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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 pe
"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 fu
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 gri
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 pla
"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 co
A choked sound escaped pale lips. "No..."
He frowned. "No? Of course you shall marry me, dear girl. I ca
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 Je
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 A
"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? A