39

“Is the fresh murder in New Orleans another Ripper murder, as the letter claims?”

“From the autopsy details we’ve received, it would appear so.”

“And the last murder in New York of Anna Walcott, do you now have doubts about that also being a Ripper murder? The other claim of that same letter?”

“We had started to have doubts about that even before the letter’s arrival.”

A small group of city officials and newspaper reporters in the conference room at Mulberry Street, most of the questioning so far had been between Argenti and a New York Times and Herald reporter.

Alongside Argenti on the conference table was Jameson, Mayor Watkins and Commissioner Latham. A show of solidarity to leave no doubt about their reinstatement to lead the investigation.

The Times reporter glanced along the row to his colleague, as if wondering if the same anomaly had struck him.

“If you don’t mind me venturing, Detective Argenti, that wasn’t exactly what we in the Press were led to believe at the time.”

“I appreciate. But sometimes wheels in motion in the back rooms here at Mulberry Street take a while to become visible at the front.” He smiled tightly. “And you might recall I was on leave and not directly involved in the investigation for much of this past week.”

“And slightly longer for myself,” Jameson interjected, raising wry smiles and an uneasy chuckle from some in the room. His first words after an initial perfunctory greeting as they’d taken their seats. “So may I take this opportunity of saying it’s good to be back on the investigation.”

An awkward silence settled, as if everyone was suddenly reminded what had happened to Jameson but didn’t wish to comment on it. The main reason why Argenti had fielded the early questions, to allow time for Jameson to settle in. Argenti was the first to break the silence.

“And may I be first to welcome Finley Jameson back. If anyone knows the Ripper well and can aid his apprehension, it’s Mr Jameson, which is why I insisted on his return to the case.”

A sotto-voce “Hear, hear,” from Watkins, which set off a murmur of accord from a couple of others in the room. Latham simply nodded, eyes fixed just above the heads of the gathering.

“And my first announcement now that I’ve returned,” Jameson said, “is that from information recently received from London, I believe we’re now far closer to catching the Ripper.”

The murmur ran stronger this time through the audience.

“Can you elaborate?” the Herald man enquired.

“Certainly. As indicated at an earlier conference, for a while now we’ve been identifying marks left on the victims, the exact nature of which we’ve kept secret to preclude copycat murders. Sir Thomas Colby has just sent me details of two further body markings from London, and, combined with the mark identified in New Orleans and my recent meeting with a relevant expert, we’ve had a significant breakthrough.”

It was partly a bluff. Morais had only been able to identify two words in the message: “VENGEANCE OF”. The last word had yet to be identified, and if indeed two or three words were missing then still a number of murders were to come.

The Herald reporter’s brow knitted. “Marks? Are we talking in terms of letters or symbols here?”

“Uh... letters would be more accurate.”

“Roman alphabet?”

“I didn’t say that.”

The New York Times man pressed. “Can you be more specific?”

Argenti held a hand up as he sensed them cornering Jameson. “I’m afraid not. That again would get into the area of too much detail that would leave us open to copycat murders. Suffice that you know, and in turn the Ripper, that we’re breathing hot down his neck.”

Rousing words. Another grunt of approval from Watkins and a more enthusiastic nod from Latham. The message they’d intended to deliver was going well.

The reporters busily scribbled in their notepads, already shaping the next day’s headlines. The Herald reporter looked up from his notes.

“And tell us, now that you’re apparently so close to catching the Ripper. What sort of man is he?”

Criminal analyst’s territory. Jameson answered.

“He’s a coward. Nothing more. Nothing less. A coward who preys on women when they’re at their most vulnerable. The rest of it – the letters, the body markings – is all just an elaborate cover for his base savagery. He might be able to fool himself that what he’s doing is slyly inventive or clever, this game he thinks he’s playing with us, but he’s not for a minute fooling me, or detective Argenti.”

