She whispered.
Bell asked, “What did you say?”
“So handsome.”
“Do you remember?” Bell asked gently. “Where did you see him?”
“Hanbury Street.”
“Do you remember what number?” He was making a conscious effort now to quiet his excitement.
Emily nodded vigorously. “Number 29.”
“What did he say to you?”
“He asked me, ‘What’s your name?’”
Bell waited. She said nothing more. He asked, “What did you tell him?”
She stared at the sketch with a half smile.
“What did you tell him when he asked your name?”
“I told him, ‘Emily.’”
“What did he say?”
“He said, ‘What a lovely name.’ He said it suited me.”
“What did you say?”
“I said, ‘Thank you, sir.’”
“What next?”
“We went in the backyard and he grabbed me by the neck.”
She was getting agitated again, and Bell tried to ease her mind. “Was he really this handsome?”
“Oh, aye. Even more.”
“Emily,” Bell asked gently. “Could you have confused him with a memory of a different man? Some man you had known before? Or seen on the street?”
“Who could forget such a beautiful face?”
“Was he really this young?”
She shrugged. “I was young.”
“Are you absolutely sure he was the Ripper? Not someone else? Not a different handsome man?”
“Not someone else.”
“Even though you had only seen him once.”
“Not once! Not once! What do you mean?” she asked indignantly.
Bell felt the ground reel under his boots. He himself had speculated. Had the Ripper known his first victim? Obviously, Emily was not the woman buried under Scotland Yard. But was she someone else he had known, too?