A Study in Darkness (59 page)

The note was penned on the stationery of Ness and Sons, Horologists. It had already been thumbed by the Yellowbacks, but they had obviously missed the code.

Holmes crumpled the letter, lit it from his pipe, and tossed it into the cold fire grate. One edge, and then another turned black, then orange, and then the ball of paper collapsed into a brief flare of light. He missed the drama of tossing bad news into an actual fire, but all that had been sacrificed to the steam barons and their hot water heating.

He fell back into his chair. So Elias Jones, after giving up his association with the Gold King, had nothing more to say. The rebels weren’t the thumbscrew and iron-maiden types, but they still had a way of making men spill secrets. The local cuisine and a dip in the loch to meet the monster did for most. That meant Jones was unusually brave or unusually
afraid of someone—or he simply didn’t know any more. Holmes was betting on the latter.

That wasn’t the only piece of bad luck that day. Late that afternoon, word about the morning’s raid at the Diogenes Club had caught fire and flared through town. By the time he had finished his dinner, Sherlock Holmes had learned of his brother’s abduction from three different people. It led to one overwhelming question: What the bloody hell was going on?

First, there had been Elias Jones and the bomb. Then there were the automatic recorders found at that favored rebel alehouse, the Saracen’s Head. News of those had come his way from the Schoolmaster, who had already regaled him with the tale of the ambush in the tannery and the
Red Jack
’s narrow escape from Steam Council forces. And then there was this letter from Jack the Ripper, written in Mycroft’s hand. How the blazes did any of it fit together?

He’d found out Magnus was running a theater and had arranged through the Schoolmaster to put a spy on the place in hopes of finding out something about Evelina, but in a final twist of bad luck, he’d heard that afternoon his man had been killed in a raid in some underground tavern called the Indifference Device. If only Holmes could have shaken Keating’s hounds for a solid day, but they had only been thicker around Baker Street since his trip to Scotland Yard. Keating must have learned of his excursion and tightened his net.

It would have been so much better if he could ask his own questions about Magnus, but if the Diogenes Club had been breached, he was going to have to tread carefully. He
could
turn the lead over to Lestrade and see if Scotland Yard could ask the good doctor a few questions. Unfortunately, he was fairly sure Magnus could run circles around the coppers.

The only advantage he had was that Keating was in favor of his work on the Whitechapel murders. That had bought him at least a little freedom.

Holmes realized his pipe had gone out. He got up, made it halfway to the mantel where he had set his matches, then paused, lost in thought. It was very late, the streets sunk in
that still, velvety blackness that said it was past midnight. It was almost too dark outside the window to see beyond the forlorn puddles of gaslight. He heard, rather than saw, the carriage pull up.

A rapping came at the downstairs door. He heard Mrs. Hudson’s voice, then Abberline’s. A moment later, there was a quick tread on the stairs. Holmes had his coat on before the inspector reached the top.

“There’s been another one,” Abberline said, breathing hard from the climb.

“Where?” asked Holmes, the detective in him eager for new data, the man inside terrified for Evelina.

“Berner Street, off Commercial Street.”

“In the same general area as the others,” Holmes noted. They were already hurrying back down the stairs.

“Yes, Whitechapel. A man named Diemshutz found her at one o’clock. He’s the steward of a local workingmans’ club. He was driving his cart into the yard adjacent to the club when the horse shied. That’s how he found her. They think she’s a whore, like the rest. That’s all I have from the constable.”

They swept past the Yellowbacks, who swore under their breath. Keating might approve of Holmes working the murder case, but they didn’t like letting go of their charge. Abberline looked around, but Holmes ignored them, exultant. “Time of death?” he asked.

“She was still bleeding from the throat when she was found.”

Holmes jumped into the carriage with the air of a fox escaping the hounds. The Yellowbacks might follow, but there was little chance of them crossing the boundary into the Blue Boys’ patch. As long as he was with Abberline, Holmes was free.

