streets were alive with rats. The following August, all hell broke loose. He used to frighten the life out of us with the story. Tabram was stabbed thirty-nine times. Her body was discovered in George Yard, off Whitechapel High Street. These days she’s usually discounted, you see. Mary Ann Nichols is the first universally accepted victim in the canonical order, but the old man didn’t believe that. Inspector Abberline himself thought there were six murders. Others in the force reckoned there were as many as nine. Only five are undisputed. Even back then, there were so many Jack the Ripper theories that the case became lost in them. The few surviving files that had been kept in some order by the Met weren’t opened until 1976, long after my grandfather died, but he never stopped trying to understand it, and I suppose his curiosity was passed on to me.’
‘I can’t believe I’ve known you all these years,’ said May with no little indignation, ‘and you’ve never told me that.’
‘There are a lot of things you don’t know about me,’ said Bryant annoyingly. ‘Come on, whose round is it?’
They sat in the corner, a group of four at a small circular table with their drinks neatly arranged before them, and talked late into the evening.
30
* * *
LETHAL WATERS
Bryant had not walked the length of Hatton Garden in many years. He was pleasantly surprised to find the area still sheltered from the rain by broad-leafed lime trees, resistant hybrids that could withstand destruction by aphids and exhaust fumes. It felt like a street upon which you could loiter and have an interesting conversation. Sheltered by shop canopies, the jewellers, gold and diamond merchants stood proprietorially in their doorways, calling to each other across the street. The windows were filled with loops of gold, spotlit treasure chests of gleaming bullion.
Checking the note in his hand, Bryant searched for street numbers, hoping that Maggie had given him the right address. A scuffed brass plaque on a recessed door read: The London River Society.
‘Seven to the north, seven to the south,’ said a small, attractive Chinese girl, stepping ahead of him to fit her key into the lock and push back the front door. He hadn’t heard her approach.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Rivers. Isn’t that what you want to know? It’s what people always want to know, how many major lost rivers there are in London. Don’t ask me why, but that’s their first question. The easy answer is fourteen—the truth’s more complicated. Isn’t it always? I’m Rachel Ling. Mrs Huxley told me to expect you, Mr Bryant. Would you like to come in?’ She flicked the lights on as she walked through. ‘Sorry it’s so cold, the central heating hasn’t come on yet.’
Bryant hadn’t expected to find himself inside a Chinese restaurant. He was surrounded by red silk lanterns, curling dragons stamped from gold plastic, tall-backed ebony chairs set at circular tables.
‘I know what you’re going to say,’ warned Rachel. ‘Everyone says the same thing. But we have to find a way to pay the bills. It would be better to have a Jewish restaurant in this area, but my mother’s better with noodles than matzoh balls, so it’s Jewish-Chinese. We do a very good kosher pressed duck. Please, take a seat.’ She sat at one of the large circular tables, interlocking her hands to reveal red lacquered nails that complimented the décor. ‘Any friend of Dorothy Huxley is a friend of the society. What do you want to know?’
‘I’m intrigued,’ Bryant admitted. ‘What do you do here?’
‘We provide study aids and run an educational website about geography, religion and mythology. We’re all former teachers who opted out of the traditional education system. We recommend Dorothy’s library as a valuable reference resource. Allow me to show you.’ She rose and crossed over to a pair of tall lacquered doors, which she rolled back, revealing a large windowless room filled with computers.
‘Very impressive.’
‘Hardly,’ said Rachel. ‘It’s all obsolete equipment. City firms donate their outmoded computers because they have no resale value. Still, they’re fine for our purposes.’ She ran her fingers across a keyboard and illuminated the homepage of the society’s website, printed over an aerial photograph of the Thames.
‘Dorothy said you’re researching a theory that five of London’s lost rivers correspond to the five mythical Roman rivers,’ said Bryant.
‘Did she?’ Rachel smiled. ‘Well, we try not to theorize on our postings. We do, after all, receive grant support from the Ministry of Education, even though