The postcard was written in the same hand as the first letter, the loops too similar to be a coincidence. The front of the offending document held no greater clue than the one before it had. It was addressed to:
Central News Office
London City
“Good morning, Amelia, Liza. I believe your carriage is ready.” Father strode into the dining room with a paper of his own tucked under an arm and concern set upon his face when his attention turned to me. “Filling your head with safe and appropriate things? Or are you disobeying my wishes so soon, Audrey Rose?”
I lifted my face and smiled, an action more akin to a sneer.
“I was unaware keeping abreast of the daily news was inappropriate. Perhaps I shall spend my time, and your money, on new corsets to bind my will from my lips,” I said sweetly. “Wearing something so constricting ought to tether my vocal cords nicely. Wouldn’t you agree?”
Father’s eyes flashed a warning, but he’d not find me cowering today. I would solve this Ripper case even if it meant awakening the sleeping beast from within whomever it was resting. That same creature was scratching and howling for a chance to be set free from inside me. I promised it all in due time, placating it for the moment.
“Well, then.” Aunt Amelia stood, motioning for Liza to do the same. “It’s been such a lovely visit. Thank you for hosting us in your absence, dear Brother. You must take some time away from town and breathe in our country air again soon.” She turned her attention on me, lips pinched in scrutiny. “Might do Audrey Rose a world of good, getting away from this madness for a bit.”
“Perhaps you’re right.” Father opened his arms to his sister, embracing her quickly before she left the room.
Liza ran over to where I was still sitting, leaned down and gathered me into an uncomfortable hug. “You must write to me. I want to hear more about Mr. Thomas Cresswell and everything regarding the infamous Jack the Ripper. Promise you will.”
“I promise.”
“Wonderful!” She kissed my cheek, then hugged my father before dashing into the corridor. I was sad to see her go.
Father crossed the room and sat in his chair, ignoring me in a way that accentuated his displeasure with my behavior. Which suited me fine.
After Nathaniel had confessed the truth about our family’s secrets, I could barely look at Father. Mother was dying of scarlet fever, and Father knew of her already weakened heart. He never should have allowed Uncle to operate on her when her immune system was under such attack. He knew Uncle had never been successful before.
Though I couldn’t blame him for being desperate to save her. I did wonder why he’d waited so long to ask Uncle for help. I’d been under the false impression that Uncle had operated on her before she’d taken a turn for the worse. I let a sigh escape. Uncle should have known better, but how could he turn his brother away? Especially when Lord Wadsworth had finally broken down and asked for help? The tragedy of what led us here, to this broken shell of a family, was overwhelming, and I feared I’d be as consumed by grief as Father was if I thought too hard on the past.
I received word Uncle was back home late last evening, so I’d stay with him and see what I could discover there.
I opened my paper again, not caring what Father had to say about it.
“Are you so keen to end up a wretch on the streets?”
I took a sip of tea, relishing the bright taste of Earl Grey on my tongue. Father was playing a dangerous game and hadn’t a clue. “You’d know a thing or two about wretches on the street.”
He dropped his hands onto the table, knocking his flatware askance. His face was pale yet angry. “You will respect me in my own home!”
I stood, revealing my all-black riding ensemble. I allowed a full thirty seconds to pass, letting Father take in my mannish attire, shock and disbelief filtering through his expression. I tugged my leather gloves on as violently as I could, then stared down my nose at him.
“Those who deserve respect are given it freely. If one must demand such a thing, he’ll never truly command it. I am your daughter, not your horse, sir.”
I stepped closer, enjoying the way Father leaned away from me as if he were just now discovering that a cat, while precious and cute, also had sharp claws. “I’d rather be a lowly wretch on the streets than live in a house full of cages. Do not lecture me on propriety when it’s a virtue you so grossly lack.”
Without waiting for a response, I swept from the room with nothing but the sound of my heels ringing out against the silence. There would be no skirts or bustles to wrangle with anymore. I was through with things confining me.
Uncle’s laboratory was a wreck, much like the man who resided there.
