Hilliard woke with a slight headache and a knot in his stomach, but was rather well off considering the night he had shared with Cordelia, Jasper and Selma. He trudged out of bed and dressed, reminiscing on the events of the night prior.
After the bobby had shooed the group out of the park, Cordelia and Hilliard gathered up their slumbersome friends and lugged them back to Jasper’s flat. They laid Jasper down gently on his bed, taking care to not disrupt the pile of dress wear that had accumulated near his bed.
After assuring that Jasper was solidly set, Cordelia and Hilliard proceeded back to the Green Gate Inn, where Selma and Cordelia had rented lodging for the night. It was a tiresome affair getting Selma up the stairs and to her bed, but Cordelia and Hilliard managed to accomplish the task. After making sure that Semla was comfortable, Cordelia and Hilliard shared one more awkward, intimate moment.
“Well,” Cordelia said, letting the word hang in the air.
“Yes,” responded Hilliard.
They both looked at their feet, the wall, anything but each other.
“I had a rather enjoyable evening,” Cordelia said, breaking the silence. “I’m sure that Selma would say the same, were she not knackered.”
Hilliard chuckled. “I enjoyed myself as well. Perhaps we could do this again?”
“Well, I’m sure that Selma would be happy to, if Jasper were to be available,” started Cordelia. She looked into Hilliard’s eyes and stopped mid-sentence. “Oh,” she blushed, “well, yes, I think that would be a lovely idea.”
Hilliard could not fight back the grin that spread across his face. “How shall I reach you, then?”
Cordelia walked over to the writing desk and scrawled something on a bit of stationary. She returned to Hilliard and handed him a folded piece of paper.
“That is where you may find me, on most days anyway. It’s the address to The Lyric Theatre.” She gave Hilliard a little wink as he read the address once, twice, three times, trying to burn it into his memory. 29 Shaftesbury Avenue, 29 Shaftesbury Avenue, 29 Shaftesbury Avenue.
“Goodnight, Hilliard Purefoy. Until we meet again.”
With that, Cordelia shut the door behind him, and Hilliard was now walking on clouds. His trip back to his apartment felt less like a walk and more like he was gliding on air.
Arriving home, Hilliard simply allowed himself to fall right into bed. He quickly drifted off to sleep, where he dreamt about bottles of whiskey, stage plays, ancient Mesopotamia, midnight walks, and Cordelia Truscott. It was a lovely night of dreams, and Hilliard woke around midday.
After washing up and dressing, Hilliard made his way to the senior common room. Drenched in sunlight and with a smell of cedar and clove, the SCR was Hilliard’s favorite place outside of the library. The common room was filled with upperclassmen, but there were still plenty of space for privacy. Hilliard poured himself a cup of oolong tea and, finding a vacant highback oxblood chair, he plopped himself down to sip his tea and soak in the day.
As he sat, his thoughts wandered back to Cordelia. Her tawny hair dancing about her beautifully proportioned faced. Her laugh was a birdsong, ascending into a lilting tune of blissful gaiety. He smiled as he wrapped himself in that warm, sunny memory, basking in the thought of laying his hand on her shoulder, pulling her ever closer, ready to make the plunge, past the point of no return, along the road whose course does not turn back. He saw her face, so close to his, her warm breath quickening, his own heart beating loudly in his ears.
“Read all about it, chaps, London has herself a new Ripper!”
The abruptness of the exclamation jolted Hilliard back to reality. He was a bit flush, his brow damp, and he was not going to be standing anytime soon. He looked up to see Geoffrey Pattinson, a rambunctious and rowdy student enrolled in the College of Sciences.
Pattinson waved aloft a copy of the Evening Standard, a tawdry, sensationalist newspaper that was best used for fish wrapping and patching holes in the wall. Still, Pattinson brandished it like it were the Gospel of the Lord.
“You got that from the Standard? I’m sure that they did their research on that!” Everyone else in the room laughed, which did not deter Pattinson. Instead, he climbed up onto a chair and made a big flourish of opening the newspaper and clearing his throat.
“Twenty-second March, 1890. In the small hours of the morning, the mangled body of one Harriet Pickering, also known as Red Jenny, a known lady of ill repute, was found by a passerby. Edmund Reid, head of CID’s H-Division, stated that Miss Pickering is not a victim of old Leather Apron, but would not elaborate on the claim. However, Evening Standard reporter Gerald Clarke was able to find a strange symbol at the crime scene, written on the street next to the body. Upon inspection, the markings was as thus:
ᛜ A simple diamond shape drawn in the victim’s blood.
Neither CID nor Scotland Yard could be reached for comment.
