The Linking Rings

by John Gaspard

  “Just how many suspects are there in this Jack the Ripper thing?” Megan whispered after McHugh had introduced—and shot down—another two possibilities.

  “I’m not even sure McHugh could give you a number,” I said, taking her arm so we weren’t inadvertently separated by the moving crowd. “Everyone has their favorite. In fact, the only time I can remember my Aunt Alice and Uncle Harry having an actual fight was on this very topic.”

  “I never met your Aunt Alice, but the way Harry talks about her, I can’t imagine the two of them ever fighting.”

  “And they hardly ever did. But one of Alice’s favorite mystery writers wrote a book—a non-fiction thing about the murders—suggesting a new and unlikely suspect. And Alice made the mistake of telling Harry she thought the author got it right on the nose. And that’s how she put it,” I added, smiling at the memory. “‘She got it right on the nose.’”

  “And Harry didn’t share this view?”

  “Well,” I said. “A lot of people didn’t share that view. But Harry was the only one of them who was living with Alice. The two of them eventually agreed not to talk about it, but I know it irked both of them to the end.”

  We increased our pace to catch up with the crowd. “What will be the one thing that bugs the two of us until the end of time?” she asked, looking up and smiling at me. I stopped and kissed her on the forehead.

  “I don’t know, but I can’t wait to find out,” I said as we rounded a corner and rejoined the group.

  “In the early morning hours of Sunday, September 30,” McHugh was saying to the rapt crowd, “mere minutes after the interrupted murder of Elizabeth Stride, our killer struck again. Here, in Mitre Square. Claiming the life of Catherine Eddowes. Right here, on these very cobblestones upon which we stand.”

  The old guy really had a way of spinning a story, and the added detail about standing on the same cobblestones from 1888 sent a chill up my spine. The way Megan squeezed my hand suggested this reaction was not unique to me.

  “At approximately one forty-five a.m., when PC Edward Watkins discovered the body, he literally stumbled upon a bloody mess. The killer had cut the poor unfortunate woman from her breast bone all the way down to her—oh my stars and garters, is that Eli Marks?”

  I was surprised, as one would be, to hear my name in this context, and realized McHugh must have finally spotted me in the crowd.

  “My goodness, it is Eli. Hello old boy, good to see you, we will talk anon, won’t we?” With that, he gave me a cheerful wave, and then returned to his description of the crime scene—including what sounded like a very complete listing of the internal organs that had been appropriated and spirited away as part of the bloody act.

  Once the conclusion of the walk had been reached, McHugh was surrounded by those attendees who wanted to ask just one more question, offer one more possible suspect theory, or pose for a selfie with him. He was kind and patient with one and all, so Megan and I stood quietly off to the side, awaiting our opportunity. Seeing there appeared to be no end in sight, he waved me over.

  “This won’t take as long as it looks,” he said, stepping toward me and lowering his voice. “Why don’t you go grab a table at that pub, and I will join you presently.”

  I glanced across the street at the pub, called The Ten Bells, and then turned back to him. “Sure thing,” I said. “We’ll wait for you there.”

  “Brilliant. I can’t wait to find out what our friend Harry has been up to.”

  Megan and I had no trouble snagging a table in the rustic old pub, but I soon realized an actual conversation with McHugh was still at least a few minutes away. A mini-mob of acolytes followed him into the bar in order to buy a copy of his book and get it autographed. This must have been a regular occurrence, for as soon as he entered, one of the large barmen pulled a cardboard box out from under the counter and set it by McHugh’s feet at the table we had secured.

  “Back in the day,” he said as he settled in and started pulling fresh copies of The Jack the Ripper Omnibus out of the box, “I would carry a supply of the books with me. But with later editions getting bulkier and me getting—well, bulkier as well—it seemed a prudent solution to strike a bargain with the pub owner. He stocks the books, and we split the take. A fair arrangement all around, don’t you think?”

