Inspector Frederick Abberline wanted to catch the Whitechapel killer before another woman died. He stood in his superintendent's office and pointed at the cracked window glass. A dead woman stared back at him from the reflection. No one else saw her. "She shows me his face," Abberline said. "The murdered girls speak to me in glass. We can stop him tonight." The superintendent set down his pen. Two other officers watched from the wall. One hid a smirk behind his hand. "You claim ghosts give you clues," the superintendent said. "I have reporters at my door and a killer loose. I cannot send a madman to hunt him." Abberline's hands shook. He pressed them flat on the desk. "I am not mad. Give me three days. One arrest." "You are off the case, Inspector. Surrender your notes to Constable Witcraft." The word landed like a slammed door. Abberline's certainty cracked into cold fear. Without the badge, he had no reason to walk those streets, no power to stop the next killing. In the window glass, the dead woman's mouth moved. Her hooded eyes burned. Mary Kelly. His neighbor once. His friend now, though she lived only in mirrors. "The tunnel... the green water," she whispered. "He runs where the stream cuts the stone. Tommy must not find me there... follow the water, Frederick." Abberline turned from the desk. He could not argue with a man who heard nothing. So he chose. He would catch the killer without their leave, or he would lose everything trying. Constable Derek Witcraft caught him in the hall outside. The big man blocked the stairs, pipe clenched in his teeth, mustache twitching. He had worked beside Abberline for years and believed in no ghosts. "They sacked you," Witcraft said. "I'm meant to take your files." He glanced down the empty hall. "But I want this devil caught more than I want my orders followed. What did you see?" "A tunnel. A stream through slimy stone." Abberline's voice steadied. "That is where he hides." Witcraft struck a match and lit his pipe. Smoke curled around his face. "The old drain below the cellar doors by the foundry yard. Green water runs there." He paused. "I never gave you my files. Understand?" They went together. Behind a run-down building stood two weathered wooden cellar doors set into the ground. Witcraft hauled one open. Rot and cold damp rose up. Below, a murky green stream cut between slimy walls. A grey cat sat at the edge, orange eyes shining. Big Tom hissed, then spoke in a sharp burst only Abberline could hear. "You're late, ain't you? He went through here, knife still wet. I watched him, didn't I? Nobody ever listens to a cat." Abberline dropped into the dark. He had no badge now. He had a ghost's clue, a stubborn constable, and a cat who had seen murder. It would have to be enough.

Abberline waded deeper into the drain. The green stream soaked his boots. Then the tunnel split in two. One branch bent left, one bent right. Both ran black. He stopped. The killer's fresh trail could die here if he picked wrong. He pressed a hand to the slimy wall and tried to think. Big Tom padded up behind him, orange eyes bright in the dark. The grey cat had watched Mary Kelly die and had warned Abberline the killer passed through with a wet knife. No one else heard him speak. "Two holes, two holes, and you dither like a pigeon!" Tom spat. "He went where the water runs fast, didn't he? Always the fast water. I watched him splash through once before. Smell it, man! Blood on the left. Can't you smell the blood?" Abberline bent low over the left branch. He saw nothing in the dark. He needed proof, not a cat's nose. He pulled his small pocket mirror and tilted it toward the trickle of light from above. In the glass, a pale face rose through swirling mist. Not his own. Maryann Nichols. His dead neighbor, drowned forever in her last terrified minute. Her red hair hung in wet strings. Her lips moved before her eyes found focus. "Frederick, I— I can't, I can't see his face, I never can," she stammered. "But the smell, oh, I know the smell. Moss. Old wet stone, like— like a house with green all over it. He smelled of that house. He goes up. Up, not down. The left one goes up." "Up to what, Maryann?" Abberline whispered. "Tell me what waits above." "A lodge," she said. Her voice shook. "Grey stone, all moss. Red curtains. I passed it once alive. I— I think that's where he sleeps." Tom's tail lashed. "There, there, the dead girl says it too! Left and up! Will you move now, or will we lose him like everyone always loses everything?" Abberline took the left branch. The stream climbed under his feet. His lamp caught a smear on the stone wall, dark and still wet. Blood. The ghost and the cat agreed, and the wall proved them right. He followed the slope up until his hands touched a rusted iron ladder. Above him sat an underside of a heavy round cover, carved with worn patterns. He climbed and shoved. The cover scraped aside. Cold night air rushed in. He pulled himself out onto wet cobbles and looked up. A large stone lodge loomed before him. Moss greened its grey face. Red curtains glowed behind the windows, lit from within by candles. The killer had come here. But the great doors stood shut, and lamplight moved behind the glass. Someone inside was awake. Abberline had found the house. Now he had to get in without a badge, without backup, before the man finished what he started.