Stalking Jack the Ripper (Stalking Jack the Ripper, #1)(63)
Chills stuck their nails into my back, repeatedly dragging themselves downward. That wasn’t entirely true. Thomas had insisted I remove the gallbladder from the cadaver he’d gotten from the Necropolis. A memory of the latest crime scene flashed through my mind—I was almost positive a gallbladder had been taken from one of the victims, too. I felt utterly sick to my stomach.
Could I have been so blind or so wrong about Thomas?
No. I wouldn’t accuse him of sadistic murders simply because he was different from other people in our closed-minded society. He was purposely cold and detached working a case, and it was brilliant. And necessary. Wasn’t it? My head suddenly pounded. Maybe I was making excuses for him. Or perhaps they were excuses he’d deftly planted in my brain. He was certainly cunning enough to do such a thing. But would he?
Too many emotions swirled through my head to keep track of.
If Thomas experienced the kind of heartache that came with watching as a loved one passed on, then perhaps he might do anything—even murder—to discover answers he’d sought. Then again, didn’t I suffer from a similar heartache when Mother died? I supposed it was a decent enough reason for Jack to steal organs. But was Thomas, the arrogantly charming boy I knew outside of the laboratory, truly capable of committing such atrocities in the name of science?
I hardly thought he could become that cold and remote. Still…
My head spun. The ladies at tea claimed he was odd enough to be the madman, but that was merely idle gossip. I clenched my fists at my sides. I refused to believe my instincts were so wrong about him, even if there was strong evidence to the contrary.
Which was the exact notion that got the Ripper’s victims murdered. I dropped my head into my hands. Oh, Thomas. How do I sort this mess out, too?
TWENTY-TWO
SAUCY JACK
WADSWORTH RESIDENCE,
BELGRAVE SQUARE
1 OCTOBER 1888
Early morning light slanted in from the cathedral windows of our dining room, but I could stare only at the two pieces of evidence scrawled in Jack the Ripper’s hand while my breakfast cooled.
The days of holding back his ghastly deeds were apparently over. Jack wanted everyone to know he was responsible for these horrendous crimes. He was like an actor or king soaking up the attention of adoring fans and countrymen.
Troubled as I was by Thomas’s past, the idea of him being the Ripper didn’t sound quite right. The day Thomas Cresswell didn’t show off his brilliance was the day I’d find a unicorn for a pet. Jack wanted adoration. Thomas would surely have slipped by now.
Then again, he did keep his work with Uncle on transplants secret all these weeks. I cursed my softness toward him. I needed to detach my emotions, but it was proving more difficult than I’d envisioned.
I rubbed my temples and read the paper again. I wasn’t surprised the serpent side of Mr. Doyle resurfaced; it was only a matter of time before his paper sensationalized this for all the money it was worth.
“Honestly,” Liza whispered while slicing into her breakfast sausage, “I wish we weren’t leaving so dreadfully early. I’ve never seen such excitement in the city! Victoria’s throwing a masked ball, encouraging boys to come as the Ripper. Tall, dark, and completely anonymous. It’s terribly thrilling, wouldn’t you agree?”
I stole a glance at my aunt, who was watching me with a quirked brow. This was a test of good manners. I smiled pleasantly. “It certainly is terrible.”
“True. I don’t care what people say of those women, no one deserves to be slain like that. You simply must stop whoever it is.” Liza stared off, then shook herself into the present. “I’m going to miss you, Cousin. Come and stay with us soon.”
I smiled, realizing I couldn’t wait to see Liza again. My cousin was smart, unabashedly feminine, and comfortable playing by her own version of society’s rules. Her clever remarks and cheerful presence would be missed. “That would be lovely, I will.”
I took a sip of Earl Grey, my focus returning to the paper while my aunt and cousin chatted about yesterday’s tea I’d missed.
Either Blackburn had kept his promise to seek the editor out and run a copy of the “Dear Boss” letter, or Mr. Doyle had decided to do so himself. I didn’t trust Blackburn anymore, so my faith lay with the editor releasing the details.
I reread the letter, getting lost in the manic cursive of the killer’s script. Thinking back on the murder scene, there was an eerie number of similarities. The postcard depicted on the same page was something new, however. As it was dated from the night before, it was clear the murderer only recently posted it.
Wretched ideas had assaulted me last night with the growing list of suspects. I didn’t know who was responsible, but some memory kept creeping up on me.
Miss Emma Elizabeth Smith possibly knew her attackers. Could that be Uncle and Thomas? In Uncle’s notes she’d told investigators one assailant was a teenager. Uncle was betrothed to her… and clearly, it ended in some manner in which she resorted to prostitution.
If Thomas was in on it, it’d explain how the murders continued while Uncle was in the asylum. It also meant I’d been inadvertently working with Jack the Ripper and possibly falling under his spell myself. My stomach twisted.
There had to be something else.
I thought of Thornley, recalling the day Thomas and I had learned of Uncle’s connection to Miss Emma Elizabeth. Thomas’s shock appeared genuine enough. But was it all a farce? Perhaps he was as talented at acting as he was at flipping his emotions on and off. If only my wretched heart could shut itself off from him completely!