“Talk about me? In any scandalous way? Imagine!”
“Well, then . . . I can admit, a few moments of a very tight hold upon you would be a delightful moment of bliss in an otherwise agonizing day.”
“I’ll go first. Then, perhaps the servants won’t notice.”
“The ever present Mrs. Whitley won’t notice?” he queried.
“Ah, well, so she will. But we won’t let her in. Then, all her gossip must be pure conjecture,” Maggie told him, and she swept by him, exiting the room.
She ran up the stairs then, wondering at the frantic beat of her heart. She was behaving quite insanely. Like a young girl with a first crush. Emotions tumbled through her with a drastic edge. He was not intended for Arianna, or she for him, or any such thing.
And what did that mean? Nothing! This was scandalous behavior, at the very best. She had indeed married Charles, and he had been gone now for so very short a time.
And yet . . .
She was in love. As she had never thought that she could be again. The world was a place where so much right now seemed to be horrid and ugly, tragic women had died more tragic deaths, and the mood of the people was thus that the very foundations of the country could come tumbling down around them. As the picture became smaller, more intimate, her very personal world was in the midst of crises. She had determined her course of action, and he really had merit, and still, she had never known a time when life had seemed more infinitely precious, and more fragile.
And the next moments seemed like a final breath to take, something of ultimate wonder, to be savored now with abandon, before the night could come.
She flew into the bedroom, swore that she would think no more. What she had then was meant to be seized with all abandon, and reflection could come later.
She had scarcely entered the room before he came behind her, carefully locking the door, and turning back to her. She felt her heartbeat, still racing at her pulse, and then, again, watching him, it was as if she froze. As he walked toward her, she met his eyes, with everything that was open and honest in her own, and in the seconds it took for him to walk to her, she thought of all that had combined to make her fall so heedlessly and hopelessly in love. Definitely, those eyes, gray, misting, light with laughter upon occasion, so very grave at others. His voice, the same, gentle in tenderness, deep in passion. Hands . . . the way they could move upon her, and the strength they offered when needed. All that was within his heart and soul, vibrant, never easy, volatile . . .
He reached her, and their eyes continued to meet for the longest time, infinite heartbeats, and then, his lips touched down upon her throat where that heartbeat raced. She leaned into him, craving ever more, and he obliged. Fingers upon the ribbons of her bodice, catching the tiny buttons of her skirt. And when those had fallen, he came to his knees, intent upon the removal of shoes and hose. The brush of his fingers created minute sensations that electrified and multiplied, streaking in hot little lines up her thighs. The pressure of his lips against her kneecaps seemed the most intimate and erotic stroke that ever existed. And yet, he proved that such a touch could be greater still, for his touch and kiss moved on, and she began to shake until her knees gave, and she came down before him, falling into his arms, finding his mouth with her own, and igniting a fire where they knelt there on the floor, so aware that she was alive, that she was in love, and that this touch was the ultimate luxury she had ever known.
Somewhere soon, they were up together, and his clothing became strewn, and their passion and hunger were as volatile as ever. And yet it was all the sweeter, for there were those moments when urgency was staved, and their eyes would meet again, wonder would fill them, and if not the desperate love she felt for him, at least he returned something of the simple awe of the fire that raged between them. Then time became of the essence. Simple need raced raw between them, and still, the need between them to touch everywhere, elicit the greatest hunger, know the total diving into the flesh and soul of another, the drowning there. Until, at last, they came together, he gloved within her, she filled with him, and the last fever rose in a frenzy, climax like lightning, and the slow sweet reality of drifting downward, flesh cooling, the tangle of sheets and limbs, and the awareness again of the world, and the fact that he must go.
They remained entwined together for some time before he stirred at last, his arms closer around her, pulling her tight, and then he released her and rose.
Maggie remained where she was, watching him, his every movement.
He walked to her at last, gently brushing her lips with a kiss, and saying, “It is another woman dragging me away. The Queen,” he told her.
“You owe me no explanations of your time,” she said softly.
He smiled. “I wish that there need not be such explanations for my time.” Regretfully, he rose, dressed, and headed for the door. He paused there.
“Maggie, please, at this time, stay out of Whitechapel.”
She held silent.
“Maggie?”
“I know what’s happening there, Jamie.”
He seemed satisfied that her grave words meant that she was in total agreement.
* * *
The Queen was naturally and visibly distressed.
“Two, Lord Langdon. Two women horribly butchered in one night!”
“Your Majesty,” Jamie told her, “I was there, throughout the night. I watched the police work the streets. There are plainclothesmen in abundance; despite their differences, the head of the City and Metropolitan forces have every available man working the district.”
“So. The greatest city in the world is just to be held hostage by one maniac?” she said, and didn’t await an answer. “And what do you make of this writing on the wall! Sir Charles Warren was afraid there would be horrible riots, that common folk, and maybe others, would blame it all on our Jewish population. But others are saying that it gives reference to the Masonic lodge, to the rites they practice, and therefore, there must be some government conspiracy, that the highest in the land are protecting a heinous killer!”
She was outraged, so indignant, that she was shaking.
“They are going so far,” she said softly, “as to suggest that Eddy is responsible! That he had some silly affair, and government officials are killing women who might know about it! Next, they’ll be saying that I’m out there as a Jill the Ripper, doing these deeds myself!”
“Your Majesty, no one would ever suggest such a thing.”
“But they will blame Eddy, or his tutors, or his friends—they are looking for a scapegoat.”
“Unfortunately, Your Majesty, people will talk, and we are the greatest country in the world, and therefore, they have their right to talk. But you, madam, with your upright life and fever for the plight of the poor prove that you are a great and good Queen.”
She flashed him a wise and angry look. “Don’t try to soothe me! Do you know that Eddy is not even in London? He is in Scotland, hunting!”
“Then let that be known.”
“Some have said that the police officials are Masons—and therefore protecting the killer!”
“It’s to my great indignation that the words on the wall were erased, no matter what they said,” Jamie told her. “They were evidence.”
“Perhaps they weren’t even written by the killer.”
“Perhaps not. We may never know. They were erased.”
“And yet, what does it matter! Every Tom, Dick, and Harry on the streets knows exactly what was written! Just as they know the truly wretched and ghastly details of what was done to the one poor woman. Jamie, this lunatic must be stopped.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“Get back out there, and don’t fail me. You uncle would not fail me.”
He lowered his head for a moment. No, Charles had never failed her. But here she was, expecting him to go out and accomplish what hundreds of trained police had not managed to do. The only real encouragement in his mind was the fact that she was prob
ably planning on having this exact same conversation with many of the lords and sirs and gentlemen of the realm that day.
By the time he left the grandeur of the palace, the afternoon was already waning toward the evening.
Newspaper boys were on the streets, everywhere, hawking, and selling their papers.
“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.
When We Touch Page 31