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Reaching in his coat pocket and stroking the scalpel, his security blanket, he mustered up the courage to make his presence known. He climbed the steps to the front door and let out a deep breath he’d been holding since the cab dropped him off. Seizing the brass knocker in his small hand, he gave it three firm raps on the front door. 

“Arthur,” an older woman said flatly upon answering the door. She was wearing a full woolen dress and looked every bit a proper, high society lady. “If you had given me notice I would have had tea ready for you.” She turned on her heel and walked away without as much as a “nice to see you” to her son. 

Momentarily stunned that his mother (not the butler or maid) had opened the door, Arthur followed and closed the door behind him. “Mother,” he called to her. “Mother, where is Gregory and Annabelle? Why did you answer the door yourself?” To say he hadn’t worried a little about the family finances since his father passed was an understatement. And money was the only reason he was here today. 

“I am capable of answering my own door, Arthur,” she spat back without turning to properly address him. “But if you must know, Gregory has matters to deal with regarding the carriage and Annabelle is doing the shopping at the moment.” Her tone was exasperated.

“I’m sorry, Mother,” he tried to apologize for setting his mother’s mood to that of annoyed. “I just haven’t heard any news from home lately and didn’t know.”

“And whose fault is that?” she snapped, finally stopping to acknowledge her son. 

“Clearly the fault is mine, Mother; but I’ve told you there is no way to contact you with the work I’m doing.”

“Ah, yes,” she said. A smirk grew across her face. “You are wasting that medical license playing doctor to heathens in barbaric countries.”

“I am doing the Lord’s work,” he defended himself and further perpetuated a lie he had concocted to keep his mother from knowing the truth about getting fired from The London and losing his license to practice surgery in Great Britain. 

“Can the Lord not see fit to provide at least one telegraph or postal service in whatever jungle you have found yourself in over the past half a year?” 

“I wanted to surprise you, Mother,” he lied. “I thought you would be happy to see me after such a long absence.” 

“I will be happy when you stop traipsing around the globe giving away what I paid so much money for you to acquire!”

“You mean what father paid so much money for,” he mumbled under his breath. 

“What did you say, Arthur?” his mother asked. “You always did have a problem speaking up for yourself.”

 “I said ‘I am’,” he lied. 

“You are what?”

They entered the kitchen and his mother put on the kettle and arranged some biscuits on a platter for tea.

“I am going to put my medical license to use as you and Father intended,” he said. 

She shot him a look. “Then you will be resuming your post at The London and not returning to Africa?”

“Well, I… I” he stammered, unsure of himself and fully intimidated by his mother. “I wish to open a practice in London.” 

She stopped preparing the tea service and turned to look suspiciously at her son. “A practice?” she scoffed. “That is so expensive. Why not just resume your position with The London?”

“It is expensive,” he agreed, “but this way all the money I earn will stay with me. If I work for The London they will dictate my salary and I will not live up to my full potential. They will take their cut off the top, leaving me with pennies. I may as well remain in Africa working for room and board!” He thought that would hook her.

His mother seemed skeptical and she eyed her son up and down. The train ride from London to Glasgow had taken two days. And the cramped conditions his economy ticket afforded him were abhorrent. As such, Arthur could be described as disheveled, at best. He was unshaven and seemed anxious. He was up to something, she just didn’t know what. She continued to sort the tea service. 

He sensed her hesitancy and tried to calm himself and speak with a more civil tongue. “I thought perhaps you could move back to London.” She perked up at the notion. “I know you loathe it here, Mother. I remember how much you hated it when Father drug you up here from our beautiful home in London. You had so many friends,” he continued. “You were so respected and everyone desired an invitation to your annual charity gala.” 

He had to butter her up. She would be hesitant to part with any more money toward his profession. But if he could convince her that investing in him would benefit her, he was more likely to see the money he needed.

“That’s why I would also consider Paris,” he sweetened the offer. “I know you’ve always wanted to live there. And you belong there, Mother. You belong with the Paris elite. Not in this damp, gray, pitiful excuse for a city.” 

“Oh, Paris,” she said with glee. The glint in her eyes was the thing he was waiting for. 

“Yes, Mother,” he smiled. He now only needed to reel her in. “Imagine it. You would be well provided for with funds from my practice. You could continue your art, make so many new friends, your galas in London would pale in comparison to what you could do in Paris. Imagine the guest list.” 

With the water boiling, they walked to the study for tea. Arthur carried the tray as Mother led the way.

“Oh how I miss my galas,” she said, remembering fondly how she was the belle of the ball and all the socialites flocked to her with praises and accolades in hopes of receiving an invitation for next year. “These dullards in Glasgow wouldn’t know art if it jumped off the canvas and attacked them.” 

“I know, Mother,” he smiled. She was buying the hype. “I never understood why Father drug you all the way up here to this dull, gray social desert to waste away and have your talent go unappreciated for so long.” 

He could care less about her “talent.” She had no talent. The only reason she had friends was because she had money. Everyone who clamored to get an invitation to one of her galas was simply looking for front row seats to mock and criticize her “art.” Her events were so popular because the rich socialite women of London longed for a good laugh. And the parties were always deliciously catered. 

Here, in Glasgow, she was the pinnacle of the miserably small socialite circle she had created. She both loved and hated it at the same time. It was a mockery of what she had in London; and these people didn’t know the difference. But Cora did. And she longed for more. She longed for London or even better, Paris. But first she needed to find a suitor with a strong heart and a large bank account. That hadn’t worked out; but maybe this was her chance. 

“Mother, all I need is a small loan,” the short man began his pitch. “A small loan to secure the office and equipment. After that I can begin seeing patients and then I can purchase our old home. Or a better one!” 

