“Let me take care of it,” he offered. “Aunt Nola will be fed and cared for. Do you like lamb?”
Warmed by his generosity as much as the alcohol, I grinned. “We Irish love lamb.”
“As do we. Lamb it is, then.” He made a gesture that produced a waiter as if by magic and ordered something I assumed was delicious and expensive.
I sipped wine and took dainty bites of salty bread, unsure of where to look or how to behave.
“Jorah.”
I forced a dry lump of bread down with a healthy sip. “What?”
“The name my mother gave me, is Jorah. Jorah David Roth.”
Impulsively, I reached my hand across the table for a cheeky handshake. “I’m Fiona Ina Múireann Mahoney. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Jorah David Roth.”
He laughed, and his eyes danced. In that instant, I forgot he’d gutted a man not half an hour before.
“The pleasure is mine.” He kissed my hand. “And, please, when we are in private, I’d rather you call me Jorah. As I’ll never profane your entire name by attempting to pronounce it.”
Did this mean we were friends?
“Jorah, then.”
Our meal was both pleasant and strange. I enjoyed myself so much, it did not occur to me until after the Hammer—Jorah—deposited me safely at Scotland Yard just what his initials were.
Jorah Roth.
JR.
18
I couldn’t tell you why I neglected to inform the Hammer about the letter in my pocket. Perhaps merely because his given name shared initials with a certain notorious sobriquet. Maybe because I could not, in good conscience, convince myself Jorah David Roth was definitively not Jack the Ripper.
And I’d had dinner with him anyhow.
Not because I was afraid to decline his invitation but because I enjoyed his company and the way he looked at me. I could confess, I spent most of my time feeling either ordinary or odd. In his presence, I was neither of those things. The Fiona I saw through his exotic eyes was not exceptional, but she was at least remarkable. She was someone worth listening to. Someone with whom he shared his own intimacies—however benign those might be.
Jorah Roth indiscriminately made love to a great many women. Still, I doubted he dined, engaging in two hours of uninterrupted conversation, with any of them.
To say I didn’t take a heady gratification in that would be a rank lie.
It wasn’t something I was proud of.
Or maybe it was.
I could ignore the tiny voice in my head whispering that the Hammer, himself, might be the author of the Ripper letter that had been delivered to me. I could reason with it. I could admonish it for being so puerile.
But I could not silence it.
The voice grew louder after the spell of Jorah’s presence no longer held me in thrall.
Inspector Aberline reacted exactly as expected when I presented the letter to him at Scotland Yard that evening. His expression never changed as he devoured the words again and again, scanning through them and then starting over. His lips blanched and compressed, disappearing behind the mustache. The letter shook in his right hand as his left fingers hunted for the comforting familiarity of his watch.
I stood in his office, patiently waiting for him to process the subtle—and not so subtle—insinuations contained in the Ripper’s words.
“What time did you say this arrived at your house?” He collapsed into his leather chair, and the springs made such a protestation, I worried about its structural fortitude.
I took his actions as an invitation to sit, as well. “Late morning. After Inspector Croft and I visited Mr. Thaddeus Comstock’s office, in hopes of ascertaining his involvement or lack thereof with these latest Whitechapel murders. I don’t know if Croft updated you on our progress, but we are convinced Comstock is the man with whom I had an altercation in Crossland Alley.”
“I’ve been so busy this afternoon with that bloody riot, I’ve not had the time to give the case a second or third thought.” He nodded his rather paternal approval. “I’m glad you had the good sense to take Croft with you.”
I didn’t correct him on those particulars. “We didn’t find him there. In fact, Comstock’s editor said he hadn’t been in the office since the day the article posted.”
“There’s a chance he could have been dropping this letter to you at the very same time you and Croft were investigating his office.”
“I suppose. But we combed through Mr. Comstock’s notes, and the writing isn’t at all similar. Croft mentioned it wasn’t difficult for a clever man to forge different handwriting. I brought this to you, hoping to ascertain if the writing matched any of the letters Scotland Yard has in its possession from the Ripper case.”
