Temptations of Anna Jacobs (8 page)

The Ripper stared at the words in
The Times
.

Another Ghastly Murder in Whitechapel. Jack the Ripper returns!

He read the headline for the fourth time. It couldn’t be. It was laughable. Truly it was. Someone was actually attempting to mimic him.

Hadn’t Colton said that imitation was the sincerest form of flattery? A ridiculous notion, if you asked him.

If this fool thought to take over Jack’s hunting grounds and take the credit for all of his hard work, well, he would find him and cut him apart.

The illustration in the newspaper showed a man standing in the alleyway over the dead woman’s body. The shock in the man’s face as he looked down upon the bloody whore’s body was exaggerated and humorous. The Ripper chuckled.

He wondered who this new killer was. The man was quite obviously an admirer—otherwise, why would he kill in such a similar fashion? Perhaps he was attempting to take up where Jack had left off, take London over for himself in the Ripper’s absence. That was unacceptable. No, that wouldn’t do at all.

He should be warned to find his own hunting area and to steer clear from the Ripper’s path. He might not be in London at the moment, but he would return.

The Ripper retrieved some parchment and readied his quill. Jack would give his imitator a test. If the man was up to the challenge, then the Ripper might decide he was a worthy opponent. He thought of which book to use, then chuckled at his own cleverness and stood to retrieve the copy from the bookshelf behind him.

Dante’s
Inferno
.

He perused the novel, jotting down some notes, before preparing to make his message. It was part of the fun. To see how foolish the police were and how terrified the people would become. The Ripper would place the message there and see if the man responded.

Mitchell Harrison had tried to think of a legitimate excuse to go see Lucinda Foster, and in doing so he’d come up with a couple of reasons that were reaching, at best. Still it would have to do, for he wanted to see her again.

The few minutes she’d been in his classroom the previous week had been seared into his mind. She had all the grace and beauty of the gently bred lady she was, and yet he’d sensed passion burning inside her. What other woman of her class would have confronted him so?

So it was that he currently sat in a carriage outside of her townhome. He exited without delay, climbed the stairs and slammed the knocker into the door. A few moments later and he was awaiting his hostess in her parlor.

A floor-to-ceiling bookshelf covered one wall, and he found himself perusing the titles while he waited. He saw no volumes on philosophy, no Plato, no Socrates, not even Descartes. Instead he found books on flowers and sewing, fashion and etiquette. But more than those were a multitude of Jane Austen, Emily, Charlotte and Anne Brontë, Keats and Byron and the like. Mitchell found himself smiling. It would seem that Lady Wickersham, by all accounts, was a romantic.

Over the small writing desk on the adjacent wall hung a framed embroidery sampler, each stitch impeccably perfect. If this was Lady Wickersham’s handiwork, then Anna hadn’t inherited her mother’s needlework skills. It was the one skill where Anna didn’t excel.

A portrait hung over the fireplace, one of a slightly younger Lucinda Jacobs. She was slightly thinner, her hair a brighter auburn, but her lovely brown eyes were the same.

And then Lucinda entered the room wearing a fetching green concoction the shade of springtime grass. Though the woman before him lacked the portrait’s dewy youthful perfection, she was even prettier now than in the portrait. Her eyes were alight with intelligence.

“Doc
tor Harrison,” she said, coming to a halt. “What a surprise. I’m afraid Annabelle is out.”

“I actually came to see you. I was hoping you would accompany me somewhere today.”

Her brows rose delicately. “Where, might I ask?”

“To Saint Agnes’s Free Hospital. There are some women there I’d like you to meet.”

Her brows furrowed then, and he was struck by how young she appeared. “If you think such a visit will change my mind about Annabelle’s schooling, you are sorely mistaken.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “I’m afraid I shall not be swayed so easily.”

“Nor would I expect it to. I respect your opinions, but it has occurred to me that you have probably never seen the people who will benefit from your daughter’s education.”

She hesitated only a moment. “This will be a waste of our time.”

“Perhaps. But I do wish you’d indulge me nonetheless.”

She eyed him a moment, saying nothing, then she nodded. “Very well. I shall need to ready myself.” She left him in the parlor, and when she returned she wore a cloak, hat and gloves.

They rode in silence to the hospital, and when they arrived he assisted her down from the carriage. She might be right—this could be an exercise in futility—and yet he wanted at the very least to try to change her thinking.

“You know women have been part of the medical profession from the very beginning,” he said as they climbed the steps to the red brick building. “They are the ones who have been midwives and wet nurses, they are the ones who care for their sick children.”

