Ripper (2 page)

It wasn’t his first crime, but it was the only one that could change his life. Breaking into the kitchen or nabbing some school supplies could be forgiven, chalked up to what Miss Petty called “youthful indiscretion.” This time, though, he could be thrown in jail.

Wouldn’t Finn and his gang have a great laugh at that? Scrawny Carver locked in the Tombs, trapped among murderers and robbers, while Finn, a
real
thief, stayed free. But wouldn’t Sherlock Holmes or Nick Neverseen do the same thing? Bend the law to get at the truth?

The cleaver creaked again as if eager to punish someone. Until Carver saw it for himself, he thought it was a lie the little ones used to scare each other. The story went that a nameless boy was caught stealing cookies by Curly, the cook. Drunk as a skunk, mad as the devil, Curly grabbed a cleaver and chased the boy up to the attic. But when he raised it to strike, the poor sap went to his knees bawling. The cook relented and hurled it up instead.

Maybe it was left as a warning, like the skull and crossbones on a pirate’s treasure. No, it was more like that old Greek legend, the Sword of Damocles. How’d it go? Damocles envied a king, so the king offered to switch places. “King” Damocles was thrilled, until he looked up and saw a sword over his head, hanging by a thread. He got the point. Fear was the price of power.

Was that why Carver’s hands shook?

Beyond the door were the private files for all the orphans at Ellis, those who’d left, those who, like him, had been here over a decade. Carver knew nothing about his own parents, not their names, not how they looked, not how they lived or even if they had died. His last name, Young, was something Miss Petty made up because he was an infant when he arrived. Ever since he’d started picking locks, he’d thought about coming up here and
finding out if there was anything Miss Petty
hadn’t
told him. She was always so hesitant about discussing his past. Now, with the headmistress gone for the day, he had the time he needed.

Or so he thought. After an hour of trying, the lock would not yield to his collection of bent nails. They were either too thick or the wrong shape, and he had no way to bend them now.

He stepped back and looked around for anything else he could use. The long, wide space was cramped with helter-skelter boxes, clothing racks and trunks, a graveyard of mementoes. A bit of color in the gloom caught his eye. Among some chewed, weathered alphabet blocks sat what was once his favorite toy, an old windup cowboy mounted on his horse.

It’d come from Europe, a rich person’s toy, donated because it was old and broken. Miss Petty marveled when Carver, only five at the time, fixed it. Cowboy Man, he called it. Now fourteen, he picked it up. The windup key turned freely. It was broken again, but maybe it could help him one last time.

Using his thickest nail, he pried off the side of the horse. It looked like someone had poured milk inside it years ago, but the pieces were all intact. He could fix it again, but he didn’t need a toy. Instead, he pulled out the wire that moved the horse’s legs back and forth. It was thin enough, but rust came off between his fingers. It would probably snap. Still, it was worth a try.

He bent it carefully and, once satisfied with the shape, slipped it into the keyhole. Slowly, he turned it. Something
clicked.
The cylinder turned. The door swung inward. He had it!

Snickering at the cleaver, he moved into a room full of gray file cabinets. It was too dim to read their labels, but he guessed the bottom-right drawer would hold
X-Y-Z.
When he pulled it open, the dry metal squeaked loudly. It didn’t seem right this should be illegal. The only thing he wanted was
his,
anyway.

He pulled all the files out and carried them into a scant beam of sunlight. As he sifted through the awkward pile, a breeze snatched a bit of paper from the last. Afraid he’d drop the pile if he bent to pick it up, he put his foot on it and left it there as he worked.

No
X
’s, but a few
W
’s,
Welles, Winfrey, Winters.
There it was, at the bottom:
Young, Carver.

He set the pile on an old steamer trunk and weighed it down with a birdcage. Excited, he opened his file. Nothing. It was empty except for an annex card, the same sort he’d seen in Miss Petty’s office, listing the orphan’s name and any belongings that had arrived with them. Spaces for the parents had been left blank. It didn’t even mention the woman Miss Petty told him had brought him to Ellis as an infant.

