Stalking Jack the Ripper (Stalking Jack the Ripper, #1)(51)
Blackburn reached over, gently pulling my hands away. “Come. I’ll fetch a doctor to watch after him. There isn’t anything more we can do for him tonight. Once the drug is out of his system, he’ll be able to speak with us.”
“Oh?” I asked, wiping my face with the back of my hand. “How can we be sure this doctor of yours isn’t the one who administered this… cruelty to begin with?”
“I apologize, Miss Wadsworth. I’m fairly positive it was just a routine procedure,” he said. “Know this—I’ll make sure everyone is aware there’ll be a steep penalty if your uncle is dosed again.”
His tone and the expression darkening his features were menacing enough to make me believe him. Satisfied as much as I could be, I allowed Blackburn to guide me from the cell, but not before I kissed the top of Uncle’s head good-bye. My tears had already dried when I whispered, “By my blood, I will make this right or die trying.”
Once we were back in the carriage, Blackburn gave the driver my address in Belgrave Square. I’d had enough of men telling me where I was going, and rapped my knuckles on the side of the carriage, startling them both. I didn’t care what Nathaniel wanted, what Aunt Amelia would say, or what Blackburn would think of me.
“Actually, you can drop me at Piccadilly Street,” I said. “There’s someone I need to speak with urgently.”
London Necropolis Railway, c. 19th century
EIGHTEEN
NECROPOLIS RAILWAY
THOMAS CRESSWELL’S FLAT,
PICCADILLY STREET
25 SEPTEMBER 1888
I stood half a block away, hiding, as Thomas opened the door to his flat then peered around, looking as sharply put together as if it were nine in the morning instead of nearly ten at night.
I wondered if he ever looked unkempt or frazzled. Perhaps his hair was permanently plastered to the side of his head for less hassle. My brother ought to take a lesson.
I watched silently, gathering courage to walk over to him, but some innate force whispered for me to remain hidden. I half expected him to come marching over, but he didn’t notice me standing half in the shadows several yards away.
I’d lied and told Blackburn that Thomas lived two blocks down and had been slowly making my way toward the correct address.
I wasn’t sure what I was doing here so late at night and was collecting my thoughts. Silly fears had bubbled up. What if the girls at tea were wrong and he did live with his family? They’d be scandalized by my unchaperoned presence at this hour.
It’s not as though he’d offered me his address. I’d found it in one of Uncle’s ledgers and was contemplating simply going home. Now I was hesitating because he was acting… suspiciously.
I held my breath, certain Thomas had somehow spotted me or deduced my arrival, but his attention never touched on my location. He flipped the collar of his overcoat up, then strode down the gaslit street, his footsteps purposely quiet.
“Where are you off to?” I whispered.
Fog hovered in steamy puffs, obscuring everything from the ground up. All too quickly I lost sight of him. Cool fingers of fear slid down my spine, coaxing gooseflesh to rise. Though it was a fashionable neighborhood during the daytime, I didn’t want to be stuck alone when everyone shuttered up for the evening.
Gripping my skirts, I scurried after Thomas, carefully sticking to shadows between the lamps.
A minute later I caught up with him near the end of the block. He’d stopped and was looking one way then the next. My heart crashed into my ribs, and I prayed he wouldn’t turn around. Quickly stepping back into the fog, I let its icy wall envelop me.
Thomas cocked his head but continued down the next road, resuming his silent yet fast pace. Exhaling, I counted three breaths then followed, taking more cautious steps.
We traveled through deserted streets, meeting only one horse-drawn cart returning from the park. The scent of manure followed in its wake, and I fought the urge to sneeze, lest I give myself away.
Thomas didn’t halt again, his long legs carrying him in great strides toward Westminster Bridge Road and the River Thames. In the distance I made out the stone archway of the London Necropolis Railway Station.
The station had been built thirty years ago to help ferry the dead from London to Surrey, the site of the Brookwood Cemetery. The spread of disease—like scarlet fever and other contagious infections—made extra graves necessary, and the distance from the city helped keep contamination away from the living.
Another chill tangled itself in my hair the closer we drew to the water. I hadn’t forgotten the river was one of the places Thomas suggested our murderer had committed his heinous deeds. So why, then, was he stalking that very location this late at night? Before I thought on it too much, a second figure emerged from a sunken access road where carriages delivered corpses to the Necropolis under the river.
I didn’t mind the bodies as much as I feared the living, breathing creatures lurking about such a place. I had a terrible suspicion this wasn’t some secret meeting of the Knights of Whitechapel. Sneaking into an alleyway adjacent to the building, I craned my neck, hoping for a better view of Thomas and his unidentifiable partner.
Their conversation was hushed, so I couldn’t make out any particulars. It didn’t take much to garner the gist of it, however. One simply did not loiter outside a place where hundreds of deceased were ferried by railway to Brookwood Cemetery.