Page 81 of The Business of Blood
JR.
18
Icouldn’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 definitivelynotJack 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.
