When We Touch

by Heather Graham

  Again, the Queen paused, looking at him. And, indeed, he understood the gravity of the situation. Political balance was always a tightrope walk.

  “I understand the concern being caused. However, I have read the details regarding the murders, and I don’t think that they are being perpetuated by anyone with a political design. For most men and women alike, killing is not that natural a business, and certainly, carving up another human being is not something most people are willing to do.”

  “I, too, believe that only a madman, a true lunatic, could do such a thing. But I must get to the bottom of this situation. While he—they, she, though before God, I cannot believe that a woman could do this thing—is out there, these horrible affairs might well continue.”

  “I’m afraid so,” he said quietly. One thing he had learned was that though it was wise to watch one’s language with the Queen, there was nothing she liked more than honesty.

  “I’d like you, Lord James, to quietly step in, make a few discreet inquiries, and do all that you can to find out just what is going on!”

  “Your Majesty, of course, I am ready to do your bidding. But every policeman in the area is surely combing the streets—”

  “I’m not asking you to find this crazed killer for me, Lord James. I am asking you to slip in, watch the police, the people, and keep an ear to the ground for the political climate, and God help us, save the monarchy—and perhaps even the Empire.”

  It was a hefty assignment. Jamie just looked at her for a moment.

  “Be my eyes and my ears!” she said softly.

  She waved a hand in the air, and he knew that he was dismissed.

  And that the Queen might have given him an impossible task. And yet . . .

  He was quite suddenly grateful to her. With such work before him, he could perhaps, at last, tear his mind from his thoughts of what had been, and what was . . .

  And the terrible hunger that remained inside him. When he should have been filled with nothing but pain . . .

  All that he felt was need. And when his dreams should have been those of memory and loss, they turned to vivid recall instead, and now, more than ever, she seemed to whisper in his sleep, and haunt his days and nights.

  “I will gladly do all that I can, Your Majesty,” he assured her.

  Departing Buckingham Palace, he found Randolph awaiting him in the carriage in the vast drive.

  “Where to, Lord James?” Randolph asked him.

  “The East End,” Jamie said.

  “Is your uncle’s widow already busy and about again?” Randolph asked him.

  Jamie shook his head and scowled. “She’d best not be!” he replied. Then he paused, reflecting on his vague but impassioned orders. “Home, first, Randolph. Perhaps it’s time for a change.”

  Chapter 12

  “Have ye heard, have ye heard?”

  Maggie was amazed by the number of women in the churchyard. She couldn’t be overly flattered that they had come to hear her speak—or even that they had come for a handout. She hadn’t announced that she was coming, and had decided on finding Mireau and bringing him here simply because she’d so desperately felt the need to do something. Making some kind of arrangements with Father Vickers for future work had seemed her only straw.

  But even as they left the cab they had taken down—she had sent Darby on home after she’d reached her own house in Mayfair—the women had begun running out to her.

  “Oh, m’lady!” moaned a tall, slender woman. “Have ye heard what he did ta the poor souls?”

  “The murders?” Maggie said. “I’m so sorry, yes. I’ve read about them.”

  “Blimey!” Another of the women elbowed the tall one a bit roughly. “Lizzie, ain’t you ’eard? The poor lady’s married, and lost another ’usband already!”

  A sound of sympathy arose from the crowd. “Thank you,” Maggie said.

  “Are you all right, ducky?” said the tall thin one.

  “Ye can’t be callin’ the likes of ’er ‘ducky,’ Lizzie!” came a voice from the crowd. “She’s more of a lady now, she is! Married ’erself a Viscount, she did!”

  An “Ooooh!” went up then. Maggie waved a hand in the air. “My dear friends, it doesn’t matter what you call me, what does matter is that you’ve got to start taking care of yourselves. You must watch out.”

  “ ’Cause ’e’ll stike again, ’e will.” It was the one who had called out from the middle of the crowd. She inched her way forward. Short and round, she might have been forty, looked eighty, and like most of them, was missing several teeth. “’E’ll strike again, ’cause the coppers can’t catch ’im!”

