The Fourth Victim

The studio was dark when Bernie arrived, but lamplight glowed in the third-floor windows where Madame Helena lived. Violet let herself in, locked the door behind her with the kind of care that came from genuine fear, and sagged against it for a moment.

Safe. She was safe. For now.

Footsteps on the stairs—Artie, light and quick, carrying a lamp.

"You're back." His relief was palpable. "Thank God. I was starting to think—" He stopped, took in her expression. "Bad, then?"

"Bad." Violet pulled off the false beard without bothering to move away from the door first. The spirit gum tugged painfully, but she barely noticed. "We found evidence. Drawings, surgical tools, glass jars. But nothing conclusive. Nothing Moreau can't explain away as theater props and artist's reference materials."

"Christ." Artie set down the lamp, moved to help her with the binding corset. "So, what happens now?"

"Flanahan's going to try to interview the actress from the production. See if she'll testify that Moreau's been... practicing on the company members." Violet gasped as the corset loosened, her ribs expanding with blessed relief. "And I'm going to develop these photographs. Maybe there's something in them we missed."

"Now? Violet, it's nearly midnight. You're exhausted."

"I can't sleep anyway." Violet stripped off Bernie's coat and vest, already moving toward the darkroom. "Not knowing he's out there. Not knowing if he's choosing another victim tonight."

Artie followed her into the darkroom's familiar chemical-scented darkness. "You think he'll kill again soon?"

"His play showed grotesque operations. We've only found three victims." Violet lit the red safety lamp, began preparing the developing chemicals with movements made automatic by years of practice. "Either there's a fourth victim already dead and waiting to be discovered, or he's planning ahead. Showing what he intends to do next."

"The heart."

"Yes. The heart." Violet pulled the first glass plate from its protective holder, slid it carefully into the developing bath. "Which means somewhere in Whitechapel, there's a woman who doesn't know she's been chosen. Doesn't know she has a perfect heart that a madman wants to preserve forever."

The image emerged gradually in the developing solution—the surgical theater set, the gleaming operating table, the array of instruments laid out with such precise care. Through the alchemical magic of photography, the stage set appeared both theatrical and disturbingly real, the props indistinguishable from actual medical equipment.

Violet developed each plate methodically, watching the images emerge from the chemical bath like spirits manifesting from nothing. The backstage corridors. The costume racks with their elaborate dresses. The locked cabinet that smelled of chloroform. The workshop with its empty specimen jars.

The drawings.

She'd photographed all of them before Flanahan confiscated the originals—close-ups showing the women's faces, the red-ink highlighting their "perfect" features, the notations in Moreau's precise handwriting.

But there was something else in these photographs. Something Violet hadn't noticed when she was taking them.

She pulled the plate showing the workshop bench closer to the red lamp, studying it with a photographer's eye.

There, in the background, barely visible. Another drawer, slightly open. And inside that drawer—

"Artie, hand me the magnifying glass."

He found it quickly, passed it over. Violet held it over the wet plate, squinting in the red light.

Inside the partially open drawer was what looked like fabric. Dark fabric, carefully folded. And on top of the fabric, something pale that caught the light.

Paper? No. Too irregular.

Lace, maybe. Or—

Violet's breath caught.

"What is it?" Artie leaned closer. "What do you see?"

"I think..." Violet moved the magnifying glass, trying to bring the detail into focus. "I think it's a woman's collar. Embroidered fabric. The kind a shopgirl or seamstress might wear to look respectable."

"So? Could be costume pieces."

"It could be." Violet set down the magnifying glass, her mind racing. "Or it could be a trophy. Something he kept from one of his victims."

Jane Stride, the third victim found in Dead Man's Hole, had been well-dressed despite the alley's squalor. A seamstress, Flanahan had said. The kind of woman who'd take pride in her appearance, who'd wear her best collar even in a dangerous part of town.

"We need to tell Flanahan," Artie said.

