She remained with her customer from Spitalfields Market for the whole frustrating night, drinking and eating at his expense, disappearing with him once for nearly half an hour, presumably to renew their intimate acquaintance. Then she and her customer sat down to another round of rum, listening to the piano and the pub songs sung by drunken patrons, watching other prostitutes enter the place and find customers of their own and disappear outside again to conduct their sordid business, until the pub closed its doors. When Annie Chapman and her customer left the public house, he took her through the dark streets to what was presumably his own house, a miserable little factory cottage on Hanbury Street, which she entered and did not leave again until very nearly five-thirty in the morning, at which time her customer emerged dressed for work.
He gave her a rough caress and said, "You ought to see a doctor about that cough, luv. I'd give you sixpence if I ‘ad it, but I spent all me ready cash on your supper."
"Oh, that's all right, and thank you for the food and the rum."
"Well, I've got to be off or they'll lock the factory yard gates and dock me wages."
They separated, the man hurrying away down Hanbury Street while Annie Chapman lingered at his doorstep, visibly exhausted.
"Well," she muttered to herself, "you've had a good supper and the rum's been a great help with the pain, but you've still got no money for your bed, Annie Chapman."
She sighed and set out very slowly, moving in the general direction of Dorset Street once more. John Lachley glanced quickly along the street and saw no sign of anyone, so he stepped out of the doorway he'd been leaning against and crossed the street toward her. Since he didn't want to startle her into crying out and waking anyone, he began whistling very softly. She turned at the sound and sent a hopeful smile his way.
"Good morning," John said quietly.
"Good morning, sir."
"You seem to be in something of a bind, madam."
She glanced quizzically into his eyes.
"I couldn't help but overhear you, just now. You need money for your lodging house, then?"
She nodded slowly. "I do, indeed, sir. You realize, I wouldn't ask, if I weren't desperate, but... well, sir, I can be very agreeable to a gentleman in need of companionship."
John Lachley smiled, darting a quick glance at Maybrick's place of concealment.
"I'm certain you can, madam. But surely you have in your possession something of value which you might sell, instead of yourself?"
Her cheeks flushed, the right one bruised from the fist fight she'd been in with the other whore earlier in the week. "I've already sold everything of value I own," she said softly.
"Everything?" He stepped closer. Dropped his voice to a mere whisper. "Even the letters?"
Annie's blue eyes widened. "The letters?" she breathed. "How—how did you know about the letters?"
"Never mind that, just tell me one thing. Will you sell them to me?"
Her mouth opened, closed again. From the distant tower of the Black Eagle Brewery, the clock struck five-thirty A.M. "I can't," she finally said. "I haven't got them any longer."
"Haven't got them?" he asked sharply. "Where are they?"
Misery pinched her face, turned her complexion sallow. "I've been ill, you see, with a cough. I needed money for medicine. So I sold them, but I could get them back or tell you who bought them, only... could you give me a few pence for a bed, if I do? I need to sleep, I'm so unwell."
"You could maybe get them for me?" he repeated. "Will you?"
"Yes," she answered at once. "Yes," she whispered, leaning against the brick wall in visible weariness, "I will."
He dropped his voice to a whisper and asked, "Who's got them?"
"I sold them to Elizabeth Stride and Catharine Eddowes..."
Footsteps behind him told Lachley they were not alone. He swore under his breath, careful not to turn his head, and listened with a trip-hammering pulse until whoever it was continued on their way, rather than interrupt what must look to any observer like a whore and her customer in serious negotiations. When the footsteps had died away again in the distance, Lachley took Annie Chapman by the arm, pressed her back against the shutters of the house they stood in front of, bent down to whisper, "All right, Annie, I'll give you the money you need for your bed... and enough to re-acquire the letters."
He dug into his pocket and pulled out two shining shillings, which he handed over.
She smiled tremulously. "Thank you, sir. I'll get the letters back with this, I promise you."
The passing of the money between them was the signal James Maybrick had been waiting for all through the long night. He appeared from the darkness and walked toward them as Lachley caressed Annie's breast through her worn, faded bodice and murmured, "Shall we go someplace quiet, then? You do seem a most agreeable lady on a cold night like this." He smiled down into her eyes. "A mutually delightful few moments of pleasure now, then I'll meet you this evening at Crossingham's," Lachley lied. "And I'll buy the letters from you, then."
"I'll have them," she said earnestly. "There's a nice, quiet yard at number twenty-nine," she added softly, nodding down the street toward a dilapidated tenement. "One of the girls I know oiled the hinges," she added with a wink, "so there's no chance of waking anybody. The second door, there, leads through the house to the yard."
"Lovely," Lachley smiled down at her. "Perfect. Shall we?"
Lachley eased open the door, aware that Maybrick trailed behind, silent as a shadow. Lachley escorted Annie through the black and stinking passage, then down the steps to the reeking yard behind. Very gently, he pressed her up against the high fence. Very gently, he bent, caressed her throat... nuzzled her ear. "Annie," he murmured. "You really shouldn't have sold those letters, pet. Give my love to Polly, won't you?"
She had just enough time to gasp out one faint protest. "No..."
Then his hands were around her throat and she fell against the fence with a thud, all sound cut off as he crushed her trachea. Her terrified struggles spiraled through his entire being, a giddy elixir, more potent than raw, sweating sex. When it was over, the shock of disappointment was so keen he almost protested the end of the pleasure. Morgan had lasted much longer, struggled much harder, giving him hours of intense pleasure. But they couldn't afford the risk out here in the open, where all of London might hear at any moment. So Lachley drew several deep, rasping breaths to calm himself, then lowered her lifeless corpse to the filthy ground beside the fence. He stepped back, giving her to the impatient Maybrick, who gripped his knife in eager anticipation. The sound of that knife ripping her open was the sweetest sound John Lachley had heard all day.
He bent low and breathed into Maybrick's ear, "Return to Lower Tibor when you've finished. Use the sewers, as I showed you. I'll be waiting in the secret room."
Then he slipped from the yard, leaving the maniacal Maybrick to vent his rage on the lifeless corpse of Annie Chapman. He was not pleased that he must track down and kill two more dirty whores, two more potential blackmailers in a position to destroy his future. In fact, as the trembling delight of stalk and strike and murder gradually waned in his blood, he cursed the foul luck that had prompted Annie to sell her precious letters to raise money for medicine, cursed it with every stride he took, cursed Prince Albert Victor for writing Morgan's goddamned letters in the first place, and cursed brainless whores who acquired them only to sell them off for ready cash. Two more women to locate and silence! Dear God, would this nightmare never end? Two!