Doctor Charles Grazier (The House of Jack the Ripper Book 6) Page 4

  “How unfortunate,” I mutter.

  “I had somebody take a look at her already,” he continues. “Unfortunate doesn't quite cover everything that happened to her. For one thing, her heart and liver and kidneys are missing, and the procedure seems to have been carried out by somebody with surgical knowledge. Not, however, in the alley where she was found. One of our doctors is convinced that she was killed somewhere else and merely dumped in that location. For another thing, I'm told that it's likely a child was cut from her womb. That's not something that the Ripper of Whitechapel has done before.”

  “I had no idea that the Culpeppers were expecting a child,” I reply.

  “It wasn't very far advanced,” he says, stepping around to the other side of the table and looking down at Delilah's body. “Poor little thing, just starting to grow and then torn from is mother. Oh, and Delilah had been almost entirely drained of blood as well. It's all very shocking, but it definitely seems to match the key hallmarks of the Ripper case. Tell me, Doctor Grazier, do you think that Delilah Culpepper was killed by the man they're calling Jack the Ripper?”

  “How would I know?”

  “You were quick to give your opinion a moment ago,” he replies. “Why not now?”

  Looking down at Delilah's ravaged belly, I pretend to consider the matter for a moment. My mind is racing, and I cannot determine whether or not it would be advantageous for me to confirm the idiot's idea. After a few seconds, however, I realize that I only have one choice if I am to protect myself.

  “No,” I say finally, “I do not see many similarities. Not at all. A cursory glance is enough to convince me that this woman was carved open by a -”

  Stopping suddenly, I realize that perhaps I am being a little hasty. After all, I worked long and hard on Delilah Culpepper the other night, and I was very careful to ensure that I removed her child and her organs with my usual delicacy. To deny this would perhaps seem suspicious, even to a man as simple as Sanderson, so I quickly decide that I should try a different approach. Indeed, this situation might even prove useful.

  “Actually, yes,” I say, trying to sound convincing, “perhaps this poor woman was killed by somebody with a little more skill. Now that I look a little more closely, I see some cuts that suggest the work of an individual with a great degree of experience. Indeed, the more I consider the matter, the more I see this evidence. I think I can confidently state that Ms. Culpepper was killed by a surgeon. She is almost certainly another victim of Jack the Ripper. You can tell your newspaper friends to print that, if they like.”

  “Fascinating,” Sanderson says, keeping his eyes fixed on me. “A surgeon, you say?”

  “Or somebody who gained the skills some other way.”

  I wait for him to come up with some fresh point of idiocy, but instead he is simply watching me with a strange expression on his face. In fact, it looks very much as if the man is engaged in deep thought, which I imagine is quite unusual for him and perhaps even a little uncomfortable. Still, I would prefer him to stop looking at me in such a strange manner, and I am minded to tell him that he is making me feel troubled.

  “I think I know who did this,” he says suddenly.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “The Ripper,” he continues, still watching me closely from the other side of the table. “It's just a hunch, and I have no evidence, but a name occurs to me. Indeed, I am quite surprised that it did not occur to me earlier. The truth would seem to be right in front of my eyes.”

  He lets out a gasp of frustration.

  “How could I have been so foolish?” he asks. “Sometimes I wonder whether I am even fit for this job. The truth has been staring at me and I have remained entirely ignorant.”

  “I'm sure I have no idea what you mean,” I reply, and now my throat feels very dry. Reaching up, I adjust my spectacles. “Perhaps I should leave you alone to get on with your work. I myself have several engagements to which I must attend this afternoon.”

  “Please don't take offense at what I'm about to say,” he continues, “but I think it is clear now that the murderer is a skilled surgeon and a madman to boot, and there is only one name that fits the bill.” He hesitates again, and I cannot help but feel that with his gaze he is attempting to peel back some aspect of my nature. “Or am I wrong?” he whispers. “I don't think I am, but if you have some kind of counterpoint to offer, then now would be the time to do so. Doctor Grazier, I don't have any evidence right now, but that'll come. A day, two at most, and I'll be able to tell the world. I'll be able to reveal the true identity of Jack the Ripper.”

