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He laughed. “True. There’s certainly nothing holy about the notes in these devil’s journals.”
TWENTY-FIVE
VIVISECTIONS AND OTHER HORRORS
GRANDMAMA’S UPSTAIRS STUDY
FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK CITY
7 FEBRUARY 1889
A few hours later, Thomas and I had fallen into a familiar, peaceful work rhythm. Sir Isaac tried assisting in our endeavor a few times by batting my nibs of ink off the tables. I glared while Thomas howled with laughter. After he’d stolen Thomas’s favorite pen, the cat found himself back on his cushion, washing himself without a care in the world.
Though that was where our levity ended. Our reading material made my stomach twist into intricate knots. I could barely bring myself to read this secret and hideous part of my brother. On more than one occasion I had to close one of his journals, steeling myself once more before pressing onward. It was a monumental task—there were over one hundred notebooks, some filled entirely from cover to cover with small script, while others had bits and pieces of ideas sprinkled every few pages. The handwriting shifted with Nathaniel’s moods. The more wild and outlandish the idea, the more illegible the script became.
His sketches, however, remained eerie in their precise lines and careful shading. My brother was always a perfectionist. From his carefully pomaded hair to his finely tailored suits. Despite what he’d done, I missed him.
My rose and hibiscus tea sat untouched, its steam having long since stopped breathing fragrant wisps into the air. Now it looked like a cup of chilled blood. A memory of another time and place played across my mind. Nathaniel had had a bottle of congealing blood in a bottle in his laboratory. I wondered now if it had been animal or human.
“I cannot believe he performed so many ghastly experiments.” I tugged a chenille throw blanket tighter. “Vivisections.” I nearly gagged at one of his sketched images of a live animal flayed open; my brother spared no detail of its torture. “I don’t understand. My brother loved animals. He was the one who’d cry himself to sleep if he couldn’t save a stray. How could he have done this? How could I have not seen the wickedness in him sooner?”
Without lifting his head from his book, Thomas sighed. “Because you loved him. It’s normal to reason away oddities in his behavior. Love is wonderful, but as with most forces of nature, there’s lightness and darkness within it. I believe in some instances the greater the love, the more we ignore facts that are obvious to others. You did not see the signs because you could not. It’s not inadequacy on your part—it’s simply self-preservation.”
I snorted. “Or denial.”
“Perhaps.” Thomas shrugged. “If you accepted the truth of your brother, you’d be forced to confront your own darkness. You’d discover your morals aren’t defined in terms such as black or white, good or bad. Most shy away from that level of introspection. It makes us realize we’re villains. At least in part. We also all have the capacity to be heroes. Miss Whitehall might think me a villain for trying to break our engagement, while you believe me to be a hero for that very same act. At some point, we’re all someone’s hero and another’s villain. It’s all a matter of perspective. And that changes as frequently as the cycles of the moon.”
It was quite a morbid thought. One I did not wish to expand upon.
“Here.” I slid the envelope marked CONFIDENTIAL over to him. “Uncle received this e
arlier. It strongly suggests another Ripper murder occurred on the twentieth of December.”
Thomas read the report while I went back to Nathaniel’s journals. Or tried to.
“Tell me everything your uncle said.” His tone was calm enough for me to realize an internal storm was raging. “I need to know every detail.”
“All right…” I told him everything I could remember regarding Miss Rose Mylett’s death. He listened carefully and quietly, his jaw set and his expression perfectly placid. He politely demanded to know what Uncle had said about Blackburn, then pored over the journals, reading through them with the singular focus of a starving dog gnawing on a bone.
He didn’t say so aloud, but I saw the same fear etched into his features that had flashed in Uncle’s face. Somehow Rose Mylett might’ve been a subtle warning directed at me. Whether or not that was true, I refused to yield to some madman who preyed upon women.
An hour ticked by, the clock on the mantel chiming ten bells. I lifted my hands above my head, stretching one way, then the next. I creaked these days more than some wooden chairs.
“I’m not sure if we’ll find anything useful for Jack the Ripper’s identity or possible location in these,” I said. “Thus far it’s simply disturbing.”
“Not nearly as disturbing as another potential Ripper murder.” Thomas ran his gaze over me as if to be certain I was still there, sitting beside him, scowling.
Another half hour flew by. I blinked, surprised to find a plate piled high with slices of cake and two forks before me. Chocolate with chocolate espresso icing and macerated raspberries in the center. A frothy glass of milk sat next to it.
Part of me longed for a bite, until I remembered it would’ve been served at our wedding. Aside from that, I was appalled by the thought of eating while reading such grotesque passages, but after a while, I gave in and ate two pieces myself.
Thomas smiled. “Terrified of clowns and spiders, but not devouring chocolate cake whilst elbows deep in morbid journals. You truly are my match, Wadsworth.”
The corner of my mouth lifted, but the easy retort quickly died. I might be in his heart and he in mine, but I was no longer his match. At least not the way we both wished to be.
His own smile faded and he returned to his work, the carefree moment floating away like a leaf on the wind. I resumed my own research, focused entirely on locating any hint or clue that might assist in our locating the real Jack the Ripper. Thus far, Nathaniel had been careful not to name his murderous comrade.
An icy fingertip traced a shiver along my spine when I turned to another disturbing section with pages upon pages of diagrams featuring intricate mechanisms fused with living tissues and organs. A heart with gears, a pair of lungs made from the leathery hide of an animal. Other organs were harder to place, though one resembled a uterus. Then there were hands, eerily similar to the steam-powered one I’d found in our home. In some ways his sketches reminded me of Mephistopheles, who was exceptionally talented at engineering. In another life they might have been friends. I swallowed hard, suddenly overcome with emotion.
