Ripper (33 page)

“Finn,” Carver said, aghast, “that was… noble. I always thought…”

“I know what you thought. It’s not like you ever shut up about what you think. Sticks and stones, yeah, but you’ve got a mouth like a
knife
and you don’t even know it.”

“Bulldog. Bulldog’s a thief.”

“Not anymore. Last week, while I was stuck here, he nicked the wrong man’s wallet, had his jaw broken and then got thrown in jail. Mr. and Mrs. Echols won’t help. They won’t even let me visit.”

“I’m sorry,” Carver said.

Finn shrugged. “I barely saw him to begin with. It’s not like they let me have the guys over. I don’t have many friends anymore. Not since Ellis.”

He dared a glance at Carver, who managed a stoic, “Me neither.”

A girlish laugh turned them toward the door. Delia stood there. She’d been crying recently, her face stained with dried tears, but now she covered her mouth to keep from laughing.

“I’m so sorry. I know this is serious,” she said, trying to contain herself. “I hope you’re not hurt badly… It’s just… the two of you… on those
pink…
”

Carver lifted an empty teacup, pinky extended, and pretended to sip daintily.

“One lump or two?” Finn said, raising the sugar bowl.

“Neither, please!”

Delia howled, until a loud voice outside made her stop to listen. The doors, open since her arrival, gave them a view of the entrance hall. There, a decidedly agitated Echols barked commands at an unseen assistant.

“Under no circumstances will Roosevelt be allowed on my property! I don’t care if he has an arrest warrant,” Echols said.

“Sir,” a weaker voice responded. “He only wanted…”

“Enough. The man just wants his name in the papers next to mine. Where’s Hawking?”

“There’s still no answer at his residence.”

Echols slapped himself on the head. “What am I paying him for? He should have been here to talk to the reporters. Did you see how they thought we were making this up? Those policemen were talking before they rushed off. I saw you listening in. What were they talking about?”

When the assistant lowered his voice to a whisper, the three orphans craned their heads to hear.

“Another body was found.”

Echols’s eyes widened with excitement. “Why didn’t you tell me at once? Get the press back here! I’ll have to prepare a statement…”

“Sir, the victim was Amelia Edwin. She was… butchered, like the others.”

Echols’s demeanor suddenly changed. He stiffened, then reached for something to steady himself with. “We play bridge with the Edwins… I saw Millie just yesterday…”

Seeing the open doors, a decidedly pale Echols closed them. The last words they heard were, “I… don’t want Samantha to know yet. My wife… she
could
have been killed?”

The news drained all joy from the trio.

Carver spoke first. “He found himself another
E.
Amelia Edwin probably has some connection to Miller’s Court as well.”

“I already know what it is,” Delia said. “He called her
Millie.
It’s a little different, but he probably had to improvise after you drove him away.”

“But it’s over now, isn’t it?” Finn said. “He’s done. You said there were five original Ripper victims, right? Amelia Edwin makes five.”

“You’re forgetting something,” Delia said, her voice almost a whisper. “Something very important.”

“What’s that?”

“He still needs an
R.
”

THE SOUR-FACED BUTLER
who’d tried to turn them away informed Delia and Carver they were to stay the night, “In case the press returns.”

Carver was taken to a room the size of an Ellis Orphanage classroom, with a four-poster bed and a small fireplace. He wanted to stay awake, to sort the night’s details, but after a few hazy thoughts about the Ripper’s most recent letter, the next thing he knew, bright sunlight warmed his face. A yawn brought the smell of eggs and toast. A silver breakfast tray was laid out on a table.

He rolled out of bed, but when he tried to stretch, a sharp pain in his shoulder reminded him of the worst of his sprains. It didn’t keep him from eating greedily. The Echolses weren’t the kindest people, but the food was great.

Halfway through the meal, a knock came at the door. “Come in,” he said.

It was the butler, holding a tray. Carver hoped it was more food, but it held a phone.

“Good to see you awake, young master,” the butler said. “Your friends are eating breakfast in their rooms. Your clothing is being cleaned, but I’ve left some of Master Phineas’s things in the wardrobe closet, the smallest I could find. Meanwhile, the master of the house has a request.”

Carver shrugged. “Mr. Echols? What is it?”