  “I...”

  My voice trails off. Has this simple fellow stumbled upon the truth?

  “That is to say,” I manage finally, “the idea is preposterous. If you are seriously suggesting -”

  “Doctor Thomas Culpepper is the Ripper,” he continues, interrupting me.

  I open my mouth again, to protest my innocence, but at the very last moment I realize what he said.

  “Did you suspect?” he asks, tilting his head slightly. “You know the man, do you not? Did you truly not suspect him at all?”

  Shocked to my core, and also desperately relieved, all I can manage is to slowly shake my head.

  “Good,” he continues, “because if you had suspected, and if you still had said nothing to the police, I might have considered charging you with obstruction. I'm sorry, Doctor Grazier, I know Doctor Culpepper is a trusted colleague of yours, but the facts are the facts. Now the man is missing, and his wife is dead on this table between us, and I don't think anybody can seriously doubt the truth anymore.”

  He takes a step back and looks down at Delilah's corpse.

  “Doctor Thomas Culpepper,” he adds finally, “is the man they call Jack the Ripper.”

  Chapter Six

  Maddie

  Today

  Suddenly an intense pain bursts through my belly. Letting out an anguished gasp, I lunge forward and open my eyes, only to feel my wrists pull tight against two coiled ropes as I see Alex leaning toward me and grinning. I instinctively pull again, barely able to work out where I am, but the ropes pull again. I keep pulling filled with panic, until I look at Alex again and feel a sudden, cold stillness press against my chest.

  “So where did this come from, huh?” she asks, looking down at my waist. “Looks nasty.”

  Before I even have a chance to realize what she means, I feel the pain reach a new intensity. I cry out again, but this time I can tell that something's tugging against the stitches in my waist. As the pain continues, I manage to look down and see that Alex has slipped the tip of her little finger under a section of the stitches, and that fresh blood is running from the wound as she continues to pull. I try to twist away, but this only makes the pain worse as her fingertip pulls against the very edge of the stitches, tearing at my sore skin.

  “Don't worry,” she says finally, letting go and sitting back. “I'm not a total bitch. I'll leave them in. I just wondered how you got them, that's all.”

  Whimpering with pain, I try yet again to pull away from her, only to find that I'm on the cold stone floor in the basement. Looking up, I see to my horror that my wrists are tied to two thick lengths of rope, which in turn have been passed around one of the stone columns near the slab. I pull hard, until my wrists start to chafe, but it's already clear that there's no way to get free. Between the column and the ropes and my shoulders, the weakest link is definitely my shoulders, which means I'd have tear my arms out of their sockets in order to get free.

  “It's not forever,” Alex explains, still kneeling in front of me as she wipes my blood from her fingers, smearing it first against the floor and then against the fabric of my trousers. “Nick and I couldn't let you ruin this for us, so we've had to take you out of the equation for a little while. It wasn't my idea, it was his, but he really talked me round. Don't even bother calling for help, either, 'cause no-one'll hear you. Not down here.” She pauses, before leaning closer. “We're not
going to do anything permanent to you, okay? It's just while we get our shit straight. So if I were you, I'd stop panicking and just wait it out.”

  “What are you doing?” I stammer, pulling again and again on the ropes. “Alex, let me out of here!”

  She sighs. “Did you not hear a word I just told you.”

  “Alex, please!” I sob, still pulling even though I know it's fruitless. “Alex, we're friends, you can't tie me up like this!”

  “We were friend,” she replies coldly, “until you screwed me over. Nick helped me to see that.”

  “Alex, I'm sorry,” I whimper. “I had to call Matt! Nick's crazy, you can't listen to him!”

  Sighing again, she gets to her feet.

