Page 72 of Secrets in the Dark
He glanced at Della. He was thinking about Abigail Scott, she knew. They needed to speak with her because she was surely out there every night as well, ready to give them any information possible.
And they needed her.
“Whoa! Interesting late entry into the ever-widening historical pool of suspects!” Sean said, looking from the computer to the faces of those around him. “H.H. Holmes, AKA Herman Webster Mudgett, considered by many to be America’s first serial killer, though, of course, in our line of work, I’m going to consider him to be America’s firstknownserial killer. There are a couple theories here on his involvement. Okay, seems like he might have been in London at the time of the killing. But!”
He paused for dramatic effect and Della picked up the story.
“H.H. Holmes planned his murders meticulously. He would befriend people—and be their friend for years—before killing them for what he probably saw as necessary financial gain. He designed his Chicago hotel ahead of the World’s Fair in 1893 with all manner of conveniences to murder his guests—and get rid of the bodies. He hired and fired workmen—a few who might have disappeared—so that no one besides himself would know what lay in certain areas of the basement, behind walls, and down hallways. That’s what many believe to be the major difference—Holmes was anorganizedkiller while profilers today consider the original Jack to have been disorganized. There is also the manner of murder—Holmes didn’t care if he had to hurt people before their demise, but torture wasn’t part of his motivation. He was most frequently motivated by money. Nor did he seem to practice overkill—he just needed to get rid of bodies. There was something truly deranged in the Ripper’s mind. His need to rip up bodies and slash through organs—including sex organs—was truly pathological.”
“But!” Sean said again, glancing at Della and waiting to see if she wanted to go further.
“You take it away, Sean!” she said.
“Some suspect that H.H. Holmes had an assistant with him, a man who helped with his various schemes, and one hetrained—à la our vampire killer, Stephan Dante—to kill, encouraging a man with all necessary tendencies for truly brutal murder.”
“Ah, dear friends!” François said suddenly, glancing at his phone. “Dinner is at the door!”
The doorbell rang as he spoke. Mason and Edmund nodded at one another and headed to the door together.
They accepted the packages from the deliveryman.
And carefully locked the door and reset the alarm.
That night they’d opted for roast and potatoes, both of which were excellent. Edmund explained that England, like so many other places, had embraced the concept of meal delivery. Contact could be completely limited when a meal was left at the door. They had gotten very good at getting food out that was good and even hot when it arrived.
As they ate, they continued to muse on the possible suspects from the past. When they had finished, everyone dealt with the clean up and soon they were done.
“Della and I will head to Daphne’s—where the movie crowd hangs out,” Mason said, looking at Edmund. “And if it’s all right with you, Sean, you’ll join us?”
“We’ll take the Red Rose and the streets,” Edmund said. He stared at Mason for a minute and then shook his head. “It’s too bad we can’t take Stacey with us—she might see something we miss. It’s aggravating to realize that he could be walking down the street a half a block away—and we might not recognize him because he’s changed so completely.”
“Maybe we’ll run into Stacey at Daphne’s pub,” Della said. “And maybe...”
“That crowd does like Daphne’s so you might well run into Stacey and a whole group from the movie production crew. But—maybe what else?” Edmund asked her.
“Maybe we’ll spend another evening out to no end whatsoever, but I don’t see anything else we can do that would even give us a chance.”
“And that is the truth, and there is always the chance that we will be successful,” Mason said. “So, hey, one good thing—we’re trying lots of fine English pints!”
“The best,” Edmund assured him.
Stepping out front, Mason noticed that what he considered to be a typical London fog was settling gently into the air.
Once past the porch, they split up, walking in different directions. Della and Sean fell into step with Mason.
Della was quiet and Mason glanced her way, asking, “What is it?”
She glanced at him, smiling. “I was thinking that I’m glad that the pubs close comparatively early. We could be in Key West or New Orleans or somewhere where they never close. Hey, we usually get to go to sleep by about one thirty.”
“The staid English, you know,” Sean said lightly, shrugging.
They reached Daphne’s and for a moment, Mason stood still, looking. The building was old and had probably been there a couple hundred of years.
Definitely during the Ripper’s day. The facade didn’t appear to have been updated in years. It was a warm wooden building with a heavy old entry. There were outside tables, but they couldn’t have offered easy access for the waitstaff because they’d need to come in and out of the heavy doors after taking orders and with heavy trays filled with pint glasses.
A waitress excused herself as Mason opened the door; he held it for her before they entered.
Mason quickly decided that heavy doors didn’t matter—the bar area and the tables were filled, and at the bar, friends without seats stood to talk with those who did. There was chatter and laughter against the music—rock played at a thoughtful level so that customers could hear one another speak.
