The curse rings in my head as Gray leads me to the body.
I don’t spend one moment wondering why the 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 do next. 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 still feel responsible. 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. This killer 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 go unremarked. 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.
McCreadie says, “I apologize for doubting you.”
“I would have doubted me, too, under the circumstances.”
I turn to the body. McCreadie squats beside us to listen in.
“I’m afraid I do not have time to make this a teaching exercise,” Gray says as he takes a probe from his pocket. “Nor even a lecture. I will discuss my findings later. However, please draw your own conclusions, both of you, and feel free to voice them aloud.”
He holds out the probe. I take it automatically. Then I pause and hold it out to McCreadie.
The detective shakes his head. “I will observe only. My stomach is not as strong as yours.”
I wait to see where Gray will start. He is the doctor after all. He begins at the neck and uses forceps to examine it quickly before moving down to her abdomen.
I take over examining the neck injuries. Her throat hasn’t just been slashed. It’s been cut right to the vertebrae. That’s the most obvious thing, and I need to see past the horror of it to examine further.
After a moment, I murmur, “Hesitation marks.”
I don’t mean to speak aloud, and Gray startles as if I shouted. He twists to look at the victim’s neck.
“What was that, Catriona?”
I pause a moment, then plow forward. “These marks here, sir.” I point to them. “They seemed to indicate that the killer hesitated. That is to say, he did not make the cuts decisively.”
“Took him some nerve to work up to it?” McCreadie says.
“Perhaps,” Gray says. “I had noted the marks. I was not certain what they indicated but ‘hesitation’ seems a good interpretation. Thank you, Catriona.” He taps the forceps on a spot below the victim’s ear. “Did you note these abrasions?”
“I had not. They would suggest strangulation, I believe? Strangled and then her throat cut?”
I reach to check under her eyelids before stopping myself.
“What were you about to do, Catriona?”
“I, uh, I think that book mentioned something about seeing signs of strangulation in the whites of the eyes.”
A hint of a smile as he nods. He uses his forceps to nudge up the victim’s lids, and I see the red of hemorrhaging. “Now, I promised I was not going to teach, and here I am teaching. Continue to make observations, Catriona, aloud please, as I examine the abdominal injuries.”
“I do not wish to disturb you, sir.”
“If you mean that in truth, then let me assure you I am capable of listening while also focusing on my work. However, if you feel I am pressuring you, you may refrain from voicing your observations.”
I glance at McCreadie, who offers me a small smile and mouths, “Go on.”
“She wasn’t killed here,” I say, which is a bit of a cheat, because there’s no way in hell the killer happened to find just the right victim at just the right spot to stage his reenactment. “There’s not enough blood on the ground for that. I’ve, uh, seen animals slaughtered and so I, uh, know the signs.”