Cora’s eyes lit up. 

“I will have it furnished and decorated to your specifications and then send word back to you that all is ready. You will come home and all will be as it was. Better even.” 

“That sounds marvelous, son,” Cora said. “How much of a small loan?”

“I’m sure a few thousand dollars from Father’s trust would be sufficient to begin arrangements.” 

Cora choked on her tea. “A few thousand?” She dabbed the corners of her mouth with her towel. “That is quite a lot of money, Arthur.” 

“I know, Mother,” he said. He put his cup down and moved over to join her on the settee. Taking her hands in his, he attempted to woo her. “I know it is a lot of money. But imagine the return on your investment.” 

“I shall have to consider your proposal,” she said as she sipped her tea. “I will speak with the accountant next week and see what is possible.” 

“Next week?” he said, angrily. “But mother, the sooner I can start the sooner I can get you away from here and back to London.” 

Though the thought of resuming her former life was almost too exciting to contain, she couldn’t let Arthur know that. No. She had to figure out a way for Arthur to become her new cash cow. It was the only way to continue her extravagant lifestyle. She straightened up and cleared her throat. “Arthur, I said I will have to consider your proposal and I will speak to the accountant next week. I simply cannot hand you money after the last time when you said you were looking for work, but instead ran off to give your talents away for free on the Dark Continent.”

“But, mother!” he exclaimed. 

“That is final, Arthur. Now, go to your room and settle in. I have some chores for you; as long as you are here you will earn your keep . So go get changed and come down later. Everything is as you left it.” 

*****

With the bout of hypothermia finally subsiding, Vastra was ready to resume the investigation of this “Jack the Ripper” in earnest. She threw the newspaper down in disgust at all the publicity this case was getting. Especially the unflattering publicity of her and the Yard.

“These newspapers should be warning people to stay vigilant and report suspicious persons to Scotland Yard. Not criticizing the efforts to capture this murderer,” Vastra scowled. “And how dare they suggest that because I am not a human male I am incapable of solving this crime?”

“To be fair, they didn’t say you weren’t human,” Jenny said, trying to add some humor to the situation. Vastra was not amused.  

“Are these all the photographs from the two latest murder scenes?” Vastra asked. 

“All the clerk delivered, so I assume so,” Jenny replied. 

“I cannot believe I slept for two whole days!” Vastra said, disappointed that her body had failed her. “What if he had struck again?”

“But he didn’t,” Jenny reassured her. “And at least you weren’t as sick as last time when you were out for weeks.” 

“He will strike again,” Vastra said, ignoring Jenny’s attempts to make her feel better. “It is just a matter of time before the exhilaration of these murders wears off and he will be right back out there. And mark my words, it will be sooner rather than later.”

“Well, you’re all better now,” Jenny tried to reassure Vastra. “And we’ll be ready.”   

“Will we? How can we be? We know nothing of the perpetrator other than his scent. And only I know that. So far all we have managed to do is document his murders. We are no closer to discovering whom he is or how to capture him.” Vastra was being hard on herself and taking her anger out on Jenny. Watching Jenny’s face fall in disappointment, she let out an exasperated sigh. “What do we know about the victims of 30 September?” 

Jenny put her feelings aside and got to work updating Vastra. “The first victim was Elizabeth Stride. She was a prostitute who worked exclusively on Berner Street where she was killed. She lived in a common lodging-house in Spitalfields. Unmarried. Children either grown or no longer in her care.” 

Vastra studied the pictures from the crime scene, now tacked to the rolling board she had grown to rely on with her detective work.

“Second victim is Catherine Eddowes,” Jenny continued to catch Vastra up, “also lived in a common lodging-house, Spitalfields; but not the same one as Miss Stride. Her common law husband John Kelly was questioned by Lang and released as not a suspect.”

“Of course he is not a suspect,” Vastra spat. “He did not do this. That man, that ape, ‘Jack the Ripper’ did this. And this poor woman just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.” Vastra paused momentarily to calm her temper. “Has Lang or Abberline commented further on either murder, other than the obvious gruesome nature of the crimes?”

“Not really,” Jenny said. “But I have something for you.” She smiled at Vastra. She pulled her hand from her apron pocket and held it toward Vastra. It was closed in a loose fist and she was obviously hiding something inside she intended to pass along. 

“What do you have there?” Vastra asked. “This is no time to be giving me presents, Jenny.” 

“Oh, I think you’ll like this one.” Jenny smiled bigger. 

Vastra extended an open hand, palm up, and nodded for Jenny to drop whatever she was holding. A white handkerchief fell from Jenny’s hand into Vastra’s. It was tied to keep its treasure held securely inside. Tiny, reddish-brown specks, almost invisible to the naked human eye, stained the fabric from liquid that had seeped through. 

The scent hit Vastra’s sensitive tongue instantly. The metallic taste of blood, the soap used to launder the handkerchief, and pheromones from someone not in this room. “Jenny?” Vastra looked to her partner and back to the parcel resting in her palm. She untied the knot and exposed the prize inside: a sterling silver thimble. 

“Jenny, where did you get this?”

“At the Eddowes crime scene,” she said. “I went by after I picked up the file notes from Abberline. I found it against a wall, close to where the victim had been laying. I didn’t know if it was important, but I picked it up with my kerchief. I didn’t touch it. Detectives must have overlooked it.”

Vastra continued to take in the scents from the object. She was so fascinated with what this meant she didn’t even criticize the incompetence of the detectives who overlooked this vital piece of evidence. 

“I thought it might be hers,” Jenny said. “But if it is, there’s no evidence that she was doing any seamstress work for money. I spoke with some of the women around the lodging-house and none of them knew of her doing any work of that type.”

