Fandom Into the Heart of the Ripper {Closed}

[Asteria]

“For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,
And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed;
And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill,
And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still!”
- George Gordon Byron
​

@gifs from tumblr: janeeyyre
Kassandra Rose ​

 

[Asteria]

Chapter I
'The Arrival'
November 9th, 1896​

LISANNE WRIGHT

If there was one thing that Lisanne Wright wished she could change about London – excluding the series of unfortunate and gruesome events that had been plaguing its streets for the past three months – it would be the weather. She had found it bearable most days, for she had the cold British blood and the utter ignorance for anything unrelated to one’s business that came with it, but she could no longer stand it. It was not necessarily about the threatening cloudy skies, the relentless and frequent rains or the perpetual darkness that made it difficult to discern morning from night – it was the fog she found most unsettling. The smoke from the nearby factory chimneys, coupled with the air’s dampness, created a strange and dense mixture, which engulfed the Port of London, suffocating its docked ships and facilities.

‘It is not about the fog’, Lisanne found herself thinking, ‘it is about what lies within’. The fog had turned to be a harbour for heinous acts, be it a petty theft or a murder carried out for revenge, and those who committed them. A pickpocket, one who lured his disoriented victims into the fog only to rid them of their belongings on a daily basis was, however, simple dust in the wind compared to the murderer whose name had parted everyone’s lips in shock.

Jack the Ripper.

It was as if his shadow loomed over every secluded street corner, heavy and unforgiving. If it was not for the three men at her side, who the two united police forces of London had spared for Dr. Laszlo Kreizler’s arrival, she might have thought twice before venturing out that day. The reminder of the guns they carried – one carefully placed in the inside pocket of their fall coats and another tucked into their belts, at their backs – offered her some comfort. Nonetheless, they were dressed as civilians in order to not attract unwanted attention. Dr. Laszlo Kreizler’s arrival was no secret; the newspapers would not allow such an event to escape them, but the police wanted to offer the Doctor and his associates at least a day’s respite before they would delve deeper into the persona of Jack the Ripper.

And, as if on a cue, the minute the damned name passed through her mind once more, an unexpected and loud noise filled the air. It did not seem to be close, but it was enough to get Lisanne to turn her head and peek over her shoulder in the distance, dark strands of hair escaping from underneath her silk ribbon trimmed hat.

There was nothing of importance to be seen however, and, through the fog, she could hardly discern some silhouettes. Yet, the irritation in the tone of her voices reached her – there must have been a commotion caused by the bad handling of some cargo of importance.

Lisanne breathed in then, and she turned her head, her free hand moving first to her stomach and then to the hat atop her head. The veil that hung from it was still in its place, covering the entirety of her face. Her gloved fingers traced the material for a moment as if, as long as it was there, separating her from the rest of the world, she would be safe and sound. Whereas most had found the Ripper’s actions a source of entertainment, for what were humans if not creatures in search for bloodshed, there were some like her – especially women – who threw a second glance over their shoulder every time they left the safety of their home. She could have been one of them. She could have so easily ended up roaming the streets in search of men who were in need of relief or some sweet words and warm touches for the night if it were not for Dr. Victor Griffiths.

Much in life would have been different if it were not for Dr. Victor Griffiths. Events like this one were just another reminder of that.

Such thoughts were set aside though, in a corner of her mind, as she heard a pair of footsteps approaching her. And once the man, who she recognized as the Superintendent Daniel Shoemaker, joined her, it was a soft smile she greeted him with, noticeable even through the veil. This was her charm, Dr. Griffiths had repeated so many times before – men found the need to approach her when she was deep in thought, when she seemed so unaware of her surroundings and of those at her side. They wanted to see if they could get her attention, even for a moment.

“It looks as though it is going to rain,” the man spoke then, his gaze lost through the fiery clouds.

Lisanne’s eyes broke from him then and settled upon the waves instead. She did not need to look at the sky to confirm his speculation. It always seemed it would rain and, most of the time, it did. “It is interesting,” the woman added, her gaze following his own.

“What is, miss?”

“How, despite how much it rains in London, its streets are still perpetually struck by misery and tragedy. Rain is supposed to cleanse sin, is it not?” And yet…

The toll of a bell was heard in the distance then, announcing the arrival of a ship.

MARCUS ISAACSON
​

‘You’ve done it. You lucky rascal, you’ve done it!’

