When We Touch (27 page)

At last, she slept. And in the middle of the night, she woke with a scream. She was sweaty and shaky. In her dreams, there had been a figure stalking in the dark. And she had followed, seen when he had attacked, tried to scream, tried to stop him . . .

And when she had reached the struggling victim at last, she had looked down. In her dream she had been terrified that she would see herself.

But she did not.

It was Arianna, Arianna prone on the ground, blood oozing from the bright red gash that slashed across her throat.

Chapter 13

The first night, Jamie walked the streets.

And it was amazing how many others were about as well, no matter what the hour.

Many women worked late. It wasn't much of a surprise that at midnight men and women both were crowding the pubs. In a number of places, the gaslights were out. The area was filled with gates, walks, and alleyways.

In the pubs, they talked about the Whitechapel murderer, and did so with whispers and fear, and he heard the women talking about the fact that they were afraid, and still, what were they to do?

He heard talk of the many letters sent to the police, so many, already, that they said the coppers were inundated with them.

And then, as he listened, everyone had a theory. One prostitute wedged by his side at a pub, and suggested, “Why, he might even be a bloke like you, mister!”

She gave him a smile. Toothless. “Were ye in the mind for a bit o' fun, eh?”

And so he had adjusted his collar around his throat and lifted his hands. “I'm out. Just bought my last gin.”

“Why, there's time a woman might be thinkin' that it's not only the money wots important, my fine fellow. Haven't seen the likes of you around here, not lately, and that's a fact!”

He'd slipped away from the bar, the fear, and the stench.

At two
A.M.
, the streets were quieter, and still, men and women moved disparately about in the darkness. Mute light continued to burn from some of the houses. Peddlers returned to their homes, their carts banging with their wares.

By three
A.M.
, laborers were beginning to rise. Men who worked in the slaughterhouses, women who had found jobs in the factories. By five, before the darkness had lifted, the streets began to fill again.

He could find no fault with the police. He had seen them about constantly, walking their beats. No matter what streets he traveled, there was never a period of more than ten or fifteen minutes that passed in which a constable didn't follow his tracks.

He was stopped himself several times, but proved to them that he carried no weapons, and was allowed to pass by.

Randolph awaited him, doing his part, nursing a gin through the night at the pub, and listening.

They spoke after they returned to the town house.

“If this monster were an anarchist,” Randolph told Jamie, “he'd be getting where he wanted to go. The mood in the streets is ugly, indeed, I cannot tell you how ugly.”

“I've seen.”

“In the pubs, they call for the head of Sir Charles Warren, swearing that he don't care enough, that if it were a finer class of woman being murdered, they'd have the bloke by now. And the theories! It's an American, out to sell body parts—after the inquest, you know, the coroner stated that there were clues aplenty, that the police should be looking for this fellow who wanted to buy the body parts. Then, of course, there are the other rumors.”

“That somehow, even the Royal House is involved?” Jamie asked.

“Well, they whisper about Eddy, you know. He'd been known to play in some areas of town not reputed to be of his ilk. Have you heard about this girl, this Annie Crook?”

“Yes, he's said to have married her. But she was a shop girl,” Jamie reminded Randolph.

“Shop girls have been known to supplement their incomes, you know,” Randolph said sagely.

And that was true.

“And what did you discover?” Randolph asked.

“That, most probably, if the fellow isn't discovered, someone else will die,” Jamie said. “I'm going to get some sleep, and you need to do the same. Then, we'll pay a visit to a few of the fellows walking the beat.”

Jamie retired to his room, and opted for a very long bath, and a glass of his best port. He soaked in the water and reflected that none of his tension seemed to be easing.

He closed his eyes. For several seconds, the street scenes filled them. And then drifted away. Not the tension. He could think of nothing but cobalt blue eyes, and how the world itself had disappeared in an awesome feeling of being alive, when she had been at his side. He winced, reminding himself that if Charles were alive, they'd be having deep and lengthy conversations regarding the situation at hand, and that Charles would have something brilliant to say, perhaps an idea that would lead in the right direction. In his steadfast loyalty to the Queen, he would be out himself, no matter what his age or health.

