Mayhem

  He smiled then – a wide, cynical grin which revealed surprisingly white and healthy teeth – and a quiet laugh rumbled from somewhere in his chest. There was no humour in either gesture. He was laughing at me as if I were a particularly stupid child.

  ‘You can’t help,’ he said, and turned away, his long stride taking him further from me.

  ‘Is it something in the visions?’ I asked, the pitch of my voice rising in desperation.

  He froze where he stood and in the silence I could hear my own heart beating loudly in my ears. Slowly, he turned once more, and even shrouded as we were in the grip of the dark night, I could see that his face was filled with such anger and venom that it was my turn to remain welded to one spot.

  ‘You know nothing,’ he growled at me. ‘You are interfering in things you do not understand.’

  ‘I took the drug,’ I said, determined not to show my sudden fear. ‘I saw strange fantasies around the heads of the smokers. Is that what you look at?’

  ‘Stay away from the visions, Dr Bond.’ His mouth twisted into a sneer. ‘They will drive you to madness.’

  I opened my mouth to speak again, but the priest spun and broke into a sudden run, disappearing into the fog. I had never seen a man go from a standing position to sprinting so fast, and by the time I had forced my own legs into movement, he had vanished, though I searched the surrounding streets. Did he have rooms in this godforsaken place, or had he simply hidden in one of the various alleyways, hoping that I would be unlikely to find him?

  After fifteen minutes of running this way and that, I gave up, panting and sweating, and rested against a brick wall. The priest was gone, and as exhaustion hit my body again, I knew the drug was finally releasing me.

  It was only in the hansom cab on the way home that I realised something else, and a far more natural shiver of excitement and fear ran through me.

  The priest had called me by my name.

  *

  I had thought that I would not sleep when I got home after my encounter with the stranger, and as I climbed the stairs and passed the clock on the first-floor landing I was surprised to note that it was after three in the morning. I paused and stared at the heavy hands as if expecting them to roll back and correct what must have been an error. Instead, they slowly clicked forward one minute. I turned my back and headed up into the gloomy darkness, finding my way to my bedroom without need of light. My mind was elsewhere: how long had I been studying the dreamers before leaving that first establishment? I had thought it perhaps only thirty minutes, but it had become apparent that my mind and understanding of time had not been as clear as I had thought it. That disturbed me more than any opium vision ever could. Where were the lines between fantasy and reality in this new version of the drug Chi-Chi had given me – could I even recognise them? Had I even seen the stranger at all, I wondered, or was that just part of the drug’s magic?

  My bedroom was cold, and although the fire was set behind the ornate guard, enough to warm me through the last hours until morning, I didn’t light it. I rarely did, these nights when I sought refuge in the poppy, for I did not trust myself not to set either the room or myself on fire, regardless of how convinced I might be that the effects had worn off. Perhaps I might change my mind once the city was held in the grip of winter and ice once again formed on the inside of my windows, but for now I simply crawled between the freezing sheets and pulled the heavy covers over my head, letting my breath – loud and steady in that tiny space – go some way to warming me.

  I expected to lie there, awake, until the clock downstairs had ticked around to morning, but within moments I had sunk into a slumber close to oblivion, and if Mrs Parks, my housekeeper, hadn’t shaken me awake then I think I could have slept all day.

  ‘It’s half-past ten,’ she said, before I had even opened my eyes. ‘You have a visitor. A young lady.’ Her disapproval was clear in the sharpness of her tone and the stiffness of her spine – not that a young lady was calling on me, but that I was still in bed so late into the morning. The fire was dying down in the grate and she stoked it up. She gestured towards the small table in the corner. A tray sat on it. ‘I brought your breakfast up and lit the fire at seven,’ she continued, ‘but I couldn’t wake you. For a moment I thought you might be dead.’ The words were matter-of-fact, as if my demise would be nothing more than an irritation to her, but I knew that was not the case: Mrs Parks was fond enough of me, in her own way. Perhaps not on this particular morning, mind you, but fond all the same.

