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When Skeeter reached the Neo Edo Hotel, he found Kit in his palatial office, bent over his computer. Skeeter paused just long enough to kick off his shoes before stepping onto the pristine tatami rice mats. "Where's Kaederman?" Skeeter asked tersely, searching the corners of Kit's office with an uneasy gaze. "I thought he was coming up here."
Kit glanced up. "Kaederman," he said flatly, "went to bed. That man is the laziest detective I've ever met."
"How'd we luck out? At least he's nowhere around to hear the news."
"What news?" Kit leaned forward, eyes abruptly glittering.
"Ianira's in London. She went through in a steamer trunk. One of Be
"Yes, you mentioned it belonged to Be
"Maybe not," he muttered, pacing from the enormous desk to the withered landscape garden of raked sand and carefully placed stones to the wall of television monitors which kept Kit abreast of events all over Shangri-La Station. "But if I hadn't been so damn muddled, I'd have figured it out a lot sooner. And the trail wouldn't be so cold!"
"Well, beating yourself up over this won't do Ianira any good," Kit pointed out gently. "At least we have a pretty good indication Ianira was alive, inside that trunk, given Je
Skeeter halted his pacing. "Huh?"
"Maybe..." Kit tapped steepled fingertips against his lips. "Just maybe, they were ru
Skeeter stared, trying to figure out what he was driving at. "Ru
"No. Not in 1885. But in 1888..."
Skeeter felt his eyes widen. "London?"
"Makes sense. A lot of sense. Hide out for three years, make damned sure nobody's on their trail, cross the Atlantic to meet Je
"Or anybody else, for that matter," Skeeter added bitterly.
"A definite plus, when one's marked for murder. And they'll have the children to think of," Kit added gently. "Surely you can see that?"
He could. All too clearly. "So you think we shouldn't look for them, after all?"
"No, I didn't say that. Shangri-La Station's still in mortal danger. And something tells me none of our fugitives will be safe until we get to the bottom of this. Too many pieces of this puzzle are still missing. Like that guy who killed Julius, for one. He was certainly no down-time Arabian jihad fighter. So who hired him? The Ansar Majlis? Hiring a paid killer isn't their style. Crazies like the Ansar Majlis do their own killing. So, if not them, who?"
Skeeter didn't like the road Kit was walking down.
"Yes, you do see it, don't you? I'm getting very itchy about the safety of this search team. If someone besides the Ansar Majlis is trying to kill Je
Skeeter snorted. "That part's easy."
Kit blinked. "Oh?"
He told Kit about Goldie's counterfeit banknotes. Kit whistled softly.
"So, you'll start by looking for angry merchants who've been ripped off? Hmm... It might work. There was a fairly large trade in counterfeit banknotes and coins, especially near the waterfront, where the fakes could be passed to unwary newcomers, people unfamiliar with English currency, but it's certainly the best lead we've got so far." Kit's grin was sudden, blinding, and terrifying. "Grand idea, Skeeter. Let's have you pose as a Pinkerton agent. Say you're after a Yank from New York, who's been counterfeiting money in the States, tell our angry London merchants you think he's moved his operation to London. We'll get Co
"Good grief. First a house detective for the Neo Edo, now a Pinkerton agent? Who'd a-thunk it? Me, a private eye!"
"And a pretty good one, so far," Kit gri
"Yeah?"
Kit's smile was positively evil. "Let's not tell Sid about this?"
Skeeter started to laugh; then felt a chill, instead, straight down his spine.
Margo was not keen to watch the murders of Stride and Eddowes. Rather than join the Ripper Watch Team in the Vault, she changed clothing, requested a cup of hot tea from one of the Spaldergate House maids, and curled up beside the fire in the parlour. There she stayed, sitting on the floor in front of the hearth, chin on knees, watching the flames dance across the coals. Malcolm came in shortly after two A.M., looking for her. He paused in the doorway.
"There you are. Well, it's over, down there. Maybrick turns out to be the one who chalked the graffiti in Goulston Street. And you'll never guess who we caught on tape? Those idiot reporters, Dominica Nosette and Guy Pendergast. They're following Maybrick and Lachley. Shadowed Maybrick to Goulston Street and photographed the graffiti after he left, then started trailing him once more."
"Great. We should've staked out the murder sites, ourselves, and waited to nab those idiots."
"Perhaps, but the chance is gone now. We've sent out Stoddard and Tanglewood to try to locate them, but they'll be long gone before either man can get close, I'm afraid." Malcolm crossed the parlour toward her, navigating his way around heavy furniture and tables full of bric-a-brac. "Whatever have you been doing, sitting here alone in the dark?"
"Trying not to think about what's going on in Whitechapel."
He settled on the carpeted floor beside her and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. "You're trembling."
"I'm cold," she muttered. Then, betraying the lie, "You don't think I'm too weak for this job, do you? Because I can't watch?"
Malcolm sighed. "There's a fairly large difference between ru
"That wasn't so hard," Margo shivered. "I just charged in and did the first thing that came to mind. He wasn't expecting Aikido, anyway."