“August seventh,” Shahdi Feroz put in, “August Bank Holiday. And don’t forget Emma Smith, stabbed to death Easter Monday. To the residents of the East End, April fourth wasn’t all that long ago. Not when women are being cut to pieces and nobody feels safe walking the streets.”
“Yes,” Margo said forcefully. “So everyone out there will assume this is the third murder, not the first. We are not going to go charging into the East End asking, ‘Say, have you seen a foreign-looking doctor hereabouts, friend of James Maybrick’s?’ The investigators of the day had no inkling that James Maybrick was involved, let alone this other guy, whoever he turns out to be. So we’ll use extreme caution in proceeding with this investigation. Do I make myself perfectly clear on that point?”
Dominica Nosette looked petulant, but nodded. Slowly, her partner agreed, as well, grumbling and visibly irritated, but compliant. At least for the moment.
“Good. I’d suggest we analyze the tapes we’ve got for further clues. Inspector Melvyn, if you would rewind one of the backup copies while the master tape and other backups continue running?”
As they viewed the footage again, Shahdi Feroz pursed her lips thoughtfully. “He is familiar to me. The face is not quite right, but the voice . . . I have heard it somewhere. I would swear that I have.” She shook her head, visibly impatient with her own memory. “It will come to me, I am certain. There are so many I have studied in so many different places and time, over the past few years. I spent several weeks in London, alone, looking into occult groups such as the Theosophical Society and various Druidic orders. And if he is a friend to James Maybrick, he, too, may be a Liverpudlian, not a Londoner. But I know that I have seen or heard him before. Of that, I am completely certain.”