LITTLE ILFORD CEMETERY,

LONDON

8 OCTOBER 1888

Two stone dragons stood sentinel over our carriage as it moved across cobblestones and through the largest of three ogival archways leading into Little Ilford Cemetery.

A heavy mist shrouded a small group of mourners standing around the freshly dug grave of Miss Catherine Eddowes, the slain woman I’d inspected during the double event, blanketing them from the harshness of the day.

Winter was biting at autumn’s toes, reminding the milder season it’d be here soon.

As a sign of respect for the deceased, I’d worn a proper gown instead of the riding habit and breeches I’d recently adopted as my ensemble of choice. My simple black dress was eerily similar to what I’d worn the night of Miss Annie Chapman’s murder. I hoped it wasn’t a prediction of worse things to come.

I felt a strange connection to Catherine, perhaps because I’d knelt over her body and examined the scene where she’d been found.

Papers described her as jolly when sober, singing a tune for anyone who’d listen. The night she was murdered she’d been drunk, lying in the street before being detained by police until shortly after one in the morning.

Ripper found her not long after that, silencing her songs forever.

Uncle stayed at his laboratory, speaking with detective inspectors about the second victim of that bloody night, ushering Thomas and me off in his carriage to glean what we could from Miss Catherine’s funeral attendees. He believed killers often visited the sites of their destruction or involved themselves in cases, though like most of his notions, it couldn’t be proven. Detective inspectors didn’t spend much time convincing Uncle his expertise was essential to solving the case. A little ego stroking on the part of the upper echelons of Scotland Yard went a long way to assuage Uncle’s damaged pride.

I couldn’t stop stealing glances at Thomas, wondering if the very monster I was hunting was standing beside me. Though his story of his mother’s death and father’s near-immediate remarriage tugged at me emotionally, perhaps that was his intention. For now I’d watch him, but act as if all was well between us.

Thomas held an umbrella over our heads, his attention focused on everyone in the gathering. There weren’t many mourners, and to be honest, none of them appeared the least bit suspicious—except for one bearded man who tossed stares over his shoulder at us. Something about him set caution humming through my veins.

“Dust thou art, and unto dust thou shalt return,” the priest quoted from the book of Genesis, holding his arms skyward. “May your soul rest more peacefully than the manner in which you left us, beloved sister.”

The handful of people murmured a collective amen before dispersing from the plot. Dreary weather kept their sadness at arm’s length and their prayers for the dead short. Moments later the sky opened up and rain flowed freely, forcing Thomas to stand a bit closer with the umbrella.

Or perhaps he was using it as an excuse. He’d been hovering around me as if I were the sun his universe revolved around ever since he’d let me past one of his many emotional walls. Something to ponder another day.

I walked over to the makeshift grave marker, kneeling to run my gloved fingertips across the rough wooden cross, feeling a wave of sadness for a woman I didn’t even know. The city of London pulled together, giving her a proper burial and grave. People were always providing in death what they would not do in life, it seemed.

“Audrey Rose.” Thomas cleared his throat, and I glanced up, spotting the bearded man lingering a few paces off, looking torn between approaching us and fading into the desolate, gray morning. Unable to shake the feeling he had something important to impart to us, I motioned for Thomas to follow me.

“If he won’t come to us,” I said over my shoulder, “we’ll bring ourselves to him.” I stopped before him, extending my hand. “Good morning. My name is—”

“Miss Audrey Rose Wadsworth. Daughter of Malina and—what’s that?” he asked an invisible person to his left. Thomas and I exchanged baffled looks.

Clearly, he was unbalanced, speaking to air. But there was something about him knowing my mother’s name that unnerved me. He nodded to something we still couldn’t see.

“Ah, yes. Daughter of Malina and Edmund. Your mother says you’re welcome to the necklace in the photograph. The heart-shaped locket, I believe. Yes, yes,” he said, nodding again. “That’s right. The one you admired in your father’s study. It’s being used as a bookmark of sorts.”

