The Whitechapel Fiend (3 page)

“I am not able to bear Marks, but I once lived among Shadowhunters—I was a Shadowhunter’s wife, and my children were Shadowhunters. I was witness to much that no other Downworlder ever saw, and now I am almost the only person alive who recalls the truth behind the stories mundanes made up to explain away the times their world brushed ours. I am many things. One is a living record of Shadowhunter history. Here is one story you may have heard of—Jack the Ripper. What can you tell me about that name?”

Simon was ready for this one. He’d read
From Hell
six times. He’d been waiting all his life for someone to ask him an Alan Moore question. His hand shot up.

“He was a murderer,” Simon burst out. “He killed prostitutes in London in the late 1800s. He was probably Queen Victoria’s doctor, and the whole thing was a royal cover-up to hide the fact that the prince had had an illegitimate child.”

Tessa smiled at him. “You are right that Jack the Ripper is the name given to a murderer—or at least, to a series of murders. What you refer to is the royal conspiracy, which has been disproven. I believe it is also the plot of a graphic novel and film called
From Hell
.”

Simon’s love life was complicated, but there was a pang, just for a moment, for this woman talking graphic novels with him. Ah, well. Tessa Gray, foxy nerd, was probably dating someone already.

“I will give you the simple facts,” Tessa said. “Once, I was not called Tessa Gray but Tessa Herondale. In that time, in 1888, in East London, there was a string of terrible murders . . .”

London, October 1888

“It’s not appropriate,” Tessa said to her husband, Will.

“He likes it.”

“Children like all sorts of things, Will. They like sweets and fire and trying to stick their head up the chimney. Just because he likes the dagger . . .”

“Look how steadily he holds it.”

Little James Herondale, age two, was in fact holding a dagger quite well. He stabbed it into a sofa cushion, sending out a burst of feathers.

“Ducks,” he said, pointing at the feathers.

Tessa swiftly removed the dagger from his tiny hand and replaced it with a wooden spoon. James had recently become very attached to this wooden spoon and carried it with him everywhere, often refusing to go to sleep without it.

“Spoon,” James said, tottering off across the parlor.

“Where did he find the dagger?” Tessa asked.

“It’s possible I took him to the weapons room,” Will said.

“Is it?”

“It is, yes. It’s possible.”

“And it’s possible he somehow got a dagger from where it is secured on the wall, out of his reach,” Tessa said.

“We live in a world of possibilities,” Will said.

Tessa fixed a gray-eyed stare on her husband.

“He was never out of my sight,” Will said quickly.

“If you could manage it,” Tessa said, nodding to the sleeping figure of Lucie Herondale in her little basket by the fire, “perhaps you won’t give Lucie a broadsword until she’s actually able to stand? Or is that asking too much?”

“It seems a reasonable request,” Will said, with an extravagant bow. “Anything for you, my pearl beyond price. Even withholding weaponry from my only daughter.”

Will knelt down, and James ran to him to show off his spoon. Will admired the spoon as if it were a first edition, his scarred hand large and gentle against James’s tiny back.

“Spoon,” James said proudly.

“I see, Jamie
bach
,” murmured Will, who Tessa had caught singing Welsh lullabies to the children on their most sleepless nights. To his children, Will showed the same love he had always shown to her, fierce and unyielding. And the same protectiveness he had only ever showed to one other person: the person James had been named after. Will’s
parabatai,
Jem.

“Uncle Jem would be so impressed,” she told Jamie with a smile. It was what she and Will called James Carstairs around their children, though between the two of them he was just Jem, and in public he was Brother Zachariah, a feared and respected Silent Brother.

“Jem,” echoed James, quite clearly, and her smile grew. Will and James both tilted up their heads as one to look at her, their storm-cloud-black hair framing their faces. Jamie’s was small and round, baby fat obscuring the bones and angles of a face that would one day be as like Will’s as his hair. Two pairs of eyes, one darkly brilliant blue and one celestial gold, looked up at her with absolute trust and more than a little mischief. Her boys.

