Frowning, Jamie walked along the row of cottages, remaining in the shadows, until he reached the carriage. He strode out, then, but paused at the rear of the carriage, surprised to see that the man was Baron Justin Graham.
Jamie couldn’t hear the words being exchanged, and he started to come around, and identify himself. But apparently, he had a made a noise, and Justin jerked his head around, then stepped back into the carriage. The woman stepped away, staring after the carriage, her eyes aglow.
“Missus!” Jamie said. The woman looked at him, and backed away, deciding whether to offer him her services, or scream bloody murder.
He lifted his hands. “Don’t be afraid. I won’t come any closer. I . . . I’ll pay you for information.”
“Information?” she said cautiously.
He produced a silver coin from his pocket and tossed it to her. “What did that gentleman want from you?”
She started to laugh, and slumped against the brick wall that gated a factory on that side of the road. She was drunk, and the sound of her cackle actually made him want to snatch his coin back, but he reminded himself quickly that one look at the surroundings made it easily possible to understand why gin seemed the best remedy for life.
“Please,” he said evenly, “I need to know what that gentleman wanted.”
“Why, just like you, sir! He wanted information.”
“About what?”
“Had I seen anyone suspicious! Everyone in the streets is suspicious these days, dearie! Then, did I know anything about a fellow claiming quietly to be a great spiritualist, or did I know about any particular house of... ill repute.”
What in God’s name was Justin up to now? He’d heard the fellow was trying to turn a new leaf—to have more purpose in life. Still, these were mean streets. Justin had served his time in the Queen’s army, Jamie reminded himself, and still . . . it was somewhat uncomfortable to think about him trying to clean up the streets of Whitechapel—on his own.
“Thank you,” Jamie said. “Where were you off to?” he asked her.
“You’ve something in mind, ducky?” she said, suddenly coy.
He shook his head. “It’s getting late. I’d hoped you were heading home.”
“Well, wot a sweet one ye be, and handsome at that! You’ve given me quite a pretty coin here, sir!”
“Take it, and go home,” he said, and turned, and started walking down the street again.
Watching the pubs would avail him little. The murderer would not strike so close to so much activity, where there was so much light.
As he moved down the street, the mist-shrouded night was suddenly rent asunder by a scream, a man crying out, “Murder! Oh, my God! It’s another murder!”
Jamie started to run in the direction of the shout.
* * *
At the Blarney Stone, Mireau went to the bar and ordered a round of drinks, then joined Maggie, Cecilia, and Fiona at a table.
“What’s going on at the bar?” Maggie asked him.
Mireau shrugged. “They’re talking about the murders. And about their jobs, the casual work some of them get now and then, how the police should be doing more . . . how there’s not enough work, and not enough gin. The woman with the paisley shawl is trying to get the short fellow in the tan cap to take a stroll into an alley with her. And don’t stare now, but there’s a young fellow, tan trousers, black jacket, shaggy brown hair, and a half a day’s beard whose been watching us since we came in here.”
“Oh?” Cecilia said, craning her neck to see over the head of others.
“I said, don’t look now!” Mireau reminded her.
“All right, all right!” Cecilia said. She had worn ragged, fingerless gloves, and as she picked up her gin, Mireau made a tsking sound.
“What?” Cecilia said.
“A perfect manicure. Ah, they’ll think you’re a working girl, all right!”
Maggie had covertly taken notice of the fellow. And he was watching them.
She suddenly let out a loud moan, and let her head slump to the table.
“What is it?” Mireau cried, with real alarm.
Cecilia was quicker. She let her voice rise. “What is it, what is it? Are you daft man? How can you ask her such a thing when you know how she’s suffering, poor lass! Ever since her dear Frank died of that awful fever . . . there, there, lass!”
Maggie raised her head just slightly, sniffling. “You don’t understand, you can’t understand . . . we’d argued that day! He died, and I was never able to say that I was sorry . . . never able to tell him just how much I did love him!”