  As I was coming to learn, about sixty percent of British questions are rhetorical. Figuring this one fell into that majority, I took drink orders and headed to the bar while McHugh signed books and fielded compliments on his oratory and writing skills. By the time I returned with three ales, the crowd had dwindled to McHugh, Megan, and one last devotee who was fanning the dying flames of his argument. McHugh smiled patiently at the young man.

  “To me,” the fellow concluded breathlessly, “the evidence is irrefutable.”

  “Well, sorry to be the one to refute it then, old boy, but prison records clearly place our friend behind bars well before and well after the deaths of the canonical five,” McHugh said with more patience than I might have mustered. “To the best of my knowledge, prisons didn’t even offer conjugal visits at the time, let alone day passes to commit the odd serial killing.”

  “Well, then, I guess we’ll have to agree to disagree,” the fellow said.

  “The story of my life,” McHugh replied with a smile, finishing up his autographing duties as he handed the signed book to the young man, who nodded, tipped his cap, and scurried out of the bar.

  “Do you ever get tired of having the same arguments over and over?” I asked as I set the ale in front of him.

  “Hardly. After all, I was married for over forty years,” he said, bringing the glass to his lips and taking a long sip. He sat back and let out a deep satisfied sigh. “To the perfect drink at the perfect time in the perfect place with the perfect companions,” he toasted, before taking another long sip. Once sated, he leaned forward.

  “So, tell me of magical Minneapolis and the musings of our mutual mystical friend, Harry Marks.”

  The whole story took longer to recount than I had expected, and throughout the telling McHugh’s countenance shifted continually, reacting to each twist and turn of Harry’s first two days in London. He offered no interruptions or asides, just a steady stream of “my mys” and “good heavens” as I unfolded the tale. I finished by recounting my conversation with Harry in the jail’s visiting booth and his admonition to pull McHugh into the narrative.

  “Just so,” McHugh said once I had finished. “Although, due to my retired status, I’m not entirely certain what help I can provide. But my years in the service might, at the very least, help grease some wheels. If that is in fact the expression.”

  I nodded and was about to continue, but Megan jumped in before I could form my first question.

  “How long have you been retired?” she asked. McHugh considered the inquiry.

  “Officially, I handed in my badge over fifteen years ago,” he said. “Due to injuries sustained while off duty. But I have been asked to consult on a number of cases in the intervening years,” he added, taking another sip of his ale.

  It was then I remembered the story, as recounted to me by Uncle Harry: McHugh and his wife had been mugged late one evening on the way home from the theatre. Outnumbered and wishing to keep his wife out of harm’s way, McHugh wisely handed over all their valuables when requested to do so. But it was to no avail, as the muggers took shots at the couple as they departed. McHugh survived, a nearly imperceptible limp the only reminder of the crime. His wife hadn’t been so lucky.

  With little to occupy his time, he took any and all requests to speak on the Jack the Ripper case, bringing him to the States more than ever before. And, with most of those trips came a swing through Minneapolis to see his old pal, Harry Marks.

  “So they’re going before the magistrate in the morning, you say?” he mused, stroking his chin. “I suspect I can make a phon
e call or two, which might minimize Harry’s future incarceration. And, if we’re lucky, forestall any long-term confinement on his part.”

  Before offering any details on this plan, McHugh held up an empty mug, which was my cue it was time to make another trip to the bar.

  Less than twelve hours later, Megan and I found ourselves seated in another pub, this one around the corner from the police station Uncle Harry had been calling home since Saturday night. After meeting us out on the street, McHugh had settled us into the warm establishment and gone off to, in his casual phraseology, “have a quick chat with a few lads.” A text moments later from Laurence Baxter informed me that he, too, was at the station, pulling whatever strings he could.

  I passed this information along to Megan, and we agreed it was looking like Harry had a formidable team on his side.

  The pub served breakfast, but we had already grabbed a bite at our hotel, which we had both taken to referring to as Fawlty Towers. Although, in retrospect, I think Megan thought the title was more of a joke than I did.

