Stalking Jack the Ripper (Stalking Jack the Ripper, #1)(39)
“I’m truly sorry, Miss Wadsworth,” he said. “If it were my decision alone I’d send everyone on their way. Believe me when I say I’ve got nothing against your uncle.”
He smiled shyly, something strangely out of character for a man who had the build and confidence of an Olympian.
“In fact, I’ve always admired the sort of work he’s done. Orders came from high up, though, and I can’t ignore them, even if I wanted to.”
It was hard to imagine someone who spoke so well choosing the life of a simple policeman. I narrowed my eyes, noticing the extra decorations on his uniform; he was a high-ranking officer, then. He was no simple policeman, he was of nobility to hold such an esteemed office at his young age.
My gaze traveled back up to his face. The fine bones and sharp angles of his cheeks and square chin made him quite handsome. He was most certainly highborn. Facially, he looked like a younger, more handsome version of Prince Albert Victor, sans mustache.
“What did you say your name was?” I asked.
Thomas rolled his eyes. “He didn’t, Wadsworth. But you already knew that. Get on with your flirtation so we might get on with our actual purpose for being here.”
I glared at Thomas, but the young man paid him no mind. “I apologize for my rudeness, miss. I’m Superintendent William Blackburn. I’m responsible for the four hundred eighty constables here in Highgate.”
His name sounded vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t quite place where I’d heard it. Perhaps I’d read it in some paper with connection to our murders.
Thomas interrupted my muddied thoughts. “Seems you’ve employed every last one of them to trample through this home,” he muttered, shoving aside an officer before marching in to assess the situation himself.
I wanted to strangle him for being so rude. Superintendent Blackburn might be able to give us answers we’d otherwise not be privy to. For all his superior intelligence, Thomas could be downright obtuse when it came to dealing with people. If I had to befriend the devil in order to help Uncle, so be it.
I found myself apologizing. “He’s a little high spirited, please forgive his impolite behavior. He can be quite…” I trailed off.
Thomas Cresswell was not charming to anyone other than me occasionally, nor was he polite on a good day. Mother would have instructed me to not utter a word when a kind one couldn’t be discovered, so that’s precisely what I did.
Superintendent Blackburn gave me a sheepish grin and offered his arm. I hesitated for only a moment before looping mine through his. Play nice, Audrey Rose, I reminded myself.
“I’ll escort you inside and try my best to explain the reason behind your uncle’s arrest.” He paused and looked around before leaning close, an almost familiar scent lingering on his skin. “I’m afraid it doesn’t look very good for him, miss.”
THIRTEEN
BLUEPRINTS AND BLOODY BOLTS
DR. JONATHAN WADSWORTH’S LABORATORY,
HIGHGATE
13 SEPTEMBER 1888
Walking into Uncle’s basement laboratory with uninvited guests rummaging about like scavengers was its own nightmare, plucking at the ligaments between my bones.
Uncle’s books, his notes, his journals were all painfully absent. It felt like one of my ribs had been sawed off, leaving me both gasping for breath and missing a piece of myself all at once. Letting go of Blackburn’s arm, I slowly turned in place, my eyes two unbelieving orbs in my head. If this was a dream, I hoped to wake from its dreadfulness soon. I had a terrible feeling, however, that this was only the beginning of a series of horrendous nightmares.
The specimen jars were the only items that remained untouched, the dull, preserved eyes watching the chaos with silent judgment. Oh, how I wished I could be like those dead, unfeeling things now.
Anything would be better than the reality I was standing in.
My refuge all these months was destroyed in a few hours by the hands of men who couldn’t care less about this sort of work.
“—combined with his history of dissection, and medical knowledge worked against him,” Superintendent Blackburn was saying, but I couldn’t concentrate on his words. Thank heavens Uncle wasn’t here; his heart would be sheared in half.
I watched helplessly as an officer wrestled a large, gilded tome Uncle had been stroking a few short days ago from the shelf, placing it in a box as if it were a rabid animal ready to snap at him. If only that could happen.
He removed a small box Uncle kept in his desk, the lid slipping off. Bolts and screws clattered to the ground, halting the investigation. The officer bent to retrieve the items, a look of shock and disgust as he rose, holding them up for the superintendent to see.
The bolts were covered in a rusty crimson that could only be one thing. My own blood ceased to circulate as my eyes met Thomas’s startled gaze from across the room. “I need to speak with Uncle. I need… I can explain—I just—”
Someone placed a chair next to me and I plopped into it straight-away; it was as if the oxygen had been suctioned from the laboratory with a new steam-powered device I’d seen advertised across London. What was Uncle thinking, stealing evidence? Those bolts were from the murder scenes and belonged to Scotland Yard.
Uncle had inadvertently placed himself as the main suspect and I had no idea how to assist him or who to even turn to for help.