Capturing the Devil Read online

  Copyright

  The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Copyright © 2019 by Kerri Maniscalco

  Cover design by Derek Thornton

  Cover copyright © 2019 Hachette Book Group, Inc.

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  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book without permission is a theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like permission to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), please contact [email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

  JIMMY Patterson Books / Little, Brown and Company

  Hachette Book Group

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  First ebook edition: September 2019

  JIMMY Patterson Books is an imprint of Little, Brown and Company, a division of Hachette Book Group, Inc. The Little, Brown name and logo are trademarks of Hachette Book Group, Inc. The JIMMY Patterson Books® name and logo are trademarks of JBP Business, LLC.

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  Photographs courtesy of Welcome Collection: Bellevue Hospital, circa 1885/1898; post-mortem set, London, England, 1860-1870; Saint Michael the Archangel: the fall of the dragon and the rebel angels defeated by St Michael; Roses, Robert “Variae”; birds of the crow family: four figures, including a crow, a raven and a rook; Typical Victorian Pharmacy, Plough Court Pharmacy 1897.

  Photographs courtesy of Shutterstock: Part One and Part Two images; New York City, circa 1889; gowns with beading and lace details; skull and rose tattoo image; map of Chicago, circa 1900; Vintage Post Mortem Tools; goat skull with smoky background; wedding invitation background.

  Photographs courtesy of public domain: newspaper article circa 1893; H. H. Holmes circa 1880s/early 1890s; Court of Honor, World’s Fair, Chicago; murder castle.

  Photographs courtesy of Alamy: St. Paul’s Chapel.

  ISBN 978-0-316-48552-4

  E3-20190810-JV-NF-ORI

  Contents

  COVER

  TITLE PAGE

  COPYRIGHT

  DEDICATION

  EPIGRAPH

  PART ONE: NEW YORK CITY: 1889

  ONE: DEATH COMES SWIFTLY

  TWO: FIT FOR A PRINCESS

  THREE: ROOM 31

  FOUR: OLD SHAKESPEARE

  FIVE: A HAUNTED PAST

  SIX: A VICIOUS DISCOVERY

  SEVEN: MISERY LANE

  EIGHT: BARON OF SOMERSET

  NINE: A DESPERATE REQUEST

  TEN: CORPSE DELIVERY

  ELEVEN: SKULL AND ROSE

  TWELVE: BIRTHDAY SURPRISE

  THIRTEEN: CHAOS UNLEASHED

  FOURTEEN: COURTING A CRESSWELL

  FIFTEEN: YOURS TO GIVE

  SIXTEEN: A TANGLE OF LIMBS

  SEVENTEEN: STILL AT LARGE

  EIGHTEEN: MY VOW TO YOU

  NINETEEN: DASHED TO BITS

  TWENTY: INCONVENIENT ARRANGEMENT

  TWENTY-ONE: AN IMPOSSIBLE POSITION

  TWENTY-TWO: A QUEEN ARRIVES

  TWENTY-THREE: WHAT’S IN A NAME?

