Capturing the Devil (Stalking Jack the Ripper #4)(58)

Thomas gazed at me for a moment, then dropped into a chair, his head in his hands. “I despise this.”

“It’s a horrid situation, I know. But we will get through it. We have to.”

“No, no.” Thomas glanced up. “I despise being the one having an emotional dilemma. It’s much more enjoyable being the one consoling you. You haven’t even offered to let me sit on your lap. You’re terrible at this.”

We tentatively smiled at each other. Our grins were both gone as quickly as they’d come, but it was a start. As sick as it made me to think of beginning anew with Thomas Cresswell.

“Well.” I searched for something else to do or say in the awkward silence.

The curious part of me that always seemed to win could no longer contain itself.

“What did you do today?”

He assessed me from head to toe, paying careful attention to my face. I knew he was studying every miniature movement and plucking apart my emotions. His own impenetrable mask was back in place. I hoped I appeared strong enough to withstand whatever he said. The slight frown he let slip made me think otherwise. “I… I did pay a visit to Miss Whitehall—”

“All right.” I abruptly held up a hand. He closed his mouth, his expression strained. “Please. I don’t mean to be rude, but I feel a little ill. I-I can’t hear about this now or I may vomit. It’s too much.”

Thomas’s attention strayed to my stomach, a line of worry creasing his brow.

For the love of the queen, I was not with child. My ever-vigilant cousin had been making me drink those herbal blends for weeks. Well before Thomas and I had consummated our—I exhaled. We needed to find another pursuit.

“Would you… I’m going to study Nathaniel’s journals. You’re welcome to join.” I looked up in time to notice him wince. “If you’d like.”

He tapped an anxious rhythm on his thigh while he considered. Finally, he dragged his chair closer and pulled a journal in front of himself. He might jest about my curiosity, but his was equally piqued. A tiny sense of relief blossomed.

Things were easier between us when we had a mystery to solve.

“Le bon Dieu est dans le détail,” he said, his tone reverent. At my knitted brow, he amended, “Flaubert.”

“I meant the sentence, Cresswell.” Unable to help myself, I rolled my eyes.

Leave it to Thomas to quote the author of Madame Bovary—in French—at a time such as this. His theatrics truly knew no bounds. “‘The “God” is in the detail’ ought to be shifted to the ‘devil.’”

He laughed. “True. There’s certainly nothing holy about the notes in these devil’s journals.”





TWENTY-FIVE

VIVISECTIONS AND OTHER HORRORS

GRANDMAMA’S UPSTAIRS STUDY

FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK CITY

7 FEBRUARY 1889

A few hours later, Thomas and I had fallen into a familiar, peaceful work rhythm. Sir Isaac tried assisting in our endeavor a few times by batting my nibs of ink off the tables. I glared while Thomas howled with laughter. After he’d stolen Thomas’s favorite pen, the cat found himself back on his cushion, washing himself without a care in the world.

Though that was where our levity ended. Our reading material made my stomach twist into intricate knots. I could barely bring myself to read this secret and hideous part of my brother. On more than one occasion I had to close one of his journals, steeling myself once more before pressing onward. It was a monumental task—there were over one hundred notebooks, some filled entirely from cover to cover with small script, while others had bits and pieces of ideas sprinkled every few pages. The handwriting shifted with Nathaniel’s moods. The more wild and outlandish the idea, the more illegible the script became.

His sketches, however, remained eerie in their precise lines and careful shading. My brother was always a perfectionist. From his carefully pomaded hair to his finely tailored suits. Despite what he’d done, I missed him.

My rose and hibiscus tea sat untouched, its steam having long since stopped breathing fragrant wisps into the air. Now it looked like a cup of chilled blood. A memory of another time and place played across my mind. Nathaniel had had a bottle of congealing blood in a bottle in his laboratory. I wondered now if it had

been animal or human.

“I cannot believe he performed so many ghastly experiments.” I tugged a chenille throw blanket tighter. “Vivisections.” I nearly gagged at one of his sketched images of a live animal flayed open; my brother spared no detail of its torture. “I don’t understand. My brother loved animals. He was the one who’d cry himself to sleep if he couldn’t save a stray. How could he have done this?

How could I have not seen the wickedness in him sooner?”

Without lifting his head from his book, Thomas sighed. “Because you loved him. It’s normal to reason away oddities in his behavior. Love is wonderful, but as with most forces of nature, there’s lightness and darkness within it. I believe in some instances the greater the love, the more we ignore facts that are obvious to others. You did not see the signs because you could not. It’s not inadequacy on your part—it’s simply self-preservation.”

I snorted. “Or denial.”

“Perhaps.” Thomas shrugged. “If you accepted the truth of your brother, you’d be forced to confront your own darkness. You’d discover your morals aren’t defined in terms such as black or white, good or bad. Most shy away from that level of introspection. It makes us realize we’re villains. At least in part. We also all have the capacity to be heroes. Miss Whitehall might think me a villain for trying to break our engagement, while you believe me to be a hero for that very same act. At some point, we’re all someone’s hero and another’s villain. It’s all a matter of perspective. And that changes as frequently as the cycles of the moon.”