“You may. I will be insulted if you do not.”
He waved a waitress over to request another cup of tea, and, once the girl had been dispatched, he said, “We have three victims, all female. The second one, our air-raid shelter schoolteacher, did not show signs of having had recent sexual activity. My guess is that Sir Bernard’s examination of Miss Ward… Mrs. Oatley… will show that she did.”
Agatha was nodding again, very slowly now. “I believe I follow you, Inspector.”
“Ted.”
“… Ted. The first and third of the women, by the nature of their professions, would have had sexual intercourse, recently. Quite apart from the crime committed upon them.”
The inspector also was nodding. “My best guess would be that our Ripper had ‘normal’ relations with victims one and three, after which-perhaps seized with some unnatural rage against women-he strangled them.”
Could this be, Agatha wondered, an individual who-upon sexual climax-felt guilt, or even revulsion? A sense of uncleanness… either about himself, or his paid partner, that sent him into a misogynistic fury?
She said, “Then you do think this is the work of a man.”
“Most likely. But remember, Agatha-one theory about the original, Whitechapel Ripper, never disproven, is that ‘Jack’ was a ‘Jill.’ ”
Agatha found herself smiling. “Jill the Ripper? Isn’t that absurd on its face?”
“Not really. The medical skills displayed by the turn-of-the-century Ripper were consistent with those of a midwife.”
“From what I saw,” Agatha said, and allowed herself a shudder, “our current Ripper, whether Jack or Jill, has no discernible surgical skills.”
“I would have to agree. One does wonder… why has the killer escalated into mutilation? That is, if we are indeed looking at the same offender.”
Agatha raised her eyebrows knowingly and sipped her coffee.
The inspector again leaned forward. “If you’re thinking something, Agatha, please share it. I wouldn’t be sitting here conversing with you in the midst of a murder case if I didn’t take your contribution seriously.”
“You’re too kind… but I’m afraid my own prejudices would show through all too clearly, if I were to express this particular opinion.”
“I’ll take that into account.”
Now Agatha leaned forward. “What has changed since the first two murders?”
“This one is more barbaric-”
“No. I didn’t state myself clearly. What has changed between the first two murders and the commission of this third atrocity?”
The inspector frowned, then shook his head. “Nothing comes to my mind. What comes to yours?”
“The newspapers. Specifically, the tabloids.”
The inspector’s eyes flared. “Crikey! You’re right. The press dubbed our boy a new ‘Ripper.’ ”
“And how does our Ripper respond to this attention? He… or, giving you the benefit of the doubt, Ted, she… decided to live up to the title the press bestowed.”
The bulldog face paled. “Surely that can’t be…. The killer showed hatred of women in the first two killings, and he’s merely getting bolder, and escalating out of his own mania… not spurred on by his press clippings.”
Agatha shrugged. “It has been my observation that a certain breed of wrongdoer enjoys the limelight. No doubt this string of murders is the first ‘important’ thing this unfortunate individual has ever managed to do.”
“Unfortunate?” His brow was heavily ridged with displeased surprise. “Surely, Agatha, you’re not one of the ‘reforming’ breed, who think villains are pooooor victims of their heredity and environment…?”
She took another sip; the coffee was wonderfully bitter. “I’m willing to believe that the likes of our Ripper are ‘made’ that way… born with a kind of disability, as if coming into this world blind.”
“That hardly justifies-”
“One should pity them,” she said, interrupting (something she seldom did, but the views she held on this subject were strong within her). “But not spare them.”
He chuckled; the ridged forehead smoothed itself out. “Well, hearing that from you is a relief. Because if ever a villain needed to swing, this one does.”
She shrugged. “I’m not against hanging. What else can we do with those who are tainted with hatred and ruthlessness? For whom other people’s lives go for nothing?”
“Mrs. Mallowan… Mrs. Christie. You are not what I expected.”
“Have you read Milton, Inspector?”
“As a schoolboy.”
“How well do you remember it?”
“As well as the next bloke, I’d say.”
“Satan wanted to be great, do you recall? He wanted power-he wanted to be God. He had no love in him, no… humility. He chose evil.”
The inspector was shaking his head again. “Difficult to believe that the newspapers themselves, by glorifying the likes of a Ripper, could somehow encourage him….”
“It’s a pity the papers save their bad reviews for artists, and reserve their rave reviews for criminals.”
That amused the inspector, who finished his tea and requested that Agatha give him the names of-and any insights she might have into-each of the individuals they would be interviewing this afternoon. She did this, and he dutifully jotted notes.
A dress rehearsal of her new play was scheduled for two p.m. at the St. James, and Agatha felt confident that the inspector’s interviews with the appropriate parties-producer Bertram Morris, director Irene Helier Morris, dialogue coach Francis L. Sullivan, and the producer’s secretary, Janet Cummins-could be squeezed in around the proceedings. This left only Stephen Glanville and Janet’s RAF pilot husband, who would not be at the theater for an interview.
“We could call Stephen,” Agatha said, “and arrange a meeting for his Whitehall office, or at the Lawn Road Flats, after work.”
“Either would be fine-you’re kind to suggest it.” The inspector rose, saying, “I’ll take care of the bill while you give him a call, if you would. Oh, and would you ask Dr. Glanville what the best way is, to get ahold of this young cadet? Seeing as how he’s a superior of the boy’s.”
The cafe had a public phone, which Agatha used. Stephen was apparently fairly important at the Air Ministry, because it took her one switchboard operator and two secretaries to make her way to him.
“Well, what a bizarre coincidence,” Stephen said. “That young woman the next victim… how terrible. How tragic.”
Stephen’s words rang hollow, but that was to be expected: when someone one knows only slightly dies, the news arrives with an abstract impact, devoid of the emotion the loss of a close friend would bring.
“Frankly, dear,” Stephen was saying, “I really don’t know that I would have anything of use for your inspector….”
Rather than point out to Stephen that talking to the police in a murder investigation was not optional, Agatha said, “Would you speak to him, though? Just as a favor to me. I’m the one that caused this inconvenience, after all.”
“And how on earth is that?”
“Well, by recognizing the girl.”
“… Would six-fifteen be convenient?”
“It would. Could you stop by my flat?”
“Certainly. Is there anything else?”
“Actually, there is. Inspector Greeno is going to want to chat with Janet Cummins’s young flier. Perhaps you could make a call and find out when and how that might best be arranged.”
“I will. Does the inspector want to talk to young Cummins this afternoon, or shall I bring the information to our meeting at six-fifteen?”
“I would imagine the latter is fine. We’ll be at the theater for the better part of the afternoon, I should think.”
As it turned out, the interviews were not held at the theater. With a full dress rehearsal under way, nowhere in the theater-from the stalls to the dressing rooms-could be commandeered; even the offices were bustling with phone calls relating to last-minute preparations for Friday’s big event.