Page 129 of When We Touch

“We’ll have this managed by two o’clock!” Maggie said. “If he’s late, we simply get Arianna out, and then worry about the man himself at a later date.”

“Have you any more arguments?”

“Yes. We need someone to know.”

There was a knock at the library door. Maggie rose and walked to it. “Lord and Lady de Burgh,” Mrs. Whitley announced, her tone showing her disapproval.

“Lord and Lady?” Maggie said.

“Thank you so much, dear woman!” Cecilia said, sweeping in behind Eustace, and closing the door on Mrs. Whitley.

Maggie and Mireau stared at Cecilia blankly.

“Um . . . Eustace. How are you?”

He smiled, a very handsome-looking rake. “Maggie!” He kissed both her cheeks, and she tried a weak smile, but stared at Cecilia with reproach. What were they going to do? Eustace could not accompany them! In their cover, Cecilia—“Sissy”—was married to Mireau!

“Don’t look so panicked,” Eustace told her. “I know what is going on. Cecilia wisely came to me. And if all else fails, I will be in the street.” She looked at him doubtfully.

“Maggie, I may be what many consider deviant in my thirst for pleasure and entertainment, but I’m a fair man with both pistols and daggers. I, like most others of my station, have served in the Queen’s army.”

“Eustace, I’m sorry. Forgive me. You all gave me quite a start.”

“We should get going with our disguises,” Cecilia said.

“After we leave, he’ll bring the letters I’ve written to Father Vickers, Justin, Jamie, and the police.”

“All right, then, let’s get going,” Cecilia said. “Is your girl coming? Fiona?”

Maggie shook her head. “I’m afraid that someone will recognize her from having been with Arianna at an earlier time.”

“All right, then . . . you’ve brought your bottle of brandy?”

“Oh, yes, we’re quite prepared.”

“Then, come on, Auntie! Time for me to make you into an old crone!”

* * *

Detective Inspector Abberline had aged ten years in a month, Jamie noted. The man was so harried that Jamie was surprised he agreed to take time to see him, but then, he’d had no sleep and taken little time for food. Even a man as pressed as he had to take a few moments.

“The people are crying out in fury,” Abberline told him with a sigh. “And it’s not that I blame them. They believe that the East End fiend has now struck six times. I don’t. I believe that this lunatic has now killed four. I need every man, but the forces are now called upon to keep order in the parks, where citizens are gathering to protest Warren, to mock the police, and generally, cause disturbances when we need order more than ever!”

“What did you think of the writing on the wall?” Jamie asked him.

Abberline was quiet for a moment, stroking his chin. “Already, I have heard every theory and supposition out there. ‘It is a cover-up!’ ‘Someone in a high place is being protected!’ ‘The killer is an educated man.’ ‘It is a well-known and respected doctor.’ ‘It’s Prince Eddy, it’s one of his servants, it’s a cover-up!’ ‘It’s a reprehensible Bohemian artist seeking the truth of human suffering for his work.’ Or, ‘It’s the anarchists, trying to make sure that the world sees the sorrow and degradation of the East End, and thus, the great Empire, and the monarchy, would fall.’ I’ve heard them all, Lord Langdon. Frankly, I think they’re all wrong.”

“What do you think?”

“I think that people are in horror, and reaching, and that they actually want such an answer to such a terrible puzzle. Perhaps they’re even trying to romanticize what is happening. My opinion? Perhaps this man has some kind of an education. I don’t think he needs to have had medical training, though he surely knows something about animal butchery, through hunting, perhaps, or through his work at a butcher’s . . . such knowledge would not be difficult to come by. Perhaps he’s even had a copy of Gray’s Anatomy! In the end, this killer will prove to have a name we’ve never heard before; he will be extremely sick, mentally, and perhaps have the ability to appear almost normal at other times. Perhaps he is a petty criminal. I don’t think we’ll ever discover that it was a great artist, a nobleman, or a doctor. Just a madman as sad in his life as his victims were in theirs. If you walk these streets long enough, it becomes difficult to weed the sane men from the lunatics. And God help us, all we have to do is chase any petty thief these days, and a crowd rushes forward, ready to lynch him as Jack the Ripper! And, my God! You cannot begin to imagine the letters we have received from families, rich and poor, convinced that one of their kinsmen is Jack the Ripper.” He shook his head. “The coroners talk about the evidence, and how the police are failing. The evidence! Look for a man covered in blood? Do you know how many men work for the slaughterhouses, or work for butchers? A live chicken does not last long in these parts; indeed, one woman had blood on her hands the other day—she had slaughtered a rat for a meal! Ah, we read every letter, and there are hundreds . . . thousands. We look for every clue. We follow up on leads. We listen to people rant and rave about royal conspiracies. And we are no closer to catching this man. Indeed, we’ve brought in a few lunatics, and we can have them committed—and pray that the killing stops. But we’ve no proof against anyone. Oh—among those lunatics? I think we’ve had a good ten confessions, but all are false. Witnesses knew where the men were at the time of the killings!”

“Where do you go from here?”

“Back to the streets,” Abberline told him.

“I’ll be around,” Jamie said. “If there’s anything you think that I can do . . . ?”

“I’ll ask. And if there’s anything I can tell you, I’ll see that you’re notified.”