Pregnant, utterly penniless, Mary Kelly had nowhere else to turn.
“Sit down, please.” He ushered her to a chair, drawing another up close beside her. “What brings you here? Your hands are like ice, Mary, would you like a brandy to warm you?”
“Please, yes . . .” Her voice was shaking as badly as her hands.
He splashed brandy into a snifter, handed it to her, watched her gulp it down.
“What can I do for you, then?”
She lowered the empty glass to her threadbare lap. “I need . . . I’m in terrible trouble, you see, and I thought . . . I thought you might be interested in . . . the reason why.”
He tipped his head to one side, eyes merry. “If you’re going to tell me I’m the father of whatever brat you might be carrying, I would point out it’s been more than seven months, my dear, and you clearly are not seven months gone with child.”
Her face flamed. “No, it’s not the baby, that’s Joseph’s, right enough, and he’s been good to me. It’s this . . .” She dug into her pocket, brought out the grimy sheets of foolscap which Joseph had brought home for her to translate, after buying them from Dark Annie. Poor Joe, he’d thought these hideous little letters would be their ticket to wealth. But Annie was dead, monstrously so, as was the woman she’d got them from, and after reading these letters, Mary was terrified that she would be next, she and whoever else had been insane enough to lay hands on one of these sordid little missives.
He glanced at the writing, frowned. “This is in Welsh, is it not?”
She nodded. “My man . . . he bought them, you see, from Annie, when she needed medicines, asked me to read them out for him. There were others . . .” Her voice had begun to shake again. “Annie had them from Polly and now they’re both dead! Murdered and cut apart by this madman in Whitechapel!”