"And say what? That I saw a piece of fabric in a photograph that might be a collar that might have belonged to a victim?" Violet shook her head. "It's not enough. It's barely anything."

"It's more than you had an hour ago."

"Maybe." Violet returned to developing the remaining plates, but her mind wouldn't let go of that glimpse of embroidered fabric. Evidence or coincidence? Proof or paranoia?

She was so focused on the work that she almost didn't hear the sound.

A soft scraping. Outside. At street level.

Artie heard it too. His hand moved to the darkroom door, ready to extinguish the lamp if needed.

"Probably just a cat," he whispered.

But it wasn't a cat. The sound came again—deliberate, methodical. Someone trying the front door.

Someone trying to get in.

Violet's heart kicked hard against her ribs. She moved to extinguish the red lamp, plunging the darkroom into complete darkness.

"Stay here," she breathed to Artie. "Don't make a sound."

She crept out of the darkroom, still in her shirtsleeves and dark skirt, Bernie's disguise abandoned in her urgency. The studio's main room was dark, but pale moonlight filtered through the high windows enough to see by.

The front door stood closed, locked as Violet had left it. But the handle was turning. Slowly. Testing.

Violet grabbed the first thing that came to hand—a heavy camera stand, solid brass and oak. Not much of a weapon, but better than nothing.

The handle stopped turning. Silence.

Then footsteps, moving away from the door. Receding down Carter Square's crooked street.

Violet waited, barely breathing, for a full minute. Then another. The footsteps didn't return.

Slowly, she set down the camera stand and moved to the window. Pressed herself against the wall so she could peer out without being seen.

A figure was visible at the far end of the square, silhouetted against a streetlamp. Tall. Moving with fluid grace. Dark coat billowing slightly in the October wind.

Then the figure turned, just for a moment, and pale lamplight caught his face.

Moreau.

He looked directly at the studio's darkened windows, as though he could see Violet watching him. Then he smiled—she couldn't see it clearly at this distance, but she knew it anyway, could feel the weight of it like a physical thing.

Then he turned and walked away, disappearing into Whitechapel's crooked streets.

Violet stood frozen at the window for a long time after, her heart hammering, Madame Helena's charm cold against her chest.

He knew where she lived. Knew Bernie's studio. Had come here in the middle of the night to—what? Threaten? Warn? Simply remind her that he could find her anytime he wanted?

"Violet?" Artie's voice from the darkroom doorway. "Was someone there?"

"Moreau." Violet's voice came out steadier than she felt. "He was testing the door. Making sure I knew he could reach me if he wanted to."

"Christ." Artie crossed the room, checked the locks himself. "We need to tell the police. Tell Flanahan. This is harassment, or threatening behavior, or—"

"Or a theater director taking a late-night walk happened to pass by Bernie's studio." Violet moved away from the window. "We can't prove he was trying to get in. Can't prove anything except that a man was walking down a public street."

"You know it was more than that."

"I know. But knowing isn't the same as proving." Violet wrapped her arms around herself, suddenly cold despite the studio's warmth. "Go wake Madame Helena. Tell her what happened. I want extra locks on the doors tonight. And I want you sleeping down here in the main studio, not in the back room. Where you can hear if anyone tries to get in."

"What about you?"

"I'll be in the darkroom. Finishing these photographs." When Artie started to protest, Violet cut him off. "I can't sleep anyway. Might as well make use of the time."

Artie looked like he wanted to argue, but something in Violet's expression stopped him. He nodded and headed upstairs to wake Madame Helena.

Violet returned to the darkroom and her chemicals and the images still waiting to be developed. But her hands shook now, and twice she nearly dropped the glass plates.

Moreau knew where she lived. Had come to her door. Had made sure she understood she wasn't safe.

Which meant he saw Bernie—saw Violet—as a threat worth intimidating.

Which meant they were getting close to something he desperately wanted to protect.

Violet developed the last plate with shaking hands and hung it to dry with the others. Then she sat in the darkroom's red-lit darkness and let herself feel the full weight of fear.

