When We Touch (36 page)

“Murder! Murder most foul.”

“Murder! Gruesome murder!”

“Murder! Jack the Ripper strikes again. And again!”

“War on Warren.”

“Is the monarchy dead as well!”

He bought the papers, all of them, thinking that he had a fine project for Mireau at last. What was written could form opinion. Opinion could be fought with the pen, as well as with angry words and fists.

He returned to the carriage, pausing on the street, then looked at his coachman.

“Home to change?” Randolph called to him.

“No. I'd speak with Abberline first. To the station, Randolph, please. You can just bring me some clothing to change into. I'm feeling a strange urge to get to Whitechapel as soon as possible. Have you ever had a strange feeling like that, Randolph? That you just need to be somewhere—and it's quite urgent . . . except that . . . ?”

“Except that what, my lord?”

“Except that you really have no idea just exactly where it is that you're supposed to be.”

“Well, my lord—”

“It doesn't matter, Randolph. I'm running around blindly in the dark. But get me to Whitechapel, and I'll . . . I'll just walk in the dark until I find out what it is exactly that I'm looking for, and why . . .”

“Why?”

“Why I feel so desperate,” Jamie said grimly.

Chapter 17

Maggie wrote the last of her notes, sealed the envelopes with her signet ring and wax, and looked at Mireau. Cecilia was due any minute.

“Well? Have I missed anything?” she asked.

“ No.”

“Then why are you staring at me so?”

“Someone has to be brought into it. What if we are able to drug all these people, and carry Arianna out of the house into the street, and there is no one there to meet us? No one to get us out quickly, no one to go in for the culprits?”

“I've written a note to the police, as well, suggesting that they might catch the Ripper on the street, right at two o'clock
A.M.
”

“And what if Jeremiah Heath is late, as he was last night.”

“We'll have this managed by two o'clock!” Maggie said. “If he's late, we simply get Arianna out, and then worry about the man himself at a later date.”

“Have you any more arguments?”

“Yes. We need someone to know.”

There was a knock at the library door. Maggie rose and walked to it. “Lord and Lady de Burgh,” Mrs. Whitley announced, her tone showing her disapproval.

“
Lord
and Lady?” Maggie said.

“Thank you so much, dear woman!” Cecilia said, sweeping in behind Eustace, and closing the door on Mrs. Whitley.

Maggie and Mireau stared at Cecilia blankly.

“Um . . . Eustace. How are you?”

He smiled, a very handsome-looking rake. “Maggie!” He kissed both her cheeks, and she tried a weak smile, but stared at Cecilia with reproach.
What were they going to do? Eustace could not accompany them! In their cover, Cecilia—“Sissy”—was married to Mireau!

“Don't look so panicked,” Eustace told her. “I know what is going on. Cecilia wisely came to me. And if all else fails, I will be in the street.” She looked at him doubtfully.

“Maggie, I may be what many consider deviant in my thirst for pleasure and entertainment, but I'm a fair man with both pistols and daggers. I, like most others of my station, have served in the Queen's army.”

“Eustace, I'm sorry. Forgive me. You all gave me quite a start.”

“We should get going with our disguises,” Cecilia said.

“After we leave, he'll bring the letters I've written to Father Vickers, Justin, Jamie, and the police.”

“All right, then, let's get going,” Cecilia said. “Is your girl coming? Fiona?”

Maggie shook her head. “I'm afraid that someone will recognize her from having been with Arianna at an earlier time.”

“All right, then . . . you've brought your bottle of brandy?”

“Oh, yes, we're quite prepared.”

“Then, come on, Auntie! Time for me to make you into an old crone!”

* * *

Detective Inspector Abberline had aged ten years in a month, Jamie noted. The man was so harried that Jamie was surprised he agreed to take time to see him, but then, he'd had no sleep and taken little time for food. Even a man as pressed as he had to take a few moments.

“The people are crying out in fury,” Abberline told him with a sigh. “And it's not that I blame them. They believe that the East End fiend has now struck six times. I don't. I believe that this lunatic has now killed four. I need every man, but the forces are now called upon to keep order in the parks, where citizens are gathering to protest Warren, to mock the police, and generally, cause disturbances when we need order more than ever!”

“What did you think of the writing on the wall?” Jamie asked him.

