“You are looking very irritated, Miss Smith.”
Margo jumped nearly out of her skin, then blinked and focused on Shahdi Feroz’ exquisite features. “Oh! Dr. Feroz . . . I, uh, was just looking . . .” She shut up, realizing it would come out sounding like she was irritated with the scholar if she said “I was looking for you,” then turned red and stammered out, “I was thinking about all those stupid theories.” She nodded toward the big-screen television where Dr. Feroz’ taped interview was still playing, then added, “I mean, the ones about Mary Kelly.”
Shahdi Feroz smiled. “Yes, there are some absurd ones about her, poor creature.”
“You can say that again! You’re all checked in and your luggage is ready?”
The scholar nodded. “Yes. And—oh bother!”
Newsies. Lots of them. Leaning right across the departures lounge barricades, with microphones and cameras trained on Shadhi Feroz and Margo. “This way!” Margo dragged the scholar by the wrist to the most remote corner of the departures lounge, putting a mass of tourists between themselves and the frustrated news crews. As Margo forced their way through, speculation flew wild amongst the tourists milling around them in every direction, eager to depart.
“—I think it was the queen’s grandson, himself, not just some alleged lover.”
“The queen’s grandson? Duke of Clarence? Or rather, Prince Albert Victor? He wasn’t named Duke of Clarence until after the Ripper murders. Poor guy. He’s named in at least three outlandish theories, despite unshakable alibis. Like being several hundred miles north of London, in Scotland, for God’s sake, during at least one of the murders . . .”