“That is quite different from setting up a private office and serving the general population.”

He walked her around, showing her the different wards, but there was one patient in particular he wanted her to meet. They rounded the corner and entered the room where she lay. The other five beds, normally taken with other patients, were empty today.

“Good morning, Mrs. Evers,” he said. He picked up the file for the patient. She was likely dying of the very same condition that had killed his wife, but unlike his wife, Mrs. Evers was fighting.

She looked at him. “I believe it’s afternoon.”

He smiled. “I do believe you’re right.” He looked through her paperwork. “How are you feeling today?”

“Who is that?” She nodded her head toward Lady Wickersham.

“This is a friend of mine, Lady Wickersham.”

“Hello,” Lucinda said.

“If you two ladies will excuse me, I need to check something with the nurse,” he said. He walked across the room and called the nurse over. He made his inquiry, but watched the two women he’d left. Lucinda had taken a chair and pulled it close to Mrs. Evers’s bedside.

They spoke easily with one another and he realized that they were likely about the same age. He gave them a few more minutes, and after he saw Lucinda reach over and squeeze Mrs. Evers’s hand, he walked back to them.

“I see you’ve made friends with one another,” he said.

Mrs. Evers, as he’d expected, clenched her jaw and looked away from him.

“Good to see you today, Mrs. Evers. Make certain you tell the nurse if you get uncomfortable.”

She nodded curtly, and he escorted Lucinda away. “Don’t think I don’t know what you did there,” Lucinda said.

He put a hand to his chest. “I have no notion of what you’re speaking about.”

“How did you know she would soften with me, that she’d talk to me, in a way she didn’t you?”

“It is her way. It is the way of plenty of our patients here at Saint Agnes’s. It is why we need female doctors.” He gave her a smile.

She sighed. “I shall give you that, Mitchell Harrison, but that doesn’t mean my daughter has to be one of them.”

Well, in the end, it wasn’t a total win, but he’d shown her something, and that was a start.

***

Drew eyed Bernard Jeffries as the man contemplated what Drew had told him. They’d been once again going over their suspect list after the one man they’d questioned had been cleared of any wrongdoing. The man had been in Bristol during the last murder.

Drew had merely suggested the possibility that a different weapon might have been used, as Anna had thought. Jeffries stood there, shaking his head.

“You’re wasting your time. There’s no reason to believe this murder is any different than the others. Damnation, Foster, I should think you above all people would be pleased the Ripper was back. It certainly gives you an opportunity to catch him,” Jeffries said.

Drew rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m not suggesting anything other than that there are some inconsistencies with this new victim. Based on reading through Simon’s notes, not to mention the reports from the police surgeons, the injuries themselves seem more haphazard, less controlled and deliberate.”

One glance at Jeffries’ face and Drew knew he was wasting his breath and effort. This conversation was pointless. Without Simon here, there was no one else he could speak to. So he was stuck with Bernard. Drew shook his head. “Never you mind. It’s only my inexperience speaking. I’m merely attempting to make sense of it all.”

Bernard gathered his belongings off his desk and stood. “We’ll solve it and then finally get the bastard locked up where he belongs. It’s your first case. Stop trying so damned hard.” He patted Drew on the back. “You coming?”

“Not just yet. I have some more notes to make.”

“Tomorrow, Foster, things will seem better. Just sleep on it, you’ll see.”

But Drew knew sleep wouldn’t solve anything. He knew there was something different about this victim, and even had proof, thanks to Anna’s examination. Still, if no one was willing to consider said proof, then Drew would have to find something else.

Damned frustrating, since Drew had no idea where to find new evidence. All he wanted to do was find a bottle and lose himself for the night. But he was smart enough now to realize drinking wouldn’t solve anything. Instead it would serve only to create more problems. The liquor never made him forget, in any case; it merely dulled his senses for a while. Then when his fog-addled mind cleared, he’d remember everything with grim clarity.

Like the time he’d remembered the words he’d heard his mother, or the woman whom he’d assumed was his mother, utter.

He’s your bastard!

Her words had reached past the door to the corridor where Drew had hidden during his parents’ argument. They’d fought on, but those words had echoed in Drew’s head and he’d been unable to hear any more of the conversation. He tried to console himself by acknowledging it was good that he finally knew the truth. Now he knew why his mother treated him so very differently than she treated his brothers.

Knowing the truth didn’t ease the pain so he’d got angry and when she yelled at him, he’d simply yelled back. Eventually he’d started drinking and discovered that it numbed him from the pain, from the anger.

