“If need be, I could send for one of the doctors at St. Ursula’s to come round and have a look at her.”
“That probably won’t be necessary,” Mick said as he seated himself at the table. “She had a shock to the system and… well, I don’t know that there’s anything a medical doctor can do for her.”
“A shock, you say?”
“Emmaline is dead.” Mick spoke matter-of-factly, figuring an old war horse like Phidias would want the straight, unadorned truth.
“Bloody hell,” the old man muttered, tears glistening in his rheumy gray eyes.
Mick looked away, giving Phidias a few moments to collect himself.
After a decent interval had passed, Mick picked up where he’d left off. “She was murdered three months ago in Whitechapel. And for some reason, the police intentionally misidentified the body. The murder victim was listed in the official reports as one Martha Tabrum.”
Phidias banged a blue-veined hand on the dining room table. “Damn the man. That bounder Alfred Merryweather is behind all of this. I’m damned certain of it.”
“I take it that you don’t see eye to eye with your brother-in-law?”
“I don’t see him, period. He married my sister for her family name then proceeded to make her life a living hell.”
“Christ, doesn’t anyone in this country marry for love?” Mick muttered as he speared a bite of mutton onto his fork.
“Only the poets, my boy. And even they are jaded enough to realize the value of a good yearly income.”
Curious to get Phidias’s take on events, Mick probed a little deeper. “So why do you think Alfred Merryweather is behind the police cover-up?”
“Because he has political aspirations. He’s set his sights on a seat in the House of Commons, and because of that, I believe he’d go to great lengths to hush up Emmaline’s murder. It was enough of a scandal when the gel ran off with that Welshman. If word got out that she’d been murdered on the streets of Whitechapel, it’d ruin any chance Merryweather had of securing a seat.” Phidias’s gaze narrowed as he pointed the tip of his knife in Mick’s direction. “That’s what this business with Lettitia’s engagement is all about, Merryweather and his damned political ambitions. He’s expecting Wortham to sponsor him.”
“Yeah, I overheard Merryweather and Lord Worthless mention something about the House of Commons last night at the shindig.”
“Lord Worthless, eh?” Phidias cackled. “Quite right. While he may have a title, the man doesn’t have a farthing to his name.”
“You could have fooled me. Having visited his house, I would have guessed that he was rolling in the dough.”
Phidias belied Mick’s assumption with a shake of his head. “He’s living on borrowed credit, and has been for some time now. If Wortham doesn’t marry an heiress, and soon, he’ll be put out on the streets.”
About to take a sip of his coffee, Mick lowered the china cup to the table, stunned. “Do you mean to say that Lettitia is an heiress? She mentioned that her father is well off, but I didn’t think she meant that well off.”
“For a man born into poverty, Alfred Merryweather has done quite well for himself,” Phidias said, a note of grudging admiration in his voice. “He made his money in the brewery industry. Make merry with Merryweather’s. That slogan alone earned him a bloody fortune.”
“I admit it’s got a catchy ring to it,” Mick said, still digesting the fact that Lettitia was filthy rich. “You know, last night I had the distinct impression that Lettitia doesn’t get along very well with her father.”
“They never took to one another. You would think the familial bonds would allow them to overcome their differences, but—” the older man gave a philosophical shrug—“so far, it hasn’t happened. Though God help her, Lettitia tries her damnedest.”
“Is that why she’s agreed to marry a man she doesn’t love?”
Rather than answer, Phidias glanced down at his plate, uncharacteristically reticent. Several moments passed before he finally said, “One’s sense of duty can be a double-edged sword. I fear Lettitia is being pulled asunder, her inbred sense of duty warring with her heartfelt convictions.”
Just then, Lettitia entered the dining room. Bidding the two of them good morning, she stepped over to the sideboard.
Her calm, composed demeanor surprised Mick. After the unspeakable shock she’d recently suffered, he had expected to see tear-swollen eyes, a wan complexion, and a whole helluva lot of grief. The last thing he expected to see was Lettitia placidly spooning scrambled eggs onto her plate as though it was a day like any other.