The long, long London summer days that Tessa was still getting used to, even after several years, were now starting to shorten rather rapidly. No more sunlight at ten at night—now the night was gathering at six, and the fog was heavy, and faintly yellow, and it pressed against the windows. Bridget had drawn the curtains, and the rooms were dim but cozy.

It was a strange thing, being a Shadowhunter and a parent. She and Will had been living lives that constantly involved danger, and then suddenly, two very small children had joined them. Yes, they were two very small children who occasionally got hold of daggers and would one day start training to become warriors—if they wished to do so. But now they were simply two very small children. Little James, wobbling around the Institute with his spoon. Little Lucie napping in her cradle or basket or in one of many pairs of willing arms.

These days Will was, Tessa was glad to note, a bit more careful about taking risks. (Usually. She would really have to make sure there were no more daggers for the children.) Bridget could usually keep the children well in hand, but Tessa and Will liked to be at home as much as they could. Cecily and Gabriel’s little Anna was a year older than James, and had already blazed her way through the Institute. She sometimes made attempts to go for walks on her own in London, but was always blocked by Auntie Jessamine, who stood guard by the door. Whether or not Anna knew that Auntie Jessamine was a ghost was unclear. She was simply the loving, ethereal force by the doorway who shooed her back inside and told her to stop taking her father’s hats.

It was a good life. There was a feeling of safety about it that reminded Tessa of a more peaceful time, back when she was in New York, back before she knew all the truths about herself and the world she lived in. Sometimes, when she sat with her children by the fire, it all felt so . . . normal. Like there were no demons, no creatures in the night.

She allowed herself these moments.

“What are we having this evening?” Will asked, tucking the dagger into a drawer. “It smells a bit like lamb stew.”

Before Tessa could answer, she heard the door open and Gabriel Lightwood came hurrying in, the smell of the cold fog trailing in his wake. He didn’t bother to remove his coat. From the way he was walking and the look on his face, Tessa could tell that this little moment of domestic tranquility was over.

“Something wrong?” Will asked.

“This,” Gabriel said. He held up a broadsheet newspaper called the
Star
. “It’s awful.”

“I agree,” Will said. “Those halfpenny rags are terrible. But you seem to be more upset about them than is appropriate.”

“They may be halfpenny rags, but listen to this.”

He stepped under a gaslight, unfolded the paper, and snapped it once to straighten it.

“The terror of Whitechapel,”
he read.

“Oh,” Will said. “That.”

Everyone in London knew about the terror in Whitechapel. The murders had been extraordinarily horrible. News of the killings now filled every paper.

“
. . .
has walked again, and this time has marked down two victims, one hacked and disfigured beyond discovery, the other with her throat cut and torn. Again he has got away clear; and again the police, with wonderful frankness, confess that they have not a clue. They are waiting for a seventh and an eighth murder, just as they waited for a fifth, to help them to it. Meanwhile, Whitechapel is half mad with fear. The people are afraid even to talk with a stranger. Notwithstanding the repeated proofs that the murderer has but one aim, and seeks but one class in the community, the spirit of terror has got fairly abroad, and no one knows what steps a practically defenceless community may take to protect itself or avenge itself on any luckless wight who may be taken for the enemy. It is the duty of journalists to keep their heads cool, and not inflame men’s passions when what is wanted is cool temper and clear thinking; and we shall try and write calmly about this new atrocity
.
”

“Very lurid,” said Will. “But the East End is a violent place for mundanes.”

“I do not think this is a mundane.”

“Wasn’t there a letter? The killer sent something?”

“Yes, a very odd letter. I have that as well.”

Gabriel went over to a desk in the corner and opened it, revealing a neat stack of newspaper cuttings.

“Yes, here it is.
Dear Boss, I keep on hearing the police have caught me but they won’t fix me just yet. I have laughed when they look so clever and talk about being on the right track. That joke about Leather Apron gave me real fits. I am down on whores and I shan’t quit ripping them till I do get buckled. Grand work the last job was. I gave the lady no time to squeal. How can they catch me now. I love my work and want to start again. You will soon hear of me with my funny little games. I saved some of the proper red stuff in a ginger beer bottle over the last job to write with but it went thick like glue and I can’t use it. Red ink is fit enough I hope. Ha. Ha. The next job I do I shall clip the lady’s ears off and send to the police officers just for jolly wouldn’t you. Keep this letter back till I do a bit more work, then give it out straight. My knife’s so nice and sharp I want to get to work right away if I get a chance. Good luck. Yours truly, Jack the Ripper.
”

“That’s quite a name he’s given himself,” Tessa said. “And quite horrific.”

