by James Allen
"To be an asshole?" But he did have a point. From what I'd told him about my dating habits, not to mention the dissolution of my relationship with Reese, there was no reason why he wouldn't imagine my world where we juggled several partners at once and moved from bed to bed with impunity. Okay, so in a lot of instances, that was the case, but I'd always tended to stick with one guy at a time--for the short time I stuck with him. "Don't apologize. I'm the one who should be sorry, leaving you downstairs alone with that--"
"Charming host," Ezra concluded, with a pointed look past my shoulder. I turned around with another apology on my lips, but I didn't get the chance to offer it. Ezra and I were hustled down to the street in a strong thick-fingered grip.
"And don't come back," he snapped before he slammed the door behind us.
I grinned at Ezra. "Keep burning your bridges, don't I?"
Though I knew Whitechapel was a bewildering labyrinth for anyone not intimately familiar with its streets, I'd fallen in with the modern day notion that the Ripper might possibly be someone other than a mental case residing in the same neighborhood as his victims. I'd perfected the art of the wild goose chase where Jem was concerned. His apparent back and forth over his sexual identity gave me a loophole to ignore established evidence that gay killers seldom chose female victims. Because of that same evidence, I hadn't even considered Sid. He knew himself--at least he'd seemed to--and further, had appeared to thrive on that awareness. But under that convincingly rapacious exterior lurked a soul being eaten up with self-hatred. I might have discovered that sooner, had I not been so interested in pinning the murders on Jem.
And, unfortunately, Jem was our best source of information on Sid. Back at the house where I'd attended my first nineteenth century shindig, Ezra and I were greeted by Jem's brother, Robert, who looked us over with a strangely worried face before letting us in.
"I've been turning away visitors all day," he confided, more to Ezra than me. "But--well, he said he expected you to call any day now. He wouldn't say why, but that I should let you up..." He sighed. "So I shall, but you must be prepared. He's been having one of his spells and he's not himself." Robert shook his head grimly. "Mother's talking of a trip abroad, when we cannot even persuade him to leave the house for a stroll around the block."
As he talked, he led us upstairs, then asked us to wait while he went in to talk to his brother. It was a good fifteen minutes before he reappeared and beckoned us to the door. "He's seems rather relieved to know you're here. Distract him with cheerful talk, will you?" Robert gave Ezra a pat on the shoulder and me a somber smile before standing aside to let us in.
What was probably a sunny, comfortable room under normal circumstances now had all the cheer of a mausoleum with the tightly drawn drapes and low burning gaslight. Expecting to find Jem in bed, I was surprised to see him sitting on the floor in the corner, dressed only in a bathrobe, his long legs stretched out in front of him. A blanket his brother had probably given him lay puddled beside him and even though the room was chilly, he hardly seemed to notice it. He did, however, notice us. "Thank you, Robert."
"I'll send up some tea," Robert whispered to us as he slipped out. If Jem heard that, he gave no sign. Ezra sat on an overstuffed ottoman and I took the chair, managing a wry smile as Jem's attention moved to me. The corners of his mouth lifted slightly in response.
"Mr. Nash. Have you found him out at last?"
I didn't let my surprise show but Ezra couldn't hide his. "You knew?" he said in a hushed voice.
Jem suddenly laughed, a rumbling, humorless laugh. "Dear Ezra. I quite understand how pathetic I must appear, dallying with the likes of Sid while leaving Clara to wait and wonder. But you, of all chaps, should understand. There are some--needs that will not go overlooked. Desires that others may freely enjoy which you cannot, without subterfuge." His smile faded. "We all have so many faces. So many of which must be kept concealed. I've seen Sid's other faces and yes, I've suspected. I distanced myself and he threatened Clara. So I broke it off completely with them both."
"Dear fellow," Ezra whispered in dismay and Jem shrugged.
"Does it matter?" His attention shifted to the thin shaft of light breaching the drapes. "The world out there, it's not ours. It will never be ours. Why the pretense of living in it?"
"It will get better," I ventured, "with time."
His blue, blue eyes found me again. "Ah, dear Morgan, time we do not have." He brushed a hand over the velvet blanket, gaze gone distant. "'The long day wanes, the slow moon climbs. The deep moans round with many voices. Come, my friends, 'tis not too late to seek a newer world.'"
