He no longer doubted Morgan’s sordid little tale about Welsh translations. Eddy was just that much of a fool, thinking himself clever with such a trick, just to impress a money grubbing, blackmailing little whore not fit to sell his wares for a crust of bread, much less royal largesse.
Morgan was gasping out, “It’s true, Johnny, I’ll prove it, I’ll get the letters back and show you . . .”
“Oh, yes, Morgan. We will, indeed get those letters back. Tell me, just where might I find this Polly Nichols?”
“She’s been staying at that lodging house at 56 Flower and Dean Street, the White House they call it, rooming with a man, some nights, other nights sharing with Long Liz Stride or Catharine Eddowes, whoever’s got the doss money for the night and needs a roommate to share the cost . . .”
“What did you tell Polly Nichols when you gave her the letters?”
“That they were love letters,” he whispered. “I didn’t tell her who they were from and I lied, said they were on his personal stationery, when they’re on ordinary foolscap, so all she’ll know is they’ve been signed by someone named Eddy. Someone rich, but just Eddy, no last name, even.”
“Very good, Morgan. Very, very good.”
Hope flared in the little fool’s wet eyes.
He patted Morgan’s cheek almost gently.
Then Lachley brought out the knife.
Chapter Five
The reporters were waiting outside his office building, of course.
Senator Caddrick stepped out of his chauffeured limo and faced the explosion of camera flashes and television lights with an expression of grief and shock and carefully reddened eyes.