  TWENTY-FOUR: A STUDY OF CONTRASTS

  TWENTY-FIVE: VIVISECTIONS AND OTHER HORRORS

  TWENTY-SIX: THE DUKE OF PORTLAND

  TWENTY-SEVEN: A SWIFT DEPARTURE

  TWENTY-EIGHT: SATAN’S COMPANIONS

  PART TWO: CHICAGO: 1889

  TWENTY-NINE: THE SECOND CITY

  THIRTY: ILLUMINATION

  THIRTY-ONE: DEVIL’S DOMINION

  THIRTY-TWO: THORNE IN MY SIDE

  THIRTY-THREE: THIS DEVILISH PURSUIT

  THIRTY-FOUR: WICKED SOULS

  THIRTY-FIVE: DARK CREATURES

  THIRTY-SIX: MURDER OF CROWS

  THIRTY-SEVEN: A GRID SYSTEM

  THIRTY-EIGHT: BE MINE

  THIRTY-NINE: STRANGE DISAPPEARANCE

  FORTY: INFERNO

  FORTY-ONE: AGAINST ONE’S NATURE

  FORTY-TWO: WHITE CITY STAINED RED

  FORTY-THREE: COLD AS ICE

  FORTY-FOUR: AN AVENGING ANGEL

  FORTY-FIVE: MORE WICKED THAN HE

  FORTY-SIX: CAPTIVITY: NIGHT ONE

  FORTY-SEVEN: CAPTIVITY: NIGHT TWO

  FORTY-EIGHT: CAPTIVITY: NIGHT THREE

  FORTY-NINE: CAPTIVITY: NIGHT FOUR

  FIFTY: OF BLOOD AND BONE

  FIFTY-ONE: SATAN EMERGES

  FIFTY-TWO: HEAVEN OR HELL

  FIFTY-THREE: CAPTURING THE DEVIL

  EPILOGUE: CRIME OF THE CENTURY

  BEYOND LIFE, BEYOND DEATH; MY LOVE FOR THEE IS ETERNAL

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  JIMMY PATTERSON BOOKS FOR YOUNG ADULT READERS

  NEWSLETTERS

  Dear reader,

  Beyond life, beyond death;

  my love for thee is eternal.

  For ever and for ever farewell, Brutus!

  If we do meet again, we’ll smile indeed;

  If not, ’tis true this parting was well made.

  —JULIUS CAESAR, ACT 5, SCENE 1

  WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

  Good night, good night!

  Parting is such sweet sorrow,

  That I shall say good night till it

  be morrow.

  —ROMEO AND JULIET, ACT 2, SCENE 2

  WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

  Our revels now are ended. These our actors,

  As I foretold you, were all spirits and

  Are melted into air, into thin air:

  And, like the baseless fabric of this vision,

  The cloud-capp’d towers, the gorgeous palaces,

  The solemn temples, the great globe itself,

  Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve

  And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,

  Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff

  As dreams are made on, and our little life

  Is rounded with a sleep.

  —THE TEMPEST, ACT 4, SCENE 1

  WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

  New York City, circa 1889

  ONE

  DEATH COMES SWIFTLY

  WEST WASHINGTON MARKET

  MEATPACKING DISTRICT, NEW YORK CITY

  21 JANUARY 1889

  A blast of frigid air greeted me as I unlatched the carriage door and stumbled onto the street, my attention stuck on the raised axe. Watery sunlight dribbled off its edge like fresh blood, tricking me into recalling recent events. Some might call them nightmares. A feeling akin to hunger awakened deep within, but I quickly swallowed it down.

  “Miss Wadsworth?” The footman reached for my arm, his focus darting around the throng of dirt-speckled people elbowing their way down West Street. I blinked, nearly having forgotten where I was and who I was with. Almost three weeks in New York and it still didn’t seem real. The footman wet his cracked lips, his voice strained. “Your uncle requested you both be taken directly to the—”

  “It will be our secret, Rhodes.”

  Without offering another word, I gripped my cane and moved forward, staring into dull black eyes as the blade finally came down, severing the spinal cord at the neck with a wood-splintering thwa
ck. The executioner—a sandy-haired man of around twenty years—worked the axe free and wiped its edge on the front of his bloodstained apron.

  For a brief moment, with his shirtsleeves rolled back and sweat dotting his brow, he reminded me of Uncle Jonathan after he’d carved open a corpse. The man set his weapon aside and yanked the goat’s body backward, neatly separating the head from its shoulders.

  I drew closer, curious that the animal’s head didn’t tumble off the butcher’s block as I’d imagined—it simply rolled to the side of the oversize board, gaze fixed permanently toward the winter sky. If I believed in an ever after, I might hope it was in a better place. One far from here.

  My attention drifted to the goat’s carcass. It had been killed and skinned elsewhere, its exposed flesh a map of white and red, crisscrossing where fat and connective tissue met with tender meat. I fought the growing urge to quietly recite the names of each muscle and tendon.

  I hadn’t inspected a cadaver in a month.

  “How appetizing.” My cousin Liza finally caught up and looped her arm through mine, tugging me out of the way as a man tossed a stuffed burlap sack across the sidewalk to a younger apprentice. Now that I was paying closer attention, I noticed a fine layer of sawdust around the butcher’s feet. It was a good method to easily soak up blood for sweeping, one I was well acquainted with thanks to time spent in Uncle’s laboratory and at the forensic academy I’d briefly attended in Romania. Uncle wasn’t the only Wadsworth who enjoyed cutting open the dead.