  “Take a chill pill,” she mutters, staring down at me with an expression of contempt. “It's too bad, you know. You could've shared in all the good stuff that's gonna happen. Instead, you tried to ruin it and now you're gonna get totally cut out. There's no way back for you now, Maddie. You've made your bed and now you're gonna stay in it until we decide it's safe to let you out. By then, we'll have made sure we get all the credit and all the glory for this discovery. That's Nick's plan, and he says he's got it all figured out. It's gonna suck to be you but, if it's any consolation, it's gonna be totally awesome to be me and Nick.”

  “Alex, please,” I reply breathlessly, trying desperately to not panic, “you can't do this. You can't tie me up and leave me down here!”

  “Of course I can,” she says nonchalantly, before turning and making her way back over toward the steps. “See? I can do whatever the hell I like. I mean, what are you gonna do about it? As far as I can tell, your only real shot in this situation is some kinda superhero-style ability to whine and complain. You're good at looking pathetic, too. Maybe you can try to melt the ropes with those sad puppy-dog eyes of yours.”

  “The police are already coming,” I tell her, sniffing back more tears. “They'll be here any minute!”

  Stopping in the doorway, she turns and looks at me, and after a moment a faint smile crosses her lips.

  “What are you going to do when they show up?” I ask breathlessly. “They'll be here in an hour, at most. Do you think you can get everything you need in an hour? And then what? Do you think you can explain it all away?”

  “No,” she replies calmly, “I don't think we can get everything we need in an hour, and I don't think we can explain anything away. So it's a good thing we have as long as we want.” She pauses, and then her smile grows. “If you're sitting there thinking your boyfriend'll come back with the cavalry, then think again. While I've been dealing with you, Nick made sure to slow your buddy down. I'm pretty sure no-one's gonna come and interrupt us, but thanks for the concern. It's real nice to know that you're finally on our side.”

  “Come on!” Nick shouts from upstairs, sounding more than a little bored. “You're taking forever!”

  “What did you do?” I ask, as Alex pulls the door shut, leaving me in pitch darkness down here in the basement. “Alex, what did you do? Where's Matt?”

  “Watch out for ghosts!” she yells from the other side, and then I hear her hurrying up the steps.

  “What did you do?” I shout. “Alex, come back! You can't leave me down here!” I pull hard on the ropes, but they feel way too firm and strong for me to slip free. Not that I stop trying, of course. “Alex!” I scream, twisting this way and that as my desperation grows. “Come back! Alex, don't do this! Where's Matt? Alex!”

  I wait, but now all I hear is my own heavy breaths in the cold darkness. I can feel my heart pounding, and a moment later I hear the distant sound of footsteps somewhere else in the house.

  “Alex!” I shout at the top of my voice. “Please! Don't listen to Nick! Help me!”

  I start pulling on the ropes again, determined to somehow get free. I can't feel them giving at all, not even slightly, but I don't know what else I'm supposed to do. Twisting around, I press my feet against the stone column and start pushing, straining as hard as I can manage until I feel as if my ankles might be about to shatter. I keep trying, pushing and pushing as hard as possible, but I can tell that the ropes aren't budging at all and finally my feet slip. Slumping against the cold floor, I take a moment to get my breath back as I try to figure out some other way to get free. Then I turn and start kicking the column, just in case there are any loose sections, but finally I slump back down against the cold stone floor and stare up into pitch darkness.

  She'll come back.

  She has to come back.

  There's no way Alex would leave me down here like this. In fact, the more I think about it, the more I feel certain that she's just pulling another of her dumb pranks. Any minute now, she and Nick are going to burst through the door and admit that they've been trolling me, and then they'll laugh their asses off as they untie me. I guess I fell for yet another stupid joke, albeit one that they've taken even further than usual. Still, sitting here now in this completely dark, completely sealed basement, I'm already starting to worry that I might get short of air. Although there's a part of me that's determined to wait this out and not give Alex and Nick the satisfaction of acting like I'm panicked, I don't think I can just sit here for hours and hours until they decide to stop messing around.

  In fact, I think I can even feel the air getting a little thinner now.

