Ambrosia (Frost and Nectar, #2)(77)

“There isn’t much light here without the spotlights. And most people out at this time in the City are likely plastered.”

I looked around. The body was reasonably hidden from the nearby street, but anyone looking a bit carefully would surely have noticed it. “He must have been silent. And calm. This is… extraordinary.”

“I agree. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“Any organs missing from the scene?” I asked, thinking of the previous cases.

“The heart, at least, but I’m not sure what else. We’ll have a preliminary autopsy report tomorrow.”

“Did you do a door-to-door? Did anyone hear anything?”

“We’ve only just found her,” he countered. “And no one lives around here. Unless you wander further east, it’s all empty banks and businesses at this hour.”

I stared at the woman. “Do we have an ID?”

“Her name is Catherine Taylor,” Gabriel said. “Nineteen years old. There was a driver’s license in her purse, discarded by the body. We don’t know if it’s a coincidence yet.”

“Coincidence?” I asked.

A sigh slid from him. “Jack the Ripper killed a woman called Catherine Eddowes in Mitre Square.”

My throat tightened. Shit. Was he starting to mimic the actual Ripper? “The other victims weren’t killed in places where the Ripper struck.”

“This is the first that overlaps.”

“And the other names didn’t match the original Ripper’s victims, right?”

“No. I imagine he is adjusting his signature as he goes along. But then, I’m no profiler, so perhaps I’d best leave all the complicated stuff to you.”

I narrowed my eyes. Some British people were under the impression that Americans didn’t understand sarcasm, and perhaps it was best if I just played along. “Right. Best leave it to the experts.”

He stared at me for just a moment before the medical examiner interrupted. “Detective. Can you have a look at this?”

Gabriel crossed to the body. As he quietly spoke to the man, my gaze wandered to Catherine’s eyes again. What had gone through her mind in her final moments? Had she thought of anyone she loved, or had the pain overwhelmed her?

My fingers tightened into fists. I wasn’t sure if it was my own past coming to the surface, the way it sometimes did at times like this, but I suddenly had an overwhelming desire to catch her killer and kick the living shit out of him before I put him behind bars.

Gabriel knelt close to Catherine’s mouth, inspecting it.

I leaned over to get a better look. “What is it?”

“There’s something here. It’s shoved into her throat. Hang on…”

The man crouching by the body handed Gabriel a pair of medical forceps. Carefully, Gabriel inserted them into the victim’s mouth, grimacing as the metal rattled against the teeth. He struggled with it for a second, before finally removing a small piece of paper, spattered in blood.

“What the hell?” he muttered.

Carefully, he unfolded it, and I peered over his shoulder.

It was a note, the cursive letters looping over the paper.

The King of Hearts

Tears minds apart,

Deep below the water;

From Bedlam’s den,

He lures them in,

Like lambs led to the slaughter.





For just a moment I heard the sound of a rushing river, before the noise disappeared again.

I shook sensation from my mind.

Gabriel rose, frowning. “What’s he playing at?” he asked, more to himself than anyone else.

Unnerved, I swallowed hard. “Jack the Ripper left notes, right?”

“Scribbles on a wall. Some tosh about Jews. But nothing like this.”

“And this is the first time our current Ripper has left a note?”

He was still staring at the paper. “The first one.”

“Well, if you want my input…” I stopped myself short. I needed to avoid coming off like a know-it-all, or I’d alienate him immediately. “Perhaps we can discuss this tomorrow morning. I’ll gather a few ideas during the day, and I’d be interested to know your thoughts as well.”

Gabriel nodded. “Right. I don’t suppose you have an initial assessment?”

“I’d prefer to do a bit of research first. But the note and the gruesome display indicate that the killer seems to enjoy the attention of being the next Ripper. Maybe part of his fantasy revolves around the media and the police. The tabloid headlines might increase his obsession. And if so, maybe he’d want to see us working his cases up close.”

I watched him carefully, interested if he’d get what I was implying. He stared at me for a long moment, before glancing over my shoulder, at the crowd beyond the tape. Then, he turned to the photographer—a middle-aged woman with a very expensive-looking camera.

“I want detailed pictures of the crowd,” he said in a low voice. “Don’t aim the camera straight at them. I don’t want anyone to avoid the picture.”

She nodded, pointing her camera at the blood spatter around the body. Slowly, she tilted the lens slightly higher, so that it would catch the people behind the tape. She took a few photographs, nudging the camera left and right. She knew what she was doing. And so did the detective.