Finley Jameson rubbed the bridge of his nose. He was tired and had trouble focusing at times. He hadn’t yet recovered from his spell in the Tombs, the sleepless nights and the mounting anxiety as he’d been cast as prime suspect, and the intensity and pace of the investigation since had been gruelling. There had hardly been a minute to breathe, and now after a 7.00 am meeting with Jacob Bryce to re-examine Anna Walcott’s body, for the past two hours they’d been at his house on Greenwich Street reviewing their position.

Lawrence had gone out first thing to pick up that day’s newspapers while Alice prepared a breakfast of scrambled eggs, kippers and toast for Detective Argenti’s arrival.

Within an hour breakfast was cleared away and the room strewn with newspapers and countless files and books as they desperately searched for anything they might have so far missed on the case.

“That Herald report has certainly served us well,” Argenti commented. He flicked through the newspaper. “There’s a linked story too on page seven. Have you read that as well?”

“Yes. Yes, I have.” Jameson had in fact read the headline story twice: “LETTERS FROM A MURDERER – INVESTIGATORS CLOSE IN ON THE RIPPER.” The article started by comparing the letters sent to the newspapers, then switched to the other letters now revealed – those marked on the victims’ bodies, cleverly fusing the two in the minds’ of readers. “We are now left to wonder just which set of letters will finally be the Ripper’s undoing: Those sent to taunt investigators or those he leaves marked in blood on his victims?”

But the smaller linked article on page seven he hadn’t felt so comfortable about, and he’d only quickly scanned it. Headed “A Coward not a Mastermind” it elaborated on his closing comments at the press conference the day before. Their aim was to use the newspapers to draw the Ripper out, a reversal of the Ripper using the press to manipulate them. After all, they knew now from his last letter that his obsession with accuracy and his own image had led him to forego even the opportunity of long-term freedom. That level of vanity could be played upon. But now viewing the article, Jameson worried he might have gone too far. He looked over at Lawrence surrounded by books, many of them half open.

“Any further progress with that missing word?”

“No, sorry. Nothing yet.”

Jameson nodded. He should have known that even with Lawrence’s encyclopaedic memory it would be a challenge for him to find the word Morais had been unable to, when Lawrence’s knowledge of Hebrew was scant in comparison.

“Certainly I think we can discount that last ‘Daleth’ mark left on Anna Walcott. I agree with Bryce. The stab wounds are erratic, inconsistent with past victims. It’s not a Ripper murder.”

Argenti sipped at the last of his coffee. “So, full circle back to the Tierney conspiracy we discussed?”

“Yes. It would appear so.” Jameson took a fresh breath. “Shame Colby wasn’t able to find any mark on Mary Kelly’s body. That might have proved crucial and tipped the scales.”

“But as one of the London victims, shouldn’t that have featured earlier? This now surely is the last word, or one of the last, we’re seeking.”

“Mary Kelly was in fact the last suspected murder in London.”

Lawrence looked up from leafing through a book. “Also, in Hebrew, as with Latin, the principal subject of the sentence often comes first.”

“Could Colby have possibly missed the mark?” Argenti ventured. “It’s there somewhere on the skeleton or an internal organ, but he’s simply overlooked it?”

“If it was anyone else, I might consider that as a possibility, but not Colby. He’s too thorough.” He shrugged. “Besides, Kelly was the victim where it appeared the Ripper had the least time. So the skeleton or a deep internal organ would have been the last place he’d put a mark. He’d have only had time to put it somewhere superficial, such as her breast or shoulder.”

“I see.”

They were silent for a moment, only the sound of Lawrence flicking through pages of a large, leather-bound tome, seemingly oblivious to their conversation. Jameson held a hand out.

“Perhaps he intended to put a mark on a deeper internal organ, but got disturbed halfway through so had to abandon the idea. Certainly discounting Kelly as a Ripper victim simply because–” Jameson was suddenly struck with a thought.

Time constraints. If the Ripper hadn’t had time to superficially mark the body, then perhaps somewhere close by? He recalled the inscription left on the wall near Catherine Eddowes’s body.