He paused, squinting at nothing. My heart was very near breaking its way out of my body. Thomas grabbed my arm, steadying me as I swayed on my feet. How could this man possibly know these things? Memories of sneaking into Father’s study and looking upon the photograph of Mother assaulted my senses.

I’d been admiring that locket, wondering where it was hidden…

No one knew about that. I barely even recalled it myself. I took a wavering step back, frightened yet not quite believing this was not some act of deceit. Some illusionist’s manipulation of the truth. I’d read reports in papers of charlatans and tricksters. Unscrupulous fakers making profit by showing audiences what they wanted to believe. There was some kind of smoke and mirrors game being played, and I’d have none of it.

“How do you know these things?” I demanded, regaining my composure.

Calming my still racing heart, I sought to apply logic to the situation. This man must surely be a skilled liar; he did some form of research, then made educated guesses, essentially the same principle Thomas used while deducing the obvious.

Heart-shaped lockets were popular, practically every woman in London owned one. It was an educated guess, nothing more. For all I knew, the necklace was sitting in a forbidden jewelry box, not being used as an expensive bookmark.

I wouldn’t be surprised if he worked for some despicable newspaper. Perhaps Mr. Doyle had sent him to spy on us, desperate to ferret out another story.

“Easy there, Wadsworth,” Thomas said, loud enough for only me to hear. “If you shake any harder I’m afraid you might take flight, killing us in the process. While I do not fear death, it might prove a bit tedious after a while. All that heavenly singing would become rather grating, don’t you agree?”

I drew in a slow, steady breath. He was right. Getting agitated wouldn’t make this situation better. I allowed myself to calm down, before turning my glower back on this liar. He held his hands up, as if he meant no harm—except the harm had already been done.

“Let me begin again, Miss Wadsworth. I—often forget how odd I must seem to non-seers.” He extended his hand, waiting for mine to meet his. Reluctantly, I allowed him to kiss my gloved knuckles before sticking my hands back at my sides. “My name is Robert James Lees. I am a medium. I communicate with spirits who’ve passed on. I’m also a spiritualist preacher.”

“Oh, good.” Thomas wiped his brow in a gesture of relief. “And here I thought you were simply insane. This’ll be much more fun.”

I fought a smile as the spiritualist stuttered over his next words.

“Y-yes, yes, well, all right, then. As I was saying, I speak with the dearly departed, and the spirit of Miss Eddowes sought me out almost every night this week, starting from the night she was slain,” he said. “My spirit guides told me I’d find someone here who could help stop Jack the Ripper once and for all. I kept getting drawn to you, miss. That’s when your mother came through.”

I listened with the practiced ear of a skeptic. My mind was very much immersed in science, not religious fads and notions of speaking with the dead.

Mr. Lees exhaled, nodding to that same unseen force again.

“So I thought. I’ve got it on good authority you’re unbelieving.” He held his hand up when I opened my mouth to argue. “It’s something I contend with most every day of my life. My path isn’t an easy one, but I’ll not stop my journey. If you’d like to accompany me to my parlor, I’ll do a proper conjuring for you.”

Part of me wanted to say yes. Sensing my wavering, he continued with his sale.

“Take what you will from our session, leaving anything which isn’t useful behind. All I ask is a few minutes of your time, Miss Wadsworth,” he said. “Nothing more. Very best, you’ll walk away with information about the killer. At the very least, an entertaining story to share with your friends later.”

He offered a hard bargain when he put it into those terms.

“If you have information on Jack the Ripper,” Thomas asked, holding the umbrella steady, “why haven’t you gone straight to Scotland Yard?”

I studied Thomas. His question certainly seemed genuine. Unless he was displacing suspicion. Mr. Lees smiled ruefully.

“They’ve declined my services on more than one occasion,” he said. “It’s easier thinking me mad than seriously regarding any clues I might unearth.”

I tapped my fingers on my arms, contemplating his offer.

The first part about being a good scientist was remaining open to studying all variables, even ones we don’t necessarily understand. How little my mind would be if I dismissed a possibility without investigating it, simply because it didn’t fit into a preconceived notion.

