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THOMAS’S FAMILY HOME
BUCHAREST, ROMANIA
ONE YEAR LATER
“H. H. Holmes didn’t confess to the murders in London, though he’s written an account of his crimes at his now-infamous murder castle from prison.” I all but snarled as I read a snippet of his words aloud to Thomas. “‘I was born with the very devil in me. I could not help the fact that I was a murderer, no more than the poet can help the inspiration to song, nor the ambition of an intellectual man to be great. The inclination to murder came to me as naturally as the inspiration to do right comes to the majority of persons.’”
I closed the paper, wishing I could burn it with my fiery gaze. Even after all this time, Holmes still enjoyed the sound of his own voice. No matter that what he was saying was horrid.
“Who allowed him to publish such rubbish?” I tossed the paper on the bed. “He’s earning more now as an inmate than he did with all of his scheming. Don’t they realize they’re giving him everything he’s ever wanted? Fame. Fortune. It’s appalling.”
“His mustache is appalling, or… oh. Am I the only one who loathes the thing?” Thomas dodged the pillow I threw at him. “We could try again to prove his guilt over the Ripper murders, you know. Perhaps he’s not the only one who can write an account of the events that have transpired. Why not publish your own account? Some people might believe it’s fiction, but some people also believe strigoi walk amongst us. Though most know vampires aren’t real, I’m sure a large enough group would believe us. We can keep fighting until we win over the masses.”
The thou
ght was tempting. It was always tempting. However, we’d traveled down that path and no one wanted to hear the truth. I understood, in a way, that without any evidence to support our outrageous claims, there was no proof that the charming American con man was also the notorious Jack the Ripper. He vehemently denied any connection to the crimes, and without a confession, there wasn’t much anyone could do. Ripper madness had died down in the hearts and minds of people, and it seemed no one wished to reopen those wounds. Apparently a few dead “whores” weren’t a top priority any more. Not compared to the crime of the century.
When we returned to London, I’d even gone as far as telling Detective Inspector William Blackburn about my brother and his journals. I’d brought him to the laboratory in my family’s home, and he claimed all it proved was Nathaniel’s affinity for science. Something I ought to understand. I wondered if the detective inspector was being loyal to my father or if he truly couldn’t pursue that lead.
Uncle tried pressing the issue of connecting the crimes—pointing out forensic similarities between the two murder sprees. He showed proof that Holmes was in London during the murders and was in America when they ended. He’d secured samples of Holmes’s handwriting—which was startlingly identical to the notes Jack the Ripper had taunted police with. No one in a position to do anything cared. His colleagues laughed or sneered at him. They thought he was a fame-monger, wishing to see his name back in the papers. Feeling so helpless was abysmal.
Rumors began in upper-class circles that saw Thomas’s name swapped out for more salacious perpetrators: royals. No one spoke of the American killer, nor did they care he was in London during the Autumn of Terror.
They didn’t care that he’d also left a few bodies on the Etruria when we crossed the Atlantic. Nor did they care about a drunken brute whose neck had been nearly sliced clean off in an alleyway behind the Jolly Jack public house. Those cases remained unsolved, begging for attention they wouldn’t get. They were unfortunate, terribly sad, indeed, but that’s the way life was. At least that’s what I’d been told.
H. H. Holmes and Jack the Ripper were now becoming as mythic and legendary as Dracula. They were scary stories told during tea, in bawdy halls and gentlemen’s clubs. How quickly fear could be replaced with laughter. It was always easier to laugh at the devil when we believed he’d been captured.
I angrily swiped the paper off the mattress, flipping to the next ridiculous headline. Witches and vampires and werewolves were apparently having a war in Romania. Villagers blamed scorched plots of land, dead crops, and bloodless goats on the monsters. I sighed. It seemed the only true war was raging between fantasy and reality.
“You’re upset.” Thomas gently touched my face, his expression soft. “Understandably, and I’ll stand by your side, fighting to locate any shred of evidence we can to convince the world who the real Ripper is. I will devote my life to the cause if it would please you.”
I couldn’t help the smile that twitched across my lips. He was certainly dramatic. A trait that was wholly Cresswell. And I wouldn’t have him any other way. “I thought you wanted to start our own agency. Will that be our only case?” I shook my head. “We’ll starve. Though I suppose we can also go about proving vampires don’t exist.”
Thomas took the paper from me, quickly scanning it as he set it aside, chuckling.
“You know, I am quite talented with a sword, Wadsworth. I’ll hunt dinner for you. Or demons and werewolves.” The teasing slowly left his eyes. He picked up my hand, playing with the massive red diamond. He slipped it on and off my finger, almost absently. “Is that your answer, then? You wish to open our own investigative agency? I know we spoke of it…”
My attention shifted to the headline again, and I hardened my resolve.
H.H. HOLMES
AN ARCH-FIEND’S RECORD
“I don’t want to have another case like this one go ‘unsolved,’” I said. “With your deductions and my forensic skills, we will be quite a force to be reckoned with. Consulting on investigations—I can’t imagine a more fulfilling vocation. Our partnership and combined expertise will be beneficial to many. If they won’t listen to us about who Jack the Ripper is, we’ll keep searching for definitive proof, but we’ll also do our best to never allow another career murderer to go unpunished.”
Thomas held the ring in his hand, squinting at it as if it might speak to him. After a moment, he bit his lip. One of the signs he was stalling.
“Well?” I asked. “What sort of smart, witty remark are you debating?”
“I beg your pardon, dear Wadsworth.” He drew back, holding a hand to his heart. “I was imagining our very own sign hanging above the door to our agency.”
I narrowed my eyes. “And?”
“I was trying to picture what we’d call it.”
The tone he used was innocent enough, which indicated trouble on the horizon. I pinched the bridge of my nose. I was slowly turning into my uncle. “Please. Please do not suggest that combination of our names again. No one will take us seriously if we call ourselves the Cressworth Agency.”
His eyes flashed with mischief. It struck me that that was exactly what he’d hoped I’d say, granting him the perfect opening for his real intentions. I waited, breath held for the truth.