He closed his eyes, shutting us out, and was quiet so long, I wondered if he'd forgotten we were present. Ezra looked at me and I shook my head. We couldn't push him. I couldn't, anyway. I barely knew him, but I could see the man was dealing with some serious pain. Then abruptly he came back down to earth, startling us with his matter-of-factness. "Sid only plays the fool, you know, to catch people off their guard." His tone was affectionate, as if some small part of him still thought well of Sid, despite everything. "He's rather good at catching people off their guard. You've turned him over to the police?"
I didn't beat around the bush. "We have to find him first."
That little smile again. "You want me to give him to you."
Something in his tone made my heart sink. "The only betrayal here is his betrayal of you. If he's the one killing, he won't stop. He can't stop. He's too sick--"
"They will hang him."
"He's insane," I said. "They'll lock him away for the rest of his life. And that's about all they can do." Which in my opinion would be worse than hanging, but Jem might tolerate that more easily than the idea of being the one to bring about Sid's death. "If we do nothing, more women will die," I reminded him.
"Have they named their murderer?"
He directed the question to Ezra, who fidgeted on the ottoman. "They haven't accused anyone. But they follow him about."
An affectionate light showed in Jem's eyes. "Dear old Ezra. Remember when I suggested you set up shop? You'd make a fortune with that trick, you know. Perhaps you and Mr. Nash together..." He faltered, then went on with a false cheer. "I'll never make a detective myself. I'd thought Sid one of those chaps that don't care to show their feelings. The only emotion I saw in him came when he would try to anger me over some triviality. He seemed to want me to--hurt him." Jem shook his head slowly back and forth. "Other than that, nothing. He even spoke of drowning Clara in the river as though she were a stray cat he wanted to be rid of. Perhaps he hated me in the end. Certainly after I let him know he was a substitute--and a poor one--for someone else."
"Eddy," I put in quietly. Ezra looked at me anxiously. It was a sensitive subject and I had a feeling part of his uneasiness stemmed from Eddy's position as prince and future king. Of course he didn't know and neither did Jem that Eddy would never be king; and I didn't intend to tell them. But stripped of his royal veneer, Eddy was just a man like us, a man Jem loved, more than he cared for Sid or Clara. And he was letting it eat him alive.
At my comment, Jem merely nodded. From under the velvet puddle came a pistol and I started to my feet as he pressed the muzzle to his head. Ezra reached him first, wrestling it away. It went off, burying a bullet in the wall near the ceiling. I took the gun from Ezra's shaking hands as Jem sank back into his corner, blue eyes dulled and distant. "They'll even stop you dying in peace," he muttered.
"It's not a peaceful way to go," I told him. "Assuming it'd even kill you, which isn't always the case."
The discharge brought Robert and half a dozen servants flying upstairs. Robert apparently didn't need any explanation from us. He stared at his brother, an agony of helplessness on his face, and I felt for the guy. I could see he wanted to help Jem, but he hadn't the first idea how. I didn't doubt that Jem's family had no idea of his love for the prince, even if they knew of his preference for his own sex. Telling them would only make matters worse.
Robert not unkindly asked us to leave and on our way out, Jem called after Ezra. As Ez turned, Jem gave him the hint of his old charming smile. "If you see me, by and by, put in a good word for me, will you? For old time's sake."
I knew what he meant as well as Ezra did. On the stairs, I warned Robert to lock up the guns and get his brother away on a long vacation somewhere relaxing. Time might ease the loss tormenting him, but even if it couldn't, shutting him in St. Andrews didn't seem the answer either. I regretted confirming his suspicions about Sid, even though we'd prevented his suicide--for the time being. It wouldn't help his state of mind to know he'd slept with a monster.
As for the monster, we'd hunt him down ourselves and the best place to start was where we'd seen him just before Liz and Catherine's deaths.
The Ten Bells was as lively and raucous as it had been on our last visit, par for a Saturday night, I was sure, and maybe every night. I zeroed in on the barkeeper, whittling down Ezra's funds to buy a couple of drinks and maybe a little information. But when I asked if he knew Sid, I could tell it wasn't the question so much as my accent that sparked immediate suspicion. "Had all sorts from coppers on down inquiring about one customer or another," he remarked. "You're the first American what's come nosing around. Have your drink and be on your way."
