London at the birth of the 20th century, the dying days of the old queen’s reign. It’s a city of chaos and fevered ambition, the dreams of empire mingling with the passions of scientific expansion, all to the shrill blast of industry’s factory whistle. Just the place for a man who wants to be invisible. And there are two such men. One is an American, Denton, a celebrated author desperate to escape his increasingly relentless memories. The other…may not exist at all. Jack the Ripper? He hasn’t been heard of for more than 15 years; he’s just a creature of bad girls’ bad dreams. But at least one ferrety little fellow claims to have seen him at his grisly work, and when a prostitute turns up dead, Denton can’t shake the notion that the frightened man may have something to be frightened about. Like Sherlock Holmes injected with some tough American moxie, Denton is an irresistible character – a deeply cynical romantic with a tragic past, a wisecracking manservant, and a startling respect for women. It’s a treat to make his acquaintance.