Ripped (53 page)

“No. He works for Scotland Yard. I come from a long line of—”

“Toby! Do you know anything about your great-great-grandfather? I know it was a long time ago, but—”

“Course I do. He was my namesake.”

“W-what happened to him? I mean . . . do you know anything about him?” Katie crossed her fingers.

Toby glanced down at her fingers and shook his head gravely. “Came to a bad end, that one. Lost his arm to gangrene and was mixed up in some sort of skullduggery. Prosecuted for murdering his best friend. Poor sod died a penniless drunk and was buried in a pauper's grave.”

Katie gasped. She felt a stab of pain deep in her gut.
This is all my fault! I
'
ve got to go back!
Then she saw the smile spreading across Toby's face.

“Sorry, luv,” he laughed. “Couldn't resist. No worries. My great-great-grandfather, Tobias Becket, rose from humble beginnings to become the Commissioner of Scotland Yard. He was best known for apprehending the Demon Duchess of Devon, a Victorian ax-murderess, but he solved a slew of other famous cases. He was eventually knighted by the king.”

“You mean the queen. Queen Victoria—”

“Nope. The king. King Edward. For his service to the crown. He lived into his eighties.”

“Does that mean you're actually Sir Toby Becket?” Katie felt so relieved that Toby—her Toby—hadn't died in a pauper's grave, she wanted to hug his great-great-grandson.

“My namesake, Tobias, was awarded a life-time peerage. Meaning you can't pass the title to your sons. It dies with you in the grave.”

In the grave.

Toby was in his grave now. But he'd lived a long, prosperous life. Katie reached up and threw her arms around his great-great-grandson's neck. “I'm so happy for him.”

“You sound as if you knew him.” Toby raised an eyebrow. “The old geezer died a few decades before you and I were born. But if you're interested in ancient stuff like that, there's a rather good—if stern—portrait of him at Scotland Yard. Not much to look at, but sharp as a tack, from what I've been told.”

Katie linked her arm through his and tugged him across the room. “I
am
interested. OK, smart aleck. Any idea who Jack the Ripper really was? If you guess correctly, I'll let you take me to Starbucks for a mocha Frappuccino.” It was Katie's turn to grin ear to ear.

“Bloody good gambit,” Toby said as they moved toward the row of waxwork suspects on the other side of the room. “Seeing as nobody knows who the Ripper really was.”

“Ah . . . come on,” Katie teased. “Take a guess.”

They traversed through the crowd, toward a sign that read

Who was Jack the Ripper?
Was he a supernatural phantom who could materialize at will? Or a flesh and blood man bent on harrowing destruction?

Katie hurried over to the first niche in the wall. Standing upon a pedestal was an exact likeness of Reverend Pinker. Tall and gaunt with a white clerical collar; the light from above caught the bulge of his Adam's apple.

Was Jack the Ripper a Minister?
Authorities at the time suspected several clergymen, among them, The Right Honourable Reverend H. P. Pinker.

The next sign read

Or Was Jack the Ripper a Butcher Lad?
Butcher boys proudly walked the streets of London, their trademark leather aprons smeared with blood.

This waxwork figure showed a boy wearing knee-breeches, cap, and vest, with a blood-crusted apron looped around his waist.

Or Was Jack the Ripper a Writer?
Novelist Jack? . . . Journalist Jack?

This platform depicted two waxwork suspects, Oscar Wilde, flamboyantly dressed in maroon velvet with a red gardenia sprouting from his lapel, and Bram Stoker in a vampire cape and top hat.

Katie laughed.

Toby shook his head and frowned. “Bleedin' far-fetched, if you ask me. These two were mortal enemies, for one thing. Just because they were famous and living in London at the time shouldn't make them suspects. Says here they were questioned by the police because their books were full of scenes of grotesque and supernatural death. That's a right good Turkish bath.”

“A total laugh, I agree.” Katie nodded, thinking how Oscar Wilde and Bram Stoker would have hated being showcased on the same platform.

The next plaque read

Or Was Jack the Ripper a Police Officer?
Several members of the Queen
'
s own Privy Council postulated that a Cockney officer at Scotland Yard, Major Gideon Brown, was Jack the Ripper.
Rumors ceased after Major Brown married
a member of the nobility,
Lady Beatrix Twyford.

Here Katie paused. The waxwork display looked exactly like Major Gideon Brown.
So he married Beatrix after all. . . .
She smiled, wondering if Toby had had a hand in that as well.

