Half an hour later, I perused various displays of pretty glass bottles. I had no idea where to start, so I picked perfumes and colognes at random, hoping to happen upon the Ripper’s signature smell.
“Can I help you find something, miss?” A young woman in a black pencil skirt and eyeliner winged two meters past her face approached me from behind. She looked fresh out of secondary school. “I’d be happy to provide you with some samples.”
“Actually, yes,” I said, grateful for any kind of guidance. “A friend of mine wore a new perfume to our book club the other day, and for the life of me, I can’t remember what the name of it was.”
“Might you just ask your friend?”
She had me there. I leaned in, and she automatically drew closer. “All right, it wasn’t a friend. It’s the woman trying to steal my boyfriend. He mentioned he liked what she was wearing, and I’ll be damned if I let a bottle of perfume break us up.”
My helper grinned wickedly. “You came to the right woman. I’m Sophie, and I’m well versed in the art of keeping your man. Can you describe the perfume for me?”
“It was flowery,” I said. “But not too sweet. More of a light, natural floral.”
Sophie tapped her chin. “Hmm, we have a lot of florals. Any idea what kind of flower it might have been? Or not been? For instance, if it wasn’t rose, we can rule out a lot off the bat.”
“It wasn’t rose,” I said, sure of it. “Rose is too heavy. It wasn’t lavender either.”
Sophie drew invisible X’s across several perfumes on the shelf. She chose a bottle shaped like an oversized diamond, spritzed it across a sample paper, and wafted it through the air. “What about patchouli?”
I took a whiff. “Not it.”
We operated like this for several minutes. Sophie strategically narrowed down the options while I sniffed samples like my life depended on it. The number of perfumes available was shrinking rapidly.
“This is my last guess,” Sophie said, spraying a final bottle. “Jasmine.”
I inhaled deeply as she set the sample under my nose. “That’s it. That’s the flowery scent,” I said, “but it’s not quite the same as I remember.”
“Are you sure it was perfume?” she asked. “Not another beauty product like shampoo or conditioner?”
“Do you have jasmine-scented hair products?”
“Sure, follow me.”
I trailed after Sophie as she led me to a wall full of shampoos. She started pointing them out as if she were a game show host.
“Those four are artificially jasmine scented,” she rattled off. “Those three have jasmine absolute essential oil in them, which is why they’re so expensive. That one and that one are mixtures of jasmine and something else, like ylang-ylang or sandalwood.”
My eyes fluttered from one bottle to the next, overwhelmed by the number of choices. Sophie sensed my discomfort. She stepped in front of me and grabbed my hands.
“Close your eyes,” she ordered.
For some odd reason, I did as she asked.
“Don’t think about it,” she said. “Point!”
My index finger shot out and steadied. I squinted at the bottle as Sophie pulled it off the shelf and popped the cap.
“Jasmine and ylang-ylang,” she said, using her hand to waft the smell toward me. “Familiar?”
When the shampoo scent washed over me, the memory of that at night in Mitre Square manifested in my mind. It was the exact same smell as when I’d raced into the alley to stop the Ripper from killing Eira.
“That’s it!”
Sophie beamed. “Excellent! Well, that brand is exclusive to Harrods. You can only buy it here.”
“Even better.” I pulled the bottle from Sophie’s grasp. “Listen, I need a list of every person who’s purchased this shampoo within the last six weeks.”
She wrinkled her nose. “Why?”
“It’s about catching the person responsible for the attacks in Whitechapel,” I admitted. “Do you want to help me do that?”
“Are you with the police?”
“No, but—”
Sophie’s triumph at finding the shampoo faded as she realized how much I’d lied to her. Her face and tone hardened. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but we can’t give out customers’ information like that.”
“Sophie, please. You didn’t spend twenty minutes with me for no good reason.”
“I work on commission,” she said hotly. “I was trying to get you to buy something.”
“That can be arranged.”
Two hundred pounds later, I left Harrods with a bag full of expensive perfume, a bottle of the shampoo in question, and a list of names that Sophie had printed on receipt paper. Once in the car, I cast the heavy bag aside and scanned the list.
In six weeks, over a hundred people had bought the same brand of shampoo as the Ripper. My excitement died instantly. I had no way of narrowing down the potential suspects, unless I called each person individually and pretended to be—
A single name caught my eye, ending my thought spiral of ridiculous plans.
Henry Alcott.
17
On a foggy Monday morning, someone rapped on the flat’s door. When I opened it, a woman waltzed in with an overnight bag as if she’d been invited. She was impossibly tall, thin, and willowy. When I saw that her face matched Evelyn’s, I realized who she was.
“Marie?” I said. “What are you doing here?”
The only physical difference between Evelyn and her older sister was the way they were built. While Evelyn was broad and muscled, Marie was light and airy like a fairy princess. She was two years older than us, and I’d come to be acquainted with her when we all attended the same boarding school. However, Marie’s strict Head Girl attitude and flair for drama interested me less than Evelyn’s down-to-earth nonchalance. We had never become close, and I hadn’t seen her since she moved to the States to be in the same country as her soon-to-be husband.
“Where is she?” Marie demanded, dumping her bag on the floor and scanning the flat. “Where’s Evelyn?”
“She’s resting in her room,” I answered. “Did she know you were coming?”
Marie rounded on me. “Did