“Do you have Mary Kelly’s file there?”

It took a second for Lawrence to detach from the book he was reading.

“Uh, yes... I believe so.” He searched through a stack of files to one side. He passed it across. “There you are.”

Jameson flipped rapidly past the inch-thick wad of notes on top, went straight to the photos, four in total from different angles, each showing Mary Kelly with her guts torn out, lower part of her smock dress drenched with blood and mouth agape in a death rictus. Two of the photos had graced the front of London newspapers four years ago.

Jameson reached for his loop to one side and leant in closer. But he wasn’t interested in the body itself, he was looking at the surrounding walls. Finally he thought he’d picked out something. He pulled back and then in again, trying to get the focus tighter, clearer. But it was still indistinct. It could be a mark put there purposefully, or it could be an accidental scuff mark or a patch of damp or dirt. It was hard to tell. He looked up.

“Is there a photographer’s near here?”

Argenti was still applying thought as Lawrence answered.

“Two that I know of. One on Broome Street, just off Broadway, the other by Union Square.”

They’d been waiting almost two hours, their second vigil of the day, before they finally saw Jeremy Lane emerge from one of the alleyways near the club.

It was Martin who saw him first. Brogan was sitting in a hansom twenty yards from the alley north of the club and Martin was posing as a news vendor by the south alley.

“Read the latest on the Ripper.... Read the latest! Read all ’bout it...”

Brogan had at first smiled at the irony of Martin’s repetitive hawking. Then after an hour it had begun to grate. Suddenly it changed.

“Man on the run in Harlem... Man on the run...”

Their agreed warning signal. Brogan turned to see Lane, already seven yards past Martin, heading south down the street with a dark green hacking jacket over his distinctive waistcoat and a matching derby.

Brogan waited for a hansom and a milk truck to pass, then swung his own hansom round in the road and started following.

Lane glanced back briefly, but didn’t seem to notice anything amiss. He didn’t know Martin, traffic was heavy, and Brogan in the hansom had kept his derby pulled down sharply.

Lane went another thirty yards down the road, then, with another quick look round, went into a bank, Union National.

Brogan pulled into the side. He checked his pocket watch after ten minutes and made a signal to Martin across the road.

Martin was leant nonchalantly against a wall appearing to read one of the newspapers he’d been hawking. Martin couldn’t read, but he knew what the signal meant. They’d arranged in advance that if Lane returned the same way, Martin should go ahead of him into the alleyway.

Though they had to wait almost another ten minutes before Lane did so. Martin folded his newspaper and headed back the way he’d come, ten yards ahead of Jeremy Lane.

Lane had checked both the alley and the street as he’d emerged from the back entrance of the club and everything had seemed fine. The alleyway was empty each way, and no signs of Tierney or Brogan waiting outside the club.

As he headed back into the alley, he wasn’t particularly concerned by the young man taking the same alley ten yards ahead of him. He was headed away from him and didn’t seem to be paying him any attention.

That suddenly changed two-thirds of the way down the alley. The young man turned and smiled at him, holding both arms out as if to block his way. Lane faltered in his step, not sure what to make of it at first. Then as he heard fresh footsteps enter the alley behind him and turned to see Brogan, he knew what it meant.

He looked back and forth frantically for a moment. His best chance was probably with the young man in the hope of rushing him and barging past.

He ran forward, tucking his shoulder and head down as he built up speed. But the young man was stronger than he’d thought. Lane managed to wind him heavily as they collided, but couldn’t break past. He felt an arm grappling round him, then gripping tight and swinging him round. He lost balance and sprawled to the ground. The kid straddled him and held a knife by his face.

A second later Brogan was there too. The kid stepped aside and Brogan grabbed him by the jacket collars and lifted him like he was a toy until he was sitting with his back against the alley wall, breathless.

