Mayhem

  What had Kosminski said? That the Upir was stronger than the man now? Could Charles somehow feel the wickedness in his house? If I had been so plagued by thoughts of darkness in the streets of London that they had driven sleep further than ever from me and led me to the opium dens, was it so irrational to think Charles might be similarly affected too?

  ‘I can keep an eye on Juliana if you like,’ I said. ‘She and I are friends now, and I think she would not find my presence an imposition.’

  ‘Would you, Thomas?’ He looked at me with a strange mixture of relief and desperation. ‘I hate leaving her behind, but I have to … I have to get away, if I am to be of any use to my profession.’ He smiled again, that strange expression that did not quite fit; like a reflection of sunshine on the filthy river.

  He was terrified, I realised – terrified enough to leave his daughter behind in the city. ‘And I must finish this paper.’ He gestured at the pages behind him.

  ‘It would be my pleasure,’ I said. It would also give me a chance to study Harrington more closely, if I had been charged to watch over them both by Charles. The young man would not be so rude as to tell me to leave under such circumstances. Charles had returned to his desk and was shuffling his notes around.

  ‘Why the Jackson case?’ I said. ‘Why present a paper on her?’

  ‘Why not?’ Charles said. ‘We found all but her head, and she has a name. We know who she was.’ He drained his brandy.

  ‘A name to haunt us,’ I said softly.

  ‘This year has been filled with names to haunt us, Thomas,’ Charles said. ‘I see those women in my dreams. I see their blood. I could live without another summer like the last one quite happily.’

  I nodded in agreement and swallowed the last of my own drink. It might be the Ripper victims he saw in his dreams, but he was fixating on the dead girl who’d known his son-in-law. Somewhere in his subconscious, Charles was wrestling with knowledge he did not want. I was not sure if I envied him or not. Was it better to be in my position or his? At least he could leave London with no sense of abandoned responsibility. I was trapped in a world of madness and superstition, steeped in murders that I had a terrible feeling might lead to one more: one in which I would play a part, even if it was not my hand that committed the deed.

  Suddenly I wanted out of this house, even if it meant a return to pacing my own and staring out at the night. At least the air was clean there; it lacked the stagnant tang that filled my nostrils suddenly.

  ‘I shall leave you to your preparations,’ I said, ‘and hope the sea air does you good.’

  We shook hands, and both our palms were clammy with cool sweat that held more honesty than any of the words we had spoken to each other.

  *

  I did not go home until much later. For the first time in a long time I took a hansom to Bluegate Fields. My nerves were surprisingly calm but I sought oblivion – some peace, if not rest. I knew, whether I wished to admit it or not, that this would be my last opportunity until this miserable business was done, one way or another.

  The priest was right of course: the Upir – or the monster within the man, both demons regardless of which was driving the actions – would kill again, and I needed to reach my conclusions before then. I hoped beyond all things that we were wrong; that I had found Harrington a suspect simply to satisfy the mad desires of we fellow hunters. The next time I saw him, I would take the drug the priest had given me; I would fulfil that obligation – but I would not trust my eyes. After all, the sea creatures I had seen around the heads of the sailors in the dens had been so realistic, but my rational mind had known that they did not truly exist, so it would surely be the same with anything I saw around Harrington. Despite Charles’ strange behaviour, and the undeniable atmosphere in that house, I had to prove Harrington guilty or innocent on physical evidence.

  My decision to start the following day left me with a feeling of vague, doomed calm; what would be, would be. If I had attained any kind of tranquillity, it was that of the condemned man.

  I let the sweet smoke caress me, and this time no monsters came to plague my visions as I lay back on the filthy cot. I had missed the simplicity of this place, back when I was plagued only by insomnia and unease, when the priest was simply a curious stranger in a long black coat. Tension eased from my limbs as I saw the ocean and swam in its depths, drifting in and out of oblivion, calling for the Chinaman to refill the pipe every time my conscious mind came too close to the surface. I do not remember leaving the den, but I must have, for I wandered through the streets to Whitechapel, where I weaved my way between the drunks and other unfortunates who tumbled loud and toothless from the public houses and brothels that filled those streets.

