CENTRAL NEWS AGENCY,

LONDON

27 SEPTEMBER 1888

The sound of typewriters clicking away to the beat of a hundred fingers greeted Thomas and me as we followed Superintendent Blackburn into the busy news agency. Most all of their stories were “sensationalized lies and slander charges waiting to happen,” according to my brother. I didn’t disagree.

Blackburn had found me locked away in Uncle’s laboratory, poring over murder details and evidence being used against Uncle, and insisted I see the latest horror for myself.

Blackburn wasn’t eager for Thomas’s company, but I convinced him his expertise was very much needed. Thomas would likely spot any detail overlooked, and that’s precisely what Uncle needed. Blackburn eventually gave in.

Liza had assisted in fabricating excuses to leave the house, telling her mother we were in desperate need of shopping excursions. Aunt Amelia was thrilled to have me doing “appropriate girl things” and sent us out, humming to herself. I suspected my cousin was willing to help because it afforded her time to sneak away to the park with her newest love interest. Regardless of her motives, I was grateful for her presence and would miss her when they returned to the country.

Anxiety twisted through my limbs. Blackburn wasn’t a man of many words, so he didn’t spare much on the carriage ride over. All I knew was something came up that could potentially raise doubts about Uncle’s guilt or set the noose around his neck for good.

Thomas might not trust Blackburn, but I was desperate enough to take any assistance we could get, even if it meant following the person who’d originally put my uncle in the asylum to the depths of Hell.

We walked by several desks with reporters writing and excitedly chatting over the day’s news. A palpable buzz could be felt like electricity running through Edison bulbs.

At the end of the small room stood an office with a stout man seated behind an even larger desk. He was wearing spectacles on his face and stress in his bones.

The etching on the door informed anyone who entered he was the editor. There was a bleak look about him that permeated his every movement and action; it spoke of seeing too much of life’s darkness. His attention landed on each of us, seemingly calculating our motives or personalities, before settling on Superintendent Blackburn. He dabbed a cigarette out with pudgy fingers, then motioned for us to step inside and have a seat, his movements quick and jittery.

I watched the tiny embers fade from orange to gray ash that lifted in the wake of our entrance. A thick cloud of smoke took up residence above our heads, as if not wanting to miss out on what we were about to learn.

I couldn’t find the will to be annoyed by the toxic fumes, I was too nervous about the news that might exonerate or further condemn Uncle. Thomas, however, appeared ready to jump over the desk and suck the last dregs of tobacco into his lungs.

With unsteady hands, the editor pointed toward the tea set on a buffet near the wall. “If any of you would like a refreshment before we begin, please help yourself.”

Blackburn looked at me, brows raised, and I gave a slight shake of my head. I didn’t want to stay longer than necessary. This place was overwhelming and the editor made me nervous. “No, thank you, Mr. Doyle,” he said. “If you wouldn’t mind, I’d like to see the letter you spoke of earlier.”

“What you’re about to see is rather unpleasant,” Mr. Doyle warned, staring at me in particular. “Especially for a young lady.”

I smiled, leaning over the desk and used the sweetest tone I could muster.

“In my spare time I flay open bodies of the deceased. Two of whom were victims of Leather Apron. The scent that hung in the room would drop a man to his knees, and I aided my uncle during the postmortems while standing in gelled blood.” I sat back in my chair, the leather squeaking its own disapproval. “Whatever you have to show us won’t be too much for my stomach to handle, I assure you.”

Mr. Doyle blanched, then nodded curtly, shuffling papers lying in front of him. It was hard to tell if he was more disturbed by my unladylike activities or by the way I delivered the message in such a girlish tone. Either way, I felt mildly redeemed for having turned the tables of discomfort around on him.

Thomas snorted, then held his hands up in a gesture of apology when Mr. Doyle glared at him. Blackburn, dropping his air of station, looked as boyish as Thomas and was doing only a slightly better job of hiding his amusement.

I studied this version of Blackburn. Thomas was right, there was something disarming about his features. With one shy glance he earned your trust completely.

Mr. Doyle cleared his throat.

“Very well, then.” He opened the top drawer of his desk, removed a letter, then slid it across to where we were sitting in straight-backed chairs. He seemed anxious to be rid of us already. I’d half a mind to inform him the feeling was very mutual.

“This came in the post this morning.”

Thomas snatched it before Blackburn or I could and read aloud.