Papers were scattered about, tables and chairs upturned, and servants were nervously cleaning on all fours, their attention flitting between their work and Uncle’s never-ending tirade. Whether he was upset because his precious work had been tampered with or because he’d come close to being caught for his crimes, I couldn’t tell.
But I was not leaving here without finding out.
I’d never seen him in such a state. Police brought everything back from the evidence chambers when he was released from Bedlam, but threw it back in the laboratory without a care. It seemed Blackburn was no longer interested in winning my affections.
“What miserable fiends!” Another crash reverberated in the small room off the main lab. “Years and years of documentation, gone! I’ve got half a mind to set Scotland Yard ablaze. What sort of animals do they hire?”
Thomas entered the room, taking stock of the mess. He righted a chair, then folded himself into it, annoyance scrawled over his features.
I studiously ignored him, and he responded in kind. Clearly, he was still put off by our argument. Or maybe he felt my suspicion taking form and pointing a finger toward him.
Uncle didn’t remember much from his time in the asylum. The drugs proved too strong for his mind to battle, or so he claimed. He didn’t recall mumbling his name repeatedly or any revelation that might have stepped forth from the darkness.
“Don’t just sit there!” Uncle bellowed, tossing a handful of papers in Thomas’s face. “Fix this! Fix this whole bloody mess! I cannot function like this!”
Unable to watch the madness continue, I slowly approached Uncle with my hands up, as if he were a dog driven mad and cornered. I imagined his nerves were frayed as the tonic they’d given him left his body. Uncle’s occasional outbursts were never so loud or disorganized.
“Perhaps”—I motioned around the room—“we should wait upstairs while the maids tend to this.”
Uncle Jonathan looked ready to quarrel, but I’d have none of that. My new lack of tolerance extended to all Wadsworth males. Even if he proved innocent of the Ripper murders, Uncle had other things to answer for.
I pointed to the door, leaving no room for argument. Maybe it was my new attire, or the stern set to my jaw, but the fight left Uncle rather quickly. He sighed, his shoulders slumping with defeat or relief as he tromped up the stairs.
We settled in the drawing room with cups of tea and pleasant music spilling from a steam-powered machine in the corner.
Thomas sat across from me, arms crossed and jaw set. My pulse spiked as his eyes met mine and sent sparks through my body. I longed to yell at him, demanding to know why he kept things from me, but bit my tongue. Now wasn’t the time.
Next order of business was more difficult to bridge. There was a river of lies and deceit that needed to be crossed in a short amount of time.
I looked at my uncle. He’d been raging and throwing things since I walked in until this very instant. Even now his eyes were slightly glazed over, seeing some wretched thing no one else could. New anger burned quietly under my skin. I hated what Blackburn had done to him.
I went to bury my hands in my skirts, then stopped, remembering I had no skirts to hide in. “I know what happened with Thomas’s mother.”
Thomas froze, teacup halfway to hi
s lips, eyes wide. I turned my attention on Uncle. The fog surrounding him instantly dissipated, replaced by hardness I’d never really seen in him before. “What are you getting at?”
I met his furious gaze dead-on. “After she died you and Thomas began working together. Performing secret… experiments.”
Thomas leaned forward, nearly toppling out of his seat. His hawk attention homing in on Uncle’s response. If only I could decipher his actions!
Uncle laughed incredulously when he saw the seriousness in my face.
“What does it matter if we did? We haven’t performed a surgery in nearly a year. None of this relates to our Ripper. Some ghosts should remain good and buried, Niece.”
“And some ghosts come back to haunt us, Uncle. Like Miss Emma Elizabeth Smith.”
Uncle Jonathan’s expression was as dark as my father’s, and I feared he’d send me away for intruding on his memories.
When he sat back, stubbornly crossing his arms over his chest and sealing his lips, Thomas spoke up. “I see. You ought to just tell her.”
“You don’t see anything, boy,” Uncle spat. “You’d be wise keeping it that way.”
