Stunned, open-mouthed silence gripped John Lachley for long moments as he stared at the raving cotton merchant, for once completely at a loss as to how he ought to proceed. He’d never stumbled across anything even remotely like this homicidal fury. What had he said? . . . killed that filthy little prostitute in Manchester . . . squeezed the life out of her with my own hands . . . Lachley gripped the upholstered arms of his chair. Dear God! Should I contact the constabulary? This madman’s murdered someone! He started to speak, not even sure what he was going to say, when a frantic knocking rattled the front door, which was situated just outside the closed parlour. John Lachley started violently and slewed around in his chair. In the hallway just outside, his manservant answered the urgent summons.
“Your Highness! Come in, please! Whatever is wrong, sir?”
“I must see the doctor at once, Charles!”
Prince Albert Victor . . . In a high state of panic, too, from the sound of it.
John Lachley glared furiously at the ranting cotton merchant on the daybed, who lay there muttering about ripping his wife open with a knife for sleeping with some arsehole named Brierly, about keeping a diary some servant had almost discovered, nearly ending in a second murder, and something about a room he’d rented in Middlesex Street, Whitechapel, so he could kill more filthy whores, and hated James Maybrick with such an intense loathing, he had to clench his fists to keep from shooting him on the spot. The crisis of his career was brewing outside and this homicidal maniac had to be dealt with first!