Capturing the Devil (Stalking Jack the Ripper #4)(17)
I fought a fresh wave of tears and reached up to hold Thomas’s hand in mine.
“I—”
“If you’re both so inclined to join us,” Uncle said, entering the chamber, eyes flashing at Thomas’s other hand still touching my shoulder, “Inspector Byrnes is in the parlor.”
Bellevue Hospital, circa 1885/1898
SEVEN
MISERY LANE
GRANDMAMA’S PARLOR
FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK CITY
21 JANUARY 1889
Inspector Byrnes stood with his large hands clutched behind his back, staring at a portrait of my grandfather that hung like a warning over the fireplace. Judging from the straightness of his posture and the way his muscles looked ready to spring forward at the smallest hint of trouble, his news wasn’t good. Not that I expected it to be.
“Thank you for calling on us so late, Inspector,” Uncle said by way of greeting. “Would you care for a drink?”
The inspector turned and removed a folded newspaper from his coat. He leaned over and slapped it onto a rather delicate end table, his cheeks deepening to near purple as he read the headline through clenched teeth.
JACK THE RIPPER HAS COME TO AMERICA.
“This abomination of a headline will be shouted by every newsboy in the city come dawn. I don’t know what happened in London, but it won’t stand here!”
He straightened and took a moment to compose himself. “I won’t let Jack the Ripper strike fear into the heart of my city, Dr. Wadsworth.”
A muscle in Uncle’s jaw twitched, the only indication he was getting annoyed. “I am a man of science, not a portending device. If you’d like to give
me more details, perhaps I can help craft a better understanding or profile of who this killer is. Differences in wounds left on the victim could help alleviate hysteria. Unless you share your findings, I’m afraid I have nothing else to offer.”
“Fine. You want more facts? We confirmed the victim’s identity as a Miss Carrie Brown, a local wh… prostitute,” Byrnes said, clearly shifting his words because of my presence. What a pleasant gentleman. I all but rolled my eyes.
“Friends called her Old Shakespeare, since she used to quote him when she was deep in her cups.”
Thomas and I glanced at each other. Now that there was a significant potential that the Ripper was alive and well, ignoring the parts that fit with his previous killings was difficult. He was known for victimizing prostitutes who’d been heavy drinkers. Just like this murderer.
“A friend of hers came forward, an Alice Sullivan,” Byrnes continued. “Alice said she saw Carrie twice that day. Carrie hadn’t had a proper meal in days, so that afternoon Alice got them sandwiches at a saloon. She claims they met up again for an evening meal at the local Christian mission before going their separate ways to do their business.”
“When was the last time she was seen?” Uncle asked.
“Alice said around half past eight that night. Saw her with a man named Frenchy.”
“Was Alice the last person to witness her alive with him?” I asked.
Inspector Byrnes shook his head. “Mary Minter, the housekeeper at the hotel, saw her take a man into her room later that evening. She said he wore a black derby hat and had a thick mustache. Real dodgy. Didn’t look anyone in the eye, kept his face down. Like he was trying to not be noticed. We can’t confirm if it was Frenchy or someone else.”
“Has someone tracked down Frenchy?” Uncle asked.
“Apparently, she was seen with two different men named Frenchy last night.”
At Uncle’s confused look, he clarified, “Frenchy is a popular nickname around that neighborhood. One man is called Isaac Perringer. We’re still lookin’ for the other. For now we’re callin’ them Frenchy Number One and Frenchy Number Two. I’ve got my best men out searching for them. We’ll round them all up and show them to the witnesses.”
“Most hotels, even more questionable ones, require a ledger to be signed,”
Thomas said. “Did anyone on your staff inquire about it?”
“Course. What kind of fools do you think we are over here?” Byrnes gave Thomas a scathing look. “He registered them as a C. Nicolo and wife.”
“Do you have a photograph of the ledger?” I asked.
Byrnes frowned. I was unsure if it was our inquisition about his police work, or if the question caught him off guard. “Can’t say that I do. Why?”
“An analysis of the writing might prove this murder cannot be connected to the London Ripper,” Uncle said, giving me a swift nod of approval. “If you’re so keen to quiet the papers, it’d be an excellent way to show the person in question’s hand is different from known Ripper letters. Between that and securing a witness to place either ‘Frenchy’ at the murder scene, it ought to be easy enough to tamp down Ripper hysteria.”
“You’re expecting a drunken lot, most of whom lack proper intelligence during the best of times, to be reliable witnesses.” Byrnes buttoned his overcoat and donned a bowler hat. I fought the urge to remind him that he was the one who’d suggested “rounding them up,” not Uncle. And it was their circumstances, not their intelligence, that made them turn to the bottle. “You’re either incredibly na?ve, or hopeful, or both, Dr. Wadsworth.” He tipped his hat and headed for the door. “Good night.”