“It is his,” Vastra stated with utmost certainty. 

“His?” 

“Yes. Our murderer is a tailor.” 

*****

Arthur paced the length of the new Persian rug that lay upon the floor of his room. A reminder of the wealth his mother had at her disposal and that he did not. He abhorred her lifestyle—flaunting money that wasn’t really hers. Money she had only acquired through marriage. Money that should be his as the only heir of his father. 

She had not worked a day in her life. Had not earned a single shilling of the family wealth. And here she was, spending it on rugs to be laid out in rooms that were never used. On art that should never have even been created. On servants who wait on her every need as she greedily spent the inheritance that should be his.

“Arthur,” his mother called from the sitting room like a common hooligan. “I’ve prepared tea.”

“Where’s Annabelle?” he asked. “Why hasn’t she prepared tea? Why are you doing all of her duties? You’ve made supper all week as well.” 

“I have given Annabelle the week off.” 

“The week off? While I am visiting? Shouldn’t she be here this week of all weeks?” he asked. 

“She had a family emergency and had to take her leave,” Cora said. 

“And Gregory? Did he too have a family emergency? I have noticed he has yet to return with the carriage. And now you have me fetching wood from the shed.”  

Cora scoffed. “It would do you good to earn your keep while you are here,” she said. “The carriage was repaired yesterday and I have sent Gregory to Edinburgh.”

“Edinburgh? Whatever for?”

“To purchase supplies for the party I am throwing this weekend,” she said. 

“Party? Party!” the short man was visibly angry. “And what has the accountant said? Hmmm? You seem to have money to throw away. Has he told you how much you can spare to help me start up our new lives in London?”

“So you have decided on London have you?” Cora snipped. “Is Paris off the table then?”

“London, Paris, it doesn’t matter,” Arthur snapped. 

“See,” Cora started, “this is why I didn’t just hand you the money. You are impulsive and emotional.” But this was not why she hadn’t handed him the money. She had ulterior motives of her own. If she couldn’t snag a new husband to keep the money flowing in, perhaps it was time her son took up the slack. If she could stall him long enough and convince him to move to Glasgow and take care of her, she could be spared the expense of moving back to London. And although Glasgow wasn’t as posh as London or Paris, she had risen to the pinnacle of the social ladder. And it was better to be the biggest fish in a smaller pond than just another grouper in London or a guppy in Paris. This is what she had reconciled over the past few days.

Arthur sulked with his arms crossed and his nose crinkled. 

“The party will be fun. And filled with the Glasgow elite. I want you to meet some ladies. It’s about time you settled down. And there will be other doctors there. Perhaps you can speak with them about getting on at the hospital. I’m sure they would love to have you, what with your experience at The London and your philanthropy abroad.” 

Arthur was furious. He needed his mother’s money—not her social connections. And he certainly did not need her wasting it on elaborate parties that he didn’t intend to go to.  “I appreciate the sentiment, mother. But the sooner you can give me the funds, the sooner I can begin building our new lives in either London or Paris. Or if you wish, Milan or Madrid.” 

“Why would l want to move to Madrid?” Cora asked. 

“The point is, mother,” his patience was growing thin, “I can get you out of this hell hole and back to civilization. And I can do it faster if you just give me the money.” 

“We will speak of this again next week, after the party. But right now I need to go to the market. Please be a good lad and hail me a cab, would you dear boy.” 

Arthur scowled at Cora. “Why don’t I go with you?” He hoped to lessen her spending and talk her out of this party nonsense. 

“I am perfectly fine to go on my own, thank you,” she said. She threw in a final jab. “That cab isn’t going to hail itself.” 

*****

Jenny pulled the small notebook from her trouser pocket and wrote down the name and address of the tailor shop. This was the fifty-fourth entry and she still had several days before she covered the area Vastra had assigned her.  The task was tedious and beneath her skills; but it had to be done. One thing she had learned assisting Vastra with her investigations was that most of the time, most of the work was menial. That didn’t make it any less important. And it required speaking with the locals and winning their trust—something Vastra was simply not adept at.

“What if he’s in there?” Jenny wondered. “What if that’s him, right there?” She looked at the man inside the shop who was meticulously measuring and recording dimensions of a pair of trousers. “That can’t be him,” she convinced herself. “He looks harmless. He’s small as me.” She paused. “But I’m not harmless.” 

“Miss, you a’right?” asked a man on the street.

“Wut?” Jenny looked up at the man, confused. 

“You were talking to yourself,” the man said. “And you’re wearing men’s trousers. Are you a’right?”

“Oi,” Jenny got defensive. “Mind your business and move along. Official police investigation going on here.” She clearly wasn’t officially on the Yard payroll or acknowledged as staff; but she was tired of people telling her what she could and couldn’t wear. And saying that was easier than getting into another argument.

The man inside the shop was watching since Jenny raised her voice. He paid her little attention and went right back to work as soon as she made eye contact with him again. 

 *****

Jenny finished placing the last pin on the custom map she had given Vastra at the beginning of the investigation. 

“That is all of them?” Vastra asked. 

“All of the tailors in and around Whitechapel, yes,” Jenny beamed. “You have your work cut out for you.” There were over a hundred pins. Some represented tailor shops. Some were laundries that offered tailoring and alteration services. Still others were suit shops with a tailor on staff. “I wish I could help with this part.”

“Unless you develop a Silurian tongue, I am afraid this task is all mine.” Vastra’s assignment now was to visit each location on the list and see if she could pick up the scent of the killer. “I suspect this will take the better part of the week. I will be limited to business hours and as always I am sure the humans that run the store will attempt to engage me in conversation-especially once they recognize me and know I am working on this case.” 