“He’s having difficulty reaching your… Mr. Hawking.” He stepped over, placed the tray on an end table and plugged the phone’s cord into a wall socket. “He would appreciate it if you’d inform him in no uncertain terms that he should speak with Mr. Echols immediately.”

“I’ll do what I can,” Carver said. He had a few things to say to Hawking himself.

The butler spun and exited. Carver picked up the phone and asked for Blackwell Asylum. After a few moments, an unfamiliar female voice said, “Yes?”

“This is Carver Young. Could you please bring Mr. Hawking to the phone?”

There was no pause before the response. “Carver Young?”

“Yes. Who is this, please?”

“My name is Thomasine Bond,” she said in an English accent. “It’s my first day. Mr. Hawking isn’t here, but he left a message for you. I’m sorry, but first, he’s asked that I make
sure
it’s really you. It’s just a question he’s written. A moment… Who is… no, wait, I’m sorry, the typing is smudged; who
should
be your favorite detective?”

Carver smirked. Maybe his mentor hadn’t deserted him completely. “Auguste Dupin. What’s the message?”

“You’re on your own.”

Carver’s face dropped. “That’s it?”

The man he’d begun to think of as a father really meant to do it, then, really meant to leave the city at stake so his pupil could solve the case. He’d been abandoned all over again. Carver hung up, gnashed his teeth and thought of asking Finn to teach him some new swearwords. He opened the wardrobe and found a tailored shirt and pants, both so oversized he had to roll the cuffs just to keep from tripping over them.

It took fifteen minutes to find the den. There, Finn, in a three-piece suit that made him look like some sort of businessman in training, paced. Delia, in a too-large dress doubtless borrowed from Mrs. Echols, sat at a desk, poring over the morning newspapers.

“You look as ridiculous as I feel,” Finn said, not unpleasantly.

Delia picked her head up. “Not much new.”

“Do the Ribes know you’re here?”

“Yes,” she said with some satisfaction. “They still believe you and Echols are not to be trusted, but they think it’s safer here than anywhere
and
they want me to keep an eye out for anything newsworthy. Delia Stephens Ribe, crime reporter. I like the…”

Her face darkened.

“What is it?” Carver asked.

“
Ribe.
I know they’re not rich, but it does begin with an
R.
And if he went after Finn’s mother because she was connected to you, why not mine?”

She jumped up.

“Easy, Delia,” Carver said. “Call, but I don’t think they’re in danger. Like you already said, they’re not rich, and everyone else
has been. We’re not talking well-off, either, we’re talking wealthy.” He swept his hands at the huge room. “Like this. I was thinking about his last letter, where he says he’s closer to
you
and
the end.
The end is the end of his name, right? It also sounds like he’s planning to reach the
Boss.
Whoever that is, I don’t think it’s a reporter.”

After briefly relaxing, Delia said, “There is another obvious
R
that fits the description.”

“Who?” Finn asked.

But Carver knew instantly who Delia was thinking of. “And he is a boss,” Carver said grimly. “The biggest boss in all this. He’s wealthy, influential and a hunter himself. The man who he’s been taunting,
insulting
by making the bodies so easy to find.”

“Who?” Finn asked again.

“How can we warn him?” Delia said. “He’s the last person on earth who’d believe any of us!”

“Warn
who
?” Finn shouted.

“Roosevelt,” Carver said.

“But he only kills women,” Finn said. “You mean he’ll go after his wife?”

“His second wife, Edith,” Delia said. “There must be some connection between her and the Whitechapel victims.”

It hit Carver so hard, he flew to his feet, nearly tripping on the too-large clothing. “No! Finn had the right idea. He’s past the five most famous Whitechapel victims, but there were others after Mary Kelly, remember? One of them was
Alice
McKenzie. Alice is the name of Roosevelt’s first wife.”

Carver’s every intuition was screaming that he’d unwrapped the final clue. “She’s dead. But Roosevelt’s daughter Alice Lee is very much alive. For now, at least.”

KNOWING
the police would laugh and hang up before hearing the complicated clues, Delia tried Jerrik Ribe. It was only after she screamed and nearly burst into tears that the harried
New York Times
operator put her through to her adoptive father.