But Charles was dead.

And no matter how he tried to mourn, Jamie kept losing his grasp on those memories, for here he was, in the room where she had been with him.

He jerked up in the tub.
She
had her wretched sense of passion for the East End!

There had to be a way to stop her from going there.

* * *

“Up!”

Mireau rubbed his eyes, wondering what rudeness had invaded his sleep. He blinked, and there she was. Maggie, smiling, looking absurdly like a mischievous angel, far too vibrant above him.

“Up?”

“We're going back to the church.”

He groaned. “Maggie, don't you think that you added to the drunkeness of the city enough yesterday?”

“I've arranged a large handout of food. Come along.”

He groaned again and asked, “Does Justin know what you're doing?”

“Justin isn't here. It seems my brother has taken up an interest in politics. He does have a seat in the House of Lords, you know.”

“And they're in session?”

“He has a meeting, that's all I know. Clayton told me. Now, get up!”

And so he did. Maggie allowed no other recourse. He grumbled as they took another cab.

When they arrived at the churchyard, Father Vickers was waiting for them. And several pony carts had come. Maggie had not just bought bread for her wayward masses, but bacon as well. The police were poised around the yard, determined on keeping order.

They watched as the people came, men and women, and at one point, Maggie slipped away to rest a spell in Father Vickers's room.

Curious, Mireau followed.

When he neared the room, he heard a woman talking. It was the younger, pretty creature he had seen in the yard the day before. “I'm trusting you, because there is no other hope,” the woman was saying. “I'm desperate! So desperate. There are already rumors about, and sooner or later, I will be recognized. It's not Eddy, you must understand. Ah, he tired of my sister, yes. But he was kind; and he would send funds, I think . . . if he remembered. The thing of it is, what if any of what is being said is true? Eddy would hurt no one, but surely there are those, blindly loyal to the Crown, who would seek to hurt the baby. God above us! No one, no one must ever know. She must disappear, and I will do so as well.”

“But you're speaking of giving up the child,” Maggie said.

“And that would be a loss to the poor babe?” the woman said. “And the child was not mine, she was actually Annie's, but Annie has now escaped to the North, and she hasn't even sent word to me, she's so terrified. So that is it, you see; we must all part, and pray for one another. But the babe, if she is kept here . . . she will die.”

Mireau stood outside the door, rigid with shock. So it was true. Prince Eddy had gotten involved with a Catholic shop girl. He had gone through some kind of a sham wedding with her. She had apparently escaped the city, fearing repercussions not so much from the Crown itself, but from those who might not realize that a scandalous truth might be better than a supposition of evil. And now, Maggie was going to become involved.

A second later, the pretty young prostitute came through the door. Mireau flattened himself against the wall and waited until she was gone.

He burst in on Maggie. “And what, pray tell, are we going to do with a baby?”

“Save it,” she said simply.

* * *

Jamie met frustration at every turn. Mrs. Whitley told him that the lady Maggie never chose to disclose her whereabouts to her, and suggested that he talk to her ladyship's personal maid, Fiona. However, Fiona wasn't to be found, and neither was Arianna. He didn't know whether or not to be glad that Arianna was no longer moping in her room, or to worry about her equally.

Darby said that he had taken the lady to her home in Mayfair, and then been dismissed.

No one was at Mayfair but Clayton, who said that neither Lord Justin nor the lady Maggie was about. Justin had headed to the government buildings quite early, and Maggie and Mireau had talked about a poetry reading.

From there, he had Randolph take him to the church, where Father Vickers said that indeed, Maggie had been there, but was no longer. Unable to outguess her, he forced himself to swallow his fear, and look for an old friend on the force, Constable Harry Bartley.