“Are you going to tell Abberline?” Jenny asked. Abberline knew Vastra’s secret, that she could track the killer using her sensitive Silurian tongue. “About the thimble?”

“No,” Vastra answered. “The Yard is pursuing other leads and theories. I will notify Abberline when I have located the killer’s scent. Until then the thimble and the tailor lead are ours alone.” Jenny smiled. She was glad Vastra seemed pleased with the evidence. 

“You still think he’s just showing up at work like nothing has happened? As if he is just a normal person that hasn’t killed four women?” Jenny asked. “Four women that we know of.”

“What else would he do?” Vastra asked. “Murderers have to make a living like everyone else. They have normal lives most of the time. Then every so often they kill. My bet is that he is working as we speak, sewing up someone’s trousers, and thinking about his next victim.”

*****

 “Mother!” Arthur yelled. “Do you really expect me to mend all of these clothes for you?”

“Yes, Arthur,” she smiled. “As long as you are here I will put you to work.” 

“Where is Annabelle?” he asked. “She should be darning your socks and replacing these buttons. These are the hands of a surgeon and you’d have me as your common tailor!”

“If you are a surgeon then where are your patients?” Cora quipped. “Until you get a job I will put you to work as long as you are here. Now get busy with those garments. I have more waiting in the other wardrobe.” 

Cora had been especially full of herself since the party. Though it paled in comparison to the ones she threw in London; it was still extravagant enough to make Arthur nervous about how much of his inheritance she had spent.

“But you will speak with the accountant this week?” Arthur asked. 

“Hrumph,” Cora dismissed the question. “Just be a good lad and do your chores.”

*****

Vastra, exhausted from a week of scouting tailors, laundries, and suit shops, fell into the chaise in her office. “I feel as though I have been to every tailor in London!” 

“Not even close, love,” Jenny said as she brought in tea to warm Vastra’s insides. 

“We will need to expand our search area,” Vastra said without getting up or seeming to care one iota for the warm tea Jenny was pouring up.

“Maybe not,” Jenny smiled. “I have new information.” This got Vastra’s attention. “But now that I think about it, I’m not sure it’s better. No, it’s definitely worse.” Her smile disappeared. 

Vastra sat up. How bad could it be? It was already like looking for a needle in a haystack, and London wasn’t getting any smaller. So really, it couldn’t get worse. “Out with it then.”

“We haven’t entertained the fact that this tailor could be working from home,” Jenny said. “I was visiting the butcher on Park Street and I noticed a women taking trousers and whatnot into the stairwell of the apartment above the shop. I asked the butcher what was going on, and he said a little old lady lived up there and did alterations and mending to pay her rent.”

“So it is worse,” Vastra said and fell back into the chaise. “Our ‘tailor’ could be anywhere. Not just shops. But working from his own home. Jenny you have just expanded our search area one hundred fold!”

“It may not be as bad as you think,” Jenny tried to reassure her. She sat down the tea and joined Vastra on the chaise. “You’ve always believed our murderer lived somewhat close to the crime scenes. You theorized that when he left the Stride scene he was headed home and he happened onto Miss Eddowes along the way.” 

Jenny stood up and walked over to the rolling board where they had mapped out the area. She pulled a piece of red yarn from her apron pocket and secured one end around the pin that marked Elizabeth Stride’s murder scene. “So what if we,” she then pulled the string toward Catherine Eddowes’ murder scene and wrapped he yarn around that pin as well, “keep pulling this string in that direction and concentrate our efforts there?” She then took a pen from the tray and drew a large circle on the map to the northwest of where the second victim was discovered. “Using your theory, my guess is he’s somewhere around here. We haven’t focused in this area because it has few shops and is mostly residential. And all we have to do is knock on every door until we find him.” Jenny smiled, proud of herself.

Vastra wasn’t convinced. “It is merely a theory that he resides in that area—as you said. I could be wrong and we will waste time knocking on every door.” 

“We won’t actually knock on every door, you daft lizard,” Jenny said, making her way back to Vastra and the chaise. It seemed nothing was going to pull Vastra from her foul mood—a challenge Jenny welcomed whole-heartedly. She stood in front of Vastra, pulled her skirt up just enough for the mobility necessary to put one knee on either side of Vastra’s legs and straddle her lap. She placed a soft, warm palm on either side of Vastra’s cool, scaled face. “I’ll start asking the locals about home tailors, and you’ll just walk around and put that lovely Silurian tongue to good use.” Jenny smiled a wicked smile and placed a tender kiss on Vastra’s lips. “This is the best theory we have, and we’re ahead of the Yard on this one. So I say we go for it.”

Vastra reached up and grabbed Jenny and pulled her into her. “You always do know how to cheer me up.” 

*****

It was the middle of October. Jack the Ripper hadn’t struck since the double murder on 30 September. And neither Vastra nor the Yard was any closer to finding a suspect. However, with renewed vigor, Jenny and Vastra took to the streets for a full search of the area Jenny had circled on the map.

By the middle of the afternoon Jenny had recorded a dozen or more tailors and seamstresses who worked from their homes. She ruled out the females, of course, shortening her list to five suspects for Vastra to investigate. As she turned onto a new street, a carriage pulled alongside her.  An excited Vastra opened the door. “Get in, Jenny. I have found him!”

“So what do we do now?” Jenny asked, as they peered from the carriage to the apartment above the shop on Dover Street. 

“We wait until dark. And if he has not arrived home by then, we break in.” 

*****

Vastra stood guard as Jenny picked the lock. The smell of stale sweat and blood hit Vastra’s tongue the second the door was cracked. And there it was, the unmistakable scent of Jack the Ripper’s pheromone signature. 

