In the morning I woke to silence, an unusual sound in my life. I lived in my father's house, and although it was just the two of us there, I woke each day to the sound of his movements through our home, unless something was amiss.

I headed to work, I was a secretary to the sheriff's court (which basically meant I was every staff member's secretary), a relatively new position of four months. I wore black, grey, forest green, or navy blue skirts and coats over white or cream shirts every day and this one was like all the rest. I worked my way through my normal duties for as long as I could before excusing myself - the gossip was too much for me to keep from investigating. I headed straight to Leman Street and to my delight it was busy.

I watched carefully as I moved through, giving all appearances of waiting patiently and stretching my legs. I was forgettable with my hair up, hat covering the half head of dreadlocks I had woven in Egypt two years before. My hair was mousy and brown, my skin was tanned from years adventuring in the sun with my grandfather, my eyes were so brown they oft appeared black, and I was, I cannot deny with all the modesty in the world, a striking beauty.

I found something incredible. Inside a modest and wonderfully private (for the short term) office, sporting a map of Whitechapel, including where I stood, decorated with pictures pins and string. Of course, the photographs were of murdered women, their faces and bodies scarred more horribly in the real impression of a photograph than any drawn diagram near them could depict. Scraps of paper with script speckled some of the space in between, like stars around a moon, only there were five moons.

Mary Ann Nichois, 31 August 1888

Annie Chapman, 8 September 1888

Elizabeth Stride, 30 September 1888

Catherine Eddowes, 20 September 1888

Mary Jane Kelly, 9 November 1888.

"Can I help you?" a voice boomed from behind me. I jumped and turned.

"Is it really him?" I wanted to know straight away, "Is there really another victim?"

"Who are you working for?" he demanded, two men crowding around him to see inside. "Who let you in here?"

I took a beat to assess the three of them. The speaker was tall - well compared to me they were all tall - dark of hair but it was tidy and short, he held onto a bowler hat and a grey coat atop his working suit. A policeman but of higher status than a uniformed beat walker.

"Is this your office?" I stalled.

"Yes and I demand to know what business you have here." he stepped a little closer and I looked quickly to the other two. A worn looking face, a short beard, eagle eyes and red hair, all in black save his shirt. Weren't we just twins? The other, more colourfully dressed, Cigarette hanging impossibly out of his lips, hands sporting little, almost indistinguishable spots of blood where he had failed to rinse them off, stubble and large dark sideburns under his little hat.

"Don't look here for help, darlin'." he drawled. Urgh, American.

"You're a long way from home Yankie."

"You're not too near your roots either darlin'," he replied defensively, "What's that a Scotch twang you got there?"

"Scott-ish, Yank."

He smirked unattractively and the cigarette hung in there.

"Drake, escort this woman off the premises."

The ginger moved towards me aggressively and I let myself coward a little in front of him, for his pride,

"Please don't touch me, I'll go willingly right away."

He hesitated and as I looked to the cleaner looking of the two dark haired ones, I made my exit. I didn't expect him to grip my arm and stop me.

"Your name, girl." he hissed.

"Veronica." I answered, shying away from him.

"Veronica, what?"

"Please let me go sir, I let my curiosity get the better of me and I'm sorry."

His grip tightened before he let me loose.

"Later, Scotch." the American drawled as I passed so I shouldered into him as I passed.