I held the light up, my eyes trailing over every object in the room as if it were the first and last time I’d ever see them. I longed to catalog each piece within the shelves of my mind and visit them whenever I’d like.
A large portrait—presumably of one of our ancestors—was mounted on the wall between floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. His chest was puffed up with self-importance and his foot rested atop the carcass of an enormous bear he’d slain. Strange it hadn’t been there the last time I was here, though it had been quite a while.
“How charming,” I whispered to myself. An ocean of blood surrounded the furry corpse island he was standing upon. The artist captured a deranged essence in our ancestor’s eyes that chilled the very marrow in my bones.
I scanned the room again. Everything was dark: the wood, the rug, the large settee, a few spots of brocade wallpaper visible from behind artifacts collected over several lifetimes. Even the marble making up the fireplace was a deep green with darker veining. No wonder Father couldn’t move past his grief; darkness was his constant companion.
I walked over to his desk, a mammoth thing taking up most of the room, threatening me with its hulking form. I rolled my eyes. Leave it to me to give an ordinary desk that much of a villainous personality. Hulking form indeed.
Sitting in Father’s plush leather chair, I set the lamp down, taking great care not to disturb any of the papers scattered about. I couldn’t help noticing Father had made quite a few mechanical sketches. The detail he managed to capture using only charcoal and paper was astounding. I swear I almost heard the cranking of gears and smelled the oil greasing their parts.
There was beautiful destruction all across the page.
Flying ships with guns bolstered to their sides and other miniature wartime toys took up each inch of paper. Shame he stopped creating clockwork pieces; judging from the images I saw, he hadn’t lost his talent.
I stopped ruminating and slid open each drawer of the desk, searching with renewed purpose for files he kept on all our servants, both past and present. Even though our butler tended to the records, as was customary, Father was quite insistent he have his own. When I reached the bottom drawer, I discovered it was locked. I leaned closer. It looked as if Father had created the locking mechanism himself.
“Where would I hide something important?” I tapped my fingers on the arms of the chair. Then I remembered the key that had fallen from beneath the lamp. Running to the mantel, I obtained it, then quickly ran back to his desk.
Time was ticking away, and dessert was nearly over and servants would be busy in and out of the hall shortly.
It was a long shot the key would work, but I had to try.
I shifted the light closer. With shaking hands, I slowly pushed the key into place. I turned it to the left, certain it would have opened already if it were the correct one, when a small ‘click’ sounded and the drawer cracked open. Thank the heavens.
Opening the drawer fully, I ran my fingers over the tops of files, which were smashed together. There were so many I feared it’d take all evening to locate what I needed. I couldn’t even recall how many maids we’d gone through over the last five years. Luckily, Father organized this drawer better than the top of his desk.
Little name tags peeked out above the folders like islands breaking through an ocean of ink on paper. I thumbed through them once, then twice before finding Miss Mary Ann Nichols’s folder.
Checking over my shoulder to be sure the door was still locked, I pulled the file out and quickly read a lot of… nothing. There was only a ledger with her payments.
No background reference. No letter of recommendation.
Not a single glimpse into her life prior to working for us. I couldn’t believe Uncle had recognized her so easily. According to Father’s records, she’d been in our employ for only a fortnight. I slumped into the chair, shaking my head.
I removed a random file, drawing my brows together. This was for our cook, Martha, also our longest servant, as she didn’t interact with us often and Father loved her black pudding.
It contained a letter of reference from her previous employer, a letter from Scotland Yard stating she’d never been under investigation, her monthly wages, allowances, and board wages, and a photograph of her in her typical cook’s attire.
I scanned a few more files, finding they all resembled our cook’s.
On a hunch, I dug around in the drawer until I found another servant who’d been dismissed for no better reason than having stayed with our family more than a month. Her file looked precisely like Miss Nichols’s, confirming my suspicion that Father must clean out the majority of their information once they were no longer employed.
I closed the folders, taking pains to place everything back exactly where I’d found it.
Cursing my father for keeping pointless records, I wished I could set the whole mess of papers ablaze.
As I slid the last file into place, a familiar name caught my attention. I hesitated briefly before removing the folder and flipping it open. It contained a lone newspaper clipping. A brutal coldness enveloped me where I sat.
Why did Father have an article on Miss Emma Elizabeth Smith’s murder?
EIGHT
BRING OUT YOUR NEARLY DEAD
GREAT WESTERN ROYAL HOTEL,
PADDINGTON STATION
11 SEPTEMBER 1888
The tearoom in the Great Western Royal Hotel was unbearably warm.
Or perhaps it was simply the fiery rage burning inside me. Sitting with my hands folded politely in my lap, I prayed for the strength I’d need to stop myself from reaching across the table and wrapping my fingers around a neck instead of cucumber sandwiches and petits fours. “You look as if you’ve not slept, Mr. Cresswell.”
“Who said I did, Miss Wadsworth?”
I raised my brows. “Doing subversive things at indecent hours?”
“Would it offend you if I were?” Thomas smiled at the waiter and leaned in, whispering in his ear. The waiter nodded, then marched off.
Once we were alone, he turned his steady focus on me, calculating a thousand things simultaneously. I lifted the porcelain cup to my lips, forcing a sip of tea down.
I’d agreed to meet him here only to go over case details. Now he was doing that infuriating thing where he’d inevitably guess my secret plans, and I’d have to murder him. In front of all these witnesses, no less. What a pity.
“Sir.” The waiter came back to the table, presenting Thomas with three things: a silver ashtray laid out with cigarettes, matches he produced from his black trousers, and an orchid. Thomas handed the flower to me then plucked a smoke from the tray, allowing the waiter to light the end. A gray cloud puffed into the air between us. I purposely coughed, batting the smoke back toward his side of the table.
“I cannot believe you’d buy me a beautiful flower only to ruin it with smoking,” I said, scowling. “How incredibly rude.”
Smoking in front of a girl without her permission was against social mores, but Thomas didn’t seem to care for that rule one bit. I set the orchid down, staring at him through a fringe of slitted lashes, but he only took another drag, slowly letting the toxic air out before dismissing the waiter.
He reminded me of the caterpillar from Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, sitting upon his giant mushroom, lazing about without a care in the world. If only he were small enough to squish beneath my boots.
“That’s a disgusting habit.”
“So is dissecting the dead prior to breakfast. But I don’t scorn you for that unseemly habit. In fact”—he leaned closer, dropping his voice into a conspiratorial whisper—“it’s rather endearing seeing you up to your elbows in viscera each morning. Also, you’re quite welcome for the flower. Do place it on your nightstand and think of me while dressing for bed.”