Stalking Jack the Ripper (Stalking Jack the Ripper, #1)(55)

At the end of the small room stood an office with a stout man seated behind an even larger desk. He was wearing spectacles on his face and stress in his bones.

The etching on the door informed anyone who entered he was the editor. There was a bleak look about him that permeated his every movement and action; it spoke of seeing too much of life’s darkness. His attention landed on each of us, seemingly calculating our motives or personalities, before settling on Superintendent Blackburn. He dabbed a cigarette out with pudgy fingers, then motioned for us to step inside and have a seat, his movements quick and jittery.

I watched the tiny embers fade from orange to gray ash that lifted in the wake of our entrance. A thick cloud of smoke took up residence above our heads, as if not wanting to miss out on what we were about to learn.

I couldn’t find the will to be annoyed by the toxic fumes, I was too nervous about the news that might exonerate or further condemn Uncle. Thomas, however, appeared ready to jump over the desk and suck the last dregs of tobacco into his lungs.

With unsteady hands, the editor pointed toward the tea set on a buffet near the wall. “If any of you would like a refreshment before we begin, please help yourself.”

Blackburn looked at me, brows raised, and I gave a slight shake of my head. I didn’t want to stay longer than necessary. This place was overwhelming and the editor made me nervous. “No, thank you, Mr. Doyle,” he said. “If you wouldn’t mind, I’d like to see the letter you spoke of earlier.”

“What you’re about to see is rather unpleasant,” Mr. Doyle warned, staring at me in particular. “Especially for a young lady.”

I smiled, leaning over the desk and used the sweetest tone I could muster.

“In my spare time I flay open bodies of the deceased. Two of whom were victims of Leather Apron. The scent that hung in the room would drop a man to his knees, and I aided my uncle during the postmortems while standing in gelled blood.” I sat back in my chair, the leather squeaking its own disapproval. “Whatever you have to show us won’t be too much for my stomach to handle, I assure you.”

Mr. Doyle blanched, then nodded curtly, shuffling papers lying in front of him. It was hard to tell if he was more disturbed by my unladylike activities or by the way I delivered the message in such a girlish tone. Either way, I felt mildly redeemed for having turned the tables of discomfort around on him.

Thomas snorted, then held his hands up in a gesture of apology when Mr. Doyle glared at him. Blackburn, dropping his air of station, looked as boyish as Thomas and was doing only a slightly better job of hiding his amusement.

I studied this version of Blackburn. Thomas was right, there was something disarming about his features. With one shy glance he earned your trust completely.

Mr. Doyle cleared his throat.

“Very well, then.” He opened the top drawer of his desk, removed a letter, then slid it across to where we were sitting in straight-backed chairs. He seemed anxious to be rid of us already. I’d half a mind to inform him the feeling was very mutual.

“This came in the post this morning.”

Thomas snatched it before Blackburn or I could and read aloud.

“‘Dear Boss, I keep on hearing the police have caught me but they won’t fix me just yet.’” Thomas opened his mouth, no doubt ready to say something Thomas-like, so I used the distraction against him, grabbing the letter from his clutches and reading it for myself.

The grammar was atrocious.

I read the shaky, loopy script quickly, my skin crawling over my bones with each sentence my gaze touched. The ink was blood-red, likely to instill fear in the recipient, as if the message inside wouldn’t be frightening enough. For all I knew, perhaps it was written in blood.

Nothing would surprise me when it came to this madman.


Dear Boss,

I keep on hearing the police have caught me but they wont fix me just yet. I have laughed when they look so clever and talk about being on the right track. That joke about Leather Apron gave me real f its. I am down on whores and I shant quit ripping them till I do get buckled. Grand work the last job was. I gave the lady no time to squeal. How can they catch me now. I love my work and want to start again. You will soon hear of me with my funny little games. I saved some of the proper red stuff in a ginger beer bottle over the last job to write with but it went thick like glue and I cant use it. Red ink is f it enough I hope. ha. ha. The next job I do I shall clip the ladys ears off and send to the police off icers just for jolly wouldn’t you. Keep this letter back till I do a bit more work, then give it out straight. My knife’s so nice and sharp I want to get to work right away if I get a chance. Good luck. Yours truly

Jack the Ripper

Dont mind me giving the trade name

PS Wasnt good enough to post this before I got all the red ink off my hands curse it No luck yet. They say I’m a doctor now. ha ha



Setting the letter down, my thoughts swirled together in a maelstrom of hope and dread. While there was no guarantee this alone could save Uncle, it certainly might help.

Thomas and Blackburn took turns reading the letter, then sat back in their chairs. No one said a thing for an eternity until Thomas spoke up. “What joke about Leather Apron? I don’t recall police saying anything humorous about it. Unless he knows something we don’t.”

Editor Doyle and Thomas both stared at Blackburn, waiting for his response, but Blackburn only sighed and dragged a hand down his exhausted face.