  “I still say it was that Pizer fellow, Leather Apron!” Lizzie volunteered.

  “ ’E ’ad himself an alibi, that one, ’e did!” said the rounder woman.

  “Did you know the victims?” Maggie asked.

  “Aye, and sad they were!” said a younger woman, coming forward and drawing her shawl more tightly around her shoulders as she shivered. “I was at one of the workhouses with Polly,” she said. She shook her head. “She could have a mean way with her when she drank, but no one deserved such a fate!” The woman standing before Maggie then was almost still pretty. She had huge brown eyes, and her hair was a sable color.

  “Did you ’ear what the coroner said after the inquest?” Lizzie demanded. “Said that Annie Chapman ’ad ’er uterus taken! What a bloody mess it all was. The coroner, ’e gave the police a piece o’ his mind, I daresay!”

  The younger woman told her, “It’s all brought back whispers of Burke and Hare, and what they were up to with their body snatchin’! Seems an American was offering upwards of twenty pounds sterling for certain body parts.”

  Someone giggled. “Ah, with both Polly and Annie, eh, the body parts ’ould be preserved in plenty o’ gin, eh?”

  The others giggled, then fell uncomfortably silent. They stared at Maggie as if she had an answer for them. She shook her head. “There’s really no answer for such a fiend,” she said. “But until the police do catch him, you need—well, frankly, you need to find other work!”

  “What other work?” Lizzie said. “There really ain’t no other work for the likes o’ us, and that’s the sad truth of it.”

  Maggie shook her head firmly. “Some of you have been laundresses. There’s casual work out there, you have to look for it.” They all stared at her blankly. What they knew was prostitution, and that was that. Most of the time, they were looking for enough money for a bit of gin, and then a doss for the night. If they could only keep down their gin consumption, that meant perhaps one man, and a few quick minutes standing in an alley somewhere and tolerating the few moments it might take. There wasn’t much that went with the actual sex act.

  “It’s your lives at stake!” Mireau called out impatiently.

  Again, the women appeared uncomfortable. “Did ye bring us anything, m’lady?” someone called out hopefully.

  “No,” Maggie said, truly sorrowful. “But we’ve a bit of money, don’t we, Mireau?”

  He stared at her as if she had gone completely mad. Then she understood why. The women began to press forward.

  “Me doss, just me doss!” the pretty younger woman said.

  “Now, back off a bit!” Mireau insisted. Maggie had her reticule out, and Mireau took it from her, fierce as a bulldog. “One at a time, one at a time!”

  In seconds flat, her purse was emptied, and despite the camaraderie the women could have at times, there was jostling, shoving, and swearing as it happened. Once the money was meted out, they began to move off, calling back their thank-yous.

  Mireau looked at her, shaking his head. “You know where they’re all headed, don’t you?” he demanded. “The nearest pub for their gin!”

  “Some,” she admitted. “But not all.”

  He shook his head, still, staring at her. “Maggie, this fellow is going to strike again. And no matter how you try to help, you can’t keep these women off the streets. Ask Father
Vickers.”

  “Mireau, if we’ve helped one—”

  “Yes, yes, we’ve changed humanity! Did you want to see Father Vickers? Let’s pray that I have cab fare home, since, God forbid, you chose not to let a coachman take us—even now, when you’ve got a man such as Darby at your beck and call!”

  “If we have to, we can borrow from the poor box,” Maggie said.

  “Right. Like there’s anything in the poor box here!”

  “Shall we see Father Vickers?”

  “Yes, yes, let’s go on in.”

  They walked into the church. Father Vickers was lighting candles with a young altar boy.

  “Maggie, Jacques!” he said, surprised. He left off at his task and came hurrying down the aisle to meet them. He looked at Maggie with concern. “My lady! What on earth are you doing down here? Your poor husband, hardly buried! My dear, bless you, but God will understand that you need your time.”