Cecilia pulled her into her arms, rocking with her. “Don’t sit there like a useless bum!” she charged Mireau. “Can’t you see, the poor dear needs another gin?”
“Right. Righto,” Mireau said, rising, and heading for the bar.
“Have you ever seen that fellow before?” Maggie asked Fiona, her head resting against Cecilia’s shoulder so she could continue to rock and moan while getting a good look at the man.
“No,” Fiona said. “Wait! Yes . . . maybe. Yes, I think that he was in here the day that Arianna met with that Jeremiah man.”
Maggie nodded imperceptibly and let out another moan. Her heart jumped as the fellow approached Mireau as he stood, asking the bartender for another gin.
Mireau turned to him, and he either was startled at first, or was joining in on the act. He took the gin, listened to the fellow, nodded gravely, and then set a hand on his shoulder and indicated the table where they sat. The fellow came along with Mireau.
“This fellow says his name is John,” Mireau said.
Maggie sniffed, giving him a curt nod and no more.
“Hello, John,” Cecilia said. She gave the words an appreciative sound. “Sorry, me old auntie is not up to herself this evening.”
Old auntie? Maggie thought that Cecilia was enjoying herself.
“She’s not usually so rude. There’s Flossy there,” she said, indicating Fiona, who blinked once and nodded, extending a hand.
“Pleasure,” Fiona said.
“Don’t mean to be intrudin’ on yer grief, mum,” John said. “But I couldn’t help but hear.”
Maggie waved a hand in the air.
John lowered his voice and leaned low to the table. “Frankly, you don’t look much like you belong in these parts.”
“We’ll belong here soon enough. Uncle Frank kept us all eating,” Cecilia said with a sigh. “Still, we’ve a few pretty little things left to pawn—not on us, of course!” she added sternly. She looked at him furtively, as if realizing she should be suspicious.
“Y’needn’t be afraid o’ me!” John told her. “I didn’t think ta meet ya for evil gain. I heard the moan, and the sorrow from the poor woman and thought as I knew how maybe you could make it all a bit better.”
“It was the argument, you see!” Cecilia whispered to John. “If they hadn’t argued . . . but they were quite a couple. After so many years, still in love like young folk!”
“Has she ever thought about reachin’ her lost man, eh?” John suggested.
“Reaching him? Why he’s cold in his grave!” Cecilia said, lowering her voice to a whisper once again.
“No, you don’t ken wot I’m sayin’!” John told her, giving her a sad and rueful smile. “There’s those out there can sometimes break through the barriers . . . of life and death.”
“Posh!” Cecilia waved a hand in the air.
“Spiritualists, ye’ve not heard o’ them? Ye must be living in a dark cave, mum!” John said.
“I know about them,” Mireau volunteered. And he sniffed. “Fakes!”
“No, no, not the real ones.”
“Where do you find a real one?” Mireau asked skeptically.
“Not in the fine manors!” John said. “Not silly rich folk, thinking they can light a candle and talk to ghosts! But there is a man . . . and his daughter. Beautiful lass. He goes to folks’ homes, when he hears about such a distress.”
John lowered his voice. “Ye’ve not heard the name, Jeremiah Heath?”
“Why, I have heard the name. Flossy, you were with me . . . there was a woman buying a bit of gin earlier . . . remember? She was telling her companion that she would swear by the man!”
Maggie roused herself, looking at Cecilia and Mireau. “Perhaps . . . dear God! Perhaps this man is real.” She slumped back down. “But we’ve no room to have the chap!”
“All right, all right, listen!” John said. “I happen to know where ’e’s going to be, this very night.”
Mireau groaned this time. “You’re going to spend the rest of what we’ve left!”
“Bah! There is a pension!” Cecilia said.
Her friend was wild, but she did have a touch of genius, Maggie decided. Cecilia should never have had status and position. She should have gone on the stage, traveled to America, and had wild affairs all her life, and be acceptable as outrageous because she was an actress!
“If it will help Auntie!” she said, pleading as she looked at Mireau.
