I read the shaky, loopy script quickly, my skin crawling over my bones with each sentence my gaze touched. The ink was blood-red, likely to instill fear in the recipient, as if the message inside wouldn’t be frightening enough. For all I knew, perhaps it was written in blood.
Nothing would surprise me when it came to this madman.
Dear Boss,
I keep on hearing the police have caught me but they wont fix me just yet. I have laughed when they look so clever and talk about being on the right track. That joke about Leather Apron gave me real f its. I am down on whores and I shant quit ripping them till I do get buckled. Grand work the last job was. I gave the lady no time to squeal. How can they catch me now. I love my work and want to start again. You will soon hear of me with my funny little games. I saved some of the proper red stuff in a ginger beer bottle over the last job to write with but it went thick like glue and I cant use it. Red ink is f it enough I hope.
ha. ha. The next job I do I shall clip the ladys ears off and send to the police off icers just for jolly wouldn’t you. Keep this letter back till I do a bit more work, then give it out straight. My knife’s so nice and sharp I want to get to work right away if I get a chance. Good luck. Yours truly
Jack the Ripper
Dont mind me giving the trade name
PS Wasnt good enough to post this before I got all the red ink off my hands curse it No luck yet. They say I’m a doctor now. ha ha
Setting the letter down, my thoughts swirled together in a maelstrom of hope and dread. While there was no guarantee this alone could save Uncle, it certainly might help.
Thomas and Blackburn took turns reading the letter, then sat back in their chairs. No one said a thing for an eternity until Thomas spoke up. “What joke about Leather Apron? I don’t recall police saying anything humorous about it. Unless he knows something we don’t.”
Editor Doyle and Thomas both stared at Blackburn, waiting for his response, but Blackburn only sighed and dragged a hand down his exhausted face.
Handsome or not, he didn’t look as if he’d been sleeping that well since the last time I’d seen him. “I haven’t the slightest clue about what the author of this letter is referring to. Perhaps he’s talking about the headlines calling him Leather Apron.”
I cleared my throat and looked at Mr. Doyle. “The author of this letter said not to show it around for a few days. Why ring Superintendent Blackburn?”
Mr. Doyle turned his world-weary gaze on me. “Even if this letter proves false, sent from some deranged citizen, I could not in good conscience keep it to myself.” He swallowed a gulp of tea, then removed a flask from his person and unapologetically took a swig. “I’m holding off printing it, but should he follow through with his threats, I wanted my mind free of guilt.”
A haunted feeling suddenly clung to me. Something strange was going on aside from the editor’s seemingly remorseful outreach. Something out of place that I couldn’t quite touch on. Then it occurred to me; Thomas Cresswell was unusually quiet. This would normally be the part where he had plenty to say or argue over.
He brought the letter close to his face and sniffed. I hadn’t the slightest inkling how he’d be able to deduce anything from scent, but knew better than to claim it impossible. The word did not apply to him in any form.
“I assume this was delivered in an envelope,” he said, not bothering to look up from his inspection of the letter. “I’ll need to see that immediately.”
Mr. Doyle tossed a glance Blackburn’s way, seeking him to jump in and say it wouldn’t be necessary, but Blackburn made an impatient gesture with his hand. “You heard the young man, Doyle. Hand over any evidence he requests.”
With a deep scowl settling into place, the editor did as he was asked. He didn’t seem like the kind of man who appreciated bending to children’s needs. Considering Blackburn himself wasn’t much older than my brother, I was certain Mr. Doyle was questioning why he’d involved police at all.
Thomas studied every angle of the envelope, twice, before handing it over to me, his expression carefully composed. “Any of this appear familiar to you, Wadsworth?”
Taking the envelope from him, I silently read it. There was no return address, and the only thing written across it was “The Boss. Central News Office. London City” in the same taunting red ink the letter was drafted in.
The very idea it would be at all something I’d seen before was absurd.
Then a thought slapped me in the face.
Did he think I’d written it in hopes of aiding Uncle? Was that what he thought of me, then? I was some spoiled girl, walking about London streets, doing whatever I pleased without regard to anyone? Was my position as a lord’s daughter showing itself in my abuse of privilege?
I thrust it back at him. “Afraid not, Cresswell. I’ve never seen this before in my life.”
If I was expecting some sort of response by using his surname, I was sorely disappointed. He didn’t so much as bat one of his long lashes at me. He studied me for another breath, then nodded. “Right, then. My mistake, Audrey Rose.”
“Mistake?” Blackburn glanced between us, a crease forming in his brow. “If rumors are to be believed, since when does Dr. Jonathan Wadsworth’s protégé make mistakes?”
“Seems there’s a first time for everything, Superintendent,” Thomas replied coolly, his attention finally drifting away from me. “Though, as someone with a bit more practice being wrong, I’m sure you can empathize. Tell me, what’s it like being—”
I rested my hand on his arm and forced myself to giggle uncontrollably, garnering strange looks from each male in the room. Except Thomas, who fixed his attention on the hand still touching him.
Blasted Thomas. Was I always to rescue him from himself? Blackburn was an untrustworthy annoyance, but he’d proven useful for once. I wasn’t in the mood for Thomas to make an enemy of him today, especially when Uncle’s life was potentially at stake. I held my hand up. “I do apologize. Thomas has a wicked sense of humor. Don’t you, Mr. Cresswell?”