Ripped (19 page)

Chapter Twenty-two

Secrets to Tell, tolls the Tyburn Vestry Bell

A
n
hour later
Katie was standing in the rain-soaked churchyard of St. Swithin's, a swirl of mist rising up from the ground as she splayed her fingers against the surface of the London Stone and took deep, shuddering breaths until the vertigo sensation of tumbling through time and space started to wear off, and she could just make out Collin in the distance, jabbing his umbrella at a moss-covered headstone.

She closed her eyes. Right before hurling through time, in the 21st century, Katie had raced into the Jack the Ripper exhibit to memorize the names of his victims, the dates and places in London where they were murdered, all in the year 1888.

1. August 31, Mary Ann Nichols, Buck's Row

2. September 10, Dark Annie, Hanbury St.

3. September 30, Molly Potter, Berner St.

4. September 30, Catherine Eddowes, Mitre Square

5. October 3, Elizabeth Stride, All Hallows Field by Traitors' Gate

6. November 9, Mary Jane Kelly, Wareham Rd.

7. December 1, Dora Fowler, Birdcage Alley, near Clavell St.

8. December 7, Lady Beatrix Twyford, Miller's Court, Dorset St.

Next to her, Toby was bending low, whispering into her ear. His presence, looming over her (so soon after being with the other Toby), was unnerving. Almost menacing. Katie pulled her shawl tightly around her shoulders. The high lace collar of her dress was soaked with perspiration or mist. Katie couldn't be sure which.

“Let's have it, lass,” Toby demanded in a mocking tone. His coat, thin and black and several sizes too big, hung on him like a loose cape. “If you are truly clairvoyant, as you insist that you are, surely it ought to be an easy thing to tell me what is written on the parchment, sewn into the guv'nor's stuffed vulture?”

Toby inwardly smiled, then outwardly grimaced. He knew, as surely as he knew his own name, that Katie could not comply. How could she? There wasn't a person alive who knew the pet name he had called his sister. His baby sister who died of an infected rat bite. Toby shuddered just thinking about little Emma. The gangrene that had set in. Her contorted, bloated body. Three years old. He had called her Tuppence. Her tiny face always so trusting, so adoring. Even up to the last minute of her life, when the fever had taken hold and the puncture wound on her arm had swelled to the size and color of a red beet, bursting its skin, Emma had blinked up at him with wild, yet trusting grey eyes.

Toby was breathing hard now. He tried to slow his breathing, but a chill, having nothing to do with the mist-soaked air, prickled down his spine. His secret was safe, surely? Katie would not,
could not
, know about Emma. He had never shared his inconsolable grief with anyone. So sure was he that Katie was a charlatan that he had recklessly written down the name of endearment he had used for Emma.
Tuppence
.

After penning her special name, along with a cryptic missive, Toby had sewn the rolled-up parchment inside the Duke's stuffed vulture and, after replacing the bird on the fireplace mantel, had locked the study door behind him. Then he escorted Katie to the London Stone at her request. At no time could Katie have sneaked back into the Duke's study, even if she'd had a mind to. Toby had given her no opportunity. He had stayed by her side from the moment he had locked the Duke's door. “I'm sticking to you like plaster-paste,” he had informed her. And he had done precisely that.

Aside from a bit of weirdness for a split second when Katie had poked her finger at the London Stone—and the light surrounding her splintered, momentarily blinding him—the girl never left his field of vision. He had watched her as closely as the Duke's vulture must have watched its prey before it had been stuffed and mounted and showcased.

A little smile twitched at the corner of Toby's lips now as he studied Katie standing in a puddle of mud. In a matter of moments he would be free and clear of the silly chit. He would deliver her to Major Brown's doorstep and be done with her. He had upheld his end of the bargain. Good riddance. She meant nothing more to him than a stray, bedraggled, soaking wet kitten—which is precisely what she looked like right now.