Somewhere out there, Moreau was walking Whitechapel's streets. Maybe hunting. Maybe choosing. Maybe planning his next perfect piece to add to his collection.

And Violet couldn't stop him. Not yet. Not without proof that would hold up in court, without evidence that couldn't be explained away.

But she could document. She could photograph. She could talk to spirits and gather testimony that no living person would ever hear in a courtroom.

And maybe, if she was very careful and very lucky, she could find the proof Flanahan needed before Moreau added another woman to his collection.

The alternative—that she'd fail, that another woman would die, that Moreau would keep killing until someone stopped him—was unthinkable.

So Violet sat in her darkroom and made herself think it anyway.

The banging on the studio door came at dawn.

Violet jerked awake from the half-doze she'd fallen into in the darkroom chair, disoriented and aching. The developed photographs hung around her like translucent ghosts, swaying slightly in the air current.

More banging. Urgent. Insistent.

She stumbled out of the darkroom to find Artie already at the door, lamp in hand, his dark face creased with worry.

"It's Flanahan," he said. "I can see him through the window."

Violet nodded, tried to make herself presentable—failed spectacularly, she was still in her shirtsleeves and dark skirt, her hair coming loose from its pins, her face probably marked with chemical stains. But there was no time to transform back into Bernie.

"Let him in," she said. "Quickly."

Artie unlocked the door. Flanahan burst through, still in the same clothes from last night, his scarred face gray with exhaustion and something darker.

"Mr. Abrams—" He stopped. Stared at Violet. At her hair, her dress, her obvious femininity in the morning light. "What—"

"There's no time for that now." Violet crossed her arms, prepared for the inevitable confrontation but refusing to let it derail what mattered. "Whatever you came to tell me is more important than my wardrobe choices, I suspect."

Flanahan's mouth worked for a moment. Then he seemed to make a decision, pushed the shock aside to deal with later. "There's been another murder. Found an hour ago. Heart removed with surgical precision, wrapped in white cloth. Body positioned in an alley off Brick Lane like she was sleeping."

The fourth victim.

"How long dead?" Violet asked, her voice steady despite the cold spreading through her chest.

"Coroner's preliminary estimate is twelve to eighteen hours. Which means—"

"Which means she was killed while we were at the theater." Violet's hands clenched into fists. "While we were backstage, searching for evidence, Moreau had already completed his collection. The performance wasn't showing what he planned to do. It was celebrating what he'd already done."

"Aye." Flanahan's blue eyes were haunted. "And I need you to photograph the scene. Officially. Captain Morris approved it based on last night's report."

"Give me ten minutes to change into--Bernie." Violet was already moving toward the back room where her disguise waited. "Artie, pack the camera equipment. Include the flash powder and extra plates. This is going to take a while."

"Violet—" Artie started.

"Bernie," she corrected sharply. "Detective Flanahan needs Bernie. Professional photographer. Nothing else."

Flanahan was still staring at her. "How long have you been—"

"Later." Violet cut him off. "After we've documented the murder scene. After we've caught the bastard who did this. Then you can ask all the questions you want."

She disappeared into the back room before he could respond.

The fourth victim lay in an alley off Brick Lane exactly as Flanahan had described: positioned like she was sleeping, head pillowed on folded cloth, hands crossed over her chest where her heart should have been.

Bernie stood at the alley's entrance with camera case in hand and tried not to think about the fact that Detective Flanahan now knew. Knew she was a woman. Knew Violet had been lying to him, to everyone, for the entirety of their acquaintance.

The confrontation would come. But not yet. Not while there was work to do.

"Ready, Mr. Abrams?" Flanahan's voice was carefully neutral. He'd barely looked at Bernie directly since they'd left the studio, his scarred face set in an expression that might have been professional detachment or might have been shock he was still processing.

"Ready." Bernie moved past him into the alley, boots crunching on broken cobblestones.

The scene was already secured—two constables at the entrance, canvas tarp covering the body. But Bernie could see the spirit immediately, standing beside her own corpse with the peculiar translucence of the recently dead.

