Stalking Jack the Ripper (Stalking Jack the Ripper 1)

“God only knows what this powder is capable of,” I said. “Can’t you at least protect him while he’s in here? What good are you, or do you simply excel at being terrible?”

Blackburn flushed. “In a place like this, intoxicants are often the only way of keeping the peace…” His voice trailed off as I glared at him. “It’s inexcusable, Miss Wadsworth. I assure you, it wasn’t done with malice. Most everyone here is dosed with… experimental serums.”

“Wonderful. I feel so much better.” I tugged a ribbon from my hair, then tore a length of fabric from the bottom of my skirts and scooped some of the goo into my makeshift cloth bundle before tying it. I’d bring it back to Uncle’s laboratory and test it for poisons or lethal toxins. I didn’t trust anyone with telling me the truth. It might be a harmless tonic given to “most everyone

” or it might be something worse.

Anyone who could administer something like this to a healthy man was too foul and tainted to be trustworthy. Blackburn fell into that same category.

Sitting back on my heels, I peered into my uncle’s face. “Uncle Jonathan, it’s me, Audrey Rose. Can you hear me?”

Uncle was awake but might as well have been sleeping with his eyes open. He didn’t see me or anyone else in the room, only whatever images were playing in his own mind. I waved my hand in front of his face but he didn’t so much as blink.

His lips moved, and I could just make out what he’d been repeating since we first stepped into his cell. He was saying his full name, Jonathan Nathaniel Wadsworth, as if it were the answer to all the mysteries of the universe.

Nothing useful then.

I gently shook him, ignoring the wave of disappointment crashing around me.

“Please, Uncle. Please look at me. Say something. Anything.”

I paused, waiting for some sign he’d heard me, but he only chanted his name and giggled, rocking back and forth so hard it was aggressive.

My eyes pleaded with him to look at me, to respond, but nothing broke the trance he was in. Tears of frustration welled up. How dare they do this to my uncle. My brave, brilliant uncle. I clutched his shoulders, shaking him harder, not caring how abysmal I must look to Blackburn. I was a terrible creature. I was selfish and scared and didn’t care who knew it.

I needed my uncle. I needed him to help me exonerate him, so we could stop a madman from a murder spree that surely wasn’t over yet.

“Wake up! You must fight your way out of this.” A sob broke in my throat and I shook him until my own teeth rattled. I couldn’t lose him, too. Not after losing Mother to death, and Father to both laudanum and grief. I needed someone to stay. “I cannot do this without you! Please.”

Blackburn reached over, gently pulling my hands away. “Come. I’ll fetch a doctor to watch after him. There isn’t anything more we can do for him tonight. Once the drug is out of his system, he’ll be able to speak with us.”

“Oh?” I asked, wiping my face with the back of my hand. “How can we be sure this doctor of yours isn’t the one who administered this… cruelty to begin with?”

“I apologize, Miss Wadsworth. I’m fairly positive it was just a routine procedure,” he said. “Know this—I’ll make sure everyone is aware there’ll be a steep penalty if your uncle is dosed again.”

His tone and the expression darkening his features were menacing enough to make me believe him. Satisfied as much as I could be, I allowed Blackburn to guide me from the cell, but not before I kissed the top of Uncle’s head good-bye. My tears had already dried when I whispered, “By my blood, I will make this right or die trying.”

Once we were back in the carriage, Blackburn gave the driver my address in Belgrave Square. I’d had enough of men telling me where I was going, and rapped my knuckles on the side of the carriage, startling them both. I didn’t care what Nathaniel wanted, what Aunt Amelia would say, or what Blackburn would think of me.

“Actually, you can drop me at Piccadilly Street,” I said. “There’s someone I need to speak with urgently.”

London Necropolis Railway, c. 19th century

EIGHTEEN

NECROPOLIS RAILWAY

THOMAS CRESSWELL’S FLAT,

PICCADILLY STREET

25 SEPTEMBER 1888

I stood half a block away, hiding, as Thomas opened the door to his flat then peered around, looking as sharply put together as if it were nine in the morning instead of nearly ten at night.

I wondered if he ever looked unkempt or frazzled. Perhaps his hair was permanently plastered to the side of his head for less hassle. My brother ought to take a lesson.

I watched silently, gathering courage to walk over to him, but some innate force whispered for me to remain hidden. I half expected him to come marching over, but he didn’t notice me standing half in the shadows several yards away.