I craned my neck, hoping for a better view of Thomas and his unidentifiable partner.

  Their conversation was hushed, so I couldn’t make out any particulars. It didn’t take much to garner the gist of it, however. One simply did not loiter outside a place where hundreds of deceased were ferried by railway to Brookwood Cemetery.

  Especially when one was studying the inner workings of the human body and needed more test subjects than were volunteered. As if he heard my internal admonishment, Thomas abruptly turned in my direction and I nearly tumbled to the ground.

  I closed my eyes and imagined a wall erupting around me, willing Thomas to remain blind to my presence should he investigate this alley. I listened hard, but no sounds of pursuit met my ears. Eventually, I crept back to the corner.

  Thomas faced the opposite direction now, deeply immersed in conversation.

  The Necropolis had an ominous aura surrounding it, even with its ornate ironwork gate and chiseled stonework doing their best to bring peace to mourners paying their last respects.

  Minutes passed, then the two figures disappeared down the access road. Drat! I paced in my spot, caught between wanting to sprint after them and knowing there was no place to hide should I be spotted in that subterranean passage.

  If I waited, I could be standing here until dawn. There was no telling if Thomas was getting on the railway to travel to the cemetery or if he was only going into one of the mortuaries or funeral rooms. I’d visited the building on two occasions. Once when I retrieved a body for Uncle this summer and once when my mother died.

  I barely remember her viewing, but recall every detail of the room in which she rested before taking her final train ride to the cemetery. I couldn’t bring myself to go with Father and Nathaniel to her grave that horrible morning.

  On Father’s orders Mr. Thornley had escorted me home, safely tucked beneath his arms, sheltering me from the cruel reality of the world.

  I stared into the dark, wishing Thomas would materialize and distract me from my memories. I sighed. “Oh, fine. I shall go to you, then.”

  A leaf crunched behind me. My blood spiked as if a million mortuary needles pricked me at once. I spun on my heel, ready to fly all the way home, then stumbled against the building, my hand covering my heart. “Goodness! You scared the devil out of me.”

  Thomas leaned against the wall beside me, getting entirely too close for decency. I didn’t dare move. I hardly remembered to breathe with his face mere inches away. He tapped his fingers on the stone, never taking his eyes off mine, his lips quirking up. “Well, you terrify me, Wadsworth. Seems we’re even.”

  Som
e of the shock was wearing off, yet my tongue and muscles felt incapable of movement. The way he stole through the night like a thief was unsettling.

  I wanted to yell at him, scream about how wrong it was to creep up on someone, but could only stare back, breathing hard. There was something thrilling about being caught by his stare in the dark.

  Squeaks of a carriage carrying a heavy load broke the charged silence, and he watched as it passed the alleyway. Once horse hooves clacked against the cobblestones in the distance, he turned his attention back on me.

  “I hoped you’d make good on your threats of stalking me.” His stare drifted over my ensemble. “Perhaps the style of your hair has had a positive effect on your brain. Beauty and function.”

  I narrowed my eyes, tucking the fact he’d called me beautiful away for further inspection. “How did you know I was here?”

  A devious smile lifted the corners of his mouth. “Tell me something, Wadsworth. Why is it you wriggled in your seat when we were in your parlor, though your aunt was upstairs?” He moved closer, tentatively trailing a finger down my cheek. “Yet you follow me in the dead of night, with no hope of a chaperone to intervene should I try stealing a kiss?”

  He focused on my lips, and I was petrified my breaths would snap the stays of my corset. In some ways, he looked as frightened as I felt, his attention flicking back up to gauge my reaction. He certainly wanted to kiss me. Of that I was positive. I couldn’t deny my wanting, traitorous heart, either.

  “Didn’t your family warn you against sneaking around at night alone?” he asked. “Dangerous things linger in the dark.”

  Now my heart thudded for an entirely new reason.

  He leaned in, cupping my face gently before I regained my senses and swatted his hands away. If he wanted to kiss me, he’d have to come up with something a bit more romantic than an alley outside a funeral station. “What are you doing here?”

  With great effort, he tore his gaze from mine and stepped back. “Securing a body for my personal laboratory. What else would I be doing—finding a nice girl to court in the Necropolis?”

  I blinked. “Truly? You’re thieving a corpse and outright admitting it?”

  “Who said I was thieving?” Thomas looked at me as if I were the mad one. “This corpse was unclaimed. I’ve permission to study unclaimed bodies and bring them back.”

  I crossed my arms. “Which is why you’re sneaking about at night?”

  Thomas jerked his chin toward the retreating carriage noise. “I’m here when Oliver’s shift ends.” He laughed at my confused expression. “Honestly, your imagination is fascinating, Wadsworth. Next you’ll be accusing me of the murders.”

  I noticed his gaze drop to my lips and pursed them in response. “I’ve never heard of such an arrangement before.”

  “While it’s quite intriguing being holed up in a dark, deserted alleyway with you, arguing about facts,” he said, “I have better uses of my time.” He paused, taking in my hurt expression. “Allow me to amend that statement. We have better uses of our time. However, if you prefer we can stay here. I enjoy loitering in darkened places with you fine enough.” I couldn’t help smiling. He was devilish. “Now then, are you coming? This one’s nice and fresh.”

  He rubbed his hands together, hardly able to contain his dark glee. If I were a good girl I’d go home and pretend I had no inkling of what Thomas was up to. I’d climb into my bed and attend breakfast with my aunt and cousin. We’d discuss the circus and plan another tea while stitching seams and napkins for our future husbands. But I wasn’t like my cousin or aunt. I was not wicked, simply curious.

  I wanted to study the body as much as Thomas did, even if the acts of human dissection and going home with a boy damned me to a wretched death in society.