Throughout his life, Marcus Isaacson had been surrounded by certain invisible barriers, ones he acknowledged but could not quite come to terms with, his Jewish heritage the most prominent of all. It was the cause of his frequent gloom-ridden and dismissive interactions, the scornful and distrustful gazes, the spiteful hushed tones that accompanied his every entrance and retreat – for a man who worked in a field that required trust and a strong sense of justice, he had usually been the target of mistrust and injustice. He had fought against it, relentlessly so, as a lawyer, as a Detective Sergeant, but who would entrust a man of a stained bloodline with their safety and life? None, for the Jews had been considered the bringers of misfortune and death wherever they went, wherever they hid. By trying to escape a life of poverty and misery, they had only entered one filled with blatant discrimination.

He wondered what his parents had felt when, on a ship perhaps resembling the one he found himself residing on, they had seen that the New World’s land was so close and yet so far. What had they felt then? What had they felt when the soles of their feet had been buried in that land which promised so much, which promised freedom and the hope for a better future? Had they truly felt hope, had they been fearful? His mother hardly had spoken of that day and his father even less so. As a child, he had thought them brave. As a youth, he had condemned them and found them foolishly blind to the chaos of the world, for if they had been aware of it, how could they bring children into such misery? But, as a young man, he understood. Perhaps it had been the fear of loneliness ruling over their actions, guiding their choices, or perhaps the need to feel that they had not lived in vain. They continued to live through their sons and daughter.

Marcus’ eyes were stormy that early morning, resembling the unsettled skies or the fierce waves that lapped at the ship, just as his fears lapped at his mind. His thoughts resembled the sea in its fierceness. His joy, the feverish excitement, was replaced by a sudden fear, a persistent doubt.

‘This is not New York. This is not that cursed police department.’

Yet, his mind retorted: ‘That cursed police department may be better than a city that fears for its safety and thinks that this new plague, known as Jack the Ripper, is a Jew of all things.’

The young man sighed as he leaned on the rail, arms crossed. His thoughts were interrupted though as his brother, Lucius, spilled the contents of his guts for what would be the tenth time that day. Marcus’ gaze followed his movements, his brother’s carefully folded handkerchief leaving his sweat-stained forehead and reaching his lips, but not before being folded once more. ‘Hygiene freak,’ Marcus thought. He could not help but be amused as he smiled to himself.

“Beautiful day is it not?” Marcus jested, taking in a long breath before letting it out with a contented sigh. “Such a refreshing–“

Lucius was having none of it. “Shut up.”

His older brother’s smile did not fade in the least. “Good thing that our mother was not carrying you when she came to America or else we would not have been here in the first place.” Those words were enough to attract a scornful gaze from Lucius as his head perked up, too soon perhaps. Nausea seemed to hit him again as he lowered his head. Marcus only chuckled but, as the aggravating sound of a bell filled the air surrounding them, he shifted his gaze to the shore. The port hid beneath a dense blanket of fog.

Marcus’ hand found Lucius’ back, settling on the hard surface with force. “Come on now. You’ll feel better once your feet will be back on the ground.”

“I’ll feel better the moment I’ll be away from you.”

Marcus mimicked a wince at his words. “Your words pain me.”

“Your presence unsettles my stomach.”

Another chuckle parted Marcus’ lips as his hand continued to rest on his brother’s back. He only shrugged. “You don’t mean it. And shouldn’t you be over the moon now? England – oh, the knowledge. Now you can talk about Sir William Herschel and fingerprinting right on his homeland.”

Lucius remained silent. “If we don’t get this… killer either, Dr. Kreizler will be the one that goes mad.” And Marcus knew it to be true. They had caught the last one, but his motives had remained unknown. Dr. Kreizler hardly lived with that failure.

“Come on now,” Marcus sighed.


It was a womanly figure that greeted them as they descended from the ship, a man at her side and few others splattered across the dock – Marcus was at the head of the party, with Lucius following slowly behind, still shaken from the seasickness that had plagued its body for the last few days. He did not think more of her presence, as she must have been their hostess, but when she lifted the dark veil that had made it appear as if she had been covered from head to toe, Marcus needed to remind himself to advance and not to stop. She had an understated beauty; her features were classic, common in their simplicity, but when her lips curved in their gentleness and her dark orbs shone with kindness, accentuating the faint freckles on her nose, Marcus thought that there must be more to her. Lucius appeared to be smitten.

