Nine Buck's Row (24 page)

I was moody and restless. Maggie was instantly alert, asking dozens of leading questions which I refused to answer satisfactorily. I told her all about the ball, described the splendor of Belmount House, admitted my success with Lady Cordelia's nephews, but I made no mention of Valerie, and I certainly didn't tell her what had happened in the hallway after we came home.

“And how did Nicky enjoy himself?” she inquired.

“I couldn't say. I didn't see too much of him.”

“Really? He didn't even dance with you?”

I shook my head, avoiding her shrewd eyes.

“He didn't? Hmm. Wonder why. He's been terribly
distracted
since the ball, almost as if—” she paused, a thoughtful look in her eyes. “I've never seen him this way before. Hmm. I wonder—”

I remained silent, unwilling to discuss it.

“Well, dear,” she said, sighing, “I must get down to the shop. So much work to do. I don't suppose Nicky will honor us with his presence tonight. Most unusual, his conduct—”

Picking up her sewing basket, patting her blazing red ringlets, she departed with a brisk rustle of taffeta.

On the morning of the twenty-eighth, the sky was a desolate gray, the soot-coated buildings black, but I couldn't stand being inside and, book in hand, I went out to the courtyard. I wore a beige muslin dress printed with tiny pink flowers. There was a chill in the air, and the dress was hardly adequate, but I was too lethargic to go back in for a wrap. I sat down on the bench and opened the novel. George Meredith seemed unusually ponderous and stuffy, and I couldn't maintain an interest in his heroine. A carriage rumbled down the street, clattering loudly, and I could hear the cries of a knife sharpener hawking his skills. There were other noises, too, and although the slaughterhouse was at the other end of the street I imagined the noises came from there.

Nicholas had avoided me for two days. I probably wouldn't see him today either. Late last night, sleepless, I had heard him come in, but he had already left this morning when I came down to breakfast. I had joined Maggie in the shop. Good-natured as always, she had expressed delight, but I soon realized my efforts to help her were only hindering. After botching up a perfectly simple task, I took my leave, and Maggie was unable to hide her obvious relief.

Scrappy had been out earlier and had balked at coming out again. I was alone, depressed, unable to concentrate. I wondered how much longer things could go on this way. Would we ever leave for Surrey? Would we ever leave the oppressive atmosphere of the East End? September was almost over, and it would soon be winter, bleak, cold, forbidding.

“A smile might help,” Daniel Lord said.

I looked up, startled. I hadn't heard him approaching.

“You look incredibly forlorn,” he told me. “Something wrong?”

“No. I—I was just thinking.”

“Wretched occupation for a charming young girl. You should be trying on dresses or pressing rose leaves in a picture album. If you
must
think, you should be thinking about gallant suitors and fancy dress balls. By the by, how did you enjoy your ball?”

“How did you know about that?”

“Oh, I have ways and means. Actually, I was coming down the street as you and your guardian were coming out of the house. You looked ravishing in your gown, Susannah. Nicholas Craig is a fortunate man. I wonder if he appreciates you.
I
certainly should.”

He smiled, tossing the compliments out with a jaunty aplomb. He was wearing the green and gray checked tweed suit with matching vest I had seen him in that first day, the starched white collar as well, cuffs sticking out beneath the sleeves of his jacket. A heavy gold watch chain dangled from his vest pocket, and his dark green stock was rumpled. He looked different, somehow. There were deep mauve shadows beneath his eyes, and his long face was pale. A wave of dark blond hair fell untidily across his high forehead, and the neat moustache seemed to droop over his sensual mouth. I was suddenly reminded of someone else, but I couldn't think who it was. I had never met anyone else who looked like Daniel Lord, and yet … perhaps I had seen someone at the ball who resembled him.

I noticed that he was carrying a small brown suitcase.

“Leaving us again?” I inquired.

“Just coming back,” he replied amiably. “I've been gone these past three days. You didn't miss me? I'm shattered. I'll have to leave some more fish out in the studio. Perhaps you'll come searching for your greedy kitten again. Perhaps I'll even have another crack at painting you. Must make it soon, though. I don't imagine I'll be around too much longer.”

