Thomas rolled his head from side to side. “There’s still a possibility Nathaniel only followed the murder of Miss Smith from the papers. Perhaps the true murderer sought him out, or vice versa. At present, we’re speculating. You know what your uncle says about that.”
Speculation was pointless. Facts were what we needed. I looked at the stacks of journals on Thomas’s bed. My brother had written volumes of notes. I feared it would take years to unravel each new thread he’d knotted away. Thomas stood behind me and placed his hands on my shoulders, slowly working the tension from them.
“It’s only a puzzle in need of solving, Wadsworth. We’ll figure it out together.”
I fought a fresh wave of tears and reached up to hold Thomas’s hand in mine. “I—”
“If you’re both so inclined to join us,” Uncle said, entering the chamber, eyes flashing at Thomas’s other hand still touching my shoulder, “Inspector Byrnes is in the parlor.”
Bellevue Hospital, circa 1885/1898
SEVEN
MISERY LANE
GRANDMAMA’S PARLOR
FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK CITY
21 JANUARY 1889
Inspector Byrnes stood with his large hands clutched behind his back, staring at a portrait of my grandfather that hung like a warning over the fireplace. Judging from the straightness of his posture and the way his muscles looked ready to spring forward at the smallest hint of trouble, his news wasn’t good. Not that I expected it to be.
“Thank you for calling on us so late, Inspector,” Uncle said by way of greeting. “Would you care for a drink?”
The inspector turned and removed a folded newspaper from his coat. He leaned over and slapped it onto a rather delicate end table, his cheeks deepening to near purple as he read the headline through clenched teeth.
JACK THE RIPPER HAS COME TO AMERICA.
“This abomination of a headline will be shouted by every newsboy in the city come dawn. I don’t know what happened in London, but it won’t stand here!” He straightened and took a moment to compose himself. “I won’t let Jack the Ripper strike fear into the heart of my city, Dr. Wadsworth.”
A muscle in Uncle’s jaw twitched, the only indication he was getting annoyed. “I am a man of science, not a portending device. If you’d like to give me more details, perhaps I can help craft a better understanding or profile of who this killer is. Differences in wounds left on the victim could help alleviate hysteria. Unless you share your findings, I’m afraid I have nothing else to offer.”
“Fine. You want more facts? We confirmed the victim’s identity as a Miss Carrie Brown, a local wh… prostitute,” Byrnes said, clearly shifting his words because of my presence. What a pleasant gentleman. I all but rolled my eyes. “Friends called her Old Shakespeare, since she used to quote him when she was deep in her cups.”
Thomas and I glanced at each other. Now that there was a significant potential that the Ripper was alive and well, ignoring the parts that fit with his previous killings was difficult. He was known for victimizing prostitutes who’d been heavy drinkers. Just like this murderer.
“A friend of hers came forward, an Alice Sullivan,” Byrnes continued. “Alice said she saw Carrie twice that day. Carrie hadn’t had a proper meal in days, so that afternoon Alice got them sandwiches at a saloon. She claims they met up again for an evening meal at the local Christian mission before going their separate ways to do their business.”
“When was the last time she was seen?” Uncle asked.
“Alice said around half past eight that night. Saw her with a man named Frenchy.”
“Was Alice the last person to witness her alive with him?” I asked.
Inspector Byrnes shook his head. “Mary Minter, the housekeeper at the hotel, saw her take a man into her room later that evening. She said he wore a black derby hat and had a thick mustache. Real dodgy. Didn’t look anyone in the eye, kept his face down. Like he was trying to not be noticed. We can’t confirm if it was Frenchy or someone else.”
“Has someone tracked down Frenchy?” Uncle asked.
“Apparently, she was seen with two different men named Frenchy last night.” At Uncle’s confused look, he clarified, “Frenchy is a popular nickname around that neighborhood. One man is called Isaac Perringer. We’re still lookin’ for the other. For now we’re callin’ them Frenchy Number One and Frenchy Number Two. I’ve got my best men out searching for them. We’ll round them all up and show them to the witnesses.”