  The butcher stopped hacking the goat apart long enough to leer at us. He crassly slid his gaze over our bodies and offered a low, appreciative whistle. “I can snap corsets open faster than bones.” He held his knife up, his attention fixed on my chest. “Interested in a demonstration, fancy lady? Say the word and I’ll show you what else I can do to such a fine figure.”

  Liza stiffened beside me. People often called women of supposedly questionable morals “fancy ladies.” If he thought I’d blush and run off, he was sorely mistaken.

  “Unfortunately, sir, I find I’m not terribly impressed.” I casually slipped a scalpel from my wristlet clutch, enjoying the familiar feel of it. “You see, I also eviscerate bodies. But I don’t bother with animals. I butcher humans. Would you care for a demonstration?”

  He must have seen something in my face that worried him. He stepped back, his calloused hands raised. “I don’t want no trouble, now. I was just havin’ some fun.”

  “As was I.” I gave him a sweet smile that made him blanch as I turned the blade this way and that. “Shame you don’t feel like playing any longer. Though I’m not surprised. Men such as yourself boast in a grandiose fashion to make up for their… shortcomings.”

  Liza’s jaw practically hit the ground as she angled us away. She sighed as our carriage finally rumbled off without us. “Explain to me, dearest cousin, why we left that warm, lavish hansom in favor of wandering through”—she motioned at the rows of butchers’ blocks with her parasol, each stall featuring different animal parts being wrapped in brown paper packages—“all this. The smell is positively horrendous. And the company is even more foul. Never, in all my life, have I been spoken to in such a wicked manner.”

  I kept my skepticism on that latter point locked away. We’d spent more than a week aboard an ocean liner cavorting with a carnival known for debauchery. Being acquainted with the ringmaster for five minutes proved he was a devil of a young man. In more ways than one.

  “I wanted to see the meatpacking district for myself,” I lied. “Perhaps it’ll give me an idea for the perfect main course. What do you think of roasted goat?”

  “After witnessing its beheading or before?” she asked, looking like she was moments away from vomiting. “You do know that’s what cookbooks are for, correct? Inspiration without the labor. Or carnage. I swear you miss being surrounded by death.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Why would you even think such a thing?”

  “Look around, Audrey Rose. Of all the neighborhoods in this city, this is the one you chose to stroll through.”

  I tore my attention away from a plucked chicken that was seconds away from joining the dismembered goat, my expression reserved as I took in our surroundings. Blood steadily dripped down many of the wooden blocks lining the storefronts, splattering onto the ground.

  Judging from the multihued stains, the streets weren’t washed even after a busy day of hacking animals apart. Veins of crimson and black wound through cracks in the cobblestones—tributaries of old death meeting the new. The scent of copper mixed with feces pricked my eyes and thrilled my heart.

  This street was death made tangible, a murderer’s dream.

  Liza sidestepped a bucket of frost-coated offal, her warm exhale mimicking steam rising off a boiling teakettle as it mingled with the cold air. I wasn’t sure if the amount of entrails or their near-frozen states offended her more. I wondered at the darkness swirling within me—the secret part that couldn’t muster up an ounce of disgust. Perhaps I needed to take up a new hobby.

  I feared I was becoming addicted to blood.

  “Honestly, let me hail another hansom. You shouldn’t be out in this weather anyway—you know what Uncle’s said about the cold. And look”—Liza nodded toward our feet—“our shoes are sopping up snow like bits of bread in soup. We’re going to catch our death out here.”

  I didn’t glance down at my own feet. I hadn’t worn my favorite pretty shoes since the day I’d taken a knife in my leg. My current footwear was stiff, boring leather without a delicate heel. Liza was correct; icy dampness had found its way in through the seams, soaking my stockings and causing the near-constant dull ache in my bones to intensify.

  “Stop! Thief!” A constable blew a whistle somewhere close by and several people broke off from the crowd, scattering like plague rats rushing down alleyways. Liza and I moved aside, lest we become the unwitting victims of fleeing pickpockets and petty thieves.