  I had steered clear of the traditional English breakfast that time around, in favor of cold toast and coffee, while Megan availed herself to the porridge, which she proclaimed far superior to the oatmeal at home. I suggested the bar wasn’t set particularly high for that contest, but she insisted I sample a bite, and I was forced to agree with her assessment. They may have conceded the Revolutionary War, but when it came to hot oats for breakfast, the British were the clear winners.

  Many of the same characters we had seen the day before put in another appearance. The Harry Potter kid was bratty as ever, and the Russian grandmother repeated her admonition of “Etta dyedooshkye” to her tablemates as they squirreled away bits of food for “PopPop.” And then a couple of Americans came in complaining about the low thread count in the sheets and its impact on their delicate flesh, which we took as our cue it was time to head out and meet McHugh.

  “Enter a free man!”

  We turned to see Laurence Baxter, looking insanely dapper for such an early hour, holding the pub’s door open wide. He gestured expansively as Harry entered, squinting at the sudden change in illumination. He appeared bleary and out of place in his rumpled tux, his hair nearly as disheveled as the rest of him. Baxter patted him warmly on the back and directed him toward our table, nearly slamming the door shut on McHugh, who had followed the two magicians in.

  Megan quickly jumped up and met Harry at the halfway point, pulling him in for a long, warm hug.

  “Oh, Harry, we were so worried for you.”

  “You and me both, my dear,” Harry said, his voice raspy and strained. “You and me both. Have you talked to Franny?”

  “We called her last night after we met up with McHugh,” I said as I pulled out a chair for him. “Megan brought her up to date.”

  “She said she was going to hop on a plane,” Megan added. Harry immediately shook his head, holding up a hand.

  “No, no, Franny hates to fly. She just hates it,” he said.

  “Not to worry,” I said, patting his arm. “We talked her out of it. She’s going to sit tight until we hear more.”

  “Oh, thank goodness,” he said, visibly relieved. “She didn’t want me to take this trip. I should have listened to her.”

  “I think we’ve turned a corner,” Laurence Baxter said as he joined us. In his scant moments in the bar, he had managed to flag down one of the wait staff and place an order. Now he silently directed the waitress as she carefully placed a cup of tea in front of Harry. Baxter nodded his approval as she smiled shyly at him and scurried away. Such is the power of celebrity, I thought.

  “Perhaps,” McHugh said as he joined us. He pulled out a chair and lowered himself down heavily. “But I don’t think we’re entirely out of the woods just yet.” He glanced over at the tea Harry had begun to sip, then looked up at Baxter. “Brilliant. Any chance you could grab a cup for me as well?”

  The expression on Baxter’s face suggested it had been quite a while, if ever, since someone had asked him to serve them tea. He looked around, but no help was in sight. He pursed his lips for a moment, nodded, and then turned and headed back to the bar.

  “What do you mean?” I asked. “About not being out of the woods?”

  “Well, there’s no question the case against Harry is circumstantial, but the problem is that the circumstances themselves are extraordinary,” McHugh began. “He had means, he had opportunity. Only the motive is missing, but to be candid, I’ve seen cases where the best of three was all that was required to tip the balance. And not, I’m sad to say, in the direction we would prefer.”

  “The thing is,” Harry said quietly, “if they look back far enough, they could find a motive.” He could see the shocked reactions on our faces. “Not a strong motive, mind you, but it’s there. If they were to dig.”

  “What possible reason could you have to kill Oskar Korhonen?” I said.

  “As you might imagine, I’ve had a lot of time to think since Saturday night,” he said slowly. “And something did occur to me. It’s been years. A lot of years. It had to do with the Marks Pass.”

  “Oh, the Marks Pass,” Laurence Baxter said as he returned, placing a cup of tea in front of McHugh. He did it so carelessly I was surprised he didn’t miss the table and have it land in McHugh’s lap. “I had forgotten about that. Quite the brouhaha at the time, wasn’t it?”