It seems as if some wicked john is the suspected culprit. A representative of the London Metropolitan Police H-Division state irrevocably that this was not the work of still at-large London boogeyman Jack the Ripper.”
Pattinson finished reading and the room remained silent. Obviously the idea of another Jack the Ripper figure haunting the streets of London was too much for her denizens, who were just now getting over the whole ordeal.
The news affected Hilliard much less than his British compatriots. He had only just arrived in the ancient city when the last murder had taken place, and although the news of Jack the Ripper had made its way across the Atlantic, the full weight of the situation did not sit squarely on his shoulders as it would had he have been a Londoner, born and bred.
Pattinson climbed down from his chair and folded the paper up. He tucked it under his arm with an air of self-satisfaction. He reclined into the chair that once served as his pedestal and soaked in the moment.
Finally, someone broke the tension.
“And why, praytell, do you have such a grin on your face, Pattinson? Are you Wicked Johnny?” The question was sharp and pointed. It was obvious that the young men were shaken, especially now that this new killer was calling open season on anyone he met.
“Obviously not, Hendricks,” Pattinson responded, ever so haughtily, “it is that I, being a student of the new forensic science course, and under the tutelage of one Edward Henry of London’s police division, will be a part of the investigation team. I believe that I shall help crack the case, as it were.”
There then erupted a boisterous debate. Half the common room began to shout about how Pattinson was revelling in the death of an innocent woman, while the other half were shouting about how Pattinson was a poor student and would never finish the course in the first place.
Hilliard cared for neither side of the argument, because there was something that struck him about the letter the killer had written. He tried to recall just what it was, but the noise of the debate was too much. He stood and approached Pattinson.
“Could I see that, please?”
Pattinson eyed him with suspicion, but relented, handing the paper to Hilliard.
Hilliard scanned the article. He ran his eyes across the portion containing the symbol, which the fish wrapper simply explained as “a simple diamond shape”. Purefoy was befuddled. Why would the killer be leaving a diamond at the crime scene. He screwed his face up in frustration before returning the paper back to Pattinson.
“Many thanks, Pattinson.”
Geoffrey looked Hilliard over one more time.
“Trying to race me to a conclusion, Purefoy?”
Hilliard shook his head.
“Not at all, Pattinson. Just something that struck me from the note. The name they called him, that’s all.”
Pattinson nodded. “Wicked John, very gauche. Why the press feel the need to sensationalise the exploits of a madman are far beyond my comprehension.”
Hilliard opened his mouth to respond, to say that it was a might hypocritical of Pattinson, considering he was giddy about a poor woman’s murder because it gave him an opportunity to further his career, but thought better of it. He simply nodded and excused himself. After leaving the common room, he made his way to the central library, where he went straight to the section on ancient Scandinavia.
Hilliard collected an armful of heavy, leather bound tomes before lugging them to a quiet table in the corner. He threw open all the books and began pouring over the text, looking for any mention or meaning of the symbol. It was a fruitless task, as each volume contained numerous references to runes, pictographs, and hieroglyphics, what they meant, and how they translated, all of which Hillard noted, but nothing seemed to point to the symbol or why the killer might have left it etched in blood at the crime scene.
One particular entry caught Hilliard’s eye. It was a Norse symbol. A particular rune called ‘pertho’, in the shape of a diamond. What did that mean? What was the killer saying by leaving a rune next to the body of a prostitute? Why Norse runes? Was the killer of northern European persuasion? There were too many questions with little clues or answers.
Hilliard shook his head in defeat. Any way he looked at it, the scene made no sense. He needed more context, he needed to understand why the killer had used the rune in the first place. There just didn’t seem to be a reason that he could see. Sighing, he returned the books and exited the library into the brisk late evening air, and made his way to Jasper’s.
Jasper was sitting at his writing desk, hunched over a set of stationary and scribbling furiously. His tongue stuck out the side of his mouth, and the only time he looked up from his writing was to dip his pen into the well. He didn’t even hear Hilliard enter, or if he did, he was too preoccupied with the task at hand to acknowledge his friend.
At length, Hilliard spoke.
“Jasper, don’t concentrate so hard, you will give yourself the pox!”
Jasper still did not look up, giving only the slightest grunt in response. He scribbled away, dipped his pen, scribbled some more, sometimes grunting angrily at a spelling mistake, sometimes grunting happily at a line he quite enjoyed. Hilliard waited patiently for his friend to finish. Once he had a mind about something, there was no stopping him.
After an interminable length of time, Jasper put a flourishing signature at the bottom of his opus, set down his pen, sighed deeply, and sprung up from his chair, grabbing Hilliard by the shoulders.
“Purefoy, mate, I have just been spending all day composing an ode to dear, sweet Selma.” He smiled, his gaze was now miles away, and he began to sigh. “Oh Cupid, pull from your quiver, a lover’s arrow and deliver, all my love, as strong as a river, to my Selma, now and forever.”