“You're really going to leave Nine Buck's Row?” I said. He had mentioned something to that effect the last time I saw him, but I hadn't paid much attention to it.

“Pressures,” he said. “Demands. Duty, that sort of thing. A fellow must bow to authority.”

He shook his head, and although the smile still lingered on his mouth his deep-set eyes were dark and moody. I assumed that he had been visiting his family and that they had been lecturing him on his responsibilities and pressuring him to give up his bohemian ways and return to the fold. Daniel Lord wasn't the irresponsible butterfly he pretended to be. I was certain of that much.

“When will you leave?” I asked quietly.

“Oh, I've no doubt I'll be around for a while—a week or two, perhaps longer. Nothing's definite yet. These things never are.” He hesitated and then shook his head again and sighed.

“Well,” he said lightly, “back to work. I've got another canvas to finish. Do pop up to see me, Susannah. I'd enjoy it. I promise not to be the moody brute I was last time.”

It turned colder that afternoon, the sky a slate gray, a chilly wind tormenting the treetops and blowing scraps of litter along the sidewalks. I was in the front parlor, a fire burning cozily, and Scrappy was curled up on the sofa, purring quietly and frequently stretching his legs out in indolent satisfaction after a large bowl of milk and a plate of chopped meat.

Colleen came in with the papers, placing them neatly on top of the low table in front of the sofa. The lurid headlines screamed at me. I could tell from her expression that Colleen had already read them.

“'Ere are the latest papers, Miss Suzy,” she said brightly, her blue eyes wide with delighted horror. “You won't
believe
what 'e's done! 'E's written a letter to the press, 'e 'as. Says 'e's gonna get 'im an ear next time. Says 'e'll send it to the police as a souvenir.”

“Please—” I protested.

“'E says the leather apron joke gave 'im real fits. Those're 'is very words. Says 'e loves 'is work 'n wants to get back to it right away.” She shuddered dramatically, folding her arms around her waist.

“You shouldn't read such things,” I told her.

“Oh, Miss Suzy, I can't
resist
. Gives a person goose flesh, it does. Mrs. 'enderson says 'e lives right 'ere in this neighborhood. She 'as this theory—”

“I really don't care to discuss it, Colleen.”

“Oh, Miss Suzy! I've put my foot in, I 'ave. I forgot—'scuse me. I didn't mean to upset you.”

“Don't worry about it,” I said quietly.

Colleen brushed a ragged black lock from her temple, straightened her apron and dropped an awkward little curtsy, scurrying out of the room. I stepped over to the fireplace and watched the tiny golden-orange flames devouring the log, wood crackling, and then I wandered over to the window and peered out. Across the way I could see multi-leveled roofs and sooty black chimney pots, stout, skinny, silhouetted against the flat gray sky. The newspapers seemed to be waiting, watching me, and I knew my will power was no stronger than Colleen's. I couldn't resist them.

I sat down on the sofa and began to read with mounting horror.

Last Thursday, the Fleet Street offices of the Central News Agency had received a letter from the fiend with a London postmark. It was written in red ink. He had, he informed them, intended to write it in blood and had saved some for that purpose, but it had proved too thick and gluelike to do the job. The letter, reprinted in full, was grotesque beyond belief. He bragged of his exploits, taunted the police for their inability to find him, and promised to surpass himself on his next night out.

He signed himself Jack The Ripper.

He was no longer an anonymous fiend prowling through dingy backstreets with knife in hand. Now he had a name and, far more frightening, a personality clearly established in crude, explicit prose. The man who had composed that letter was totally insane, a monster. It was inconceivable that a human being could do the things he had done and then boast about them. He was somewhere in London now, chortling over his exploits, laughing up his sleeve at the authorities who had failed to catch him. Perhaps at this very moment he was sharpening his knife, planning another murder … and all anyone could do was offer up theories.

The latest theory was expounded at length in one of the papers. Jack The Ripper was an American, from Texas, the author claimed. Digging through newspaper files, he had uncovered accounts of a series of heinous crimes that had been committed in Austin, Texas, three years ago. The victims had been hacked to death with excessive brutality, the plains of Texas stained scarlet with the blood. The crimes were almost identical to the ones now being committed in London, although the victims in Texas had also been robbed. Furthermore, the letter Jack had sent to the press—and there could be no doubt of its authenticity—had been filled with Americanisms, expressions no Britisher would ordinarily use. Jack The Ripper was a Texan, tall, lean, self-assured, doing his foul deeds with a knife instead of the traditional six-shooter. He had escaped detection three years ago, and he had crossed an ocean to strike again.

