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look-alike. Then poor Dora Fowler, slashed and eviscerated near the rookery where she sold parrots, and half a block from where her fiancé was hurrying on his way to meet her. And last but not least a young woman from the nobility, the Duke of Twyford’s granddaughter, and the most brutal of all the murders. Lady Beatrix Twyford was carved up like a—”
    â€œ Ahem . Let us leave the dead in peace, shall we, Mrs. Llewellyn?”
    â€œYes, my love. Quite right. But do tell our guests about the curious incident of the girls’ eyeballs! They shan’t want to miss that historical tidbit.”
    â€œIndeed, my love. I almost forgot.” The wax man’s head bobbed and swiveled like a giant Kewpie doll, his robotic jaws clamping open and shut. “At the time of the murders the assistant deputy of the CID, Scotland Yard, Major Gideon Brown, gave the orders for Dark Annie and Dora Fowler’s eyes to be photographed in the hope that their retinas might retain the image of their killer. There was a popular belief during the early years of plate-photography—started by a short-story writer — that when a person died, the last scene he witnessed would be imprinted on his retina. Superstitious rubbish, of course, but these early sepia photographs proved invaluable to Madame Tussauds’ present-day team of forensic artists who compiled the wax likenesses of these unfortunate girls.”
    Katie wrenched her gaze away from the mechanical man and his hologram wife. She’d had enough of this underground labyrinth of death. More than enough .
    As she scurried toward the flashing exit sign, another waxwork tableau swiveled to life, depicting the double murder of the pregnant Molly Potter and Catherine Eddowes.
    Against a backdrop of glaring strobe lights, Katie glanced briefly at Molly Potter’s flannel petticoats peeking out from under her swirling skirts, and then at the fur-trimmed cape Catherine Eddowes had actually worn on the night she died, or so the sign said. But Katie wasn’t interested. She turned and scooted away. If I see one more wax statue of a girl being slaughtered . . . I swear I ’ ll kill someone!
    Katie hurled herself toward the blinking exit sign. She didn’t know where Toby and Collin were, but she couldn’t wait for them. Her muscles felt jittery; her knees, wobbly. I ’ ve got to get out of here!
    The life-sized double-murder diorama of Molly Potter and Catherine Eddowes was followed by Elizabeth Stride, Mary Jane Kelly, and Dora Fowler. But then came the most horrific disembowelment of them all. The scene was so gruesome, Katie jerked to a halt, stopping dead in her tracks.
    Trying hard not to look at the carnage, she kept her eyes focused on the brass plate below, and silently read the inscription:
    On the 7th of December in Miller’s Court, Dorset Street, Lady Beatrix Twyford, age twenty-three, met with the most ghastly death of all at the hands of Jack the Ripper.
    An authentic broadsheet announcement, bordered in black, hung nailed to a lamppost:
    GROTESQUE
MURDER
IN THE EAST-END.

DREADFUL MUTILATION
OF YOUNG WOMAN
    Katie tried to avert her eyes. But it was no use. A sepia three-dimensional projection of Dorset Street rose up the wall, shadowed by the needle spire of a church.
    Turn The Corner If You Dare! THIS EXHIBIT IS NOT
FOR THE SQUEAMISH OR FAINT OF HEART.
PROCEED AHEAD TO THE EXIT DOORS
IF YOU WISH TO LEAVE NOW.
    Like a candle being snuffed out, the diorama of the dead girl and the sepia 3-D projection went dark, leaving only the faint, filmy essence of smoke in its place.
    As if pulled by an invisible force, Katie stumbled around the dark corner, even as the bright exit sign blinked and beckoned and then disappeared behind her.
    Katie inched down the narrow passageway, peering into the gloom ahead. Ghostly images and projections mixed with the stifling uneasiness in the air. Turn back, now! her inner voice pleaded as she