“In one article the wounds described on Martha’s body were focused around her throat and lower abdomen.”

Thomas’s gaze moved back over the Frankenstein passage, his own brow creasing at my seemingly abrupt change in subject. “Emma’s wounds were thought to be too different from the five murders that took place in Whitechapel,” I said, growing more confident as I spoke. “Her attacker neither went for her throat nor stabbed her.”

Thomas swallowed hard, no doubt remembering with vivid detail the atrocities that had been done to her. “No, she’d been brutalized in other horrific ways.”

“Indeed.” Someone had ruptured her peritoneum by inserting a foreign object into her body. We’d never been sure if it was machinery or something else that had done the damage. Gears were found at the scene, something we later realized were part of my brother’s plan to pass electricity into dead tissues. “Nathaniel speaks of Jekyll and Hyde in his letter,” I continued, “but this passage points back to his preoccupation with Dr. Frankenstein and his monster.”

“I’m afraid I’m not quite following, Wadsworth. Do you believe your brother was using gothic novels as his source material for his killings?”

“Not entirely. I believe Nathaniel might be responsible for Miss Emma Elizabeth Smith’s death. He was obsessed with fusing machine and human together. Her attack fits with that. It also fits seamlessly with Galvani’s experimentations. Dr. Galvani demonstrated that a dint of electricity could make a frog’s muscles twitch postmortem. Nathaniel tried to improve upon his theory and take it even further by bringing humans back to life using a larger electrical charge.”

“I thought we established Miss Smith as a likely Ripper victim,” Thomas said carefully.

“We did. But it doesn’t fit. Even if his method of killing shifted as his deadly talents grew, her murder was not the ultimate goal. Not like the others. She’d been brutalized, but I don’t believe he wished to slay her. He wanted her to live. That was his entire point. Nathaniel wasn’t interested in killing things. He longed for a way to bring them back.”

Thomas was quiet and perfectly still.

“Nathaniel killed Emma, but he was never Jack the Ripper, Thomas. He was the man who made Jack the Ripper. Or perhaps befriended him.”

Thomas glanced at the dates I’d hastily scrawled. A battle of emotion crossed his features. “If Nathaniel attacked Emma in April, perhaps her death disturbed him. It would seem that there may have been a part of him that couldn’t cross that line again. At least not himself.” He looked me over carefully. “Did he exhibit any early behaviors that would hint to savior ideologies?”

At first I went to shake my head, but a memory surfaced. “When we were children, he used to become physically ill if he couldn’t save a stray cat or dog. The thought of something dying was unbearable to him. He’d lie in bed for days, crying or staring at the ceiling. It was terrible and there wasn’t anything I could do to bring him out of that dark place.” I inhaled deeply, trying not to get lost in thoughts of the past. “If Miss Martha Tabram is the first true Ripper victim, that means Nathaniel had nearly four months to create his own monster. He says in his own words”—I jabbed the letter—“that he worked with another. I imagine my brother urged these killings on and profited scientifically from the organs acquired, but another person actually committed the rest of the murders.”

“That does not make your brother innocent,” Thomas said gently.

I lowered my head. If my theory was correct, Nathaniel had forged a person into a blade, making him far from innocent. And yet confronting his guilt—yet again—caused a visceral ache I didn’t anticipate. We humans could not help loving our monsters. “I know.”

Thomas rolled his head from side to side. “There’s still a possibility Nathaniel only followed the murder of Miss Smith from the papers. Perhaps the true murderer sought him out, or vice versa. At present, we’re speculating. You know what your uncle says about that.”

Speculation was pointless. Facts were what we needed. I looked at the stacks of journals on Thomas’s bed. My brother had written volumes of notes. I feared it would take years to unravel each new thread he’d knotted away. Thomas stood behind me and placed his hands on my shoulders, slowly working the tension from them.

“It’s only a puzzle in need of solving, Wadsworth. We’ll figure it out together.”

I fought a fresh wave of tears and reached up to hold Thomas’s hand in mine. “I—”

“If you’re both so inclined to join us,” Uncle said, entering the chamber, eyes flashing at Thomas’s other hand still touching my shoulder, “Inspector Byrnes is in the parlor.”

Bellevue Hospital, circa 1885/1898

SEVEN

MISERY LANE

GRANDMAMA’S PARLOR

FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK CITY

21 JANUARY 1889

Inspector Byrnes stood with his large hands clutched behind his back, staring at a portrait of my grandfather that hung like a warning over the fireplace. Judging from the straightness of his posture and the way his muscles looked ready to spring forward at the smallest hint of trouble, his news wasn’t good. Not that I expected it to be.

