TWENTY-SEVEN
Polly Nichols. That’s the name that comes to mind, and I wouldn’t bet my life savings on it, but I’d shout it out at a trivia night.
I’d gone on a Ripper kick in high school. It was right around the time I was solidifying my plan to become a detective, making sure it was more than a childhood dream. Jack the Ripper is the most famous unsolved case in history, so I threw myself into it as a would-be detective. What I eventually realized is that it was a fun little exercise, but ultimately a futile pursuit. It’d been so early in the history of forensics and detective work that one could only blindly speculate on the killer, based on one’s favored theory.
Before me lies an exact replica of Polly Nichols’s murder. Twenty years before Polly Nichols will die.
Here is the final proof I need. Proof that the guy who tried to kill me two nights ago is from the twenty-first century. He decided to copycat the most famous serial killer of all time.
You bastard.
The curse rings in my head as Gray leads me to the body.
I don’t spend one moment wonderingwhythe killer did this. I know why. I remember being in Gray’s room, going through those newspapers and pamphlets, expecting so much more coverage. The killer expected it, too.
No one had cared. Not really. A journalist strangled and staged to look like a bird? Next, please.
So he decided to donext.The next level. You want more? How about a pretty housemaid, slaughtered in an alley? But I thwarted him, and this is my reward.
Oh, it might have nothing to do with me, but I stillfeelresponsible. The killer planned to take a young and pretty victim, in hopes that would give him the attention he wanted. Better yet, I was connected to the detective on his trail, and he does love his connections, as if we deserved our fate by offending him.
I did more than offend him. I survived his attack—twice—and so he has rethought his plan and decided to make a full right turn. Because he can. He isn’t driven by any compulsion to murder in a specific way. He’s flexible. And here he’s flexed to something far cleverer than staging his victims as birds.
He’s stealing from the future. Stealing the thunder of the most famous serial killer of all time. It is breathtakingly clever, and I do not grant him one iota of credit for it, because seeing this poor woman, all I can do is inwardly rage at the pointlessness of her murder, chosen only because she bears a superficial resemblance to Polly Nichols.
What will happen in Jack the Ripper’s time now? Will he still kill Polly Nichols in the same manner? He might, if news of this killing never reaches London, but if he does, it will not take long before someone sees the connection and paints history’s most infamous serial killer as a mere copycat.Thiskiller will be the original.
As I step toward the body, I stop, feeling eyes on me. I look up to see the shocked faces of those nearby as a woman—a housemaid still in uniform—approaches the body. I ignore those looks and scan the crowd. In public murders, especially serial killings, it’s basic protocol to get a look at the crowd. My fingers itch to take cell-phone photos, in case the killer is there, gloating and vibrating in excitement at seeing his handiwork admired. Here, with all these people, it would be easy to get close, and I can do no more than survey faces.
Are you here?
I sliced my attacker’s arm and stabbed his side. That would be far more helpful in identifying him if people in this world wore less clothing. Even with the sun promising a warm day, all the men are in long sleeves, most also in jackets. Next time, I’ll need to aim for the face.
Even if the killer isn’t here, I’m sure my own presence will not gounremarked. Newspapers will mention the fair-haired maid who accompanied the notorious Dr. Gray. If the killer didn’t realize I was involved in the case before, he’ll know now.
Good.
Yes, that puts me in danger, but I was already there, and if he targets me again, I will be ready. I will catch him if I can, and I will see his face if I cannot.
One last slow look at the crowd. Then I bend beside the body. I forget I’m Catriona Mitchell. I become Detective Mallory Atkinson, attending a crime scene, and I kneel a foot from her head. When someone shouts a horrified warning, I startle, realizing what I’m doing. Before I can scramble back, Gray’s hand lands on my shoulder, staying me.
“Don’t let the lass see this,” a voice says, and I look to see McCreadie bearing down on us. “The poor woman has been savaged.”
“And Catriona could see that before she wished a closer examination,” Gray says placidly. “She has a keen eye and an iron stomach. If she wishes to look, let her.”
McCreadie grumbles, but he doesn’t tell me to get back. His concern was entirely for my feminine sensibilities. The thought that a layperson— a housemaid—shouldn’t get this close to a murder victim doesn’t seem to occur to him. Doesn’t seem to occur to anyone, from the looks of things.
“How long do I have?” Gray asks McCreadie.
“A runner went to fetch Addington shortly after I sent for you,” McCreadie says, his voice low. “I held off as long as I could. I know you like to see victims on the scene when possible, and in this case”—he spares a glance for the dead woman—“it seemed wise to do so. Also, there is the feather.”
His gaze travels to the left, and I follow it to see a feather wedged under her shoulder. A peacock feather.
“The same?” Gray murmurs to me.
I start moving aside for a better look at the feather. His hand falls on mine, the warmth of it startling me. He pulls back quickly with a murmured apology and then says, “We have limited time. The feather can be examined later.”
“It appears to be the same,” I say.