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“Why don’t you simply ask to stand in the middle of Hyde Park with your arms outstretched and let the pigeons roost on you?” Edward scoffs. “I have no stomach for these entertainments.”
“Well, that’s fine, because nothing Ambrose suggested actually exists anymore. Is there anything you want to see, Edward?” I ask sweetly.
“I should like to see the palace where I grew up.”
“Is that where the whale lives?” Pax asks hopefully.
“Not a whale, he’s thePrince of Wales, Pax, and he’s actually the king now and—”
“I didn’t know whales had a monarchy,” Pax says. “I always assumed they’d be Republicans, like Cicero.”
We take a meandering route to the palace by taking the tube first to Camden so I can buy a new pair of boots, and then to Kew Gardens so Ambrose can wander amongst the botanical specimens and sniff interesting and delicious things. At the palace, Edward regales us with tales of his exploits from the days before his father banished him from court.
After I finally convince the Beefeater guards that Pax is an eccentric Italian tourist and not attempting to overthrow the monarchy, we take the tube to Whitechapel. I glance at my phone and see that we’re right on time. The evening tours are beginning.
As we walk up the steps, we’re greeted by a salt-and-pepper-haired gentleman wearing a Victorian greatcoat and waving a lantern madly about. “Do you care to peer into the dark and depraved mind of the most notorious serial killer of all time?” he calls to us. “Delve into the psyche of this rich gentleman who came to Whitechapel to indulge his gruesome tastes.”
“No, no, no,” a voice grumps over his shoulder. “That’sall wrong. The papers made up the story of him being a gentleman. We actually believed he was a—”
“Er, no thank you.” I rush past the Ripperologist, searching for the complainer, and almost immediately bump into a woman whose breasts are spilling out of a corset.
She holds up a sign and calls out in a terrible east London accent, “Walk with a modern prostitute of Whitechapel while we uncover the secrets of the women of the night who were cruelly snuffed out by the Ripper.”
“That’s all wrong, too. Ineversaid that the victims were prostitutes. Just because they happened to be on the streets at night didn’t mean they were ladies of ill repute—”
I spin around. Finally, I see him. Inspector Abberline looks just like all the drawings of him in Vera’s book. He wears a faded great coat and matching trousers, and his misery hangs from his face like a shroud. I can see right through his broad chest to the corsetted woman merrily leading a large group of tourists down a side alley.
“That’s not how it happened at all!” Abberline yells at another Ripper tour leader, who is busy telling his group about the grisly letters the Ripper sent to the press, complete with organs removed from the victims. “I hope that you all have women brutally murdered inyourback yard and then everyone spends the rest of eternity making cheesy souvenirs about your greatest foible!”
That’s the guy. He seems like a fun sort of fellow.
I square my shoulders and march across the square. The ghost sees me coming and leaps out of my way, but instead of walking through the spot he previously occupied, as he expects, I come to a stop in front of him and look him directly in the eye.
“Excuse me,” I say as I approach him. “Inspector Abberline?”
“I—” The ghost stops. “You can see me?”
“Yes. My name is Bree Mortimer, and I can see ghosts. I want to—”
“Good.” Abberline whips a little pad from his pocket and taps the nub of a pencil against it. “Then perhaps you can straighten these cretins out on a few crucial points. Firstly, with Catherine Eddows’ body, there were no grape stalks found nearby, so no reason to assume that—”
“Um, here’s the thing. I’m not really here to help you with the Ripper tours. I—”
“Next, with Polly Nichols, a newspaper reported that there was only a little blood found near the scene, but that doesn’t mean the Ripper moved her body to Bucks Row, simply that the layers of her clothing had soaked up the blood—”
“Listen, Inspector Abberline, this is all very interesting, but I—”
“Is that girl crazy or something?” I overhear an American tourist whisper to her husband as their tour group passes. “She’s talkin’ to thin air.”
“Maybe she’s one of the Ripperologists?” her friend whispers. “They’re a strange bunch.”
“—and as for the absurd idea that the Freemasons were involved, I’m friends with a couple of Masons and they are absolute stand-up chaps—” Abberline clearly has a lot to get off his chest. I’m guessing they don’t treat him too well on these tours – the man who failed to catch the Ripper.
“Actually, can we move over here for a sec…” When he doesn’t seem to hear me, I hiss at Edward, who steps forward.
“My dear friend, you may not know me, but I am your prince. At least, I would’ve been if I were alive. I would love to write a poetic ode to your valiant struggle to bring this villain to justice, but right now, my Brianna needs you to listen to her.”
“Listen? Why should I listen?” Abberline tosses his ghost pad on the ground in disgust. It disappears the moment it touches the cobbles and appears back in his pocket. “All I do is listen! Day in, day out, for over a hundred years I’ve stood in this square and heard about the killer I didn’t catch. And as foryou,” he pokes Edward in the chest. “What’s the bloody monarchy done for me, eh?”