"Look you here," Ezra protested in surprisingly good working class accent. I managed not to react, but tried to look innocent as he went on. "You mistake us. Sid ain't seen Morgan since he was a lad and here's Morgan springing a visit on him unawares." He leaned in, grinning. "A great joke, too, after all Sid's bragging he'd know his own kin even after twenty years. I told him there's a tenner in it if you do and he took the bet, thinking Morgan hadn't a prayer of ever crossing back. Now here's his own blood, bold as life, and Sid won't know him from Adam."
Feeling it was safe, I let the grin come before my face cracked from the need. The barkeeper looked as amused, all suspicion fled. "You know, he could square what he owes me with that money. I'm sorry to say you missed him. He was in quarter of an hour ago, but just for a pint. You might find him home if you're quick."
I furrowed my brow. "Not still the house on Berner, is it?" It was a risky question and Ezra hesitated just long enough to prompt the barkeep to jump in, giving us an address right around the corner.
Night was falling fast, stormy weather returning for an encore, and as we approached the house, Ezra suggested trying to locate Sid psychically. I vetoed that right away.
"Not again. I was an asshole to talk you into it before. Anyway, our time's better spent getting our hands on evidence for a conviction."
Ezra still wasn't comfortable with the whole breaking and entering thing. "What is it we're looking for? A knife?"
"Knives, guns, surgical instruments. Handwriting samples to match to those letters someone's been sending in to the cops. Any kind of written evidence. A journal, diary, letters, even a grocery list. Clothing. Anything he might have taken from one of the victims..." I hesitated. Collecting trace evidence was pointless. We had to come up with proof that would suit Scotland Yard without creating more suspicion about my involvement. That meant sticking with the basics. "A fingerprint to match to the one I took off Catherine's tin. Stored body parts, blood stains--"
"Body parts?" he said, appalled.
I gave him a sympathetic clap on the back. I'd been in the dwellings of more than a few killers and it usually proved a uniquely disturbing experience, one I didn't think Ezra needed to be exposed to. Sid had layers to him and I had only seen the frayed edges of, so far. I had a feeling the deeper I dug, the uglier it would get. "Maybe you should stand guard at the door. Let me know if he comes back."
Sid's was the only house from which no light shone. Getting inside was easy enough; getting around in the dark was another matter. Wishing fervently for a flashlight, I fumbled my way into the front hall and got my hands on a table lamp--one that was hot to the touch. Leaving it unlit, I eased my hand under my coat and unsheathed my gun. I didn't know how long it took the average oil lamp to cool down, but I wasn't pressing my luck.
The parlor, a grim, sparsely furnished echo of Kathleen's cheery nook, was deserted. It was also surprisingly clean, as was the kitchen, pristine and reeking of an odor that took me a minute to recognize: lye, strong enough to be damned near overpowering. I wondered if he had been using it to clean bloodstains from his clothes. There was a different sort of smell on the stairs leading up to the bedrooms. I saw the source of it, a vase of roses, heads drooping, petals curled and blackened. Roses, like the one he'd given me--and Liz--and perhaps the others as well. Petals littered a threadbare rug and I crept across it silently to a closed door, listening for any evidence of occupancy. As voices drifted out, I tightened my grip on the gun. He'd brought someone home with him. Someone who was still alive--and who was going to stay that way.
I went in without bothering to knock and got an unexpected eyeful of two bodies, clothed only in the glow of candlelight, rocking back and forth on the bed in the corner. Both were decidedly male--but the man straddling Sid wasn't big enough to be Jem. If he had been, he would have damn near killed Sid with the fists that pounded him over and over again. I grabbed a sweat-slicked shoulder before he could fracture Sid's skull with his bare hands. His head jerked up, eyes wild fury, mouth beaded with saliva as he breathed harshly in my face--and I felt a nasty shock of recognition.
George Edward Blanchard. The third.
Chapter Twenty-Three
"Son of a--" I didn't know whose ass I wanted to kick more. I dragged him off Sid and shoved him into a chair where he sat, just staring at me as if he couldn't believe his eyes. I picked up what I figured must be his pants and threw them at him. "You are one goddamned piece of work, Blanchard." I held my gun on Sid, who lay limply on the bare mattress, breathing hard. "Get up, Sid. And get your clothes on."
