“Newspaper . . .” Her eyes had closed completely. “London New Times.”
New Times? He’d never heard of it. Hardly surprising, though, new penny dreadfuls hit the market every month, competing for readership and advertisements. “What were you doing in the sewer?”
“Following you . . .”
A chill chased down his back. Well, of course she’d been following him, how else would she and her partner have found their way down here?
“What did you come here for?”
A tiny, fleeting smile. “Going to win the Carson Prizec . . . in historical photojournalism . . . nobody else had the guts to try it, following the Ripper . . .”
For a long moment, Lachley stood dumbstruck. The Ripper? She knew of the letter he’d sent out? The one the Central News Agency had not yet made public? He’d expected the newspaper to print the Dear Boss letter immediately, but the dratted editor had clearly held it back and might well have sent it to the police. Perhaps she’d seen the letter at the Central News Agency office, spying for her own publication? Then the rest of what she’d said sank in. Historical photojournalism? He’d never heard of such a profession, any more than he’d ever heard of a Carson Prize, whatever that was. Clearly, winning it was important enough to risk her life for it. “Historical photojournalism?” he echoed blankly. “Are you a photographer, then?”
Perhaps that device she’d been carrying was some sort of camera?
“Oh, yes, a very good photographer. Dominica Nosette, most famous photographer in the world . . .”