Recommended At The Price

Two girls dead this time. Whitechapel was in panic, and the workers needed in the east end area for the shipments coming through the docks were starting to become unreliable. None of the Grantham operations would be possible if they did not have a steady workforce who could be paid off for their discretion. Scared workers were bad workers. Scared workers could be talkative workers if their safety became valued higher than their wages.

None of the usual solutions for a problem like this were available. Many of them were scared, too. But something had to be done.

And so it came that Violet Crawley, Dowager Countess of Grantham, wrote a letter to a trusted business associate of hers in New York. Violet had never met Isidore Levinson, but he had always provided valuable advice and assistance in the Grantham cross-Atlantic operations.

October 1, 1888

Mr. Levinson,

I find myself in need of a contractor. There is a very annoying problem in East London interrupting my business operations. Scotland Yard is calling him Jack the Ripper, and he has now murdered and mutilated four women of the night. My usual contractors are unavailable or unwilling to handle this for me, regardless of the fee I offer. I write in hopes that you know of someone with a strong stomach and an efficient manner. For this particular issue, I am willing to have the contractor name his price. You have always made good recommendations before. Might you have one now? I anxiously await your response. Thank you.

Sincerely,

Violet Crawley, DCG

Isidore Levinson read the letter from Lady Grantham with a smile. He recalled the first time he had asked her about why she put "DCG" after her signature. She explained that it stood for "Dowager Countess of Grantham" as her husband, the Earl of Grantham, had passed away a long time ago, which made her now the Dowager Countess. The initials were used for this sort of business.

She used the initials for her business because the world of illegal organized crime was not one that usually expected or trusted a countess, and a countess was never expected to be involved in such illicit activities. Which made Violet Crawley perfect for what she did. She had been running the Grantham empire from her comfort of Downton Abbey, a grand house in northern England. At least as far as Isidore knew. He'd never been to England and had no interest in visiting. But his dealings with Grantham business were always productive and profitable ones. He had an affection for Lady Grantham as a result. The DCG was often ruthless—an admirable and unexpected trait for a woman—but she was the very picture of professionalism.

Putting the letter down, Isidore noticed a flash of movement in the hallway outside his open office door. "Cora!" he called out.

His daughter appeared instantly. Silently. "Yes?"

If he had not seen her walk by, he would have had no idea she was even home. And Isidore smiled.

Cora Levinson had never been to England before. She'd never left the United States before, actually. But she was ready for this. Ready and excited. She knew what she was doing, and she knew she was the best. She was nervous about going to a new country all alone, but it was going to work out just fine. She knew it.

It was early November when she finally reached London. Travelling alone as a young woman was difficult. A woman of means, too, was expected to have a chaperone. But an assassin hardly can travel around with her mother and be very efficient.

Growing up as she had as eldest daughter of a wealthy Jewish businessman, Cora was expected to marry and bring respectability to her family. But when they moved from Cincinnati to New York, her father began to get involved with less savory business practices. And they made more and more money. And soon the Levinson name was known by all sorts of criminal enterprises around the world, and no detective anywhere could find proof of illegal activity. Well, it stood to reason. Ever since she was about fifteen years old, Cora had been trained by her father's mercenaries until mercenaries were no longer needed. Cora could take care of any problem that might face them. No one ever expected a pretty young heiress to be dangerous. But Cora Levinson was the deadliest assassin the world had never heard of.

And now she was going to put a stop to this Jack the Ripper that had plagued the Whitechapel area of London for months. Father had shown her Lady Grantham's letter and asked Cora if she might be able to do something about it. It was a challenge, not actually knowing the identity of her target, but Cora had no doubt she could manage it. And so Father wrote back to Lady Grantham and said that he had someone who could solve the problem and would arrive with a letter of reference from him. Cora planned to take care of Jack the Ripper and then present herself to Lady Grantham with her father's letter of reference once the serial killer was dead.

She spent three days and nights wandering Whitechapel and getting familiar with the streets and alleys and the people there. The fear was palpable. There had not been any murders since the two Lady Grantham had written about, but everyone was ready for the next. Cora stayed in a small room above a pub—one of the few that would rent to a young, unmarried woman—and made herself as inconspicuous as possible.

That was another skill she'd honed over the years. Being quiet and unassuming were not difficult for her, but hiding herself from being noticed was much more difficult. Cora knew she was a pretty girl, and pretty girls attracted attention. It had taken a long time for her to be able to get around silently and effectively. But she was very capable now.