“Of
course
I’m certain; I’d never waste anyone’s time without… But you see it, don’t you? I already explained about the list of victims’ names. Forget about Carver and look! It’s so obvious! If you could make
someone
listen… But… I’m fine here. I want to stay.”

At last she hung up. “He believes me, but since the
Times
printed that letter, they’ve been persona non grata with the commissioner. He’ll try to get past the commissioner but expects his pleas to be ignored. There’s a party tonight at City Hall. Mr. Overton and Roosevelt will both be there; so will Alice. Jerrik will ask to approach the commissioner personally.”

“How can they have a party with everything going on?” Carver asked.

Delia shrugged. “Safety in numbers? Life goes on?”

“The Echolses are going to that shindig,” Finn said.

Carver looked at him. “Then… maybe… Mr. Echols could warn Roosevelt?”

“Echols won’t even let Roosevelt in his home,” Delia said. “Add to that the fact that the police think the attack here was a publicity hoax.”

“Exactly,” Carver said. “Roosevelt thinks Echols is publicity hungry. But if he warned him privately and promised
not
to tell the press…”

“Why would he promise that?” Finn said.

“Because it’s the right thing?” Delia offered.

Finn snorted.

“Isn’t it worth a shot?” Carver prodded. “I don’t think it would take much. If there were the
slightest
chance his family could be harmed, I have to think Roosevelt would protect them. Can you just try it, Finn?”

Finn nodded. “I’ve banged my head against walls before.”

Knowing Finn wasn’t exactly well spoken, they rehearsed what he’d say until he knew it by heart. In the meantime, their clothes had been returned, so they took a break to change back.

The butler looked suspicious when asked, but informed them Mr. Echols was in the study. At the door, Finn grew pale. Carver was shocked by how timid he’d grown. Delia rubbed his wide back while Carver gritted his teeth at the sight and struggled to say encouraging things.

Finn knocked, but there was no answer. Carver nodded for him to try the door. When Finn refused, Carver turned the knob himself and pushed. It swung open.

Behind an enormous desk covered with phones, Echols, always frail, looked like a sickly child. His face ashen, he slowly turned his eyes up toward them. He looked as if he were dreaming or ill.

“Phineas,” he said.

“There’s something important I have to ask you,” Finn began, but Echols barely seemed to register their presence.

“I was convinced you were lying,” Echols said slowly. “I thought Hawking put his boy up to it, to frighten me into paying him more money. I thought you were in on it, too, same orphanage, after all. But I went along with it, for the press. Then Millie… was killed… cut up, just a few blocks away. Edwin, the same last initial, just like you told the police. Samantha, your mother, she could have
died.
”

Shaky, Echols rose to his feet and stiffly embraced an utterly bewildered Finn. “You
saved
her.”

Forgetting his prepared speech, all Finn could manage was, “Uh… thanks?” as he pulled back and, with extreme awkwardness, patted his adoptive father on the shoulders.

Carver was about to bring up the party when Echols waved weakly at the phones. “I tried calling Roosevelt, to make sure he believed the Ripper was here, but they wouldn’t take my call. The police think I’m a liar, and it turned out I was telling the truth.”

Echols wouldn’t be able to help them convince anyone. Hawking was right. They were on their own.

BY SIX
o’clock it was impossible to reach the City Hall entrance. Mobs in the park and on the sidewalk spilled into the street. Cabs and private carriages lined up, blocking Broadway. The upper-crust gathering had become a lightning rod for the city’s fear, bringing people from every walk who believed they could somehow be part of the gathering by watching through the windows. About the only advantage to being stuck among so many people was that they blocked the wind and near-freezing drizzle.

Finn had taken the lead, pushing forward, head down, like the bull Carver always imagined him to be. Delia held Finn’s overcoat with one hand and clutched Carver’s arm with the other. A swell in the crowd, caused by the mayor’s arriving carriage, pushed the trio into the wooden barricades surrounding the hall. Carver felt his back crushed into the wood, the sprain in his shoulder throbbing.

“Down!” Delia called. She vanished among a press of faceless coats.

Carver went to his knees. People rushed into the seeming gap, forcing him sideways under the barricade. Delia and Finn were waiting. Severed from the crowd, they got down on all fours and crawled toward the back of the building, where the fine marble gave way to rougher sandstone.