“And almost certainly false,” Gabriel said. “A bit of nonsense made up by newspapermen to keep selling the story. And good for us as well, as it gives a human face—or at least the appearance of a human hand—to it. But come, I’ll show you.”

He waved them over to the table in the middle of the room and removed a map from inside his coat. He spread this out.

“I have just come from the East End,” he said. “Something about the stories disturbed me, for more than the obvious reasons. I went there to have a look about for myself. And what happened last night proves my theory. There have been many murders recently—all of women, women who . . .”

“Prostitutes,” Tessa said.

“Quite,” Gabriel said.

“Tessa has such an extensive vocabulary,” Will said. “It is one of the most attractive things about her. Shame about yours, Gabriel.”

“Will, listen to me.” Gabriel allowed himself a long sigh.

“Spoon!” James said, running at his uncle Gabriel and jabbing him in the thigh. Gabriel mussed the boy’s hair affectionately.

“You’re such a good boy,” he said. “I often wonder how you could possibly be Will’s.”

“Spoon,” James said, leaning against his uncle’s leg lovingly.

“No, Jamie,” Will urged. “Your honorable father has been impugned. Attack, attack!”

“Bridget,” Tessa said. “Could you take James to have his supper?”

James was ushered from the room, caught up in Bridget’s skirts.

“The first murder,” Gabriel said, “was here. Buck’s Row. That occurred on August the thirty-first. Very vicious, with a number of long cuts to the abdomen. The second was on Hanbury Street on September eighth. Her name was Annie Chapman, and she was found in the courtyard behind a house. This murder had a very similar set of incisions, but was very much worse. The contents of the abdomen were simply removed. Some organs were placed on her shoulder. Some organs were simply gone. All of the work was done with a surgical precision, and would have taken a skilled surgeon some time to do. This was done in minutes, outdoors, without much light to work by. This was the work that got my attention. And now the last murders, which were only a few nights ago—these were fiendish works indeed. Now, observe closely. The first murder of that night took place here.”

He pointed to a spot on the map marked Dutfield’s Yard.

“This is right off of Berner Street, you see? This was Elizabeth Stride, and she was found at one in the morning. Similar injuries, but seemingly incomplete. Just forty-five minutes later, the body of Catherine Eddowes is found in Mitre Square.”

Gabriel traced his finger along the route from Berner Street to Mitre Square.

“It’s a distance of over half a mile,” he said. “I’ve just walked it several times. This second murder was much more terrible in nature. The body was utterly dismembered and organs were removed. The work was very delicate in nature, very skilled. And it was done in darkness, in no more than a few minutes. Work that would have taken a surgeon much more time and certainly some light. It’s simply not possible, and yet, it happened.”

Tessa and Will considered the map in front of them for a moment while the fire crackled gently behind them.

“He could have had a carriage,” Will said.

“Even with a carriage, there would simply not be time to commit these acts. And they are most certainly acts committed by the same being.”

“Not the work of werewolves?”

“Definitely not,” Gabriel said. “Nor vampires. The bodies have not been drained. They haven’t been consumed or torn. They have been cut, with organs removed and arranged, as if by design. This”—Gabriel tapped the map for emphasis—“is demonic in nature. And it has set London into a panic.”

“But why would a demon target only these poor women?” Will asked.

“There must be something they require. The fiend does seem to take . . . childbearing organs. I propose we patrol the East End, beginning at once. This area.”

Gabriel drew a circle around Spitalfields with his finger.

“This is the center of the activity. This is where it must be. Are we agreed?”

“Where’s Cecily?” Will asked.

“She has already started the work. She is there now, speaking to some of the women on the street. They find it easier speaking to her. We must start at once.”