Berlin says what’s fascinating about the condition is that it is in no way limited to idiots or half-idiots. Normally intelligent or even highly intelligent people can suffer from it and—as has our Jack, I suspect—they have found quiet ways to compensate. For example, he will always avoid reading aloud before an audience, as he may encounter a word whose letters will be scrambled and read, say, ‘detour’ for ‘doctor’ or ‘lofty’ for ‘laughter,’ and produce gibberish. He will have done that a few times, learned from it, and strategized a way around it, do you see?”

“So when he chalked that inscription, he had no idea he was giving up a vital piece of information about himself?”

“Exactly, though now he knows and is probably cursing his own stupidity. Being well versed in the avoidance of such faux pas, he presumably made elaborate plans to prevent the mistake, but something happened that startled him or frightened him, and he reverted unconsciously to form. As near as I can tell, it’s the only mistake he’s made so far, and it’s a mistake only because one man in London, and now two, understand what was going on.”

I was impressed. This was the first real insight I had encountered, discounting the mystery of the missing rings, since the Sussex Regiment envelope found at Annie Chapman’s side proved to be nothing. “I see what you are saying, and I am impressed. But I must say, Professor Dare, how does that advance the investigation? I mean, practically, one cannot suddenly test all three and a half million male Londoners to see which might have this dyslexia condition. And it seems not to be known how general a condition it would be, and so suppose it’s quite common—I recall a large number of bad spellers throughout my rather patchy education—and in the end you might have so many possible suspects that the winnowing didn’t winnow near enough.”

“That is true,” said Dare, “and I suspect that is why the inspector was so unimpressed with my analysis.”

“However,” I said, seeing some light in it, “as you say, this condition might be associated with certain other behaviors. You inferred an ‘action’- or ‘behavior’-style career path for such a man, so it seems we could rule out a huge number of suspects.”

“I think you’re beginning to catch on,” said Dare. “The test for dyslexia is so narrow that it would have to be the last, not the first, criterion for identification. My idea, at this point, is that someone gifted in analysis—”

“That would be you, indeed, sir—”

“Don’t underestimate yourself, Mr. Jeb. Two minds are better than one, and in the dialectic between them, they might create something better than either could do on his own.”

“I agree,” I said.

“So what I propose is this: We each take a few days off, not merely from the case but from each other. In solitude, using my distillation of the dyslexia as a guide, we see what we can infer or deduce from the events before us. You would know more than I, having been at most of the murder sites when hot with blood and having discussed the case with many professionals. On the other hand, that might make you too close to the events, and it might also lock your mind in the set of those professionals, who, after all, are wont to pin this on a Russian sailor or a Jew in a leather apron and have a bias against admitting that a homegrown Englishman could do such a thing.”

“What is our goal?”

“Our goal is to assemble a portrait of the man by his salient aspects. He has to be thus and so, and he cannot be anything other. The more we think, the more we shrink. As opposed to a dragnet that hopes to catch him in flagrante or post flagrante, we assemble this—well, perhaps ‘profile’ is a better word than ‘portrait’—profile of the man, and locate those few suspects who might fit it. Then we—you and I, of course—investigate each of them and see if there are any indications of such deviant behavior.”

“The rings,” I said with excitement. “Suppose we can ascertain that indeed he has recently acquired two wedding bands, or perhaps those bands might be located in his kit or jewelry drawer.”

“Yes, yes, that’s it,” said Dare. “Suppose we learn, for example, that Mr. X, a dyslexic barrister, was seen to return to his dwelling very early morning on all the days there were murders. Somehow—I’m not a detail type of fellow—but somehow we penetrate his rooms and there locate his rings. That’s a clumsy example, but it’s the idea. We might locate the fellow who has left other clues, but since no one was looking for them, he went unobserved. We are identifying a pattern. That is my real idea.”

I caught fire with it. “Perhaps I should obtain a revolver for the arrest.”

“Arrest? Confrontation? Gad, no, I will have nothing of heroism. That is for the lunkheads who stood with Chard against the Zulu at Rorke’s Drift intead of sensibly running like flaming bats. They didn’t realize that Chard’s awesome stupidity was his armor. They, being more fully evolved humans, were so much meat for the blackie spear points. I’m far too intelligent to be brave, thank you very much.”

“No confrontations, then. No revolver. But we take our findings to the Yard and let the blue bottles on to it from there. The story and the glory are ours but the danger theirs. I think I could grow friendly with that.”

“It’s police business, indeed. For me, Jack’s transit to hell aboard HMS Noose on the Newgate gallows is reward enough.”

“Without ignoring the moral implications of such a coup,” I said, “do not think ill of me, sir, for admiring the professional implications! Why, man, we’d be glory on two legs.”

“Glory’s overrated,” he said. “You’ll see that when you advance in years somewhat.”

“You misunderstand. Not glory in and of itself, as a shallow end, but as part of a process. With glory comes influence, and with influence, perhaps the chance to change things. That’s the legacy I’m conjuring with. Although as to the shallower glory, I suppose I could use a little of that, too.”

“Your idealism will get you killed or, worse, knighted, and you’ll spend the rest of your days among fools and MPs. As for me, the chance to refuse an audience with the queen would be exquisite.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

The Diary

October 18, 1888

I wanted a pretty. The others had not been pretty, though Liz had gotten near; but this one would be. She would be lean of face, not doughy, like a muffin or a crumpet. Her skin should be smooth, her hair smooth, the color of corn silk. She must be clean, not just in from picking hops or awakened from a night in doss or the gutter; she must be delicate, with elegant fingers, long, thin legs whose coltlike grace would be evident even under the crinoline; an alabaster neck. If the eyes be blue, so much the better, although a lass with blond hair and brown eyes has a fetching quality, whereas the blues tend toward a frostiness that I do not find appealing. She must be young, fresh, innocent to serve as the vessel of my desecration.

It seemed hard to believe that such a creature, more out of a fairy tale or a myth or even a Rossetti painting, would be working the streets of Whitechapel. Whitechapel is the grinder of the flesh; it sustains its girls but at a price almost too steep to pay, for it erodes them swiftly, it takes their singularity, their character, what wit they have, what memories, what hopes, what dreams, and swiftly makes them a crude composite, rimmed with grime, surly and cynical, untouched by melody in carriage or voice, vacant of eye, loose and slack of mouth. Black or broken of teeth. It’s the trade, it’s the gin, it’s the spunk, it’s the nightly ritual of finding a posture in which to be penetrated easily, it’s the disease, it’s the closing of horizons, it’s the crush of destiny, it’s the immense indifference of society, of civilization, even.