Young. Perhaps twenty-five. Dark hair pinned up in the style of a shopgirl or office worker. Her dress was simple but well-kept, the kind a working woman would wear to look respectable. And where her heart should have been, there was only hollow darkness beneath her translucent ribs.

The spirit hadn't noticed Bernie yet. She was staring down at her body with an expression of profound confusion, occasionally reaching toward the wrapped hollow in her chest as though trying to understand what was missing.

Not yet, Violet told herself. Work first. Always work first.

"I'll need the tarp removed," Bernie said, setting down the camera case. "And someone to hold the flash powder. It's too dark down here for proper exposure."

Flanahan gestured to one of the constables—the same young man from Dead Man's Hole, Jenkins, who shifted his weight from foot to foot and clutched his notebook with white-knuckled hands. "Help Mr. Abrams. Do exactly as he says."

Jenkins nodded, approached cautiously. "Sir."

Bernie began the familiar routine of setting up equipment, trying to ignore the weight of Flanahan's gaze on her back. The detective stood three feet away, notebook out, watching Bernie's every movement with an intensity that made Violet's skin crawl.

He knows. He knows and he's trying to reconcile what he saw this morning with the Bernie he thought he knew.

The tripod went up. The camera mounted. The black cloth draped. Through the ground glass, the victim's body appeared upside down and reversed—a young woman arranged with such care that it looked almost loving. Almost tender.

If you didn't know what was missing beneath that clean white wrapping.

Bernie pulled the dark slide, exposing the plate. "Everyone hold still. Count of thirty."

The flash powder cracked and bloomed. The alley lit up brilliant white for a moment, throwing sharp shadows across brick walls and broken cobblestones.

Slide the dark slide back. Mark the plate. Load the next.

Violet worked methodically through the documentation—wide shots establishing the scene, medium shots showing the body's position, close-ups of the wrapped chest cavity, the careful way the white cloth had been folded and secured. Close-ups of the victim's face, peaceful and unmarked, as though she'd simply fallen asleep in this squalid alley.

The whole time, the spirit watched. Not Bernie. Not the constables or Flanahan. The spirit watched her own body with that terrible confusion, occasionally lifting her translucent hands to her chest, feeling for the heartbeat that would never come again.

"Last plate," Bernie announced. She triggered the flash powder one final time, capturing the full scene from the angle that would show a jury—if it ever came to trial—exactly how Moreau had positioned his latest acquisition.

Then she began packing up the equipment with hands that wanted to shake but didn't.

"I'll need to develop these," Bernie said without looking at Flanahan. "Before the collodion dries. There's the courtyard two streets over—"

"I remember." Flanahan's voice was still carefully neutral. "I'll have Jenkins accompany you. And Mr. Abrams?" He paused. "When you're finished developing, we need to talk. Properly."

Violet's stomach dropped. "Yes, we do."

Jenkins led Bernie to the same courtyard where she'd developed the plates from Dead Man's Hole—felt like a lifetime ago now, though it had been less than a week. The young constable showed her to the pump, demonstrated it still worked, then retreated at Bernie's curt nod.

The moment he was gone, Violet let herself sag against the pump handle.

The spirit had followed. Of course she had. They always did, when they had something to say.

"You can see me," the spirit said. The same words they always used. The same wondering tone.

"I can." Violet straightened, abandoned the gruff Bernie voice since there was no one to hear. "I can see you, I can hear you, and I'm going to find who did this to you."

The spirit drifted closer. Up close, she looked even younger, barely older than Violet herself. Her hollow chest cavity shifted and pulsed with that terrible absence, and her translucent hands kept returning to it, feeling for what wasn't there.

"I don't understand," the spirit whispered. "I remember... a theater. A man. He said he wanted to show me something beautiful. And then..."

"And then he drugged you," Violet said gently. "Gave you something to drink that made everything soft and distant. Took you to his workshop. Cut out your heart while you were still conscious."