  “A whole roasted pig will be more than enough food,” she added. “Stop worrying.”

  “That’s precisely the issue.”

  I pressed closer to the building as a young boy ran by, one hand on his newsboy cap, the other clutching what appeared to be a stolen pocket watch. A policeman followed, blowing his whistle and dodging through vendors.

  “I can’t stop worrying. Thomas’s birthday is in two days,” I reminded her, as if I hadn’t already done so one hundred times over the last week. The constable’s whistle and shouts grew further away and our slow procession down butchers’ row resumed. “It’s my first dinner party and I want everything to be perfect.”

  Mr. Thomas Cresswell—my insufferable yet most decidedly charming partner in crime solving—and I had danced around the subject of both courtship and marriage. I’d agreed to accept him, should he ask my father first, and hadn’t expected everything to unfold quite as quickly as it had. We’d known each other for just a few short months—five now—but it felt right.

  Most young women of my station married at about twenty-one years, but my soul felt older, especially after the events on the RMS Etruria. With my approval, Thomas sent a letter to my father, requesting an audience to make his intentions clear. Now that my father, along with my aunt Amelia, was en route from London to New York, the time was fast approaching when we’d begin an official courtship followed by a betrothal.

  Not long ago, I would have felt invisible bars closing in at the thought of joining myself to another; now I irrationally worried something might bar me from marrying Thomas. He’d almost been taken from me once, and I’d kill before I allowed that to happen again.

  “Plus”—I pulled the letter from the premier chef of Paris from my purse and waved it playfully at Liza—“Monsieur Escoffier was quite specific about obtaining the best cut of meat. And Uncle isn’t the one who’ll deal with a stiff leg,” I added, leaning a bit more heavily on my cane. “Let me worry over that.”

  Liza looked ready to argue but held a perfumed handkerchi
ef to her nose instead, her gaze snagging on the mechanical canopy above us. A conveyor belt with hooks swept by, a constant loop of gears clicking and metal clinking, the noise adding to the clamor of the streets as butchers staked hocks of fresh meat to it. She watched the dismembered limbs jostle their way into the buildings where they’d undoubtedly be broken down further, seemingly lost in thought.

  Likely she was searching for another reason I ought to stay inside and rest, but I’d done plenty of resting in the weeks we’d been in New York. I needn’t hear from others what I could and could no longer easily do. I was more than aware of that.

  While it was true I wanted Thomas’s eighteenth birthday to be special, it wasn’t the whole truth behind my obsessing. Uncle hadn’t permitted me to leave my grandmother’s home much for fear of fracturing my leg further, and I was going mad with inactivity and boredom. Throwing Thomas a party was as much for me as it was for him.

  Though I was grateful for my cousin—she and Thomas had taken turns entertaining me by reading my favorite books aloud and playing the piano. They had even put on a few plays, much to both my amusement and my dismay. While my cousin had the voice of a nightingale, Thomas’s singing was atrocious. A cat in heat held a note in a more pleasant manner than he did. At least it proved he wasn’t limitlessly skilled, which pleased me to no end. Without them or my novels, things would have been much worse. When I was adventuring between the pages of a book, I wasn’t sad over things I was missing outside.

  “Your grandmother’s kitchen staff is capable of doing the shopping to Mr. Ritz’s instructions. Wasn’t he the person who recommended Mr. Escoffier? These are not the sort of scenes one should be subjected to prior to a dress fitting.” Liza nodded at the eyes being pried from the goat’s skull and set in a bowl, while its belly was sliced open to remove organ meat. “No matter how accustomed you may be to macabre things.”

  “Death is a part of life. Case in point”—I jerked my chin toward the fresh meat—“without the death of that goat, we’d starve.”

  Liza scrunched her nose. “Or we could all learn to simply eat plants from now on.”

  “While that sounds valiant, the plants would still need to die for your survival.” I ignored the tweak of pain in my leg as a particularly icy blast of wind barreled over the Hudson River and slammed into us. The sky’s gray belly bulged with the promise of more snow. It seemed like it had been snowing for a month straight. I was loath to admit that Uncle was right: I’d suffer the consequences of today’s activities later this evening. “Anyway, my fitting is in twenty minutes, which gives us plenty of time to—”