Free Death at Whitechapel by Robin Paige Page A

terror. A nameless reprobate—half beast, half man—is at large, who is daily gratifying his murderous instincts on the most miserable and defenceless classes of the community. There can be no shadow of a doubt now that our original theory was correct, and that the Whitechapel murderer ... is one man, and that man a murderous maniac. The ghoul-like creature who stalks through the streets of London ... is simply drunk with blood, and he will have more.
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    The Pall Mall Gazette,
8 September, 1888
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    K ate took off her green velvet dressing gown and laid it across the chair. The hands on the ormolu mantel clock pointed to eleven, but she was feeling keyed up and not quite ready for sleep. The evening had given her much to think about. That odd business about blackmail that Jennie had brought up at tea seemed curiously unresolved, but at dinner, she had been as gay and witty as if she had not a care in the world, and afterward, in the library, she had entertained them with several Beethoven piano sonatas, expertly played.
    Then Charles had gone off to write letters and Kate and Jennie had lingered before the fire, talking about the new magazine, and Winston’s political ambitions, and the latest London gossip: Daisy Warwick, no longer the Prince’s favorite, had fallen in love with the wealthy and dashing Captain Joseph Laycock. Captain Joe was hardly a handsome man but incredibly magnetic and of course wealthy, and five years younger than the countess.
    â€œOne really can’t blame her”—Jennie sighed—“but I predict trouble ahead.” Her face darkened. “Young men are so charmingly attentive and passionate—but frighteningly possessive.”
    Frighteningly possessive? The remark sounded as if it came out of some deep apprehension. Kate wondered if Jennie were speaking obliquely about her own relationship with the young George Cornwallis-West, but did not like to ask.
    After a moment, Jennie turned the conversation back to Winston’s political hopes. “You know,” she said, “that when the government came to claim Randolph’s robes of the Exchequer, I refused to hand them over.” The firm set of her chin belied the casual tone of her voice. “I am keeping them for Winston to wear when he becomes a member of the Cabinet. It shan’t be long now.”
    Kate couldn’t help thinking that Jennie’s confidence was premature, for Winston had not even gotten into Parliament yet. But Jennie and her son possessed a powerful resolution that might itself shape the course of future events. “He’ll campaign in the next election?” she asked.
    â€œOf course,” Jennie said. “He’s been assured by the Party that a seat shall be open to him.” She leaned forward, her eyes intense. “That’s why this terrible blackmail must be—” She stopped, and forced a smile. “There I go again,” she said lightly. “Silly me. Making a fuss over nothing.”
    â€œIs it really nothing?” Kate asked. She put her hand over Jennie’s. “You can tell me, you know. I am your friend.”
    â€œI know.” Jennie had looked down at their hands. “Thank you.”
    The door to Charles’s dressing room opened, interrupting Kate’s thoughts. He came out, clad in his white cotton nightshirt. “Ready for bed?” he asked.
    â€œVery nearly,” Kate said. She raised her hands and lifted her long, heavy hair so that it flowed loosely down her back, then went to stand by the window, still thinking about Jennie, still puzzling over the blackmail. She said, “I don’t understand what went on at teatime, Charles.”
    Charles leaned over the gas lamp, the oval of golden light turning the hollows of his bearded cheeks into shadow. He turned down the mantle until the light was gone and the room fell into a pale darkness, lit only by the slender moon that hung in the