The spirit's form wavered. "Yes. Yes, I remember now. The pain. And his voice, so calm, saying I had the most perfect heart he'd ever seen. That it beat with such beautiful rhythm. That he'd preserve it forever so it would never stop beating."

Violet's hands clenched. "His name was Moreau. Étienne Moreau. Tall, dark hair going gray, French accent. Runs the Grand Guignol Theatre."

"I don't know his name." The spirit looked up, her translucent face anguished. "He never told me. Just said to call him Doctor. Said he could help me."

"Help you with what?"

"My heart." The spirit's hands moved to her chest again, that hollow cavity. "It... it raced sometimes. Skipped beats. The doctor I saw said it was nerves, nothing to worry about. But I worried anyway. And then this man, this gentleman at the dance hall, he saw me clutching my chest during a performance. Asked if I was alright. I told him about my heart, and he said he was a surgeon, said he could examine me properly, make sure I was healthy."

The spirit's voice dropped to a whisper. "He said he'd make me beautiful forever."

"And you believed him," Violet said.

"Why wouldn't I?" The spirit's voice cracked. "He was kind. Had clean hands, gentleman's manners. Took me to his practice, covered my eyes first, said it was to keep me calm during the examination. I should have known. Should have run. But he seemed so sincere."

"He's good at seeming sincere." Violet began preparing the developing chemicals, her hands working automatically while her mind raced. "What's your name? I need to tell the police, tell your family—"

"Catherine. Catherine Webb. I work—worked—as a dancer. Lived in a boarding house on Flower and Dean Street." The spirit watched Violet's hands moving through the developing process. "My landlady, Mrs. Pemberton, she'll be worried. I always pay my rent on time."

"I'll make sure she knows." Violet slid the first plate into the developing bath. "Catherine, did you see where his workshop was? The room where he... where it happened?"

"Beneath the theater. I remember stairs, going down. And then a room with white tiles on the walls, like a hospital. And jars. So many jars on the shelves, filled with..." Catherine's form flickered. "I don't want to remember that part."

"You don't have to." Violet pulled the developed plate from the bath, began the fixing process. "But anything else you can tell me—any detail about the room, about how to get there—it could help catch him."

Catherine was quiet for a long moment, her translucent form wavering as she concentrated. "There was a door. Behind the stage, stage left, hidden behind a curtain. The stairs went down from there. And the workshop had a window, high up near the ceiling. I could see boots walking past on the street outside. We were below ground level."

Violet's heart quickened. This was it—specific, actionable information. A location. "Stage left, behind a curtain. Can you describe the curtain?"

"Red velvet. Heavy. It looked like part of the backdrop, but it wasn't. There was a door handle hidden in the folds." Catherine's voice was growing fainter. "I'm... I'm starting to forget. Things are getting fuzzy."

"That's normal." Violet worked faster, developing the remaining plates while Catherine's testimony was still clear. "You're starting to fade. To move on. But before you go—is there anything else? Anything that might help?"

"He kept a book. A journal, leather-bound, on a desk in the workshop. He wrote in it while I was... while it was happening. Describing what he was doing, like he was recording an experiment." Catherine's hands moved to her hollow chest one last time. "Please. Please don't let him do this to anyone else. Don't let him turn other women into his beautiful collection."

"I won't." Violet met the spirit's eyes. "I promise you, Catherine. We're going to stop him."

Catherine smiled—faint, already fading. "Thank you. For seeing me. For listening. Most people can't..."

She dissipated like morning mist, leaving only the faintest scent of roses that might have been real or might have been memory.

Violet stood alone in the courtyard, morning light painting golden squares across the cobblestones. Her head throbbed, a familiar ache settling behind her eyes like the tide coming in. She pressed her fingers to her temples, feeling the warning tingle that meant she'd pushed too hard, extracted too much information too quickly. The metallic taste in her mouth—not quite a nosebleed, but the prelude to one. Her vision swam slightly at the edges, and she had to grip the edge of the developing tray to steady herself.