His mustache curled into a tired smile. “I was just going to suggest that very thing.” Heaving himself out of his chair, he opened the door to his office and told his clerk to fetch him the Ripper case file and letters.
I imagined that was not an uncommon request, judging by the clerk’s prompt but unenthusiastic response.
Because of my near-sightedness, Aberline’s features didn’t become distinguishable until he’d settled himself across from me again. “You said the letter came to you in the late morning. It’s nearly dusk, Miss Mahoney.” His unspoken question screamed over the desk at me.
Where have you been?
“I took a hansom here right away,” I explained. “I was caught up in the riot this afternoon.”
“Crikey!” He finally paused long enough to take in my appearance. My pelisse, hat, gloves, and spectacles had become casualties of the day. Luckily, I’d chosen a simple chignon for my hair, which had been easily salvageable. However, I was still a bit disheveled-looking, if not unkempt. “How did you survive that nightmare without getting trampled? Or worse?”
“I very nearly was,” I said. “But I ducked into a café just in time and hid there until I felt safe enough to venture out again.” I didn’t mention what café or with whom, obviously, as that would have caused both of us undue distress.
More my distress than his, but even so…
Emitting a gusty sigh, Aberline shook his head. “The entire police force rallied to put down the riot, but it seemed to be resolving itself by the time we were able to assemble. Say what you will about the Hammer and his Syndicate, but ‘is methods, while ruthless, are effective. Without him, the gangs would dissolve into the chaos of the seventies. Turf wars, human slavery, utter butchery. I am no proponent of organized crime, mind you, but many of us ‘ere at Scotland Yard fear the day the Hammer is overthrown.”
Something to think about.
“Not Croft,” I said.
Aberline snorted and returned to the Ripper letter. “Nah. Not Croft. There’s a personal element to his vendetta against the Hammer, but no one knows just what that is.”
I could confess that a part of me was glad we’d not found Comstock just yet. In his notes, he’d speculated that I’d been an associate of JR. At the time, I’d thought it a Ripper reference.
Did Comstock know the Hammer’s real name?
Did he have damning evidence regarding my association with him?
On any other day, I’d have obsessively chewed on this. But it was hard to focus on anything past the red ink on the Ripper letter right in front of us. All other concerns seemed to blur like the distinguishing features of the rest of the world without the clarity provided by my spectacles.
In times like this, one must focus on what is right in front of them. What else could be done?
“I must say, upon first glance, this letter bears a remarkable resemblance to that of the Dear Boss letter, doesn’t it?” Aberline remarked. “Neat, even script. References to his emotions as ‘fits,’ and to his murders as ‘work.’ Short, simple sentences. Could be the same author.”
“Could be someone who was privy to it.” Neither of us liked what that implicated. “What about the handwriting? Does that match?” I tried not to let my eage
rness show.
“I don’t think so, but it’ll be hard to say definitively until Watkins returns with the boxes of letters from storage. Wot’s this then?” Aberline smoothed his thumb over three roundish ripples in the paper caused by my earlier hysterical tears.
“I—must have gotten some rain on it.”
He flipped the paper over. “On the inside?” Once he glanced up, he must have read the truth on my features because his softened and then drooped with equal parts exhaustion and compassion. He knew the storm had been from my eyes, not the sky. “You’ll forgive me, Miss Mahoney. Sometimes, I forget that for all your strength and cleverness, you’re still just a woman.”
Just a woman.
When a man is weak and errs as humans tend to do, he shakes his fist to the sky. I am not a God, he rails. I’m just a man. What Aberline said to me was done in the same spirit.
I wasn’t a man. He exempted me as such. I was just a woman. The expectations of me regarding almost everything were less than his. Tertiary.
First, God made man. And then because he had to, woman, whose strength and cleverness could never entirely be relied upon, not like a man’s.