  Half an hour later we were outside his flat, paying the man who’d delivered the cadaver. He glared at me before pocketing the money. His eyes were two black holes, void of human emotion. It took my entire concentration, but I managed to hold in my shudder. Thomas motioned me inside, then shut the door. I’m not sure what I was expecting, but a simple foyer and a staircase leading to a flat upstairs wasn’t it.

  “Cozy,” I said. A small table was set with a tray of biscuits that smelled as if they’d been freshly baked and laid out within the hour.

  Thomas nodded toward the food. “Help yourself. Mrs. Harvey can be quite insufferable when her treats get stale overnight.”

  I wasn’t hungry, but didn’t want to offend this mysterious biscuit-making woman he kept hidden God only knew where.

  We reached the door to his flat and Thomas hesitated only slightly before pushing it open. Inside, papers and journals were scattered about in haphazard piles, towering three feet high. Taxidermy animals lined the shelves around the room, and scientific tools were lying about in disarray.

  A strong scent of laboratory chemicals lingered in the air. In the far corner stood a portable table with the fresh cadaver on it.

  I was momentarily speechless. Not because of the body, but because of the room itself. How Thomas found anything in this mess was another mystery to figure out. I was getting used to expecting the unexpected when it came to him, but this still managed to pry a bit of shock from me. His person was so neat and clean, and this… this was not.

  “Where are your parents?” I asked, noticing a photograph of a pretty dark-haired girl on a shelf. A fist clenched in my chest. Was Thomas promised to someone else? His family was titled and an early betrothal wasn’t out of the ordinary. I didn’t care for that thought one bit. I motioned toward the picture. “She’s lovely.”

  He turned his back on me and walked toward it.

  “She is quite lovely,” he said, picking up the photograph. “Enchanting, really. Those eyes, and perfectly proportioned features. Comes from a magnificent family, too.” He sighed happily. “I love her with all my heart.”

  He was in love. How exceptionally wonderful for him. I wished them both a lifetime of misery with ill-mannered children. I swallowed my annoyance down and plastered on a smile. “I hope you’ll both be very happy together.”

  Thomas whipped his head around. “Pardon? You…” He studied the set of my jaw and forced indifference of my features. The scoundrel had the audacity to laugh. “She’s lovely because she’s my sister, Audrey Rose. I’m referring to the superior genes we have in common. My heart belongs only to you.”

  I blinked. “You have a sister?”

  “I assume you haven’t come here to ask questions about my personal life, or tell me about the circus you attended with your brother this evening.” He glanced in my direction, his grin spreading. “Much to my dismay you’ve not come here for a clandestine tryst, either.”

  “How did you know about the cir—”

  He cocked his head, taking in the rest of my attire. “Perhaps you’d like to tell me what you learned at the asylum, though…”

  I rounded on him. “How do you know I’ve been to an asylum?”

  “The sawdust caught in the folds of your skirts didn’t come from time spent at the Olympia. There aren’t many places in London a girl would come into contact with said material. I couldn’t picture you spending time in a carpentry shop, low-end pub, or morgue this late, so where does that leave us?” he asked without expecting an answer, ticking off each place on his fingers.

  “Laboratories, workhouses, and asylums. Narrowing that down further, I saw rust stains on the palms of your hands. Most likely you’d encountered old bars. Then there’s the matter of your torn skirt, and the little package you’ve tucked away.” He raised his brows. “It’s all right to act impressed. I know I would be.”

  “Oh, get on with it already.”

  “Anyway, it didn’t take much to conclude you’ve been to the asylum and have shown up here to discuss your findings,” he said. “Another rather obvious conclusion as I assume you were visiting your uncle.”

  “Show-off,” I said, subtly rubbing my palms down my skirt, a memory of hanging
on to the bars crossing my mind. I hadn’t even realized my hands were stained from such a brief contact. It took every last ounce of energy to prevent myself from rolling my eyes at the smug look on his face.

  I offered a slow clap. “Well played, Thomas. You figured out the obvious. Good for you. Now, then, we need to figure out what Uncle was drugged with. If it’s standard asylum tonic, or something more sinister.”

  “What do you mean?” he asked. “How was he acting?”

  I filled Thomas in on the evening’s events while pulling out my makeshift satchel of the porridge and testing its contents. “It was as if he were lost in some trance.”

  Thomas watched as I smeared the substance on litmus paper. “The dropper is in the top drawer under a stack of papers on the left.”

  I followed his instructions and found it easily. I put a drop of liquid onto the paper and watched it turn deep blue. “It’s definitely an opiate of some sort.”

  “They’re probably giving it to him in near pure form,” he said, pacing in front of the desk. “If they’re really moving his trial so quickly, they’ll want him as mad-looking as possible. Most elixirs cause hallucinations, which explains his state. Unfortunately, that’s not all that uncommon. Could be standard pretrial procedure.”

  He stopped only long enough to glance at me. “You’re positive Blackburn can be trusted? What do you know of him?”

  I knew the policeman from only a few unpleasant encounters and wasn’t positive about anything. “I think he feels guilty Uncle’s in this mess. And I believe he’s trying to make up for arresting him by involving me in the case.”

  “Feeling guilt does not make for a solid basis of trust. If anything, it makes me trust him less.” He narrowed his eyes, stalking over to me. “Why has he shown such an interest in your family? If you weren’t so taken with him, you’d be more skeptical of his motives. A lot can be hidden beneath a boyish grin.”

  “I am not taken with anyone.”

  “We agreed we wouldn’t lie to one another,” he said quietly, then turned away before I could read the expression on his face. “Someone’s keen on having your uncle swing for these crimes, Audrey Rose. Let’s assume the worst about Blackburn. Everyone must remain a suspect until proven otherwise.”