  “Alex!” I shout, louder than before, despite the fact that my throat is starting to hurt. “It's really cold down here! Alex, can you please just let me out?”

  I wait, but there's still no reply. I know they're in the house somewhere, but so far all I hear is -

  Suddenly there's a bumping sound nearby. I turn and look to my left, just in time to hear a second bump that seems to be coming from way off at the far end of the basement. I can't see anything at all, but a moment later I realize that there's a very faint shuffling sound, as if something is brushing against the floor.

  As if something's moving down here.

  I instinctively pull back, worried that maybe Nick is hiding somewhere close. Then again, when I woke up there was still some light in here, and I'm pretty sure I'd have seen Nick if he was around. Besides, Alex said he was upstairs, and I think I even heard his voice. I guess there's a possibility that they tied Matt down here too, but again I'm sure Alex would have pointed that out.

  Bumping against the stone pillar, I'm about to call out and ask if anyone's here when my bound hands brush against a set of carved grooves at the pillar's base. I run my fingertips against those grooves, and I'm shocked to find that there seem to be yet more of those strange symbols down here. Whoever put them here, he or she must have been really frantic.

  And then, a moment later, I hear the sound of something metallic falling against the stone floor over on the far side of the basement.

  “Hello?” I say cautiously, unable to hide the fear in my voice as I stare out into the darkness. “Is anybody here?”

  Chapter Seven

  Doctor Charles Grazier

  Thursday October 4th, 1888

  I take the scissors.

  ***

  The laughter keeps coming, wave after wave, and I cannot help myself. Standing in the lavatory at Scotland Yard, I have a hand clamped across my mouth, yet still I cannot stifle my amusement at this turn of events. It is as if some great release has granted me a degree of peace for the first time in...

  In how long?

  Since the night Catherine first coughed up blood, perhaps?

  Since Jack first showed up at my house?

  Since Catherine's body rose from the slab and began to scream?

  Outside, waiting for me, is a man of Scotland Yard who truly believes that he has identified Jack the Ripper. He is absolutely serious, and he is absolutely wrong. For a moment, earlier, I worried that he had begun to suspect me, but now it is almost as if some great plan has managed to fool the idiot completely. There was no plan, of course, at least not in this regard. Yet suddenly I am presented with the possibility that this w
hole sorry chapter in my life can be closed, and that I can ride off into the sunset with my beloved Catherine. And that Thomas Culpepper, whose body will of course never be found, will take the blame for everything.

  First, though, I must cease this endless fit of giggles. Why can I not stop laughing?

  ***

  She struggles violently, even though the battle is lost.

  ***

  “This one,” I continue, pointing at another corpse as I walk swiftly through the room, “this one was killed by the Ripper.”

  I point at another.

  “This one was not. That one there, that was not either.”

  I point at yet another.

  “Nor that one.”

  Then I point at two more, arranged on a table at the far end.

  “Those two were not. And over here -”

  “Hang on, Sir,” Sanderson says, and I turn to see him making notes on a piece of paper. “I'm struggling to keep up here.”

  “It would be quicker,” I reply, “if I were to simply tell you which of these bodies are the work of Jack the Ripper. After all, the vast majority of the specimens assembled in this room are nothing more than the victims of slovenly copycats.”

  “Are you sure, Sir?” he asks, sounding a little breathless as he makes more notes. “Perhaps you'd like to examine them a little more closely?”

  “And why would I need to do that?” I reply. “Your own doctors might struggle to see the truth, but to me it is all very evident indeed.”

  “And you're certain?”

  “I am.” Reaching the end of the row, I point at two more bodies. “Those two were not killed by the Ripper.”

  Filled with a sense of great satisfaction, I turn to Sanderson and see that he has stopped nearby, and that he is staring at me with an expression of blank incredulity on his face. The man is clearly hanging on my every word. I know that I should have led him astray, and lied about which bodies were killed by Jack the Ripper, but I could not bring myself to ignore my very special skills. My killings were, in a way, works of art, and they should be properly acknowledged, even if the name of the artist is mis-attributed.