“Well, what a wordsmith you are, Merchant. I see you fancy Ms Gayheart?”
“Fancy her? I adore her! Her eyes, as azure as the summer sky, her hair like the golden rays of the sun, her skin like China porcelain.”
It was clear that Jasper was smitten, nay, stricken by Selma. Hilliard would have laughed had he not felt the same, although much more silently, about Cordelia. He did allow himself to chuckle at the idea of he and Jasper being a pair of smitten schoolboys.
“Well, you are in luck, my friend, for Cordelia gave me the address of where we can see her again. And with Cordelia comes Selma.”
Jasper’s face lit up at the mention of her name. He dashed back to his writing desk and threw open the drawer. He pulled from it a stamp and a blood red candle. He lit the candle and waited for the wax to melt.
“Oh, happy day! Oh, heart be still!” Jasper whirled round to see Hilliard. “We must go see her tonight! Oh, deny me not, Purefoy, I must see my Selma again, lest my heart burst from her absence!”
He spun back round and folded the letter and sealed it with his wax stamp. He dashed to the powder room and returned with a bottle of cologne, spritzed the letter and held it aloft. “Ah, Selma, my muse,” he sighed, kissing the letter, “let this ode strike thee in the heart, that thou should feel as I!”
“Before we depart for this journey of the heart,” Hilliard interjected, chuckling at his unintional rhyme, “I have a favor to ask.”
Jasper lilted about the room gaily. “Oh, anything, Purefoy, anything that will expedite my seeing Selma.”
“I have begun studying something of great interest to me, though I have run into a dead end. I was hoping that you might arrange for me to speak with that eccentric gentleman that your father knows? Mr Castleman, I believe his name is?”
Jasper clapped his hands together. “Ah, yes! Francis Castleman! It’s been some time since I have seen him. What do you need to speak with him about?”
“Well, his father was an expert on Norse history, correct?”
Jasper slipped on his evening coat. “Yes, his father was an historian. The details of his expertise are foreign to me, but that sounds right.”
“I was hoping that he would have some notes or books that could help me shed some light on the subject that I have stumbled upon. Perhaps you could call upon him and ask that I might take a look at his library?”
Jasper began to impatiently usher Hilliard out the door. “Anything, anything so long as it does not detain me any longer from seeing my Selma! We shall stop by the postal service and send a courier at once. Then, Selma!”
After a brief stop at the courier, Hilliard and Jasper hired a cab and made their way to the west end, 27 Shaftesbury Avenue, the Lyric Theatre, to see Cordelia. They arrived just after 9 o’clock, and the foot traffic on the walkways was slowing down considerably.
Jasper nearly leapt out of the cab as they rolled to a stop in front of the box office. He bound across the street and into the theatre proper. Hilliard once again laughed to himself and exited the cab, giving the driver a generous tip before thanking him. As he turned to exit the cab, he was nearly toppled by a passerby who moved as if driven by a motor.
“Oh, good heavens, sir,” the man exclaimed as he reached down to help Hilliard up. Hilliard took the gentleman’s hand, but recoiled at his touch, which was icy cold.
“My apologies, sir,” the gentleman said, giving a wide, almost unnaturally wide, grin, “I’ve been out all day without my gloves.”
Hilliard stood himself upright, dusting himself off.
“It’s alright, sir,” he said, doffing his hat, “accidents do happen.”
“Yes, indeed, they seem to happen to me quite often.”
Leaving Hilliard with that sentiment, the passerby was off, disappearing around the corner and into the London night. Hilliard was left feeling uneasy about the encounter, but quickly put that out of his head as he entered the theatre to see Cordelia.
The scene inside the Lyric was busy. The sounds of carpenters hammering scenic elements together, shouting at each other and loud cursing. The actors and actresses gathered on stage reading over scripts.
Jasper had already made his way on stage and was chatting eagerly to Cordelia, who smiled and blushed when she caught sight of Hilliard. He approached, deciding it more polite to not climb up onto the stage, and waited by the apron.
“Hilliard, my boy,” Jasper cried over the din of the construction, “join us! Come on, man, come say hello to Cordelia!” He beckoned his friend frantically with his arms. At last, Hilliard relented and climbed the stairs to join them on stage.
“Hello Hilliard,” Cordelia said, shyly.
“Cordelia,” Hilliard reciprocated, just as meek.
“My word, you two,” laughed Jasper, “I see that you have stricken each other nearly senseless. Cupid had two arrows in his quiver that night, didn’t he?”
Hilliard elbowed Jasper in the ribs, but laughed all the same. The tension was broken, and Cordelia lightened up, which allowed Hilliard to relax as well.