They searched the single room apartment without disturbing anything. They didn’t want to tip him off that they had found him.

“He has not been here in days, perhaps weeks,” Vastra said as she inspected the unfinished articles of clothing that lay in wait for tailoring. “Is it possible that he fled town after his botched double murder?” 

“Vastra,” Jenny called from the sink. “There’s a scalpel in here.”

Vastra snaked her long tongue from her mouth and inspected the blade. It had been washed clean, and scents so rarely lingered on surgical steel. Something caught her attention. It was a cloth. She snapped her tongue to the piece of fabric and took in all the scents—Jack the Ripper’s, Eddowes’, and Stride’s. 

Vastra’s eyes darkened and Jenny knew the significance of this reaction. 

“This will require ‘round the clock surveillance,” Vastra said. “Rally some of your more trustworthy spies and bid them one shilling each to linger in the vicinity and fetch me immediately upon our man’s arrival. I shall endeavor tomorrow to learn his name.”

*****

“I am meeting the accountant on the morrow and we will discuss what is feasible for starting your own practice here in Glasgow,” Cora said.

“Very good, I shall accompany you.” 

“No, Arthur,” Cora said. “I think I am quite capable of handling my own affairs. I have been on my own since your father died and you saw fit to flee the country.” She never tired of throwing that in his face. That he had abandoned her in her time of need. That he chose to give up a lucrative career as a surgeon and go volunteer with savages—although that wasn’t actually the case, but she didn’t know. She thought she could guilt her only son, her only offspring into supporting her. But she hadn’t counted on the fact that he too had an agenda. And his desire to “save the souls of the wretched” outweighed her desire to be taken care of. 

“As you wish, Mother.” 

The next morning Cora left in a taxi, leaving Arthur with a list of chores and mounting anxiety. Unrolling the leather case that held the scalpels, Arthur’s breath hitched. The sight of his blades always made him feel a sense of excitement. Touching the sharp edges, feeling the cool steel on his fingertips made him shiver with the kind of excitement usually reserved for lovers. It had been sixteen days since his last kill. And although it was thorough, it was unsatisfying. 

The first attempt— interrupted. The second attempt—so much rage he barely remembered it. He longed to feel the blade as it found its way through layers of skin and tissue. There was nothing quite like feeling the different amounts of resistance each type of tissue provided. His patience was wearing thin. But if his mother would finance a clinic in Glasgow, although he preferred London, no need to look a gift horse in the mouth. 

“Mrs. Cora.” A sweet, Scottish, female voice rang out from downstairs. “I stopped by to see if you needed anything. Mrs. Cora?” 

Shoving the scalpel in his trouser pocket, Arthur ran downstairs. 

“May I help you?” Arthur asked before rounding a corner and almost bowling right into poor Annabelle.

“Oh!” Annabelle said, startled. She pulled back from the short man. “Arthur? Arthur, is that you? I haven’t seen you in so long.”

“Hello, Annabelle,” he said. He was never particularly fond of Annabelle. When his parents first moved to Glasgow he had attempted to court Annabelle, despite her being their maid. She was attractive and seemed virtuous and pure—the kind of woman he coveted. But she had rejected his advances. Now, she was just a reminder of the money his mother was throwing away. “How is your family?”

A confused look spread across Annabelle’s face. Arthur had never asked about her family, and she saw no reason as to why he would be asking now. “They are well.” 

“Good to hear. Mother said you had a family emergency.” He smiled a crooked, forced smile. “I suppose it all worked out alright.” 

“Family emergency?” Annabelle was well and truly confused. “Heavens no. I’ve been working for the McLeroys. Ever since your mother had to severely limit my pay I’ve been forced to seek work elsewhere. I just thought I would check on her since I haven’t been around this month. Perhaps you misheard. Mr. McLeroy did have an episode of fever a bit ago. But he’s much better now.”

Arthur played with the scalpel in his pocket. “Yes, I suppose that’s it. Do come have a spot of tea. Mother is away at the accountant’s. She has graciously agreed to finance a medical practice for me here in Glasgow.” Arthur smiled at Annabelle and followed her to the kitchen.  

“I don’t know how she can afford that,” Annabelle said as she prepared things for tea. Although she was the guest, old habits die hard and she knew her way around this house as if it were her own. 

“Whatever do you mean?” Arthur tried to hold the smile fixed in place. 

“Mrs. Cora had to let myself and Gregory go some months back. I still come by, when I can, and help out. As does Gregory, especially for things like firewood. Things your mother can’t do on her own. But she’s not had the funds to pay us for half a year now.” 

Arthur struggled to maintain his smile. But his lips quivered with rage in the corners. His fingers mindlessly fondled the scalpel in his pocket and he suddenly sliced his fingertip. “Ouch.” 

The tea kettle whistled and masked his outburst. “Are you alright, Arthur?”

“Yes, quite. The kettle just startled me.”

Arthur mulled over options and let his anger toward his mother grow. He clutched the scalpel, tempted to take his anger out on the poor innocent Annabelle. But he decided against it. He wanted all his wrath to go to his mother. 

“I’ve just remembered I cannot entertain guests at the moment,” Arthur said, just as Annabelle was about to serve tea. 

“Oh?”

“Yes, dreadfully sorry,” Arthur said as he attempted to stop the bleeding from his finger; his hand still hiding the wound in his trouser pocket. “And I will look after Mother now. Tell Gregory that his services are no longer needed. Neither are yours, Annabelle.”

“But Arthur,” Annabelle said as Arthur pushed her toward the door with his left hand, “I love Mrs. Cora and I help her because I want to.”

“Not anymore!” Arthur said, and slammed the door in her face. “I will help her now!”

*****

“Are you sure?” Abberline asked. 

