Stalking Jack the Ripper (Stalking Jack the Ripper #1)(27)

I covered my nose with the back of my hand, catching Thomas doing the same from the corner of my eye. The smell was overwhelming at best, and the sight before us was by far the worst thing I’d ever seen.

Which was saying a lot, as I’d witnessed the putrid insides of the departed on countless occasions during Uncle’s postmortems.

I closed my eyes, but the rotten image was burned onto the backs of my lids.

I would’ve thought him long deceased, but the slight rise and fall of his chest defied what my eyes told me to be true. If I were a superstitious person, I’d believe he was one of the undead haunting the English moors, searching for souls to steal.

Or possibly eat.

All my life I’d been interested in biological anomalies, like the Elephant Man, gigantism, conjoined twins, and ectrodactyly, but this seemed a cruel act of God.

The young woman was right. This was the place nightmares came to be inspired.

The curtains inhaled wet breaths, then slowly exhaled—their dampness sticking to the wood before rustling free with the next gust of storm-drenched wind.

I took a breath through my mouth. We needed to either run back downstairs—and preferably all the way to the train station while screaming bloody murder—or speak with the poor man immediately.

The former had my vote even if it meant running in the rain, in heeled boots and possibly breaking my neck, but the latter was inevitably what we were going to do.

Thomas nodded encouragement, then walked fully into the room, leaving me propped against the door frame with nothing but my wits supporting me. If he was capable of facing this, then so was I.

If only my body would catch up with my brain’s courage.

He pulled two chairs close to the bed—their limbs scraping in protest—before motioning for me to have a seat. My legs carried me across the room, seemingly of their own volition, spurring my heart into a steady gallop. I buried my hands in the folds of my skirts once I sat down. I didn’t want poor Thornley seeing how badly they were shaking; he was going through enough as it was.

A vicious cough raked his body, forcing veins on his neck to stand out like tree roots being yanked from the earth. I poured a glass of water from a pitcher next to the bed, carefully bringing it to his lips.

“Drink this, Mr. Thornley,” I said gently. “It’ll soothe your throat.”

The old man slowly sipped from the glass. Water sloshed all over his chin, and I dabbed it with a handkerchief to avoid giving him chills on top of his other ailments. When he’d had enough, his milky eyes turned to mine. I had no idea if he was blind, but smiled at him nonetheless. Recognition filtered into his features after a moment or two.

“Miss Wadsworth.” He coughed again, this time less violently than before. “You’re as lovely as your mother. She would’ve been pleased with how fine you turned out, Lord rest her soul.”

Even though I’d heard it all my life, it still brought the sting of tears to my eyes. Reaching out, I smoothed his thinning hair off his forehead, mindful of avoiding the open sores. I didn’t think he was contagious, but took no chances and kept my gloves on. He closed his eyes, his chest stilling.

At first I was terrified he’d crossed into the afterlife, then his eyes fluttered open. I exhaled. We needed answers straightaway. I hated myself for jumping right into things, but feared he’d quickly lose energy and be unable to speak much longer.

I said a silent prayer that my ticket home was still heading directly for London and not detouring into Hell.

Thomas watched the valet with complete detachment, ignoring everything else altogether. It chilled me, seeing how unaffected he was by our current situation; how capable he was of flicking his emotions off on command. No matter how useful it was, it was still unnatural and reminded me of how little I knew him beyond Uncle’s laboratory.

As if sensing my distress, Thomas drew out of his deductions long enough to meet my worried gaze and nod. It jolted me from my thoughts. I leaned closer to the bed, tying my nerves into knots.

“I know you’re unwell, Mr. Thornley, but I was hoping to ask you a bit about my father.” I took a deep breath. “I’d also like to know who Miss Emma Elizabeth Smith was.”

He stared, his eyes—and whatever memories played behind them—shuttering before me. His attention shifted to Thomas. “Are you betrothed to my dear girl?”

Thomas actually turned scarlet, his well-armored demeanor shaken. He stuttered through a response, looking in every direction but mine. “I, um, well—we’re—she’s…”

“Colleagues,” I supplied, unable to stop myself from enjoying how flustered he’d gotten. In spite of the purpose of our visit, and how odd his behavior could be, I was quite pleased something rattled him. All the more because it was over me. He rolled his eyes when I grinned at him. “We’re both apprenticing under Uncle, that is.”

Thornley closed his eyes, but not before I caught a flash of disapproval. Even straddling death’s doorway, he was appalled by my association with Uncle and his unholy research. Apparently the fact that I wasn’t spending more time securing a husband was another strike against me. I’d have felt shame if I hadn’t had a greater purpose for being here. Let people think what they like, I thought crossly, then immediately cringed.

The man was dying. I needn’t worry about his opinion or scorn him for it.