Aberline had meant it as an excuse, not a slight. As a reminder of my emotional gentility. But it rankled me still, enough for me to press my tongue between my teeth to render myself mute, lest I say something I’d later regret to a man I fondly admired.
He mistook my silence for something else. “You must be terrified to have attracted his attention after all this time.”
Must I? Was I?
In short, yes. But I could confess to a great deal of other reactions battling within me, as well. If the Ripper watched me, then he was close.
And if he was close, he could be caught.
Unless he caught me first.
Apprehensively, I licked my lips.
“Have you been drinking?” Aberline regarded me oddly.
Stunned, I squirmed in my seat like a naughty child reprimanded at primary school. “What makes you think that?” A few hours and a few heavy courses of food had all but wiped the effects of the strong wine from my hearty Irish blood. I wasn’t feeling at all drunk, though perhaps still a bit warm and relaxed.
“Your tongue is as purple as your dress,” the inspector remarked.
“I had a few glasses of wine at the café,” I confessed sheepishly. “For the nerves, you understand. Not to worry, that was some time ago.”
“Which café?” His eyes narrowed. “Did it have a license to serve alcohol in the middle of the day? Or at all?”
“You’ll excuse me if I didn’t have the wherewithal to inquire at the time,” I retorted wryly. “I was more grateful for the libation than suspicious of it.”
“Of course. Of course. It’s just…you never struck me as the drinking sort,” he mused.
“I’m not, but these were uncommon circumstances.”
He conceded with a few vigorous nods. “I’ll grant you that, Miss Mahoney. I’ll grant you that.”
“Inspector Aberline!” A stout, round-faced constable burst into the office without a cursory knock.
Astonishment drove us both to our feet.
“What is it, Johns?” Aberline asked in a voice that left the this had better be good unspoken but unmistakable.
“Another Whitechapel murder, sir. Inspector Croft sent for you.” Police Constable Johns glanced at me before muttering. “He says to prepare yourself. This one’s…right bizarre.”
Aberline was already punching his arms into his coat. “Ready a coach,” he ordered.
“Already done, sir.”
Patting different pockets of his vest, Aberline took stock of his office, conducting some sort of mental checklist. “This week has become nothing more than a constant stream of disasters interrupted by a few catastrophes.” He lifted the letter from his desk and handed it back to me. “I don’t suppose there’s any chance that you’ll stay away from this murder.”
“I’m afraid not, Inspector.” I took the letter and tucked it into my pocket.
He scrubbed a hand over his face, swiping at eyes already burdened with bags of exhaustion before opening the door for me. “After you, then.”
* * *
Ghoulston Street was not unknown to me, nor to anyone familiar with the events of the Autumn of Terror. That a gruesome murder should have occurred here seemed both macabre and apropos.
Just after the bustle of Aldgate High Street gave way to the deteriorating Whitechapel High Street, Aberline and I turned onto the ghoulishly named road. It was positioned exactly equidistant from Mitre Square, where Catherine Eddowes’ mutilated body had been left on the night of the double event, and Miller’s Court where I—we—found Mary Kelly some weeks after.
Ghoulston Street struggled to accept our coach. It was an ancient place never destined for two-way traffic. On the east side of the road, lines of filthy tenements barely fit for human habitation waited. And to the west, a long, dilapidated building once used for industry stood, now abandoned by all but every imaginable sort of vermin.
Two years before, on a frigid Sunday in September, after the double event wherein Elizabeth Stride and Catherine Eddowes had been slaughtered, a police constable discovered a scrap of an apron soaked in blood in the stairwell of a tenement on this very street. Number 108, if I remembered correctly. The remnant of material was later confirmed to have belonged to Catherine Eddowes, taken from her apron at the murder scene. Above it, a graffito had reportedly been scribed in white chalk.
I say reportedly because police Superintendent Thomas Arnold had ordered it scrubbed away before a photograph could be taken. It seemed like a right idiotic thing to do, but I believed his motives were pure. London had been plagued by riots then, as well, and they were largely anti-Semitic in nature. Three different versions of the graffito were noted by three separate investigators, who were supposed witnesses. They were as follows.