The card had only one entry, in the headmistress’s small, neat handwriting. It was dated 1889. A letter had been received from England. From his parents? It didn’t say.

Carver looked down. The folded paper was still lying under his foot. Dropping his file, he snatched up the small, imperfect rectangle. It was a letter. The paper was thick. The fountain pen ink blotched in spots. The handwriting was harsh, almost garbled.

He read it again, then again. The fourth time, pieces began to make sense.

Thought she died too quick to have our one and only, but no, he’d be eight now.

I hear he has a cut ear on the shoulder…

The writer thought his son died in childbirth, along with his wife. Carver was eight in 1889
and
he had an ear-shaped birthmark. The letter was written by
his father
!

Carver’s father had tried to come for him… What if he was still alive? What if his father was out there still, trying to find him?

AFTER STEALING
a few apples from the larder, Carver sat on his too-small bed in the boys’ dorm. Before bedtime, the lonely hall was empty, everyone working or playing, making it the perfect place to be alone with his prize.

He was so engrossed, studying the letter line by line, memorizing every curl of the ink, that he almost didn’t notice Miss Petty had appeared at the doorway. He’d barely shoved the letter in his pocket when the long thin woman crooked a finger at him and sullenly commanded, “Come with me.”

Had she found out? Already? He’d been so careful.

He followed in silence as the matriarch marched him downstairs to the narrow hall between the dining room and kitchen that held her office. She was always stiff, but not like this. She must be furious. This was it, then; he’d gone too far.

He was about to apologize, to explain, when he saw that her office was already occupied. Finn Walker and Delia Stephens were sitting on a child-size bench, looking terribly uncomfortable.

At the sight of Carver, Finn narrowed his eyes and grunted in his already-deep voice, “If he said I did something, he’s lying again.” Big as he was, Miss Petty silenced him with a glance.

Finn was in trouble more than Carver, but what was Delia doing here? The dark-haired, round-faced girl had been at Ellis nearly as long as he and Finn, but her behavior was impeccable. Her thin cotton dress was too light for the weather, and she was flushed and sweating, as if she’d been yanked from the laundry room in the middle of her chores.

What was going on?

“Sit,” Miss Petty said.

To keep some distance from Finn, Carver wedged himself between Delia and a wall.

After shutting the door, Miss Petty rounded on them. Instead of a royal ear-lashing, though, she cleared her throat and spoke in a quivering voice. “The building’s been sold. We’ll be purchasing a larger facility further north, with a field and gymnasium. The money left over will fund us for many years.”

Finn blurted out exactly what Carver was feeling. “I don’t want to leave the city!”

“Hush,” Delia said. “Can’t you see she’s not finished? There’s something else.”

A tremble ran through the headmistress’s upper lip, but she wiped it away like an error on the chalkboard. “The board has also decided we can no longer house residents past age thirteen. I made a final appeal that our oldest residents, you three, be allowed to remain, but was summarily rejected. I’m afraid you’ll all have to make other arrangements.”

Looking at their openmouthed expressions, Miss Petty rose and stepped closer to them and, in a rare gesture of affection, cupped Delia’s chin in her hand. “I’d gladly offer you a position in our new kitchen, but in your case, I’m confident it will not come to that.”

A more severe expression had been reserved for the boys. “As for you two, I continue to regret I could not be both mother
and
father. You each need the latter
badly.
However, if my word means anything, I strongly suggest that if you don’t intend to wind up on the street, you put all mischief out of your minds and focus on making the best-possible impression on next week’s Prospective Parents Day.”

“But—” Carver and Finn said simultaneously.

She cut them off. “I promise nothing, but do as I ask and there may yet be a surprise for both of you. Since his father had been such a friend to Ellis, I’ve managed to persuade our new police commissioner to attend, bringing a great deal of attention to the event. If there is a chance for you to avoid the life of a street rat, it will be there.”

