Stalking Jack the Ripper (Stalking Jack the Ripper #1)(25)

“Can you not deduce it, Cresswell?”

“I’m not a magician, Wadsworth,” he said. “I can deduce when facts are presented to me—not when they’re purposely obscured.”

I narrowed my eyes. Even though there were a thousand other things I should be concerned with, I couldn’t stop myself from asking. “Are you feeling ill?” His attention shifted to me before moving back to the window. “Do you suffer from claustrophobia, or agoraphobia?”

“I find the act of traveling very dull.” He sighed. “Another moment of the inane conversation of the people behind us or the blasted chugging of the engine, and I might lose my mind altogether.”

Thomas grew silent again, accentuating his point about the annoying conversation and overwhelming sound of the train.

“Perhaps this is our murderer’s motivation for killing,” he mumbled.

I laid my head against the seat and eavesdropped. According to society, this was precisely what young women were supposed to be concerned with. Shoes, silks, dinner parties, and who might be the handsomest duke or lord in the kingdom. How one might secure an invitation to an important ball or tea. Who was in the queen’s favor, who wasn’t. Who was old and smelly but worth marrying anyway.

My daily worries were so far removed, I feared I’d always be shunned amongst my peers. While I enjoyed finery, I tried imagining myself chattering on about a napkin design, but my thoughts kept turning to deceased bodies, and I laughed at my failure to even picture being a so-called normal young lady.

I was determined to be both pretty and fierce, as Mother had said I could be. Just because I was interested in a man’s job didn’t mean I had to give up being girly. Who defined those roles anyhow?

“Truly, Thomas,” I said, trying to contain a laugh. “People needn’t debate rhetoric in order to be interesting. Is there nothing you fancy outside of the laboratory?”

Thomas was unamused. “You aren’t exactly the queen of intellectually stimulating conversation this afternoon.”

“Feeling neglected, are you?”

“Perhaps I am.”

“We’re going to see my father’s former valet, you insufferable thing,” I said. “I’ve reason to believe he might have information regarding one of our victims. Satisfied?”

Thomas’s leg stopped bouncing and he swiveled to face me. I sincerely disliked when he studied me so openly, as if I were a complex mathematical equation he had to solve. He absentmindedly tapped his leg, leaving me to conclude his brain was working furiously.

The train whistle blew a steam-filled warning that Reading station was approaching at the same time a flourish of rain pelted our windows, as if on cue.

He smiled to himself. “Looks like this afternoon just became a bit more intriguing.”

Horse hooves clacked on the wet stones of Broad Street as our rented carriage moved up the hill to Aldous Thornley’s residence. My stomach flipped with each jolting sway, and I feared I’d lose my lunch on the rain-soaked cobblestones. I pulled the navy curtain back, focusing on our surroundings instead of my growing nausea.

The town was filled with people selling wares despite the unpleasant weather. Awnings covered vendors from the elements; I watched as a woman haggled with a man over a basket of seeds she was selling.

Thomas pointed to a large building on our right, purposely leaning over my shoulder, his breath tickling the high lace collar covering my neck. “Reading. Famous for its three B’s of business. Breweries, Bulbs, and Biscuits. That’s the Huntley and Palmers factory.”

“Their biscuits are my favorite for tea,” I said. Though I didn’t absorb much of what Thomas was saying regarding the history of their company. I twisted my hands until I popped a button off my gloves, then stopped.

If he noticed—which he most likely did—Thomas didn’t comment on my display of nervousness. I was grateful he didn’t ask me to explain anything further about our trip and even more grateful for his attempt to distract me by pointing out every factory we passed.

Another giant building puffed smoke into the rainy sky, like a man exhaling a cigar into the atmosphere.

This morning I’d been sure coming here was the best course of action; now, little buds of doubt were blossoming in my mind. Each drop of water hitting the top of our carriage echoed loudly in my ears, setting my nerves on edge.

“Maybe Miss Emma Elizabeth did work for my household prior to her fall into destitution,” I said. “Maybe that’s where her connection to my father ends.”

“Perhaps,” Thomas said, studying me. “It’s best knowing for sure, though.”

I chewed my bottom lip, hating myself for worrying so much. Was I mostly worried about being wrong or being horrendously wrong in front of Thomas? The latter half of that question bothered me. Since when had his opinion of my intelligence become so important? I could barely stand him. What he thought of me should mean absolutely nothing.

But it did matter. More than I cared to admit.

Then there was the even darker question I didn’t want to acknowledge at all. What connected my father to these two murdered women? I couldn’t help fearing the odds were stacked against this being some bizarre coincidence. But how everything fit together remained a mystery.

“Well, if anyone in our household knows intimate details of my father’s life before Mother’s death, it’s Mr. Thornley,” I said.