Katie glanced sideways at Toby. He was gnashing his teeth. She wanted to laugh. Not because he was glaring at her, but because to the best of her knowledge she had never used the word “gnash” before. But that was exactly what Toby was doing. His face was grim, and he was staring at her with an angry sort of intentness. Glowering at her.
And
gnashing his teeth. The sound like stone against stone, achingly audible.

I should put him out of his misery and just tell him what he wrote. But will that cause him more misery?

“You're going to hate me,” Katie said with conviction. She wasn't sure why, but she knew it as surely as she could feel the grey blanket of mist rise up like gas from the wet ground.
Toby
'
s going to be very, very angry
.

“
Phhfft
,” Toby shot back contemptuously. “Do you put such a high value on your ability to make a bloke dance to your tune? You have no more power to make me hate or
love
you than you have of throwing a thunderbolt at Mt. Vesuvius.”

A long peal of thunder exploded in the sky.

Katie jumped.

Toby clamped a protective arm around her shoulders just as a gust of chilly air whirled in at them, and a moment later the skies opened to a roar of driving rain.

“
Tuppence
!”
Katie shouted above the din of sluicing rain. “Your sister's name was Tuppence,” she shouted, feeling the thrum of raindrops, slashing down hard. “
Or
she had a pet named Tuppence. A dog or a cat maybe. And it died. Because of you.” But this last was drowned out by another clap of thunder.

Katie blinked at Toby's ashen face. He looked, for a split second, as if she had driven a thunderbolt into his heart.

In the distance came the thud of heavy church doors closing shut against the rain, followed by the clang of church bells. Had Katie been truly psychic, the sound of driving rain, the booming bells, the banging of heavy doors . . . and the far-off crash of thunder might have alerted her to the dangers that lay ahead. The foreboding in the air was as thick and ominous as a shroud.

But Katie could think of nothing and no one except Toby, and the expression of pain burning deep in his eyes.

Chapter Twenty-three

Let Us Now Go say the Bells of Le Bow

T
w
o days later
it was sunny and bright with no hint of rain in the air.

“Tell me
again
why I'm in this
stupid
disguise,” Katie fumed as the horse-drawn carriage carrying her, Toby, and Collin pulled away from the mews behind Twyford Manor.

The date was September 2, 1888. It was Saturday morning and the three teenagers were on their way to Whitechapel to attend the murder inquest of Mary Ann Nichols, which made Katie happy. But the disguise—the boys had made her dress as an old woman—made her miserable. Stickpins jabbed into her head, holding the black widow's bonnet in place, and the corded ribbon under her chin was tied so tightly, she felt as if she were being strangled. A wiry veil dangled down from the bonnet's brim, covering her face like a beekeeper's helmet.

Sitting in the forward-facing seat of the carriage, Katie angrily punched at the enormous patchwork skirt that billowed like a giant mushroom over mounds of itchy wool underskirts. She tugged at the frumpy jacket which was bursting at the seams across her shoulder blades where Toby had wedged a throw pillow to give the appearance of a hump.

And the odor! The mushroomy stench of moth-eaten wool was so pungent it made her gag, as if whole colonies of dead insects had been decaying in the scratchy fabric.

To make matters worse, Toby and Collin had the audacity to look pleased.

“God's whiskers, Katherine!” Collin's red eyebrows shot up. “We couldn't allow you to go as yourself, now could we? Respectable young ladies do not attend murder inquests! The Duke would have our heads on a silver platter if he discovered we escorted you to an inquest in the East End. Bad enough in the West End, but in
Whitechapel?
He'll boil us in oil if he finds out.”

“This has nothing to do with the Duke, and you know it,” Katie harrumphed, plucking at the layers of moth-eaten clothing. “You two idiots made me wear these stupid clothes on purpose!”

“Now why would we do that?” Collin wrinkled his brow.

“To torture me!”