“Quite,” Vastra assured him. “His scent dominates the apartment. There was a scalpel and a cloth with his scent along with that of his last two victims. He has not been home in a while. I suspect he left town after his last outing. He was probably humiliated and frustrated and needed to not be reminded of his failures.” 

“Where do you presume he went?” 

“I do not presume. But upon meeting with the shopkeeper below his apartment I now know the name of our ‘Jack the Ripper’.”

Abberline gasped. “You do?”

“Arthur Harris,” Vastra smiled, her veil removed while dining in the usual private room at the Rose Kettle Tea Room.

“Hmmm,” Abberline looked perplexed. “Not an uncommon name. Most likely we will encounter multiple men of that name in our search.” 

“Indeed,” Vastra agreed. “Narrow down any findings by occupation. Our Mr. Harris is working as a tailor, but the use of the scalpel and the precision of his carvings, suggest to me that he was once a doctor. Probably a surgeon.”

“I’ll head back to the Yard and start looking through case files for anyone named Arthur Harris. But it will take some time given that I won’t be able to explain how I came about the name.”

“Very well,” Vastra said. “I will go to the registry department and see if I can find information on the doctors who are registered to practice in London.”

*****

Arthur bided his time. Despite every fiber of his being practically vibrating the words “kill her,” Arthur bided his time. Ever since his mother had gotten back from the accountant’s office two days ago, when, upon her arrival, she notified Arthur that the accountant had called in sick with a respiratory disorder. “He will not be in until next Monday and I shall see him then.” Arthur knew it was a lie. He bided his time. But time was up.

“Why did you not move back to London after father died?” Arthur asked. He and his mother sat in the parlor having evening tea and each reading a book.

“Excuse me?” Cora asked. She tried to make it sound as if she didn’t hear the question. 

“You heard me, mother. Why have you remained her in Glasgow when you had such a grand life in London? I assumed you missed it. That you couldn’t wait to get back to it.”

“Well, Arthur, you wouldn’t understand.” 

“Why wouldn’t I understand, mother?”

“Because you’ve never been in love, Arthur,” Cora said. 

He wondered what her angle was. He knew why she hadn’t moved back. She was flat broke. He had visited the accountant the day before. The accountant she had sworn was ill and unavailable until next week. The numbers man showed him the books of his father’s estate. Arthur’s father was practically penniless by the time he died. Cora had drained his accounts, what she could get to, trying to recreate the life she had in London. 

“Your father did have other accounts,” the accountant told him. “Ones she wasn’t allowed to get to. Still isn’t. She receives a weekly allowance from these accounts, per your father’s will.” Arthur took the liberty of playing the heir card and emptied out his mother’s allowance accounts. He now had everything he had come to Scotland for.

“Love? What do you know of love?” he spat at her. “That’s not why you didn’t move back, mother.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Cora played dumb. 

“You know exactly what I mean. I visited the accountant yesterday, mother. He told me everything. How could you do that to Father?” Arthur rose from the chair he had occupied across from his mother. He slowly pulled the scalpel from his trouser pocket and clutched it in his hand. “How could you do that to ME!”

With the controlled precision of a surgeon, Arthur severed his mother’s trachea in one swift motion. The action was intentional, calculated. In this state, she couldn’t speak, she couldn’t breathe, she couldn’t call for help. She would be forced to listen and to suffer as she died. 

“You spent MY money,” Arthur yelled. His mother crawled on the floor trying to get away from him. He followed, looming over her. “That was MY money, mother. I was his son and his fortune was supposed to go to ME!”

He kicked her in the ribs, toppling her to the floor, and ensuring she could not leave the parlor. 

“You were going to use me as your cash cow to fund your extravagant lifestyle!”

Cora wanted to speak. She wanted to shout at her son that he was a hypocrite and a liar. That he had only been trying to use her as well to fund his ridiculous notion of starting a private practice.

As if he knew what she was thinking, he smiled at her. “Oh, I didn’t want your money to start a practice, mother. I wanted it so I could continue to rid the horrid women of London of their ability to defile themselves and keep filling the streets with bastard children born out of wedlock and who are blinded to God!” 

Cora’s eyes grew wide. She didn’t know exactly what her son was ranting about, but she was terrified of what he had become. 

“Jack the Ripper, mother. That’s what they call me in London. A bold moniker for sure. Strikes fear in the women. You can always count on the press to make you into something bigger than you really are. More fantastic. I’m simply doing God’s work.” 

Cora was now gasping for air. She was suffocating. Arthur just looked at her in disgust. 

He wiped her blood from his blade and replaced it in his pocket. 

“Goodbye, mother.” With that, he closed the door to the parlor and locked it. He could hear the last gurgling sounds of his mother gasping in vain. He drew a bath and soaked in the hot water, humming and smiling. 

*****

“I hope you had better luck than I did,” Abberline said to Vastra upon her entry into the private tea room at the Rose Kettle.

“What did you find?” she asked. 

“Quite nothing,” Abberline admitted. 

“Then I say I indeed bested you,” Vastra threw her veil back and smiled. “Arthur Harris, aka Jack the Ripper, practiced surgery at The London until such time his medical license was revoked and he was forbidden from practising in all of Great Britain.” 

“Why was it revoked?” Abberline asked. 

“He had a habit of admitting women of a particular nature into his surgery theatre to rid them of unwanted embryos. On more than one occasion the patient died due to his practice of removing all of her female organs and not being careful about stopping the bleeding.”

“Good lord,” Abberline gasped. “Why didn’t the Yard hear of this?”

“I can only suspect that the London did not want their reputation tarnished. They decided to handle the matter themselves. His official dismissal notice cited ‘incompetency’ as the reason he lost his license. But I was able to dig deeper and find the unofficial report, or at least enough of it to understand.” 