Even when she extended her hand, gracefully so, as if they were old companions, Marcus was the first to grip it. Even her grip was soft, welcoming. “I am Lisanne Wright,” she introduced herself. “The personal secretary of Dr. Victor Griffiths. He will assist you throughout the investigation. I apologise for having to meet in such unfortunate circumstances.” Her gaze followed the man at her side. “And this is Superintendent of the City of London Police, Mister Daniel Shoemaker.”

The man acknowledged them with a nod and a firm grip as Marcus dropped the secretary’s hand.

Marcus was used to different accents, his mother’s Germanic one the most prominent one. The British accent, however, had an entirely different allure to it – the accentuated consonants, the unusual ‘r’ and ‘t’. Along with her elegant and poised gestures that did not appear to be forced, she was different in comparison with the women he knew. Even Miss Howard had a straightforwardness, a roughness and an apparent coldness that could not be overlooked.

“Sergeant Marcus Isaacson,” he added, “and this is my brother, Lucius.”

Lucius hardly contained an eye-roll. “Detective Sergeant Lucius Isaacson, miss,” Lucius accentuated as he gripped the woman’s hand.

The woman’s smile remained just as welcoming, inviting. “Welcome to London.”

Kassandra Rose ​

 

[Kassandra Rose]

JOHN SCHUYLER MOORE

There was a sacred collection of Buddhist teachings, that Laszlo had taught John about human perspective, entitled ‘the sacred path of the warrior’ – in which a wise man (perchance called Yinpeche… John could not remember for the life of him) spoke about personal dignity, self-respect, and discipline. He suggested that the environment we surround ourselves – both the physicality and personal comportment – is a direct expression of these values. Simply put, we accept the love that we think that we deserve – be it unconditional, or otherwise absent. Funnily enough, Kreizler was a man of many ‘wise words’, most of which John found easily brushed away, or at least nothing a good Whiskey on the rocks couldn’t combat. This teaching, however, refused to be vanquished within the crevices of his mind or, as Kreizler would say, by “his few remaining brain cells”. And what did John Moore deem himself deserving of? Clearly not tranquillity, or else he would not have travelled across the pond in pursuit of more sleepless nights chasing a deranged lunatic. Yinpeche would be ashamed. Humouring, regardless, that John would even consider his life upholding but a slither of self-respect, with or without the criminal aspects.

Recounting this anecdote, however, was enough to give John a taste of 19 Washington Square North, a place that he supposed he should consider ‘home’. What kind of environment had he built for himself back there? Kreizler had once voiced – for what was Laszlo if not opinionated? – that Moore sought the chaos that he felt inside. He did not wish to believe that he was the harbinger of his own doom, for he felt powerless against his emotions and his depletion, so much so that he willingly destructed himself with whorehouses and ale. Was it true? Well, no man – at least none with the slightest of wits – would ever wish to believe such of negative presumptions of himself. Yet, if he really reflected, deep down, there were some similarities between the depiction and the truth. Yes, John did succumb to the foul luxuries of loose women and liquid poison, but not because he yearned to excuse his life failings. No, he did so because of the substantial amount of loss he had already endured; the death of his brother, his parents disowning him, a broken engagement (all by the ripe ‘old’ age of thirty-three) had constructed the man everyone saw today. He was… frankly, a failure, and he did not need the guise of ale to cushion that blow, or even to blame. He was acceptant of it. It was as true as the date of his birth, or the colour of his Grandmother’s eyes. John Schuyler Moore was a broken man, but he was fine with that. It was all he had ever known. So, who was anyone else to tell him otherwise?

A firm hand upon his shoulder was enough to pull the broken man from the anarchy of his thoughts, and back to the anarchy around him. Veritably, he’d never been more welcoming for the pompous distraction that was Laszlo Kreizler, for the only two alternatives were down the rabbit hole of his own wanderings or watching Lucius Isaacson empty the contents of his guts into the depths of the sea. In truth, he did not know which was more soul destroying. “You’re looking pale, old friend,” Kreizler, quite predictably, did not come armed with compliments, or good news (of which John was quite sure the man did not even know the meaning of).