“You have heard the news?” Lettitia inquired of her uncle as she seated herself at the table.
Phidias nodded solemnly. “It’s a damned, unmitigated shame.”
“Yes, it is,” she agreed as she spread marmalade onto a muffin. “We shall have to arrange for a proper burial, as I presume she has been placed in a pauper’s grave. I have already selected several appropriate passages to be read at the service. And, of course, there is the matter of an inscription for the headstone. I shall attend to the arrangements after breakfast.”
The coolly stated agenda met with a noticeable silence. The only sound in the room was the clink of Lettitia’s fork against her china plate.
Phidias furtively glanced at him. While he was no mind reader, Mick intuited that he and the old gent were thinking along the same lines—that Lettitia was in a state of denial. Big time denial. In fact, not once throughout her entire recitation had she referred to her slain sister by name.
Reaching across the table, Mick took hold of Lettitia’s hand. “I’m sorry, Tisha. I wish that you hadn’t found out about Emmaline’s death the way that you did.”
“Yes, well… there’s nothing to be done about it,” she said with a tight-lipped smile as she disengaged her hand from his. “As I no longer have need of your services, you may return to New York without delay.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” Mick countered, pissed that she wanted to get rid of him. “At least not until I find out who killed your sister.”
Lettitia calmly raised her linen napkin and dabbed it at the corners of her mouth. “That is quite unnecessary.”
“What’s that you say?” Phidias peered at his niece, a thunderstruck look on his face. “If you ask me, it’s damned necessary. The Metropolitan police didn’t raise a finger to find Emmaline. Do you think they’re going to exert any more of an effort to find her killer?”
“Your uncle’s right, Tisha. The police went to great lengths to cover up the fact that Emmaline was murdered. Since I’ve still got some time before I have to return to the, um—” he hazarded a quick glance at Phidias, and realized the old man was probably in the dark about the time portal—“New York, I intend to use it to track down Emmaline’s killer.”
“An endeavor that you evidently intend to pursue without my blessing,” Lettitia intoned, expressionless.
“I was kind of hoping it would be with your blessing. And your help,” Mick added, unnerved by her zombie-like demeanor. As though her spirit had flown the coop.
Lettitia stared at him, not a trace of emotion in her eyes. Then, barely inclining her head in his direction, she nodded her consent.
“Do you have any idea who would commit so heinous a crime?” Phidias directed the query to Mick.
Mick shrugged, not about to answer that loaded question. At least not yet. Not until he dug a little deeper. Right now, all he had was a gut feeling. And his gut told him that Emmaline Merryweather’s murderer was none other than Jack the Ripper.
* * *
Although Lettitia could not bear to contemplate the hideous circumstance of her sister’s death, she was nonetheless determined to bring the killer to justice and to make the fiend answer for his crime.
That was the only reason why she now stood beside Mick Giovanni on a crowded Whitechapel street corner.
Emotionally steeling herself, Lettitia perused the near vicinity, a reluctant wi
tness to the downtrodden and the degenerate. Indeed, the raucous commotion that enlivened the cobbled thoroughfare was a vivid reminder that Emmaline had fallen to a station in life far different from the one to which she had been born.
“Jeez, this is worse than Times Square on New Year’s Eve,” Mick muttered as he took hold of her elbow, steering her out of the path of a scissors grinder who’d set up his wheel in the middle of the walkway.
As they next sidestepped a pair of raggedy-clothed street urchins, Lettitia could only assume that he referred to the dizzying crush of humanity that swarmed the streets. In London’s East End, privacy was an unheard-of commodity, with people thick as bees in a hive. So accustomed were they to the overcrowded conditions that they’d long since dispensed with the courtesy of begging one’s pardon as they brushed shoulders in passing.
“I want you to stick close by my side,” Mick said out of the corner of his mouth as they headed down the narrow lane that led to Miller’s Court. “And whatever you do, don’t look anyone in the eye.”
Glimpsing a pair of disreputable-looking men loafing in a nearby doorway, Lettitia placed her gloved hand in the crook of Mick’s arm, grateful to have him at her side.