Abberline was quiet for a moment, stroking his chin. “Already, I have heard every theory and supposition out there. ‘It is a cover-up!' ‘Someone in a high place is being protected!' ‘The killer is an educated man.' ‘It is a well-known and respected doctor.' ‘It's Prince Eddy, it's one of his servants, it's a cover-up!' ‘It's a reprehensible Bohemian artist seeking the truth of human suffering for his work.' Or, ‘It's the anarchists, trying to make sure that the world sees the sorrow and degradation of the East End, and thus, the great Empire, and the monarchy, would fall.' I've heard them all, Lord Langdon. Frankly, I think they're all wrong.”

“What do you think?”

“I think that people are in horror, and reaching, and that they actually want such an answer to such a terrible puzzle. Perhaps they're even trying to romanticize what is happening. My opinion? Perhaps this man has some kind of an education. I don't think he needs to have had medical training, though he surely knows something about animal butchery, through hunting, perhaps, or through his work at a butcher's . . . such knowledge would not be difficult to come by. Perhaps he's even had a copy of
Gray's Anatomy!
In the end, this killer will prove to have a name we've never heard before; he will be extremely sick, mentally, and perhaps have the ability to appear almost normal at other times. Perhaps he is a petty criminal. I don't think we'll ever discover that it was a great artist, a nobleman, or a doctor. Just a madman as sad in his life as his victims were in theirs. If you walk these streets long enough, it becomes difficult to weed the sane men from the lunatics. And God help us, all we have to do is chase any petty thief these days, and a crowd rushes forward, ready to lynch him as Jack the Ripper! And, my God! You cannot begin to imagine the letters we have received from families, rich and poor, convinced that one of their kinsmen is Jack the Ripper.” He shook his head. “The coroners talk about the evidence, and how the police are failing. The evidence! Look for a man covered in blood? Do you know how many men work for the slaughterhouses, or work for butchers? A live chicken does not last long in these parts; indeed, one woman had blood on her hands the other day—she had slaughtered a rat for a meal! Ah, we read every letter, and there are hundreds . . . thousands. We look for every clue. We follow up on leads. We listen to people rant and rave about royal conspiracies. And we are no closer to catching this man. Indeed, we've brought in a few lunatics, and we can have them committed—and pray that the killing stops. But we've no proof against anyone. Oh—among those lunatics? I think we've had a good ten confessions, but all are false. Witnesses knew where the men were at the time of the killings!”

“Where do you go from here?”

“Back to the streets,” Abberline told him.

“I'll be around,” Jamie said. “If there's anything you think that I can do . . . ?”

“I'll ask. And if there's anything I can tell you, I'll see that you're notified.”

Jamie left a sadly discouraged Abberline.

Then, he took to the streets himself.

* * *

“How am I?” Maggie asked Mireau anxiously.

He stared at her, then at Cecilia. “Quite incredible. I'd swear you were sixty, if you were a day.”

Cecilia smiled, and reached out to assure that one of the muttonchops was securely set upon Mireau's face.

“Eustace . . . the coachman needs to let us out here. Then you must spend some time a distance away . . . Those ogre-dwarfs, or whatever you want to call Jeremiah's ruffians, are all about, watching all the time. And I believe every one of them is lethal.”

“I don't like being too far, my dear,” Eustace said. “What if something should go wrong?”

“It can't go wrong,” Maggie said.

“Ah, if only all life could be so positive!” Eustace said, smiling. He looked at Mireau then. “And, my good fellow, you are armed?”

“I have the knife you gave me, and I'm not a total weakling.”

“Didn't mean to imply that you were,” Eustace said.

“Maggie?”

“I have the little pistol. And I do know how to use it.”

“Ah, yes! You did marry a policeman. She's awfully busy for her tender years, isn't she, my love?” he said to his wife.

Cecilia grinned back at him. Whatever their diversions away from one another, they were a remarkably happy couple, Maggie noted. She was sorry that she had mocked Eustace in the past.

“Eustace,” she said.

“Yes?”

“Thank you.”

He smiled, shrugging casually, his hands resting upon his dapper cane. “Think nothing of it. All right, you had best get out here . . . the street is empty. Maybe all the little whores are staying home tonight.”

They piled from the carriage. They were several blocks away from the Hennesy's house, and as they briskly walked the distance, they were stopped by a policeman.

“Hey, there! You . . . where are you off to, at this time of the night?”

“Visiting friends,” Mireau said. “My auntie's cousin.”