  “What I don’t need is time, Father,” Maggie said wearily. “It’s down to where I stare at the walls in misery. I need to be busy again, Father.”

  “Surely, there are friends you need to see.”

  “I think not,” Maggie murmured, uncomfortably remembering her night out with Cecilia.

  “This is not a good time to be risking this neighborhood,” he told her.

  “We’ve heard. It’s all simply ghastly,” Mireau said.

  “You don’t know just how ghastly,” Father Vickers told them. “Two poor souls—or more—gone on to God in a most horrid manner! The police can’t rightly figure just how many this one lunatic has done in. But it’s only the last two who have been so horribly butchered. Yet it’s the letters to the police . . . the articles written, that are nearly as frightening. Anarchy could well be at hand.” He looked very nervous, actually craning his head to see over their shoulders, as if someone might have followed to hear their conversation.

  “Whatever is the matter?” Maggie said.

  He shook his head.

  “Father Vickers! I would never betray a confidence, and you know that!”

  “Come, come, then, let’s go on to my little room, shall we?”

  Father Vickers had a small, private place in the vicarage, adjoining the church. He had a bed, a table, a few chairs, and a stove and kettle. He set water on for tea and as he worked, he told them, “The rumors down here are running rife! At these inquests, the witnesses have given different descriptions of the men they last saw with the dead woman. Most of them point out a nondescript fellow in shabby clothing. Some say that he was well dressed. There are those who seem to believe that this murderer rides here in a grand carriage, then rides away, and that’s why the blood is not seen on the fellow. Then again, there are slaughterhouses near, and someone might not be noticed walking about covered in blood!”

  “But a rich carriage would surely be noted on the streets,” Maggie said.

  “Maybe. And maybe it moves out so quickly that it’s on streets where others might be. We all know that the rich sometimes like to play among the poor.” He poured water over the tea leaves.

  “You’re still not saying everything,” Maggie told him gravely.

  He hesitated, looked around again, and when he spoke, it was in a whisper. “Prince Eddy himself has played in these parts.”

  “I have no difficulty believing that Prince Eddy might hire a prostitute, but surely . . . I think she’d be a bit more comely and younger than the girls hereabouts!” Mireau said.

  “The one he was with . . . wasn’t a prostitute. She worked in a shop.”

  Maggie shook her head. “Father Vickers, I’m lost. Prostitutes are being killed, not shop girls.”

  He brought the tea to the table then, discarding even the offer of milk or sugar. “No, listen. He met a shop girl. A young, Catholic shop girl. There’s rumor that there was a marriage, and that the girl had a child.”

  “But I don’t understand. What would that have to do with anything?”

  “What if someone were furious. Did you hear me? Catholic shop girl! And there was a child!”

  Maggie sipped her tea, shaking her head. “Father Vickers,” she said gently. “If this had happened, it wouldn’t matter. If there was a marriage, it would not be legal. Eddy cannot marry without the Queen’s permission, and an heir to the throne cannot marry a Catholic. And you said that she was a shop girl. What has that to do with prostitutes?”

  Father Vickers sighed. “The shop girl hovered on the verge of prostitution. She might well have been friends with these women. And perhaps . . . they’re being silenced.”

  “The theory is ridiculous,” Maggie said flatly. “If someone were to be silenced—they’d be killed. Simply killed. I mean, if someone were trying to cover something up—and none of it really seems to go together—why make such a huge production of it? We all know that it’s sad but true—simple murder here goes unnoted. People have only cared, the newspapers have only gone wild, because of the beastly details.”

  Nodding at her, Father Vickers continued to look glum.

  “Why are you so worried, still?” she asked him.

  “Because there’s truth, and perception of the truth. I’m very afraid of what people will say, and what they will believe, whether true or not, if these murders continue,” Father Vickers said.

  “We have to pray that this man is caught,” Mireau said. “And by the way, Father, Maggie didn’t come with any handouts. No food. So she gave away our money.”

