I continued eating my all-sausage breakfast, letting Jazza get it out of her system.

“It’s you she likes,” Jazza said. “She always has to go where you go.”

“We’re in the same classes.”

“Your roommate again?” Jerome said as he joined us. This was not a new topic for breakfast.

“I’m finished now,” Jazza said.

Jerome started violently slicing apart his fried eggs. It was fascinating to watch him eat. He chowed down with the speed and force of a well-organized military campaign. He didn’t so much have breakfast as defeat it.

“Bit of news,” he said. “Someone’s donated a pile of money for a Bonfire Night party. No one’s going to be allowed out, so they’re doing something here.”

“What’s Bonfire Night?” I asked.

“Remember, remember the fifth of November?” Jerome said.

“Nope,” I replied. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Guy Fawkes Night,” Jazza explained, sighing at the change in subject. “Fifth of November, 1605. A group of people led by Guy Fawkes had a plan to blow up the Houses of Parliament, the Gunpowder Plot. But he failed and was executed. So on the fifth of November, we burn things.”

“And blow things up,” Jerome added, throwing down his fork. “Fireworks are very important. Anyway, it’s going to be a dance, and it’s fancy dress. Kind of a belated Halloween thing.”

“Formal?” I said.

“Fancy dress means costumes,” Jazza said.

It was clearly one of those mornings when I was particularly American. That happened sometimes.

“Thursday the eighth is the final Ripper night. So they’re having an early Bonfire Night party the Friday before, and then they’re going to lock us in until the Ripper stuff is over. Hope you like being indoors, because we’ll be in all week.”

“I don’t care,” Jazza said. “Just as long as it ends.”

“Who knows?” Jerome said. “Maybe this Ripper wants to keep it going. No reason for him to stop. Maybe he wants to be the new and improved Ripper.”

Jazza shook her head and got up to refill her tea.

“What if he does that?” I asked Jerome. “What happens?”

“Well, then the police have no idea when he’ll strike or where or how many times, and everyone freaks out every single day. I don’t think the eighth of November is the thing to worry about—it’s what comes after. I think that’s when whatever this is really starts.”

“But you’re an insane conspiracy nut,” I pointed out.

“Granted.”