“My God,” she whispered. She hesitated for a moment. “Do you know how you got here?”
“No.”
“Do you know who you are?”
“I, ah...” She shook her head. “Do you?”
The woman leaned closer. “Yes.”
A thrill of hope rushed through her, even as she worked to tamp it down. “I won’t give up my boots,” she declared, fearing some trick.
“No, you keep them. You’ll need them.” She leaned even closer and whispered, “You are Jacynda Lassiter.”
Jacynda? “Why don’t I know that?”
“You’ve been hurt. Now repeat the name to me.”
She couldn’t. She’d forgotten it already. Tears threatened to flow.
“Jacynda Lassiter. Now you say it.”
She did. The next time she tried, it was gone.
“I know it’s hard.” The woman rummaged through a pocket and retrieved a piece of paper. She tore off a small section and handed it over. “Can you read it?”
She studied the finely printed letters and sounded it out. “Ja...cynda Lass...iter.”
“That’s it,” the visitor affirmed, smiling encouragingly.
She pointed to another word. “What’s this one?”
“Cynda. Your friends call you that. Now keep this paper safe. Repeat the names over and over until you know them without looking. You must eat and—” a pause and the voice lowered, “find a way out.”
“I don’t know how,” she wailed.
Her visitor took hold of her shoulders. “Now listen to me. If you stay here, you will die. Do you understand?”
She nodded. “Can’t I go with you?”
“No. You have to find your own way out. Eat and survive. It’s very important for all of us, Jacynda Lassiter.”
The woman lowered the veil, then knocked on the door. It swung open, courtesy of the attendant. A moment later, the door bolted behind her visitor. The cell felt empty now. She’d liked the nice woman. She looked at the paper and sounded out the letters. “Jacynda Lass...Lassiter.” The kind lady had given her a name. It might not be her real one, but she’d claim it anyway. She knew no other.
“You will see she eats?” the woman asked as they walked along the lengthy corridor toward the entrance. On the left side were countless cells, each harboring a lost soul.
“We’ve been tryin’, but she says she’s not hungry,” the attendant replied. “She says a lot of odd things. Thinks we make her sleep on straw ’stead of a bed. Says that there are two others in there with her and one of them’s tryin’ ta steal her boots. Says she’s been here for days. Only just came ta us last night.” Then he looked chagrined. “Course ya’d know that, bein’ family and all.”
The woman nodded. “You will watch out for her, won’t you?” she asked.
He thought for a moment and smiled. “I’ll take her to Mad Sammy. If she likes the little miss, she’ll watch over her. No one crosses Sammy.”
A matching smile blossomed on the woman’s face. “That sounds like a very good idea.”
~??~??~??~
By the time Alastair reached Pratchett’s Bookshop, it was nearly eleven. He entered through the back gate and made his way down the passage to Jacynda’s rented room, his pulse racing with uncertainty. When his knocking brought no response from within, his heart sank. Perhaps the owner of the building had seen her this morning. That’s all Alastair needed: confirmation she was still alive, somewhere. Better yet, he wanted to hear Jacynda’s tale in person, while thanking God for her survival.
Mr. Pratchett looked up as he entered the shop, a welcoming smile in place. It seemed genuine.
“May I be of service, sir?” he asked brightly. Then he stared at Alastair’s face. It was a common reaction. The fire had not left him in good shape.
“I am Dr. Montrose and—”
“Oh, very glad to meet you!” Pratchett bustled out from behind a sizable stack of books. He was all of five feet, though not rotund like some of that height, his eyes clear and radiating a zest for life. “Miss Lassiter has spoken of you in such glowing terms I feel I already know you,” he enthused.
“How kind,” Alastair replied. “I knocked on her door, but she does not seem to be in.”
“I haven’t seen her since yesterday. She does keep odd hours.”
“Yes. May I leave my card so that you can let me know if she does not return? She wishes me to keep track of her things, you see. She is often required to…um…leave London at short notice.”
“I already have your card, Doctor. Miss Lassiter gave it to me some time ago. I must say, she leads a very active life.”
“Indeed she does.” Beyond your wildest imagination.
“I’ve got a spare key for you. She said you should have it.”
The man dug under the counter and produced the item. “Oh, I almost forgot. She ordered a book for you. It came in just last evening.” More excavating produced a tome. He set it on the counter like it was fine crystal. “It’s about forensic science. She said you were quite interested in that field.”
“I most certainly am.” Alastair stepped forward. “Post-Mortem Examinations: With Special Reference to Medico-Legal Practice.” He caressed the spine, deeply affected by the gesture. In the midst of all her difficulties, she had thought of him. This was his very first forensic text, a worthy start to what he hoped would become a personal library someday. Although being a doctor and a newly minted forensic pathologist didn’t pay that much, he could still have dreams.
“She already paid for it,” Pratchett informed him. “I doubt she’ll mind you collecting it today. I’ll wrap it up, if you like.”
Alastair nodded, still astonished at Jacynda’s generosity. Yet it was not the first time she’d been so thoughtful. In weeks past, she had provided him with a substantial sum to support his medical work amongst the poor. That gift had given him hope for the future.
With a rustle of paper, Pratchett expertly encased the book in brown wrapping and then tied the package with twine.
“Have they had any luck finding Sergeant Keats?” the bookstore owner asked.
Alastair was jarred out of his reverie. “Pardon?”
“Keats. The wanted man. I noted he is a friend of yours. There was some mention of it in the papers. I’ve been following his career since he arrived at the Yard. Well, him and others.” Pratchett looked chagrined. “You see, I always wanted to be a copper, but my ancestors were all stubby, so I failed to meet the height requirements.” He paused for a quick breath before rattling on. “I don’t believe he did it for a second. Only ignorant men throw away a promising future over that sort of woman.”
“I agree.”
“I’m willing to wager he’s on the trail of the murderer,” Pratchett surmised. “It’ll make great reading in the newspapers when he finally catches his man, and a comeuppance for those who look down on his stature.”
Alastair couldn’t help but warm to the bookseller. “Did you read about the inquest?”
“I did. That’s how I learned that the sergeant is a short fellow, like me. Do you know that the editor of the Pall Mall Gazette wrote an article in his paper about that very thing?”
“No, I was not aware of that.”
“He says the reason they can’t find the Ripper is because the constabulary has no room for clever little ferrets of men in the London detective force. I totally agree with Mr. Stead on that point. Why should height be a barrier to detection?”
“I agree. Well, hopefully Keats has his day in court.” Alastair picked up the parcel. “Do you mind if I check Miss Lassiter’s room?”
“Not in the least. If she’s trusted you with a key, I shall as well.”
“Thank you.”
Jacynda’s room looked untouched. The bed was made, the fireplace cold. The edge of her Gladstone peeped out from under the bed frame. He nudged it farther underneath with his boot. Then he sat on the foot of the hard bed, cradling his head in his hands. The scene came back to him with vivid clarity: the smell of the burning tobacco, her pleas for help as her fists hammered on the warehouse doors. Smoke pouring out around the hinges as the rum barrels exploded like cannon fire.
You cannot be dead.