Ripper (21 page)

Twenty-three

A
s I walked the long stretch of Montgomery Street, the air whipped cold and sharp at my face. It was a dry, freezing night. Dead leaves, riding the gusts, swept across the street before me. Not a single person was out. Abandoned boarding houses and shells of workhouses lined the street. There were no working streetlamps, and I saw no one. In the distance, Dr. Bartlett's house loomed before me. With the windows all curtained and dark, it looked as if they were not home.

All the better. I could have the freedom to explore the house myself.

Thankful for the high winds, I tiptoed soundlessly to the front door. It was unlocked. Carefully I turned the knob and pushed the door open an inch. I could see nothing but darkness inside.

You are insane
,
I told myself as I nudged the door further open. Why would it be unlocked? Perhaps they were gone and someone had broken into their house. Then again, they might be home, asleep, or in some other part of the house. Either way, I slipped through the door.

I saw the soft glow of the jellyfish from the drawing room aquarium, but not a single light was on in the house. The stairs rose into darkness before me, and another hallway shot out to my right.

I heard voices, soft chanting, coming from somewhere in that hallway.

My heart stopped. Déjà vu swept over me as I remembered my vision of the hooded ritual. The voices were so muted they had to come from behind something, either a wall or a door down the hallway. Carefully, I crept toward the sound, feeling ahead of me to make certain that I didn't fall over any chairs or bump into a sconce. As I proceeded, the chanting grew louder, so I knew I was closer. A tiny stream of light shone ahead of me, and I saw at the end of the hall two large, steel doors, medieval-like in structure. Architecturally, the doors did not fit in with the rest of the house. The light was coming out of a large keyhole in one of the doors.

Kneeling on the ground, I peered through the keyhole and covered my mouth to keep from gasping. I saw a windowless room, lit only by candles and torches. Some mats and rugs lay at the perimeter of the room, but other than that, it was empty of furniture. Robed figures stood in the center, chanting in Latin. I couldn't make out all of their words, but I did hear
A Posse Ad Esse
. Then
I saw a flash of silver—the chalice being passed from hand to hand.

I couldn't quite see the faces clearly, but I knew it was Dr. Bartlett and his housemates. It was some sort of organization, some sort of brotherhood ritual.

The chanting continued, seeming to roar in my ears as I studied their figures, unbelieving. Then I noticed that there were only four figures. One was missing. Someone wasn't in that room.

At the same moment I thought this, I felt the sharp point of a knife against the back of my head. As my blood ran cold, I stood up, tensing, and slowly turned around.

It was Max.

With one finger over his lips, he signaled that I should be quiet. He moved the knife point to my throat and ushered me ahead of him. With the blade now against my back, he forced me down the hall, past the stairs, and into the drawing room.

I was backed up against the jellyfish aquarium, the knife at my throat again. This blade was thin, sharp, surgical-like. Perfect for tearing organs. It was his killing blade.

“I thought you might come here tonight. I had a premonition,” he said.

I glared at him. “What do you want? What is that ritual? That
thing
Dr. Bartlett and the others are doing in that room?”

The leopard-green eyes flicked in the darkness. I thought of cut gems.

He chuckled, amused. “Are you actually going to listen to me tonight?”

Fury flooded through me, and I lunged forward. Almost without moving, he pushed the knife harder into my throat. The pinch was unbearable; I felt wetness, and I knew that I bled a little.

“I wouldn't recommend that, Abbie Sharp,” he said calmly. “If you want to live to hear the answers that you seek.”

“
You
.
It was
you
in the attic last night.”

He gave a little bow. “Indeed. I found your friend quite charming. But she knew me by another name—Charles.”

I caught myself just before I tried to attack him again.

“Temper, Abbie. Remember your temper.”

“Why couldn't you just talk to me, as you are now? Why did you have to kill her?”

Max stepped closer, the knife still against my neck. Then, in the darkness, he put his forehead against my own.

Instantly I saw what was happening in that room, had a closer view of Dr. Bartlett chanting under his hood, slowly passing the chalice. The vision whirled through my consciousness, and then away just as Max pulled his head back.

I stared at him, dizzied, questioning.

“You and I share a gift, Abbie. A remarkable gift. We are seers of things: past, present, sometimes future. We are some of the very few who possess this power. You can see things on your own, or see others' memories or visions as you did just now. Touch makes the visions come more easily, but I don't have to touch you for you to see what I'm thinking. Your gift is that remarkable. The first day we met, I cast you a vision, and you became aware of your gift. It had been dormant before then. Many of the visions you had after that were through your own powers, but some, I sent you.”

I thought of how I had seen him crawling down buildings, the possessions, the pickpocket, and Mariah. I almost couldn't hear myself as I spoke. “But it's not just visions. It's more. You can possess others' bodies. You were in the pickpocket's body … ”

He winked. “Once again, you can do so much more.”

“So what does this have to do with what's going on in there, with that ritual?”

“Immortality
,
Abbie Sharp. It has to do with immortality. The philosopher's stone—an element in the elixir of life—was discovered centuries ago by Robert Buck. Along with Julian, Marcus, and John, he formed the Conclave. That ritual in there celebrates the true Holy Grail, the gift of immortality. We drink the elixir on this date, once a year, and can live … forever.”

I had had suspicions, but knowing that I had been right—that they were old,
centuries
old—was overwhelming. It went against reason, against everything in my known world.