He grinned, then winced and licked his bloodied lip. "You Americans. No sense of delicacy." Nevertheless he got up and pulled on a pair of pants. George, his rage subsided by a growing awareness that he wasn't safely in the closet any longer, groped around for the rest of his clothes, all the while sending furtive glances my way. I ignored him, my eye on Sid as he buttoned his trousers and smiled slyly at me. "Have you ever been with two chaps at once, dear Morgan? We might have some fun before you turn us over to the rozzers."
"The police?" George rasped, scrambling into his pants. "You're taking us to the police?"
"It won't be the drop for you, love," Sid assured him cheerily. "Two years' penance and you're off to the continent."
I wanted to think his nonchalance was part of the act, but something in his eyes convinced me nothing scared him, not even the prospect of being put to death. Still I kept the gun trained on him, just in case he was imagining he could make an escape. "Get dressed--"
George Blanchard might be on the soft side, but he packed a mean punch. As it slammed into my ribs, I realized I'd been keeping a close eye on the wrong person. His momentum knocked me flat and he landed on top of me, forcing the air from my lungs and the gun from my hand. As the Glock clattered into a corner, the muzzle of George's little popgun dug into my throat. "Think yourself clever, following me around," he sputtered. "You'll have a bullet for your trouble. I won't go in the dock, I promise you that."
He thought I'd been tailing him. I might've laughed, but the toy gun was a little too firmly planted in a vulnerable artery. "Hate to break it to you, George, but you aren't the one I've been chasing down. Tell him, Sid. Or should I say Jack?"
Sid shrugged into his coat and looked down at me with languid amusement. "I'll have my guinea first, I think."
The pressure under my jaw eased and I put my all into keeping up the distraction. "Shame on you, Sid. Soliciting gentlemen without the proper introduction. Didn't think you'd stoop to compromising what principles you had left."
He laughed. "Caught out, am I? What a clever boy you are. I think reason and love must keep good company after all."
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He got a real kick out of baiting me. But I didn't bite and George missed that particular taunt completely, apparently knocked for a loop by the revelation that he'd just bedded Jack the Ripper. It seemed the right moment to relieve him of his gun. But as I grabbed his wrist, self-preservation kicked in and he struggled to keep the weapon.
"Stop!"
Jesus--was that Ezra? The quiet threat in his voice was impressive and I hoped like hell he had the means to back it up. I twisted, throwing a startled George to the floor and his gun went off, sending a bullet into the roof. I caught sight of Ezra in the doorway, the Glock in a wobbly grip. "Hey, Ez, good timing. Shoot them."
His grip got even more unsteady. "Shoot them?"
"Yeah. George first."
"You can't kill me," George snapped. "Will you do that to Charlotte?"
It wasn't the brightest thing to say. Suddenly Ezra looked a whole lot more confident with the gun in his hand. "How do I cock the damned thing?" he demanded, scowling at the Glock's clean lines.
"You don't." I got to my feet and hauled George to his, yanking his gun away. "Aim it and shoot."
"I take it I've more than one bullet?"
My grin came back, even darker than before. "All you need."
"Ezra!" George couldn't quite submerge the fear under his fury. "He's a madman. They'll hang you!"
Sid didn't seem to think he was in any danger of being shot--or he didn't care. He was smiling as George cowered beside him. "Aim and shoot, dear fellow. Cocks be damned."
But Ezra didn't. He held the gun on them both while I relieved Sid of his knife and instructed him to finish dressing before I cuffed him. He put up no resistance and though I sensed some regret, I didn't think it had anything to do with his crimes.
"I didn't wish to fall foul of you, old fellow. I like you, nearly as much as Jem, you know. But I'm relieved you've tumbled to it. I'm tired." Something surfaced briefly in his dark eyes, something that was not sly amusement or bare lust. I might have labeled it pain, but the word didn't do it justice. Maybe a self-awareness that his soul was blackened beyond cleansing, beyond what anyone in this world had the power to heal. That awareness gleamed, then it was gone--and his face relaxed, reminding me disquietingly of a drowning man who'd stopped struggling, to slip peacefully beneath the waves. He sighed. "Yes, quite tired. Do give a fellow his cigarettes, will you? Rozzers smoke the most vile tobacco. It must account for their ill temper, don't you think?"