“Thank you for calling on us so late, Inspector,” Uncle said by way of greeting. “Would you care for a drink?”

The inspector turned and removed a folded newspaper from his coat. He leaned over and slapped it onto a rather delicate end table, his cheeks deepening to near purple as he read the headline through clenched teeth.

JACK THE RIPPER HAS COME TO AMERICA.

“This abomination of a headline will be shouted by every newsboy in the city come dawn. I don’t know what happened in London, but it won’t stand here!” He straightened and took a moment to compose himself. “I won’t let Jack the Ripper strike fear into the heart of my city, Dr. Wadsworth.”

A muscle in Uncle’s jaw twitched, the only indication he was getting annoyed. “I am a man of science, not a portending device. If you’d like to give me more details, perhaps I can help craft a better understanding or profile of who this killer is. Differences in wounds left on the victim could help alleviate hysteria. Unless you share your findings, I’m afraid I have nothing else to offer.”

“Fine. You want more facts? We confirmed the victim’s identity as a Miss Carrie Brown, a local wh… prostitute,” Byrnes said, clearly shifting his words because of my presence. What a pleasant gentleman. I all but rolled my eyes. “Friends called her Old Shakespeare, since she used to quote him when she was deep in her cups.”

Thomas and I glanced at each other. Now that there was a significant potential that the Ripper was alive and well, ignoring the parts that fit with his previous killings was difficult. He was known for victimizing prostitutes who’d been heavy drinkers. Just like this murderer.

“A friend of hers came forward, an Alice Sullivan,” Byrnes continued. “Alice said she saw Carrie twice that day. Carrie hadn’t had a proper meal in days, so that afternoon Alice got them sandwiches at a saloon. She claims they met up again for an evening meal at the local Christian mission before going their separate ways to do their business.”

“When was the last time she was seen?” Uncle asked.

“Alice said around half past eight that night. Saw her with a man named Frenchy.”

“Was Alice the last person to witness her alive with him?” I asked.

Inspector Byrnes shook his head. “Mary Minter, the housekeeper at the hotel, saw her take a man into her room later that evening. She said he wore a black derby hat and had a thick mustache. Real dodgy. Didn’t look anyone in the eye, kept his face down. Like he was trying to not be noticed. We can’t confirm if it was Frenchy or someone else.”

“Has someone tracked down Frenchy?” Uncle asked.

“Apparently, she was seen with two different men named Frenchy last night.” At Uncle’s confused look, he clarified, “Frenchy is a popular nickname around that neighborhood. One man is called Isaac Perringer. We’re still lookin’ for the other. For now we’re callin’ them Frenchy Number One and Frenchy Number Two. I’ve got my best men out searching for them. We’ll round them all up and show them to the witnesses.”

“Most hotels, even more questionable ones, require a ledger to be signed,” Thomas said. “Did anyone on your staff inquire about it?”

“Course. What kind of fools do you think we are over here?” Byrnes gave Thomas a scathing look. “He registered them as a C. Nicolo and wife.”

“Do you have a photograph of the ledger?” I asked.

Byrnes frowned. I was unsure if it was our inquisition about his police work, or if the question caught him off guard. “Can’t say that I do. Why?”

“An analysis of the writing might prove this murder cannot be connected to the London Ripper,” Uncle said, giving me a swift nod of approval. “If you’re so keen to quiet the papers, it’d be an excellent way to show the person in question’s hand is different from known Ripper letters. Between that and securing a witness to place either ‘Frenchy’ at the murder scene, it ought to be easy enough to tamp down Ripper hysteria.”

“You’re expecting a drunken lot, most of whom lack proper intelligence during the best of times, to be reliable witnesses.” Byrnes buttoned his overcoat and donned a bowler hat. I fought the urge to remind him that he was the one who’d suggested “rounding them up,” not Uncle. And it was their circumstances, not their intelligence, that made them turn to the bottle. “You’re either incredibly naïve, or hopeful, or both, Dr. Wadsworth.” He tipped his hat and headed for the door. “Good night.”

“Inspector?” Uncle asked, stepping into his way. “Will we have access to the body?”

Byrnes paused, considering. “She’ll be in the morgue at Bellevue until they take her to Blackwell’s Island along with the other unclaimed bodies. If I were you, I’d go tonight. Sometimes corpses don’t make it ’til morning. Especially not on Misery Lane.”