SAUCY JACK
WADSWORTH RESIDENCE,
BELGRAVE SQUARE
1 OCTOBER 1888
Early morning light slanted in from the cathedral windows of our dining room, but I could stare only at the two pieces of evidence scrawled in Jack the Ripper’s hand while my breakfast cooled.
The days of holding back his ghastly deeds were apparently over. Jack wanted everyone to know he was responsible for these horrendous crimes. He was like an actor or king soaking up the attention of adoring fans and countrymen.
Troubled as I was by Thomas’s past, the idea of him being the Ripper didn’t sound quite right. The day Thomas Cresswell didn’t show off his brilliance was the day I’d find a unicorn for a pet. Jack wanted adoration. Thomas would surely have slipped by now.
Then again, he did keep his work with Uncle on transplants secret all these weeks. I cursed my softness toward him. I needed to detach my emotions, but it was proving more difficult than I’d envisioned.
I rubbed my temples and read the paper again. I wasn’t surprised the serpent side of Mr. Doyle resurfaced; it was only a matter of time before his paper sensationalized this for all the money it was worth.
“Honestly,” Liza whispered while slicing into her breakfast sausage, “I wish we weren’t leaving so dreadfully early. I’ve never seen such excitement in the city! Victoria’s throwing a masked ball, encouraging boys to come as the Ripper. Tall, dark, and completely anonymous. It’s terribly thrilling, wouldn’t you agree?”
I stole a glance at my aunt, who was watching me with a quirked brow. This was a test of good manners. I smiled pleasantly. “It certainly is terrible.”
“True. I don’t care what people say of those women, no one deserves to be slain like that. You simply must stop whoever it is.” Liza stared off, then shook herself into the present. “I’m going to miss you, Cousin. Come and stay with us soon.”
I smiled, realizing I couldn’t wait to see Liza again. My cousin was smart, unabashedly feminine, and comfortable playing by her own version of society’s rules. Her clever remarks and cheerful presence would be missed. “That would be lovely, I will.”
I took a sip of Earl Grey, my focus returning to the paper while my aunt and cousin chatted about yesterday’s tea I’d missed.
Either Blackburn had kept his promise to seek the editor out and run a copy of the “Dear Boss” letter, or Mr. Doyle had decided to do so himself. I didn’t trust Blackburn anymore, so my faith lay with the editor releasing the details.
I reread the letter, getting lost in the manic cursive of the killer’s script. Thinking back on the murder scene, there was an eerie number of similarities. The postcard depicted on the same page was something new, however. As it was dated from the night before, it was clear the murderer only recently posted it.
Wretched ideas had assaulted me last night with the growing list of suspects. I didn’t know who was responsible, but some memory kept creeping up on me.
Miss Emma Elizabeth Smith possibly knew her attackers. Could that be Uncle and Thomas? In Uncle’s notes she’d told investigators one assailant was a teenager. Uncle was betrothed to her… and clearly, it ended in some manner in which she resorted to prostitution.
If Thomas was in on it, it’d explain how the murders continued while Unc
le was in the asylum. It also meant I’d been inadvertently working with Jack the Ripper and possibly falling under his spell myself. My stomach twisted.
There had to be something else.
I thought of Thornley, recalling the day Thomas and I had learned of Uncle’s connection to Miss Emma Elizabeth. Thomas’s shock appeared genuine enough. But was it all a farce? Perhaps he was as talented at acting as he was at flipping his emotions on and off. If only my wretched heart could shut itself off from him completely!
There was something even worse to consider.
My father had connections to most of the victims. It was possible the opium addled his brain in some way, twisting his anguish over Mother into something violent. But was my father truly capable of murder? I wanted to deny it, to scream at myself for thinking such an awful thing, but Father did have a habit of becoming someone else whenever he was afraid or under the influence of his precious tonic. If Father really was innocent, then why did my heart sink at the thought?
Then there was the matter of Blackburn. Did he work with Father? Their association was hidden from my brother and me for God only knew how long. What else might they be keeping to themselves? The murders began again when Father came home.… I stopped my mind from wandering down that bleak alleyway.
I turned my attention back to the postcard facsimile in the paper.
It wasn’t very long, but the message was as chilling as the first. The grammar was just as poor, but I had a suspicion it was all for show. The script Jack used was far too clean and careful to be written by someone lacking education. It was a poor attempt at hiding his status in the community.
But which status? Doctor, lord, superintendent, or brilliant pupil?
I was not codding dear old Boss when I gave you the tip, you’ll hear about Saucy Jacky’s work tomorrow double event this time number one squealed a bit couldn’t f inish straight off. ha not the time to get ears for police. thanks for keeping last letter back till I got to work again.
Jack the Ripper