“Why so shy of meetin’ us, Jem? Yer know Mr Tierney’s been keen to see yer. An’ yer also know what happens to those who don’t keep their appointments with Mr Tierney.”

Brogan slid his own blade out, seven inches long and razor-sharp, and held it by Lane’s throat.

“I’ve been busy,” Lane spluttered. “Twice the work to do since Vera left.”

“Is that right. So why the hide an’ seek act?” Brogan’s dry smile quickly dropped. “Look. Tell us where she’s gone, and we’re outta yer hair. Thas all we’re interested in.”

Lane looked from one to the other. “I... I don’t know. I promise. She didn’t leave me any address. She wanted a complete break.”

“You expect us t’ believe that. Walks out on her club and her girls and doesn’t wanna know what’s happenin’ while she’s away. Even if the place burns down?” Brogan shook his head and tutted. He pressed the blade hard against Lane’s neck. “One las’ time, where is she?”

Lane’s Adam’s apple pulsed against the blade. “Please... I don’t know. I promise.”

Brogan squinted at Lane. What was this, blind loyalty to the last? Lane risking his life rather than tell them where Vera was? Or was he calling their bluff, knowing that if they killed him their last chance of finding Vera went with it?

But as he clutched Lane’s collar tighter, banging him back against the wall in the hope of knocking some sense into him, he noticed Lane’s hand go defensively to his breast pocket, as if eager to shield something there. As Lane’s jacket ruffled, Brogan caught a glimpse of paper. Brogan pushed the hand away.

“An’ what have we here?”

He fished out the piece of paper and unfolded it, a slow smile rising as he read. It was a bank wire transfer from the Union National Bank to its sister branch in Dover Plains to the account of one Vera Therese Maynard. At the bottom was also her mailing address to be notified by telegram of its arrival: 126 Maple Avenue, Dover Plains.

“My, my. An’ here’s you sayin’ all the time that yer don’ know where she’s gone.”

“What are you going to do?”

Lane’s eyes were frantic, though Brogan sensed – loyal to the last – that Lane was thinking more about Vera’s plight.

“Now let me think ’bout that a moment.” The words had hardly left his mouth before he ran his knife deep into Lane. If left alive, he could warn Vera.

“Hey, you!”

A sudden shout and some movement made him look round. A man and woman were by the alley end looking their way, now joined by another man who was moving towards them.

Martin was already backing away, but Brogan had to finish Lane before he left. He went to run his blade across Lane’s jugular. Sensing his aim, Lane tucked his chin in at the last second, denying him a clean cut. He went to cut again, but the man was advancing fast down the alley towards them. No time.

He ran off following Martin, already six yards ahead.

“What’s this model, if I may ask?”

Jameson perused some of the stock in the shop front while its owner, George Lambert, was busy in the darkroom at the back enlarging Mary Kelly’s photos.

Lambert’s assistant, a man in his mid-thirties, smiled primly. “This is the latest version of the Eastman Kodet. A folding version of their earlier box camera.”

“I see.” Jameson watched in fascination as the assistant adjusted focal length by moving the lens back and forth on a small set of leather bellows. “Very impressive.”

Argenti glanced aimlessly round the shop, not fixing on anything in particular, but Lawrence’s attention had been drawn by what looked like a book on the outside, but opened into a folding camera.

“I haven’t seen one of these before,” he remarked. “Quite unique.”

“Yes. That’s newly released too – from a French company. You can carry it just like a book until you decide your photographic subject.” The assistant pointed to another camera by the window. “Not too different to the other camera recently released by the Eastman company – the folding Kodak. Which, as you can see, also pulls out bellows fashion from what looks like a small briefcase.” He smiled thinly. “Sometimes makes me wonder if manufacturers are somehow ashamed of how a camera looks, so feel the need to–” He looked up as Lambert emerged with a flourish from the back room.

“Ah, has my assistant meanwhile given you the complete history of photography?” Lambert laid four large twelve-by-eight inch prints on the counter-top. “All done to your satisfaction, I pray.”