He found Bartley at the Bow Street station, and since the man had been working around the clock, he was exceptionally pleased to see Jamie, and eager to have a coffee with him. He was equally eager to leave the area, and so they went into a little place in the square mile that actually constituted the City of London. And there, Bartley reminded him of some of the problems facing their desperate search. “Politics!” Bartley told him, and lowered his voice, leaning over his coffee cup. “There's the City of London, and then there are the Metropolitan Police. The murders have taken place outside the city, and so they fall in the district of the Met fellows. Sir Charles Warren is commissioner, and a fine man, but always wanting to be independent. He fights with Henry Matthews, the home secretary, constantly, and both want to be in control! Now, to complicate it all further, Warren also quarrels with James Monro, head of the CID, or Criminal Investigation Division. Then, there's the ages-old rivalry with the City Police. There's another can of worms. The commissioner of the City Police, you know, is Sir James Fraser, but he's almost retired, always out of town, and so in the city, it's Lieutenant Colonel Sir Henry Smith in charge, and he's the assistant commissioner. Now, you see, the City Police don't have to answer to the home secretary, just the Corporation of the City of London. Sir Henry is determined on catching the bloke, though the murders have not occurred in his territory. Now, actually in charge of the investigation is Detective Inspector Frederick Aberline. You know him?”

“He's a good fellow,” Jamie said. “The area of Whitechapel and Bethnal Green was his ground for many years, then he was transferred to Scotland Yard—but sent back to head up this investigation because of his experience with the area.”

“Aberline is a good fellow, and I can think of no one better for the job. He's just got so very much red tape to get through. The politics of it all, like I said. There's a storm brewing on the streets, and I've not seen anything like it in all my days. But do you think that they'd all put their differences aside in such a desperate situation? Bah, and they do not, and there you have it!”

“Anger is growing against Sir Charles Warren,” Jamie commented.

“Aye, and that's a fact. Anger is growing against us all, and likely, it will come far worse. There's a letter that's come in—well, there're thousands of letters that have come in—but this one has got the boys at the top squeamish. The fellow wrote to ‘Dear Boss.' Said that he was ‘down on whores' and wouldn't quit ‘ripping' them till he was caught. He'd wanted to write his letter in blood from his last victim, but it dried up. He says that the next job, he's going to clip off the lady's ears and send them to the police officers—just for ‘jollies.' And he signed it ‘Jack the Ripper.' ”

“A name to send a chill down the spine, indeed,” Jamie said. “Do you think that the letter is a hoax? There have been so many others.”

Bartley grimaced. “Um. There was one recently, must 'ave come from a big fan of Edgar Allan Poe, reading about the
Murders in the Rue Morgue.
He suggests that there's a giant ape out there, committing the murders! Trust me, everyone has a theory, and a suggestion. We are dressing some fellows up as prostitutes, sending them out on the streets. Some think all the prostitutes should be fitted with mechanisms in which some kind of trap would spring shut once they were grabbed! Others claim it's an American killer, a Chinese killer, a Buddhist, an Indian Thuggee out for revenge, a Jew, a Polack—and, of course, a rich man who might have gotten a disease from his play with a prostitute of low class. Then, you know, there were the ritualistic aspects of it. When Annie Chapman was found in the yard, she wasn't just mutilated. She was . . .
arranged
. A few cheap rings, some pennies, and two new farthings were neatly laid at her feet. A wee bit of muslin, a paper case, and a comb were aligned by the body as well. So . . . is this madman a religious freak? A Satanist? A totally sane man, with a particular agenda in mind, playing with us all? God knows. I just walk the streets now, trying to keep the ladies of the night from getting their throats slit, even those filled with gin and ready to spit in my face, calling me a big cock and all other names!”

“If there's anything you think I should know, you'll get in touch with me?” Jamie said.

Bartley nodded. “Eh! I hear we're nearly related, in a fashion, now.”

“Oh?”

“Nathan Lane was my cousin. Married to Lady Maggie Graham, who recently was wed to and widowed by your uncle, Charles. Pardon me! I'd forgotten you're not just a ‘sir' anymore! You're Lord James Langdon.”

“And not a hair on me has changed a bit, Bartley. So, then, you're acquainted with Lady Maggie?”

“A true angel!” Bartley said, his smile wistful. “Heard she almost caused a riot the other day.”