darkened suddenly. “A blackmailer I may be, but you’ll not call me a gangster….”
Alfie took a nervous step back, even though he was a head taller than the other boy. “I —”
“Gangsters murdered my friend,” seethed Paddy, his eyes glazing over. “Do you think I’d be aboard this ship if Daniel was still alive?”
“I’m sorry,” stammered the young steward. “I’ll bring you food. But first I have to find Mrs. Willingham’s favorite shawl!”
Paddy stared at him for a moment and then burst out laughing. “Well, we can’t deprive a rich lady of that, can we? Any search this important demands two pairs of eyes!”
He followed Alfie out of the cargo hold, through the fireman’s passage, and into the baggage compartment. “I’ve been in here before,” he commented casually. “Everything’s locked.”
Alfie turned on him sharply. “There’ll be no stealing or our deal is off!”
“Don’t get your knickers in a twist,” Paddy chuckled. “Why would I need to steal if someone’s bringing me food?”
“I want your word on it!”
“Like you gave yours to the White Star Line?” Paddy returned.
They began to scan luggage tags, which identified each trunk and crate according to the owner’s deck level and cabin number.
“Look at this!” Paddy held up a leather-bound book thick with inserts.
The young steward was angry. “Put that back!”
“I didn’t take it,” Paddy defended himself. “It was just lying here on the deck. It must have fallen out of one of the trunks. I wonder what it is.”
“It’s none of your business, that’s what it is!”
“There’s no name on it.” Paddy set the volume on top of a large box and opened it to the first weathered page. “It seems to be some kind of scrapbook.” A newspaper broadsheet was carefully pasted there. The headline read:
GHASTLY MURDER IN THE EAST END
Paddy stumbled over the first word, but the second he recognized at once. “Murder!”
It brought Alfie swiftly to his side. “What murder?”
Paddy indicated the newspaper. “Read it for yourself! Some lady in London was murdered with a knife! There was blood everywhere! It’s horrible!”
“This newspaper is old,” Alfie pointed out. “Lookhow yellow it is. And the date — September second, eighteen-eighty-eight, twenty-four years ago. Mary Ann Nichols — why does that name sound familiar?”
“It can’t,” Paddy concluded. “She was dead before you were born.”
Alfie leafed through the scrapbook. There were newspaper stories of dreadful killings on every page, along with maps of London and line drawings of gruesome crime scenes. “These are the Whitechapel murders!”
“What-chapel?”
“Whitechapel — it’s a part of London!” Alfie explained breathlessly. “The whole of England lived in fear for months! People were afraid to leave their flats and houses. When I was a wee lad, my ma used to say, ‘Alfie, I won’t sleep sound in my bed at night until that monster is off the street for good.’ Even now, after twenty-four years, they’ve never found the killer! Ma’s still obsessed with the subject.”
“So is one of the passengers,” Paddy said. “What sort of person makes a pastime of recording the foul deeds of a terrible criminal?”
“This is no pastime,” Alfie countered, his face paling as he scanned the pages. “Look at this!” He pointed to a note scribbled by hand in the marginbeside an account of one of the murders: Hanbury St. — extinguished gaslights 3 & 4. “No mere scrapbook keeper could know details like these!”
A small cloth envelope was fastened to the cardboard beneath the broadsheet. With a none-too-steady hand, Alfie unfastened it and tapped the contents into his palm. Out tumbled a large, garish jade earring and two tiny objects, lumpy and ivory-colored. His eyes widened in revulsion.
“Teeth!” Paddy hissed. “Human teeth!”
Alfie jerked his hand away as if he’d been burned. The three items dropped to the deck of the hold.
Alfie took a nervous step back, even though he was a head taller than the other boy. “I —”
“Gangsters murdered my friend,” seethed Paddy, his eyes glazing over. “Do you think I’d be aboard this ship if Daniel was still alive?”
“I’m sorry,” stammered the young steward. “I’ll bring you food. But first I have to find Mrs. Willingham’s favorite shawl!”
Paddy stared at him for a moment and then burst out laughing. “Well, we can’t deprive a rich lady of that, can we? Any search this important demands two pairs of eyes!”
He followed Alfie out of the cargo hold, through the fireman’s passage, and into the baggage compartment. “I’ve been in here before,” he commented casually. “Everything’s locked.”
Alfie turned on him sharply. “There’ll be no stealing or our deal is off!”
“Don’t get your knickers in a twist,” Paddy chuckled. “Why would I need to steal if someone’s bringing me food?”
“I want your word on it!”
“Like you gave yours to the White Star Line?” Paddy returned.
They began to scan luggage tags, which identified each trunk and crate according to the owner’s deck level and cabin number.
“Look at this!” Paddy held up a leather-bound book thick with inserts.
The young steward was angry. “Put that back!”
“I didn’t take it,” Paddy defended himself. “It was just lying here on the deck. It must have fallen out of one of the trunks. I wonder what it is.”
“It’s none of your business, that’s what it is!”
“There’s no name on it.” Paddy set the volume on top of a large box and opened it to the first weathered page. “It seems to be some kind of scrapbook.” A newspaper broadsheet was carefully pasted there. The headline read:
GHASTLY MURDER IN THE EAST END
Paddy stumbled over the first word, but the second he recognized at once. “Murder!”
It brought Alfie swiftly to his side. “What murder?”
Paddy indicated the newspaper. “Read it for yourself! Some lady in London was murdered with a knife! There was blood everywhere! It’s horrible!”
“This newspaper is old,” Alfie pointed out. “Lookhow yellow it is. And the date — September second, eighteen-eighty-eight, twenty-four years ago. Mary Ann Nichols — why does that name sound familiar?”
“It can’t,” Paddy concluded. “She was dead before you were born.”
Alfie leafed through the scrapbook. There were newspaper stories of dreadful killings on every page, along with maps of London and line drawings of gruesome crime scenes. “These are the Whitechapel murders!”
“What-chapel?”
“Whitechapel — it’s a part of London!” Alfie explained breathlessly. “The whole of England lived in fear for months! People were afraid to leave their flats and houses. When I was a wee lad, my ma used to say, ‘Alfie, I won’t sleep sound in my bed at night until that monster is off the street for good.’ Even now, after twenty-four years, they’ve never found the killer! Ma’s still obsessed with the subject.”
“So is one of the passengers,” Paddy said. “What sort of person makes a pastime of recording the foul deeds of a terrible criminal?”
“This is no pastime,” Alfie countered, his face paling as he scanned the pages. “Look at this!” He pointed to a note scribbled by hand in the marginbeside an account of one of the murders: Hanbury St. — extinguished gaslights 3 & 4. “No mere scrapbook keeper could know details like these!”
A small cloth envelope was fastened to the cardboard beneath the broadsheet. With a none-too-steady hand, Alfie unfastened it and tapped the contents into his palm. Out tumbled a large, garish jade earring and two tiny objects, lumpy and ivory-colored. His eyes widened in revulsion.
“Teeth!” Paddy hissed. “Human teeth!”
Alfie jerked his hand away as if he’d been burned. The three items dropped to the deck of the hold.
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