“This man is not a fake—you swear it?” he demanded of the man.
John raised a hand. “By me poor mother’s grave, I swear it!”
“But how do we reach this man . . . Will the people let us in?”
“Aye, it’s at the home of a cigarette maker, a modest man. He’ll be glad to have ye—hoping, of course, that ye can help out a bit?”
“What have we got on us?” Maggie asked weakly, pulling away from Cecilia’s shoulder.
“About seven pounds sterling,” Mireau whispered.
“Seven pounds sterling!” John said. “Near wot those fellows, Burke and Hare, got for the bodies they snatched, eh?”
The four of them stared at him dumbly and he quickly said, “Sorry, it was the amount ye said! Ah, now, now, don’t be worrying none! We’ll see that Auntie leaves happy as a clam. Wot was her good man’s name, did ye say? Frank, was it? Hanbury Street, then, the big white house with the broken stone wall in front. Be there . . . well, soon. It’s getting late.”
He stood then and left them.
“Seven pounds sterling!” Cecilia swore to Mireau. “That’s a fortune in these parts. We’ll be set upon by thugs before we get there!”
Maggie shook her head. “I don’t think so. I think they’re going to be after the pension. Remember, whatever they do tonight, we believe. We have to find out if Arianna is with them!”
Mireau finished his gin and shuddered. “We’d best get going. The hour is growing very late. We’re already past midnight, the ‘haunting’ hour!”
* * *
Sounds of music still rose above the screams and shouts beginning to fill the night. A working-men’s educational club took residence in one of the houses, and apparently, all those carousing that night had not yet realized that just beyond their lively talk and dance, a woman had been murdered.
There was mass confusion on the scene when Jamie arrived. By trying to talk to the individuals around, he discovered that a fellow named Louis Diemschutz—who was a tinker of costume jewelry as well as steward of the club—had brought his cart along the street and into the court, and his pony had shied. He’d investigated the large mass in the shadows, and discovered it to be a woman. And even with the atmosphere of death pervading the streets, he had at first assumed her to be drunk. He’d gone into the club for a candle, a few men had come out with him, and they tried to lift her.
Then they’d found the blood. And the police had been summoned. They were then trying to gain control of the streets, and creating a great deal of resentment as they went into the club, searching it for clues, and questioning the men. As Jamie listened to the explanation, he saw Dr. Bagster Phillips, police surgeon, arrive.
Jamie, milling with the crowd, noted the blood running to the door of the club, but it had sluiced down the cobblestones, and it was apparent that the murderer had not entered the door—footprints would have remained. He was certain as well that the murderer did not remain in the vicinity. Though the body might have been warm when discovered, Jamie would bet that the fellow was now long gone.
By then, a number of constables had been summoned. It was difficult to get close to the body, but he wedged his way as near as he might. Near enough to hear Bagster talking to one of the policemen.
This woman’s throat had been slashed, ear to ear.
But she’d not been mutilated.
Jamie stood where he was for several long seconds, listening. One of the constables started to come toward him, ready to investigate him, to demand to see his hands, and check his clothing for blood. But luckily, it was a fellow named Quinn Hardaway, an officer he’d met once awaiting Maggie by St. Mary’s. He looked at him with a curious frown for a moment, then nodded his way, and moved on.
As he stood then, with the melee going on around him, the curious now jostling with those being questioned and searched, he had a sudden uneasy thought.
The murderer had been interrupted.
He turned quickly, shoving his hands into the pockets of his coat, and moving along.
* * *
“This is insane! We need the police,” Mireau whispered as they headed up a small walkway toward the house of the cigarette maker. “What if this fellow is Adrian Alexander going by another name. And what if Arianna really is with him, and wants you dead?”
“I don’t recognize myself, Mireau. How would she recognize me?”
“She’ll know me, and think I’m a traitor,” Fiona said.
“That’s true. We’ve got to get Fiona back to the carriage; she’ll be safe with Clayton,” Maggie said.