They were in the vehicle and moving at a smart pace through the empty streets. Abberline looked rumpled, as if the news of the murder had got him out of bed, but he looked entirely alert. He’d been as good as his word—he’d promised to fetch Holmes if the so-called Ripper struck again. There were men under him who would be more likely to
take the call, but he’d made the commitment to accompany the detective to make sure he had all the access required.

“Anything besides the throat wound?”

“No.” Abberline tugged at his side whiskers. “If it’s the same murderer, he might have been interrupted.”

Holmes was almost grateful to hear it. He settled back, prepared to hold any other questions until they were at the scene.

“We’ve managed to keep the Dear Boss letter out of the papers,” Abberline said, his face all but invisible in the darkness.

“So I noticed.”

“That was a nasty piece of mischief all on its own.”

Holmes didn’t reply. Abberline was right. And it fit the pattern he could see emerging.

Before his visit from Jones, the rebels and the Steam Council had been in balance. The battle lines were drawn, the sides chosen, but no one had been willing to make the first move toward outright war—but the Ripper could change all that. The Blue King’s territory had been a bubbling volcano for years—but giving the random madman a voice in the press would focus public rage in a way a political orator could only dream of. And Mycroft would think of that—and that was probably why he had written the letter Abberline had shown Holmes. Mycroft left nothing to chance, and putting a mocking face on the murderer was a stroke of genius.

Could this have anything to do with the Gold King seizing Mycroft at his club?
To be honest, Holmes was more than a little worried about his brother. Mycroft was resourceful, but hardly a man of action. Unfortunately—and as usual—Holmes knew so little about Mycroft’s plans, there was no way to help.

A sick fury chased through his stomach, but Holmes slammed the door on it. He clenched his jaw until his teeth ached. Tensions between him and his brother went back to the nursery, and it was nearly impossible to think clearly when it came to Mycroft. He didn’t need that distraction now.

The carriage was drawing to a halt, and it was time to
focus on a different crime. They got out, and Holmes saw at once the crowd illuminated by the constables’ lanterns. Abberline went first, pushing his way through.

Gates opened onto a passage to a yard. As Holmes drew closer, he could see a woman lying in a pool of blood to the right. Someone was introducing people to Abberline. “Constable Lamb. Constable Collins. Dr. Blackwell.”

“I’ve brought Mr. Holmes along with me to have a look,” Abberline said.

But he was too interested in one fact to bother to even look up. The woman was too tall to be Evelina. Holmes felt an ache in his throat—relief to be spared from something he hadn’t even admitted as a possibility.

She was lying on her left side, face to the wall and with her feet drawn up. One arm was lying away from her body, clutching a tissue packet of candies scented to sweeten the breath. The other was bent against her chest, the hand red with the blood it had tried to stanch. Her bonnet lay to the side. Holmes crouched to get a better look at the wound to the throat.

“Someone says that’s Long Liz Stride.”

As he looked at the wound, something tugged at the back of Holmes’s memory. Another unsolved case—the servants at Hilliard House. He’d read the autopsies of those killings as well as the Whitechapel crimes, and all but one were all killed with a cut to the throat just like this, a wound about six inches long, angling downward as it tailed off to the right. And they had all had similar bruises around the throat, as if someone with incredibly strong fingers had choked them. Could this be the same killer?

Every one of the Whitechapel murders showed some sign that the victims were overpowered, probably by strangulation. And killers perfected their technique, grew bold, and eventually indulged the demons that drove them. Every one of the murderer’s victims—with the exception of the one he was looking at now—had been more violently slain than the last.

Only Martha Tabram had been stabbed around the neck instead of slashed—perhaps just an instance of having the
wrong tool at hand—but otherwise, the hallmark cut to the throat had remained as individual as a signature.

A cold that had nothing to do with the chill, damp night puckered his skin—but a new excitement came with it. If he was right, his pool of suspects had just shrunk dramatically—Lord Bancroft, Magnus, and Jasper Keating were at the top of his list.
Whoever you are, I’ve picked up your scent at long last
.