This theory was no wilder than some of the others. There were people who were convinced he was a religious fanatic, others who were sure he was a crazed doctor, some who believed he was an aristocrat, a toff, while a few were convinced the police shouldn't be looking for a man at all because the fiend was actually a woman. The only thing for certain was that he was still at large. The first murder had taken place over a month ago, and the police still had no lead. One man, one incredibly warped man had brought a mighty city to its knees, keeping millions of people on the verge of hysteria while he wrought his reign of terror.

Why couldn't they catch him? How could he possibly have evaded capture this long?

It didn't help to think about it. I had to put it out of my mind. I sighed deeply, wishing the hours weren't so long, wishing there were something I could do to make them pass.

It was growing darker outside. It would be an early night, the fog soon rising in billowing waves to wreathe the streets. There was already a haze in the air, gradually thickening. I stood watching the fire die down, the log a mere pinkish-gray stick now, slowly splintering into ashes.

There were footsteps on the staircase. The parlor door opened and Millie stepped inside, the skirt of her yellow dress fluttering like buttercup petals. Her long red curls fell free, tumbling in glossy locks, and her brown eyes danced vivaciously.

“Millie!” I cried.

“Pleased to see me, duckie?”

“If only you knew! I'm overjoyed.”

It was true. She was the one person I felt genuinely close to, the one person I could talk with. My depression vanished miraculously at the sight of her, and I seized her hands, gripping them tightly. Millie dimpled her cheek and laughed her old laugh, bright, merry, filling the room with its joyous sound.

“Well, if I'd known I was going to get such a reception I'd have come earlier. Oh, Suzy, I
have
missed you! You'll never guess what's happened! Let me catch my breath.”

She stepped over to the sofa and plopped down, spreading her skirt out in voluminous yellow folds. She seized the sleepy Scrappy and dumped him in her lap, tickling his stomach. She laughed again, radiating joy and high spirits, glowing with the old enthusiasm that made every minute a celebration. The pale, worried creature in red silk and feather boa might never have been. I was vastly relieved, elated to see the Millie I knew and loved so well back again.

“It's chilly out,” I said. “You really should have worn a cloak.”

“Chilly? I didn't notice. Isn't it a
glori
ous day?”

“Hardly,” I replied. “I've never seen such an ugly sky.”

“Simply glorious! Jamie walked part of the way with me. He's covering Buck's Row now as part of his beat.”

“Jamie? I thought—”

“We've made up! He simply couldn't
stand
being away from me, and I was missing him, too. I—well, I'd done something naughty—that dreadful red dress!—and I was feeling awful about it and Jamie came to see me, marched right in and told me in no uncertain terms that he couldn't live without me and had no intentions of trying. I pretended to be indifferent and he gave me a hard, menacing look—I still shiver just
thinking
about it—and then he grabbed me, knocked the breath right out of me! He kissed me—you have no
idea
how glorious it was! Daddy walked in right at that moment—” She made a dramatic pause, building suspense like a professional actress.

“What happened?” I prompted.

“‘What are your intentions, sir?' Daddy asked. Can you believe it? I almost fainted! Jamie wasn't flustered, not for a minute. He squared his shoulders and looked Daddy straight in the eye and said, ‘I intend to marry your daughter, sir,' just like that, without even con
sult
ing me. Daddy said, ‘It's high time the minx had a husband,' and filled his pipe and left the room. I was furious with both of them!”

“You're engaged?”

“Isn't it exciting? So unexpected. Jamie may be
slow
, but when he makes up his mind about something—” She smiled, twining a long copper red curl around her finger and staring into space with thoughtful eyes. “The minute he took me in his arms I knew there could never be another man for me. I mean, I was
taken
with him before, thought he was ever so masculine and adorable, but—well, this is different. I've never felt this way before, and that's a fact.”