I let these dangerous thoughts unfurl beneath the sheets, exploring them cautiously, feeling their weight. After some time, when I was certain the professor was fast asleep, I climbed out of my warm bed where the little dog snored softly, and knelt by my pile of crumpled clothes. I could smell the blood on them, along with something more fragrant—pollen.
I dug through until I found the flower. Why had I kept it? I should have thrown it to the street, but for some reason I’d slipped it in my coat pocket instead.
I could still get rid of it. Burn it in the fire. Throw it out the window.
Instead, with trembling fingers, I carefully placed the pressed flower within the pages of my journal. I don’t know what instinct made me keep it, this bloody memento of a murderer. Call it sentimentality. Call it curiosity.
Just don’t call it madness.
SIX
IN THE MORNING, THE previous day’s adventures seemed as unreal as nightmares, and yet the flower pressed within my journal was real enough, as was the sleeping dog beside me.
All trace of my bloody coat had burned in the fireplace except for the silver buttons, which I slipped into my pocket. I wasn’t looking forward to telling the professor I’d need a new one. I pulled out the newspaper and reread the article again. The familiar names of the victims stared at me from the page, as did another name—Inspector John Newcastle. Lucy’s ambitious young suitor had been chosen to lead the investigation of the Wolf of Whitechapel, and I wasn’t certain whether this news was welcome or not; as much as I loathed the idea of seeking information from the police, Inspector Newcastle might be able to give me more clues about the murderer and his victims. But how could I possibly explain my interest to the inspector? Well-bred seventeen-year-old girls weren’t fascinated by murder suspects, as a rule. If I said three of the four victims had personally wronged me, I’d become the number one suspect.
My fingers clenched the newsprint. If only Montgomery was here, he’d know what to do. He had always been better than me at these things: investigating, tracking, lying. For the longest time I’d thought him a terrible liar, and yet in the end, he’d fooled me well enough. I could still remember his voice: You shouldn’t have anything to do with me. I’m guilty of so many crimes. He’d warned me plain as day, and yet I’d still fallen in love with him, believed we had a future . . . and now here I was, alone with ink-stained fingers, only a dog for company and an old man who didn’t begin to know the truth about me.
I skipped over Inspector Newcastle’s name and let my gaze linger on the last line of the article, a line that I’d barely glanced at in my hurry yesterday: “The bodies are being kept in King’s College of Medical Research until autopsies can be performed to shed light on the exact nature of the deaths.”
King’s College—I knew those dark hallways only too well. I’d scrubbed blood from the mortar there, dusted cobwebs from between skeleton’s bones. That was where Dr. Hastings had decided a simple cleaning girl wouldn’t dare refuse his sexual advances, and I’d slit his wrist. I still remembered the crimson color of his blood on the tile.
The last thing I wanted to do was return to those hallways.
And yet those bodies called to me, promising to tell me the answers buried within their cold flesh.
It was a call I couldn’t resist.
THE FOLLOWING MORNING I dressed early and came downstairs with a lie prepared about needing to do some Christmas shopping in the market. To my surprise, I heard sounds of arguing and found the professor in the library with a visitor, a stout man with stiff waxed hair and thick glasses whose face froze when he saw me standing in the doorway.
“Ah, Juliet, you’re awake,” the professor said, rising to his feet. His mouth was still held tense from their argument, but he forced a smile as he pulled me into the hallway.
“Who’s that man?” I asked, trying to peek around his shoulder.
“Isambard Lessing. A historian, one of the King’s Club men. No need to concern yourself with him; he’s here to inquire about some old journals and family heirlooms. Did you need something?”
“I was thinking of going shopping. This close to Christmas—”
“Yes, yes, a fine idea,” he said, herding me toward the stairs. He fumbled in his pocket for some bank notes and pressed them into my hand. “I’ll see you back here for supper.”
I muttered a silent prayer of thanks that he was distracted and wasted no time hurrying from the house with Sharkey. I took the dog to the market and firmly deposited him with Joyce, so by the time I got to King’s College—wearing an old apron over my fashionable red dress—classes were already in session for the morning. I entered through the main double doors into the glistening hallway with polished wood inlay floors and wall sconces covering the electric lights. My boots echoed loudly in the empty hallways. I’d never felt comfortable on this level, the realm of academics and well-off students from good families. Grainy photographs lined the walls showing the illustrious history of the university and its construction. One brass frame bore the crest of the King’s Club, the motto underneath. Ex scientia vera. From knowledge, truth. I thought of stiff Isambard Lessing and his red face. I paused to look at the date on the frame’s inscription.
1875. Four years before I was born. The photograph documented the King’s Club membership at the time, two lines of a dozen male faces wearing long robes and serious expressions. Lucy’s railroad magnate father, Mr. Radcliffe, was among them, his beard much shorter, standing next to a stout man I recognized as Isambard Lessing himself, and with a shudder I recognized a young Dr. Hastings. I also found the professor’s face among them, decades younger but with the same wire-rim glasses and a hint of a smile on an otherwise stern face. On his left was a young man whose face I knew all too well—my father.
I shifted in my stiff clothing and drew in a deep breath. The professor had mentioned they’d met in the King’s Club, so perhaps I shouldn’t have been surprised. In the photograph Father had dark hair cut in the fashion of the time, and his eyes were alert and focused, so unlike his wild-eyed, gray-haired visage I had known more recently. The face in the photograph was the face I knew from my earliest memories, long ago when I’d idolized him, before madness and ambition had claimed him.
I tore myself away from the old photograph and hurried for the stairs to the basement, where I felt instantly more at ease. The morning cleaning crew was already hard at work scouring the stairs leading to the basement hallways. I recognized the shape of my old boss, Mrs. Bell, as her rounded body stooped to scrub the treading. A woman who used to watch out for me when no one else did. When she stood to refill her bucket, I grabbed her hand and pulled her around the corner.