“Most hotels, even more questionable ones, require a ledger to be signed,” Thomas said. “Did anyone on your staff inquire about it?”
“Course. What kind of fools do you think we are over here?” Byrnes gave Thomas a scathing look. “He registered them as a C. Nicolo and wife.”
“Do you have a photograph of the ledger?” I asked.
Byrnes frowned. I was unsure if it was our inquisition about his police work, or if the question caught him off guard. “Can’t say that I do. Why?”
“An analysis of the writing might prove this murder cannot be connected to the London Ripper,” Uncle said, giving me a swift nod of approval. “If you’re so keen to quiet the papers, it’d be an excellent way to show the person in question’s hand is different from known Ripper letters. Between that and securing a witness to place either ‘Frenchy’ at the murder scene, it ought to be easy enough to tamp down Ripper hysteria.”
“You’re expecting a drunken lot, most of whom lack proper intelligence during the best of times, to be reliable witnesses.” Byrnes buttoned his overcoat and donned a bowler hat. I fought the urge to remind him that he was the one who’d suggested “rounding them up,” not Uncle. And it was their circumstances, not their intelligence, that made them turn to the bottle. “You’re either incredibly naïve, or hopeful, or both, Dr. Wadsworth.” He tipped his hat and headed for the door. “Good night.”
“Inspector?” Uncle asked, stepping into his way. “Will we have access to the body?”
Byrnes paused, considering. “She’ll be in the morgue at Bellevue until they take her to Blackwell’s Island along with the other unclaimed bodies. If I were you, I’d go tonight. Sometimes corpses don’t make it ’til morning. Especially not on Misery Lane.”
The morgue on 26th Street—appropriately referred to as Misery Lane—ought to have been called a crypt. One from the likes of Poe’s macabre imagination or the beginnings of a sinister vampire tale. It was dark and dank and smelled of rot and human waste. If I allowed my mind to wander, I might convince myself I could hear the faint beating of a buried heart.
Located one story below the foreboding hospital above, bodies lay stacked in heaps on wooden tables. I’d never seen such disregard for the dead before and swallowed my horror down. Corpses were shoved so closely together, I wondered how they’d moved new bodies onto adjacent tables without knocking the others over in the process.
Uncle paused at the threshold, his gaze landing on each body in various states of decay. He removed a handkerchief from his inner pocket, eyes watering. One corpse nearby had already begun to bloat, and the fingers and toes were the blackish blue of death.
A man in a butcher’s apron glanced at us, then went about his business of inspecting the bodies. Candles burned ominously close to the corpses. Two young men dressed in black stood in the shadows, watching the coroner with bored interest. He snapped at them, motioning to a cadaver that seemed quite fresh. “This ought to do. Take it and be off with yourselves now.”
Their boredom transformed into a gleam of hunger I knew well as they stepped forward and claimed the proffered dead. They hoisted the elderly male corpse onto a wheeled stretcher, hastily tossing a sheet over it as they pushed it out of the room. The sound of wheels turning rumbled down a corridor. At my furrowed brow, Thomas leaned in to whisper, “Medical students.”
“Interns.” The old man turned back to us, eyeing my uncle with thinly veiled annoyance as he pulled a pocket watch out. It was nearly midnight. “You the professor fro
m London?”
“Dr. Jonathan Wadsworth.” Uncle glanced around the room again, the flickering light reflecting in his spectacles like flames. I fought a shiver. He looked like a vengeful demon. “I’m told the body of Miss Carrie Brown is here. Would you mind showing it to us?”
“The whore?” The coroner’s sour expression said he most certainly minded the interruption, especially for someone as lowly as a prostitute. I clenched my hands. “If you must.” He jerked a thumb down one long, narrow aisle of cadavers. “This way.”
Thomas, ever the gentleman, swung his arm toward the two men retreating down the row of the dead. “After you, my love.”