“And thus we inherit Jack the Ripper!” Abberline slammed his fist onto the table so hard it spurred a server to enter the private room to check on them. Abberline shooed her away as Vastra diverted her uncovered face from view. “Are we any closer to locating this fiend?”

“The file also contained the name of his next of kin. Father, Hubert Harris, deceased. Mother, Cora Harris, very much alive and residing in Glasgow. I shall leave for Scotland at once.”

“No,” Abberline said. “I’ll telegraph a friend in the police there. I’ll ask him to check in on my friend Cora, that I hadn’t heard from her in a month or so. It’ll be faster.” 

“Very well,” Vastra nodded. “If he is with her, however, we will need to set off straight away.” 

*****

 A frantic knock on the front door awakened Jenny. Abberline busted through the door, not waiting for an invitation. “I need to see Vastra, now. I’ll wait in her office and I’ll get a fire going in there for her.” 

“Very kind of you,” Jenny smiled. “She’ll be sluggish and cold.” 

After fifteen minutes Vastra made it down the stairs. The fire Abberline built had done an adequate job of heating the room and she quickly made her way toward it. 

“I know it is important, so out with it.” She was too cold to be polite. 

“Cora Harris has been murdered, her throat slashed in her own home. Her accountant said her son, Arthur Harris, visited him three weeks ago and cleaned out his father’s remaining accounts. Cora’s servants verified Arthur arrived at Mrs. Harris’ home on 1 October.”

“Dear god,” Vastra said. “When was Mrs. Harris murdered?” 

“My friend in the police said she was discovered two weeks ago, but she had been deceased for quite some time before they found her. Since it seemed an isolated occurrence, they did not inquire about other similar cases.” 

“Surely they know about our own cases here in London,” Vastra said. “Jack the Ripper is in every newspaper in all of Great Britain.” 

“They did not link them because Mrs. Harris was not a prostitute. Nor did they think Jack the Ripper would be so far away from London.”

“Did you tell them Arthur was our Jack the Ripper?” Vastra asked. 

“No,” Abberline said. “I would not be able to divulge how I arrived at the conclusion that Arthur was our suspect. So I felt it best we handle this off the books.” 

Vastra understood his meaning. He was giving her permission to pursue Jack the Ripper on her own, and deal with him in her own way. “Where is he now?” 

“He fled Glasgow. He could be anywhere, though I suspect he will return to London.” 

“I shall continue to survey his apartment. There’s no reason he will not return there if he does return to London.”

*****

The train screeched to a stop in the station. “Last stop, London. Everyone must deboard,” the Conductor said. The train had been delayed, as they always seemed to be, by unexpected maintenance at Oxford station.

It was the middle of the night, 8 November. Exactly three weeks to the day when he killed his mother in the parlor of her Glasgow home. 

Arthur shielded his face from the gas lamps, which gave off enough light to easily be recognized should anyone be looking for him. He couldn’t be certain that his exploits across Great Britain over the past three weeks hadn’t been linked and the police were on the lookout. But the fact that he only saw two bobbies patrolling the platform assured him that the police force was as incompetent as ever and had not yet communicated regarding his killing spree. Alive with hope, he disappeared into the night to find his next victim. 

Arriving in Spitalfields, Arthur methodically walked up and down each street in search of the right victim. He was at home. He was comfortable. And he was confident. He could take his time; not be hasty like he was in Edinburgh, New Castle, Manchester, Liverpool, Birmingham, or Oxford over the past three weeks. No, he could satisfy his cravings with all the discipline and ritual his obsession demanded.

“Two pence for a bagpipe in the ally,” a random prostitute propositioned Arthur. 

“Vulgar harlot,” he growled under his breath. This was his twelfth proposition since he entered Spitalfields. Each more vile than the other.  

“Five pence buys you a private room for an hour.” 

Arthur stopped in his tracks. He turned to look at the redhead that stood leaned against a wall on Dorset Street. She wasn’t particularly pretty or ugly; she was ordinary. But she spoke with learning and not in that dreadful cockney accent so many in this part of London were prone to. She had gone to school or been taught at home. So how did she wind up here? He didn’t really care to find out, but it still crossed his mind. 

Inside the prostitute’s room, she stacked the money the short man had given her on a small table and turned to face him, “So what’s your…”

Before she could finish her thought a blade cut deep into her throat. She fell, lifeless, within seconds. The slash severed her jugular vein, aortic artery, windpipe, esophagus, and all soft tissue down to her cervical spine. It was as if all Arthur’s anger fueled the blow.

Arthur picked her up and placed her on the bed, posing her like a doll. He took his time cutting and carving away at his victim. Removing organs, one by one, he laid them around the body—draping her in visceral robes. 

“You should keep a memento,” a voice said to him. 

“No,” he replied. “There is no need for that.” 

“Sure there is,” he told himself. “Keep the heart. As a reminder of how much you care.” 

“Of course.” 

He placed the heart in his coat pocket and stood beside his masterpiece, soaking in all the vile perfection he had created. He was soaked in blood and bile and all the other contents of that woman. His dark clothes would mask some of it, but he needed to get cleaned up soon. Somehow he registered this need and exited 13 Miller’s Court and headed out, just an hour before sunrise. 

Vastra was restless and impatient in the carriage. But the cold, wet November weather forced her hand. She had little choice than to remain put and peer out of the curtains every so often.  Occasionally she saw Jenny’s little spies, all children of young age, pass by and gaze up at the apartment window for signs that the occupant had returned. She was happy to see she was still getting her shilling’s worth! 