“But at least he lived,” she murmured to herself.

“As opposed to died?” Toby chuckled. “They're all brown bread now.”

The last waxwork figure was the most interesting.

Was Jack the Ripper a nobleman,
whose family connections would make it impossible to prosecute him?
Sir Jack? . . . Lord Jack? . . . The Duke of Jack?

This statue showed a perfect likeness of the
Duke of Twyford!
Though younger-looking and less formidable, the duke had the same sour expression on his bulldog face, the same bald head and protruding stomach.

Could the Duke of Twyford have been the most vicious murderer in British history?
Mid-century historians hypothesized that the Duke or one of his henchmen in Queen Victoria
'
s government was responsible—or at least aware of who the culprit was.

Katie smiled. She knew exactly who Jack the Ripper was.

He wasn't a butcher boy.

Or a minister.

Or a writer.

Or a police officer.

Or a duke.

From over Katie's shoulder came a voice she knew only too well.

“My money's on that old guy, the Duke of Twyford. Madness ran in his family, that's what the sign says. Whoever killed those girls
must
have been crazy. Someday scientists will discover a mutation or a gene that runs in families for things like serial killers and psychopaths.”

Let
'
s hope not,
Katie thought, spinning around.

Standing behind her was her cousin Collin, his flame-red hair spiking out in all directions, his face peppered with a gazillion freckles. He wasn't wearing a stiff winged collar; his hair wasn't parted with razor precision and slicked flat back; and his eyes weren't a steely, heartless blue . . . but a coppery color above his long, freckled nose.

Katie threw her arms wide to embrace him, but he ducked out of her reach, looking alarmed. Collin hated displays of emotion.

If he
'
s not careful, Collin will grow up to be a decayed little prig
, Courtney used to say of their cousin. Katie inwardly chuckled. “I'm leaving now,” she said to both boys. “I've got a date—”

She was about to say “with destiny,” but decided against melodrama.
I
'
ve had enough drama for a lifetime!
Katie just wanted to get home as fast as possible and read Toby's letter—the one he promised to leave for her in the stuffed vulture.

“A date?” Toby frowned.

“Not a date,” Katie said. “More like an assignation with an old . . . manuscript. Something I've got to read, waiting for me at home.”

“At least let me walk with you.” Toby gave her a crooked grin. “We can stop for mocha fraps.”

Katie nodded.

“Well, count me out,” Collin said, looking miffed. “I haven't seen the London Stone yet. Toby, want to join me?”

“No!” Katie and Toby said in unison, then eyed each other with an equal measure of suspicion and curiosity.

“Suit yourselves.” Collin tugged on his lower lip. He dug his hands into the pockets of his purple striped shirt—a gift from Aunt Pru—and started to saunter away.

Katie called after him, “Collin! How's your mum?”

Collin swiveled back around, one red eyebrow feathering upward like the arch in a robin's wing. “She's working on a new photo album of . . . me.” He had the good sense to look sheepish about this.

Outside the museum, the air was crisp and clean. Marylebone Road was a whirlwind of honking cars, hooting taxis, clanking trucks, and rumbling buses. On the sidewalk all around them came the shuffling, laughing, breathing, happy sounds of pedestrians enjoying the sunny afternoon.

Katie smiled.

Toby smiled back. “Shall we take the tube, luv? Or walk?”

“Walk,” Katie answered. But as they were about to step off the curb, her cell phone rang out with the lyrics to “Dangerous Love,” Courtney's first hit single.

“I
love
that song,” Tody said, hearing the ringtone. I'm in
lust
with the lead singer Courtney from the Metro Chicks. Cut off m'left arm just to meet her.”

Katie whipped her backpack off her shoulder and tugged out her phone.

“Courtney!” She all but shouted into her iPhone.

“Hey, baby girl,” came Courtney's throaty, sing-songy voice. “How goes it, baby sis?”

“Courtney!” Katie squealed.

“Listen, Kit-Kat. I've got some smokin' hot news for you. I'm coming home.”

“Home? To London? When?”

“Next flight. And hold on to your friggin' blue-painted toenails, I just bought a condo—”

“Where? In LA?” Katie took a deep breath. Courtney already owned a house in Beverly Hills and a condo in Malibu.

“London, baby sister! How cool is that? But here's the totally rockin' news: I bought a flat in Twyford Manor House—”

“Grandma Cleaves's building? You're joking . . . ?”

