Capturing the Devil (Stalking Jack the Ripper #4)(98)
Thomas stepped forward and wrapped his arms around me as I shivered in place. I tried to ignore the effect Mephistopheles’s words had on my growingly superstitious mind, but I couldn’t help but feel as if he spoke of the future. One he’d seen as clear as a cloudless day when the rest of us were stumbling in the fog.
“What about Trudy?” I asked, desperately casting about for a reason to make him stay. “Don’t you wish to discover if she’s the body in the morgue?”
“I trust you’ll sort it out the way you do best.”
He tipped his bullion-trimmed top hat, then vanished one last time. I could only hope we hadn’t just allowed a murderer to roam free once more.
Vintage Post Mortem Tools
FORTY-TWO
WHITE CITY STAINED RED
WORLD’S COLUMBIAN EXPOSITION
CHICAGO, ILLINOIS
16 FEBRUARY 1889
One would never guess while walking through the heavenly city above that underneath it lay labyrinthine tunnels used by workers and laborers servicing the fair. It made sense, though. In order to keep the illusion alive and well, fairgoers couldn’t be bothered with mundane things such as rubbish being carted and loos cleaned.
As we followed members of the Columbian Guard deeper underground, we passed rooms filled with props and excess items for the fair. A riot of flowers was in one, buckets of creamy white paint and an odd-looking spray contraption in another. Electrical devices and popped-corn machines and things to delight—
all polished and ready to go. There were boxes of Cracker Jack, which everyone had been eating the last time we were here. A scent of caramel mixed with salt followed us as we wound down and through another corridor.
Even being in the bowels of the grand city above, I felt awed by the majesty of it all. Then there was the secret chamber we were headed to. The one not mentioned in any pamphlet or newspaper. Beneath the beating heart of the Court of Honor was a command station larger than an army’s. Within its well-fortified walls, there was a morgue.
The lead guard paused outside a door with no name etched onto it. Unlike the others, it was closed, the lights out within. I knew where we were before he set his key in the lock and ushered us into the cool space. He flicked a light on, the
slight buzz the only sound in the room. I scrunched my nose at the sharp scent. It smelled of bleach. My eyes watered and my throat burned. I wondered if they’d spilled a ten-liter jug or if they’d purposely used so much.
Whatever their reasoning, it was strange. Almost as if they were trying to scrub any stains from the glistening streets, even this far below.
Thomas blinked but, other than that, showed no discomfort. He was alert, his attention sweeping the room from ceiling to floor to the large drawers set into the far wall. The ones that held bodies, no doubt. I moved my own focus around, absorbing as much as I could of the sterile space. Everything here was white as well. The tiles that extended from the floor to the top of the walls. Everything was built of cool, smooth stone except for the ceiling.
A hose mounted on one wall featured an ornate crank, the only bit of beauty in an otherwise blank canvas. I caught a glimpse of familiar medical tools and aprons peeking out from an open closet door. Three silver tables were evenly spaced, the holes on top of them indicating they were meant for postmortems. A silver pail sat positioned under each and I fought my revulsion as I pieced together its purpose. I didn’t see any sawdust, and the stench of bleach made sense. Bodily fluids would funnel into the holes and get collected in the pails.
The guard who’d unlocked the door cleared his throat. “Dr. Rosen will be here shortly to answer your questions.”
With that, he stepped back toward the door, nodding to someone on the other side. Thomas and I both flinched as he shut the door behind him, locking it with a click that seemed to thrum in my chest.
I slowly inhaled and exhaled, ignoring the burning in my throat. I hated cages. “Why would they lock us in here?”
Thomas was quiet a moment, considering. Finally, he said, “I wonder if it’s not us they’re concerned with keeping in, but keeping others out.”
“Do you believe our murderer is employed by the fair?”
Thomas shrugged. “Until we examine the body, we won’t know if it’s the same person who’s killed in New York and London. Should we open the drawer and see what we find?”
A sense of calm radiated around me as I moved toward the drawers. My cane clicked loudly in the small room, though my pulse no longer raced in time with it. I paused at the only drawer with a label: Miss Trudy Jasper. The missing woman who’d worked for Mephistopheles.
I set my cane down and pulled the drawer handle. At first it wouldn’t budge; then Thomas came over and we both managed to open it with our combined
effort.
A marble-white body greeted us. Her hair was a lovely shade of auburn, reminding me a bit of flames. Her eyes were closed, though I imagined them being a wondrous hazel for some reason. No one had bothered covering her, and her wounds were immediately visible.
I was grateful I’d set my cane down or else I’d have knocked it over as I gripped the edge of the floating metal drawer holding her up. I squeezed my eyes shut, knowing it wouldn’t do any good to stop the images I was seeing.
Memories ran wild.
Suddenly, I was no longer standing in this strange crypt below the White City. I was back in London, in a foggy alleyway. The moon hung suspiciously low in the sky—yellow like a cat’s eye, watching the chaotic world below as if it were a mouse to toy with.