When We Touch (33 page)

It was Mrs. Hennesy, bringing a bit of her special brandy to Maggie. “This is special, we've saved it, but . . .”

“We intend to help with Jeremiah's fee, of course!” Maggie said, flashing a smile to John, who had returned to the room, and taken up a position behind Arianna once again. “And I know already that he will be worth it! This sweet young Ally believes that my Frank is near!”

“Ally is priceless!” Mrs. Hennesy assured her.

They all turned as the door opened. Maggie held her breath, frozen, waiting.

It was Mireau. “Our young maid was ill,” he explained. “Lord, I don't know that she won't become far more ill, poor thing, don't know if we'll be able to afford to keep her . . . I'm sorry, I didn't mean to trouble you with our woes!” He reached into his pocket, looking at George Hennesy. “My good man, you are the head of the house?”

“George Hennesy,” the portly man said, reaching out for the coins, counting them, and looking very pleased. “Give this fellow his sip of brandy, Ellen!” he told his wife. She nodded his way, and her eyes had a knowing look.
See!
She seemed to say to her husband.
Other good people are willing to give their last few coins up in honor of such a man as Jeremiah Heath!

Mireau was brought a brandy, and Mr. Hennesy turned the coins over to John, who smiled pleasantly. “Jeremiah, 'e'd help ye out from the goodness o' his heart, 'e 'ould!” John said. “But a man's got to live, and such a man, well, 'e needs a decent bed for his sleep!”

“Of course, of course,” Mrs. Hennesy said. “But oh, dear, oh, dear, he is coming, isn't he? I have such hopes set in this evening!”

“ 'E's coming, Mrs. Hennesy, don't you doubt it.”

“He's held up in the streets; there's mayhem out there,” Mireau said.

“Aye, another murder,” Mr. Hennesy said.

“Another murder?” Mireau said. He shook his head. “Two murders, I'm afraid.” He stared straight at Maggie, his eyes filled with warning. “A double event, so they're shouting.”

* * *

Sadly, Jamie's intuition had been right.

His sense of direction had been wrong.

The shouts and whistles had been going on for some time when he finally found Mitre Square at last. And already, people were milling and crowding, and the police were in vast confusion.

Some of it, Jamie ascertained immediately. The other body had been found off Berner Street while this one was in Mitre Square.

For the first time, the killer had struck in an area that was within the actual square mile that constituted the City of London. And so, officers belonging to the City of London police were running around, claiming supremacy, while their comrades from the Metropolitan force were out in abundance as well—they'd been chasing clues, chasing a killer.

Sadly, a number of policemen would still be in the Berner Street area, canvassing the homes there, searching for any small clue.

It wasn't yet two
A.M.
Jack the Ripper had indeed been interrupted so it seemed, and he had walked less than a quarter of a mile to strike again.

The police were desperately trying to hold people back, to control the crime scene, and again, to find what evidence they could. There was a lieutenant apparently in charge, and Jamie excused himself through the crowd, pulling his papers from his pocket to produce for the lieutenant.

“Lord Langdon!” the officer murmured with surprise. He studied him a minute and knew that his appearance was not to be questioned. He lowered his voice. “Some of the Metropolitan fellows aren't happy with me, but Lieutenant Colonel Henry Smith hasn't arrived yet, and . . . this is his jurisdiction. He was spending the night at the Cloak Lane station, but . . . he'll be here soon enough.”

“I don't intend to touch anything or get in the way. If I might just take a look . . . ?”

“Of course.”

Jamie wished that he had not felt obliged to do so as he hunkered down to view the victim.

The woman was on her back. One leg extended straight out, the other was bent and open. She had been ripped open from the groin to the chest, and her organs had been ransacked. In a horrible display, pieces had been strewn around the body as if the killer had intent in the design. But the madman had not stopped there. Her face had also been mutilated.

Whatever fervor had been interrupted in Berner Street had been given free rein here. He stared at her a very long moment and wondered if he had ever seen her before, in one of the pubs, walking the street, or listening to Maggie as she spoke. It was sad to say, that with her nose clipped and the blood all about, he would have no idea.