After a moment of inspecting them Jameson commented, “Yes, very good. Considerably clearer.”

Argenti nodded his accord, and as Jameson reached to pick one up Lambert advised that they were still slightly damp.

“Try to handle them as much as possible at the back to prevent smudging.”

They thanked Lambert and paid, then Argenti and Jameson made their way on foot the four blocks to Morais’s Theological Seminary on Broadway while Lawrence brought the hansom round.

They had to wait almost half an hour for Morais to finish a lesson, and he seemed surprised at their presence as he removed his tallit shawl from his robe. He’d only seen them the day before.

“Some news?”

“Not exactly,” Argenti said. “But I believe we might have found another Hebrew letter in the sequence.”

“Please.” Morais held a hand towards his study door.

They went through. Seated either side of Morais’s desk, Jameson spread out two photos from Mary Kelly’s murder scene, pointing.

“Here... and just here I believe are where the letter appears clearest.” He passed across his loop. “But you’ll probably need this.”

Morais studied the photos for a moment before looking up. “Appears to be ‘Lamed’ – an L.”

Jameson glanced at Argenti and Lawrence. “That was our first supposition from the alphabet list you left us. But we wanted to make sure.”

“That would certainly be my conclusion.” He studied the photos again, as if to ensure he hadn’t missed anything. “Even with this mark or shadow intruding on one side, it couldn’t possibly be mistaken for any other letter, at least in Hebrew.” He sat back. “The Daleth you mentioned at our last meeting, you’ve completely discounted that now?”

“Yes, we have,” Argenti answered. “But we wondered now, with the last letter Daleth removed and Lamed inserted as the seventh letter in the sequence, if it might bring to mind a word in Hebrew?”

Morais nodded. “So remind me. What letters are we now left with?”

Jameson took their notes from the day before out of his pocket. On the top sheet he’d already separated the Hebrew letters they were left with after VENGEANCE OF. Now he crossed out Daleth and put Lamed. He passed Morais the piece of paper.

Morais took a fresh sheet of paper from his desk and, dipping his quill pen in an inkwell, started writing a series of variations on those letters in different positions.

A Comtoise clock by the far wall ticked loudly, a metronome beat for the scratching of his pen. Morais fingered his beard thoughtfully.

“Do you know how many letters we are missing?”

“Unfortunately not,” Jameson said. “It could be one or two letters. It could be five or ten.”

Morais poised his pen for a moment before writing again. He wrote down three more possible variations in quick succession, then after a further pause another two. He squinted at them and shook his head after a moment, sighing.

“I’m sorry. I can’t seem to find anything immediately. This could take some time.”

“I believe it’s... it’s Asmodeus,” Lawrence said.

He hadn’t so far seemed too involved, but he’d been looking intently at the letter sequences as Morais wrote them, cross-referencing them in his mind with books that had included Hebrew in Jameson’s library.

Jameson looked at him. “Are you sure?” Though from Lawrence’s quizzical expression he was reminded of the pure folly of ever questioning his memory.

“Of course. The reference is in fact from one of your very own books, Pseudomonarchia Daemonum – The Implied Hierarchy of Demons.”

Jameson turned to Morais. “From your standpoint, is that a finding you could concur with?”

Morais wrote down another sequence of Hebrew letters, nodding slowly after a second.

“Yes, it is. Asmodeus was one of the original fallen angels, known as Ashmedai in the Talmud some five hundred years before he appeared in the Old Testament. So his name appearing in Hebrew makes sense. Also, given the nature of these crimes now it’s particularly apt.”

Jameson’s eyes were fixed on the letter sequences Morais had written down.

“How many Hebrew letters remaining to form Asmodeus?” Though he could equally have asked, “How many murders?”

“Just one.”

Argenti picked up on the earlier statement. “You said particularly apt. Why is that?”

“Asmodeus is known primarily as the ‘Demon of Lust’.”