The first: The Juwes are the men that will not be blamed for nothing.
The second: The Juwes are not the men who will be blamed for nothing.
The third: The Juws are not the men to be blamed for nothing.
This is relevant because the Jews—one in particular—were under intense Ripper suspicion at the time.
John Pizer, a bootmaker by trade, had amassed a reputation for violence against prostitutes. He’d been dubbed Leather Apron, by those who knew him, and his arrest resulted in several vicious anti-Semitic demonstrations even after he’d provided an alibi.
Israel Schwartz, a Jew of Hungarian nationality, had claimed to have interrupted the attack of Elizabeth Stride, but he ran instead of helping her. Louis Diemshutz stated that he interrupted her subsequent mutilation. It is believed that the Ripper killed Catherine Eddowes out of the frustration caused by the interruptions of two separate Hebrew men.
Three schools of thought circulate about the message:
One, that yet another Jew found the bloody scrap of apron, correctly guessed its origin, and hastily scribbled the message in a poor attempt to divert suspicion from his people.
Another, that upon fleeing Eddowes’ murder scene, Jack the Ripper wrote the cryptic message to illustrate his frustration at the Jews, who’d repeatedly disrupted his work that night.
And the third, that the faded and almost illegible graffito could have adorned the stairwell of Number 108 Ghoulston Street for any number of days, and that the Ripper had discarded his blood-soaked trophy there was happenstance—thereby unrelated.
Neither Aberline, Croft, nor I had seen the message with our own eyes, but I’d visited Ghoulston Street on a few occasions. If only to stand where the Ripper might have stood, looking toward the direction of Miller’s Court whilst contemplating what the message might have meant to him.
Had he been angry with the meddlesome Jews that night? Or…had he been one himself, and struck with a benevolent protectiveness of an innocent people suffering for his perverse deeds?
It all depended on numerous fac
tors, I decided as I trundled up the filthy street with Aberline. I was still unable to make up my mind. To be honest, I’d always thought Jack a clever killer. At least literate, if not erudite. The rather crude execution of all three versions of the message never struck me as his.
I had to rethink things now.
He knew this place.
And if Croft had sent for Aberline again, then he suspected this murder might belong to the Ripper. That Jack returned here to commit a crime certainly squelched the idea that anything to do with Ghoulston Street was a coincidence.
Aberline had the door to the coach open and was stepping down before we’d even come to a complete stop. To his credit, he remembered to turn and reach in to help me disembark, as I was not far behind.
Scores of police held grimy gawkers at bay while others braved the dark unknown of the tenements in a tedious search for witnesses. Gas lamps were being lit across the city, but none could be found on Ghoulston Street.
Aberline ushered me across the gravelly yard beneath the archway of the industrial building, where we found a constable doubled over, retching up his supper.
“First dead body, is it?” Aberline kindly offered the young man a handkerchief with which to wipe his mouth.
The constable shook his head. “It in’nt my first, Inspector. But it’s by far the worst.”
We climbed the wide iron stairs abreast and in silence. Each heavy step echoed in the cavernous building where the skeletons of machines made eerie black shadows in what remained of the late-evening light.
At the top of the stairs, we found Croft alone, standing as sentinel to what appeared to be a foreman’s office wrapped in purposely clouded glass windows.
The inspector didn’t seem angry to see me. He didn’t even seem surprised. In fact, he didn’t acknowledge my presence at all.
“This building is slated for demolition tomorrow,” he rumbled to Aberline. “He’d not have been found, otherwise.”
“He?” I echoed, my fingers suddenly numb with cold.
“Comstock. I’ve not whispered the word Ripper to anyone, but he’s done in Comstock as an act of retribution. He made that perfectly clear.” The look he sent me held a hint of accusation I didn’t at all understand.
The Business of Blood Page 21