  Strange street theatres acted out gruesome scenes, my drugged mind seeing only tortured people behind the actors’ made-up faces. Everywhere around me I saw life and death battling for control of each filthy, hacking body. Women walked past me, leering and laughing, their faces so close to mine, for all they were several feet away, that I could smell their rancid breath. Through my revulsion I wanted to kiss them: this was humanity in all its brutal beauty, with mankind’s matchless ability to laugh, even while trapped in such a pitiless existence. I had seen men and women like these at Westminster Hospital, their miserable lives plotted out for them by the accident of their birth, their lives doomed to failure and sickness even as they clawed their way through each day. These lives might have been better off snuffed out at birth, and yet they were all so determined to cling on, to hope for some happiness, however elusive or improbable that might be.

  I wanted to suck in their warmth; I wanted to take their raw grit away and arm myself with it. Was this how Jack felt when he walked these streets? Was that why he butchered these women? Did he want to rip this hungry energy from them for himself?

  I walked until I was exhausted, and slowly the world slipped back into some kind of normalcy. My eyes stung as dawn creaked into life, the early birdsong soon drowned out by the throb of the city. It was gone eight in the morning by the time I returned to my house. I scribbled a note for my housekeeper, claiming to be unwell and asking her not to disturb me, and then crawled into my bed, where I slept like the dead.

  When I awoke it was past four and the day was lost. I was still tired, and although I had slept for eight hours – something of a miracle for me – I felt disoriented and bleary.

  ‘You’re up then, sir,’ Mrs Parks said, appearing silently in the doorway in that way that only a housekeeper could manage. ‘I shall get you some coffee if you’re feeling better. I shall take the tray to your study.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Miss Hebbert called earlier to see if you’d care to join them for dinner tonight. I told her you were unwell, but that if I saw you I would certainly tell you. She said there would be a place for you if wanted it.’ She raised an eyebrow. ‘I presume you will not be requiring me to prepare you any supper?’

  ‘No, no, thank you, Mrs Parks. I do feel much better now. Perhaps some company will do me good.’

  Mrs Parks stared at me for a moment longer, her expression unreadable. ‘Very well, sir,’ she said eventually, and disappeared back towards her own domain.

  Tonight. If I had to take the drug and study Harrington, then I would do it tonight. I had prevaricated for longer than Hamlet, and my own inability to act or to know what to believe was driving me just as mad as the Danish prince. I would appease the priest by taking the drug, and I would appease my own curiosity by questioning Harrington about Elizabeth Jackson.

  I waited until Mrs Parks had left and then bathed and dressed before taking the narrow box containing the opium equipment from the back of the drawer in my locked study desk and tucking it into a pocket cunningly set into the lining of my waistcoat. I resisted the urge to take some laudanum, but I did pour myself a brandy. I stood by the window and looked out at the heavy summer sky before pulling the curtains closed to shut the view out.

  I sometimes wish
I had allowed myself to gaze on more of that dying day …

  *

  Charles was dining with colleagues from the hospital at his club, it transpired, to discuss covering his duties during his absence. Like myself, Charles rarely took time away from work, and the staff would probably feel his absence far more than they realised. As would I, should there be – though I prayed there would not be – any more gristly discoveries dredged from the Thames.

  Juliana and Mary kept the conversation going, talking about the preparations for Whitby, and how early they would have to be up in order to catch the right train. Harrington and I commented occasionally as we ate our soup, politely interjecting as and when required, and I noticed that he appeared much calmer and more relaxed than when I had seen him at the wharves. Every now and then, when someone else was speaking, Juliana’s eyes would dart nervously from James to me and then back again, making me wonder what had been said about our meeting the previous day. I imagined she would have been embarrassed to hear that her husband had told me of their argument – maybe James had not believed me, and had confronted Juliana when he had gone home. He had certainly been in a strange enough mood. I realised that this dinner invitation was perhaps a conciliatory attempt to smooth out any awkwardness there might be, and I wondered how much I might soon be adding to it.

