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“It’s the lack of bodies that troubles me.” He stopped moving long enough to stare at the soft glow of a lamppost. “Do you know what I find most disturbing?”
“That you’re not frozen solid after standing out here without a coat?” Thomas asked. “Or is that only me?”
Uncle flashed him a warning look before turning to me. “Well?”
“I-it isn’t t-that unusual for a-a city, i-is it? P-perhaps t-the b-bodies are i-in t-the canal,” I said, fully chattering. I leaned on my cane, the cold biting into my leg unmercifully. “May we please discuss this in the house? M-my leg—”
“There are no bodies. No body parts,” Uncle said, motioning us all inside. Thomas kept his hand on the small of my back as we stepped through the ornate front door. “Even in a city of this size, corpses have a way of turning up. Miss Brown’s body, for example, was discovered within hours of her murder. Why, then, are there no corpses?”
A footman helped me out of my coat. “Tea service is waiting in the drawing room, Miss Wadsworth. Your grandmother also arranged for assorted pastries.”
I moved as quickly as I could into the room, standing before the fire, soaking in its warmth, mind churning over possibilities. “Our murderer… he might have some laboratory secreted away where he keeps the bodies.” I accepted a cup of tea Thomas offered, shifting to meet his and Uncle’s worried expressions. “He could dismember them, then toss them into the river. Or any of the canals or lagoons of the Columbian Exposition.” I glanced at Thomas. The earlier beauty of the fair now took on a sinister aura. “There were many waterways. Perhaps they’ve gotten tangled up in the underwater mechanics.”
“Theories are good, Audrey Rose, but facts are better at this juncture. There’s no bloody clothing, no scarf or coat or bit of torn fabric or skirt or shoe—not one clue or trace of evidence that any crime close to the Ripper murders has been committed here.” Uncle collapsed into an overstuffed leather chair, twisting his mustache. “Does that sound like the work of the Jack the Ripper we know? The very one who mailed letters written in blood to detective inspectors? The one who made a game of hacking off body parts and organs?”
Thomas and I were silent. As much as I wished otherwise, Uncle had a very decent point. It did not sound like the attention-seeking man we’d been terrorized by back in London. Nor did it sound as if it were similar to the New York murder. Each of those killings were spectacles in their own right—ways for the murderer to flamboyantly show off his ability to thwart police efforts.
“I fear we left New York on a whim,” Uncle said. “Bits of poetry and newspaper clippings affixed to journals do not indicate Jack the Ripper lives. Or that he’s chosen this city to taunt next, out of the whole of America, if he has survived. I want you both to tear those journals apart, find me a bit of irrefutable proof that this isn’t some fanciful folly conjured up by your need to escape your father, Thomas.” He turned his attention on me and I withered beneath his scornful gaze. “I sincerely hope you didn’t insist on coming here so you might dodge your own responsibilities and live in sin.”
Thomas didn’t so much as breathe.
I drew myself up. “I wished to come here because I thought this was where the Ripper was. I am not ruled by my heart, sir. Nor am I running from my heartbreak. Coming to Chicago had nothing to do with what happened in New York.” Even as I said it, I knew that wasn’t entirely true. I was all too happy to rush from New York without a second thought. What he’d said about Thomas, though… I stepped forward, fists clenched at my sides. “And are you suggesting Thomas invented a lead for his benefit alone? You know him better than that, Uncle. He would never abuse your trust or our privilege—”
“It would not be the first time a young man has twisted the truth in order to get what he most wants.” Uncle held up a hand, not permitting me any further liberty to speak. I was so angry I feared steam was spewing from my ears. “Find me proof that this is where Jack the Ripper is hunting now, or we’ll return to New York by week’s end.” He met Thomas’s gaze. “No matter how brilliant you are, Thomas, I’ll deliver you back to London personally, should this have been an elaborate stunt to corrupt my niece.”
THIRTY-ONE
DEVIL’S DOMINION
GRANDMAMA’S ESTATE
CHICAGO, ILLINOIS
10 FEBRUARY 1889
Sleet pelted the tin roof of our borrowed home, the drops steady and rhythmic. It took some getting used to at first, but soon it became comfortable background noise
, almost lulling me to sleep despite our newest task. I took a sip of mint tea, relishing the fresh, clean taste. Thunder crashed in the distance, lighting the room in a flash of silvery white. I pulled my shawl closer. While I hadn’t recently conjured up images of wolves or other dark creatures stalking the night, on evenings such as this, my mind played devilish tricks.
A second crash of thunder had me sucking in my breath. I looked at the window as the night sky was set ablaze. Thin lines of ice crept along the windowpane, as delicate as lace. Mother Nature was a fine seamstress, her stitches almost as carefully worked as mine when I closed up a corpse.
Thomas lifted his head from his own work, a slight smile starting. “Are you afraid of thunder, Wadsworth?” I gave him my most unpleasant look, not deigning to respond. He already teased me endlessly about clowns and spiders. “I wouldn’t mind holding you under the covers until the storm passes. I would feel quite gentlemanly.”
I inhaled sharply and the room felt as if it did, too. Images of our pre-wedding night flashed through my mind. Thomas watched me very carefully, his expression a mixture of desperate hope and unrelenting fear. Hope that I’d tease him back in our familiar way. And fear that I wouldn’t, that his father had truly succeeded in driving us apart for good. My pause lasted only a moment, but it felt like forever.
“You would offer to do that, wouldn’t you?” I said, finally collecting myself. “I’m surprised you didn’t suggest we do so without our clothing. You’re losing your Cresswell touch.”
Relief instantly replaced the building tension in the room.
“Actually, I was about to suggest that next. And not for entirely selfish reasons, either.” His expression was too innocent, which indicated trouble. “Did you know snuggling skin to skin releases endorphins which assist with increased brain activity? If we decide to forgo clothing and hold each other until the storm passes, we might solve this case faster.”
“What medical journal did you read that in?” I narrowed my eyes. “I thought laying skin to skin was proven effective during hypothermia.”
“Don’t be cross with me.” Thomas held his hands up. “I cannot help quoting scientific fact. If you’d prefer proof, we could we test this experiment out. Let’s see who’s right.”
“Would that it were actual scientific fact and not an attempt for wanton follies, I might agree to it.”
“What better kind of follies are there?”
