Stalking Jack the Ripper (Stalking Jack the Ripper 1)

He sat straighter like a peacock showing off its colorful plumage. I imagined him preening himself as if he had a fan of bright feathers growing from his backside.

I motioned for him to get on with it. “You were saying.”

“On a normal day, you wear silk shoes. Leather is better suited for rain,” he said, matter-of-factly. “Since it’s not raining in London yet, and according to the paper, Reading has been pouring buckets all morning, it didn’t take much to deduce you’d be heading there.”

I so badly wanted to say something cutting, but Thomas wasn’t finished impressing me yet.

“When you first rushed through the lobby your attention shifted to the clock mounted on the wall; you hadn’t seen me standing near, waiting for you. Leading me to believe you were in a hurry.” He took a sip of tea. “A quick check of the departures board and I noted the next train leaving for Reading was at twelve noon. Quite easy, as it was also the only train leaving at that time.”

He sat back with a self-indulgent grin plastered across his face. “I paid the waiter to fetch me a ticket, ran to our table, then ordered our tea all before you had your duster checked.”

I closed my eyes. He really was an enormous test of my patience, but he might prove useful with my next task. If anyone would be able to read a situation, it’d be Thomas Cresswell. I wanted answers regarding Miss Emma Elizabeth Smith and her association with my family, and could think of only one person who might know about her. I stood, and Thomas joined me, eager to move onto our next mission.

“Hurry along, then,” I said, grabbing my orchid and securing it safely in my journal. “I want to sit by the window.”

“Hmm.”

“What now?” I asked, losing patience.

“I usually sit by the window. You may have to sit in my lap.”

Within ten minutes, we were standing below gigantic wrought iron arches that spanned Paddington Station like iron bones holding the glass flesh of the ceiling up in a show of man-made perfection. There was something thrilling about the cylindrical shape of the station as it teemed with people and huge steam-breathing machines.

Our train was already waiting on the tracks, so we climbed aboard and situated ourselves for the ride. Soon we were off. I watched the gray, fog-filled world blur by as we chugged our way out of London and across the English countryside, my thoughts consumed with a million questions.

The first being, Was I wasting my time? What if Thornley knew nothing? Perhaps we should have stayed in London and pored over more of Uncle’s notes. Though it was too late for turning back now.

Thomas, once he’d woken from a disturbed nap, fidgeted in his seat enough to draw my attention to him. He was like a child who’d eaten too many sweets and couldn’t sit still.

“What in heaven’s name are you doing?” I whispered, glancing at the passengers around us, who were tossing dirty looks Thomas’s way. “Why can’t you act properly for an hour?”

He crossed then uncrossed his long legs, then did the same with his arms. I was starting to think he hadn’t heard me when he finally responded. “Are you going to enlighten me on where exactly we’re going? Or is the suspense part of the surprise?”

“Can you not deduce it, Cresswell?”

“I’m not a magician, Wadsworth,” he said. “I can deduce when facts are presented to me—not when they’re purposely obscured.”

I narrowed my eyes. Even though there were a thousand other things I should be concerned with, I couldn’t stop myself from asking. “Are you feeling ill?” His attention shifted to me before moving back to the window. “Do you suffer from claustrophobia, or agoraphobia?”

“I find the act of traveling very dull.” He sighed. “Another moment of the inane conversation of the people behind us or the blasted chugging of the engine, and I might lose my mind altogether.”

Thomas grew silent again, accentuating his point about the annoying conversation and overwhelming sound of the train.

“Perhaps this is our murderer’s motivation for killing,” he mumbled.

I laid my head against the seat and eavesdropped. According to society, this was precisely what young women were supposed to be concerned with. Shoes, silks, dinner parties, and who might be the handsomest duke or lord in the kingdom. How one might secure an invitation to an important ball or tea. Who was in the queen’s favor, who wasn’t. Who was old and smelly but worth marrying anyway.

My daily worries were so far removed, I feared I’d always be shunned amongst my peers. While I enjoyed finery, I tried imagining myself chattering on about a napkin design, but my thoughts kept turning to deceased bodies, and I laughed at my failure to even picture being a so-called normal young lady.

I was determined to be both pretty and fierce, as Mother had said I could be. Just because I was interested in a man’s job didn’t mean I had to give up being girly. Who defined those roles anyhow?

“Truly, Thomas,” I said, trying to contain a laugh. “People needn’t debate rhetoric in order to be interesting. Is there nothing you fancy outside of the laboratory?”

Thomas was unamused. “You aren’t exactly the queen of intellectually stimulating conversation this afternoon.”

“Feeling neglected, are you?”

“Perhaps I am.”