No advances would ever be made. Scotland Yard was foolish to turn him away. There was the considerable chance he was a fraud, but even the tiniest percentage he could be right should be enough to at least listen to him.

I knew the hope of speaking with Mother was entering both my thoughts and heart, clouding my judgment. Internally I fought myself.

Perhaps one day I’d seek Mr. Lees out when I was ready to confront that emotional mess. Now, with Thomas present, I needed to keep a clear focus.

I took a deep breath, knowing this might perfectly well be a giant waste of time, but not caring. If I had to wave chicken feet at every raven I saw during the full moon to stop this murderer and avenge all the women who were tortured, I’d do it. Plus, one way or another, maybe it would remove any lingering doubt I had about Thomas.

“Very well, then,” I said. “Dazzle us with your conjuring arts, Mr. Lees.”

Thomas threw an impatient glance at me from across the tiny, battered table in Mr. Lees’s séance parlor, his leg bouncing so fast the feather-light table vibrated with his every jitter.

The pinch-lipped look I returned to him was laced with unspoken threat. I learned something useful from Aunt Amelia after all. Thomas stilled his legs before rapping a jittery beat against his arms. Honestly, he acted as if I were dragging him through the streets across a bed of nails, during a winter storm. The mark of a young man with more secrets or simply a bored one? If Mr. Lees was authentic, I might have an answer shortly.

I scanned our surroundings, doing my best to retain an impassive façade, but it was hard. Gray light filtered in through musty curtains, lighting on every speck of dust in the small flat, causing my nose to itch.

Instruments used for speaking with spirits were jumbled in the corners and poked out of cabinets, and dust covered most every surface. A little housecleaning would go a long way. Perhaps Mr. Lees would have more customers if he tidied up a bit.

I supposed, however, one didn’t have much time for cleaning when one was speaking with the dead at all hours of the day and night. If his abilities were real, I likened it to being stuck at a party twenty-four hours a day. The thought of having to listen to someone speak that long was utterly dreadful.

My attention snagged on a horn-shaped tube resting atop a rickety-looking cabinet. It was one of the few items in the room that appeared shiny and new.

“That’s a ‘spirit trumpet,’” Mr. Lees said, jerking his chin toward the contraption. “It amplifies whispers of the spirits. Truthfully, I haven’t had any luck with it, but it’s all the rage these days. Figured I’d give it a whirl. And that’s a spirit slate.”

The so-called spirit slate was nothing more than two chalkboards tied together with a bit of string. I assumed it was another tool the dead could use for communicating with the living.

People wanted to be entertained by gadgets and gimmicks, it seemed, as much as they wanted to speak with their loved ones. A haunted atmosphere was ripe for conversation starters amongst the wealthy who knew nothing of poverty.

Thomas coughed a laugh away, drawing my attention to him. He subtly pointed to my leg, bouncing its own anxious beat against the table, then coughed harder at my dark look. I was glad he was so amused; that made one of us.

“Right, then.” Mr. Lees situated himself in the middle. “I’ll ask the two of you to place your hands on the table, like so.”

He demonstrated by placing his large palms facedown, thumbs touching at their tips. “Spread your fingers apart so your pinky fingers touch your neighbor’s on either side. Excellent. That’s perfect. Now close your eyes and clear your minds.”

It was a good thing the table was so small, else we’d never be able to reach one another’s hands comfortably. Thomas’s pinky kept twitching away from mine, so I quietly shifted my foot under the table and gave him a little kick. Before he could retaliate, Mr. Lees closed his eyes, letting loose a deep sigh. Focus, I scolded myself. If I was going to do this sitting, I’d do it one hundred percent.

“I ask that my spirit guides step forth, aiding me on this spiritual journey through the afterlife. Anyone with a connection to either Thomas or Audrey Rose may present themselves now.”

I peeked through slitted lashes. Thomas was being a good sport, sitting with his eyes closed and his back straight as a walking stick. Mr. Lees looked as if he were sleeping while sitting upright. His eyes fluttered beneath his lids, his whiskers and beard twitching to some rhythmic beat only he could hear.

