Chapter Five

John Lachley laid a sheet of blotter paper gently across the glistening, blood-red ink of the missive he'd just finished, then held the newly penned letter up to the light to read it again, judging the effect. It hadn't been easy, writing in the style of Maybrick's disjointed ramblings. He'd worked very hard to sprinkle the man's irritating Americanisms into the language. But he was proud of the results.

"Dear Boss..." the letter began.

I keep on hearing the police have caught me but they wont fix me just yet. I have laughed when they look so clever and talk about being on the right track. That joke about Leather Apron gave me real fits. I am down on whores and I shant quit ripping them till I do get buckled. Grand work the last job was. I gave the lady no time to squeal. How can they catch me now. I love my work and want to start again. You will soon hear of me with my funny little games. I saved some of the proper red stuff in a ginger beer bottle over the last job to write with but it went thick like glue and I cant use it. Red ink is fit enough I hope ha. ha. The next job I do I shall clip the ladys ears off and send to the police officers just for jolly wouldn't you. Keep this letter back till I do a bit more wo7rk, then give it out straight. My knife's so nice and sharp I want to get to work right away if I get a chance. Good luck. Yours truly, Jack the Ripper

Dont mind me giving the trade name.

P.S. Wasn't good enough to post this before I got all the red ink off my hands curse it No luck yet. They say I'm a doctor now. ha ha

John Lachley dated the letter September 25th and blew the final line of red ink dry, then chuckled to himself. He'd instructed Maybrick to bring his diary to London during his last visit, and had read the depraved drivel scrawled in it with avid curiosity. He'd copied the madman's way of writing, including his insane insertions of the words ha ha and other underscored phrases here and there. When Maybrick's diary was discovered in Liverpool, this letter would help to hang him.

Perhaps he'd write out a few more letters and cards, drop them in the post over the next few days? After all, once he'd recovered Eddy's wayward missives from Stride and Eddowes, he would no longer need Maybrick for anything save a weight at the end of a gallows rope. He grinned down at the bloody signature line, intensely proud of the appellation he'd thought up. Jack the Ripper... Poor James, who referred to himself in his diary as Sir Jim. He'd protest innocence of writing this all the way to the drop. Yes, Lachley smiled, he would write out a few more letters, perhaps scrawl one or two across a newspaper article, something with the word Liverpool in it...

A tap at the study door roused him from delightful musings. He hastily slid the letter into his desk drawer and locked it. "Yes? Come!"

His manservant bowed in the doorway. "You asked to be notified when your patient woke, sir."

"Ah, yes, thank you, Charles. I'll see the young lady directly."

"Very good, sir."

Lachley climbed the stairs while planning where to send his traitorous little missive. The editor of the Daily News, perhaps, a respectable newspaper with a large circulation and a keen appetite to solve the mystery of the Whitechapel Murderer. Or maybe the Central News Agency. He wished he might see the face of the editor when that letter landed on the gentleman's desk. Chuckling at his own joke, Lachley entered the room of his comely young captive.

"Good afternoon, dear lady!"

The girl was awake, listless from the effects of the drugs he fed her daily. A spark of terror flared in her eyes as he sat beside the bed. He took her hand, felt the chill of her fingers. "Now, then. Let us chat, Miss Ianira."

A shudder, very faint, ran through her.

He patted her hand. "I have seen what you are capable of, my dear. I intend to make excellent use of your skill." He brushed hair back from her brow, stroked her ashen skin. "How pale you are, today. Come now, you must surely see the advantages of a connection with me? I can give you all of London, all of Britain's power and wealth." He stroked her hand again. "I've obtained the license, you know. Special dispensation." He chuckled. "Knowing Eddy really is such a tremendous help. It isn't easy, getting a special license from the dear old C of E. Clergy are such ruddy sticklers for details. However," he smiled brightly, "you will soon be Mrs. John Lachley and I will strew pearls of gratitude at your feet."

A choked sound escaped pale lips. "No..."

He frowned. "No? Of course you shall marry me, dear girl. I cannot have you living under my roof, unmarried. People will talk and talk is one thing I cannot afford."

She was struggling to speak. "My husband... children..."

Astonishment swept through him. "Married? You are married?" Then he began to laugh. "Widowed, you mean. I shot your dear husband dead in the street. Put a bullet into his head."

She strained away from him, dark eyes wide with revulsion. "No! Not Jenna... Marcus."

Lachley frowned again. "The man I shot was not your husband?"

The girl lay trembling, tears sliding down her face. She had given him only one name to call her by, despite the drugs he'd fed her, refusing against all efforts he'd made thus far to reveal her full name.

"What is your husband's surname, girl?"

She shook her head. "What... what is a surname?"

"A last name!" he snapped, growing impatient. "Dammit, I know they use surnames even in Greece!"

"Not Greek..." she whispered. "Poor Marcus, sold in Rome... He'll be frantic..."

She was babbling again, raving out of her head. He gripped her wrists, shook her. "Tell me your last name, girl!"

"Cassondra!" she shrieked the word at him, fighting his hold on her. "I am Ianira, Cassondra of Ephesus!"

"Talk sense! There is no city of Ephesus, just a ruin buried only the ancients know where! How did you come to London?"

"Through the gate..."

They were back to that again. The sodding gate, whatever the deuce that was. She babbled about it every time he questioned her. Lachley changed his line of attack. "Tell me about the letters. Eddy's letters."

Her eyes closed over a look of utter horror. "Lady, help me..."

Losing patience, Lachley poured the drug down her throat, waiting for it to take effect, then put her into a deep trance. She lay without moving, scarcely even breathing beneath the coverlet he straightened over her. "Now, then," he said gently, "tell me about the letters."

Her lips moved. A bare whisper of sound escaped her. "Eight letters..."

"Tell me about the eight letters. Who has them?"

"Morgan... down in the vaulted room with the tree and the flame that always burns..." A shudder tore through her despite the grip of the strong medication. "Polly is dead... and poor Annie, who could scarcely breathe... Stride carries Eddy's words beneath the knife... Kate fears the letter in her pocket, picks hops in the countryside, afraid to touch it... and the pretty girl in Miller's Court, she'll die cut into pieces, poor child, for a letter she learned to read in Cardiff..."

"What girl in Miller's Court?"

Ianira's eyes had closed, however, so deep in the grip of the drug that no amount of slapping would rouse her. Lachley paced the bedroom in agitation. What girl in Miller's Court? Annie Chapman hadn't mentioned any such person! He narrowed his eyes, thinking back to that last conversation with the doomed prostitute. They'd been interrupted, he recalled, just as she'd been telling him who she'd sold the letters to, mentioning Elizabeth Stride and Catharine Eddowes. He'd thought she was finished, after giving those two names, but wondered now if perhaps that interruption had kept him from learning the name of a third person in possession of Eddy's incriminating letters?