The Cutthroat (Isaac Bell 10)

“I would not have you lose your job and your home on my account.”

“It’s the Ripper’s account.”

“I thank you for all your help. Maybe I can pay you back. Abbington-Westlake has a theory that the Ripper was sending messages to, quote, ‘besmirch the Freemasons.’ What do you think?”

Nigel Roberts’s eyes glittered. “I’ll look into it. But I will tell you right off, it would be far more complicated than the spy supposes. And much, much more interesting.”

“I hope I haven’t sent you down a rabbit hole.”

“I like rabbit holes.”

Maybe it wasn’t as lunatic as it sounded, and Bell had a strong feeling that the old cop would devote the rest of his life to investigating the Freemason angle. No doubt that if there were such an angle, Nigel Roberts was the man to nail it down.

Bell extended his hand. “I’ve got to catch the boat train.”

“Are you convinced the

killer who murdered your Anna is Jack the Ripper?”

“I’m pretty sure he’s a man in his forties. I’m pretty sure he never stopped killing. I am pretty sure he is carving a message into these poor girls’ bodies that says who he is. But the only fact I know for sure is that until I decipher his message, he’s still on the loose.”

Bell stopped at the Jermyn Street office on his way out of London.

“What happened to your face?” Joel Wallace asked.

“Ran into a door. I want you to see what you can turn up on Jack Spelvin.”

“Who?”

“The Wilton’s Music Hall callboy Emily remembered.”

“Oh, yeah. But I thought she was confused.”

“Just in case I’m the one confused, I’d like you to find out where Mr. Jack Spelvin was acting in 1889, ’ninety, and the first half of ’ninety-one. And where did he go from there?”

“Tall order, Mr. Bell.”

“Do you have any friends in the music halls?”

“Couple of chorus gals, of course, but, uh—”

“Start with them.”

Joel Wallace shrugged dubiously. “Before their time.”

Bell said, “Maybe their mothers remember him.”

27

Aboard the Jekyll & Hyde Special highballing to Toledo and Detroit, Jackson Barrett and John Buchanan were ensconced in their private cars, Buchanan closeted with the company treasurer, Barrett entertaining a clutch of newspaper reporters with a bottomless whiskey bottle and a font of theater stories.

“Mr. Barrett?” asked an attractive woman representing a Chicago paper. “You alternate the roles of Jekyll and Hyde, seemingly at random. Do you ever forget which role you are playing?”

The big baritone voice lowered conspiratorially: “Well, I’ll tell you. When in doubt, I glance into the wings and steal a look at Mr. Buchanan. If he’s made up like Hyde, I know I’m Jekyll.”

The reporters laughed, and scribbled.

The company publicist, standing guard, beamed.