  McHugh righted the tea in its saucer. “What is the Marks Pass?” he asked, turning to Harry. “It sounds like something your pioneers went through on their way to the California Gold Rush.”

  “It’s a card move I did some work on. A means of getting a card from any location in the deck to the top,” Harry said quietly. “It’s really just a refinement, based on the Hermann Pass.”

  “Don’t downplay it,” Baxter said, leaning in. “It was and is quite elegant. And less knacky than Hermann.”

  “It is pretty slick,” I agreed. “Plus you could do it one-handed.”

  “And what does this Marks Pass have to do with Oskar Korhonen?” McHugh said, trying to get the conversation back on track. “Other than the fact he possessed, as I gather, only one hand.”

  “Back in the seventies,” Harry said, “Oskar produced a training video for magicians.”

  “Interesting.” McHugh had taken a small pad from his pocket and he began to take notes. “Are there a significant number of one-armed magicians in need of training?”

  Harry shook his head. “It was really about looking at old tricks in new ways, which, as you can imagine, one is forced to do if you have half as many hands as the average magician. There was some really fine thinking in the video. Out-of-the-box stuff, as they say.”

  “First- rate,” Baxter agreed.

  I didn’t think I had ever actually watched the tape, but as the third magician at the table, I felt obliged to nod along in order to complete the trifecta. So I did, adding an ineffectual “Good stuff” to the conversation to confirm my contribution.

  “Anyway,” Harry continued, “in the tape he demonstrated the Marks Pass. Without any accreditation.”

  “Not a word,” Baxter said bitterly. “Not a word in the demonstration itself, nothing in the credits, it wasn’t mentioned on the box. Just shameful, really.”

  McHugh looked at the two old magicians, a puzzled expression on his face. “So you’re saying he stole a move of yours and profited from it? That’s your motive for killing him?”

  “Oh, no, he didn’t steal it, didn’t claim it as his own,” Harry said quickly. “And he certainly didn’t profit from it, I mean, not in any significant way.”

  “Oh no, a video like that, I can’t imagine it selling particularly well, can you?” Baxter said to Harry, and they both agreed it probably hadn’t.

  McHugh looked like he was getting a tad frustrated. “Then what’s the difficulty?”

 
Baxter and Harry regarded him and then each other. Baxter turned back to McHugh.

  “He didn’t credit the move,” he said slowly, as if to a child.

  “That’s one of the worst things you can do in the magic community,” Harry explained. “We’re very big on giving credit where it’s due. It’s all about crediting your sources.”

  “Indeed,” Baxter added quickly. “In our world, if you credit properly, you can get away with murder.”

  He instantly realized the implications of this unfortunate turn of phrase. “That’s not to say anyone ever does, of course. Murder someone, I mean.”

  “No, of course not,” McHugh said, closing his notebook. He took a sip of tea and settled back into his chair. “Thank you for the information. Regardless of its implications at the time, though, I doubt that particular incident will loom large in the prosecutor’s case.”

  “So what happens next?” I asked, hoping to steer the conversation away from Harry’s possible motives for killing Oskar.

  “We’ll follow two tracks, really,” he said, folding his hands across his chest. “Right now, this murder investigation is shining a very bright light in a very dark room. Currently that light is focused solely on Harry. I’d like to see the lads on the police force widen the beam a bit, as it were.”

  “To consider other suspects?” I suggested, thinking of one or two names I could add to their list. Davis De Vries had inside knowledge of how the murderous chair had worked, for instance.

  McHugh snorted. “They are going to have to look for other suspects before they can consider others, and I see precious little evidence they’re even doing that. Right now, Harry is the shiny object that has their full attention. My next step will be to have a conversation with the Chief Inspector and remind him or her of all the points that don’t count against our Harry as their prime suspect.”

  “And those points are?” Baxter said as he waved at a passing waitress and indicated Harry’s tea needed a refill. McHugh held his cup up as well, but the action was either ignored or unseen by Baxter.