Murder

  I walked until my legs ached and I found myself where some part of me must always have known I was heading: the dark heart of London’s underbelly, where I could find some relief in the poppy smoke. I wanted to numb my mind, to shake away the bitter past that was threatening to drag me down. I wanted to escape the terrible sense I had of Fate at work against me.

  I did not speak to this Chi-Chi, merely signalled him wearily to bring me a pipe as I found a cot in the corner of the room. The day’s heat had settled thickly in the air and now it was weighed down with smoke and sweat and body-heat. As I sucked in the opium and lay back on the thin cushions I loosened my collars and allowed my skin to breathe.

  Ah, the opium, I thought, as my mind drifted into a sea of colours and shapes, my skin tingling and my muscles relaxing. I have missed it.

  23

  London. August, 1897

  Dr Bond

  The train journey was interminably slow and as the heat made my moustache and the skin under my collar itch I wondered once again what I was doing here. There was no turning back, however. A driver was waiting to pick me up at the station to take me the last mile or so, and if I were to cancel my visit and regret it, I would most likely be met with hostility or suspicion should I try to rearrange it, regardless of my eminent position in the medical world.

  Over the past month I had tried to force the news of the priest’s letter and his demise from my thoughts as much as possible, but it had proved difficult. Walter Andrews had indeed been revitalised by the news and invited Moore and me to celebrate his imminent retirement with a small party, at which I did my best to appear equally as overjoyed as he, but there was, on that occasion and several afterwards, too much talk of the dead killer and the murders he’d supposedly committed for me to relax fully. I was stiff and reserved with Juliana, and although she seemed not to mind, I knew she must be hurt by my behaviour. I blamed my withdrawal and anti-social behaviour on my back injury, claiming it had started hurting again, and of course she was all understanding and warmth, and she applied no pressure on me to visit her until I was completely better.

  In truth, that visit to the opium den had reignited my dependence on the drug, and although every morning when I woke – each day later and later – and I told myself I would not go again, every evening, when the darkness of my thoughts and fears overwhelmed me, I would once again find myself back in the sewers of the city, seeking temporary oblivion. My work was suffering as distraction marked my visits to the hospital. The invisible walls of old were creeping up between me and the world as the words of the dead priest haunted my sober waking hours. Each day I took out the package of Harrington’s letters and stared at them, caught between the urge to devour their mad contents and my desire to burn them, hoping to obliterate the past.

  Now the air reeked of the river everywhere I went, and as my nights were given to the opium, I began to make my days more bearable with laudanum. I wondered anew about the creature I had seen on Harrington’s back and despaired of the thin line between madness and sanity.

  After two weeks I could tolerate this Purgatory no further. The priest was dead, and if I was ever to understand those circumstances or ease the fear that my madness was returning, then I needed to seek out the gentle hairdresser and learn what had happened after our unholy trinity had disbanded on the night of James Harrington’s death. I found Kosminski’s sister’s house easily enough from memory, and although she was clearly displeased to see me, she did unbend enough to tell me that her brother had been in Colney Hatch since 1891 until early 1894, when he had been transferred to Leavesden. When she said sternly that she hoped I would not trouble him there, I nodded and gave my reassurances, although I knew I could promise no such thing. What effect my presence would have on Kosminski, I did not know. His visions had always plagued him – but had our murder of James Harrington turned him completely insane? And was it just coincidence that he had been moved to a new asylum the same year that the priest died?

  My questions would soon be answered.

  My hansom cab ride to Leavesden was uneventful. I enjoyed the breeze, which shook away the vestiges of my opium hangover, but I confess I did administer myself some laudanum to calm my rising nerves.

  By the time we had come up the sweeping drive to the imposing modern building I was ready. I had written to the Medical Superintendent, telling him I was preparing a paper on patients suffering auditory hallucinations and their links to criminal activity, and I recalled Aaron Kosminski from my time assisting the police on the Jack the Ripper case, and it was he who met me and led me through the institution to the visiting rooms, giving me the guided tour as we walked. I nodded and exclaimed at all the right points, but in truth, I was barely listening.

  Finally, he ushered me into the visiting room. ‘The Head Attendant can oversee you from there,’ he said, and gestured at an office looking down into the room. ‘You won’t be in any danger. Kosminski’s not a violent patient – in fact, he shuns contact.’

  ‘I would rather be alone with him if possible,’ I said. ‘I fear I do not get the most honest answers from patients when they are being watched, especially those suffering from paranoia.’

  ‘As you wish,’ he said. ‘But I shall leave two attendants outside the door for you to call upon, should you need them.’

  I gave him my thanks and took a seat. My heart was pounding. In the moments I had alone, I took some more laudanum, and then waited.

  He was thinner than I remembered, if that was possible, and his eyes, ringed with dark shadows in a pale face, darted this way and that as he shuffled in and took the seat opposite me. His restless fingers picked at scabs on his skin.

  ‘Thank you for agreeing to see me,’ I said, keeping my tone formal until the attendants had closed the door behind them.