The officer buckled down beside him. “He worked quickly, he did. Officer on duty came through here at one thirty
A.M.
, and found her at one forty-five.”

“He gets around like a wraith, and works quickly, indeed,” Jamie murmured, and rose.

As Jamie stood, he saw two men being let through the crowd. “Doctors . . . Brown and Sequira,” the officer said.

Jamie nodded absently, looking around the square. There were three entrances to it. There were warehouses to one side, and what looked like a few empty houses to the other, along with one that had a light shining within.

“A policeman's house,” the officer told him. “And there's a night watchman at the factory . . . and no one heard a thing.”

“No, of course not,” Jamie murmured, and he wondered in what direction the killer must have gone.

“Which way does the officer's beat go?” he asked.

“Well, he would have arrived here from the street—there.”

“Thanks,” Jamie said, and walked in the opposite direction.

* * *

“You poor people don't get much sleep around here,” Mireau said, stifling a yawn.

It was very late, past 2:30 in the morning. Discomfort among the group was beginning to grow.

Then, the door burst open once again. One of the boys had opened it for a man in a long back cape and deerstalker hat.

Maggie had to stare at him very hard.

He'd grown facial hair—artistically, at that. And hair atop his head. It was short, and strange, but dark. He had a mustache. With hair, and rather astonishingly, he resembled Eddy, the Queen's grandson.

But for Maggie, there was no mistaking the man. He might be calling himself Jeremiah Heath now, but he was Adrian Alexander. She felt a freeze settling over her, and one look at Mireau, and she knew that he recognized the man as well.

She suddenly prayed that he didn't recognize Mireau.

But though her friend hadn't been disguised to appear elderly, as she had been, Cecilia had also done a wonderful job with Jacques Mireau. He was a redhead tonight, and his handlebar mustache was red, as were the heavy muttonchops on his cheeks. She forced herself to find confidence in their masquerade. If they only behaved as they should, he would not know them.

And she had to pray, of course, that he would not, because she had come to understand Arianna's terror. She tried to count the amount of young cutthroats around them, and decided that, with “Jeremiah” they equaled a group of seven. Seven men, and they were armed. She, Mireau, and Cecilia would be able to walk out tonight—leaving Jeremiah and his thugs eager to have them again, and more of their pounds sterling. But Arianna . . .

Arianna was their prisoner. And if she tried to get the girl out tonight . . .

They would all end up dead.

“Good evening,” the man said.

“Oh, Jeremiah!” Mrs. Hennesy fluttered out, obviously so pleased to see the man that it didn't matter what the hour.

“I do apologize for my lateness. Traveling the streets tonight is mayhem. You may not be aware, the monster has struck again.”

“Oh, we know!” George said, “I just came through the streets myself. As did this gentleman,” he said, indicating Mireau.

“Horrible business, horrible,” Mireau said.

“Ah, yes!” The man calling himself Jeremiah Heath brought his hands to his heart and looked heavenward. “Perhaps, in time, the spirits of those poor unfortunates will speak to me, and I'll be able to help the police. God knows, the fools have done little. Whether they mock my powers now, they'll seek them soon enough.”

“Oh, Jeremiah! Just think. Perhaps you could help!” Mrs. Hennesy said.

“Alas, I have not been able to contact any of those wretched, departed sisters!” he said, and came closer to the table. “You are Mona,” he said, taking Maggie's hand. She forced herself not to wrench it away. She nearly screamed. He was not wearing gloves, and his hands were uncomfortably . . . damp. Wet, actually, as if he had just washed them, and not dried them.

“And you are Jeremiah Heath!” she breathed.

He nodded, pleased, looked around and met the others with a nod.

He took special note of Cecilia, who blushed prettily.

He then looked around the room, and Maggie saw that his men nodded in return, and disappeared, as if they were taking up their guard positions.