I gave him a tight smile and followed Uncle, my cane clicking in alternating soft and hard thumps as I walked over mounds of sawdust on the tile floors. I wasn’t frightened of the corpses—those I found strangely comforting. The atmosphere and disregard for their scientific study made my skin crawl. Well, that and the maggots wiggling around the bits of bloodied sawdust, which hadn’t been swept away in quite some time.
At the end of a row of bodies, close to where a lone bulb buzzed above us, we stood over the remains of Miss Carrie Brown. Much to my dismay, she’d been washed. Swathes of pale flesh marbled with deep blue veins were marred only by the stab wounds. Uncle closed his eyes for a moment, likely trying to collect his anger. “She’s been cleaned.”
“Course she has. Won’t do us any favors to keep her dirty and stinking while she’s here.”
A blatant lie. None of the other bodies had been cleaned. He’d probably tried tidying her up to sell to the doctor in the operating amphitheater above. A potential Jack the Ripper victim would be quite a draw. Thomas reached for my arm as I took an unconscious step forward. I wouldn’t resort to violence, but part of me wished to strangle this man. Miss Carrie Brown had already been forced to sell herself in life; these men had no right to auction her flesh in death.
“Did you photograph the body before wiping away evidence?” I asked.
“You a nurse?” The coroner squinted at me. “Doctor’s sending all sorts down to collect his specimens now.”
My nostrils flared. Thomas carefully stepped beside me. He was worried for the old man’s safety, not mine. “Miss Wadsworth is exceptional with postmortem studies. Her inquiry is a valid point, sir. Blood evidence is often overlooked, but we’ve found instances where studying it proves most beneficial to tracing a murderer’s killing blows.”
“Did that fancy London schooling help Scotland Yard find Jack the Ripper?” He shook his head. “You’ve got thirty minutes before the meat cart comes for her. Unless you’ll be following her to the island of unclaimed bodies, I suggest focusing on what you came to do.”
Uncle held a hand up, both a command and a request for my silence. Fuming at the ignorance of that rude man, I silently counted to ten. Fantasizing about all the ways I could flay him open until I found peace once more. Uncle pulled an apron from his medical satchel and handed it to me, his focus straying to my leg. “If this is too much—”
“I’m fine, sir.” I set my cane against the cadaver table and tied the apron about my person. “Shall I make the first incision or assist while you do it?”
Uncle took in the determined set of my jaw, the defiance flashing in my eyes, and gave me a small nod of approval. He’d taught me well.
“Don’t forget to hold the skin taut.”
EIGHT
BARON OF SOMERSET
GRANDMAMA’S PARLOR
FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK CITY
22 JANUARY 1889
“Care to sit on my lap?” I whirled around and the corner of Thomas’s mouth lifted in a half smirk. “Your pacing’s having a curious effect on my pulse. If we’re going to remain distracted from our research, there are more exciting ways to pass the time that will keep our heart rates up.”
“This is hardly the time for such… pursuits, Cresswell.”
“This might be the perfect time for those pursuits. Your uncle’s escorting Liza around the city. Mrs. Harvey, bless her predictability, is napping. Which means you and I have the house to ourselves. If we were to compare it to some killer’s motivation, this is an opportunity too perfect to pass up. Shall I kiss you or would you prefer to kiss me first?”
“Oh, yes. Now that you’ve compared our romantic tryst with a murderer, I feel precisely like kissing.” I shot him my most incredulous look. “In the last twenty-four hours, we’ve discovered Jack the Ripper might not be who we thought he was and is still alive. A woman was brutally murdered. My father will be here in mere hours, deciding our fate, and you’re lounging in that chaise, sipping coffee, nibbling on petit fours, and making untoward innuendoes as if nothing is wrong.”
“They’re only untoward if you’re uninterested. Judging by the flush creeping into your face, and the way you keep glancing at my mouth with that ravish-me-now look in your eyes, I’d say you were quite keen on ruining me this moment.”
“Have you no morals?”
“Don’t be ridiculous; of course I’ve got morals. One or two, perhaps.”
