“C’n I rip her?” Maybrick’s voice came from nearby, dulled by the drug, sleepy.
“No, James. She’s mine.” He glanced around to find the drugged merchant swaying on his feet. “Come here, James, you’d best lie down and rest.” He dragged the unconscious, half-naked woman to one side, making room on the long work bench for Maybrick to stretch out. Ignoring the woman for several minutes, Lachley concentrated on taking Maybrick into a deep trance to erase any possibility of Maybrick’s mentioning him or the bizarre devices they’d found tonight, when he returned home and scribbled out his diary entries.
“When will you be able to return to London, James?” he murmured.
“Not sure . . . long time . . . business . . .”
“Dammit, we have to find the Welsh woman in Miller’s Court and eliminate her,” Lachley muttered, “the sooner the better. Very well, James, the next time you return to London, you will locate a woman in Miller’s Court for me, one who speaks Welsh. She is the woman you will kill next.”
Maybrick’s drugged face changed, coming alive with a hunger Lachley recognized very well, now. “I want to rip her . . . I’ll slash her face, the faithless whore, cut off her breasts, kiss them when I’ve cut them off . . .”
“Later, James! You may do all of that, the next time you return to London.” Maybrick’s eyes were closing again, his breaths deepening. “Later . . .”
“Sleep, James,” Lachley muttered. “When you wake, you will return to Liverpool. You will have no memory of me at all, not until I send you a telegram. Only then will you recall my name, this place. Sleep, James, and dream of ripping the whore in Miller’s Court . . .”