  ‘Why are you here?’ he asked eventually. His accent was still strong.

  ‘The priest is dead,’ I said. ‘He was found dead several years ago, but I only discovered the fact recently.’

  Kosminski nodded. He did not look surprised. His twitching grew, though, and I felt a pang of sympathy for him. Whatever demons I suffered, I could see they were nothing compared to his.

  ‘I have not seen him since that night. But he left a note for me. One that pertained to our … activities.’ I did not want to speak the details out loud, for fear Kosminski’s insanity might create a truth around them that did not exist. If he knew something, I wanted it to come entirely from him. ‘Had you seen him before he died?’

  There was a long pause and I wondered if he was going to speak at all, and then he sniffed, coughed and sighed.

  ‘We made a pact,’ he whispered.

  ‘You and the priest?’

  He nodded, his eyes watering. ‘A terrible pact. I did not think. I did not … and they came for him anyway.’

  ‘What pact?’ I asked, leaning forward.

  He was about to speak when he was suddenly wracked with a terrible bout of coughing, his weak body convulsing until his face was red and his eyes bulging.

  ‘Good heaven, man,’ I said, getting out of my chair and pulling the laudanum from my pocket, ‘have you been suffering like this for long?’

  He waved his hands at me to ward me away, but his coughing was so acute I ignored him and placed one hand on his bony shoulder so I could tip some of the liquid into his mouth.

  Two things happened instantly: his coughing stopped immediately, and his hands, dirty and scabbed, grabbed mine firmly – too firmly.

  My own responses were slow, though I frowned at this sudden shift in behaviour. His eyes were sharp and he yanked me so close I could see every pore of his cheeks. The rotten stench of his mouth and filthy skin was nauseously overwhelming.

  ‘I say,’ I exclaimed startled, although not in any fear, ‘are you all right?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered. ‘I’m sorry.’

  Something shifted in the corner of my eye as I stared at him, confused. There was a darkness – something
on his shoulder – and my skin crawled with an overwhelming sense of dread. As I gazed into Kosminksi’s bloodshot eyes I was sure I caught a glimpse of red eyes, and a slick black tongue reached for my throat.

  As my mind screamed insanity at me I broke away, gasping. I glanced back at the door, half-expecting to see the attendants rushing in, but it remained closed.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Kosminski repeated dully.

  I looked at him as I caught my breath, loathing myself both for having gone to the opium den the night before and for having taken so much laudanum this morning. My brain was drug-addled. That’s all it was: the proximity of the hairdresser releasing those memories I did not trust to be real.

  ‘I am not hurt,’ I said, and re-took my seat. ‘Tell me of this pact you made with the priest.’ In truth, all I wanted to do was to turn and leave and never look back, but I could not. I had to be sure that whatever they had done could have no impact on my current life. If they had left a record somewhere of my involvement in Harrington’s death, then I would not be able to explain that away so easily.

  The hairdresser had slumped in his seat. Although he looked terribly sad, his agitations had ceased and his coughing had stopped. He looked almost as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders, and that fanciful thought made me shiver in dread. I took two deep breaths. It was the laudanum, that was all. Nothing more.

  ‘He came to see me.’ His voice was soft and he stared at a point in space rather than meet my eyes. ‘When I had moved here. He was not the same man – I knew it before he came; I had seen it. He had killed. He told me what did not need saying: the Upir had not gone into the river that night. It was upon him.’

  The world darkened slightly. ‘Go on.’

  ‘He had believed that he could control it – he thought his weakened arm would stop him killing, but the beast was stronger.’ Finally he looked at me. ‘His hand he cut off, to try and stop it, but it did not work. He heard they were sending others of his order to find him – to kill him, maybe. This did not scare him, but he was afraid it would trick them as it had tricked him. He came to me.’

  He broke down and started sobbing, lost in the memory, and my stomach in turn twisted sickeningly as he talked of madness I had thought so long ago left behind. But the priest had died in mysterious circumstances; could his strange Order have been responsible? Could such madness be spread amongst many?

  ‘I thought it would be better than the visions,’ Kosminski whispered. ‘I was wrong.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ I said. ‘What did he want from you?’

  He looked at me as if I was fool for not already knowing what he was going to say. ‘We thought I could starve it,’ he whispered. ‘I am touched so little. So I took it from him.’

  ‘The Upir?’

  He nodded. ‘I have tried so hard. I did not want to see you. But my mind has not always been my own.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ I said. ‘We have been friends.’

  ‘No,’ he whispered, ‘no, we are not friends. I have done a terrible thing.’

  ‘What?’ I asked. ‘What terrible thing could you do in here?’

  His face was desolation itself. ‘I have given you the Upir.’

  *

  It was madness, I told myself all the way home. The heat no longer bothered me for my skin was clammy with cold dread. Aaron Kosminski was mad – and so was I, for thinking that seeing him might bring me any sort of relief, or that I would find anything more than insanity – an insanity I had been part of.

