“What are we having this evening?” Will asked, tucking the dagger into a drawer. “It smells a bit like lamb stew.”
Before Tessa could answer, she heard the door open and Gabriel Lightwood came hurrying in, the smell of the cold fog trailing in his wake. He didn’t bother to remove his coat. From the way he was walking and the look on his face, Tessa could tell that this little moment of domestic tranquility was over.
“Something wrong?” Will asked.
“This,” Gabriel said. He held up a broadsheet newspaper called the Star. “It’s awful.”
“I agree,” Will said. “Those halfpenny rags are terrible. But you seem to be more upset about them than is appropriate.”
“They may be halfpenny rags, but listen to this.”
He stepped under a gaslight, unfolded the paper, and snapped it once to straighten it.
“The terror of Whitechapel,” he read.
“Oh,” Will said. “That.”
Everyone in London knew about the terror in Whitechapel. The murders had been extraordinarily horrible. News of the killings now filled every paper.
“. . . has walked again, and this time has marked down two victims, one hacked and disfigured beyond discovery, the other with her throat cut and torn. Again he has got away clear; and again the police, with wonderful frankness, confess that they have not a clue. They are waiting for a seventh and an eighth murder, just as they waited for a fifth, to help them to it. Meanwhile, Whitechapel is half mad with fear. The people are afraid even to talk with a stranger. Notwithstanding the repeated proofs that the murderer has but one aim, and seeks but one class in the community, the spirit of terror has got fairly abroad, and no one knows what steps a practically defenceless community may take to protect itself or avenge itself on any luckless wight who may be taken for the enemy. It is the duty of journalists to keep their heads cool, and not inflame men’s passions when what is wanted is cool temper and clear thinking; and we shall try and write calmly about this new atrocity.”
“Very lurid,” said Will. “But the East End is a violent place for mundanes.”
“I do not think this is a mundane.”
“Wasn’t there a letter? The killer sent something?”
“Yes, a very odd letter. I have that as well.”
Gabriel went over to a desk in the corner and opened it, revealing a neat stack of newspaper cuttings.
“Yes, here it is. Dear Boss, I keep on hearing the police have caught me but they won’t fix me just yet. I have laughed when they look so clever and talk about being on the right track. That joke about Leather Apron gave me real fits. I am down on whores and I shan’t quit ripping them till I do get buckled. Grand work the last job was. I gave the lady no time to squeal. How can they catch me now. I love my work and want to start again. You will soon hear of me with my funny little games. I saved some of the proper red stuff in a ginger beer bottle over the last job to write with but it went thick like glue and I can’t use it. Red ink is fit enough I hope. Ha. Ha. The next job I do I shall clip the lady’s ears off and send to the police officers just for jolly wouldn’t you. Keep this letter back till I do a bit more work, then give it out straight. My knife’s so nice and sharp I want to get to work right away if I get a chance. Good luck. Yours truly, Jack the Ripper.”
“That’s quite a name he’s given himself,” Tessa said. “And quite horrific.”
“And almost certainly false,” Gabriel said. “A bit of nonsense made up by newspapermen to keep selling the story. And good for us as well, as it gives a human face—or at least the appearance of a human hand—to it. But come, I’ll show you.”
He waved them over to the table in the middle of the room and removed a map from inside his coat. He spread this out.
“I have just come from the East End,” he said. “Something about the stories disturbed me, for more than the obvious reasons. I went there to have a look about for myself. And what happened last night proves my theory. There have been many murders recently—all of women, women who . . .”
“Prostitutes,” Tessa said.
“Quite,” Gabriel said.
“Tessa has such an extensive vocabulary,” Will said. “It is one of the most attractive things about her. Shame about yours, Gabriel.”
“Will, listen to me.” Gabriel allowed himself a long sigh.
“Spoon!” James said, running at his uncle Gabriel and jabbing him in the thigh. Gabriel mussed the boy’s hair affectionately.
“You’re such a good boy,” he said. “I often wonder how you could possibly be Will’s.”
“Spoon,” James said, leaning against his uncle’s leg lovingly.
“No, Jamie,” Will urged. “Your honorable father has been impugned. Attack, attack!”
“Bridget,” Tessa said. “Could you take James to have his supper?”
James was ushered from the room, caught up in Bridget’s skirts.
“The first murder,” Gabriel said, “was here. Buck’s Row. That occurred on August the thirty-first. Very vicious, with a number of long cuts to the abdomen. The second was on Hanbury Street on September eighth. Her name was Annie Chapman, and she was found in the courtyard behind a house. This murder had a very similar set of incisions, but was very much worse. The contents of the abdomen were simply removed. Some organs were placed on her shoulder. Some organs were simply gone. All of the work was done with a surgical precision, and would have taken a skilled surgeon some time to do. This was done in minutes, outdoors, without much light to work by. This was the work that got my attention. And now the last murders, which were only a few nights ago—these were fiendish works indeed. Now, observe closely. The first murder of that night took place here.”
He pointed to a spot on the map marked Dutfield’s Yard.