“Ha,” came the bitter syllable of his exasperation, before Moore added, reluctantly, “I think that I do not fare well on sea, but thank God that I am not as bad as-”

However, just as he usually did, Laszlo was not asking questions because he sought an answer, but merely because he wished to speak more (as John noted, he was very fond of his own voice, or so it would appear). Not giving a moment’s thought to his companion’s words, or even allowing him to finish his sentence, Kreizler smiled, devilishly, and added, as though remarking the weather, “no doubt you are having withdrawals to devour some of the Devil’s brew… or perhaps even a young maiden”. With his arms behind his back, and a face one yearned to slap, The Alienist gave a curt and satisfied nod, before reaching forth once more to pat his ‘friend’s’ shoulder. “Ne’er mind, we should be hitting land soon – and, well, you know that we do not really need you or your services until travesty has unfolded. You can soon make yourself sparse”

Jaw clenched, it was only years of familiarity and experience that refrained John from rashly acting and unleashing his anger upon the crippled man before him. Laszlo was, though he would never ever venture into the waters of his own psyche, just as broken as John, if not more so. If he claimed that John sought ale to supress his own shame at his shortcomings, he had to be alerted that he, himself, seeks to understand the mental processes of others because he cannot understand either himself nor those whom he holds dear. Laszlo seeks to discard labels of monsters, to explain unearthly, almost demonic, acts, because he does not wish to hate the evil that was inflicted against himself, within the early years of his life. John, unlike The Alienist, would never say this. He knew just how such accusations of emotions could be pit falling and despairing. However, such cruelty did linger upon the edge of his tongue when Kreizler inconsiderately toyed with his emotions as so. Considering the lengths that Moore was going to assist his friend, Laszlo Kreizler had a funny way of saying ‘thank you’, very funny indeed.

“Mm,” was his only response, a mere hum, as though he had little care for the sharp words flung his way, as though they had not cut him even slightly. Perhaps, they hadn’t, at least not as much as they used to. Desensitization, Kreizler would call it. Then, having found something at least half as witty to throw back, Moore retorted at once, “Yes, I don’t suppose Dr Griffiths will be needing too much help. I wonder, indeed, old friend, what you will do, when there is already an Alienist there to do your job? It must be disorientating, I daresay, to find yourself just as dispensable as the rest of us. Perchance, you will find yourself in these beastly places you so quickly shun”. Only silence was found on his companion’s behalf. “Regardless of such trivial small talk, I trust you know where we will be meeting the Doctor or the man whom he has sent in his steed?”

These were words, once more, that Kreizler found suited to his demeanour. “Is the sky blue, my dear John?” He responded, his signature grin not even slightly lessened from Moore’s curt outburst. Quickly, before any retorts about the British greyness could be flung, he answered (as he often did regardless) his own question, with, “why of course I know where we shall meet the fellow. I did not earn my qualifications for dim wit, you know. Although, I should not expect you to understand” Another charming compliment. “Now, come,” Laszlo’s good arm guided his friend starboard. “We must gather the others so that we do not lose each other in the wilderness of the British civilisation. Have you seen Sara?”

“That I was hoping you had,” John rubbed his forehead, the woman was not an easy thought to his brain, a paradox incarnated if he had even seen such. “You know how Miss Howard may be. I suppose that she thought us men too suppressing to her free nature”.

“I sense futility on your behalf, dear friend. I hope that you will not allow the flirtation that you two had to cloud your judgement and senses upon this mission. I daresay that she made her intentions, or rather lack of, very clear before we left”.

John rolled his eyes. “So, you know of her letters? Yes, Miss Howard has always been very clear on what she does and does not want, of her desires and intent I have never endured any doubt. You do not need to preach to the converted, Laszlo. I am, though dim witted as you may proclaim, wise enough to recognise a lost case when I see one”.

This appeared, for once, to appease Kreizler, who let out a small huff of relief. “Well, for that, I am glad. I suppose I should do my best to find our mutual friend, then, before we dock at the harbour. Should I not be able to find you before we meet land, I shall re-join you by our new colleagues. They should not be difficult to find, for I am told Scotland Yard will be sending a few men. Undercover or not, you can smell their kind form a mile away”. It was no secret that Laszlo had a… distaste for the Police Department, with Roosevelt his life-long proclaimed nemesis. Though, John felt that perhaps “frenemy” was a better name for the dysfunctional relationship. Indeed, Roosevelt was many things, but Kreizler could always count on his support and loyalty at the end of the day.