I stared at the little lines around his eyes. He couldn’t have been more than forty, but looked as if he’d seen as much as someone twice his age. His hair was gray at the edges, receding like the ocean sweeping away from the shore of his forehead.

He inhaled deeply, his facial features stilling. “Identify yourself, spirit.”

I latched my attention onto Thomas again, but he didn’t crack a smile or an eyelid, politely playing along with our ghost-divining host. He certainly wasn’t acting nervous now. I couldn’t stop myself from simultaneously hoping and dreading another encounter with my mother so soon. If his opening in the graveyard were to be believed, that was.

Mr. Lees nodded. “We welcome you, Miss Eddowes.”

He paused, giving himself time to think of a fabrication or to “listen” to the spirit, his face twisted in concentration. “Yes, yes, I’ll tell her now.”

Oh, good. We’ll get right into it, then. How silly. He shifted in his chair, never breaking contact with either of our hands. “Miss Eddowes says you were present the day her body was discovered. She claims you were accompanied by a man with pale hair.”

My breath caught, hope of hearing from Mother momentarily set aside. Could it be true? Could Miss Catherine Eddowes be speaking through this stout, untidy man? This was all very strange, but I didn’t necessarily believe one second of it.

Anyone who was at the crime scene that morning would have seen me walking with Superintendent Blackburn. Not knowing proper protocol for this type of situation, I whispered, “That’s true.”

I glanced at Thomas, but he was still sitting quietly, eyes shut. His mouth, however, was now pressed into a tight line. I turned my attention back on our spiritualist.

“Uh-huh,” Mr. Lees said, his tone full of understanding. I wasn’t sure if he was addressing me or the supposed spirit hovering about, so I waited with my lips sealed together. “Miss Eddowes says to pass along this message to aid you in believing. She says there’s an identifying mark on her body, and you’ll know straightaway what she’s speaking of.”

The urge to yank my hands back and leave this den of lies plagued me for a few beats. I knew precisely what she was talking about.

There was a small tattoo on her left forearm that had the initials TC. That was hardly a secret. Again, anyone could’ve seen her arm in passing. I sighed, disappointed this turned out to be an act of folly. Before I said a word or broke contact with Thomas or Mr. Lees, he hurriedly continued.

“She said Jack was there that day as well. That he’d seen you.” He closed his mouth, nodding again as if he were an interpreter passing a message along from a foreign speaker. “He got close to you… even spoke with you. You were angry with him…”

Mr. Lees rocked in his chair, his closed eyes moving like confused pigeons squabbling back and forth in front of a park bench.

A deep, cold fear wound itself around my limbs, strangling reason from my brain. The only people I’d been angry with were Superintendent Blackburn and my father. Uncle had still been in the asylum and Thomas and I were not speaking.

If this man was truly communing with the dead, that cleared them of lingering suspicion. But Father and Blackburn…

Unwilling to hear more, I drew my hand away, but Thomas reached for it, placing it next to his. His encouraging look said we would see this through together, quieting me for the moment.

Our medium rocked in his seat, his movements coming faster and sharper. The wood creaked a panicked beat, spurring my own pulse into a chaotic rhythm. Mr. Lees stood so abruptly the chair he’d been sitting on crashed to the floor.

It took several seconds for him to reorient himself, and when his eyes cleared, he stared at me as if I’d transformed into Satan himself.

“Mr. Lees. Are you going to share what’s troubling you with us,” Thomas said, “or are you keeping what the spirits said to yourself?”

Mr. Lees trembled, shaking his head to clear away whatever he’d heard and seen. When he finally spoke, his tone was as ominous as his words.

“Leave London at once, Miss Wadsworth. I was mistaken, I cannot help you. Go!” he bellowed, startling us. He faced Thomas. “You must keep her safe. She’s been marked for death.”

Thomas narrowed his eyes. “If this is some trick—”

“Leave! Leave now before it’s too late.” Mr. Lees ushered us to the door, tossing me my coat as if it were on fire. “Jack craves your blood, Miss Wadsworth. God be with you.”