Molly added, “We got Viking ring-mail shirts on, underneath.” She plucked at her loose-fitting dress. “Connie give us the loan. Didn’t ‘ave no other armor would fit under a frock, so she didn’t. B’sides, I know somefink about this ‘ere bloke, might be important.”
Kit rocked back on his heels. “You know him? John Lachley?”
Molly shrugged. “ ‘Corse I knows ‘im. Come up out of Whitechapel, ‘e did. Called ‘imself Johnny Anubis. Read fortunes and suchlike. Nasty little blagger. Wot’s more, ‘e ain’t a normal man, so ‘e ain’t. I walked them streets, ‘eard wot the girls said about ‘im. They said ‘is male parts weren’t made right. Were ‘alf woman, ‘e were, wiv an Hampton Wick small as your little finger and wot a lady’s got, besides, only that ain’t made right, neither. A couple of girls wot laughed at ‘im ended floating in the Thames wiv cut throats. Never could prove nuffink, but I say ‘e done ’em, ‘is own self.”
Kit frowned. Had John Lachley been born an intersexual? He had to force aside quick pity. It didn’t matter—couldn’t be allowed to matter—what Lachley had suffered in London’s East End, growing up with a blurred gender. Too many people had died already. Kit said quietly. “Whatever he once was, John Lachley is now Jack the Ripper and it’s our job to end his career. All right, ladies. You just might help us flush him out, acting as bait. I know Bergitta started training with you, Sven, after that Ansar Majlis attack, and I’d trust Molly in any scrap. Bergitta, you and Molly take the middle. Sven, you and I will take point, Kynan and Eigil, bring up rear guard. We’re searching Zone Seventeen again.”