“At this time of night? Are you daft? Could you not have heard of the double event last night?”

“We're traveling together, and tight. And this is my wife, this our auntie. My good fellow, we are not soliciting on the streets!”

The officer nodded then, and shook his head, as if with disgust that folk just seemed to have no common sense. “Fine, then. Go on where you're going!”

Maggie quickened her pace, very afraid that they might be waylaid again. She was so desperate to reach Arianna.

“You should have brought Jamie in on this,” Mireau breathed.

“I couldn't.”

“Because he was so angry?” Mireau asked. “How amazing . . . he stayed a very long time after asking me out of the library! And in your room, at that.”

“How delightful!” Cecilia said.

Maggie glared at Mireau.

“Surely, you weren't arguing all that time?” Mireau said.

“Don't you understand? He would have tried to stop us. He would have been convinced that there was another way.”

“Well, there is another way. We could just have police surround the house,” Cecilia said.

“I'm just really afraid that they do have orders to kill Arianna the second that anything looks out of the ordinary,” Maggie said. “Once we have her out of that house . . .”

“What do we do if Jeremiah is late again?” Mireau asked.

“Tonight, it just doesn't matter. We just get them drinking, and get Arianna out. And we'll hope that the police are able to find him, once we have Arianna out of the house.”

“They haven't been able to find a maniacal killer,” Cecilia pointed out.

“What matters most is Arianna. If Jeremiah is not there, we still bring out the brandy. We are here for Arianna. Agreed?” Maggie said.

“Obviously, it's most important that we get the girl out,” Cecilia said.

“We'd best pray that your notes reached their intended destinations!” Mireau said.

“Darby will see that they do.”

“Eustace will not fail us,” Cecilia said. “He does know where the house is, and he'll be ready to assist us.”

“One problem,” Mireau noted.

“And that is?” Maggie asked.

“All the fellows are never
inside
the house. They stand guard outside.”

Maggie nodded. “Yes. You're the strongest, you must take Arianna. She will be dead weight. Cecilia and I will have our weapons ready.”

“His thugs carried guns before,” Mireau reminded her. “And you've made sure that Jamie will not be here to come to our rescue tonight.”

“We know that they are armed, and we will be ready to shoot first,” Maggie told him.

“Oh, God!” Mireau moaned. “I cannot believe that we are doing this.”

“Eustace will be outside as well, and he is a crack shot!” Cecilia reminded them proudly.

“Shush!” Maggie warned. They were on the walk and might well be overheard.

They reached the house. Maggie felt a crawling sensation of fear streak up her spine. She was suddenly entirely uncertain about dragging Mireau and Cecilia into the fray.

“I should go alone,” she said.

“Never!” Mireau told her. “And ridiculous. How are you going to carry Arianna out, and keep the two of you from being shot?”

“Maggie, you did not force either of us into this. We're on the walk. Let's go—before we do look suspicious!” Cecilia said.

They were right. Squaring her shoulders, Maggie headed toward the house.

John was at the door. “Ah, ev'ning! Come in, come in. The Hennesys await ye!”

They all greeted John cordially and entered the house. Ellen Hennesy was there, dusting her hands on her apron once again, greeting them warmly. This night, George was home already as well, and just as she had been the night before, Arianna was already at the table. She allowed no spark to come to her eyes. She spoke as one dead. “Perhaps Jeremiah will reach Frank for you tonight, mum, perhaps he will.”

“Not to be indelicate,” George Hennesy said, “but . . . were you able to get to the bank?”

“Indeed!” Cecilia said.

“I didn't think my good friend, Mr. Thayer, our banker, would keep me from an advance on the pension,” Maggie said. “Please give Mr. Hennesy the money, Sissy,” she told Cecilia.

“Of course!”

Ten pounds sterling were handed over to Hennesy, who then passed it on to John. “Jeremiah will be grateful,” he said.

“He is late again?” Maggie asked.

“I'm afraid so,” answered the fellow standing behind Arianna. Maggie counted.

Four of them inside. Jeremiah to come.

Two of them were outside, somewhere, keeping an eye out.

“Well!” she said. She smiled warmly at the Hennesys. “Since you were so kind in your offerings last night, I thought that I should return the favor.” She pulled out her bottle of brandy. “An excellent year! A gift to my husband from one of his clients, a landed gent, who got it from the royal family, so we were told. I've saved it for a very special occasion. It should have a truly wonderful taste.”