Page 115 of When We Touch

John lowered his voice. “Ye’ve not heard the name, Jeremiah Heath?”

“Why, I have heard the name. Flossy, you were with me . . . there was a woman buying a bit of gin earlier . . . remember? She was telling her companion that she would swear by the man!”

Maggie roused herself, looking at Cecilia and Mireau. “Perhaps . . . dear God! Perhaps this man is real.” She slumped back down. “But we’ve no room to have the chap!”

“All right, all right, listen!” John said. “I happen to know where ’e’s going to be, this very night.”

Mireau groaned this time. “You’re going to spend the rest of what we’ve left!”

“Bah! There is a pension!” Cecilia said.

Her friend was wild, but she did have a touch of genius, Maggie decided. Cecilia should never have had status and position. She should have gone on the stage, traveled to America, and had wild affairs all her life, and be acceptable as outrageous because she was an actress!

“If it will help Auntie!” she said, pleading as she looked at Mireau.

“This man is not a fake—you swear it?” he demanded of the man.

John raised a hand. “By me poor mother’s grave, I swear it!”

“But how do we reach this man . . . Will the people let us in?”

“Aye, it’s at the home of a cigarette maker, a modest man. He’ll be glad to have ye—hoping, of course, that ye can help out a bit?”

“What have we got on us?” Maggie asked weakly, pulling away from Cecilia’s shoulder.

“About seven pounds sterling,” Mireau whispered.

“Seven pounds sterling!” John said. “Near wot those fellows, Burke and Hare, got for the bodies they snatched, eh?”

The four of them stared at him dumbly and he quickly said, “Sorry, it was the amount ye said! Ah, now, now, don’t be worrying none! We’ll see that Auntie leaves happy as a clam. Wot was her good man’s name, did ye say? Frank, was it? Hanbury Street, then, the big white house with the broken stone wall in front. Be there . . . well, soon. It’s getting late.”

He stood then and left them.

“Seven pounds sterling!” Cecilia swore to Mireau. “That’s a fortune in these parts. We’ll be set upon by thugs before we get there!”

Maggie shook her head. “I don’t think so. I think they’re going to be after the pension. Remember, whatever they do tonight, we believe. We have to find out if Arianna is with them!”

Mireau finished his gin and shuddered. “We’d best get going. The hour is growing very late. We’re already past midnight, the ‘haunting’ hour!”

* * *

Sounds of music still rose above the screams and shouts beginning to fill the night. A working-men’s educational club took residence in one of the houses, and apparently, all those carousing that night had not yet realized that just beyond their lively talk and dance, a woman had been murdered.

There was mass confusion on the scene when Jamie arrived. By trying to talk to the individuals around, he discovered that a fellow named Louis Diemschutz—who was a tinker of costume jewelry as well as steward of the club—had brought his cart along the street and into the court, and his pony had shied. He’d investigated the large mass in the shadows, and discovered it to be a woman. And even with the atmosphere of death pervading the streets, he had at first assumed her to be drunk. He’d gone into the club for a candle, a few men had come out with him, and they tried to lift her.

Then they’d found the blood. And the police had been summoned. They were then trying to gain control of the streets, and creating a great deal of resentment as they went into the club, searching it for clues, and questioning the men. As Jamie listened to the explanation, he saw Dr. Bagster Phillips, police surgeon, arrive.

Jamie, milling with the crowd, noted the blood running to the door of the club, but it had sluiced down the cobblestones, and it was apparent that the murderer had not entered the door—footprints would have remained. He was certain as well that the murderer did not remain in the vicinity. Though the body might have been warm when discovered, Jamie would bet that the fellow was now long gone.

By then, a number of constables had been summoned. It was difficult to get close to the body, but he wedged his way as near as he might. Near enough to hear Bagster talking to one of the policemen.

This woman’s throat had been slashed, ear to ear.

But she’d not been mutilated.

Jamie stood where he was for several long seconds, listening. One of the constables started to come toward him, ready to investigate him, to demand to see his hands, and check his clothing for blood. But luckily, it was a fellow named Quinn Hardaway, an officer he’d met once awaiting Maggie by St. Mary’s. He looked at him with a curious frown for a moment, then nodded his way, and moved on.

As he stood then, with the melee going on around him, the curious now jostling with those being questioned and searched, he had a sudden uneasy thought.