She'd need to rest soon, before her body forced the issue.

But not yet. Not while there was work to finish.

Violet completed the developing process with hands that trembled slightly, hung the plates to dry with movements that had become automatic over years of practice. Each plate showed the scene in stark detail—Catherine Webb's body, arranged with such terrible care, the hollow where her heart should have been.

Evidence. Documentation. Proof that Moreau had killed again.

But would it be enough?

By the time she'd packed up the equipment and carried the dried plates back to the murder scene, the headache had settled into a steady, grinding pressure behind her eyes. Her hands were steady enough, but she could feel the exhaustion waiting to crash over her the moment she stopped moving.

Flanahan was waiting at the alley entrance. He took one look at Bernie's face and frowned.

"You look like death," he said bluntly.

"Charming," Bernie replied. "The plates are developed. You'll want to see them."

She spread them out on a clean cloth, pointing out the details Flanahan would need for his report. The positioning of the body. The careful wrapping of the chest cavity. The peaceful expression on Catherine Webb's face that made the horror somehow worse.

"Catherine Webb," Bernie said quietly. "Dancer. Lived on Flower and Dean Street. Had a heart condition—palpitations, irregular rhythm. Moreau saw her at the dance hall, offered to examine her as a doctor. Told her he could help."

Flanahan's head snapped up. "How do you—" He stopped. Looked at Bernie's face, at the exhaustion and the knowing that couldn't be explained away. "The spirit. You spoke with her spirit."

"Yes."

"Christ." Flanahan ran his hand through his hair. "And what did she tell you?"

"That the workshop is beneath the theater. Stage left, behind a red velvet curtain. Stairs leading down. White tiled room, window at street level. And he keeps a journal—leather-bound, on a desk. Documenting his work."

Flanahan pulled out his notebook, began writing furiously. "This is... this is what we need. Specific location, physical evidence. I can get a warrant with this. Morris will have to approve it."

"Will he believe you?" Violet swayed slightly, caught herself. The headache was getting worse. "When you tell him your information came from a spirit speaking to a photographer who's actually a woman in disguise?"

"I'll tell him I have a reliable informant who provided detailed information about the crime scene." Flanahan looked up from his notes. "Which is true. You are reliable. And you did provide information."

"That's one way to put it." Violet's vision swam again. She closed her eyes, pressed her fingers to her temples.

"You need to rest," Flanahan said. "You look like you're about to collapse."

"I'm fine."

"You're not fine. You're..." He trailed off, studying her face with that same intense attention she'd noticed last night. "This is part of your gift, isn't it? The toll it takes. Talking to the dead exhausts you."

Violet opened her eyes, met his gaze. "Yes. The longer the conversation, the more details I extract, the worse it gets. Headaches, nosebleeds if I push too hard. I'll be fine after I rest."

"Then rest." Flanahan began gathering the plates with careful hands. "I'll take these to the station, file my report, get the warrant process started. You go home. Sleep. And when you wake up—" He paused. "When you wake up, we're going to have that conversation. About Bernie. About Violet. About all of it."

"Looking forward to it," Violet said dryly.

Flanahan's scarred face softened into something almost like a smile. "Liar."

He was right, of course. But there was no avoiding it now. He knew. And somehow, standing in this squalid alley with a murdered woman's photographs between them and the weight of terrible knowledge pressing down, Violet found she didn't mind as much as she'd thought she would.

The truth was out. Or at least, part of it.

What happened next... well. They'd find out together.

"Go home, ’Bernie’," Flanahan said quietly. "Rest. I'll send word when the warrant comes through."

Violet nodded, gathered her camera equipment, and walked back toward Carter Square with the morning sun rising over Whitechapel's crooked streets.

Behind her, Detective Flanahan stood in the alley with Catherine Webb's photographs and the knowledge that would either save lives or ruin careers.

Violet was too tired to care which.

She just wanted to stop Moreau before he added another perfect piece to his collection.

And then, maybe, she could finally sleep.