Stalking Jack the Ripper (Stalking Jack the Ripper, #1)(16)
As if a light had illuminated the dark, he snapped his fingers. “He has a deep hatred for women, for what they represent to him, or something from his past. Somewhere along the line, a woman disappointed him greatly.”
“Why attack prostitutes?” I asked, ignoring Uncle as he cringed at my improper word choice.
“First, they’re easy, opportunity-wise. They also follow men into dark places eagerly.” Thomas walked closer, his attention landing on me for the briefest moment before moving on to the cadaver. “Maybe he fears the threat they pose. Or perhaps he’s some sort of religious zealot, ridding the world of whores and harlots.”
Uncle slammed his hands down on the table, causing a specimen jar to slosh onto the wooden surface. “That’s enough! It’s improper enough to be teaching Audrey Rose such things, we needn’t use vulgarity in the process.”
I sighed. I’d never understand the way a man’s mind worked. My gender didn’t handicap me. Yet I was blessed that Uncle was modern enough to allow my apprenticeship with him, and so I would tolerate these minimal annoyances.
“I apologize, sir.” Thomas cleared his throat. “But I believe if your niece can handle dissecting a human, she can handle intelligent conversation without fainting. Her intellect, though nowhere near as vast as mine, may prove useful.”
Thomas cleared his throat again, preparing himself for Uncle’s backlash, but my uncle quietly relented. I couldn’t help staring, open-mouthed, at him. He’d actually defended me. In that annoying, roundabout way of his. But still. Seemed I wasn’t the only one experiencing growing respect.
“Very well. Do go on.”
Thomas glanced at me, then took a deep breath.
“He loathes these creatures of the night. Loathes they’re alive, selling themselves. I wager the one he loves or loved has likely left him. Perhaps he feels betrayed in a way.” Thomas picked his tea back up, taking a careful sip before setting it down again. “I wouldn’t be surprised if his wife or betrothed committed suicide—the ultimate act of leaving him.”
Uncle, returning quickly to his scientific mind-set, nodded. “He also feels he’s entitled to take what he wants. Literally. He paid for it, after all. In his eyes, he’s telling these woman exactly what he’s after, therefore they’re willing participants in his…”
“Murders.” A sick feeling tied bows in my stomach. Someone was running about the streets tricking women into agreeing to be butchered. “Is it possible he’s living out a fantasy?” I asked, thinking aloud. “Perhaps he’s trying to play God.”
Thomas almost fell over from stopping so short. He twisted on his heel and crossed the room in a few short strides. Clutching my elbows, he kissed my cheek, rendering me both speechless and scarlet.
My focus shot to my uncle as I touched my cheek, but he said nothing of this inappropriate behavior; his mind was latched on to murder.
“You’re brilliant, Audrey Rose,” Thomas said, eyes glittering with admiration. He held my gaze a moment too long to be polite. “That’s got to be it! We’re dealing with someone who thinks himself a god of sorts.”
“Well done, both of you.” Uncle’s eyes shone with renewed hope and near certainty. “We’ve secured a possible motive.”
“Which is what?” I asked, not fully following the motive they were talking about. I was having difficulty thinking of anything other than Thomas’s lips on my cheek, and the grotesqueness of our conversation.
Uncle inhaled deeply. “Our murderer is using his religious views to determine these women’s fate. I would be unsurprised if he were some closet crusader or perhaps he’s a failed clergyman, killing in the name of God.”
A new realization sat heavy upon my breast. “Which means there could be more victims.” And a lot more blood before this was through.
Uncle shared a haunted look with Thomas, then me. Words needn’t be said.
Scotland Yard would laugh us into the asylum if we went to them with this theory. And who would blame them? What would we say—“A mad priest or clergyman is on the loose, killing because God ordained it, and all of London won’t be safe until we find a way to stop him”?
My uncle was famous, but people still gossiped behind his back. It wouldn’t take much for him to be seen as a man driven to murder from picking apart the dead like a carrion scavenger. People would cross themselves and say a prayer he lived out his days peacefully in a faraway place, preferably in solitary confinement.
Thomas and I wouldn’t fare much better in the vote of public opinion. Our work was considered a desecration of the dead.
“It’s essential we tell no one of this,” Uncle said at last, removing his spectacles and pinching the bridge of his nose. “Not Nathaniel. Nor friends or classmates. At least not until we can prove ourselves to the police. For now, I want you both to scour the evidence we’ve collected. There has to be some clue we’re missing, anything at all we can use to identify the perpetrator before he strikes again.”
The murderer truly must be a madman if he thought what he was doing was helpful or righteous. And that thought was more terrifying than any other.
A knock came at the thick wooden door, followed by a servant bobbing a quick curtsy at my uncle. “Mr. Nathaniel Wadsworth is in the parlor, sir. Says it’s urgent he see his sister straightaway.”