The boy began shaking, crying. "She—she was going to tell the constables—I hadn't any money left, all I had was the letters—gave her half of them to keep her quiet—"
"Who?" The second blow was harder, bruising his fair skin.
"Polly!" The name was wrenched from him. He sobbed it out again, "Polly Nichols... filthy, drunken tart..."
"And what will Polly Nichols do with them, eh?" he asked, twisting cruelly a sensitive bit of Morgan's anatomy until the boy cried out in sharp protest. "Show them to all her friends? How much will they want, eh?"
"Wouldn't—wouldn't do any good, all she has is my word they're worth anything—"
He slapped Morgan again, hard enough to split his lips. "Stupid sod! Do you honestly think she won't read your pitiful letters? You are a fool, little boy. But don't ever make the mistake of thinking I am!"
Morgan was shaking his head frantically. "No, Johnny, no, you don't understand, she can't read them! They're not in English!"
Surprise left John Lachley momentarily speechless. "Not in English?" It came out flat as a squashed tomato. "What do you mean, not in English? Eddy doesn't have the intelligence to learn another language. I'm surprised the dear boy can speak his own, let alone a foreign one. Come, now, Morgan, you'll have to do better than that."
Morgan was crying again. "You'll see, I'll get them for you, Johnny, I'll show you, they're not in English, they're in Welsh, his tutor helped him—"
He backhanded the sniveling liar. Morgan's head snapped violently sideways.
"Don't play me for a fool!"
"Please," Morgan whimpered, bleeding from cut lips and a streaming nose, "it's true, why would I lie to you now, Johnny, when you promised you wouldn't hurt me again if I told you the truth? You have to believe me, please..."
John Lachley was going to enjoy coercing the truth from this pathetic little liar.
But Morgan wasn't done blubbering yet. His eyes, a watery blue from the tears streaming down his face, were huge and desperate as he babbled out, "Eddy told me about it, right after he sent the first one in Welsh, asked me if I liked his surprise. He thought it was a grand joke, because the ever-brilliant Mr. James K. Stephen—" it came out bitter, jealous, sounding very much, in fact, like Eddy "—was always so smart and learned things so easily and made sure Eddy was laughed at all through Cambridge, because everybody but a few of the dons knew it was Mr. James K. Stephen writing Eddy's translations in Latin and Greek for him, so Eddy could copy them out correctly in his own hand! He told me about it, how much he paid dear Jamesy for each translation his tutor did for him while they were still at Cambridge! So when Eddy wanted to write letters nobody else could read, he got the doting Mr. James K. Stephen to help him translate those for him, too, paid him ten sovereigns for each letter, so he wouldn't whisper about them afterwards..."
It was, Lachley decided, just possible that Morgan was telling him the truth. Paying his tutor to translate his Latin and Greek at University was very Eddy-like. So was paying the man to translate his love letters, God help them all. He caught Morgan's chin in one hand, tightened down enough to bruise his delicate skin. "And how much did Eddy pay his tutor to keep the secret that he was writing love letters in Welsh to a male whore?"
"He didn't! Tell him, I mean. That I'm a boy. He told Mr. Stephen that ‘Morgan' was a pretty girl he'd met, from Cardiff, said he wanted to impress her with letters in her own native Welsh, so Mr. Stephen wouldn't guess Eddy was writing to me. He's not so very bright, Eddy, but he doesn't want to go to prison! So he convinced Mr. Stephen I was a girl and the gullible idiot helped Eddy write them, I swear it, Eddy said he stood over his shoulder and told him all the right Welsh words to use, even for the dirty parts, only when Eddy wrote out the second copies to me in private, he changed all the words you'd use for a girl's body to the right ones for a boy, because he looked that up, himself, so he'd know—"
"Second copies?"
Morgan flinched violently. "Please, Johnny, please don't hit me again! Eddy thought it would be funny, so he sent me the first copies attached to the ones he wrote out especially for me..."
His voice faded away as Lachley's white-faced fury sank in, mistaking Lachley's rage honestly enough. My God, the royal bastard is stupider than I thought! If it would do any good, I'd cut off Eddy's bollocks and feed them to him! Any magistrate in England would take one look at a set of letters like that and throw away the bloody key!
He no longer doubted Morgan's sordid little tale about Welsh translations. Eddy was just that much of a fool, thinking himself clever with such a trick, just to impress a money grubbing, blackmailing little whore not fit to sell his wares for a crust of bread, much less royal largesse.
Morgan was gasping out, "It's true, Johnny, I'll prove it, I'll get the letters back and show you..."
"Oh, yes, Morgan. We will, indeed get those letters back. Tell me, just where might I find this Polly Nichols?"
"She's been staying at that lodging house at 56 Flower and Dean Street, the White House they call it, rooming with a man, some nights, other nights sharing with Long Liz Stride or Catharine Eddowes, whoever's got the doss money for the night and needs a roommate to share the cost..."
"What did you tell Polly Nichols when you gave her the letters?"
"That they were love letters," he whispered. "I didn't tell her who they were from and I lied, said they were on his personal stationery, when they're on ordinary foolscap, so all she'll know is they've been signed by someone named Eddy. Someone rich, but just Eddy, no last name, even."
"Very good, Morgan. Very, very good."
Hope flared in the little fool's wet eyes.
He patted Morgan's cheek almost gently.
Then Lachley brought out the knife.
Chapter Five
The reporters were waiting outside his office building, of course.
Senator Caddrick stepped out of his chauffeured limo and faced the explosion of camera flashes and television lights with an expression of grief and shock and carefully reddened eyes.
"Senator! Would you comment on this terrorist attack—"
"—tell us how feels to lose your sister-in-law to terrorists—"
"—any word on your daughter—"
Caddrick held up his hands, pled with the reporters. "Please, I don't know anything more than you do. Cassie's dead..." He paused, allowing the catch in his voice to circle the globe live via satellite. "My little girl is still missing, her college roommate has been brutally murdered, that's all I know, really..." He was pushing his way through the mob, his aide at his side.
"Is it true the terrorists were members of the Ansar Majlis, the down-time organization that's declared jihad against the Lady of Heaven Temples?"
"Will this attack cause you to re-open your campaign to shut down the time terminals?"
"Senator, are you aware that Senator Simon Mukhtar al Harb, a known Ansar Majlis sympathizer, is spearheading an investigation into the Temples—"
"Senator, what do you plan to do about this attack—"
He turned halfway up the steps leading to his office and faced the cameras, allowing his reddened eyes to water. "I intend to find my daughter," he said raggedly. "And I intend to find the bastards responsible for her disappearance, and for murdering poor Cassie... If it turns out these down-timer terrorists were responsible for Cassie's murder, if they've kidnapped my only child, then I will do whatever it takes to get every time terminal on this planet shut down! I've warned Congress for years, the down-timers flooding into the stations are a grave threat to the stability of our up-time world. And now this... I'm sorry, that's all I can say, I'm too upset to say anything else."