Anyone who was at the crime scene that morning would have seen me walking with Superintendent Blackburn. Not knowing proper protocol for this type of situation, I whispered, “That’s true.”
I glanced at Thomas, but he was still sitting quietly, eyes shut. His mouth, however, was now pressed into a tight line. I turned my attention back on our spiritualist.
“Uh-huh,” Mr. Lees said, his tone full of understanding. I wasn’t sure if he was addressing me or the supposed spirit hovering about, so I waited with my lips sealed together. “Miss Eddowes says to pass along this message to aid you in believing. She says there’s an identifying mark on her body, and you’ll know straightaway what she’s speaking of.”
The urge to yank my hands back and leave this den of lies plagued me for a few beats. I knew precisely what she was talking about.
There was a small tattoo on her left forearm that had the initials TC. That was hardly a secret. Again, anyone could’ve seen her arm in passing. I sighed, disappointed this turned out to be an act of folly. Before I said a word or broke contact with Thomas or Mr. Lees, he hurriedly continued.
“She said Jack was there that day as well. That he’d seen you.” He closed his mouth, nodding again as if he were an interpreter passing a message along from a foreign speaker. “He got close to you… even spoke with you. You were angry with him…”
Mr. Lees rocked in his chair, his closed eyes moving like confused pigeons squabbling back and forth in front of a park bench.
A deep, cold fear wound itself around my limbs, strangling reason from my brain. The only people I’d been angry with were Superintendent Blackburn and my father. Uncle had still been in the asylum and Thomas and I were not speaking.
If this man was truly communing with the dead, that cleared them of lingering suspicion. But Father and Blackburn…
Unwilling to hear more, I drew my hand away, but Thomas reached for it, placing it next to his. His encouraging look said we would see this through together, quieting me for the moment.
Our medium rocked in his seat, his movements coming faster and sharper. The wood creaked a panicked beat, spurring my own pulse into a chaotic rhythm. Mr. Lees stood so abruptly the chair he’d been sitting on crashed to the floor.
It took several seconds for him to reorient himself, and when his eyes cleared, he stared at me as if I’d transformed into Satan himself.
“Mr. Lees. Are you going to share what’s troubling you with us,” Thomas said, “or are you keeping what the spirits said to yourself?”
Mr. Lees trembled, shaking his head to clear away whatever he’d heard and seen. When he finally spoke, his tone was as ominous as his words.
“Leave London at once, Miss Wadsworth. I was mistaken, I cannot help you. Go!” he bellowed, startling us. He faced Thomas. “You must keep her safe. She’s been marked for death.”
Thomas narrowed his eyes. “If this is some trick—”
“Leave! Leave now before it’s too late.” Mr. Lees ushered us to the door, tossing me my coat as if it were on fire. “Jack craves your blood, Miss Wadsworth. God be with you.”
From Hell Letter, 1888
TWENTY-FOUR
FROM HELL
DR. JONATHAN WADSWORTH’S LIBRARY,
HIGHGATE
16 OCTOBER 1888
“I see you’ve thrown yourself another pity party,” Thomas said, breezing into Uncle’s darkened library. Lifting my head from my book, I noticed his clothing was exceptionally stylish for an afternoon apprenticing with cadavers. His finely stitched jacket fit perfectly to his frame. He caught me inspecting it and grinned. “You’ve yet to send out invitations, Wadsworth. Rather rude, don’t you think?”
I ignored both him and his remark, though I knew he was trying to make light of our situation. Eight days had come and gone since we’d spoken with Mr. Lees, and it had been even longer since I’d last seen my father.
While I couldn’t rely on Mr. Lees’s spirit testimony alone, Thomas was moving further down the suspect list every day. He pored over notes and details, day and night. I didn’t think the stress he tried hiding was an act.
Thomas wanted this case solved as badly as I did. During one particularly troubling evening, I shared my fears regarding my father with him. He’d opened his mouth, then shut it. And that was the end of that. His reaction was less than comforting.
Staying true to his word, Father didn’t seek me out, remaining indifferent to my whereabouts. It was so unlike him, letting me out of his sight for days on end, but he’d become a stranger to me and I couldn’t predict his next moves.
I hated thinking or admitting it, but he fit several of Jack the Ripper’s emerging characteristics. He’d been present for each crime, and absent when Jack had seemingly disappeared for those three and a half weeks in September.
Much as I wanted his opinion, I kept these dark speculations from Nathaniel. Worrying him was unnecessary until I had absolute proof Father was, indeed, Jack.