“‘Dear Boss, I keep on hearing the police have caught me but they won’t fix me just yet.’” Thomas opened his mouth, no doubt ready to say something Thomas-like, so I used the distraction against him, grabbing the letter from his clutches and reading it for myself.

The grammar was atrocious.

I read the shaky, loopy script quickly, my skin crawling over my bones with each sentence my gaze touched. The ink was blood-red, likely to instill fear in the recipient, as if the message inside wouldn’t be frightening enough. For all I knew, perhaps it was written in blood.

Nothing would surprise me when it came to this madman.

Setting the letter down, my thoughts swirled together in a maelstrom of hope and dread. While there was no guarantee this alone could save Uncle, it certainly might help.

Thomas and Blackburn took turns reading the letter, then sat back in their chairs. No one said a thing for an eternity until Thomas spoke up. “What joke about Leather Apron? I don’t recall police saying anything humorous about it. Unless he knows something we don’t.”

Editor Doyle and Thomas both stared at Blackburn, waiting for his response, but Blackburn only sighed and dragged a hand down his exhausted face.

Handsome or not, he didn’t look as if he’d been sleeping that well since the last time I’d seen him. “I haven’t the slightest clue about what the author of this letter is referring to. Perhaps he’s talking about the headlines calling him Leather Apron.”

I cleared my throat and looked at Mr. Doyle. “The author of this letter said not to show it around for a few days. Why ring Superintendent Blackburn?”

Mr. Doyle turned his world-weary gaze on me. “Even if this letter proves false, sent from some deranged citizen, I could not in good conscience keep it to myself.” He swallowed a gulp of tea, then removed a flask from his person and unapologetically took a swig. “I’m holding off printing it, but should he follow through with his threats, I wanted my mind free of guilt.”

A haunted feeling suddenly clung to me. Something strange was going on aside from the editor’s seemingly remorseful outreach. Something out of place that I couldn’t quite touch on. Then it occurred to me; Thomas Cresswell was unusually quiet. This would normally be the part where he had plenty to say or argue over.

He brought the letter close to his face and sniffed. I hadn’t the slightest inkling how he’d be able to deduce anything from scent, but knew better than to claim it impossible. The word did not apply to him in any form.

“I assume this was delivered in an envelope,” he said, not bothering to look up from his inspection of the letter. “I’ll need to see that immediately.”

Mr. Doyle tossed a glance Blackburn’s way, seeking him to jump in and say it wouldn’t be necessary, but Blackburn made an impatient gesture with his hand. “You heard the young man, Doyle. Hand over any evidence he requests.”

With a deep scowl settling into place, the editor did as he was asked. He didn’t seem like the kind of man who appreciated bending to children’s needs. Considering Blackburn himself wasn’t much older than my brother, I was certain Mr. Doyle was questioning why he’d involved police at all.

Thomas studied every angle of the envelope, twice, before handing it over to me, his expression carefully composed. “Any of this appear familiar to you, Wadsworth?”

Taking the envelope from him, I silently read it. There was no return address, and the only thing written across it was “The Boss. Central News Office. London City” in the same taunting red ink the letter was drafted in.

The very idea it would be at all something I’d seen before was absurd.

Then a thought slapped me in the face.

Did he think I’d written it in hopes of aiding Uncle? Was that what he thought of me, then? I was some spoiled girl, walking about London streets, doing whatever I pleased without regard to anyone? Was my position as a lord’s daughter showing itself in my abuse of privilege?

I thrust it back at him. “Afraid not, Cresswell. I’ve never seen this before in my life.”

If I was expecting some sort of response by using his surname, I was sorely disappointed. He didn’t so much as bat one of his long lashes at me. He studied me for another breath, then nodded. “Right, then. My mistake, Audrey Rose.”

“Mistake?” Blackburn glanced between us, a crease forming in his brow. “If rumors are to be believed, since when does Dr. Jonathan Wadsworth’s protégé make mistakes?”

“Seems there’s a first time for everything, Superintendent,” Thomas replied coolly, his attention finally drifting away from me. “Though, as someone with a bit more practice being wrong, I’m sure you can empathize. Tell me, what’s it like being—”

I rested my hand on his arm and forced myself to giggle uncontrollably, garnering strange looks from each male in the room. Except Thomas, who fixed his attention on the hand still touching him.