I walked across the room and slammed the door shut, shifting their attention to me. “If it weren’t necessary to this investigation, I’d leave you to your peace. As there’s a madman on the loose, ripping women apart, and potentially trying to use their organs the way some in this room have done in the past, we do not have that luxury.”
“Technically, we’ve never tried using organs for anything,” Thomas said, then shrugged. “My mother was too ill for the procedure. We’ve tested smaller theories out, but as your uncle said, we haven’t performed surgery in a year. And that was simply reattaching a severed finger, if you desire the details.”
“And you thought it a fine idea to hide this from me?”
“We’ve been a bit preoccupied with hunting down a murderer, Wadsworth,” Thomas said flatly. “Pardon me for not discussing something I find… difficult. Aside from Dr. Wadsworth and now yourself, I’ve not spoken of my mother to anyone since she died. Especially since my father felt it appropriate to remarry before her body was cool to the touch, and my stepmother cannot be bothered with children who are not her own.”
“I—I’m sorry, Thomas.”
He shrugged again and looked away. I sat on a velvet settee. I couldn’t believe it.
This was the reason Thomas was skilled at being emotionally distant. The root of his arrogance. Liza was right—it did cover pain. My heart raced. Part of me wanted to draw him into a hug and heal his wounds, and part of me wished to ferret out all his secrets and piece the puzzle of him together this instant.
But there was the matter of Uncle and his connection to Miss Emma Elizabeth that took precedence. With great effort, I faced Uncle.
“I need to know what happened with your former betrothed.” I could see the gears working in his mind as he tried to avoid telling me the story. “Please. Tell me what became of Emma Elizabeth Smith.”
Uncle tossed his hands in the air. “Seems I know less than you.”
“Indulge me, then.”
“Oh, fine. She made me choose: her or science. When I refused, she severed all connection, saying she’d end up penniless before condoning such blasphemous work.”
Uncle put his head in his hands; clearly, thinking of his former love was taking a toll on his already fragile state. A steely determination I was very familiar with seemed to coat his bones then, rejuvenating him within the next breath.
After all, this was the man who taught his students how to divorce themselves from the human aspect of something awful and to charge ahead and seek out the facts without emotions blinding them.
He sat up straighter, doling out facts one after the other.
“Emma could’ve carried on with her life, but chose not to. Said she wanted me to hurt as much as possible, thought it’d force me into relenting.” He shook his head. “Last I’d heard she rented a room in the East End, refusing to take money from her family. Rumors started, as they have a way of doing, that she was selling herself to afford lodging.”
Uncle removed his glasses and wiped imaginary smudges from them. I couldn’t imagine what his emotions must be like. He dropped his hands into his lap. “I didn’t have the heart to find out if that was true. I pushed her from my mind, getting lost in my work, where I’ve happily lived out my days the last several years.”
“What happened the night you saw her body?” I asked quietly. “Does it remind you of the recent killings at all?”
Uncle jerked his head back, looking startled before twisting his mustache. He took a moment, flipping through the notes of his mind.
“I suppose she could be one of Ripper’s victims.” Uncle crushed the leather case he kept his glasses in, his knuckles turning white as bone. When he spoke, it was through gritted teeth. “I must return to work.”
Thomas arched a brow, then set his attention on me. It seemed there were still secrets left to be revealed. I couldn’t tell if he was in on them or not but was determined to find out.
TWENTY-THREE
THE CONJURER’S ART
LITTLE ILFORD CEMETERY,
LONDON
8 OCTOBER 1888
Two stone dragons stood sentinel over our carriage as it moved across cobblestones and through the largest of three ogival archways leading into Little Ilford Cemetery.
A heavy mist shrouded a small group of mourners standing around the freshly dug grave of Miss Catherine Eddowes, the slain woman I’d inspected during the double event, blanketing them from the harshness of the day.
Winter was biting at autumn’s toes, reminding the milder season it’d be here soon.