John, however, simply nodded, replying that he would follow as instructed, and that he did. Laszlo did not return before they docked. Although, Moore knew that he’d probably found a great deal of quests to conquer on top of finding Miss Howard. So, at once, he found himself fighting his way onto land, awaiting the two Detectives to follow, and keeping a healthy distance between himself and a green-tinged Lucius, before guiding the duo through the thick and welcoming fog of London City. To his surprise, the man that greeted Detectives Lucius and Marcus Isaacson was not a man at all, but rather a petite, angelic-looking woman. The artist inside him seized the moment to run his eyes along her visage, consuming every line, nook and crevice as though at any moment he would be requested to draw the beauty by memory. Indeed, he devoured her appearance ravenously, like a starved animal finally feasting after a tormenting fast. He noted how some strands of her cocoa hair fell straight, but between the cracks of this were little curls of wild and untamed strands that broke through. He wondered if such was the same for the personality behind the pretty face, was there much more than what met the eye? Hm, it were captivating indeed, and yet he hard scarcely had time to process what met the eye itself, from the sweet olive skin tone, to the pink hue upon her high cheekbones. She would, undoubtedly, be a pleasure to draw.

Reaching out his hand to introduce himself, John plastered his best smile upon his face, revealing the pearly whites that had otherwise been clammed behind his fuchsia lips. Having pulled down upon his jacket, to straighten his appearance, he’d just reached out to meet her hand when he was promptly pulled backwards. He did not have to turn to recognise the conceit and entitlement. “Doctor Laszlo Kreisler, ma’am, I do not believe we’ve had the pleasure of meeting just yet,” taking the angel by the hand, himself, Kreisler raised it to his lips, which parted only slightly to dispatch a soft kiss. John let out an inaudible growl. “Doctor Griffiths never informed me that such a heavenly creature was under his services, or else I would never have brought along John”. Moore flashed Laszlo a bitter smile, but his eyes were not at all appeased, cast in a foreboding glare. “These are my own assistants, Miss Sara Howard, and… John Schuyler Moore”.

‘Because Mr John Schuyler Moore was just too hard to say for a man with a university degree,’ John grimaced, mentally, but did not add aloud in fear of losing favour with their new acquaintances. Taking the rare and precious moment of silence, where Laszlo was actually not speaking but not dead, John interjected, taking the lady’s hand and shaking it as he would a gentleman; it was something that he knew Sara preferred, being seen as a counterpart rather than a delicate creature to be fawned at. “Call me John,” he corrected The Alienist, before turning and shaking the hand of Daniel Shoemaker. “I’m not an assistant, actually, I’m an illustrator for ‘The New York Times’, and a friend of Laszlo. We met in Princeton, so many years back that he would appear to have forgotten in his old age”.

A small snort came from Sara, who exchanged a bemused smirk with John. Following suit, Miss Howard nodded, heading towards the fellow woman, arising in Man’s world. “And I would be your American counterpart, Secretary to Commissioner Roosevelt. Laszlo appears to be mistaken in duties. I’m not here to attend to these men, but rather make sure that they do not get themselves killed, or worse the US Government in trouble they’d rather avoid”.

It was Laszlo’s turn to snort. Quite comical it would be to see them all jesting at one another, John thought. Yet, before he could excuse the group divisions, it appeared that fate had installed just one more introduction to this arrival.

ELIZABETH DE VERRE​

“To be, or not to be---”

“--that is the question,” De Verre sighed, falling back into her chair. “Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, or to take arms against a sea of troubles, and by opposing end them?” To die: to sleep; no more; and by a sleep to say we end the heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to, 'tis a consummation devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep; To sleep: perchance to dream…”

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Ives let out an abrupt huff. “O’rite William Shakespeare, I weren’t askin’ for a philosophy lesson. Have you finished the binder that I give ya?”

“Is the Pope a Catholic?” she retorted wisely, leaning towards the desk with wild anticipation. Ives only blinked, blankly, in return. Silence awaited her response. “Yes,” Eliza answered quickly. “Yes, I finished it quite some time ago. I also arranged the bookshelves alphabetically… from A-Z” she elaborated what she meant, in case he was uncertain about that too.

Rolling his eyes, another huff of air left the mouth of the director, before he crossed his arms and replied, “I know what alphabetically means, Miss De Verre”. Then continued, at the sound of her quiet apologies, “And the letters… ‘ave y’checked the mail yet?” Of course not. His head shook, disapprovingly, at her wide eyes and the scrapping of the chair legs against the wooden floor. “I don’t suppose it’ll be anyfin’ of importance anyway. We already ‘ad one letter from The Ripper; don’t fancy that we’d be important enough for a second… anyfin?”

