Page 128 of When We Touch

“Perhaps not. We may never know. They were erased.”

“And yet, what does it matter! Every Tom, Dick, and Harry on the streets knows exactly what was written! Just as they know the truly wretched and ghastly details of what was done to the one poor woman. Jamie, this lunatic must be stopped.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Get back out there, and don’t fail me. You uncle would not fail me.”

He lowered his head for a moment. No, Charles had never failed her. But here she was, expecting him to go out and accomplish what hundreds of trained police had not managed to do. The only real encouragement in his mind was the fact that she was probably planning on having this exact same conversation with many of the lords and sirs and gentlemen of the realm that day.

By the time he left the grandeur of the palace, the afternoon was already waning toward the evening.

Newspaper boys were on the streets, everywhere, hawking, and selling their papers.

“Murder! Murder most foul.”

“Murder! Gruesome murder!”

“Murder! Jack the Ripper strikes again. And again!”

“War on Warren.”

“Is the monarchy dead as well!”

He bought the papers, all of them, thinking that he had a fine project for Mireau at last. What was written could form opinion. Opinion could be fought with the pen, as well as with angry words and fists.

He returned to the carriage, pausing on the street, then looked at his coachman.

“Home to change?” Randolph called to him.

“No. I’d speak with Abberline first. To the station, Randolph, please. You can just bring me some clothing to change into. I’m feeling a strange urge to get to Whitechapel as soon as possible. Have you ever had a strange feeling like that, Randolph? That you just need to be somewhere—and it’s quite urgent . . . except that . . . ?”

“Except that what, my lord?”

“Except that you really have no idea just exactly where it is that you’re supposed to be.”

“Well, my lord—”

“It doesn’t matter, Randolph. I’m running around blindly in the dark. But get me to Whitechapel, and I’ll . . . I’ll just walk in the dark until I find out what it is exactly that I’m looking for, and why . . .”

“Why?”

“Why I feel so desperate,” Jamie said grimly.

Chapter 17

Maggie wrote the last of her notes, sealed the envelopes with her signet ring and wax, and looked at Mireau. Cecilia was due any minute.

“Well? Have I missed anything?” she asked.

“ No.”

“Then why are you staring at me so?”

“Someone has to be brought into it. What if we are able to drug all these people, and carry Arianna out of the house into the street, and there is no one there to meet us? No one to get us out quickly, no one to go in for the culprits?”

“I’ve written a note to the police, as well, suggesting that they might catch the Ripper on the street, right at two o’clock A.M.”

“And what if Jeremiah Heath is late, as he was last night.”