Stalking Jack the Ripper (Stalking Jack the Ripper #1)(9)

“Pardon me, but you don’t—”

Thomas closed the journal he’d been sketching in and walked around the corpse, rudely speaking over me. “Especially when he could easily slice her open at the river, allowing evidence to wash away without dirtying his hands further. Not to mention”—he pointed to her soiled boots—“the mud caked onto her heels.”

I scrunched my nose as if something worse than rotten flesh was in the air. I hated the fact I’d missed making the connection between the dirt on her boots and the muddy banks of the river. I hated even more that Thomas hadn’t missed it.

“Hasn’t rained here in almost a week,” he went on, “and there are a number of dark corners near the Thames ripe for Leather Apron’s picking.”

“You just stated it was ridiculous to presume he killed her at the slaughterhouse,” I said, narrowing my eyes. “Now you’ve gone and called him a leather apron?”

“I was referencing the Leather Apron. Haven’t you seen a paper this afternoon?” Thomas studied me as if I were a specimen he’d possibly like to dissect. “Surely choosing the perfect silken shoes isn’t more important than finding a blood-crazed murderer. Yet… look at those things on your feet, getting all stained and gory. Is your interest in science simply an attempt at finding a husband? Shall I grab my coat, then?”

He flashed a roguish grin at my scowl. “I’m sure your uncle won’t mind stopping his investigation to chaperone us”—he turned to Uncle—“would you, Dr. Wadsworth? I do admit your niece is quite beautiful.”

I averted my gaze. I’d forgotten less frilly shoes in my mad rush to exit the house. Not that there was anything wrong with my slippers. If I chose to wear them to postmortems it was my choice and my choice alone.

Perhaps I’d do it from now on simply to irk him.

“You know an awful lot about how this murderer thinks,” I said sweetly. “Perhaps we should investigate your whereabouts that evening, Mr. Cresswell.”

He gazed at me, a dark brow arched in contemplation. I swallowed hard, but held his stare. A minute later he nodded as if coming to some sort of conclusion about me.

“If you’re going to follow me around at night, Miss Wadsworth” —his attention flicked to my feet—“I’d advise you to wear more sensible shoes.” I opened my mouth to retort; however, Mr. Thomas Cresswell spoke over me again. Brash fool. “The Leather Apron is what they’re calling our murderer.”

He moved around the examination table, stalking closer to where I stood. I wanted to back away, but he held me in his magnetic orbit. He stopped before me, a softness briefly flashing across his features, and my heart picked up speed.

Lord help the girl he set those eyes on for good. His boyish vulnerability was a weapon, powerful and disarming. I was thankful I wasn’t the kind of girl to lose my mind over a handsome face. He’d need to work a bit harder to gain my affection.

“To answer your earlier question, Dr. Wadsworth,” he said, tearing his gaze from mine, his tone more serious than before, “I fully believe this is only the beginning. What we have on our hands is the start of a career murderer. No one with that kind of surgical prowess would commit one murder then stop.”

His lips quirked slightly when he noticed my incredulous expression. “I know I wouldn’t. One taste of warm blood is never enough, Miss Wadsworth.”





The Princess Alice, c. 1880s





FOUR


A DANCE WITH THE DEVIL


WADSWORTH RESIDENCE,

BELGRAVE SQUARE

7 SEPTEMBER 1888

Leather Apron and the Whitechapel Murderer were the headlines of the last week.

Everywhere I looked, a new theory was introduced by another supposed expert in the field. Detective inspectors had several doctors examine the body of Miss Nichols and, for the most part, they’d all come to the same conclusions as Uncle Jonathan.

Most everyone disagreed with Uncle’s theory of her being assaulted while standing, however. They did agree her throat was slashed prior to the incisions made along her abdomen, and that whoever was responsible was unlikely to simply stop now.

East End residents were terrified to go out after sunset, fearing every shadowy figure was the depraved murderer. Prostitutes were warned to be on high alert, but their need to pay for lodging kept them from completely abandoning the streets.

My father was worse than ever, coming unhinged, it seemed, every time I left the house. It was becoming harder to sneak about or come up with excuses for leaving that he didn’t question. He’d let go of all our maids and hired a whole new lot, his paranoia of them infecting our family with Lord only knew what overshadowing his reason. There was no point telling him that new servants were more likely to bring infection in, as they’d been outside our home and in the scary, disease-spreading world.

Pretty soon I feared he’d be escorting me everywhere himself. Unfortunately, that meant attending Uncle’s forensic medicines class had become nearly impossible, though I was fortunate I could still make it to the laboratory.

“I fully believe this is only the beginning.” Mr. Thomas Cresswell’s ominous warning replayed through my mind each passing day. It felt like the uneasy stillness before the storm, and I found myself even more restless than usual at night. I had a hard time fully believing his theory, though. The thought of any more murders taking place was simply out of the question. I’d never heard of a career murderer before.