A Lady's Guide to Mischief and Mayhem (A Lady's Guide #1)(4)

“This is important.” Kate shook her head in disbelief. “But we’ve had our best reporters on this story for weeks, and they’ve heard nothing about Scotland Yard making this connection.”

“It’s possible they’ve already come to the same conclusions we have and haven’t told the public about it,” Caro said. “It’s my understanding that they don’t especially care for the press.”

“But there should be some sort of warning,” Kate said. “People are in danger from this killer, and there’s been no warning about this.”

“To be fair,” Caro said, “I wouldn’t know how to phrase such a warning and I’ve written four books. They were about cookery, mind you, but I’m not unfamiliar with words. Not to mention the fact that a great many people in London break the Commandments on a daily basis.”

“I suppose that makes some degree of sense. We don’t wish to sound as judgmental as the killer, after all.” But Kate still believed the Yard could be doing a better job of getting the word out about the possible motives behind the killings. “And perhaps our column can do something to warn those at risk.”

Quickly, they agreed on a basic outline for what they wished to convey in their first foray into writing as a team. Both thought it would be best to give an outline of who had been killed so far, a sketch of their ages and occupations, and whom they’d left behind. Neither wished to dwell on the “sins” that the killer had deemed serious enough to warrant death, so they kept their discussion of the notes and the Commandments to a paragraph at the end, where they issued a general warning that until the culprit was apprehended, the population at large should be very careful about whom they interacted with.

It took them nearly two hours, but finally the two ladies had a sheaf of pages comprising the inaugural A Lady’s Guide to Mischief and Mayhem column.

“I know it’s probably inappropriate to get pleasure from such a dark subject.” Caro smiled ruefully. “But that was fun.”

“Life is hard enough that I think we must take our pleasure where it is offered,” Kate said pragmatically. “Thank you for agreeing to my mad invitation. Not only because this was fun but also because I think we can do some real good with our column.”

“I hope so.” Caro stood and stretched her back. “At the very least we’ll be offering a feminine perspective on what has thus far been a very male-centered discussion.”

“And if our writing can spur Scotland Yard into doing a better job and perhaps even catching the killer?” Kate asked. “I for one would not mind that in the least.”

“Hear, hear.” Caro gathered up her things.

“I know it’s early to talk about our next column,” Kate said, rising from her own chair, “but I think we should do a bit of investigating for it. Perhaps talk to the people at the places where the female victims were last seen.”

Caro beamed. “It’s never too early to talk about writing. And I think we will get along capitally, because I was just about to make the same suggestion. When shall we start?”

Kate turned back from locking her office door. “Is tomorrow morning too soon?”

*



“There it is, up ahead,” Kate said the next morning as she and Caro, accompanied by Caro’s very large footman, made their way through the heart of Spitalfields. “The White Hart.”

It was their second stop of the day, which had begun with a trip to The Queen’s Arms in Whitechapel, where their questions had been met with blank stares and a decisive reluctance to answer them. Though they’d both donned their oldest, most unfashionable gowns for their errand, their cultured accents marked them as outsiders. That they’d also identified themselves as members of the press only made their task that much harder.

Undaunted, they’d hailed a hansom cab and had him drop them a street away from their destination so that they could get a feel for the neighborhood.

What they’d discovered so far was, in daytime at least, a lively area teeming with people. There were children playing games in the street, a few of whom watched the unfamiliar faces with unashamed curiosity. A beggar, to whom both Kate and Caro gave a few pence each, greeted them as they reached the corner.

There was nothing that marked the area as any better or worse than other locations in the nation’s largest metropolis. And yet the body of a murdered woman had been found only yards away last week. Unable to help herself, Kate glanced toward the alley where Betsy Creamer’s body, riddled with stab wounds, had been found with a note about keeping the Sabbath day holy propped against her.

“You’re to remain out here while we go inside, James,” Caro said to the tall young footman who seemed to be more aghast at their surroundings than the ladies he was accompanying.

“But Mrs. Hardcastle made me promise,” the young man protested.

“What my mother doesn’t know won’t hurt her,” Caro said sharply. “Besides, I’ve brought my pistol.”

If anything, the man’s face turned more alarmed.

Taking pity on him, Kate said, “I’ll make sure she doesn’t come to any harm, James. Wait for us here on the corner. We won’t be long.”

James nodded at her assurance and turned to stand near the corner outside the chophouse.