Finn looked puzzled, but Carver grew excited. “Roosevelt? He’s working on the library murder! They say her body was…”

Miss Petty closed her eyes. “Mr. Young, please. I’m delighted that you’re reading, but if you broadened your focus a bit, you might have something less unsavory to discuss.”

“Sorry.”

She grimaced. “I’m sure. Now, leave me please. I still have arrangements to make and you all have some serious thinking to do.”

But as they filed out, the only thing on Carver’s mind was that he might meet a real-live detective who could help him find his father.

THEY HEADED
down the hall, Delia and Finn somber, but Carver’s mind ablaze.

“The rumor is she was butchered,” he said cheerfully.

Delia rolled her eyes. “I read the papers.”

“Everyone dancing and talking. She was screaming right below their feet and they couldn’t hear her.”

Suddenly, Finn shoved Carver into the wall. He pressed his beefy right forearm into the smaller boy’s chest and brought his face close. “Shut up!”

Sick of the years of bullying, Carver refused to flinch. “Or else what? You’re going to beat me up right outside Miss Petty’s office? Even you aren’t that stupid.”

But Finn didn’t release him. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten what you did to me.”

“I’m stunned, Finn, really. I mean, I’m still surprised you can
talk.
”

Finn pushed harder, squeezing the air from Carver’s lungs. “I did
not
steal that locket!”

Delia eyed them both with distaste. “Let go of him, Phineas. Haven’t we trouble enough?”

The bully grunted, then lowered his arm. Carver’s ribs ached. He wanted to wince from the pain but forced himself to remain expressionless. He was, after all, in the right.

A week ago, ten-year-old Madeline’s locket, all she had of her dead mother, was stolen. Miss Petty announced that if it were on her desk by morning, there’d be no questions asked. But that wasn’t good enough for Carver. He hid in the storage closet next door waiting, until Finn, without so much as a guilty look, appeared and put Madeline’s locket on the desk.

Bad enough Finn and his gang had the run of the place, bad enough his good looks helped him get away with it. But steal a poor kid’s locket for a smidgen of gold? Carver had had enough. He snuck the locket back to the boys’ dorm, then waited for the deep snoring that told him Finn was asleep. Then he crept up and laid the locket on his barrel chest.

In the morning, they all woke to Tommy, one of the younger boys, shouting, “Finn has the locket!”

As the others sleepily surrounded him, a wide-eyed Finn stared at the chain dangling from his index finger. It was perfect, until Carver ruined it by grinning too widely. When Finn spotted him, even if he couldn’t figure out what had happened, he knew Carver had something to do with it.

Like a steam locomotive, he came for him, shoving the bed back two feet as he rose. But before the lumbering hulk could reach him, Miss Petty arrived. Finn was dragged out by his ear, face as bright red as his hair. Detective Young had solved his first crime. A just punishment would be meted out.

Only it wasn’t. Whatever went on behind the closed office door, Finn seemed none the worse for wear. Carver could only wonder what happened, or why Finn had yet to take vengeance. The whole thing had been very confusing. Even now, as Finn stormed off, instead of thanking him, Delia glared at Carver with disapproval.

Carver felt flustered. “He stole Madeline’s locket. I saw him try to put it back!”

“Phineas has never been a thief,” she said, her eyes narrowing.

“He’s been everything
else,
hasn’t he? For
years
!”

“But not a thief,” she calmly repeated. “It’s not in his character. Unlike someone else I know, who never seems to run out of apples.”

Carver stiffened. “Oh, I get it. You’re sweet on him, just like the rest of the girls.”

Her face shivered. “Just because I don’t think he’s a criminal doesn’t mean I want to marry him. And even if he is guilty, Mister Ace Detective, was that the smartest play you could have made? He could’ve beaten you to a pulp.” She sighed. “I suppose you think you were doing the right thing, and Miss Petty says that when a jackass flies, we shouldn’t question how high it flies but that it flies at all.”