Stalking Jack the Ripper (Stalking Jack the Ripper, #1)(70)
From Hell Letter, 1888
TWENTY-FOUR
FROM HELL
DR. JONATHAN WADSWORTH’S LIBRARY,
HIGHGATE
16 OCTOBER 1888
“I see you’ve thrown yourself another pity party,” Thomas said, breezing into Uncle’s darkened library. Lifting my head from my book, I noticed his clothing was exceptionally stylish for an afternoon apprenticing with cadavers. His finely stitched jacket fit perfectly to his frame. He caught me inspecting it and grinned. “You’ve yet to send out invitations, Wadsworth. Rather rude, don’t you think?”
I ignored both him and his remark, though I knew he was trying to make light of our situation. Eight days had come and gone since we’d spoken with Mr. Lees, and it had been even longer since I’d last seen my father.
While I couldn’t rely on Mr. Lees’s spirit testimony alone, Thomas was moving further down the suspect list every day. He pored over notes and details, day and night. I didn’t think the stress he tried hiding was an act.
Thomas wanted this case solved as badly as I did. During one particularly troubling evening, I shared my fears regarding my father with him. He’d opened his mouth, then shut it. And that was the end of that. His reaction was less than comforting.
Staying true to his word, Father didn’t seek me out, remaining indifferent to my whereabouts. It was so unlike him, letting me out of his sight for days on end, but he’d become a stranger to me and I couldn’t predict his next moves.
I hated thinking or admitting it, but he fit several of Jack the Ripper’s emerging characteristics. He’d been present for each crime, and absent when Jack had seemingly disappeared for those three and a half weeks in September.
Much as I wanted his opinion, I kept these dark speculations from Nathaniel. Worrying him was unnecessary until I had absolute proof Father was, indeed, Jack.
I flipped through a medical tome, reading over several new notions regarding human psychology and crimes. Father certainly had grief issues and plenty of reason to want organ transplants to be successful. That would explain the missing organs.
Though I couldn’t see how it’d help Mother now. Then I remembered his favorite tonic; laudanum might very well explain that delusion.
“You shouldn’t waste your precious energies on such rubbish, Wadsworth,” Thomas said, reading over my shoulder. “Surely you’re capable of coming up with theories of your own. You are a scientist, are you not? Or are you saving all the brilliant work for me to come up with?”
Thomas smiled at my eye roll, puffing his chest up and standing with one foot proudly resting on a chair as if posing for a portrait. “I don’t blame you, I am rather attractive. The tall, dark hero of your dreams, swooping in to save you with my vast intellect. You should accept my hand at once.”
“More like the overconfident monster haunting my nightmares.” I offered him a smirk of my own when he scrunched his nose. He was handsome enough, but he needn’t know I thought so. “Haven’t you got an organ to weigh, people to annoy, or notes to scribble down for Uncle Jonathan? Or perhaps you’ve got another patient to experiment on.”
Thomas grinned wider, folding himself onto the crushed velvet sofa directly across from me. A fresh body, having nothing to do with the Whitechapel murders for once, was lying on the mortuary table downstairs, waiting to be inspected. First glance said he’d lost his life to the harsh English elements, not to some crazed murderer. Winter was making a few surprise appearances before its official start date.
“Dr. Wadsworth was called away on more urgent matters. It’s just the two of us and I’m quite bored of your moping about. We could be taking full advantage of our time together. But no,” he sighed dramatically. “You’re intently reading rubbish.”
I nestled into my oversize reading chair and flipped to the next page.
“Studying the psychological states of humans and how they may or may not relate to deeper, psychotic issues is hardly ‘moping about.’ Why don’t you put that big brain to use and read some of these studies with me?”
“Why don’t you talk to me about what’s really troubling you? What emotional dilemma needs sorting out?” He patted his legs. “Sit here and I’ll rock you gently until you or I or both fall asleep.”
I tossed the book on the floor at his feet, then immediately cringed. I was about to tell Thomas I was absolutely not struggling with any emotional issues and had shown him differently. One day I’d rein my cursed actions in.
I sighed. “I cannot stop thinking my father’s the man stalking the night.”
“The moral dilemma being what, exactly?” Thomas asked. “Whether or not you should turn dear old Father in to authorities?”
“Of course that’s the moral dilemma!” I exclaimed, incredulous at how obtuse he was when it came to basic human concepts. “How can one turn against their blood? How can I send him to his death? Surely you must realize that’s precisely what would happen if I told authorities.”
They’d hang Father. Given who he was, they’d make it as public and brutal as possible. Just because blood might stain his hands did not mean I wanted his on mine. No matter if it was right or wrong.
“Not to mention,” I added aloud, “it would kill my brother.”