“And now,” Jasper said, rubbing his side, “Ms Gayheart, madam, if you please. I wish to see her. I have a poem I composed specifically for her, and I would like to recite it for her.” Jasper produced the perfumed poem and held it gingerly, as if it were a baby bird.
“Well, I am still expected for rehearsal for another half-hour, unfortunately. Perhaps you two could wait in the audience while we finish?”
Disappointed, but undeterred, Jasper agreed and bounded down the stairs, finding himself a seat in the front row and settling in comfortably. Hilliard joined him at his own pace.
The two sat quietly at first, watching the actors and actresses on stage as they read their lines aloud, each one adding flourishes and accents, some ridiculous, some believable. Jasper seemed to be far off, most likely dreaming about his beloved Selma.
Suddenly, Jasper returned to the world and sat upright.
“Say, Purefoy, did you read the ghastly news? There seems to have been another Ripper murder, or a facsimile at any rate.”
Hilliard nodded.
“Pattinson had read us the Standard. The CID say they don’t think it to be the Ripper at all, however.”
“Well, I would suspect not. The murder last night does not fit Jack’s modus operandi. This was much more brutal; no knife cuts, no removing of organs, just the crushing of the poor girls head with a stone. Terrible, that.”
Hilliard was taken aback. The Standard hadn’t revealed any of the details of the murder. He was not prepared to hear how the poor girl was done in.
“No, that does not sound like Jack at all,” Jasper continued, unaffected. “They did say there was some strange sigil written on the ground next to the victim. That’s the part that caught my attention.”
“A rune, I believe,” Hilliard corrected, “old Norse, or so I have found. That’s why I would like to speak with Castleman and take a look at his library. The detail intrigues me, Merchant, and I could make no sense of what the killer meant by it. It doesn’t make much sense, but I am hoping to shine some light on it. I believe it might have something to do with old Norse or Saxon tradition.”
“Perhaps he is simply mad? You can’t reconcile the actions of a madman to any logic or reason, trust me. Philosophically speaking, to deviate from reason with all confidence that one is following reason is madness defined. It is possible that he believes, in all honesty, that there is some reasonable logic to his actions. One can not tell what goes on in the mind of the mad.”
Hilliard pondered Jasper’s words for a moment. Perhaps it was just a man in the throes of lunacy. It would not be the first time that someone had gone insane and killed with no real reason behind it. The demented often held ideals that they had feverishly convinced themselves were valid.
Still, something about the choice of rune stuck in Hilliard’s mind. There was some sick, perverted reasoning behind it. It fell within his own wheelhouse, and the idea of a killer using Futhark both fascinated and terrified Hilliard simultaneous;y. Perhaps it was the perverted sense of excitement of exercising his knowledge of ancient religions and the chance to dig into some heavy research that gave Hilliard a sense of thrill that drove him to fixate on the topic.
“What are you boys talking about?”
Cordelia had snuck up on Hilliard as he had drifted off in deep thought. He startled slightly at Cordelia’s abruptness, and Jasper and Cordelia both had a chuckle at his expense. He calmed his nerves and managed a slight chortle himself.
“Oh, just the news. There was a murder last night in Spitalfields. The press thinks it’s the Ripper. CID say otherwise.”
Cordelia nodded grimmly.
“So I heard, and we were out last night. The thought that it could have been one of us…”
She allowed her grisly thought to trail off before shaking her head and changing the subject.
“Well, the hour grows late. We should start out, if we wish to make the best of the remainder of the night. I’m sure Selma awaits us with bated breath, as the Bard would say.”
The sound of his beloved’s name nearly sent Jasper through the roof. He leapt from his seat and nearly made it out of the building before his comrades could react.
“Come on, you two,” he yelled back to them as he rushed out of the theatre. Cordelia and Hilliard both laughed. Hilliard rose from his chair and locked eyes with Cordelia. There was a tense moment of uncertainty before they both looked away blushing.
“Perhaps we should not discuss the news with Selma. She is rather squeamish about such things. She is not one that can handle the sight of blood, let alone something as gruesome as…”
Hilliard nodded. There was no need to recount the deed.
“I think that is a fine idea.”
Hilliard gestured for Cordelia to walk before him.
“Ladies first, madame.”
He smiled, a true, endearing smile. Cordelia blushed, and took his hand in hers.
“Perhaps, we could walk together?”
Hilliard’s heart leapt, doing flips in his chest. His head swam and he savored the warm feeling of Cordelia’s hand.
“Of- of course,” he stammered, now grinning like a schoolboy. Cordelia had to laugh at his giddiness, but her demeanor belied the true ecstasy that she felt in her heart.