Seven adults and two kids . . .
Not the best odds he’d ever faced.
But it would have to do. God help them all, it would have to do, because they were out of time—and so was poor Bergitta.
* * *
They met in a dingy, drab little pub called the Horn of Plenty on the corner of Dorset Street and Chrispin. As he had been the night of Polly Nichols’ murder, John Lachley was once again in deep disguise. James Maybrick was proving most useful in procuring theatrical disguises for him, at the same shops patronized by one of Lachley’s new clients, a popular actor at the Lyceum Theater where the infamous American play Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde was packing in sellout crowds bent on vicarious thrills.
The thrills Lachley and James Maybrick sought tonight were anything but vicarious. Lachley made eye contact with Maybrick across the smoke-filled pub, making certain his disciple recognized him through the false beard, sideburns, and scar, then nodded toward the door. Maybrick, eyes glittering with intense excitement, paid for his pint of bitters and exited. Lachley finished his stout leisurely, then sauntered out into the night. Maybrick waited silently across the street, leaning one shoulder against the brick wall of a doss house opposite the pub.
Lachley’s pulse quickened when Maybrick glanced into his eyes. Maybrick’s excitement was contagious. The cotton merchant’s color was high, even though he didn’t know, yet, the identity of the woman they were to kill tonight. The knowledge that Lachley meant to guide him to his next victim was clearly sufficient to excite the man beyond the bounds of reason. The telegram which had summoned Maybrick back to London from Liverpool had read: “Friday appointment. Arrange as before.”