Alice had taken up a third letter on a larger sheet and scrutinized it, with Henry leaning over her shoulder.
From hell,
Mr. Lusk
Sor
I send you half the
Kidne I took from one women
prasarved it for you tother piece I
fried and ate it was very nise I
may send you the bloody knif that
took it out if you only wate a whil
longer
signed Catch me when
you can
Mishter Lusk
“The man certainly could use a spelling primer,” noted Henry. “Who is this Mishter Lusk?”
“Mr. George Lusk,” explained William, “president of the community’s Vigilance Committee, whose assistance to the police the murderer was apparently very proud to thwart. The letter was received only a few days ago, along with a small parcel containing half of a left kidney. Catherine Eddowes’s left kidney was indeed missing. There is no proof, given the timing of these letters, that they could not have been written based on newspaper accounts, hearsay, or even presence near the scene upon the discovery of the bodies. The organ too could have been obtained from another source. Still, the handwriting in these letters shows marks of similarity which, though hardly definitive, are noteworthy.”
“I see no consistency in the misspellings and punctuation,” noted Alice. “It looks like someone making up the mistakes as he goes along.”
William nodded. “They’re erratic, extravagant sorts of mistakes: ‘sor’ for ‘sir’; ‘knif’ for ‘knife.’ He drops the e but keeps the silent k. It’s what I call ‘disingenuous illiteracy,’ the spelling and syntax errors of someone who knows language but wants to appear ignorant.”
Alice had been fingering the letters ruminatively. “This one is on good vellum,” she noted. “Is there a stationer’s mark?”
“What?” asked William.
“The imprint that they put on stationery of a particular brand. It’s not readily perceptible, but held to the light, you can see it.”
William looked interested, if slightly annoyed. “I don’t know that either Abberline or I took note of that. It would be hard to trace a piece of vellum in London.”
“That depends on the quality. And certainly, if it’s good quality, it would help locate the killer as someone who circulates outside the East End.” She held the paper up to the light on her bed table and pointed to a mark that read “Pirie and Sons.” “It would be worth finding out how much of this paper they sell and the nature of their clientele. And if you had a suspect, you could check to see if his other correspondence comes from this particular stationer.”
“Good point,” said William, a touch sheepishly. “Are you going to illuminate anything else?”
“It seems interesting that the pens are different colors.”
“As the first letter said, he tried to use blood but substituted red ink instead.”
“True, but this ink on the postcard appears to be purple or brown. More than one colored ink was used, it would seem.”
“Part of the fantastic nature of the creature,” said William.
“Yes, but the inks themselves. Where did he get them?”
“I don’t believe that they’re hard to find.”
“But not in a cheap stationer’s.”
“It supports my theory that the man is not a poor illiterate,” said William a bit smugly. “I’ve already suggested as much. The handwriting, even when it seems to be primitive, is too good. And the spelling seems too mannered in its inaccuracy to be genuine.”
“Hmm,” said Alice. “What’s this?”
“What?” William asked. He had begun to feel defensive in the face of his sister’s astute observations.
“This mark near the bottom.”
“I noted that.” William nodded. “Abberline and I assume that it’s glue. It’s clear and shiny, slightly raised. It might suggest that the writer is in one of the trades, a cobbler or furniture maker, for example.”
“Possibly,” said Alice. “And this?” She pointed to a smudge on another letter.
“It looks like dried blood,” said Henry, leaning closer.
“Does dried blood look this way?” Alice asked William, assuming that, with his years of medical training, he could validate this fact.
He paused. “Not really. I made a note to look into it. The police assume it’s blood, given the context, but blood generally dries darker. But if it’s not blood, I don’t know what it is.”
“If it’s not blood, then what it is, is interesting,” said Alice a bit sharply. “I should like to study the letters this evening.”
“I don’t think so,” said William, taking them from her, replacing them in the envelope, and putting them back in his pocket.
“Were you planning to look at them tonight yourself?”
“No, not tonight. I have an appointment with Professor Sidgwick of Cambridge University.”
“Oh no!” groaned Alice.
“Henry Sidgwick is a noted philosopher and classical scholar. A giant in his field.”
“Also a spiritualist crank.”
“Alice!”
“I can’t help it. The man is president of the Society for Psychical Research—I believe that is the title chosen to dignify an interest in Ouija boards and crystal balls. For someone of your intellect and reputation to be drawn to that sort of thing is an embarrassment. I know that you mourn your Hermie; the loss of a child is more painful than any wound a human creature can suffer. But grief is no excuse for idiocy.”
“I will not listen to you speak this way.”
“All right. Just leave me the letters and go ask the spiritualists to solve the case.”
“I am not asking the spiritualists to solve the case. I’m just leaving the window open.”
“I never leave my windows open; surest way to catch a head cold,” commented Henry, but neither his brother nor sister were in the mood for his whimsy.
Alice glared at William. “Leave your window open, but close mine—bolt it, please,” she said sharply. “I don’t want some sniveling ghost rapping on my walls and chattering about how Father buttoned his jacket or Mother held her knife. If you want to talk that sort of palaver with a Cambridge don, you have my blessing. But I want the letters.”
William looked at his sister, took the envelope out of his pocket, and handed it over. “Keep them tonight. But be careful with them.”
“I’ll be sure to wash my hands.” Alice sat back on her pillows, looking pleased. “So now that that’s settled, what do you say to a cup of Moroccan coffee? Violet Paget brought the beans back from her last trip to the Orient. We could throw in a little eye of newt.”
William scowled and got up from his chair. “I’m afraid I have to skip the coffee. I promised Sidgwick I’d meet him at the Oxford and Cambridge Club.”
“I have tea if you prefer,” said Alice. “I’m told the leaves are very informative.”
William, sensing that mockery of an escalating sort was in the air, grabbed his hat and strode to the door.
“But if I can’t tempt you, then at least we can plan our next rendezvous.” She lowered her voice dramatically. “‘When shall we three meet again?’”
Henry took it up, laughing. “‘In thunder, lightning, or in rain?’”
“Oh shut up, both of you!” said William, slamming the door behind him.
Chapter 15
William left Alice’s flat and began to walk toward the site of his rendezvous with Henry Sidgwick. The prospect of meeting Sidgwick, with whom he had corresponded but never met, excited him. Both men were eminent in their fields of philosophy and shared, along with their respect for rational mind, a sense of great, uncharted vistas beyond the scope of the rational. People like his sister had no appreciation for this sort of thinking; they were grounded in practical reality. But William knew that the vast majority of human souls hungered for a belief in the unseen but feared how such belief might be perceived. Henry Sidgwick had the courage to look foolish.