He dug into his pocket and pulled out two shining shillings, which he handed over.
She smiled tremulously. “Thank you, sir. I’ll get the letters back with this, I promise you.”
The passing of the money between them was the signal James Maybrick had been waiting for all through the long night. He appeared from the darkness and walked toward them as Lachley caressed Annie’s breast through her worn, faded bodice and murmured, “Shall we go someplace quiet, then? You do seem a most agreeable lady on a cold night like this.” He smiled down into her eyes. “A mutually delightful few moments of pleasure now, then I’ll meet you this evening at Crossingham’s,” Lachley lied. “And I’ll buy the letters from you, then.”
“I’ll have them,” she said earnestly. “There’s a nice, quiet yard at number twenty-nine,” she added softly, nodding down the street toward a dilapidated tenement. “One of the girls I know oiled the hinges,” she added with a wink, “so there’s no chance of waking anybody. The second door, there, leads through the house to the yard.”
“Lovely,” Lachley smiled down at her. “Perfect. Shall we?”
Lachley eased open the door, aware that Maybrick trailed behind, silent as a shadow. Lachley escorted Annie through the black and stinking passage, then down the steps to the reeking yard behind. Very gently, he pressed her up against the high fence. Very gently, he bent, caressed her throat . . . nuzzled her ear. “Annie,” he murmured. “You really shouldn’t have sold those letters, pet. Give my love to Polly, won’t you?”