Stalking Jack the Ripper (Stalking Jack the Ripper, #1)(26)
He’d dressed my father for every occasion and knew when and where he was at all times. He probably knew my father as well as—if not better than—my mother had. If he hadn’t gotten too old to perform his duties, I’m sure he’d still be right by Father’s side.
“Everything will be fine, Wadsworth. We’ll either have answers or we won’t. But at least we’ve gone out and tried.”
A flash of lightning lit the dark sky, as if the Titans were clashing in the heavens. Thunder followed, reminding me of my parents. When I was younger and terrified of the storms that blew through London, I’d curl into Mother’s lap while Father told me thunder was the sound angels made when they played skittles. Mother’d call down to the cook, fetch us some curry and flatbread reminiscent of Grandmama’s homeland, then fill my head with stories of heroines from faraway places. From then on I almost enjoyed thunderstorms.
Soon the carriage ride was blessedly over. We huddled beneath an umbrella in the doorway of a small stone house sandwiched next to twenty other identical homes that looked like cowsheds. Thomas knocked, then stood back, allowing me to greet Father’s former servant first.
The door creaked open—its hinges in desperate need of a good oiling—and the unpleasant scent of boiled vegetables lazily wafted out. I expected to see familiar wrinkles around kind eyes and snow-white hair.
I did not expect a young woman with a child hoisted on her hip, looking less than pleased by the unannounced afternoon interruption. Her ginger hair was pulled into a braid coiling around the nape of her neck; her clothing was well worn, with patches on her elbows. Stray hairs fell around her face and she blew them back with little luck of keeping them out of her eyes.
Thomas quietly cleared his throat, spurring me to action.
“I… pardon me. I—I was looking for someone,” I stammered, glancing at the number twenty-three on the door. “It appears I’ve got the wrong address.” There was something intimidating about the way she was standing there staring, but we’d come all this way and I wasn’t about to let someone with a sour attitude get the better of me. Her gaze traveled slowly over Thomas. Twice.
She reminded me of someone who was being tempted by a succulent-looking steak, and I didn’t care for it one bit. I cleared my throat as another flash of lightning rushed across the sky. “You wouldn’t happen to know where I could find a Mr. Thornley, would you?”
The baby picked that moment to start wailing, and the young woman shot me a glare as if I’d spurred the devil out of him instead of the booming thunder. Cooing to the screeching demon on her hip, she patted its back gently. “He’s dead.”
Had Thomas not grabbed my arm to steady me I might have fallen backward. “He’s… but… when?”
“Well, he isn’t fully dead yet,” she admitted. “But he isn’t much longer for this world. If he makes it through the night it’ll be a miracle.” She shook her head. “Poor thing doesn’t hardly look himself anymore. Best you keep the memory of him untainted, else you’ll have nightmares for years to come.”
The warm sympathetic part of me wanted to say sweet words for our former servant’s imminent passing, but this was our only chance to gain insight about my father’s whereabouts during the murders and his potential connection to Miss Emma Elizabeth Smith.
I stood taller, imagining the veins flowing through my body were nothing more than steel wires, cold and unfeeling. Now was the time to find that scientific switch Thomas relied on. “I really must see him. It’s of the highest importance. You wouldn’t deny me saying good-bye to a dear friend—especially not one who’s in the throes of death, would you?”
The young woman stared open-mouthed before snapping her jaw shut. She bumped the door open with her unoccupied hip, gesturing us inside with an impatient wave of her hand. Pointing to a holder in the corner, she jerked her chin.
“Put your brolly there and suit yourself, then,” she said. “He’s upstairs, first door on the right.”
“Thank you.” I crossed the tiny foyer with Thomas on my heels, heading up the worn staircase as quickly as I could. The scent of boiled cabbage followed us as we ascended, adding to the ill feeling churning in my stomach.
When my foot reached the top step, the woman called out in a mocking tone, “Nightmares will be your bedmates tonight. All the fancy sheets in the world won’t make a lick of difference. Don’t say I didn’t warn you, my lady.”
This time when I heard a crash of thunder, I shuddered.
Tubercular leprosy, c. 19th century
NINE
MESSAGE FROM THE GRAVE
THORNLEY RESIDENCE,
READING
11 SEPTEMBER 1888
Gauzy curtains—that had possibly been white once—billowed toward us as if they were two decaying arms desperately reaching for release.
If I were forced to stay in this tomblike room for long, I’m sure I’d become as desperate. Drops of rain splattered onto the sill, but I didn’t dare close the window.
A small wrought iron bed with a striped mattress displayed a skeletal body that barely looked alive. Poor Thornley had withered away to nothing more than graying skin pulled taut over fragile bones. Open sores on his torso and arms oozed a mixture of blood and pus reeking of fetid meat even from the doorway. It was hard to say for sure, but he looked to be suffering from a form of leprosy.