“It will be light in an hour,” she said aloud to herself. “I am wasting my time sitting here.” Hoping out of the carriage she let Parker know her intentions. “I have to stretch my legs. Wait here and I shall be back soon for you to take me home.” She set out walking toward the Whitechapel District. 

Crossing Hit Street, Vastra spun around as the scent of her quarry filled her nose and mouth. She threw her veil back, risking being seen, but she did not care. The putrid stench that Jack the Ripper left trailing down the street was ripe with his latest victim. 

“He has struck again!”

Vastra single mindedly followed the trail her prey laid. He was headed toward the Thames. This could work to her advantage. Through the twisting, turning alleyways, ignoring the barkers for the opium dens, brothels, and gambling halls, Vastra remained focused. Finally, she spotted her quarry looking out over the water in a secluded part of the docks near the livestock yards and rendering plant.  

“Be gone, Madame,” the short man said upon seeing Vastra’s veiled figure approaching him. “My lust has already been slaked this evening.” 

“But what about mine?” Vastra asked. “Are you the only one who deserves satisfaction? Jack?”

Arthur turned on his heel. “You have me confused with another. My name is Arthur.”

“You go by many names, Arthur Harris.” Vastra approached to within a yard of her quarry. She wanted to lull him into false security. Stand within his striking distance. She wanted him to pull the blade so she could have the satisfaction of taking his weapon from him. “Though most Londoners would know you by your moniker, Jack the Ripper.”

“Ah yes,” Arthur said. A sense of recognition in his tone. “You are the one the papers call the Great Female Detective. Last headline I read you were being made a fool of by this Jack the Ripper. Are you so desperate to cast blame on me?”

He was cool, calm. Confident because of his recent conquest. 

“Even if I am who you say I am, you have no proof or else you would be arresting me right now. Are you arresting me, Madame?” 

“Not as much,” Vastra said. “You see. Like you, I have a mysterious side. A side so few ever see. But unlike you, I have figured out how to use my talents to fit into human society. Then, every so often, I get to indulge in a favorite pastime and hunt abhorrent humans like prey.”

“I am no one’s prey.” 

“You have been my prey for many months now, Arthur Harris. The chase has been slow, slower than my liking, but here we are, nonetheless. I have captured you and you will you will be devoured!”

Arthur pulled his scalpel. He wasn’t about to be taken by a woman. 

Vastra pulled her veil back, revealing her Silurian features to the short man. He froze in fear. She seized the opportunity and whipped her tongue out, stinging him in the wrist and causing him to drop his weapon. 

He backed away. Vastra followed. She kicked the scalpel into the river. “You will not be needing that any longer.” 

“What are you? No one will believe you,” Arthur bellowed. “You have no proof. You are a monster.”  

Vastra snaked her tongue out, this time slowly and methodical. “I have all the proof I need. And by the smell of your right coat pocket, you have retained evidence of the murder you have committed tonight.” 

Arthur was shaking. He was powerless against Vastra. He had lost all advantage. Pulling the heart of his latest victim from his pocket, he begged Vastra for mercy. “Please. I am just trying to cure these women of their vile sins.” 

“You are a murderer. And you will die, here, tonight for what you have done.”

“Go ahead,” he laughed. “You kill me and leave me for a passing bobbie to find. The heart will be linked to my most recent masterpiece and I will live forever. I will be known forever as the world’s greatest killer.”

“No,” Vastra said flatly. “I will not have you die a martyr to anyone who would follow you. No. I will drink my fill of your warm blood and then feed you to the hogs. By the time the workers arrive there will be nothing left. Jack the Ripper will disappear into gossip, a failure. There will be nothing left of you or your story.” 

“No. Please. I beg you.” 

“I will show you the same mercy you showed your victims.” With a snap of her wrist, Vastra unsheathed her tanto and loosed the blade. It stuck true, buried deep within Arthur’s neck. She would have liked to have taken her time with him. To make him suffer for his crimes, but it was nearly daylight. She had to be quick and deliberate. 

Arthur gasped and grasped at the blade. He stumbled backwards and tripped over a coil of rope. Vastra moved to stand over him. To lord over her fallen prey. Reaching down, she pulled the blade from Arthur’s neck. Blood rushed out and pooled beneath the body. It reminded Vastra of all the scenes he had left in his wake. 

Leaning down, she drank of his blood as it flowed from his neck. Warm and metallic it was her first taste of human blood in a long time. Drinking her fill, she hoisted the body over her shoulder and headed for the nearest swine yard. 

***

The carriage pulled up to Paternoster Row, number thirteen, and Vastra calmly exited like it was any other day. “Thank you, Parker. I won’t be needing you again today.”

“Yes m’lady.” He answered and drove the carriage around to the ally to unhitch and settle the horse.

“You look to be in an exceptionally good mood, love,” Jenny said, meeting Vastra at the door.

“Send a telegram to Inspector Abberline at the Yard. Jack the Ripper has claimed his last victim.” 

“You found him?” Jenny asked. 

“Yes,” Vastra said. “But not before he killed again. It was the blood in his clothes that alerted me. I could smell it from two streets away. Then I picked up his pheromones. Unmistakable. I confronted him on the docks. He resisted, I did not.” 

“Congratulations, love. However, a matter has arisen in the drawing room.” 

Vastra’s expression was a mixture of confusion and concern. Jenny wasn’t easily shaken, but Vastra could sense from her pheromones that something odd was at hand. 

They walked into the drawing room, Vastra still shedding outer layers of clothing. “It just appeared,” Jenny said, “what does it mean?”

“It means,” Vastra started, “that a very old debt is to be repaid.”

Vastra turned to her very capable partner. 

“Pack the cases, Jenny. And we’ll need the swords.”