Corroded

what details I could. The organ was rather more purple than red, bloated as if its time in the box had only swollen it but not wholly ruptured the rubbery globule.

“Why is it that color?” I demanded. Yet even as I took a breath to ask it, as the words left my lips, I realized that what I smelled faintly through the ventilator in my mask reeked of alcohol.

Wine, to be precise.

“It’s been preserved,” I said, answering myself. “But why?”

Mr. Lusk proffered a bit of paper. “It was delivered by parcel from somewhere in London,” he explained, “though the writing’s so bad, I can’t make heads nor tails of it.”

I unfolded the piece, laid it flat atop the desk and squinted at the awful handwriting.

From hell, it began. An auspicious start.

“If you require me to read it to you—”

“I can mind my letters,” I said gruffly, tamping down my smarting pride. Of course I could mind my letters, I wasn’t a street-born waif, but I didn’t give voice to the waspish retort.

Mr Lusk, Sor

Some Irish had been known to use “sor” in place of “sir,” but it was possible that the handwriting had forced the letter i appear more an o. The style was not kind upon the eyes.

I send you half the Kidne I took from one woman and prasarved it for you tother piece I fried and ate it was very nise. I may send you the bloody knif that took it out if you only wate a whil longer.

“Charming fellow, isn’t he?” I murmured.

“What?”

I looked up, aware that Mr. Lusk had bent forward, an ear tilted. My mask had swallowed my sardonic attempt at levity. “The spelling appears to be strained,” I said, a mild enough observation.

“Oh, it is,” he agreed.

I studied the last line thoughtfully.

signed Catch me when you can Mishter Lusk

Very little punctuation, a love affair with lowercase letters, and some terrible spelling concluded one of two things. Either the letter the Leeds Mercury had printed, wherein the murderer had finally named himself Jack the Ripper, had only been a taste of this man’s terrible grasp of the Queen’s English, or it was another man entirely.

A third option occurred just as quickly. It could be that this note was poorly written by design.

“Why haven’t you brought this to the police?” I inquired.

His proud nose wrinkled deeply as he looked at the stained box. “I believe it a dog’s kidney, and the letter some fool’s attempt at a hoax.”

I could not completely dispute the idea. “When did it arrive?”

“Just today,” he said. “In the evening’s post.”

I looked from the box and its grisly contents to the letter, and back again.

That someone might go to the all the trouble to kill a dog, then slice its kidney and preserve it for a few days, wrap it up with a letter and send it seemed not entirely out of bounds. There were always those eager for a bit of fun—whatever fun that might be.

But how could we be sure?

“Your post man’s name,” I said.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Your post man.” I shoved the box back along the desk. “What is his name?”

“Girard, I think.” A pause. “Or is it Gerald? Something of the sort. No idea of his given name. I’m sorry, I can’t be sure. But,” he added quickly, “it won’t help to speak to him. I happened to catch him before he left again.”

“What did he say?”

“The box started reeking half through its carrying,” Mr. Lusk said, frowning thoughtfully. “He said it came from the eastern or eastern central districts.”

All too big to pinpoint. Bloody hell, I could not afford to chase down a clue that would lead nowhere.

Frustrated, I thrust the letter at him. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Lusk.”

“Did anything help?”

“If it did, you’ll soon know.” I turned, and polite as he was, Mr. Lusk escorted me to the door. “In the meantime, you’d best be careful.”

“Careful?”

“If the Ripper is aware of you, he like as not reads the papers. Preening, no doubt. He’ll know your address, same as I.”

That did not have the effect I was aiming for. Mr. Lusk nodded most solemnly. “I suspect,” he told me, quite seriously, “that I am already watched.”

“Watched?”

Another nod. “I’ve sensed it, of late. Being watched, from out there.” This time, the bob of his chin was aimed for the door he opened for me. “I’m not afraid. Let the murdering swill know we’re on to him.”

I looked out into the fog, filthy yellow and thicker than paste. If it held the Ripper, only I knew that he wasn’t the worst out there. I hesitated on the stoop, turned and suggested, “You should show the box to your committee.”

“You think so?”

“I do,” I said flatly. “If it is not a hoax, then perhaps it’s your best lead. I suspect that it’s exactly what the Ripper wants, anyway.”

“For me to tell the police?”

“Attention,” I corrected him, once more glancing out behind me. A shudder walked icy fingers along my skin. Now I felt watched. Infected by Mr. Lusk’s paranoia?

Or was this another sampling of an opium dream in waking form?

Once more, I found my ears straining to hear beyond our conversation. A footstep, an echo.

A whistle.

A laugh.

Weep for the widowed bride!

“Strange,” Mr. Lusk told me, his expression one of wry resignation. “The last fellow suggested it to be no more than hoax. Said I’d be better off tossing it out with the rubbish.”

Very slowly, I turned my gaze away from the roiling miasma filling the street. Away from the dark places, and the lamplit yellow bloom. “Last fellow?” I repeated softly.

“Another collector,” Mr. Lusk explained, as if wholly unaware of the gravity that shaped my words. The intensity with which I listened. “You don’t communicate with each other?”

I shook my head, but did not explain. “This collector. What of him?”

I was proud that my question fell from my tongue without strain. Without effort. As if my lips were not thinned and trembling with exertion, as if the blood had not drained from my head and left behind a dull roaring in my ears.

“Oh, a tall bloke,” Mr. Lusk responded, one hand upon his door. “Taller than I, anyway, and thinner. Though that’s no trial,” he added with a briefly amused chuckle. “Plain enough, I suppose. Didn’t remove his bowler, but pleasant spoken. Wore a greatcoat seeing some wear and shook my hand firmly. Well-mannered, too, not unlike yourself.”

“Any distinguishing features?”

“None that I recall.” His smile was somewhat awkward, as if unsure what it is I asked of him. “I’m afraid I did not ask a name.”

“No,” I agreed hoarsely. I cleared my throat, my body as tight as a coiled spring. “Did he say where he headed?”

“Afraid not.”

Though Mr. Lusk continued to wax lyrical on the nature of us collectors for a few moments more, I did not