Seeing the truth was never easy, especially when it revealed those closest to us could be monsters hidden in plain sight. If Uncle could hang on to a single string of belief, unraveling as quickly as it might be, that Father was innocent, then so could I.
For now.
TWENTY-FIVE
A VIOLET FROM MOTHER’S GRAVE
DR. JONATHAN WADSWORTH’S RESIDENCE,
HIGHGATE
8 NOVEMBER 1888
I pulled the tattered navy dress from a trunk in Uncle’s attic; its stitches were coming loose at the seams and the smell of must filled the space as I shook it out in the pale moonlight.
There was no hope of making it fashionable; too much time and not enough care had passed since it was first worn by Miss Emma Elizabeth.
Uncle had gathered nearly all her belongings from a family no longer wanting to be associated with her, taking pains to leave things as she had, frozen in time as if they were captured in a photograph. Except with a thick covering of dust and a few too many hungry moths having had a fine dining experience over the last several years.
The dress was a little too old, a little too ragged, a bit too big.
If I were to wear this ghastly dress out, I’d look as if I belonged in the East End, begging for work to feed my addictions, and Aunt Amelia would surely perish on the spot. I doubted even Liza would be able to make it pretty.
It was absolutely perfect.
Thomas leaned against the door frame, arms crossed, watching me in that silent, calculating way that drove me mad.
“I don’t see sense in what you’re doing, Wadsworth. Why not confront your father and be done with it? Sneaking about like a prostitute is by far the worst idea you’ve ever come up with. Congratulations,” he said, unlatching his arms and clapping slowly. “You’ve achieved something memorable, even if it’s ridiculous.”
“I’ve almost crossed you off my suspect list.” I shook out another dull dress. Dust tickled my nose as I laid it down. In its day, the deep-green silk must have been grand. “That’s quite an achievement.”
“Oh, yes,” he said, rolling his eyes. “Another of your fine ideas. As if I’d be messy enough to leave evidence behind. I’m with you practically day and night. Does that not absolve me from being a murderer? Or must we share a bed to prove my innocence? Actually… that might not be a terrible idea.”
Ignoring him, I removed a pair of brown lace-up boots from the same leather trunk and inspected them closely. They looked to be around my size, so I added them to my costume pile. Thomas had started following me around two hours prior, milling about and offering up his opinions like sacrifices I didn’t care to accept.
“We’ve done things your way for three solid weeks,” I reminded him. “Earning us nothing but mounds of frustration. Enough is enough, Thomas.”
We’d tried hiding outside my house on Belgrave Square, camping out at all hours of the night, all times throughout the day, but never succeeded in catching Father coming or going. I’d even gone as far as etching his carriage for identification purposes, should we ever see it rolling about at night.
It was as if he always knew when he was being watched, sensed it like a wolf being tracked by something mad enough to hunt it.
Now it was time to test my theory out.
“For your information,” I said, holding the green dress up, “I am not going as a prostitute. I’m simply blending in.”
No amount of discussion would dissuade me from the path I’d chosen. If I couldn’t catch Father heading into Whitechapel, I’d plant myself there and wait for him to come to me. It was as fine an idea as any. One way or another, I was determined to figure out if Father was Jack the Ripper.
Thomas muttered something too quiet for me to hear, then marched to an armoire standing solemnly in the corner of the attic, yanking the doors open and rummaging through it with a vengeance.
“What in the name of the queen are you doing?” I asked, though he didn’t bother answering. Clothes flew over his shoulders as he tossed them out of his way, searching for something that fit his needs.
“If you’ll not be reasoned with I shall have to sneak about with you. Clearly, I’ll need an old overcoat and trousers.” He made a sweeping motion over his person. “No one in their right mind will think me an East End resident looking as wonderful as I do. I may even don a wig.”
“I am not in need of a haughty escort this evening.” I scowled even though he wasn’t looking. “I’m quite capable of taking care of myself.”
“Oh, yes. How silly of me to overlook that.” Thomas snorted. “I imagine the women who lost their organs thought themselves quite above being slaughtered as well. They were likely saying, ‘It’s Friday. I shall go to the pub, find a bit of food, pay my board, then get murdered by a madman before the night’s through. How lovely.’”
“He is my father,” I said through clenched teeth. “You honestly believe he’ll harm me? I do not think even he has a heart so black and rotten.”