  Between the first and second courses I made my excuses and locked myself in the bathroom. I worked fast, and within moments I was sucking the strange-tasting smoke deep into my lungs. My skin tingled, and the last remnants of my exhaustion disappeared and the world sharpened. I opened the small window to dissipate the scent and smoked some more, inhaling fast. When I was done, I put the hot pipe back into its wooden box and slipped the box back into its hiding place before splashing water on my face.

  I took a deep breath. I was ready.

  The beef was being served as I returned to the table, preventing any discussion of my well-being, and I kept my head down as I took my seat. When I was sure that I could maintain a steady expression, whatever sights might greet me, I looked at James Harrington.

  I saw nothing.

  There was not even an aura of colour around his head. I stared harder, willing my imagination on, but still there was just a young blond man sitting opposite me. My heart thumped hard in my chest. Had the drugs failed? Had I become immune to its effects because of my new dependence on its sister drug, the seductive laudanum? I looked over at Juliana, and had to stop myself sighing in relief. Around her head yellows and reds shone like sunlight: beautiful summer colours with lines of blue darting here and there. These were the colours I always associated with Emily, the girl lost so many years ago – they were colours I associated with love.

  ‘Aren’t you hungry, Thomas?’ Juliana asked, breaking my reverie. ‘Are you still unwell?’

  ‘I am actually much better, thank you,’ I said, ‘and this looks delicious.’ In fact, my appetite had totally deserted me, and my mouth had dried up – the effects of the drug, perhaps, or my own nervousness. I sipped my wine before cutting into the meat, which was very rare. I tried not to look at the blood that seeped out across my plate, or to think about it in my mouth as I chewed a large forkful. All my senses had become heightened, and I could hear my fellow diners’ lips smacking noisily as they ate, the wet, slick sound of meat being devoured – a pack of beasts, tearing the victim of the hunt apart.

  ‘This is delicious,’ I said, and smiled at Mary, my outward calm quite at odds with my inner revulsion as the virtually raw beef slid down my throat. I thought I could feel it squirm like a live thing, but I knew this was just the drug; everything was normal. The food was perfectly cooked; it was exactly as I would choose to eat it myself. I distracted myself by looking at the scenes that danced around Mary’s head. The colours were duller, more world-weary than those around Juliana, but within the folds of the muted pinks and blues were flashes of homely items, like baby clothes. This was Mary: a mother and wife.

  I looked once again at Harrington, who had already almost finished and was clearly hungry enough for more.

  ‘Speaking of illness,’ I said. ‘I am so glad to see you so fully recovered, James – especially with the wonderful news of the baby.’

  ‘Thank you. Let’s hope I can keep it at bay for longer this time.’

  That was a strange turn of phrase to use when talking about illness, I thought. ‘Perhaps you should let someone else in your offices take on more of the running of your business for a while,’ I suggested, then sipped more wine, trying to loosen my throat. Somehow the absence of any kind of vision around him was more disturbing than the colours that spun and twisted around the two women. ‘I was impressed by what a large operation it is – but it must put quite a strain on you.’

  ‘Perhaps, but it was my father’s business and I want to run it like he did: from the helm.’ James picked up his own wine glass and smiled at me. His teeth were white and his eyes were sharp, like blue crystals. I shivered as we looked at each other. I could still taste the blood from the beef in my mouth and I imagined it in Harrington’s too – and quite suddenly, I felt like prey.

  ‘I think James is not the only one who works too hard, Thomas,’ Juliana said. ‘Like all physicians – my father included – you are quite unable to take your own advice. You have not been well yourself, have you? You have certainly lost weight.’ She looked at my plate. ‘At least James has not lost his appetite.’

  ‘You are right of course,’ I concurred. ‘Doctors always make the worst patients. But these are exceptional times.’

