I lunged forward and attempted to rip the hood off the Ripper’s face, but the Ripper brandished the blade again. This time, it caught the top of my right forearm, slicing right through my coat and skin. As I grasped my arm to my chest, the Ripper took off running.
The cut didn’t hurt, but the logical part of my brain reminded me that was probably an effect of adrenaline. As I sprinted after the Ripper, following the trail of blood leaking from the cloak, my senses sharpened once again. My eyes caught the wisp of fog as the Ripper’s cloak whipped around a corner. My ears tuned into the uneven patter of the Ripper’s boots, a sign the killer had stumbled. My nose caught a whiff of that jasmine shampoo. With my arm bleeding freely, I ran on.
When the Ripper turned into a narrow alleyway, the footsteps halted. I slowed my pace and held the switchblade—covered in the Ripper’s blood—firmly in hand. Carefully, I peered around the corner.
A smaller knife flew past my face, nearly taking a chunk out of my nose. I dodged just in time, and the knife clattered into the street behind me. I stepped into the alleyway to finally face the Ripper.
She stood in the direct center of the backstreet, the hood of her cloak resting on her neck. Her short blonde hair gleamed in the moonlight. She looked taller like this, in the middle of the night, holding the blade that was responsible for at least two deaths.
“I knew it was you,” I said. “As soon as you sent me those letters. I matched the handwriting to the sign outside the tour office.”
Bertha mustered a nasty smile. “You’ve been an irritation ever since you showed up in Whitechapel. Asking all those questions during the tour, making me look like an idiot at my own job. I didn’t appreciate that.”
“I was right,” I said. “About everything. The Mouse Killer is your boat, isn’t it? Each time you made a kill, you moved it to a new mooring. Took a leaf out of Carl Feigenbaum’s book, eh? Still believe he wasn’t the original Ripper?”
She flipped the blade in her hand. It spun in the air and landed safely—handle first—in her palm. The control she had over it made my stomach turn.
“I told you the night of the tour,” she said. “I believe the Ripper was a woman. Why do you think I planned all of this in the first place?”
“Unfortunate genetic material?”
Her lip curled. “I wanted to prove it was possible for a woman to be the Ripper. Once I’m finished with you, I’ll have done it.”
“For what purpose?” I asked. “No one will know it was you. Not without you facing years in prison.”
She puffed out her chest. “I intend to write dear Inspector Baker a letter. I’ll be long gone by the time he reads it, but all of London will know who the real Ripper was by the end of the week. They’ll know.”
“And where do you intend to go?” I asked dryly.
She shrugged. “Wherever I please. I have plans in place.” She flicked her cloak away to free her knife hand. The other clutched the wound in her torso. “Now shut up. This’ll be a lot easier if you don’t scream.”
“Whoa!” I lifted my knife to remind her I had one. “Before you try to slice me open, I want a few questions answered. I deserve that, don’t you think?”
That was the thing about purely evil people. They loved to talk. They enjoyed explaining how they had gotten away with their crimes. How they’d cornered you last to savor the moment. They took pleasure in watching the fear form like crystals in a victim’s eyes. At least, I hoped Bertha obliged.
“What do you want to know?” she asked, masking her curiosity with a sharp tone.
“How did you get rid of the CCTV footage from the first two murders?” I said. “And how did you alter the footage of me and you in Mitre Square?”
Bertha chuckled. “Something you might not know about me: I used to work in IT before I got arrested for illegally accessing bank records. I know a lot about computers. CCTVs are about the easiest thing you can break into. I deleted the footage from those nights. As for the altered footage, I used some simple video editing tricks. I needed something to throw the cops off my trail. You were the perfect decoy.”
She took another fast step toward me. I backed up again.
“One more thing,” I said. “Does your little brother know you’re a murderer?”
She looked as though I’d hit her across the face with a brick. “What are you talking about?”
“Henry Alcott,” I said. “He’s your brother, isn’t he? You visited him at Oxford before you murdered Rosie Brigham. You bought shampoo with his credit card, and I’m guessing you borrowed his brush too. That’s why his hair was found on Rosie’s clothes. That’s why he was arrested instead of you.” As Bertha stared at me, stunned, another detail clicked into place. “The book in the Oxford library. The Mind of a Killer. The author’s last name was Alcott too. A relative of yours?”
“My uncle,” Bertha couldn’t help but admit. “He was a psychiatrist. He was the one who got me so interested in Jack the Ripper. He loved Henry and me more than our own father.”
“Not enough to stop you from becoming a killer.”
Bertha sneered. “You think you’re so smart. You think you got everything all figured out, eh? I’ve looked you and your friend up, you know. You both have dirty secrets. Does Evelyn know about yours?”
Rage reverberated in the depths of my throat as I growled, “Don’t talk to me about Evelyn.”
“She’s not innocent either,” Bertha teased. “Do you know what she really does for her job?”
“She’s a bodyguard.”
“That’s what she’d like you to think.”
“Enough,” I said, shaking. “I’m not playing your mind games.”
She lifted her shoulders.
