Once the waiter had poured the champagne into crystal flutes, the three men raised them and clinked glasses. It was George who said, “Congratulations, James, on your first job. I wish you much success.”
“Much success,” Roger echoed. “And I’m absolutely certain you’ll have cartloads of it. You’ve got everything going for you.”
James thanked them and took a sip of the Dom Pérignon. He knew from his grandfather’s wine lessons that this was the best there was.
Roger settled back in his chair and, after a moment, he said quietly, “Going back to our previous conversation, I hate to admit this, but Scotland Yard is baffled, none the wiser about Jack the Ripper. Five women have now been murdered in Whitechapel. The first two were Mary Ann Nichols and Annie Chapman. Then there were three more victims, Elizabeth Stride, Catherine Eddowes, and Mary Jane Kelly. The murders took place between August thirty-first and November ninth of this year. They were all prostitutes and they were brutally murdered, then mutilated with some savagery. But you know all this, George.”
The inspector paused, shook his head. “And not one clue was left behind. All we found were their bodies and their blood.” He sat back, his worry suddenly apparent.
“So what you’re saying is that this is truly a mystery,” George murmured. He sighed, went on, “You must all be feeling frustrated. I can understand that completely. Also, there are so many ridiculous rumors circulating, it makes my blood boil. People are idiots.”
“We are endeavoring to ignore those crazy stories, George. The public are hugely inventive, imaginative, I’m afraid. They say it’s a famous surgeon who’s the killer, a famous actor, a famous painter. They even suggest that Jack the Ripper is a member of the royal family, if you can believe that idiocy!”
Shifting in his chair, the policeman added, “No one knows who he is, but I believe the murders were committed by a man who was strong, and possibly someone who actually did know how to use a knife with skill and precision. But that’s all I know.”
George asked, “Do you think it’s the same man? Or could there be copycats?”
Roger did not answer. He sat staring into his glass of champagne, watching the pale golden bubbles rising. He and his colleagues had discussed this very same idea at the Yard and were without any answers. He had a few theories of his own, which he did not share with anyone at work. So he would not voice them tonight. Even though he had known George for ten years or so, knew he was trustworthy and his word was his bond. At the moment, caution was the best policy, the less said the better.
After a long moment, he looked up at George. “Your guess is as good as mine. Rich man, poor man, beggar man, thief … take your pick.”
James saw the worry behind the bright smile, the anxiety in the policeman’s eyes, and understanding he wanted to move away from this awful crime, he changed the subject. Looking at his uncle, he asked, “Please explain to me what you meant by buccaneers.”
Starting to chuckle, George said to Roger, “When we were arriving at the hotel, two lovely, rather fashionable women, obviously Americans and rich, were also entering, with loads of luggage. So how would you describe the buccaneers to James?”
“Being a journalist, I should think you’d have better words to use than I do, George.” He glanced at James. “Buccaneers are beautiful, very rich and clever American girls who come over here looking for a husband. An aristocratic husband. They want the title; he wants the money that comes with her. An extremely large dowry. If they’re lucky, they find the right man and fall in love. If not, they make the deal if the man is willing. So she gets her title and he gets the much-needed money.”
James was puzzled and asked, “Why would an aristocrat do that? Why do they need this? Need the money? They’re rich.”
“Not all of them,” George shot back. “Stately homes are suffering; the aristocracy is in trouble and all because of failing crops, failing agriculture. Now I see the waiter heading this way with the menus. We can talk about this later, James.”
His nephew nodded and accepted a menu, as did the other two men, and the subject of the buccaneers never came up again that night. But James was determined to find out more. He knew Mrs. Ward would explain it to him.
After glancing quickly at the menu, George said, “I’m definitely going to have the Colchesters now they’re in season.” Both Roger and James ordered the oysters also. For the main course James selected fish cakes; Roger and George decided on sausage and mash.
“That’s what I like about this place,” the inspector said. “They make the comfort food I grew up on.”
“I suppose everybody feels the same,” George commented. “This place is always busy.” He hesitated, then said, “I don’t want to spend the evening talking about the Ripper case, but I just wanted to add that we keep our Ripper stories at a decent level, avoid lurid headlines, Roger. We just don’t want to alarm the public. Nor do we want to criticize Scotland Yard. We know you’re all doing your job.” He gave Roger a knowing look.
“I’ve noticed that, George. I think your proprietor is a very reasonable man. The Chronicle’s the best paper, in my opinion.”
“Thank you. Lord Carpenter is also clever with political stories. He walks down the middle of the road and keeps a clear head. No partisanship. I’m also happy he’s no longer considering selling the publishing company. We were all worried about that when we heard rumors, I can tell you. But we’re secure once more. He’s not selling, and he’ll continue to be in the driver’s seat.”
* * *
The following morning James was up, dressed, and out of the flat long before his uncle had awakened. After a swift walk down Piccadilly, dodging through the crowds, he arrived at Malvern House in twenty minutes.
Once he was in his office, he sat down at the desk and made a list of what he would focus on later that morning. He and Henry Malvern were going to the arcade in Kensington, and he couldn’t wait to see it, knowing he would be in charge of it for a while.
He then took out the small notebook he kept in his jacket pocket. Opened it, made the notation “HULL,” and then scribbled a few lines about his ideas for an arcade in the City of Gaiety. After that he wrote a letter to Great-Uncle Clarence and Great-Aunt Marina, having promised to stay in touch on a regular basis.