“That’s fine,” I said, slipping the package into my pocket. Just being here stirred the bones of my hands from their slumber, made them remember what Father had done to me. I flexed them, hoping to hold off the symptoms of another fit.
The dog finished his chicken bone and barked at Joyce, who stooped down on his bad knee and scratched the dog’s head. “When are you going to give this ugly fellow a name already?” he asked.
I leaned against the counter, watching the dog thumping his tail. “He isn’t my dog.”
“Don’t think he understands that.”
“My guardian wouldn’t care much for a stray in his house. I fear I’m already uncivilized enough for him.” I didn’t mention how the last dog I’d named, a puppy called Crusoe, had died under Father’s scalpel. The thought made my stiff hands ache more, and I pushed them into my coat pockets.
Joyce grinned. “Aw, you could use a companion. No reason why anyone else has to know. Keep him in a back garden. How about Romeo, eh? Romeo and Juliet, you were made for one another.”
“I was made for a flea-ridden stray?” I couldn’t help but laugh. “Perhaps you’re right. Though in any case, Romeo doesn’t suit him. Who’s that boxer you’re always talking about? The underdog. That mutt’s an underdog, if I’ve ever seen one.”
“Mike Sharkey,” Joyce said. “Pride of Ireland. He beat that big Turkish bloke four to one. What do you say, fella? Are you a Sharkey?”
I watched them playing from the corner of my eye. Joyce had always been friendly with me, and never once asked what a well-dressed young woman wanted with so many animal organs. So different from those tittering ladies at the flower show.
“Hope you’re taking care out there, miss, walking around town on your own, especially this late in the afternoon. It’ll be dark soon. You’ve heard about the murders, I wager?”
“Which murders? This is London. There are a dozen murders every day.”
His eyes went serious beneath his brow. “Didn’t read the morning paper, did you?” He rooted around in the stack of old newspapers he used to wrap cuts of meat and slapped one down on the table.
“A MASS MURDER IN THE MAKING?” the headline read.
“Three murders in the last two days,” Joyce said. “Scotland Yard says they’re connected; the murder leaves his mark at each crime scene. It’s all anyone’s been talking about. They’re calling him the Wolf of Whitechapel on account of how he carves up the bodies. One of them had a purse on him and a gold watch, but the murderer didn’t touch it. Wasn’t interested in anything but tearing that man apart like an animal.”
Like an animal.
The twist in my gut grew to a desperate squeeze, and I had to lean on the counter to catch my breath. Like an animal, that’s how Edward had killed his victims. Ripped their hearts out with six-inch claws.
My hand slid to my chest, pressing against the hard whalebone corset. On the island, I’d seen a woman with her jaw ripped off. Buzzing flies. A blood-stained tarpaulin. Mauled, like all the others.
And Edward had killed them. That was the worst part. To this day, even so long after his death, my heart wrenched to think that Edward had killed so many of the islanders. He had seemed such an innocent young man, and yet beneath his skin lurked a monster.
A monster created by my father.
“Christ, didn’t mean to frighten you, miss. I forget you’re a proper lady sometimes.”
“It’s quite all right, Joyce,” I said with a shaky smile.
I started to pick up the package to go, when he said, “You just be careful, miss. Flowers dipped in blood, that’s his mark. That’s how they know the bodies are connected.”
I slowly turned back to him. The professor had said that a flower had been found beside the body of that terrible solicitor, Daniel Penderwick, who had taken my family’s fortune on behalf of the bank. Shocked that I had been acquainted with the first victim of what the police thought might be a mass murderer, I pointed toward the paper. “Do you mind if I read that article?”
He passed me the newspaper and I pored over it carefully. There was Penderwick’s name, listed as the Wolf of Whitechapel’s first victim. Two more had died since, one last night, and one very early this morning. Each was found torn apart with violent wounds, and a white flower left nearby. One of the bodies was yet to be identified, but the other made me start.
Annie Benton.
A creeping feeling began in my ankles, making my toes curl. Annie Benton had been my roommate when I worked as a maid at King’s College. She’d had a bad habit of digging through my belongings and asking too many questions. A few months ago she’d gotten back in touch with me under the pretense of friendship, but had then stolen my mother’s small diamond ring—the only thing I had left of her.
I leaned against the butcher’s stand to steady myself. If I’d read Annie’s name in any other context, I would have been seething with anger. But thought of her murdered by such violent means left me feeling strangely hollow and out of place, as though time was moving backward.