“She could recognize me,” Mireau said.
“No,” Fiona said.
“She saw me at the funeral, and at the wake, and—”
“No,” Fiona said, and flushed furiously. “I saw you at the funeral and the wake.”
“Why, you little minx!”
“We grew up together; I’d served her forever,” Fiona explained.
“If we’re any later,” Maggie said, “this cigarette maker may not let us in his house. Mireau, see Fiona back to the carriage.”
“You’re not going in there without me!” Mireau protested.
“Yes, I am,” Maggie said. “I have to find Arianna. I owe Charles something! Hurry—once we’re in, they’ll let you. Now, move!”
He glared at her, but he knew her, and knew that arguing at that moment was going to be futile. He set an arm around Fiona’s shoulder, nearly running her along the street.
“Cecilia, you don’t have to come with me,” Maggie told her friend.
“I have never felt so alive!” Cecilia said.
“Good, because if this man is Alexander, he’s deadly.”
“Bring him on. Or, rather, Auntie, you come along with me!”
They headed on up the walkway. Maggie got a moment’s start when a man stepped from the shadows at the overhang of the house. He was young, like the fellow who had called himself John. He was dressed in light trousers and a dark coat as well. He had no waistcoat, but wore a white cotton shirt.
“ ’Ello, there.”
Cecilia stepped forward. “We’ve . . . we’ve been told we might have a chance to see Jeremiah Heath here this evening.” She said the words with reverence.
The man nodded but looked down the walk. “What happened to the pair with you?”
“Our little serving girl has taken sick. My husband will be back in just a few minutes. We were afraid that we wouldn’t be allowed in, were we to take any more time. It’s so late,” she said apologetically.
The man watching her nodded, then stepped forward and opened the door. “They’ve not started as yet. Mr. Heath has been detained. Come in.”
They stepped into the house. A rather worn-looking woman in a worn black dress, yet surely her best, came forward, wiping her hands on an
apron. “I’m Mrs. Hennesy.” She looked Cecilia and Maggie up and down, and must have approved them. She extended a hand. “Welcome to our poor abode. I hear that you’ve lost your dead husband, missus,” she said, looking at Maggie.
“And you’ve lost a child,” Maggie said, the sorrow in her voice real.
“This is Sissy, my niece,” she said, indicating Cecilia. “I’m Mona. We’re so very grateful to you.” She didn’t quite manage to bring a tear to her eye, but she dabbed at her face convincingly with her handkerchief.
“Do come in, Mona. We’ve a very small parlor, but I’ve been assured, size means nothing.”
They walked into the parlor, and Maggie’s jaw nearly dropped. Arianna was indeed there, sitting in a chair at a round table set before the hearth.
Jeremiah Heath might be late, but his “controls” were awaiting his appearance. There were three young men surrounding Arianna, one directly behind her, and one on either side. They were neatly dressed, but still had the hardened appearance of street toughs.
Arianna looked exceptionally drained, thin, and white. She offered a weak smile when they walked into the room. She was clad in something like a white robe, and her black hair streamed down her back.
Maggie knew, at that moment, that Adrian Alexander was indeed making his way back into his game. Arianna had taken the place of his “Jane,” still rotting at Newgate, if news reports were to be believed.
“This lovely dear little thing is Ally,” Mrs. Hennesy said, introducing the new arrivals. “Ally, Mona and Sissy. Dear Mona has lost her husband—”
“Yes, her husband, Frank,” Arianna said. She appeared almost to be drugged. Her voice was listless, yet the intonation was right. It was as if she had become a trained seal.
Cecilia nudged Maggie. “Frank, yes! Dear, my husband was Frank!” she said. An idiot could deduce that John might well have told her the name. But people who wanted to believe would be in awe that the stranger had known the name. They wouldn’t bother thinking.
“Ah, here’s my husband, George!” Mrs. Hennesy said.
A portly man of stocky build had come in. He kissed his wife on the cheek and apologized. “There’s more mayhem out there tonight.”
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