He swore savagely, wondering what in God’s name to do now.
The bitch must be found, of course, found and silenced.
She lived in Miller’s Court, Ianira had said. He knew the place from his childhood. Miller’s Court was not a large space, after all. How many girls from Cardiff could there be, living in that dismal little square? He closed his eyes against such a monstrous spectre. A Welsh girl, in possession of Eddy’s Welsh letters . . . Had she already sent a blackmail demand to the palace? Were Eddy’s power and position in mortal peril, after all? Because Annie Chapman, the stupid bitch, had neglected to mention a third recipient of her letters?
He drew a deep, calming breath. Surely no blackmail demand had been sent, yet. Eddy would’ve come to him in a high state of panic, if one had. Hopefully, Polly and Annie’s grisly fate had frightened the Welsh tart too deeply to act. Still, she had got to be found and done away with, the sooner the better. God, would this nightmare never come to an end? With yet another woman to trace and destroy, perhaps Lachley ought not send his damning Ripper letter to the press, after all? A moment’s consideration, however, convinced him to risk it, anyway. Maybrick would be in London at the end of the week, so this girl in Miller’s Court could be eliminated on the same night as Stride and Eddowes. Three women in one weekend was a bit much, true . . .
But he hadn’t any real choice.
He spared a glance for the mysterious Ianira, pale and silent in her bed. “You,” he muttered aloud, “must wait a bit. Once this business is done, however, I will discover the identity of your husband.”