  ‘I suppose that’s one way of putting it,’ Juliana said. ‘Awful times might be better. I shudder when I think of the sights you and Father have seen – those poor women.’

  This was it: my chance to probe Harrington, and I had not had to steer the conversation there myself. I could see that Mary was about to reprimand her daughter for bringing up such an unpleasant topic at the dinner table – the colours around her head had darkened and her mouth had started to open – when I seized the moment.

  ‘Poor girls indeed. Your father told you about the last one – Elizabeth Jackson?’

  ‘Told us what?’ Juliana frowned, and Harrington’s fork froze momentarily between his plate and his mouth. It was the slightest hesitation, but I saw it.

  I kept my eyes on him as I continued, ‘She used to work in the same street where you live – she was a housemaid, and a very good one, by all accounts.’

  ‘But that’s awful,’ Juliana said.

  ‘How terrible,’ Mary added. ‘And what a strange coincidence. But I thought Charles said she had been living on the streets?’

  Harrington put his fork down and looked up at me, and now I was sure I could see the tiniest flicker of a smile twisting one corner of his mouth.

  ‘She had been. She ran away from her job and her home in November of last year.’

  ‘But why?’ Mary asked. However much she might disapprove of the topic in general, her curiosity was now piqued. ‘Had she got herself in trouble?’

  ‘The police do think a man was involved.’ I kept staring at Harrington, who raised another forkful of food and chewed it slowly, his eyes firmly fixed on mine. ‘Something made her suddenly drop everything and leave it all behind.’

  ‘That was when we decided to move back to the house, isn’t it, James? It was around then, I’m sure of it.’ There was no accusation in Juliana’s voice, just wonder at the way life weaves people together in the form of coincidences.

  ‘Yes, it was,’ he said calmly. ‘How strange.’

  ‘She was in service there for several years. I wondered if you might have known her?’ I kept my tone light, and made a pretence of eating by pushing my food around my plate, but tension crackled in the air between us. I wondered if the women were aware of it.

  ‘I barely knew the names of our own maids, let alone those of others’,’ Harrington said. ‘And I was away from home a lot, first my studies, then my travels.’

  A simple ‘n
o’ would have sufficed, but he had felt the need to elaborate on his reasons. I certainly did not know the names of the servants who worked in the houses around my own, and I doubted Mary or Charles did either – why had he needed to give more than that?

  Blood heated in my veins and my face burned as my mind raced. There was a secret here – drug or no drug, I knew that. He had known Elizabeth Jackson; he was the reason she ran.

  ‘Why would you think James knew her?’ Juliana laughed, and I could hear a slight nervousness in her voice. Was my directness forcing her to peel back layers she built up to protect her own suspicions? I did not think for a moment that she would ever consider James a murderer, but given his strange behaviour recently, she might wonder if he had a sordid secret in his past – a servant girl in trouble would certainly fit that bill. It had crossed my mind that Elizabeth Jackson might have been the root cause of Harrington’s travels into Europe. Juliana was a clever woman, and I imagined that thought might also be occurring to her.

  ‘Because his mother did.’ It was an aggressive approach, but I wanted to get a reaction from Harrington. ‘She called on Elizabeth Jackson – just a day or so before she and your father died.’

  ‘But that would have been some time before this servant ran away from her house,’ Harrington said. His eyes were still fixed on mine, but I could make out nothing from his expression. ‘And I must say, it seems highly unlikely that my mother would ever call on a serving girl.’

  ‘That’s what I was told,’ I said. ‘Of course, it’s always possible that the person who told me was mistaken – people do get details muddled over time.’

  ‘Well, that must be the case. My mother might have called on a neighbour, but certainly not a maid.’

  When he had finished speaking I saw his lips pinch together slightly, a downward frown of displeasure and irritation, and I had to stop myself from smiling in triumph. He knew I was questioning him, and I knew that he was hiding something. I would win this, I thought, for Elizabeth Jackson’s sake if nothing else.