As they headed back for the dusty saloon, Skeeter wondered uneasily about yet another mystery: just what Sid Kaederman’s role in this lethal mess might be.
Chapter Five
John Lachley laid a sheet of blotter paper gently across the glistening, blood-red ink of the missive he’d just finished, then held the newly penned letter up to the light to read it again, judging the effect. It hadn’t been easy, writing in the style of Maybrick’s disjointed ramblings. He’d worked very hard to sprinkle the man’s irritating Americanisms into the language. But he was proud of the results.
“Dear Boss . . .” the letter began.
I keep on hearing the police have caught me but they wont fix me just yet. I have laughed when they look so clever and talk about being on the right track. That joke about Leather Apron gave me real fits. I am down on whores and I shant quit ripping them till I do get buckled. Grand work the last job was. I gave the lady no time to squeal. How can they catch me now. I love my work and want to start again. You will soon hear of me with my funny little games. I saved some of the proper red stuff in a ginger beer bottle over the last job to write with but it went thick like glue and I cant use it. Red ink is fit enough I hope ha. ha. The next job I do I shall clip the ladys ears off and send to the police officers just for jolly wouldn’t you. Keep this letter back till I do a bit more wo7rk, then give it out straight. My knife’s so nice and sharp I want to get to work right away if I get a chance. Good luck.
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