“If you’re going to follow me around at night, Miss Wadsworth” —his attention flicked to my feet—“I’d advise you to wear more sensible shoes.” I opened my mouth to retort; however, Mr. Thomas Cresswell spoke over me again. Brash fool. “The Leather Apron is what they’re calling our murderer.”
He moved around the examination table, stalking closer to where I stood. I wanted to back away, but he held me in his magnetic orbit. He stopped before me, a softness briefly flashing across his features, and my heart picked up speed.
Lord help the girl he set those eyes on for good. His boyish vulnerability was a weapon, powerful and disarming. I was thankful I wasn’t the kind of girl to lose my mind over a handsome face. He’d need to work a bit harder to gain my affection.
“To answer your earlier question, Dr. Wadsworth,” he said, tearing his gaze from mine, his tone more serious than before, “I fully believe this is only the beginning. What we have on our hands is the start of a career murderer. No one with that kind of surgical prowess would commit one murder then stop.”
His lips quirked slightly when he noticed my incredulous expression. “I know I wouldn’t. One taste of warm blood is never enough, Miss Wadsworth.”
The Princess Alice, c. 1880s
FOUR
A DANCE WITH THE DEVIL
WADSWORTH RESIDENCE,
BELGRAVE SQUARE
7 SEPTEMBER 1888
Leather Apron and the Whitechapel Murderer were the headlines of the last week.
Everywhere I looked, a new theory was introduced by another supposed expert in the field. Detective inspectors had several doctors examine the body of Miss Nichols and, for the most part, they’d all come to the same conclusions as Uncle Jonathan.
Most everyone disagreed with Uncle’s theory of her being assaulted while standing, however. They did agree her throat was slashed prior to the incisions made along her abdomen, and that whoever was responsible was unlikely to simply stop now.
East End residents were terrified to go out after sunset, fearing every shadowy figure was the depraved murderer. Prostitutes were warned to be on high alert, but their need to pay for lodging kept them from completely abandoning the streets.
My father was worse than ever, coming unhinged, it seemed, every time I left the house. It was becoming harder to sneak about or come up with excuses for leaving that he didn’t question. He’d let go of all our maids and hired a whole new lot, his paranoia of them infecting our family with Lord only knew what overshadowing his reason. There was no point telling him that new servants were more likely to bring infection in, as they’d been outside our home and in the scary, disease-spreading world.
Pretty soon I feared he’d be escorting me everywhere himself. Unfortunately, that meant attending Uncle’s forensic medicines class had become nearly impossible, though I was fortunate I could still make it to the laboratory.
“I fully believe this is only the beginning.” Mr. Thomas Cresswell’s ominous warning replayed through my mind each passing day. It felt like the uneasy stillness before the storm, and I found myself even more restless than usual at night. I had a hard time fully believing his theory, though. The thought of any more murders taking place was simply out of the question. I’d never heard of a career murderer before.
It seemed Thomas was looking for another outlet to show off his brilliance, and I wanted nothing more than to prove him wrong, potentially earning more of Uncle’s respect in the process.
Between my desire for Uncle’s approval and my connection to Miss Nichols, I was determined to help solve this case.
I tried approaching my brother to discuss his thoughts on it, but he’d been preoccupied with studying and couldn’t spare any time. Which left me with too much time to think about death and the finality of it all.
Nathaniel always assured me what happened wasn’t my fault, but his comfort didn’t take the sting out of my chest each time Father stared at me with such overwhelming fear. As far as he was concerned, it was his duty to protect me against everything in the world. Mother didn’t die nursing Nathaniel back from scarlet fever, after all. He didn’t have to watch her face flush with that horrible rash and see her tongue swell because my brother had been weak. Her already damaged heart didn’t break fully because Nathaniel had brought infection to our home.
I couldn’t help feeling as if I were Father’s useless, murdering daughter who looked too much like her mother—a constant reminder of all he’d lost. Of all I’d stolen away from him the night I took my first fever-free breath, and Mother took her last.
I was the reason for his growing madness, and I never let myself forget it. When I closed my eyes, I still saw the hospital staff in their long dresses and starched aprons. Their solemn faces turning away from my earsplitting screams as Mother’s chest stuttered and fell still forever. I banged on her sternum with both fists, my tears falling on her beautifully stitched dressing gown, but she didn’t stir again.
No twelve-year-old should watch her mother’s soul drift into the abyss. It was the first time I’d ever felt helpless. God had failed me. I’d prayed and prayed the way Mother always said I should, and for what? Death still claimed her in the end. It was then I knew I’d rely on something more tangible than holy spirits.
Science never abandoned me the way religion had that night.
Forsaking the Holy Father was considered a sin, and I did it repeatedly. Each time my blade met with flesh, I sinned more and welcomed it.
God no longer held dominion over my soul.
This evening my thoughts were treacherously loud and impossible to quiet down. I tossed back and forth in my thin nightdress, kicked my sheets off, and finally poured myself a glass of water from a pitcher on my bedside table. “Blast it all.”
Sleep wasn’t going to find me. That much I was certain of. My limbs itched with the need to get out and do something. Or perhaps I simply needed to escape from the confines of my room and all the woeful thoughts that came with the darkness.
Each day that passed was a failure to help Miss Nichols’s family find peace. I’d already failed her once; I wouldn’t fail again so miserably.
I clenched my fists. I could do the safe and reasonable thing, waiting in Uncle’s laboratory until another victim showed up. Or I could act now. Tonight. I could gather clues that might help, impressing both Thomas and Uncle in the process.
The more I thought on it, the surer I became of my decision. Mother used to say, “Roses have both petals and thorns, my dark flower. You needn’t believe something weak because it appears delicate. Show the world your bravery.”
Mother had had a weak heart and was kept from much physical activity as a child, but she’d found other ways to prove her strength. One needn’t be strong in only physical matters—a strong mind and will were fierce to behold as well.
“You’re right, Mother.” I paced along the deep gold Persian rug in my room, relishing the coldness of the hardwood when my soles found the edges of the carpet. Before I knew what I was doing, I found myself standing in front of my looking glass, dressed all in black. “It’s time for bravery.”
Pulling my dark hair into a simple braid and pinning it about my crown, I tucked a few wayward strands behind my ears. My dress was a simple design with long fitted sleeves, a small bustle, and light cotton fabric. I ran my hands down the front of it, enjoying the softness and fine craftsmanship of the garment.
I stared at the dark circles under my eyes that told of many sleepless nights. The paleness of my already sallow-looking skin was heavily contrasted by the black clothing, so I pinched my cheeks, giving them some much-needed color.