“This is the thanks we get then, is it, lass?” Toby clenched every muscle in his face not to burst out laughing. Katie looked a fright. They'd been successful in disguising her as an ugly, old crone. And a hunchback one at that. But if he showed any sign of amusement at her bedraggled, old lady appearance, there'd be no end to her railing and fuming. Yet the effort to keep an impassive face cost Toby a painful side stitch. He
had
made her wear raggedy, uncomfortable clothing deliberately. And rightly so. She had tricked him into giving his word not to tell Major Brown what she knew about the murdered girl. And worse, into promising to help her investigate a phantom killer named Jack. How Katie had pulled it off, he still didn't know. But he would get to the bottom of it. Katie was no more clairvoyant than a spoke in the wheel of this carriage. And yet . . .

“Why couldn't I go dressed as a boy?” Katie demanded. “Why an old woman? This isn't fair! A grizzly bear costume would be more comfortable than this ridiculous outfit!”

“Wouldn't complain were I you, Mistress Kate,” Toby countered. “It was
you
who made the jellied eel to keep Major Brown in the dark. 'Tis folly for a lass to attend a murder inquest. T'aint ladylike, my poppet.” Toby put a heavy emphasis on the last two words. He would honor his end of the bargain, but he didn't have to make it easy for her. Making her miserable took some of the sting out of being duped. When she had told him what he had written on the parchment hidden in the Duke's stuffed vulture, it was as if a poisonous serpent had reared up and dug its fangs into his soul.

“I'm not your poppet. Whatever that is,” Katie fumed as the carriage bounced and shimmied over uneven cobblestones. Ever since she told him what was written on the message inside the Duke's stuffed bird, Toby had been treating her in a haughty, condescending manner. It was driving her crazy. She glanced down at her moth-eaten skirt, mended in patches. Toby had insisted she wear extra woolen petticoats beneath the already oversized skirt, which, combined with the Hunchback of Notre Dame jacket, made her feel like a trussed-up sausage ready to burst. She was hot and itchy, and droplets of sweat were beading across her nose; the wiry veil hanging down, prickly as thorns, was secured so tightly round her throat, she couldn't scratch her face without gouging her skin.

“You look like a mongrel pup with that hang-dog boat race of yours,” Toby said, chuckling despite himself. “A caged mongrel pup beneath that fishnet veil.” But his voice was gentle when he said, “Look here, Miss Katherine. Collin is right. We couldn't let you go as yourself, now could we? Half o' bloomin' London will be there, and I'll not have 'em gawking at”—he was about to say
your impossibly pretty face
— “the Duke's goddaughter. As if you were first prize at a ring toss. Come now, lass. My old granny's bag of fruit looks right lovely on you.”

“Bag of—”

“Suit. And those church pews are comfy, I'd wager?” He pointed at Katie's shoes.

Katie glanced down at the soft leather shoes and conceded the point. “They are definitely more comfortable than anything else I've worn in this—” she was about to say century, but quickly amended it to “country.”

Toby shook his head. “You ham shanks are an odd lot.”

“We
Yanks
aren't half as odd as you . . . you . . . what rhymes with Brits? Nit-wits? No one here knows anything about comfy shoes.” Her favorite red high-top sneakers were waiting for her a century or so into the future.

“Katherine!” Collin looked aghast. “Proper young ladies do not go around berating their host countries. I do not know what they teach you in the United States of America, but here in England young ladies are taught proper manners. There's a reason the sun never sets on the British Empire. A very good reason. We are a nation of advanced intellect and superior contrivances, such as shoes! I'll have you know our cobblers are the finest in the world.”

“Without a Brussels sprout.” Toby shot Katie a mocking smile. “Without a
doubt
, my poppet.” He winked at her and felt a spark of perverse satisfaction when she let out a howling curse.

“Most unladylike,” Toby tsked, feigning disapproval. But in truth, it was one of the things he fancied about Katie. She could swear like soup and gravy without even blushing, and her brazen way of looking him in the eye with both a challenge and a hint of vulnerability just about did him in.