  ‘Of course, it’ll be inedible now. And it was the last of the eggs.’

  Having hauled myself half-upright I tried to make some noises of apology, but I had discovered that even the slightest movement made my head throb. Still struggling to order my thoughts, I managed a strangled groan.

  ‘A man in your position!’ Mrs Parks almost tutted mid-sentence. ‘Well, you should know better than to be up drinking all night. However hard you might be working, it’s not good for you – it isn’t for any man.’

  ‘But,’ I started, forcing the words out despite the agony it caused to flare up behind my eyes, ‘you’re mistaken.’ Quite why I felt the need to excuse myself to my housekeeper, I knew not, but I did, even as she continued with her disapproving glare. ‘I was feeling quite unwell – I still am.’ The last sentence was not a lie, even if the first was. I felt terrible.

  She pulled open the curtains to reveal a thankfully gloomy day. My eyes were not ready for brightness, and I am quite sure that if sunshine had burned through the glass, I might have clawed them out from the pain. As it was, I was barely more than squinting. She turned back to face me, and pursed her lips before saying, ‘Then no doubt it was some malicious spirit who tossed your coat and shoes carelessly in the hallway.’ She paused and arched an eyebrow. ‘And left the good crystal brandy decanter – empty, I might add – lying forgotten on the stairs.’

  My mouth dropped open in confusion. Brandy? Suddenly the cause of my awful headache was clear, but truly, I had no memory of drinking. As far as I was aware, I had come in, seen the time and gone straight to bed – or had I, in fact, come home earlier, got drunk, and then climbed the stairs to bed? The uncertainty of it all made my stomach roil, sending a wave of nausea through me. The priest might prefer this special opium of Chi-Chi’s, but I did not care for its effects. I enjoyed the liberation that came with the drifting visions as I lay on a cot, when my exhausted limbs were too heavy to do anything other than lie there, but this strangeness in behaviour and loss of time did not suit my practical mind and nature. There were holes in my memory that I could not fill – either that, or I was going mad.

  ‘I have taken Miss Hebbert into the drawing room. I didn’t tell her you were still asleep. I presume you’d like me to put a pot of coffee in there?’ She looked me over again. ‘A large one?’

  ‘Miss Hebbert?’ I said weakly.

  ‘Your visitor.’ Her voice had taken on the slow pace normally used when speaking to a small child or the elderly. ‘The young lady, Miss Juliana Hebbert.’

  Despite my dreadful headache, I found that I was able to get up much more quickly than I had expected.

  When I came into the room she was standing with her back to me, staring into the fire. Mrs Parks had lit all the lamps throughout the house in a bid to dispel the miserable October day, but rather than creating the warm and comforting atmosphere I had been expecting, strange shadows gripped the room in shapes both hideously deformed and claustrophobic as the lights flickered through the coloured glass or crept up the walls.

  As Juliana turned, half her face appeared to be eaten up by darkness, and for a moment I was filled with a dread I could not understand. I trembled as colours flashed around her head – too fast to capture any image within them – and then my headache disappeared instantly. I gripped the door handle to steady myself.

  ‘Dr Bond?’ Juliana’s smooth brow furrowed slightly. ‘Are you unwell?’

  I blinked rapidly, and to my great relief
found that the strange moment had passed. The shadows were as they had always been, tired dark spaces clinging to the corners of the room, and the left side of the young woman’s face was perfectly visible, despite being more shaded than the other. No colours danced around her head, and my own was throbbing again. It was surely the remnant of that strange drug taking its toll.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ I smiled and headed over to where the tray was laid out in order to pour us both coffee. ‘I think perhaps I might be slightly unwell – or perhaps I am just tired. Please, do sit down.’

  There was a chair on either side of the fire and she took the furthest one, smoothing down the blue fabric of her dress as she sat. The seal fur trim around the border of her matching jacket and cuffs enhanced the soft hazel brown of her eyes, and the bright blue felt hat accentuated her soft brown curls. Juliana Hebbert was a beauty, there was no doubt about that; though nearly twenty years my junior I was by no means immune to her natural charms.

