NINETEEN
DEAR BOSS
CENTRAL NEWS AGENCY,
LONDON
27 SEPTEMBER 1888
The sound of typewriters clicking away to the beat of a hundred fingers greeted Thomas and me as we followed Superintendent Blackburn into the busy news agency. Most all of their stories were “sensationalized lies and slander charges waiting to happen,” according to my brother. I didn’t disagree.
Blackburn had found me locked away in Uncle’s laboratory, poring over murder details and evidence being used against Uncle, and insisted I see the latest horror for myself.
Blackburn wasn’t eager for Thomas’s company, but I convinced him his expertise was very much needed. Thomas would likely spot any detail overlooked, and that’s precisely what Uncle needed. Blackburn eventually gave in.
Liza had assisted in fabricating excuses to leave the house, telling her mother we were in desperate need of shopping excursions. Aunt Amelia was thrilled to have me doing “appropriate girl things” and sent us out, humming to herself. I suspected my cousin was willing to help because it afforded her time to sneak away to the park with her newest love interest. Regardless of her motives, I was grateful for her presence and would miss her when they returned to the country.
Anxiety twisted through my limbs. Blackburn wasn’t a man of many words, so he didn’t spare much on the carriage ride over. All I knew was something came up that could potentially raise doubts about Uncle’s guilt or set the noose around his neck for good.
Thomas might not trust Blackburn, but I was desperate enough to take any assistance we could get, even if it meant following the person who’d originally put my uncle in the asylum to the depths of Hell.
We walked by several desks with reporters writing and excitedly chatting over the day’s news. A palpable buzz could be felt like electricity running through Edison bulbs.
At the end of the small room stood an office with a stout man seated behind an even larger desk. He was wearing spectacles on his face and stress in his bones.
The etching on the door informed anyone who entered he was the editor. There was a bleak look about him that permeated his every movement and action; it spoke of seeing too much of life’s darkness. His attention landed on each of us, seemingly calculating our motives or personalities, before settling on Superintendent Blackburn. He dabbed a cigarette out with pudgy fingers, then motioned for us to step inside and have a seat, his movements quick and jittery.
I watched the tiny embers fade from orange to gray ash that lifted in the wake of our entrance. A thick cloud of smoke took up residence above our heads, as if not wanting to miss out on what we were about to learn.
I couldn’t find the will to be annoyed by the toxic fumes, I was too nervous about the news that might exonerate or further condemn Uncle. Thomas, however, appeared ready to jump over the desk and suck the last dregs of tobacco into his lungs.
With unsteady hands, the editor pointed toward the tea set on a buffet near the wall. “If any of you would like a refreshment before we begin, please help yourself.”
Blackburn looked at me, brows raised, and I gave a slight shake of my head. I didn’t want to stay longer than necessary. This place was overwhelming and the editor made me nervous. “No, thank you, Mr. Doyle,” he said. “If you wouldn’t mind, I’d like to see the letter you spoke of earlier.”
“What you’re about to see is rather unpleasant,” Mr. Doyle warned, staring at me in particular. “Especially for a young lady.”
I smiled, leaning over the desk and used the sweetest tone I could muster.
“In my spare time I flay open bodies of the deceased. Two of whom were victims of Leather Apron. The scent that hung in the room would drop a man to his knees, and I aided my uncle during the postmortems while standing in gelled blood.” I sat back in my chair, the leather squeaking its own disapproval. “Whatever you have to show us won’t be too much for my stomach to handle, I assure you.”
Mr. Doyle blanched, then nodded curtly, shuffling papers lying in front of him. It was hard to tell if he was more disturbed by my unladylike activities or by the way I delivered the message in such a girlish tone. Either way, I felt mildly redeemed for having turned the tables of discomfort around on him.
Thomas snorted, then held his hands up in a gesture of apology when Mr. Doyle glared at him. Blackburn, dropping his air of station, looked as boyish as Thomas and was doing only a slightly better job of hiding his amusement.
I studied this version of Blackburn. Thomas was right, there was something disarming about his features. With one shy glance he earned your trust completely.
Mr. Doyle cleared his throat.
“Very well, then.” He opened the top drawer of his desk, removed a letter, then slid it across to where we were sitting in straight-backed chairs. He seemed anxious to be rid of us already. I’d half a mind to inform him the feeling was very mutual.
“This came in the post this morning.”
Thomas snatched it before Blackburn or I could and read aloud.
“‘Dear Boss, I keep on hearing the police have caught me but they won’t fix me just yet.’” Thomas opened his mouth, no doubt ready to say something Thomas-like, so I used the distraction against him, grabbing the letter from his clutches and reading it for myself.
The grammar was atrocious.