Page 98 of If Looks Could Kill
Her musical laughter bounced off the ceiling. “You be sure and come back, young lady.”
Jack’s Coffee(Monday, December 3, 1888)
Jack has lain in bed for some time, disturbed by the hammer blows of workmen next door. But now footsteps mount the stairs, the kind made by pointy shoes and rustling skirts, then knuckles knock on the door to his room. The upstairs maid doesn’t wait, but unlocks and opens his door.
Jack scrambles back in his bed until he’s seated upright. He pulls a house-coat over him, ready to harangue the servant. The woman backs her way in rump-first, clutching a tray. It’s Mrs. McNamara, his gray-haired landlady, bearing coffee and buttered bread.
“It’s past noon,” she informs him. “Decent people are up and doing by now. If your coffee’s gone cold, that’s hardly my fault.”
“What’s this?” Jack’s voice is gravelly with sleep. “Can’t a guest have privacy here?”
She sets the tray on his bedside table. “Well, that depends, don’t it? On who’s the guest?”
She’s got that disapproving schoolmarmish look he so detests on withered, older women, the look that yanks you back to powerless adolescence no matter how tall or wealthy you are. The types who, unfortunately, tendto run boardinghouses. His symptoms are abysmal this morning; he’s swollen and exhausted and itchy, and in no mood for ill-tempered females.
“What do you mean?”
She folds her arms across her chest. “I’ve just lost both my servants because of you,” she informs him, “and my three other lodgers.”
“I’m sorry,” he sneers. “Did I snore?”
“When you told me you’d pay extra for me to keep visitors out of the house,” she says, “I had no idea what reason you’d have for wishing others to leave you alone,” she said. “Police detectivesespecially.”
She says “police detectives” as though this should strike terror into his heart.
“My upstairs maid and my kitchen help got to gossiping with the man outside,” she goes on. “Turns out a whole bunch of people, including the London police, think you might be the Whitechapel fiend himself.”
Well, of course, he knew this must happen, but still, it’s an infernal nuisance. He helps himself to a slab of bread and takes a hearty bite. The butter is rancid. “I’m surprised you dared confront me about it, if that’s who I’m rumored to be.” He might as well have his fun. “Especially seeing as how you’re now alone with me.”
A heavier tread sounds in the hall, and a large man dressed in laborers’ clothes appears in the doorway. The husband. He wears a pistol conspicuously jammed in a holster at his hip.
Jack reaches for coffee. The bread has gone dry in his throat.
“Allow me to explain,” he says. “As I told you before, I’m a doctor. A world-famous physician. I’ve been traveling in Great Britain.” He leans in confidingly. “The London papers are seized with the notion that the Whitechapel killer must be an American doctor.” He takes a sip of coffee. “Everyone over there who seemed American or carried a medical kit was subject to the most infernal persecution. A regular roundup.”
Mr. and Mrs. McNamara exchange a look.
“It’s cold,” Jack says conversationally. “Won’t you build up the fire? Add some coal?”
The landlady’s expression says he can get his own coal if he’s so particular.
“Hard to find good help,” she says. “I had two good workers. Don’t know how I’ll replace them. These lazy immigrant girls won’t do what they’re told.”
He sighs and reaches for his wallet, then pulls out a bill. He offers it to her, and she takes it as though she wouldn’t, on principle, but to please him, fine.
“But what’s even harder to hold on to,” she says, “is your reputation as a decent establishment.” She shakes her head sadly. “Those guests, leaving too soon. Broke my heart.”
He adds another bill. She tucks the money into her blouse, then clicks her way out the door.
The stolid husband gives Jack another appraising look and furrows his brow.
“What?”snaps Jack. Unwisely, given the pistol.
“If your only crime is being an American doctor,” the husband says slowly, on his way out the door, “why’d they send a detective over to follow you?”
“The British are jackasses.” Every red-blooded American should enjoy hearing that.
Jack chews the bread and swills it down with coffee. He places his feet on the cold floor, thinks better of it, and tucks them back under the blankets.
