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I slowly inhaled and exhaled, ignoring the burning in my throat. I hated cages. “Why would they lock us in here?”
Thomas was quiet a moment, considering. Finally, he said, “I wonder if it’s not us they’re concerned with keeping in, but keeping others out.”
“Do you believe our murderer is employed by the fair?”
Thomas shrugged. “Until we examine the body, we won’t know if it’s the same person who’s killed in New York and London. Should we open the drawer and see what we find?”
A sense of calm radiated around me as I moved toward the drawers. My cane clicked loudly in the small room, though my pulse no longer raced in time with it. I paused at the only drawer with a label: Miss Trudy Jasper. The missing woman who’d worked for Mephistopheles.
I set my cane down and pulled the drawer handle. At first it wouldn’t budge; then Thomas came over and we both managed to open it with our combined effort.
A marble-white body greeted us. Her hair was a lovely shade of auburn, reminding me a bit of flames. Her eyes were closed, though I imagined them being a wondrous hazel for some reason. No one had bothered covering her, and her wounds were immediately visible.
I was grateful I’d set my cane down or else I’d have knocked it over as I gripped the edge of the floating metal drawer holding her up. I squeezed my eyes shut, knowing it wouldn’t do any good to stop the images I was seeing. Memories ran wild.
Suddenly, I was no longer standing in this strange crypt below the White City. I was back in London, in a foggy alleyway. The moon hung suspiciously low in the sky—yellow like a cat’s eye, watching the chaotic world below as if it were a mouse to toy with.
“Audrey Rose?”
Thomas’s voice was strained, like I imagined his expression to be. I shook my head, not quite ready to answer him. I wasn’t weak. I was overcome with the truth that sat before me. There was no doubt left in my mind that my brother’s confession had been true. Nathaniel wasn’t Jack the Ripper. I knew that because this woman’s wounds were almost exactly like Miss Eddowes’s. The second, unfortunate victim of the infamous double event. Even a cursory glance told me that much. I was certain a detailed inspection would prove my theory correct.
I wrenched my eyes open. I would not let him win. Jack the Ripper had left this body for us, knowing our tenuous connection to her—this was a proclamation and a dare. He felt untouchable and he mocked us. I slowly straightened up, giving Thomas a tight smile as I walked around the body, collecting each detail of her vicious demise.
A small bruise on her left hand—a detail that hadn’t been known about Catherine Eddowes until her body had been washed. Part of Trudy’s right ear had been cut away, again, just as Catherine Eddowes’s had been. The familiar black stitching of the postmortem Y incision seemed to sag along with her skin over her abdomen. I’d wager my soul her kidney was missing, along with at least a foot or two of her intestines.
I swallowed hard. It was as if I was looking upon the body of Miss Eddowes all over again. I finally dragged my gaze up to her throat. An angry slash had ended her life. Her carotid had been cut, indicating she’d have bled out quickly. Other injuries were inflicted after death.
I glanced up, noticing that Thomas had already been watching me carefully. I wondered if he worried that this was becoming too much. If he felt the need to shelter me from the storm he thought was raging within. He had no way of knowing I was not afraid.
Blood pounded furiously in my veins. Months of devastation slithered into my bones, wrapping around my senses until all I saw was red. Anger. It was a beast that couldn’t be tamed.
I’d believed beyond a doubt that my brother had been the devil. I’d ached at his death but felt justice had been served. I’d found peace, believing he could never harm another. No matter how much that thought had ripped my heart out and tortured me. I had spent months warring with my own sense of right and wrong, believing the world ought to know he was the monster who’d stalked Whitechapel streets and that they were safe from him forever.
I’d held my tongue, worried my father would not withstand the pain of such a public scandal. He’d been so fragile then. And selfishly, a part of me wanted to protect Nathaniel from hatred and scorn, even in death. I knew him only as my devoted brother, after all. I loved him.
I slid my gaze back to the body on the table. Trudy, like the women who’d come before her, did not deserve to die.
Thomas hadn’t taken his attention from me, his concern obvious. I knew he recognized that Trudy’s wounds were done by the Ripper as easily as I had. Before I could assure him of my composure, the lock slid free. A man with a crisp apron walked in. If he was surprised by our youth, he didn’t let it show. This must be Dr. Rosen, then, an old pupil of Uncle’s.
“Mr. Cresswell and Miss Wadsworth, I presume?” he asked. We nodded and he seemed to be going through the motions of formality. He glanced at the body, his expression unchanged. “I’m Dr. Rosen. Dr. Wadsworth sent a telegram this morning.”
I nodded. “He sends his apologies, but he was unable to accompany us.”
“Indeed. I see you’ve already helped yourself to the body.” Dr. Rosen indicated the table.
There was no reproach in his tone, only cool fact sharing. If anything, he seemed pleased to not prolong our visit. He reminded me of Uncle in that sense. I had a feeling he got along better with
the dead. He walked over to the closet with the supplies and emerged with a piece of torn paper. Everything seemed to move through quicksand after that. I watched as his arm slowly extended, the paper changing colors in the light as he lifted it up. Then I realized it wasn’t shifting colors at all—what I was seeing were bloodstains.
Thomas was the only thing not suspended in quicksand; he moved seemingly with inhuman speed around the table, snatching the letter before the doctor handed it to me. I was grateful for his ability to read me. I needed a moment to collect myself. The body, the note—it brought about a strange ringing in my ears. Thankfully, it lasted only a few seconds, hardly noticeable to anyone but my very observant former fiancé.
He waited until I’d gathered up my emotions in my fist, then stood beside me so we could read the note together. The script was familiar—it had haunted my dreams on more than one occasion. It was not my brother’s handwriting. It was Jack the Ripper’s.
“These violent delights have violent ends And in their triumph die, like fire and powder, Which as they kiss consume.” A rose by any other name does not deserve to live. Why do you think that is?
I stared mutely at the note. I’d expected poor grammar and another reference to Milton. That seemed to be Jack’s favorite back in London. I couldn’t decide if I was more disturbed by the fact that he was quoting Romeo and Juliet or that he’d written it in blood. What on earth was he suggesting now? I glanced up at Thomas, but he’d gone deathly pale. In fact, I could have sworn Miss Jasper’s corpse had more color, even drained of its fluids.
Unaware of or unconcerned with the reaction the letter had brought about, Dr. Rosen slid the mortuary drawer closed, removing the mutilated corpse from our sight. “The note was tucked into her bodice. We found it only after she’d been brought here.” He seemed to deliberate on his next words. “It had actually been nailed to her body along with a rose.”
