The Ripper (book 1.3)

Isabel sat with her glass of wine, the red liquid swirling as her long, slender finger traced the rim. She held her head high as she always did. The candlelight cast shadows along her cheekbones and the abandoned chessboard. She gazed into the room across the hall. A few of her girls had gathered and spoke in hushed whispers, afraid that if they spoke too loudly it might be the death of them.

Sherlock asked from the other side of the room. He looked into his glass and took a careful sip. “Are you going to tell your… um…” He paused and racked his brain for a word that wouldn’t be seen as an insult. “…your girls what happened?” he finished lamely.

“They prefer the term ‘working girls’, thank you,” she said with a chuckle. “A few, perhaps. Those I trust to keep their mouths shut. The rest will figure it out on their own soon enough.” She raised the bottle, a fine, savory red with a label worn well past legibility, and refilled her glass an inch or so beyond the socially acceptable amount. “It is still your move.”

She was stopped on the way to her quarters by one of her girls, a woman with long strawberry-blonde hair and bags beneath her haunted blue eyes. “Ma’am, I needed to…” She wrung her hands and looked down to the floor. “I’m sorry, ma’am. I… I can tell you later if—”

“What is it?” Isabel cut in. She grabbed the girl’s arm before she could turn away. “Tell me. What’s wrong?”

“It’s n-nothing, ma’am,” she whispered. “It can wait.”

Isabel’s nose picked up on something in the air. She pushed the girl’s chin up, making her moan through her nose in shame. “Does this have anything to do with that nasty little cut you have there?”

Tears welled up in her eyes, and Isabel understood at once. She tried to hide the wound across her throat, but Isabel tightened her grip. It wasn’t really a cut, more a line of dried blood where a shallow cut had been. It was a miracle that the poor thing was alive to tell her.

She hooked her arm through the girl’s elbow and walked her up the stairs. “We’ll speak in my office,” she said. “I need to know what you saw—but I can’t have everyone in a panic over this. You understand.”

The girl spoke through her fingers, the words tripping over each other and tangled in sobs as she recounted her tale. Some Corinthian had flashed his coin and led her away. She’d never seen him before, but a job was a job. It was business as usual until he’d pulled a knife. “You don’t think it was… It wasn’t…” Her throat tightened around the words and she retreated into herself, sobbing through bared teeth and hugging herself tightly. “He almost had me,” she breathed. “Jack the Ripper. It was him, wasn’t it?”

Isabel wrapped her arms around the girl and pulled her close. “Stay in tonight,” she said quietly. “None of you are to leave the building this weekend without my permission.” She stroked the woman’s hair softly, but her face was carved of cold stone. “You won’t have to worry much longer.”