  ‘I’m very sorry to have disturbed you,’ she started. ‘I didn’t think – you have been so very busy, and I’m sure you need all the rest you can get.’

  ‘Not at all. Visitors are always refreshing.’ I willed the pulsating headache to fade. ‘And you are welcome to call at any time.’ It was only when I handed her the cup and saucer that I noticed she was clutching a slim volume in her gloved hand. As she placed the drink beside her, I noted there was the slightest shake in her hand. I looked at her more closely. There were shadows under her eyes, and not the sort that would fade in the presence of direct sunlight. I wondered what concerns this bright, vivacious young woman might have?

  ‘I presume, however, that there is a purpose to this unexpected pleasure? All is well with your family, I hope?’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ she said, a smile fluttering across her face like a nervous butterfly. ‘It’s nothing like that. I just – well, I—’ She half-raised the book. ‘While we were in Bath – James likes to take the waters there; he has a weak chest, you know, from a terrible infection he had a while ago, and sometimes it can still make him quite ill …’ Her words were coming out in a flurry and as my curiosity became more engaged, my nausea and headache finally subsided. I had seen Juliana animated before, but never with this slightly anxious edge. I took the seat opposite her and sipped my own coffee as I waited for her to finish speaking.

  ‘Anyway, while we were there – and it is very relaxing, and you should probably take a visit there yourself, if you haven’t already – I thought of you and your sleeping problems, and I remembered seeing a book on my father’s shelves on that very subject. It contains sixty remedies that are “tried and tested”, according to the author, so I thought I would bring it to you.’

  She held the volume out and I leaned forward and took it. ‘How very kind of you.’ I was, indeed, truly surprised – first, that she had been thinking of me at all, for I was, after all, quite middle-aged and dull from the perspective of one so young and vibrant – and secondly, that she had gone to the effort of visiting me with such a helpful gift on so gloomy a day.

  I flicked through the pages before looking up. ‘I shall try a different one every night until I find the winner.’

  She smiled at me, evidently relieved. I had no desire to tell her that all these ‘tried and trusted’ remedies were old wives’ tales, or that I had tried each already – she was trying to help, in her innocent way. I doubt she had missed more than one or two nights’ sleep in her entire life.

  If there were a remedy for my sleeplessness, it would not be found in this book – and it dawned on me that maybe I did not want it found just yet after all, for my insomnia had become a tool in my investigation into the stranger in the black coat. If my body suddenly reverted back and I regained my normal sleep patterns, then my night-time adventures in the dens would have to stop – and I had begun to realise that no matter how awful I had felt on awaking this morning, I had every intention of returning tonight and tracking the fellow down – I would even take that pernicious drug again, if I had to.

  ‘Good.’ She smiled, looking genuinely pleased, but I was still convinced I could see the hint of something troubling her in the slight twitch at the corner of her mouth. She leaned forward a little and looked as if she was about to say something more, but then she stopped herself, instead rising to her feet.

  ‘I fear I have kept you from your day for long enough, but you must come for dinner more often now I am back – in fact, I shall insist upon it. We all enjoy your company, and dining alone can be such a sorrowful affair.’

  ‘That is most charming of you,’ I said, meaning every word, ‘but I would hate to become an imposition. I know your father works as hard as I, and I’m sure your fiancé does too. They would surely prefer to dine alone with their loved ones, without the effort of constant visitors.’

  ‘Yes, they do work hard.’ Her smile wavered again. ‘But they are also out a lot in the evenings, at Father’s club.’ She was trying very hard to cover it, but her face was suddenly awash with sadness, and like all old fools in the presence of beauty, my heart melted.

  ‘Then I shall be delighted to join you,’ I said, a small flush creeping up under my collar. I was under no illusion that she would ever love me – and even I could see how ridiculous such a situation would be, should that ever occur – but surrounded by death and darkness as I was, it made me happy enough to know she considered me a friend.

