She bobbed her head in excitement, now. “Oh, yes, that’d be fine, three-thirty in the morning, no later. I’ll be ‘ere, I will, with them letters.”
“Very good, madam.” Lachley gave her another mocking bow. “Be sure, now, to find yourself a nice bonnet, to keep out the wet. We don’t want you catching your death on a raw night like this.” Lachley’s lips twitched at the silent joke.
The doomed whore laughed brightly. “Oh, no, that would never do, would it? Did you want to go someplace dry and comfy, then?” She was caressing Lachley’s groin vulgarly.
The thought tickled Maybrick’s sense of humor, that this dirty little trollop would sell herself to the very man who was bringing about her murder. The thought excited him, almost as much as the thought of killing her did. He hoped Lachley dragged her to the nearest private spot and commenced banging her as hard as possible, toothless blackmailing bitch that she was.
John Lachley gave her a wry little smile. “Indeed, madam,” he lifted his cap again, “little would give me greater pleasure, but duty recalls me to Eddy’s side, I fear.”
“Oh! Well, then, tell Mr. Eddy I’m that grateful for the money and I’ll buy a proper bonnet before we meet again.”
Maybrick reined in his seething frustration and disappointment with barely restrained violence. He gripped the wicked new knife inside his pocket until his whole hand ached. He wanted to strike now, curse it! But he had to wait until the tart found Lachley’s letters, had hours to wait, yet. I will rip her apart, he thought savagely, rip her wide open and let the rain wash the filth from the bleeding womb she sells so freely . . .