THERE WAS NO
point in Evelina blundering around Whitechapel and asking if anyone had seen a sentient automaton carrying a bloody knife. For one thing, her body ached too badly to go one step farther than she had to. For another, the locals might be used to the drunk and deranged, but they were notorious for not getting involved—and Evelina didn’t really want them involved until she understood what was happening. Instead, she inquired after a friend in a hurry wearing a hooded cape. That at least got her a few helpful tips and at least one offer of a glass of mother’s ruin—the cheap gin that tasted like solvent.

The first person she met that she knew was Mary Kelly, who was on her way to the Ten Bells. “Come with us,” she laughed. She had the bright eyes and lisp of someone who had already been drinking, and not a little.

Evelina wished she could. Mary had a sharp temper when drunk, but otherwise was good company. She was the type of friend ideal for meeting on the way to the market—full of chatter enough to make the most mundane errand pass quickly. And she’d been to Paris; although she hadn’t liked it much, she had plenty of interesting stories about it.

“Come on, Miss Cooper, come on and enjoy the night with us. It’s early yet!” Her friends had gone ahead without her and she looked over her shoulder at them. “I’ll be there in a tick.”

“I’m trying to find my friend. She was wearing a hooded cloak,” Evelina pressed. Coats were more the fashion, so a full cloak would stand out.

“Wish I had a nice cloak,” Mary mused.

“Are you sure you haven’t seen her?”

Mary blinked, seeming to make an honest effort to focus her alcohol-soaked thoughts. “I’ve seen a woman like that late at night, but not tonight.”

Evelina wasn’t surprised. Magnus had tried to confine Serafina to the theater and assumed taking out her pin was enough, but the doll had clearly discovered that she could sneak out. Was it Magnus’s assumption that he was in control blinding him to the fact, or had he always blamed his workers for being careless? Evelina had done that, when she found Serafina up and about. “When did you see this woman?”

“Your friend? Oh, it would be weeks ago now. Before I met you.”

That could mean nothing. Or everything. “Mary,” Evelina said slowly. “Would you take it amiss if I told you to be careful? After what happened to Annie Chapman, I can’t help worrying about you.”

“Oh, I’m safe enough,” Mary shook her head. “Bless your heart, Miss Cooper, but I have a roof over my head—a snug little place on Dorset Street. You won’t catch me in a dark alley with a stranger. I’m smarter than that.”

Evelina let out her breath. “I’m glad to hear it.”

“But what about you? You’re out here alone in the dark.”

“I won’t be if I can find my friend.”

“What’s her name?”

Evelina turned away. “Trouble! Now catch up to your mates.”

Her instincts took her south, following the same path she’d taken with Serafina during their afternoon walk. When she had just about given up, she met Gareth among a crowd of scruffy young men. He stopped, looking surprised to see her.

“What are you doing out at this hour, Miss Cooper?”

“Meeting a friend. Since when does Miss Hyacinth let you off at night?” she asked, a little alarmed by the rough look of some of his friends. They might not be entirely bad news yet, but they were certainly trying it on for size.

Gareth preened, thrusting his shoulders back and flicking
the hair out of his eyes. “I’ve a right to a night out now and again.”

Big man with the big job, showing off to his friends. There really wasn’t any harm in it. “Just be sure you’re all the earlier tomorrow.”

“Course. I know what’s good for me, and Miss Hyacinth has a whip.”

They all laughed at that. “I’m looking for a friend of mine,” Evelina said.

Gareth grinned. “What’s his name?”

“It’s a woman. And she’s wearing a hooded cloak. Have you seen a woman dressed like that?”

“Oh, aye, back there not five minutes ago.” He turned and pointed down Aldgate. “Near Mitre Square. Right queer she was.”

“Thanks!” Evelina started off at once.

Gareth caught her hand. “Is everything all right?”

“Yes! Now I have to go.” She pulled her hand free and started running.