  ‘Good,’ she said, and turned to leave.

  ‘Juliana.’ I could not ignore the sorrow she had been trying to disguise. ‘Is there something worrying you? You know that you can talk to me, if there is …’

  ‘It’s nothing.’ She smiled, more brightly this time. ‘Nothing that good company at dinner won’t cure.’

  ‘Then I shall do my best to provide it,’ I said.

  *

  The rest of the day passed without incident, and after Juliana’s visit even my walk through the damp fog to spend a few hours at Westminster Hospital did not manage to dispel my sudden good mood. I had been certain, after waking up so out of sorts, that I was about to suffer one of the anxiety attacks I had come to fear, but as yet there had been no sign, and I put that down to the distraction brought about by her company. Although she had not wanted to talk, it was clear to me that something was troubling her – but if it was simply loneliness, then I could happily help ease that. I wondered whether I should talk to Charles, but decided that for now at least I would leave it be. I had my own unorthodox ways of dealing with the stresses of our work, and I could hardly begrudge Charles his – at least he did not spend his nights wandering unsavoury places such as Bluegate Fields in search of oblivion.

  Once the headache and nausea from my brandy consumption finally eased, I discharged my various duties at the hospital with no real effort. I had been a Surgeon at the Westminster for so many years that my routine – unless something completely unusual presented itself – was no longer taxing, and I was permitted the free rein that came with the position. I lectured the students and presented papers, and had gained enough respect that none would query my behaviour if they found it somewhat erratic – and if it were noticed, it would no doubt be put down to the forensic work I did on behalf of the Metropolitan Police.

  By the time I returned home, just after five, Mrs Parks had almost forgiven me for the previous night, and when I told her that I was indeed hungry – not the answer she normally had from me – she hurried about cooking me a fine early dinner of roast pork, the sort of meal I used to eat before this most recent and most affecting bout of insomnia and anxiety had gripped me.

  Once the plates were cleared away, she left for the night and I sat by the fire in the drawing room and waited for the clock to finish its crawl round to night. As I gazed into the crackling flames, I thought of Jack and the second killer who intrigued both the mysterious priest and I – the man I was coming to think of as ‘the Thames Killer’. It was a less dramatic moniker than the one ‘the Ripper’ had coined for himse
lf, but I found it more chilling – colder. What were those two doing tonight, I wondered, planning more mayhem on the London streets? Or perhaps staring into a fire somewhere else in the city and wondering what men such as Inspector Moore and I were thinking?

  Moore and Andrews were no doubt assisting Abberline; I could picture the three inspectors trawling through all the interviews conducted during the search of Whitechapel, looking for something, anything, that could lead them to find Jack and restore some calm to the streets. I didn’t envy them their jobs, damned as they were by both sides if they failed.

  Jack the Ripper and the Thames Killer: they were shadows in the dark corners of my mind, unformed but threatening, both monsters, and yet so different in their approaches. How anyone could think they were one and the same man beggared belief, but that was the easy way of thinking, and for many, that would always be preferable to hard truth.

  The fire crackled and the remnants of my earlier good mood disappeared into the smoke as my thoughts drifted. I had left the curtains open and now the night crawled in around me. I thought once again of the wickedness that appeared to come alive in the city at dusk, and how most decent people were happy to shut it out with the pull of a cord, as if something as simple as brocaded fabric could hold it out. What had Charles said to me in his study that night? He didn’t look out of the windows because of the darkness. I feel like everything wicked is looking into my house. Into me. His words rang crystal-clear in my memory, and I understood them.

  I had never been a superstitious man, but yet again I found myself wondering about the evil that had gripped so many men’s souls of late. London was never a city without crime, but this year there had been so much mindless violence that even without the two leading performers, I would have been disturbed. Something was reaching into men’s souls and dragging out their hidden darkness, leaving them dumbfounded by their actions as they were led away to the gallows.