He’d tried for years to forget. Forget he was nothing more than a walking reminder of his father’s philandering. Forget that the woman who raised him had never treated him even as kindly as she did her servants. Nothing ever made him forget that he was nothing more than a damned mistake—a product of an affair that ultimately ruined two marriages.

Drew had attempted to fight the truth, but he’d given up years ago. There was darkness inside him, probably because of the origin of his birth. And no matter what, that darkness seemed to find a way out. The bottle had merely been the most destructive path he’d found. He was weak against the drink. Because no matter how hard he tried he’d never found anything that could keep the darkness at bay for any length of time.

Being with Anna came pretty damn close, though. It was as if with her came the sunshine in an otherwise gloomy, rainy day. But he certainly couldn’t pursue his interest in her any further.

She was a genteel lady and he was unworthy; he was a duke’s bastard son, something his
mother
refused to let him forget. She’d seen to it to remind him of that very fact in his own home.

Drew jotted down his notes and then left Scotland Yard, but instead of heading in the direction of his townhome, he went instead to Simon’s. There was so much to study in those notes that certainly he could have missed something. And perhaps he needed merely to start from scratch to figure out first what was different with this new victim and second how the Ripper had found it so bloody easy to pin the murders on Drew.

There were clues to investigate. Where Drew had been, whom he had spoken to. The man had even killed a serving girl from a pub he frequented. Drew had been drunk and had made unwanted advances, as he was wont to do when he imbibed too much, and the girl had struck him and had been sent home from work early. The Ripper had found her and ravaged her.

She had been the final piece of evidence that had put Drew into prison to begin with. Perhaps he needed to start there. But damned if he wasn’t afraid to go back to the pub. Afraid of being too close to the drink, too close to his old life and the friends he used to spend his time with.

Simon had looked into Drew’s two closest friends to see if they could be the killer, but they had both been cleared. So it had to have been an acquaintance he made somewhere along the way. An enemy, perhaps, since he’d certainly been keen on putting Drew away.

Upon Drew’s arrival at the townhome, Simon’s butler gave him entrance and Drew found his way to Simon’s study. He took a seat at the table and opened the notebooks, then thought better of it and opened his own notebook. He started with the first murder from Mayfair, the maid from his brother’s house who had been savaged right in the alleyway behind their family home. Drew looked at the date and then jotted down everything he could remember about that time. It had been May and he couldn’t remember much more. Damn the bloody drink and the memories it stole from his mind.

He’d always had a rather shrewd mind, and to not be able to recall specific days was alarming. He proceeded to consider the second murder in Mayfair, the servant girl who’d been killed at the ball in the gardens. Drew had been to that ball, though he hadn’t stayed long. Richards had wanted to go to their club, Hennings, to see a fight, so they’d left early.

Drew kept up this pattern, looking at the murders he’d been accused of and then trying to find something that would associate the time with where he might have been. But there were so many holes in his recollections.

The best evidence was the pub itself. Certainly he could be man enough to be in a pub and not drink, but he knew it would be the biggest challenge he had faced. Thus far he’d managed to work in this study and not imbibe Simon’s brandy. But he wanted to. It was only the thought that at any minute Anna could walk in to do her studies that kept him from crossing the room and pouring a glass. In a pub, though, he’d have no such defense, no such reason to abstain.

Which left him with the tobacco. He withdrew the notes that Mia and Alex had given him and read through them. Including the names of the people from Rickman’s Tobacco and Supplies who had purchased the tobacco blend that Drew had always preferred. He knew of the other shop that carried the same blend. Perhaps tomorrow he would pay them a visit to see if any new names rose to the surface. And perhaps he’d spend some more time looking at the candidates that Alex hadn’t been able to locate. Certainly there was some additional information that would come forth.

Across the room Drew could see the decanter sitting on the shelf behind Simon’s desk. The amber liquid sat mocking him. He knew the precise smell, the precise flavor and the sting it would have sliding down his throat. Damn if he didn’t miss the stuff. Since it was dinnertime, he knew that Anna would not likely arrive for her studies. Tonight, he was on his own.

But he refused to be so bloody weak. He could do this. He could fight this and come out on the other side.

He came to his feet and walked to the decanter. Without another thought he picked it up, took off the lid and then poured it out the window. As a drop fell onto his finger and he brought it to his nose and inhaled slowly, the sweet scent nearly made him dizzy. He wiped his hand on his trousers, then set the decanter down. He’d have to buy Simon some new brandy when he returned to London. But at least for the time being he didn’t have to look at it anymore.