  The next morning, I woke with a fever.

  24

  London. September, 1897

  Edward Kane

  He was happier than he had been in England. The revelations about the murdering priest, combined with Dr Bond’s eminently sensible comment that if James Harrington had been up to no good at the wharves there would have been some evidence left had finally banished his doubts about his friend. He had even begun to feel faintly ridiculous for having thought such things in the first place.

  As he watched Juliana tend to her dead husband’s grave, brushing away the fallen leaves and laying fresh flowers, he made a silent apology to the man’s memory. Now they could all finally move on. He hoped that Jim, gentle man that he had been, would have no objections to his pursuit of his widow. If only she could let go of her sense of obligation to Dr Bond. It was him she loved, he knew that, and they had shared several kisses since that first glorious touch, but when the doctor had fallen ill she had become overwhelmed with guilt and backed away from him physically, leaving him nearly driven mad with desire and love for her. He had tried to persuade her that her loyalty was misplaced, that the heart could be loyal only to itself – that there was no reason why she could not be as good a friend to Thomas Bond as she had been in the past without feeling obliged to marry him. In fact, he sincerely hoped that they could both be good friends, for, putting the matter of Juliana aside, he too had great respect and admiration for the doctor.

  At last Charles Hebbert, who had been attending to Dr Bond during this past month of illness, announced that the good doctor was finally on the mend. Juliana had not visited him, for both her father and Bond had insisted she stay away, in case she should catch his fever. And he himself had thought it best to wait until Thomas was up and about again before revealing that he was back in Juliana’s favour after the boating incident.

  ‘We should go,’ he said, checking his pocket watch. ‘We shall be late for your visitor.’ Juliana smiled, and he was glad to see her face free from the grief that had darkened it so often in the past. Little James, who was happily making daisy-chains on the grass at his dead father’s feet, got up. She took one hand and he took the other and they left the dead to rest in peace.

  *

  William Chard Williams was much closer in height to little James than to either Edward or Juliana, but his freckled face was cheery and his eyes twinkled as he shook the boy’s hand.

  ‘So, you want to be prepared to go to school with all the other boys, do you?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ James said very soberly.

  ‘Then between us we shall get you ready, won’t we?’

  The boy nodded again and Chard Williams grinned at him, teasing out a nervous smile in return.

  Juliana poured some more tea and told James to go and play with his toys, leaving them to talk in quiet. Edward sat back in his chair and let Juliana make the arrangements. He knew to his cost how protective she was; he would not make the same mistake again. Whilst he took some credit for this change in her attitude, he had played no part in finding the private tutor for her.

  ‘And you used to be a schoolteacher?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, ma’am, I did.’ Chard Williams nodded at the envelope on the table between them. ‘You’ll find my references in there, together with several from those I have privately tutored since. I would very much like to be teaching in a school still, but unfortunately I have problems with my back and long hours of standing are not good for my health.’ He smiled again. ‘But at least I can still educate the young in this capacity.’

  ‘You are very good with children,’ Juliana said, smiling, and Edward knew then that she would hire this one.

  ‘Unlike most schoolmasters of my acquaintance’ – the tutor leaned in conspiratorially – ‘I’m rather fond of them.’

  ‘Do you and your wife have any of your own?’

  ‘Sadly, not yet – but I do confess that my wife is somewhat younger than me, and so I hope we shall, in due course. She loves babies herself; in fact, she often fosters and cares for other people’s little ones. If young James does come to our home for his lessons then he will certainly learn what it’s like to be around other children. The lessons themselves will of course take place in a private room and he will need to concentrate and work very hard, but I am a believer in allowing breaks for the learning to be absorbed before moving on.’

  ‘I quite agree,’ said Juliana. Finally, she looked Edward’s way and he gav
e a slight nod. She smiled. ‘Then I think all we need do is settle on times and your fees. I will be happy to leave my son in your educational care.’

  *

  It was as if something had been freed in Juliana that night. Charles Hebbert called in to say that Dr Bond was in far better spirits – still weak, but dressed and up, and well enough for Hebbert to reduce his visits to every other day.

  It had been a long way to come simply to impart that news, but Juliana was always pleased to see her father. Edward too was happy to see him, but he was equally happy when he accepted a glass of wine but would not stay for dinner, saying he planned on dining at his club. While Juliana was in such good spirits Edward wanted her to himself; Hebbert tipped him a wink on the way out – sharp-eyed as he was, he could obviously see that too.

  ‘So now that James’ tutor is taken care of, you can start your journey as a businesswoman,’ Edward said as they finished dinner.

  ‘I feel as if life is starting again for me,’ she said. ‘And I do think it would make James happy to think I was looking after his business for his son.’

  ‘He would be very proud of you, of that I am sure. Although I cannot imagine he wasn’t already as proud as a man could be, just to have you as his wife.’

  There was silence after that as Juliana looked down into her glass, her expression unreadable. He had never met a woman so warm and yet so contained. What did he have to do to win her over? Why could she not just love him as he did her?