“Honestly, Cresswell?” I couldn’t believe he was making light of our situation when I was certain the universe was caving in around us.
“You’re right. Three at most.”
Thomas popped another petit four into his mouth and stretched his legs out in front of him. His chest rose and fell in even intervals. It was maddening that he could be so calm and collected while I felt as if a storm was lashing about my insides.
He grinned.
“Your father, Lord Wadsworth, the great Baron of Somerset, adores me and wishes to see you happy. There’s nothing to worry over there. We’re one step closer to uncovering the truth behind the Ripper murders. Which is cause for celebration. This”—he held his cup up—“is actually a strange—yet not entirely unpleasant—herbal tea concoction Liza offered me before she left.” He took a sip of it and continued to drink me in as he did so, his gaze sweltering enough to nearly burn a hole in my resolve. “And it was a genuine request, not an innuendo.”
“Gentlemen don’t offer such crude suggestions to their loved ones.”
Trouble sparkled in his eyes. “Scoundrels do and they have entirely more fun.”
Part of me longed to fall into his arms and kiss him until all our worries melted away, but that was impractical. I snuck a quick look at him, admiring the deep blue of his suit. Thomas might be more scoundrel than gentleman, but he always dressed the part of a prince. This morning was no exception. My focus moved from the swirls on his waistcoat to the careful knot of his cravat and traveled up to his full lips. The ones that were quirked in wicked delight. My face heated as I realized I’d been caught admiring him.
“I promise not to bite or nip at you in any untoward manner. Please.” He patted the seat next to him, expression devilish yet innocent. “I have something for you.”
“Thomas—”
“Swear it.” He crossed his heart. “Here.”
He leaned over and pulled a package out from where he’d hidden it behind the chaise, a look of triumph flashing in his face. The charcoal-colored box was long and thin, with a beautiful black ribbon. Intrigued, I crossed the room and settled next to him, exchanging my cane for the box. Unable to help myself, I shook the present a bit. Whatever it was, it had been secured within an inch of its life. There wasn’t so much as a rattle.
Thomas laughed. “Go on and open it.”
Needing no further encouragement, I pulled the ribbon free and removed the lid. Inside, on a bed of crimson velvet, a gleaming new cane caught the light. For a moment, my heart stilled. I’d thought my ebony rose knob had been spectacular, but Thomas had found yet another way to impress me. I removed it, marveling at the fine craftsmanship.
The wooden shaft was dark, nearly black, with hints of crimson. A wrought silver dragon with rubies for eyes coiled around the handle of the cane, mouth open, as if it were about to set its enemies on fire. I felt an immediate kinship with it.
“I adore it, Thomas.” I ran a finger over the dragon’s scaled head, words stuck in my throat. “I am honored you wished to share your family’s legacy with me.”
“I didn’t want you to think it was claiming territory.”
I laughed outright. “Oh, Thomas. I truly love you.”
Whatever shyness or uncertainty he’d felt earlier was gone. His attention was sure and steady, and he boldly inspected me. He moved his gaze from my eyes to my lips, where it lingered a moment. I swore the boy possessed the ability to set a person ablaze using one smoldering look. “I want you to always have choices.”
Choices. Those would be grand. I glanced at the mound of journals waiting for us on the table. There was much work to be done. So many mysteries left to unravel. My head knew we needed to focus on solving these crimes, but my heart wished to curl up in front of the fire, pull Thomas into my arms, and kiss him until we were both blissfully happy. I permitted myself one more moment of this fantasy life—pretended we were the sort of couple who needn’t trouble ourselves with anything other than reading the paper and tending to the house.
A mental image of a woman lying split open snapped me back to reality.
Ever in tune with me, Thomas helped me to my feet and sighed. “You start in on the journals; I’ll fetch us more tea.”
I snagged his arm and kissed him deeply. I ran my hands through his hair, then stepped back, pleased by his tousled, surprised look. “Bring some scones and clotted cream, too. And maybe a few more petit fours. I adore those little candied flowers on top.”
Capturing the Devil Page 6