She returned empty handed, shaking her head; ‘no’. “No matter, no matter,” He continued on. “Have you spoke to Dean to see how he’s getting on with that piece he owes us. I gave him his wages in advance as a favour, I did, and now he’s bloody taking the piss—apologies, no manners, swearing before a lady like yourself,” Jack Ivehorn placed his mug upon the table, which was promptly sweeped from his hands by the young nymph and taken around into the kitchen. Little but the sound of pouring water could be heard.

When Eliza returned, placing the fresh brew of coffee – no cream, no sugar – back before him, she placed her arms upon her hips. “Did you actually just apologise for swearing… in front of me? Better yet, was that a title of lady that I heard come from your lips?” A warm chuckle escaped her own, as her petite head titled rightwards to catch his eyes.

“That you are, Miss De Verre, somefin’ you need to start remberin’, I daresay” his bear-like hand nestled around the cup, which he raised to his lips to blow on. “Speakin’ of which, have y’spoken to your old woman about your placement here just yet?” This was a sensitive topic of conversation, one which Elizabeth oft tried to avoid, and oft to no avail. After all, what kind of man would Jack be, if he were having a lady work beneath him without as much as her guardian’s approval? He was not ignorant to the whispers that circulated already, even if Eliza was, which she often was to most things with her head up in the clouds.

It was her turn to huff. “Will I acquire your affection more if I tell you ‘yes’ and that ‘all went well’, or… if I, reluctantly, admit the truth?” she glanced at Ives, sheepishly, from beneath the bonnet she’d begun to tie beneath her chin. It was a question she already knew the answer to. Ivehorn did not need to open his lips for her to know his response. It was all in the eyes, and the creased lines upon his aged forehead. “I’m sorry, I know. I keep meaning to… don’t give me that look, I do, truly, but well… you know what it is like between me and her, and you also know how my temper can be… ahem, unruly. I’ve merely been trying to avoid the conflict. Tommorow, perchance,” she concluded, having struggled her arms through her overcoat, with a little assistance from her employer. “But soon, for certes, I promise you, sir. And, what am I, if not a man of my word?”

“A woman, to start,” Ives shook his head once more, but did not elaborate upon his disapproval. Instead, he merely watched as she bundled the papers from the desk into a single file, and clutched it dearly to her chest. “Where are ya off to now? I trust that y’have somebody to escort you? I know,” he raised a finger before she could interrupt, being far too acquainted with the young woman than to underestimate her objections, “I know y’are bold spirited, maybe even a fighter -- y’know like ‘em small yappy dogs that you could probably kick down in un’ kick but they just keep yapping -- anyway, my point is that London ain’t safe for anyone, at the moment, man or woman alike”.

Eliza smiled softly, before standing on her tippy toes and kissing Ives upon the cheek, like a small child with their beloved grandfather. “Rest assured, I have no plans on galivanting throughout the city. Aha, wouldn’t that just give poor old Lisanne a hernia? No, no worries, I value my life far too much than to push her too far, and boy have I been testing her lately”. The two began to venture towards the door of the building, with Ivehorn lending the lady his arm in order to assist her down the steep staircase “I fancied myself a meeting with herself and Dr Griffiths today, but she’s – ahem –” In her best impression of Lisanne, announcing each and every syllable, “got more important things to do than childish tea parties”. She could envision the woman vividly. The visage still firmly pressed in her mind from the dawn of that self-same morning. Her dark brows knitted in a unanimous and wrathful force of reckoning, her finger wriggled like an old maid telling off a mere school child. That was just the entirety of their relationship. It was forever ‘Oh, Eliza!’ and ‘When are you going to grow up, Eliza?’.

Now, Elizabeth understood that there was a time and place for work and… amusements, especially being a working woman herself. Albeit, admittedly, she did not have a need to work, rather than the desire. Yet, she saw no reason why Lisanne could not accommodate both her guests and her lifelong companion at the same time? As a matter of a fact, Elizabeth loved meeting people! She was, indeed, a very social person. Thus, the facts lay clear. Lisanne simply did not want her more buoyant and youthful friend to steal her limelight. Hmph! That, Eliza had decided, had to be it.

This, she explained to Ives, in a manner of confidence. Concluding, she had clasped her hands together, her gloves nestled within. There was but a snort on Ives behalf, as he pulled on the handle of her carriage door, and turned to face her, eyebrows raised.