Toby tore his eyes from Katie's veiled ones. It unnerved him, this attraction he felt for her. It was dangerous.
She
was dangerous. And not because she claimed to have the power to foresee the future. There wasn't a Cockney alive that did not believe in soothsaying. It wasn't Katie's self-proclaimed ability to see the future that disturbed him, but her power to read his own secrets that unnerved him. And the feeling that he was being pulled toward her . . . as if she were reeling him in. A hapless fish on a taut line.

Watching now as Katie fussed and plucked at her frumpy clothing, sitting in the carriage seat across from him, Toby told himself that he'd been right to disguise her as a hobbled old crone. She could no more go to a murder inquest looking like the Queen of the May than he could go dressed as the Prince of Wales. And since he couldn't very well make her invisible, the old funeral dress, the veiled hat, and the hump sprouting from her shoulders were just the thing.
It
'
s for her own good
, Toby assured himself.

But the truth of the matter went deeper. The protectiveness he felt toward her was out of all proportion to his designated role as general dogsbody to the Twyfords. True, he couldn't stand the thought of others gawking at her beautiful face as they had at the Lyceum Theatre, but this was deeper than mere jealousy or attraction. There was something powerful drawing him to her. Something otherworldly. He knew he had to protect her but didn't know why. And he knew just as surely that whatever attraction he felt for her, whatever bound them, was a gossamer thread that would need to be severed. His feelings for her could not be acted upon.
And not because she
'
s the goddaughter of a Duke, and I
'
m the illegitimate son of a Cockney lacemaker.
There was something more, something almost preternatural being played out here.
But what? And for what purpose?

Staring at her, Toby was not aware that he was scowling when he said to Collin, “Oughtn't to have let her talk us into this, Collin. It's a sad business when you and I allow ourselves to be bullied by a mere chit of a ham shank barely out of the schoolroom.”

“Bullied?” Katie clamped angry eyes on him. “We had a deal, remember? A jellied eel.”

“Toby's right, Katherine!” Collin nodded vigorously, his Adam's apple shooting up and down his freckled neck like a pinball. “You are barely out of the nursery. You haven't even had a season, nor been presented at court! You have
no
business attending a murder inquest.”

“A mere babe in the woods,” Toby taunted, pleased when Katie pulled a face at him behind her wiry veil.

“A babe in the woods who is going to catch the most notorious murderer in the annals of British history!” cried Katie indignantly. But by the dark look Toby shot her, she knew she'd said too much. “Er . . . I mean . . . I had another . . . a . . . er . . . premonition.”

Katie took a deep breath. She needed to be on her guard. She couldn't let their condescending attitudes get under her skin, prickling her like the yards of itchy wool she was swaddled in. It wasn't their fault they were born into a century where girls were considered inferior. But even so, their chauvinist attitudes—
especially Toby
'
s
—would try the patience of a saint. And Katie was no saint.

Wanting to think about anything other than her itchy, smelly, lumpy clothes and the two infuriating boys sitting across from her, Katie threw open the carriage window. She hooked her elbow over the edge and stuck her veiled head out. The morning breeze felt blissfully cool as it raked through the fishnet veil against her hot cheeks. And even though these frumpy clothes Toby had made her wear were as prickly as hedge thorns, she had to admit it was a fairly good—if pug-ugly—disguise. But next time, Katie vowed, she'd go dressed as a boy.

Up and down the street, pushcart vendors shouted their wares. “
Knives! Get yer knives sharpened here
!”
And
“
Strawberries! Fresh, ripe strawberries
!”

There, on the corner, was a costermonger pulling a wheelbarrow filled with turnips. And up ahead, an omnibus clattered to a stop at the curb to pick up passengers. In no time at all, Katie forgot her irritation and smiled at the nineteenth-century scenes that were unfolding before her eyes.