Page 70 of When We Touch

“It doesn’t matter what I believe. Sir William is beloved of the Queen, as was Charles. There will be an autopsy.”

Jamie walked out. She heard the sounds of his footsteps receding.

She rose and fled back to her room. A few moments later, Fiona arrived with a tray of tea and toast. She thanked her, certain she couldn’t begin to eat a bite.

But the tea she wanted.

She realized how badly her hands were still shaking when she poured. Fiona had arranged her tray very attractively, with flowers and the morning newspaper.

She glanced at the headlines and started shaking all over again.

“Another Murder in Whitechapel!” glared the front page of the paper.

Of course, the murder in the daily paper had nothing to do with the death of the dearly beloved and esteemed Lord Charles. And still . . .

Maggie stared at the word and started to laugh, and then she started to cry, and it seemed that hours passed in which she endured her own private hell of denial and . . .

Guilt.

After a while, she cried herself out and sat numbly once again. She paced, thoughts racing through her mind at a terrifying speed, then leaving it empty and cold.

At last, ready to tear her hair out, she picked up the newspaper.

Horrible murder of a woman, another Whitechapel mystery.

Maggie found herself reading the appalling description of the murder.

. . . lying in a pool of blood . . . throat cut from ear to ear . . . the lower part of the abdomen was completely ripped open and the bowels were protruding . . .

She set the paper down, feeling a sense of terrible despair. The woman’s name, she noted, had been Annie Chapman. She had been discovered in the early morning hours of the previous day, in the backyard of number 29, Hanbury Street. A poor prostitute, her death was of note because of the ghastly mutilations done to her body—similar to those of the woman named Mary Ann, known as Polly Nichols just nine days earlier on the night of August thirty-first.

The article went on to describe the mutilations done to the body in gory detail, and then to talk about the life of the woman slain. She was among the worst of the “unfortunates” working London’s East End. Aged forty-two, missing teeth, she had been turned away from a doss house the night before, lacking the money for a bed. She had been “in a state of deep drink,” and had told friends and whoever would listen that she had earned her doss money three times that day, but had spent it, yet she would make it again.

Poor Annie. The woman had taken pride in one of her garments, a new straw bonnet, trimmed with black velvet. She’d been the mother of five, but hadn’t seen the children in years, nor her husband, William Nichols, who had ceased to pay her six shillings allowance because she had begun to live the life of a prostitute.

So much for the victim.

The article went on to lambast the police, society, and even the Queen. It declared that there was a madman loose on the streets, and that he had now struck twice, if he hadn’t also perpetuated previous killings. Because a leather apron had been found near the body, the killer was now being referred to as Leather Apron.

Once again, the article went on to talk about the deceased. She had held a domestic position in Wandsworth but had absconded with several pounds sterling worth of clothing, which she had probably pawned.

The article, though condemning of both London itself and the woman, brought nothing but a terrible sadness to Maggie’s heart. She already knew far more than any article could bring to light about the East End.

Murder in the East End. Never really noted—until now. Now that the bodies of the victims were being so brutally torn assunder.

Maggie stood, thinking that by tomorrow morning, news of the death of Lord Charles, Viscount Langdon, would be in every paper around the country. And what would those articles say? Tragically, he was murdered by the woman he adored, a young thing, desperate for money, marrying him thus, just the same as any East End prostitute, just demanding much more in the way of payment!

God, no!

She hoped the articles would state that he had died from heart failure, and not give details.

No, the details would await the autopsy.

She had done nothing to him, and she knew it. The autopsy would prove it.

A shiver of ice crept down her spine.

Dead was dead. The prostitute was dead, and Charles was dead. She had done nothing to him, and yet she felt the heavy burden of guilt.