As a sign of respect for the deceased, I’d worn a proper gown instead of the riding habit and breeches I’d recently adopted as my ensemble of choice. My simple black dress was eerily similar to what I’d worn the night of Miss Annie Chapman’s murder. I hoped it wasn’t a prediction of worse things to come.
I felt a strange connection to Catherine, perhaps because I’d knelt over her body and examined the scene where she’d been found.
Papers described her as jolly when sober, singing a tune for anyone who’d listen. The night she was murdered she’d been drunk, lying in the street before being detained by police until shortly after one in the morning.
Ripper found her not long after that, silencing her songs forever.
Uncle stayed at his laboratory, speaking with detective inspectors about the second victim of that bloody night, ushering Thomas and me off in his carriage to glean what we could from Miss Catherine’s funeral attendees. He believed killers often visited the sites of their destruction or involved themselves in cases, though like most of his notions, it couldn’t be proven. Detective inspectors didn’t spend much time convincing Uncle his expertise was essential to solving the case. A little ego stroking on the part of the upper echelons of Scotland Yard went a long way to assuage Uncle’s damaged pride.
I couldn’t stop stealing glances at Thomas, wondering if the very monster I was hunting was standing beside me. Though his story of his mother’s death and father’s near-immediate remarriage tugged at me emotionally, perhaps that was his intention. For now I’d watch him, but act as if all was well between us.
Thomas held an umbrella over our heads, his attention focused on everyone in the gathering. There weren’t many mourners, and to be honest, none of them appeared the least bit suspicious—except for one bearded man who tossed stares over his shoulder at us. Something about him set caution humming through my veins.
“Dust thou art, and unto dust thou shalt return,” the priest quoted from the book of Genesis, holding his arms skyward. “May your soul rest more peacefully than the manner in which you left us, beloved sister.”
The handful of people murmured a collective amen before dispersing from the plot. Dreary weather kept their sadness at arm’s length and their prayers for the dead short. Moments lat
er the sky opened up and rain flowed freely, forcing Thomas to stand a bit closer with the umbrella.
Or perhaps he was using it as an excuse. He’d been hovering around me as if I were the sun his universe revolved around ever since he’d let me past one of his many emotional walls. Something to ponder another day.
I walked over to the makeshift grave marker, kneeling to run my gloved fingertips across the rough wooden cross, feeling a wave of sadness for a woman I didn’t even know. The city of London pulled together, giving her a proper burial and grave. People were always providing in death what they would not do in life, it seemed.
“Audrey Rose.” Thomas cleared his throat, and I glanced up, spotting the bearded man lingering a few paces off, looking torn between approaching us and fading into the desolate, gray morning. Unable to shake the feeling he had something important to impart to us, I motioned for Thomas to follow me.
“If he won’t come to us,” I said over my shoulder, “we’ll bring ourselves to him.” I stopped before him, extending my hand. “Good morning. My name is—”
“Miss Audrey Rose Wadsworth. Daughter of Malina and—what’s that?” he asked an invisible person to his left. Thomas and I exchanged baffled looks.
Clearly, he was unbalanced, speaking to air. But there was something about him knowing my mother’s name that unnerved me. He nodded to something we still couldn’t see.
“Ah, yes. Daughter of Malina and Edmund. Your mother says you’re welcome to the necklace in the photograph. The heart-shaped locket, I believe. Yes, yes,” he said, nodding again. “That’s right. The one you admired in your father’s study. It’s being used as a bookmark of sorts.”
He paused, squinting at nothing. My heart was very near breaking its way out of my body. Thomas grabbed my arm, steadying me as I swayed on my feet. How could this man possibly know these things? Memories of sneaking into Father’s study and looking upon the photograph of Mother assaulted my senses.
I’d been admiring that locket, wondering where it was hidden…
No one knew about that. I barely even recalled it myself. I took a wavering step back, frightened yet not quite believing this was not some act of deceit. Some illusionist’s manipulation of the truth. I’d read reports in papers of charlatans and tricksters. Unscrupulous fakers making profit by showing audiences what they wanted to believe. There was some kind of smoke and mirrors game being played, and I’d have none of it.