Page 95 of When We Touch

“And that would be a loss to the poor babe?” the woman said. “And the child was not mine, she was actually Annie’s, but Annie has now escaped to the North, and she hasn’t even sent word to me, she’s so terrified. So that is it, you see; we must all part, and pray for one another. But the babe, if she is kept here . . . she will die.”

Mireau stood outside the door, rigid with shock. So it was true. Prince Eddy had gotten involved with a Catholic shop girl. He had gone through some kind of a sham wedding with her. She had apparently escaped the city, fearing repercussions not so much from the Crown itself, but from those who might not realize that a scandalous truth might be better than a supposition of evil. And now, Maggie was going to become involved.

A second later, the pretty young prostitute came through the door. Mireau flattened himself against the wall and waited until she was gone.

He burst in on Maggie. “And what, pray tell, are we going to do with a baby?”

“Save it,” she said simply.

* * *

Jamie met frustration at every turn. Mrs. Whitley told him that the lady Maggie never chose to disclose her whereabouts to her, and suggested that he talk to her ladyship’s personal maid, Fiona. However, Fiona wasn’t to be found, and neither was Arianna. He didn’t know whether or not to be glad that Arianna was no longer moping in her room, or to worry about her equally.

Darby said that he had taken the lady to her home in Mayfair, and then been dismissed.

No one was at Mayfair but Clayton, who said that neither Lord Justin nor the lady Maggie was about. Justin had headed to the government buildings quite early, and Maggie and Mireau had talked about a poetry reading.

From there, he had Randolph take him to the church, where Father Vickers said that indeed, Maggie had been there, but was no longer. Unable to outguess her, he forced himself to swallow his fear, and look for an old friend on the force, Constable Harry Bartley.

He found Bartley at the Bow Street station, and since the man had been working around the clock, he was exceptionally pleased to see Jamie, and eager to have a coffee with him. He was equally eager to leave the area, and so they went into a little place in the square mile that actually constituted the City of London. And there, Bartley reminded him of some of the problems facing their desperate search. “Politics!” Bartley told him, and lowered his voice, leaning over his coffee cup. “There’s the City of London, and then there are the Metropolitan Police. The murders have taken place outside the city, and so they fall in the district of the Met fellows. Sir Charles Warren is commissioner, and a fine man, but always wanting to be independent. He fights with Henry Matthews, the home secretary, constantly, and both want to be in control! Now, to complicate it all further, Warren also quarrels with James Monro, head of the CID, or Criminal Investigation Division. Then, there’s the ages-old rivalry with the City Police. There’s another can of worms. The commissioner of the City Police, you know, is Sir James Fraser, but he’s almost retired, always out of town, and so in the city, it’s Lieutenant Colonel Sir Henry Smith in charge, and he’s the assistant commissioner. Now, you see, the City Police don’t have to answer to the home secretary, just the Corporation of the City of London. Sir Henry is determined on catching the bloke, though the murders have not occurred in his territory. Now, actually in charge of the investigation is Detective Inspector Frederick Aberline. You know him?”

“He’s a good fellow,” Jamie said. “The area of Whitechapel and Bethnal Green was his ground for many years, then he was transferred to Scotland Yard—but sent back to head up this investigation because of his experience with the area.”

“Aberline is a good fellow, and I can think of no one better for the job. He’s just got so very much red tape to get through. The politics of it all, like I said. There’s a storm brewing on the streets, and I’ve not seen anything like it in all my days. But do you think that they’d all put their differences aside in such a desperate situation? Bah, and they do not, and there you have it!”

“Anger is growing against Sir Charles Warren,” Jamie commented.

“Aye, and that’s a fact. Anger is growing against us all, and likely, it will come far worse. There’s a letter that’s come in—well, there’re thousands of letters that have come in—but this one has got the boys at the top squeamish. The fellow wrote to ‘Dear Boss.’ Said that he was ‘down on whores’ and wouldn’t quit ‘ripping’ them till he was caught. He’d wanted to write his letter in blood from his last victim, but it dried up. He says that the next job, he’s going to clip off the lady’s ears and send them to the police officers—just for ‘jollies.’ And he signed it ‘Jack the Ripper.’ ”

“A name to send a chill down the spine, indeed,” Jamie said. “Do you think that the letter is a hoax? There have been so many others.”

Bartley grimaced. “Um. There was one recently, must ’ave come from a big fan of Edgar Allan Poe, reading about the Murders in the Rue Morgue. He suggests that there’s a giant ape out there, committing the murders! Trust me, everyone has a theory, and a suggestion. We are dressing some fellows up as prostitutes, sending them out on the streets. Some think all the prostitutes should be fitted with mechanisms in which some kind of trap would spring shut once they were grabbed! Others claim it’s an American killer, a Chinese killer, a Buddhist, an Indian Thuggee out for revenge, a Jew, a Polack—and, of course, a rich man who might have gotten a disease from his play with a prostitute of low class. Then, you know, there were the ritualistic aspects of it. When Annie Chapman was found in the yard, she wasn’t just mutilated. She was . . . arranged. A few cheap rings, some pennies, and two new farthings were neatly laid at her feet. A wee bit of muslin, a paper case, and a comb were aligned by the body as well. So . . . is this madman a religious freak? A Satanist? A totally sane man, with a particular agenda in mind, playing with us all? God knows. I just walk the streets now, trying to keep the ladies of the night from getting their throats slit, even those filled with gin and ready to spit in my face, calling me a big cock and all other names!”

“If there’s anything you think I should know, you’ll get in touch with me?” Jamie said.

Bartley nodded. “Eh! I hear we’re nearly related, in a fashion, now.”

“Oh?”

“Nathan Lane was my cousin. Married to Lady Maggie Graham, who recently was wed to and widowed by your uncle, Charles. Pardon me! I’d forgotten you’re not just a ‘sir’ anymore! You’re Lord James Langdon.”

“And not a hair on me has changed a bit, Bartley. So, then, you’re acquainted with Lady Maggie?”

“A true angel!” Bartley said, his smile wistful. “Heard she almost caused a riot the other day.”

“I’m not surprised.”

“She came to the church without food, and decided to give out money. She and her friend were nearly trampled.”

So Maggie was an angel. She’d be living in heaven all right, if she didn’t change her ways.

“Ah, but the people here love her!” Bartley said.

“The problem as I see it is that individuals do give, while the government itself has not determined on a way to deal with the overcrowding and starvation,” Jamie pointed out.

“Oh, people give money. But Maggie comes here, you see. No matter what her title, her station in life, she walks among the people. She ignores the stench. She risks disease. She talks with them, and can be seen, and touched. That makes her an angel.”

Bartley’s awe was irritating, and Jamie, to his shame, knew why. His uncle was barely cold. And all he could do was dream about being with his beloved kinsman’s widow himself. Being with her, alone. In shadow or light, alone together, tangled in the sheets.