“I still don’t understand what you hope to gain by searching Emmaline’s lodgings,” she reiterated. “We were here two days ago and uncovered nothing of any consequence.”
“Two days ago we were operating under the assumption that your sister was a missing person. Now we’re working a murder case, a murder case where we can’t examine the body, we can’t match DNA, we can’t dust for fingerprints, and we can’t check for hair and fibers. All we can do is search Emmaline’s apartment with a fine-toothed comb and hope we find some piece of evidence.”
His explanation, detailed as it was, was also incomprehensible. Although there was no mistaking the single-minded purpose in his gaze. Nor the fierce tenacity with which his unfathomable reply had been delivered. Ever since he’d announced at the breakfast table that he intended to remain in London so that he could track down Emmaline’s murderer, Lettitia had detected a marked change in Mick’s demeanor.
One that was most unsettling.
A few moments later, as they entered the derelict building where her sister had taken lodgings, Lettitia wrinkled her nose. The acrid smell of boiled cabbage permeated the dimly lit passageway. A most noxious bouquet.
“It’s a good thing you kept up the rent on this place,” Mick said as he ushered her down the corridor.
“I had hoped that my sister would be returning.” Well aware that Emmaline would never be returning, Lettitia’s heart painfully constricted.
Taking a deep, stabilizing breath, she shoved the unbearable thought to the back of her mind. She could not—no, she would not—permit herself to reflect on the fact that her sister had been brutally murdered, her body then abandoned upon the pavement like a piece of refuse.
“Here comes the landlady.” Mick jutted his chin at the emaciated crone of a woman who was walking toward them. “Quick, give me some money.”
“Whatever for?” she retorted, unnerved by the way that he eyed her reticule.
“Because money talks.”
Lettitia recalled the incident with the charwoman at Scotland Yard. “Ah, yes. I believe that I comprehend your meaning.” Opening her bag, she handed him several coins.
Smiling winsomely, Mick approached the landlady. “Hey, how ya doing? Mrs. Tooley, right? If you’ve got a minute, I’d like to ask you a few questions about Emmaline Merryweather.”
Mrs. Tooley eyed him suspiciously, clearly immune to his masculine charm.
“Why would my answers be any different today than they were when ye came around two days ago?”
“Because the questions might be a little different today,” he replied, holding up a shiny half-crown, one which the landlady didn’t hesitate to snatch from him.
“Go ahead. Ye got my ear.”
“Can you recall anything unusual happening on the day that Emmaline disappeared?” Mick asked.
Mrs. Tooley shook her head. “Not on that day. But something a bit out of the ordinary ’appened the day after.”
Startled at hearing this new revelation, Lettitia took a step toward Mrs. Tooley. “Please, will you tell us what happened?”
“A letter come for ’er… one which I might just ’appen to ’ave if the price was right,” the landlady insinuated with the shrewd cunning of a Piccadilly merchant.
Mick obligingly handed the woman another half-crown. “Go get the letter. Now.”
As the gaunt landlady scurried down the hall to her flat, Mick cursed under his breath, clearly angered by this latest turn of events.
“Do not blame yourself,” Lettitia said, placing a hand on his forearm. “If the landlady had given us the letter two days ago, it would not have affected the outcome.” Her sister had met her fate three months ago. One woman’s obdurate refusal to turn over a letter could not have reversed that dreadful fact.
“Yeah, but I lost valuable time because that old biddy withheld evidence,” he grated between clenched teeth. “Which means that I only have four days to find him.”
To her dismay, Lettitia realized that they were talking about two different things entirely—she referred to her sister’s murder, Mick to her sister’s murderer.
A moment later, the landlady reappeared with a white envelope. At a glance, Lettitia noted that the paper was of good quality and that the missive had been written in what appeared to be a masculine script. She also noticed that the return address had been omitted.
Taking possession of the envelope, Mick guided her toward the closed door on the other side of the hall. “We’ll read it inside your sister’s apartment.”