“You are … ” I swallowed.

Max whispered in the darkness. “The others are four hundred years old. I'm a bit newer, a later addition. I'm—the enforcer, you might say.”

I could speak it now. The words burned my lips as I whispered them.

“You're the Ripper.”

His eyes shone, and I had my confession. “Yes.”

A roaring pause. I thought of all the murdered patients. I thought of Mariah, of the dead.

My vision blurred with tears. “Why?”

“The Conclave promotes the greatest good for England: The greatest political good. The greatest social good. The East End is forgotten, abandoned. All I did was … bring some attention to it.”

I remembered Perkins's letter to the newspaper; I remembered the whipped-up public frenzy, the journalist frenzy … the extra supplies, the news coverage, the money donations, the volunteers. Even the sensational flourish—the organ mailed to the police. This kind of murder mystery would naturally enthrall a London public raised on penny-dreadful novels. This
had
all been planned. The lives of each victim had been taken for this purpose.

“But Polly, Annie, Liz, and Cate. They were all
people
. They had done no wrong. They were patients at Dr. Bartlett's hospital. And he knew about all this?” I knew he must have. But I still fought against believing it.

“He
sanctioned
it,” Max replied. “Abbie, you are being short-sighted.”

“It was wrong,” I said.

Max sighed, as if my comment wearied him.

“The rest of the Conclave will be resting soon—usually we rest after taking the elixir. But, here's a proposition: you share my gift. The elixir brings out my gift even more—I can leave my body, possess others, even defy gravity. I can
climb walls
,
Abbie. For some reason the elixir empowers my body's energies—both physical and mental. You, because you are also psychic, might be able to do all this too. I will help you learn all of it, if you take a drink. The elixir makes everyone who drinks it immortal. But you and me … ” He paused and I saw the jellyfish shapes from the aquarium behind me flit across his face. “It makes our type
shine
as immortals.”

“But how did you know that I was psychic? How did you know to find me, specifically?”

“Interesting that you should ask. We have long toyed with adding a new, younger member for the Conclave. For years, Julian has suggested that we might possibly add a woman, to have a female perspective in the group. He heard from your grandmother that Caroline had had a daughter, now returned to London. I watched you; Abbie, for two months I watched you. You seemed a perfect candidate—raised by an educated mother, newly arrived in London. Disoriented, restless, with only one still-living relative. Young. Trainable. Risk-taking … I saw that particularly when you chased the pickpocket into the East End. I also saw, then, that you were psychic. At that point, Abbie, we knew you were the one.”

What were they going to do? Were they going to force me to take the elixir, to become one of them?

Max lessened the pressure of the knife on my neck. A bit. “You should know that we're in a small muddle with one of your friends.”

My heart quickened.

“Dr. William Siddal.” Max watched my expression, but I kept my features still. “I killed one of his relatives who found out about us several years ago—a physician, if I remember correctly.”

Polidori!
William's great uncle.

“But unbeknownst to me, he had written everything down and put it in his family's safe in Avignon. Siddal knows of the papers' existence. As does St. John, now. Not good for either of them.”

So that was what William sought. Papers detailing the identity of the Conclave. Proof of the existence of the philosopher's stone.

Max looked carefully at me. I panicked momentarily, remembering Simon's concern about my mind. If Max could cast visions for me, could he also read my thoughts? But almost instantly, I knew from his expression that he could not.

The chanting had stopped.

Max cast a glance back out of the drawing room.

What next?
I tensed, waiting. Thinking.

“You can go.” He dropped the knife, stepped back.

I froze, wondering if this was a trick.

“Marcus Brown will meet you in Hampstead Heath, near the ponds, tomorrow afternoon at five o'clock. Your friend's funeral should be over by that time, and the Heath is within walking distance of the cemetery.”

I felt a shiver run through me, thinking how much Max knew of my daily life.

“Why is Dr. Brown meeting me? Why don't you just tell me what I need to know about the elixir now?” I asked stubbornly.

Max smiled, gazing at me as if I were a child who did not understand him. “As I told you before, I'm just the enforcer. Officially inviting you into the Conclave is not my role. Marcus is our politician, our diplomat. He'll offer you our terms and discuss the elixir.”

I started to leave the room. Then I stopped dead in my tracks, turning around to face him.

“You'll leave William and Simon alone.”

It wasn't a question. It was a command. I remembered Mariah's face before she died—I couldn't bear losing either of my other friends.

He nodded. “As long as you—or they—don't do anything stupid.”

I stared hard at him before turning to run out the front door.

“And Abbie … ”

“What?” I looked back.

“A Posse Ad Esse.”

“In the midst of life we are in death … ”

The priest's words rang out evenly at Mariah's funeral. The weather could not have been more bleak. Rain poured through the canopy of trees in Highgate Cemetery in great sheets, splashing between the crowded umbrellas held by the attendees at the service.

Very few people had come. I stood beside Grandmother, Catherine, and Violet within a small crowd of strangers.

A long, lean figure in black cut into my periphery.

Simon.

He stood under a giant oak tree, a bit away from the funeral, holding only an umbrella.

When the muddy dirt was cast onto the coffin, the funeral attendees gradually left the graveside. I walked over to Simon. As I approached, Simon stared in the direction of the burial, not at me.

I wondered what he was thinking at that instant.