  Father Vickers stared at her.

  “What do you think they’ll do with that money, so early in the evening?” Mireau asked Father Vickers.

  “Buy gin,” he said.

  She let out a long sigh. “Let’s arrange for some food, then, Father, shall we?”

  As it happened, Mireau did have the money on him for the cab ride home. Father Vickers walked them out. After Maggie was seated, before closing the door, Father Vickers gripped her hands in his own. “Bless you, child. And don’t you worry. God above knows that you’re innocent.”

  A creeping feeling settled over her.

  “Innocent?” she said.

  “You haven’t been keeping up with the papers, have you?” he asked.

  “No.”

  He drew a clipping from his pocket and handed it to her. She noted the paper, and then that the item was unsigned. “Dead is Dead,” the caption read. She scanned it quickly. “While the police are insane seeking a murderer who relishes his task with grotesque mutilation, it seems the authorities have forgotten that whether brutally slain or killed quickly and in silence, dead is dead. Perhaps the authorities should be looking in higher places, for murder which does scream out in blood. They look to madmen, and not the fairer sex. A beautiful face can hide an evil heart. Be warned.”

  She looked at Father Vickers, and didn’t flush, nor betray her anger. “Thank you for showing me this.”

  “Most readers will have no idea what it means—or to whom they’re referring.”

  “But enough will,” she said softly. “It’s all right. I have been the subject of scandal before.”

  “For your marriage to Nathan, not murder,” Father Vickers said worriedly.

  “There was an autopsy. And the Queen attended my husband’s funeral.”

  “The wrong person could point out that the rich can be protected because of the Queen—if that were the case, the anarchist would be justified in tearing down the Crown,” Father Vickers reminded her.

  “I’m forewarned, Father. And I believe I know where this came from,” she said. “Thank you again. And we’ll return—with bread next time. No more coins to be spent on gin.”

  He grinned. “God go with you.”

  “And you, Father,” she said.

  Their cab jostled onto the street. Mireau was staring at her. “So—where did the article come from?”

  “I’m not certain, of course.”

  “But you suspect . . . ?”

  “Who else?”

  “The incredibly s
weet, young, beautiful Arianna?”

  “Young and beautiful, yes. Sweet? Like acid!”

  “Do you think she’ll keep it up?” Mireau asked worriedly.

  “I think we’ll have a mother-daughter talk,” Maggie said. “And then I shall go to the paper and threaten a suit for slander.”

  Mireau grinned. “There’s my girl! Back in form.” He frowned suddenly as he looked out the window.

  “What is it?”

  “I don’t know. Strange . . . I’ve never been down here looking for a prosti—” He paused, looking at Maggie and flushing. “I’m not saying I’ve never . . . just never here.”

  “What are you babbling about?” Maggie demanded.

  “I don’t know. There was a woman on the street, and her face was mostly hidden by her scarf and shawl. And yet . . . I saw her eyes. And she looked at me as if she knew me.”

  Maggie shrugged. “Maybe she does know you.”

  “Maggie! I told you, I would never come here to . . . to. I simply wouldn’t!”

  She smiled. “Mireau, she might have seen you with me when we come down here to help the poor wretches.”

  “Oh. Oh! Of course,” he said, and sat back.

  “This is all very scary,” Maggie said.

  “Of course. There’s a madman loose.”

  She shook her head. “Yes, of course, but that’s not what I meant. I mean, it’s very scary, the way people come up with rumors and talk. Suggest that women might be killed because they knew about an illicit affair.”

  “There’s always talk!”

  “Father Vickers is right, though. Talk can hurt.”

  “Maggie, we should go away. On a holiday.”

  “One doesn’t go on a holiday when newly widowed,” she said.

  “Ah, but one can retreat from daily life,” he reminded her. “Winter is coming. We can go to the south of Italy.”

  She shook her head slowly. “I have a child to raise, remember? And I intend to do a bit of raising when I return home.”