“What?” she declared, as though she could not guess for the life of her what he found so ridiculous.

“Y’ do not possible imagine that it could be anything else, ‘Lizabeth?” He repeated her words to her, as though the mere echo would be enough for her to understand the ridicule.

“Yes? Why, I’m as friendly as a dog! I know that those Yanks can be… well, absurd, but I see no reason why she wouldn’t want me there. I don’t discriminate. In fact, I am far more friendly than her, which leaves but one presumption—”

“Eliza,” Ives grasped at her hands, as though to pull her out of her rambling before it escalated even further, and back to reality. “Miss Lisanne is not doing this to be mean. Perhaps, that is the only thing I am certain of. From what y’tell me, she is not a cruel soul. I think, what it be with Miss Lisanne is that, she wants to keep it formal. ‘Tis all. You are friendly, approachable… y’ can certainly chat for England, that’s for sure. It wouldn’t set the right…” his eyes flickered upwards, as though he were searching for the heavens for the right word, as though the angels themselves would swoop down and deliver it upon a golden platter. “The right ambiance,” he settled upon. Releasing her dainty hands, he gestured towards the carriage. “No, you be goin’ straight home. An’ don’t be pesterin’ poor ol’ Doctor Griffiths. Do you hear me?”

With the smirk of a mischievous and reprimanded school child, Elizabeth nodded. “Fine, okay. I promise. Unless the need should arise – an absolute emergency,” she corrected at Ives’ stern glare, “I will head straight home, and… and, just to show that I’m an extra special good employee, I shall have this all sorted for tomorrow”. She patted the seat of the carriage, where she had bestowed her paperwork. “Rest well, sir. I’m glad to have confided in you. As always, you prove a trusty friend”.

Assisting her into her carriage by her petite hand, Jack smiled, coyly. “’Tis what ya old man would’ve wanted, Miss. He was a good man, and I’m happy to at least help him in these ways, after everyfin his Lordship did for me”. Such fondness was enough to allure De Verre back into the sweet indulgence that memories had to offer: beachside vacations, picnics, shopping. Moments passed this manner, perhaps even minutes, before she remembered where she was, and was pulled once more to the grasps of reality.

Drawing the crimson curtain shut, Eliza sunk into her seat, and let out a exhausted sigh. In the moment of emptiness, her hands itched towards the paperwork, and it was only then that she noticed the neat little envelop that had, at some point, fallen upon the ground. Without much further ado, she lifted it up. Her light eyebrows furrowed beneath the weight of her confusion. Peculiar. Peculiar, indeed. Or, as her favourite heroine would say, curiouser and curiouser. At once, her nimble fingers itched at untying the ribbon, at pulling the contents out and—

A shriek. A scream loud enough to pull her father’s spirit from the earthy depths of his grave. Screaming and screaming and screaming. What else was there to do? What else could she do?

If you asked Eliza, which the policemen would certainly wish to, she would probably be unable to explain to you at what moment it was that she had stopped the carriage and began to run, alone, through the fog and towards the docks where, stupidly, there was no chance of her finding anybody she knew, let alone Lisanne. Yet, this was precisely what she had done, abandoning the entirety of her belongings – for what was paperwork in the face of death? – and heading as fast as her small legs could carry her.

In truth, she’d almost knocked poor John Schuyler Moore right of his feet, running like a mad woman, with her dress skirt pulled up enough to reveal her legs. Although her face was deathly pale, when she somehow found her dearest Lisanne, it was not stained by the watery sting of tears. No, they seemed scarce from her eyes, and would remain so. Crying was far from her list of things to do. Though, admittedly, she was not entirely sure on what to do at all.

“LISANNEIKNOWYOUTOLDMETOSTAYAWAYBUTYOUWILLNEVERGUESSWHATHASJUST-“ She paused for breath, beneath the woman’s warning eye, shrinking beneath the glances of the other’s. “Pardon me, gentleman… lovely lady, who- never mind! Lisanne,” she repeated. “I- he—it’s him”. At once, she revealed the contents which had, until this point, formerly been hidden behind her back. “It’s him,” she repeated. “Again. And this time, he even added in a little surprise”. Trying her best not to throw up – for she was all too aware of the stereotypes and social expectations these men would expect from ‘a lady’ – she used her gloves to pull out the bloody cloth, which the killer had kindly attached… for ‘authenticity’.

“I told you that I was not being dramatic. But no. Nobody ever listens to little Eliza…”