“Ah, and I have kept you waiting long enough,” Jeremiah said, and now he took a position opposite Arianna. “Mr. and Mrs. Hennesy . . . next to dear Mona here. And you, my dear sir,” he said to Mireau, “down there, and you, my lovely lady”—this to Cecilia—“next to me.”

Soon they were all seated. One of the “boys” lowered the gaslight. Arianna began to speak, just as Jane had previously, and soon, Jeremiah Heath was in a trance.

For the second time that night, Maggie thought that someone had missed their calling.

This man, too, should have been on the stage. He might have made his fortune that way, and not through murder and intrigue.

He spoke in a child's voice, and Mrs. Hennesy was in tears, speaking back, telling her beloved Billy how she missed him. Then, he fell silent. After a while, Arianna began to say softly that she was sorry, apparently Jeremiah was hearing from no more spirits.

But then, his head jerked, and his eyes rolled again.

“Mona!”

The voice this time was deep, raspy, and that of an old man.

“Dear, dear, Mona!”

Arianna involuntarily jerked her hand.

“Frank?” Maggie said hesitantly.

Then Jeremiah Heath's head fell forward.

“I'm so, so sorry!” Arianna apologized, again, as if her lines were learned by rote, and she was already half dead herself. “There is only so long that such a state can be maintained. Jeremiah is exhausted, and has lost the connection. I'm certain, however, that your Frank can be reached again. Of course, you heard his voice. It's certain you were loved, Mona. This must be very painful. Perhaps there would be no need for you to reach him again.”

“No, oh, no!” Maggie whispered. “No, please, Mr. Heath must allow me to see him again! He must.” Her voice was desperate, as well it should have been. There would be no way to get Arianna tonight, and yet, she would go mad if she wasn't able to rescue the girl soon.

Jeremiah Heath opened his eyes and stared at Maggie. He slumped, as if he were truly in a state of exhaustion. “Water,” he whispered.

“Oh, dear, yes, of course, of course!” Mrs. Hennesy gasped, leaping up. Tears were still streaming down her face. Tears of gratitude, Maggie realized, and she was angry suddenly, so angry she could scarcely endure it. But she must. All of their lives depended on it. She had met with this man before, and she knew for certain what they faced.

Mrs. Hennesy raced back with the water. Jeremiah drank. “Mona, dear woman, did I fail you?” he asked.

“No, no . . . but . . . I'm ever so happy for the Hennesys. Their Billy stayed with us quite some time. But Frank . . . I didn't have time to tell him . . . to say that I'm sorry, that I loved him so. Oh, please, please, Mr. Heath, you must agree to see me again!”

“My dear woman, you mustn't be so distressed. Certainly, we can arrange to meet again in a few weeks' time.”

“A few weeks' time!” Her dismay was very real.

“I'm afraid, my lady, that I and my helpers must earn a living as well. This takes so much from me that . . . well, I have business affairs that I must manage as well.”

“No!” Maggie said, stricken.

“Dear lady, I understand that you are in financial straits as well, and that, I believe, you were in this area tonight looking for a home that was . . . affordable.”

“Please, please, put your affairs on hold. There's a pension . . . I need only get to the bank. I can draw an advance, enough to get you and your people through the next month. I know that you don't require that kind of payment, but I am so desperate. I cannot live if I cannot come to peace with the way that my dear husband died!”

He sighed and looked down. “I am gifted, madam. I hate to live off this kind of a gift. It is something that I should give away.”

“No one can live without an income,” Cecilia ventured.

“I am begging you, Jeremiah. Money is nothing—except a bed and food,” Maggie said. “Let me give you that in exchange for the peace of my soul.”

“Oh, dear.”

“Please, in the goodness of your heart!” Mireau said. “My poor auntie is impossible to live with, as it is now. She needs your help so desperately.” He indicated Cecilia, his “wife.” “We must all move on, and so, we all need your help.”

“All right, then. Think we can do it, dear?” he asked Arianna.

Listlessly, she shrugged. “If you wish, Father, of course.”

“Then it's settled,” Jeremiah said.

“Ah, but we're not, as yet,” Mireau reminded them.