Blasted Thomas. Was I always to rescue him from himself? Blackburn was an untrustworthy annoyance, but he’d proven useful for once. I wasn’t in the mood for Thomas to make an enemy of him today, especially when Uncle’s life was potentially at stake. I held my hand up. “I do apologize. Thomas has a wicked sense of humor. Don’t you, Mr. Cresswell?”

Thomas stared for a beat, then let out a long, annoyed breath. “I admit that’s a fair assessment. Though poorly deduced as usual, Miss Wadsworth. Unfortunately your uncle’s talent has skipped you entirely. At least you’ve got an attractive smile. It’s not much, but will surely make up for your lacking mental faculties. Well,” he amended, his focus straying to Blackburn, “at least for someone equally dull, that is.”

I gritted my teeth. “While that may be true, we really should be on our way. We’ve got that experiment we need to check on in the laboratory. Remember?”

“Actually, you’re wrong again, my dear.”

I was so mad I could scream some of the worst obscenities I’d heard at the docks at him. He was ruining our exit strategy, and I was most certainly not his dear.

When I thought all hope was lost, Thomas checked his watch. “We should’ve left precisely three minutes and twenty-three seconds ago. If we don’t run now, our experiment will be destroyed. Best if we hail a carriage.” He turned to the editor and superintendent. “It’s been as pleasant as a fast day in Lent, gentlemen.”

By the time they figured out his parting was, in fact, an insult, we were already rushing out through the bustling newsroom and exiting onto the cool afternoon streets. We didn’t stop walking for a few streets, silence our only companion. Finally, once we’d made a good enough distance to not be spotted by Blackburn, we stopped.

“What is the meaning of that question?” I demanded, anger swelling back up inside me. I could not believe he really thought so little of me. So much for telling each other the truth no matter what.

“I was not insinuating you had anything to do with writing the letter, Wadsworth,” he said. “Truly, you must harness those blasted emotions of yours. They’ll just get in the way of our investigation.”

I did not feel like having this conversation again. He might be able to act machinelike during our horrid investigations, but ice and stone were not the material forming my blood and bones. “Then what, exactly, were you insinuating?”

“Someone who was wearing Hasu-no-Hana two nights ago was in close proximity of that letter.”

I closed my eyes. “You can’t be serious, Thomas. That’s your major discovery? You think you can identify our murderer by a perfume scent? How can you be sure someone working in the General Post wasn’t wearing it?” I tossed my hands in the air. “Perhaps the letter carrier had it next to another letter written by someone’s secret lover. Maybe they spritzed their envelope in their beloved’s favorite scent. Did you ever stop to think of that, Mr. I Know Everything?”

“You were wearing the very same fragrance two nights ago,” he replied softly, staring at the ground, all hints of arrogance gone. “The night you visited the asylum and followed me to the Necropolis. I smelled it on you in the alleyway. I went to several shops trying to find the exact scent…” He looked at his hands. “I wanted to purchase it for you.”

If he’d reached out and slapped me, I would’ve been less shocked. This was what my only true friend in the world thought of me; I was a monster waiting to be unleashed. Maybe he was right. I certainly didn’t feel like crying, or begging for him to believe me. I didn’t even feel good about his admission of wanting to buy a gift for me. I felt like drawing blood. His blood in particular.

“So you are suggesting I had something to do with this!” I half yelled, walking away before turning back. He still wouldn’t meet my glare. “How dare you? How dare you think such reprehensible things of me. It’s the most popular scent in London! For your blasted information, both my aunt and cousin were wearing the very same fragrance. Are you implying one of them wrote the letter?”

“Would your aunt try to protect Dr. Wadsworth? Or perhaps your family’s reputation?” He took a deep breath. “She’s very religious, is she not?”

“I cannot—” I shook my head. “This is absurd!”

I was through with him.

If he thought I or my aunt or my cousin mailed the letter, so be it.

A new, twisted thought made me smile; Jack the Ripper had done me a favor. His letter, whatever the motive, cast a glimmer of hope for Uncle. At least he had a fighting chance now.

“You know what? You were with me that night, too, Thomas. Perhaps my magic perfume wafted over all your belongings. I wouldn’t be surprised if you wrote the bloody letter yourself.”

I turned on my heel, a springy bounce in my step, and hailed a carriage, leaving Thomas all alone with his accusations and incredulous stares, blissfully unaware of the horror about to take place in the next nights.