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“Did they inquire about his profession?” I asked, remembering the butchers’ row located not far from the hotel. “For all they know, it might be animal blood. If there was in fact blood present.”
Uncle twisted his mustache, attention focused inward. After another moment of inner debate, he slid an envelope over. “This arrived from London. It’s late in finding me, as it traveled to Romania first before getting forwarded here in New York.”
A plain, otherwise unremarkable envelope with a large red CONFIDENTIAL stamped across it indicated its importance. I flicked my attention to Uncle and he motioned for me to open it. Inside was a postmortem report signed by a Dr. Matthew Brownfield. I read it quickly.
Blood was oozing from the nostrils, and there was a slight abrasion on the right side of the face.… On the neck there was a mark which had evidently been caused by a cord drawn tightly round the neck, from the spine to the left ear. Such a mark would be made by a four thread cord. There were also impressions of the thumbs and middle and index fingers of some person plainly visible on each side of the neck. There were no injuries to the arms or legs. The brain was gorged with an almost black fluid blood. The stomach was full of meat and potatoes, which had only recently been eaten. Death was due to strangulation. Deceased could not have done it herself. The marks on her neck were probably caused by her trying to pull the cord off. He thought the murderer must have stood at the left rear of the woman, and, having the ends of the cord round his hands, thrown it round her throat, crossed his hands, and thus strangled her. If it had been done in this way, it would account for the mark not going completely round the neck.
I knit my brows together. “If this was prepared by Dr. Brownfield, why does he refer to ‘he’ in the text?”
Uncle tapped the section I’d inquired after. “Dr. Harris, his assistant, examined the scene. Dr. Brownfield wrote the report after.” He shifted his finger, pointing out the date of the attack. “The twentieth of December.”
Thomas and I had still been in Romania attending school, and Uncle had likely been getting ready to come fetch us. Which explained why he hadn’t attended the scene or known about it.
“This is all unfortunate,” I said slowly, glancing over the report once more, “but I’m afraid I don’t understand. Why did Scotland Yard send this to you with such urgency?”
“Blackburn sent this.” Uncle turned his attention on me, his expression dour. Blackburn was the young detective inspector who’d worked on the Ripper case with us. He’d tried to court me as part of a secret agreement with my father, which did not end well for Detective Inspector Blackburn when I’d discovered their plan. “The victim was a prostitute by the name of Rose Mylett. Known as Drunken Lizzie by some. She was murdered not far from Hanbury Street, her limbs positioned in a way as to remind the police sergeant who’d found her of the Ripper.” My blood chilled. “He also felt her strangulation, though hard to detect with the naked eye, was quite reminiscent of Miss Chapman’s injuries.”
I circled the desk until I came upon the chair and slumped into it with all the grace of a sack of potatoes. “If Jack the Ripper was in London on the twentieth of December, that means he very well could have been on the Etruria on the first of January. With us.”
It also meant my brother could not have committed that crime.
Uncle nodded slowly. “It does not escape my notice that this victim was named Rose. I hope it wasn’t meant as a warning, but we will tread most carefully in the days and weeks to come.”
I met Uncle’s eyes. For a brief moment he appeared almost as frightened as my father once looked. It quickly passed. Ignoring chills that dragged spindly fingers down my flesh, I turned my attention back on the report. It was yet more proof that Jack the Ripper lived.
Perhaps some monsters were immortal after all.
Roses, Robert “Variae”
TWENTY-THREE
WHAT’S IN A NAME?
GRANDMAMA’S SITTING ROOM
FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK CITY
7 FEBRUARY 1889
I felt silly loitering in the corridor outside my grandmother’s private sitting room, but I couldn’t quite bring myself to cross the threshold. I stared at the door, pulse racing as I lifted my hand to knock, pausing just before I made contact with the carved wood. Again. Which was so foolish I could have screamed. I wasn’t afraid of my grandmother. I’d missed her terribly. However, I was unsure that I could withstand more questions about Thomas or the wedding.
Knowing Grandmama, I was certain she wasn’t satisfied by my lack of exposition on the matter and would demand to know each painful detail. I released a breath. There was no escaping this conversation, so I ought to face it straight on. At least Thomas was still out; it would make it easier, knowing he wasn’t lurking too close. I shook myself out of my hesitation and lightly rapped my knuckles against the door. Best to strike quickly before I lost my nerve.
“Come in, Audrey Rose Aadhira.”
I pushed the door open and was immediately struck by the colorful palette Grandmama had chosen for this room. Turquoise and fuchsia, sparkling greens and rich yellows. All edged in gold, all utterly decadent yet still inviting. From the finely woven rug to the shimmering wallpaper and tapestries, it was like stepping into a vivid dream.
A silver tea set released a pleasantly spicy aroma into the air. It was also beautiful—intricate swirls resembling vines and coriander leaves decorated the entire set of the teapot, creamer, and sugar bowl. Something she’d brought from India, no doubt. She watched me in that appraising way that said she’d missed nothing. Warmth entered her features.
“It’s yours, if you want it.” She motioned to the tea set. “I didn’t get a gift for your wedding. Though I also didn’t receive an invitation.”
She puckered her mouth as if she’d sucked on a lemon, and I couldn’t help but laugh. I nearly dropped my cane in my haste to throw my arms around her, breathing in her comforting scent. This time, without an audience, she embraced me affectionately. It felt good to hold her; too many years had passed. I knew it was hard for her—between her dislike of my father and the loss of my mother, she never stayed in England for long. Grandfather had passed on a few years before my mother had, and I could only imagine how deep her own pain went. I nestled beside her on her settee, which was covered in a rather gorgeous peacock fabric.
“Your invitation was sent, Grandmama. I cannot help that you’re harder than a ghost to track down.” My brief levity popped like a deflated balloon when I pictured Miss Whitehall marching in with her letter. “Plus, the wedding…” I swallowed a lump that suddenly formed. “You know it was…”
My grandmother drew back, and her gaze softened. “You love him very much.”
“Yes.” I fiddled with my gloves, unable to meet her eyes for fear I’d start bawling again. “I love him in ways that sometimes frighten me.”