On the fourth night in Whitechapel, the fog coming off the Thames was thick and made everything seem eerie. Cora had to focus much harder to take note of anything that might lead her to Jack the Ripper.

In the distance, she heard a scream. A strangled scream that got cut off too quickly. The kind of scream that came when a woman was attacked and her throat slit mid-scream. Immediately, Cora hurried in the direction she'd heard the scream. From her daytime wanderings, she knew she was right off the Spitalfields Market. None of Whitechapel was particularly savory, but this area was particularly unsavory. And there wasn't a soul to be seen or heard.

Cora stood in the middle of Miller's Court and slowly turned in a circle, trying to detect any hint of anything. Her breath was silent but fogged in front of her face in the cold November evening.

And then she heard it. A sound she never liked but one she knew all too well. The sound of a knife on bone.

She put her hand protectively on her fan inside the pocket of her cloak, having it ready if she needed it. Her free hand opened the door to the building where she'd heard the sound.

He was there, in the bedroom, standing over the bloodied body of his victim. She was a girl at one point. Now she was a mess.

Illuminated only by the slowly-dying embers in the fireplace, Cora snuck up on the man currently using a knife to remove organs from the girl's abdomen. She pressed the hidden area of her fan in her pocket releasing a knife of her own. Jack the Ripper did not even know there was another person in the room with him when Cora plunged her knife expertly through his back, between his ribs, and directly into his heart.

Ever the professional, Cora managed to disguise the crime scene by burning much of the criminal's body in the fireplace and putting parts of him in with the hacked up parts of the girl. It was for the police to deal with later. No one need know that the killer had been killed. No one except Lady Grantham.

Robert Crawley hated London. He wanted to be home in Downton Abbey with his dog and his horses and the beautiful open spaces of his estate. But he was a young Earl and his presence was required in London at the House of Lords. His father had died when he was so young that his mother had managed the estate for most of his life. But now that Robert was old enough, he was taking on more and more responsibility. And that meant he had to come to London on occasion.

Being in London always made him uneasy. Restless. Like the bustle of the city got into his bloodstream and made him as anxious as the pace of the people on the streets. He found he could not sleep, and when he couldn't sleep, he liked to wander the city.

He had no idea where he was at present. It was almost dawn. He'd been walking all night. He'd walked from Grantham House to the river and followed the road as far as he fancied. He had seen the great looming specter of the Tower of London and turned up a street away from it. Perhaps he should start looking for a carriage to hire to take him back home. He was finally starting to get tired.

All of a sudden, a cloaked figure bumped into him rounding a corner. "Oh, I beg your pardon!" Robert exclaimed, grabbing onto the figure as it nearly tumbled over.

The hood of the cloak fell back in the slight tussle, revealing a beautiful young woman. "It's my fault, I do apologize. I should have looked where I was going."

Robert felt all the breath leave his body as he took in her shiny dark hair and her creamy skin and the pink of her lips and the sparkling blue of her eyes. She seemed to glow in the dim light of the streetlamps. "I-are you alright?" he stammered, hoping he'd not been staring too obviously or for too long.

The young woman gazed at him, a slight pink in her cheeks. "I'm just fine, thank you. Are you alright?" she asked.

He nodded stupidly. He vaguely recognized that she had an American accent. It was the first time he had ever heard such an accent and not been immediately offended. Her voice was soft and gentle.

"Well, I'm glad. I'm sorry to disturb you. I must be getting in my room. It's quite late, and they say it isn't safe for young women in Whitechapel to be alone," she said.

Robert hadn't realized he was in Whitechapel, but with that Jack the Ripper character about, she was quite right that it was indeed unsafe for a young woman alone at night. "May I walk you home? Or at least get a carriage for you?" he offered.

She opened her mouth to protest but then smiled. "A carriage would be very kind," she answered.

They walked back onto the main road and Robert was able to find a carriage for her. He paid the fare to the driver and helped her get into the back.

"Thank you so much," she said. "I'm Cora, by the way."

He found himself smiling at that. It was a lovely name for a lovely girl. "Robert. It was a pleasure to meet you, Cora. Unexpected, but quite a pleasure."

Her smile brightened at that, and Robert felt his heart skip a beat. "Well, Robert, perhaps we might meet again someday."

The carriage pulled away. Robert watched the horse trot down the road and hoped that they would indeed meet again someday.