“You said it. We gotta talk. Somewhere quiet.” Women were still sobbing hysterically over the severed head the Ripper had hurled at the departing tour, lamenting their lost baggage and the cash they’d left in their trunks, cash they needed for the trip.
“Yes, the sooner the better,” Malcolm said thinly. “Margo, my dear, please ask Mr. Gilbert to meet us in his study. With a very large decanter of bourbon.”
Margo shot toward the house, threading her way nimbly through wailing tourists and staggering porters. Malcolm asked, “How many men have you brought to search, Skeeter?”
“All the porters who came through are on search detail if we need ’em. Dr. Booker’s come through to help make an identification. She gave Caddrick’s kid a new face. Benny Catlin’s. And there’s a detective you’re just gonna love. Caddrick hired him.”
Paula Booker peered through the crowd anxiously. “I’d better find Mr. Kaederman. We don’t want him slipping off on his own.”
Malcolm followed her progress with his gaze, then turned to Skeeter, waiting expectantly. “Long story,” Skeeter sighed. “Very long.”
“Then the sooner we’re inside, the sooner you can begin telling it.” Malcolm ushered him through the chaos in the garden, steering him past the back door, which one of the servants had chocked open, leading him to another door farther on. They entered Spaldergate through a scrupulously maintained conservatory replete with hothouse flowers and overly green smells. From there, they followed a carpeted corridor toward the front of the house, bypassing the bulk of the arriving tour. Darkened, silent rooms closed away from public view for the night lay just off the hall, while the parlour, at the front of the house on the ground floor—rather than the more traditional first-floor arrangement found in London town houses—blazed with light. The whole front of the house was filling up with distraught refugees from the shaken tour.