“There is, but not the one you’re thinking. There’s zero danger involved. No electric fences or armed guards. Just a spell. A very special spell. That’s how it was protected the first time too, probably by a sorcerer judge or prosecutor who wanted to keep all the Ripper letters safe, so he cast a spell that would detect any living being who came near them. To get the letter, then, the guy who wanted it stolen found himself a very special thief, one without that telltale beating heart.”

“A vampire,” Clay said.

“Whoa. You’re good. When he got the letter, he cast another protection spell around it-one that will detect anything in human form. He figured that was safe. Sure, someone could send in a specially trained bird or whatever, but no bird could open the sealed glass box.”

“Ah,” I said. “So, to retrieve it, you need someone not in human form. A wolf, perhaps.”

“You got it.”

I leaned forward. “Problem number one: as you doubtless noticed back at the compound, we change into full wolves. Wolves with paws. Operating a glass cutter? One of those things that requires opposable thumbs.”

“True, but as I also recall from the compound, you can change just your hand.”

“From human to wolf, yes. Vice versa? Not so simple.” I glanced at Clay, who gave a half-shrug. “Not impossible, but not easy either. How many locks are we talking? Is the box locked or just sealed? And I assume the room is locked too?”

“The box is just sealed-a solid glass box bolted to the table. As for the door to the room, it’s locked, but more to keep out the housekeeper than serious thieves. The spell covers that. Once you get the door open, you just need to change forms before you get too close to the glass box. As for changing just your hand back, that’s pretty much essential. Change any more and you’ll set off the alarms, so if you can’t-”

Clay cut in. “We’ll deal with it. Bigger problem for me? What’s to say this sorcerer hasn’t used both the spells: the one to detect a pulse and the one to detect human form?”

“Can’t. If you double up high-powered spells like that, you’re almost guaranteed nasty side effects. Don’t take my word for it, though. Check it out with your spellcasting buddies. Either this sorcerer didn’t think about werewolves, like the last one didn’t think about vampires, or he figured there was no real risk. Vamps are known for stealth, weres for killing.”

“So this letter is in Toronto?” I said.

Xavier nodded. “Owned by the grandson of Theodore Shanahan, the sorcerer who had it stolen from the police archives. Guy’s name is Patrick Shanahan. Lives alone. Typical investment banker-keeps his life very ordered and dull, with a strict routine. You won’t show up and find he’s moved theletter or skipped a client dinner to stay home unexpectedly. If he does? Abort, and we’ll try again. No rush. No pressure. This letter isn’t going anywhere.”

I glanced at Clay. Another shrug, but this one merging into a nod.

“Let me think about it,” I said.

“Really?” Xavier cleared his throat. “I mean, sure. Right. Think about it, do your research, make sure everything’s on the up and up. I’ll give you everything you need. I’ve bought a contact with access to the house, so I’m working on that now. All you’ll need to do is go in and get the letter.”

It would be Jeremy who made the final decision, but I wanted to do my homework before I decided how strongly I’d support Xavier’s offer. I’d start with the letter. I hadn’t wanted to admit the depths of my ignorance in front of Xavier, but say “From Hell” and “Jack the Ripper” to me, and the only association sparked was the Johnny Depp movie, which I’d wanted to see and Clay hadn’t. Nick and I had ended up ditching him at the multiplex, sending Clay in to see Training Day and telling him we’d catch up after we got the popcorn.

Took thirty minutes for Clay to realize we weren’t coming back, and another ten to get past the ushers and track us down in From Hell, whereupon he declared that if we’d really wanted to see it, we could have just said so. Then he plunked himself into the seat beside mine and spent a half hour grousing about how much he hated serial killer flicks before I shoved my Milk Duds box in his mouth, and Nick and I moved to a spot with no empty adjoining seats.

A typical night at the movies. The upshot being that my memories of the movie had big Clay-induced plot holes, and if there had been a mention of the letter that had inspired the title, I didn’t remember it.

As we walked into the house, I said, “I’ll go online and see what I can find out about this letter.”

“Let’s ask Jeremy first.”

“Jeremy?”

Clay shrugged. “He likes solving mysteries. He might know something.”

“About a case like Lizzie Borden maybe. Jack the Ripper is definitely not Jeremy’s style.”

“Maybe.”

The study door opened down the hall and Jeremy walked into the foyer.

“That was quick,” Jeremy said. “Was there a problem?”

“Questions needing answers,” I said. “He’s serious about giving up Hargrave-says if his tip doesn’t pan out, we don’t owe him anything. Hard to argue with that. But the favor he wants in return is…a little strange.”

“Jack the Ripper,” Clay said. “What do you know about him?”

Jeremy frowned. “Jack the Ripper?”