Capturing the Devil (Stalking Jack the Ripper #4)(95)

“Someone has to,” Thomas argued.

“Did the general inspector you two spoke with seem keen on entertaining that notion?” Uncle asked. “Or what of Inspector Byrnes in New York? Did he strike you as the sort who’d take our word that Jack the Ripper was here?”

“So we’re to simply let it go, then?” Thomas looked appalled. “The world deserves to know everything about the Ripper.”





“I don’t disagree, Thomas. You’re free to do as you see fit, but I ask you to

leave my name out of this mess.” Uncle shook his head. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you when they wish to lock you in the asylum.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Thomas said, though he sounded uncertain. They had locked Uncle in an asylum during the original Ripper investigation. I shuddered at the memory of walking along the desolate corridors of Bedlam. They’d drugged and caged my uncle like an animal.

I set my mug down, wincing at my tender fingers. I thought about Frenchy Number One in New York, about how the police had fabricated evidence to lock him away. They were more concerned with preventing mass hysteria than they were with apprehending the real murderer. Finding the person who’d slain Miss Brown so brutally wasn’t their main goal. I recalled what the White City meant for not only Chicago but America as well. This was where dreams jumped out of imaginations and into reality. I had no doubt Uncle was right—General Inspector Hubbard would not hesitate to toss Thomas into an asylum, blaming his ravings on lunacy.

“He’s won,” I said, startling them both. “We don’t even know who he is and he’s stolen our only chance at solving the mystery.” I unwrapped the end of my bandage, then wound it back again. “Uncle’s right, Thomas. We can’t tell the police we had journals detailing the Ripper murders. They’d either think we were making it up or they’d think us mad. Without proof to back up our claims, we’ve got nothing. No one is interested in hearsay. They’ll want facts.”

“Then I’ll write the passages in a new journal myself.” Thomas met my gaze obstinately. “I recall enough of what they said. When we catch him, it will be his word against ours. Who will know the difference?”

“You will. I will.” I beckoned him to come closer and sit beside me. “We cannot sacrifice who we are in the pursuit of justice. If we fabricate these journals, we’ll be no better than the police who did that very thing to Frenchy Number One. We must search for another means of revealing him.”

Thomas dropped beside me, shoulders slumping. “That’s just the issue.

Without those bits of evidence, there’s nothing that ties this murderer to the crimes in London.”

“We might convince him to confess,” I said, not believing it myself. Neither Thomas nor Uncle bothered calling out the unlikelihood of that occurring. A bit of hope fluttered in my chest. “He didn’t destroy one thing, probably the most important.”

“Oh? I was fairly certain he’d obliterated what was left of our dignity, Wadsworth.”

A smile ghosted over my lips. “He didn’t succeed in breaking our spirits.

Look how we’re speaking: ‘ when we catch him.’ We must not give up hope yet.”

Uncle walked to the door, his own countenance anything but hopeful.

“Regardless of whether or not we catch him, or whether or not we can link these American crimes to England’s, one fact remains; he has found us.”

He let the weight of that statement settle around us. Thomas whipped around to face my uncle, his gaze wide. I’d been so caught up in the horrible discovery, I hadn’t yet been frightened by the fact he’d been in my room, gutting my things like they were his newest victims. Fear blew an icy breath down my neck, goose bumps rising at once. Jack the Ripper had been stalking us.

“He has crept into our home and destroyed evidence,” Uncle continued. “The staff heard nothing, despite the chaos and devastation in that room. Which means he waited until almost everyone was out of the house, doing errands, before he struck.” Uncle swallowed hard. “Do you know how he accomplished that?”

“By watching the house.” I shivered in place. “He had to have been watching us for quite some time.”

Thomas went very still beside me. “Stalking, not watching. He’s been toying with us all. But now he’s tiring of the game; he craves something more tangible than our fear.” He slowly rotated until we were face-to-face, his expression shuttering. “I guarantee it’s not me or the professor he’s after. Not when his targets have all been women.”

“Thomas,” I said slowly, “we don’t know that for certain.”

“No.” He swallowed hard. “But we soon will. It’s only a matter of when—I suspect he’s going to make his intentions clear in a dramatic showing.”

I searched my heart for the fear that ought to be present. For the terror that had coursed as readily as blood through my veins earlier. A violent murderer who’d slain more women than we probably knew thirsted for my blood. A tingle started in my center, slowly unfurling until tendrils reached my toes. Most worrisome was its cause. Determination—not fear—settled in my chest like a raging lion. I had been stalked and hunted and had escaped harm thus far.