“And you thought it a fine idea to hide this from me?”
“We’ve been a bit preoccupied with hunting down a murderer, Wadsworth,” Thomas said flatly. “Pardon me for not discussing something I find… difficult. Aside from Dr. Wadsworth and now yourself, I’ve not spoken of my mother to anyone since she died. Especially since my father felt it appropriate to remarry before her body was cool to the touch, and my stepmother cannot be bothered with children who are not her own.”
“I—I’m sorry, Thomas.”
He shrugged again and looked away. I sat on a velvet settee. I couldn’t believe it.
This was the reason Thomas was skilled at being emotionally distant. The root of his arrogance. Liza was right—it did cover pain. My heart raced. Part of me wanted to draw him into a hug and heal his wounds, and part of me wished to ferret out all his secrets and piece the puzzle of him together this instant.
But there was the matter of Uncle and his connection to Miss Emma Elizabeth that took precedence. With great effort, I faced Uncle.
“I need to know what happened with your former betrothed.” I could see the gears working in his mind as he tried to avoid telling me the story. “Please. Tell me what became of Emma Elizabeth Smith.”
Uncle tossed his hands in the air. “Seems I know less than you.”
“Indulge me, then.”
“Oh, fine. She made me choose: her or science. When I refused, she severed all connection, saying she’d end up penniless before condoning such blasphemous work.”
Uncle put his head in his hands; clearly, thinking of his former love was taking a toll on his already fragile state. A steely determination I was very familiar with seemed to coat his bones then, rejuvenating him within the next breath.
After all, this was the man who taught his students how to divorce themselves from the human aspect of something awful and to charge ahead and seek out the facts without emotions blinding them.
He sat up straighter, doling out facts one after the other.
“Emma could’ve carried on with her life, but chose not to. Said she wanted me to hurt as much as possible, thought it’d force me into relenting.” He shook his head. “Last I’d heard she rented a room in the East End, refusing to take money from her family. Rumors started, as they have a way of doing, that she was selling herself to afford lodging.”
Uncle removed his glasses and wiped imaginary smudges from them. I couldn’t imagine what his emotions must be like. He dropped his hands into his lap. “I didn’t have the heart to find out if that was true. I pushed her from my mind, getting lost in my work, where I’ve happily lived out my days the last several years.”
“What happened the night you saw her body?” I asked quietly. “Does it remind you of the recent killings at all?”
Uncle jerked his head back, looking startled before twisting his mustache. He took a moment, flipping through the notes of his mind.
“I suppose she could be one of Ripper’s victims.” Uncle crushed the leather case he kept his glasses in, his knuckles turning white as bone. When he spoke, it was through gritted teeth. “I must return to work.”
Thomas arched a brow, then set his attention on me. It seemed there were still secrets left to be revealed. I couldn’t tell if he was in on them or not but was determined to find out.
TWENTY-THREE
THE CONJURER’S ART
LITTLE ILFORD CEMETERY,
LONDON
8 OCTOBER 1888
Two stone dragons stood sentinel over our carriage as it moved across cobblestones and through the largest of three ogival archways leading into Little Ilford Cemetery.
A heavy mist shrouded a small group of mourners standing around the freshly dug grave of Miss Catherine Eddowes, the slain woman I’d inspected during the double event, blanketing them from the harshness of the day.
Winter was biting at autumn’s toes, reminding the milder season it’d be here soon.
As a sign of respect for the deceased, I’d worn a proper gown instead of the riding habit and breeches I’d recently adopted as my ensemble of choice. My simple black dress was eerily similar to what I’d worn the night of Miss Annie Chapman’s murder. I hoped it wasn’t a prediction of worse things to come.
I felt a strange connection to Catherine, perhaps because I’d knelt over her body and examined the scene where she’d been found.
Papers described her as jolly when sober, singing a tune for anyone who’d listen. The night she was murdered she’d been drunk, lying in the street before being detained by police until shortly after one in the morning.
Ripper found her not long after that, silencing her songs forever.
Uncle stayed at his laboratory, speaking with detective inspectors about the second victim of that bloody night, ushering Thomas and me off in his carriage to glean what we could from Miss Catherine’s funeral attendees. He believed killers often visited the sites of their destruction or involved themselves in cases, though like most of his notions, it couldn’t be proven. Detective inspectors didn’t spend much time convincing Uncle his expertise was essential to solving the case. A little ego stroking on the part of the upper echelons of Scotland Yard went a long way to assuage Uncle’s damaged pride.
I couldn’t stop stealing glances at Thomas, wondering if the very monster I was hunting was standing beside me. Though his story of his mother’s death and father’s near-immediate remarriage tugged at me emotionally, perhaps that was his intention. For now I’d watch him, but act as if all was well between us.
Thomas held an umbrella over our heads, his attention focused on everyone in the gathering. There weren’t many mourners, and to be honest, none of them appeared the least bit suspicious—except for one bearded man who tossed stares over his shoulder at us. Something about him set caution humming through my veins.
“Dust thou art, and unto dust thou shalt return,” the priest quoted from the book of Genesis, holding his arms skyward. “May your soul rest more peacefully than the manner in which you left us, beloved sister.”
The handful of people murmured a collective amen before dispersing from the plot. Dreary weather kept their sadness at arm’s length and their prayers for the dead short. Moments later the sky opened up and rain flowed freely, forcing Thomas to stand a bit closer with the umbrella.
Or perhaps he was using it as an excuse. He’d been hovering around me as if I were the sun his universe revolved around ever since he’d let me past one of his many emotional walls. Something to ponder another day.
I walked over to the makeshift grave marker, kneeling to run my gloved fingertips across the rough wooden cross, feeling a wave of sadness for a woman I didn’t even know. The city of London pulled together, giving her a proper burial and grave. People were always providing in death what they would not do in life, it seemed.
“Audrey Rose.” Thomas cleared his throat, and I glanced up, spotting the bearded man lingering a few paces off, looking torn between approaching us and fading into the desolate, gray morning. Unable to shake the feeling he had something important to impart to us, I motioned for Thomas to follow me.
“If he won’t come to us,” I said over my shoulder, “we’ll bring ourselves to him.” I stopped before him, extending my hand. “Good morning. My name is—”
“Miss Audrey Rose Wadsworth. Daughter of Malina and—what’s that?” he asked an invisible person to his left. Thomas and I exchanged baffled looks.
Clearly, he was unbalanced, speaking to air. But there was something about him knowing my mother’s name that unnerved me. He nodded to something we still couldn’t see.