“Can’t. If you double up high-powered spells like that, you’re almost guaranteed nasty side effects. Don’t take my word for it, though. Check it out with your spellcasting buddies. Either this sorcerer didn’t think about werewolves, like the last one didn’t think about vampires, or he figured there was no real risk. Vamps are known for stealth, weres for killing.”
“So this letter is in Toronto?” I said.
Xavier nodded. “Owned by the grandson of Theodore Shanahan, the sorcerer who had it stolen from the police archives. Guy’s name is Patrick Shanahan. Lives alone. Typical investment banker-keeps his life very ordered and dull, with a strict routine. You won’t show up and find he’s moved the letter or skipped a client dinner to stay home unexpectedly. If he does? Abort, and we’ll try again. No rush. No pressure. This letter isn’t going anywhere.”
I glanced at Clay. Another shrug, but this one merging into a nod.
“Let me think about it,” I said.
“Really?” Xavier cleared his throat. “I mean, sure. Right. Think about it, do your research, make sure everything’s on the up and up. I’ll give you everything you need. I’ve bought a contact with access to the house, so I’m working on that now. All you’ll need to do is go in and get the letter.”
It would be Jeremy who made the final decision, but I wanted to do my homework before I decided how strongly I’d support Xavier’s offer. I’d start with the letter. I hadn’t wanted to admit the depths of my ignorance in front of Xavier, but say “From Hell” and “Jack the Ripper” to me, and the only association sparked was the Johnny Depp movie, which I’d wanted to see and Clay hadn’t. Nick and I had ended up ditching him at the multiplex, sending Clay in to see Training Day and telling him we’d catch up after we got the popcorn.
Took thirty minutes for Clay to realize we weren’t coming back, and another ten to get past the ushers and track us down in From Hell, whereupon he declared that if we’d really wanted to see it, we could have just said so. Then he plunked himself into the seat beside mine and spent a half hour grousing about how much he hated serial killer flicks before I shoved my Milk Duds box in his mouth, and Nick and I moved to a spot with no empty adjoining seats.
A typical night at the movies. The upshot being that my memories of the movie had big Clay-induced plot holes, and if there had been a mention of the letter that had inspired the title, I didn’t remember it.
As we walked into the house, I said, “I’ll go online and see what I can find out about this letter.”
“Let’s ask Jeremy first.”
“Jeremy?”
Clay shrugged. “He likes solving mysteries. He might know something.”
“About a case like Lizzie Borden maybe. Jack the Ripper is definitely not Jeremy’s style.”
“Maybe.”
The study door opened down the hall and Jeremy walked into the foyer.
“That was quick,” Jeremy said. “Was there a problem?”
“Questions needing answers,” I said. “He’s serious about giving up Hargrave-says if his tip doesn’t pan out, we don’t owe him anything. Hard to argue with that. But the favor he wants in return is…a little strange.”
“Jack the Ripper,” Clay said. “What do you know about him?”
Jeremy frowned. “Jack the Ripper?”
“Victorian serial killer,” I said. “Killed some prostitutes-”
“Five women in Whitechapel in the fall of 1888,” Jeremy said. “I know who he is, Elena.”
“Obviously,” I said. I tried to keep the surprise from my voice, but the corners of Jeremy’s mouth twitched.
“Come into the study,” he said. “I’m hardly an expert on the subject, but I’ll see if I can start you in the right direction…after you tell me what this has to do with Xavier’s request.”
Jeremy didn’t “start us in the right direction.” He got us all the way to the last stop, and then some. I guess I should have known. As Clay said, Jeremy did love a mystery, and there were few crimes with more questions and theories than those of Jack the Ripper.
First, Jeremy skimmed the particulars. “Then there are the letters,” he said, propping his feet on the ottoman. “Hundreds of letters sent to various members of the police and local press.”
“I thought only modern killers did that,” I said. “Establishing a correspondence with a reporter in hopes of getting more inches on the front page, keeping their crimes in the spotlight.”
“That may very well be what he was doing,” Jeremy said. “One of the first media-savvy criminals. But it’s more likely that the majority of those letters didn’t come from him. Had he really written them all…well, let’s just say his wrist would have been too tired to wield a knife.”
“Fakes,” I said. “Written by people in serious need of a life.”
“Presumably that’s where most came from, though some are believed to have been written by reporters themselves, frustrated by the lack of news between killings.”
“Next they’ll be saying the Ripper himself was a journalist, killing people to boost paper sales,” I muttered.
“You know, newspaper sales did skyrocket during that period…”
I shook my head. “So this letter Xavier wants is a fake?”
“Perhaps. And yet…Imagine you’re the killer. Someone else is writing to the press and the police, claiming to be you. Dozens of people, signing your name to letters, putting their words in articles that are supposed to be about you.”
“Identity theft, Victorian style. You’d want to set them straight. So you send real letters proving you’re the killer.”
Jeremy nodded. “There are three letters many believed to be genuine. The first, sent to the Central News Agency, appears to hint at a double murder committed a few days later. The second, sent to the same place, refers to the original letter, and includes details of the crimes that hadn’t yet reached the papers. Still, there were doubters, those who believed the references in the first were too vague and the details in the second could have been leaked. Two weeks later, a third letter came in, this one sent instead to the chairman of the Whitechapel Vigilance Committee.”
“The From Hell letter,” I murmured.
“Called so because that was the return address on the envelope: From Hell. Enclosed with the letter was half a human kidney, and one of the victims was indeed missing her kidney. Tests indicated it came from a woman approximately the victim’s age but that was the best they could do at the time, so whether it was a hoax or not was never determined. Obviously the man who wants to buy it believes it’s the real thing. Yet all that matters, for our purposes, is that the letter does indeed exist and is indeed missing, as Xavier claims.”
“What happened to it?”
“It was boxed up with the other evidence and packed away for a hundred years. When they opened the files in 1988, the From Hell letter wasn’t there. It may have simply been misplaced. Conspiracy theories speculate that it was ‘removed,’ either by the police to cover a misstep, or by ‘interested parties,’ who feared it contained an important clue. Most likely, the truth is exactly what Xavier believes, that it was stolen for its value on the collectors’ black market.”
He paused, tilting his head slightly, eyes unfocusing as he retrieved something from his memory. “There was a story that it was bought by a Canadian collector. Interesting, given where Xavier claims it is now. I don’t think there was ever much credence given to the rumor. It wasn’t very interesting, given the other possibilities.”
“That’s the problem with the truth,” I said. “Making things up is so much more fun. So what do you want us to do?”
Again, Jeremy paused, this time for a few minutes. Then he pulled his feet off the ottoman and straightened. “Look into it more before you get back to him. Be thorough, but be quick. If we can get to Hargrave, I want to make this deal before he decides to move on. Start by confirming what I’ve just told you. It’s been years since I took an interest, so make sure the letter hasn’t turned up in the meantime.”