The landlady, evidently thinking that her lengthy retention of the missive somehow entitled her to be privy to its contents, huffed loudly as she turned and walked away.
No sooner were they ensconced in Emmaline’s room than Mick poked his thumbnail under the sealed flap of the envelope. Just as he was about to rip it open, he sheepishly glanced in her direction.
“Sorry. I wasn’t thinking,” he apologized as he handed her the letter.
Lettitia took the proffered envelope. As she stared at the bold penmanship—the letter addressed to Miss Emmaline Merryweather, No. 13 Miller’s Court—her hands began to visibly shake.
“I can’t,” she whispered, returning the letter to Mick. In that instant, it dawned on her that the contents of the mysterious letter were the last link she had to her slain sister. “Please, will you read it?” she entreated, overwhelmed by a dark foreboding.
Nodding, Mick tore open the envelope and withdrew a single sheet of cream-colored stationary. As he unfolded the letter, Lettitia watched as his eyes scanned the sheet of paper.
“Christ,” he muttered, his voice tinged with disbelief.
“What’s wrong?”
Raising his gaze from the letter, he replied, “Blackmail. That’s what wrong.”
Lettitia gasped. “Somebody was blackmailing Emmaline?”
“Uh-uh.” Mick shook his head, disavowing her of the notion. “According to this letter, it was Emmaline who was doing the blackmailing. And that means that someone had a real good motive for killing her.”
Stunned, Lettitia’s hand went to her throat. Her sister, a blackmailer?
Afraid that her legs might buckle beneath her, she seated herself on the side of the bed. “Who… who signed the letter?”
“It’s unsigned. And as you probably already noticed, there’s no return address on the front of the envelope.”
Telling herself that nothing, nothing, could be as shocking as the photograph she’d seen last evening at Scotland Yard, Lettitia held out her hand, silently asking for the letter.
The missive, terse and to the point, stated that the agreed upon sum of forty pounds would be paid to Emmaline at month’s end, but that no more monies would be forthcoming. The most damning line of the unsigned correspondence was
the postscript, which read: I refuse to be further blackmailed by a bitch in heat.
Well aware that Emmaline’s murderer very likely wrote those chilling words, Lettitia placed the letter on top of the small table situated beside the bed. Swallowing the lump in her throat, she tried to stave off the tumultuous wave that threatened to inundate her. She didn’t want Mick to see her in such a demoralized state. It was shameful enough that she’d fainted last night. Come what may, today she would remain strong.
“While the letter is certainly damning, it doesn’t bring us any closer to finding Emmaline’s killer,” she pointed out once she’d regained her composure.
“True. But at least we now know what we’re looking for. You take that side of the room—” he pointed to where the bureau was situated—“and I’ll take this side. Search every nook and every cranny. Somewhere in this room we’re bound to find the name of Emmaline’s blackmail victim.”
Although the thought of rummaging through her sister’s effects was decidedly morbid, Lettitia nevertheless opened the top drawer of the bureau. A search had to be conducted, and it was better that she do it than a stranger. Glancing at the other side of the room, she noticed that Mick was performing his task with an air of efficient competency, making her realize that he had quite a bit of experience with this sort of endeavor.
Spying the copy of Wollstonecraft’s A Vindication of the Rights of Women that she’d lent to Emmaline at their last meeting, Lettitia choked back a bitter sob. All of her well-intentioned attempts to reform her wayward sibling had been for naught.
“Make sure you flip through that book,” Mick ordered. “There might be something tucked between the pages.”
Obediently, Lettitia did as instructed, coming across a pressed flower that she’d placed inside the book years ago.
“Did you find anything?”
“No… nothing,” she lied, thinking the flower and the innocent time it represented irrelevant to the matter at hand.
A few moments later, Mick gave a long wolf whistle. “Well, looky what I found. For all her faults, your sister obviously believed in safe sex.”
Lettitia glanced at the package dangling from his hand. Reading the label—Lambert’s Paragon Sheaths—she gasped, utterly appalled.
A Love For All Time Page 11