“Nope. It's weird. I've been having these, like, goofy vibes lately. Like Dad's voice is in my head or something. Hey, look. I'll explain it all when I get there. I've missed you . . . and . . . well . . . when Mom and Dad died, I guess I was so caught up in my own grief I just sort of threw myself into my career . . . and, well, I'm sorry, Katie. I haven't exactly been there for you. You'll be going off to college in a year or two. So I thought we might hang together until then. Like a real family. I know Grandma Cleaves hates my guts—”

“That's not true, Courtney! She loves you.”

“
Puh-leeze
. The old bat doesn't approve of my music
or
my lifestyle. She can take a flying leap, for all I care. I just want you and me to be together.”

“Courtney . . . I love you . . . I mean it. There isn't a day goes by . . . I don't miss you.”

“Are you crying, Kit-Kat? Come on, baby girl, don't go all boo-hoo-hoo on me. Jeez. Talk about guilt-tripping me. Between your bawling and Dad's friggin' voice in my head . . . cripes! And before you go all mush-gush on me, I've gotta be in London for another reason. I got this new gig—”

“I don't care why you're coming, Courtney. Just get here!”

“Aren't you going to ask me about this new gig?”

Katie laughed through her tears. “OK. What's the new gig?”

“I got a commission to write the score of a new movie being filmed in London. It's one of those gothic, steampunk flicks.”

“Well, that should be easy for you, Court. Gothic and steampunk are right up your alley.”

“Yeah. That's why they're paying me the big bucks. And since you're the family bookworm, Katie, I was hoping you'd help me do some research. Know anything about the Victorian era?”

“Yes!” Katie shouted. “It's kind of . . . my . . . er . . . specialty. I mean, I've read a lot about the nineteenth century. I've actually lived there . . . in my head, I mean.”

“That's cool, then. I need you to research what was being sung in the music halls and bawdy houses, that kinda thing.”

Katie thought about Catherine Eddowes and her lusty lyrics. “I can
definitely
help you with that.”

“The melodies need to be historically accurate.”

“I can sing tunes with lyrics that are
totally
from that era.” Katie felt a tingle of joy. The whole world seemed full of sunshine and roses.
A happy, safe place
, Katie thought.

“So you'll do it, then? You'll help me? The movie's about some dude named Jack the Ripper.”

The End

Notes to the Curious

T
h
is novel attempts to portray,
through the medium of a time-travel mystery, an accurate picture of life at varying levels of society in the year 1888, during Jack the Ripper's reign of terror. The story may vary from accounts of Jack the Ripper with which the reader is familiar because of the nature of a back-in-time/forward-in-time narrative, where a character's actions in the past can and do alter the future. Rest assured, however, that the women who fall prey to Jack the Ripper by novel's end are the actual true-to-life victims. The order in which they were murdered, the precise locations of the murders, and the actual dates are all historically accurate. Their ages and circumstances have been changed slightly in deference to the plot. As my writing teacher and best-selling author Bill Martin taught me: “Never let the facts get in the way of a good story.” For this bit of factual tinkering, I beg the reader's indulgence.

With the obvious exception of Twyford Manor and one other place, every street, every location, every scene is an actual one the reader might have encountered had she or he lived in London at the time of the murders. And though the manners, customs, clothing, modes of transportation, speech patterns, and Cockney rhyming slang have changed almost as much as the London skyline, I have tried to convey a true sense of the time period, filtered through the eyes of Katie Lennox, with her twenty-first–century sensibilities and perceptions.

The historic figures of the day who tread lightly (or, perhaps, with heavier footfalls) through the pages of this novel—Bram Stoker, Oscar Wilde, and James Whistler among others—all resided in or around London in the year 1888. Bram Stoker (before he wrote Dracula) was the theater manager of the Lyceum Theatre, and would in all probability have been there at the opening of Robert Louis Stevenson's highly anticipated new play—the same night Mary Ann Nichols's body was discovered in Buck's Row. Oscar Wilde may have been at the Lyceum as well, given that he was an aspiring playwright and theater critic.

And as Katie witnesses firsthand, on the very night that Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde opened at the Lyceum Theatre, newspaper boys were running up and down the gaslit Strand waving newsprint and shouting: “Murder! Murder! Read all about it!” The fiendish Jack the Ripper, like the shape-shifting Mr. Hyde, was about to enter the annals of famous Victorian murderers. In his case, life truly mimicked fiction.