Murder

  When it was time for us to leave, we said our farewells to Juliana, who insisted Kane call on her and little James again, and at Kane’s invitation we shared a carriage back into town. At first I thought he was simply being sociable, but once we were away from Barnes he leaned forward in his seat, resting his forearms on his knees, and said, ‘I’m glad we have some time together, for there is something I wish to share with you – something that I had originally planned to show to Juliana, but I can see she is still recovering from her grief and I fear this will not help her. But I have to share this with someone, and you care for Juliana – and you also knew Harrington. And you are obviously an intelligent and respectable man. I trust you to deal with them as you wish.’

  My curiosity was only slightly larger than my trepidation. The iron wheels beneath us rang out against the cobbles as my heart pounded against my ribs. Harrington was intent on haunting me still.

  ‘What is it that concerns you?’ I was glad to hear my voice sounded calm. Whatever it is, I reminded myself, there is no way it can point to my own involvement in Harrington’s death. The only men living who could do that were the priest and Kosminksi, and neither of them could speak without admitting their own guilt. We had formed an unholy alliance in our drug madness; even without their company I still felt its grip on me – especially now.

  Kane pulled a small bundle from his inside jacket. ‘These letters – he wrote them to me throughout the year or so before his death, but I only found them recently, while I was sorting through my father’s affairs after he died. The first one was opened, but the rest remained sealed.’

  ‘Your father kept them from you?’ Despite the cold, sweat sprung on my hands. Letters from Harrington – words from beyond his watery grave … Harrington was becoming my own Banquo. ‘Why?’

  ‘My relationship with my father was difficult: he lacked imagination, where I was wild and creative, with a passion for adventure which he wanted to stifle. If he hadn’t become a railroad man, he would have been a ship-builder. He was a man of metal – iron through and through, in spirit and in heart. My trip around Europe was my mother’s idea, and he agreed to it only out of fear that I was destroying my reputation – and therefore his – with my unseemly, “rebellious” behaviour.’ He shrugged, slightly embarrassed. ‘I was an angry young man, you might say, and I had a taste for wine and women. But on my return we managed slowly to build a working relationship, and we put my impetuous youthful behaviour firmly behind us. I imagine he did not wish me to maintain friendships with those I met whilst travelling. I had always remembered James fondly, though, and when I found these I knew I had to visit him, to check on his well-being.’ He paused, and then admitted, ‘The letters, you see – well, they are disturbing. I had expected to find him well, perhaps a little embarrassed at their content – I had hoped that was the reason he ceased writing, but when I found out about his awful death I began to wonder whether there might be some cause for it within them. Maybe you’ll be able to find it. But I must warn you, they make for pretty uncomfortable reading. He was obviously suffering some kind of feverish illness, and in his confused state – well, when you read them you will see that he suffered bouts of memory loss at times, so perhaps he was confusing his own imagined misdeeds with the real events that you and Dr Hebbert were helping the police with.’ He paused. ‘I hope they were imagined, for if not, then my gentle English friend became something of a monster, and that I can’t believe.’

  The word monster made me shiver, but I held Edward Kane’s gaze. He was looking at me with trust and respect. If only he knew the madness I myself succumbed to during that time, I thought. If only he knew what I found in James Harrington’s possession that drove me to slash his throat.

  I pulled myself together and said gravely, ‘I am sure they are nothing but the fantasies of a sick mind. James suffered frequently with bouts of illness after his travels.’

  ‘And therein lies my own guilt, for it was I who persuaded him to travel to Poland and see more interesting sights than those to be found in the great cities of Europe. I feel partly responsible for his illness.’

  He held the letters out and I had no choice but to take them, though I was glad of the leather gloves between my skin and the paper. The bundle felt heavier in my hands than possible.

  ‘If you could find time to read them,’ he said, ‘I would be grateful for your opinion on their contents. Perhaps there is something there that could help catch whoever killed him – although I know that is unlikely, especially after so long. And you knew James then – you will know if the deeds he describes are ones he was even able to carry out. I have business in Southampton for a few days, and then I will be back in London. I know you are a busy man, Dr Bond, but your opinion – and your discretion – would help me greatly in finding some peace.’

  ‘Of course,’ I said, and I smiled as I tucked the small package into my overcoat pocket. ‘I shall give them my attention and report back to you.’

  ‘And you won’t tell Juliana?’

  ‘Of course not.’ His concern for Juliana rankled me somewhat – as if I did not share that concern, or indeed, have far more, for I had loved Juliana for a long time and there was nothing I would do to hurt her. I had committed a terrible deed to protect her and nothing Kane could do would ever match that, for all that my actions of that dreadful night had to remain secret for fear of being misunderstood.

  Kane sighed and then smiled, warm and open, reaching forward and squeezing my arm. ‘Thank you. That is a mighty relief. I am very glad to have met you, Dr Thomas Bond. I can see why Juliana relies on you so much. You are a good man.’

  Once back in my house I went straight to my study and poured a large brandy before sitting at my desk and staring at the envelopes: pockets of history waiting to be retold. In truth I wanted to burn them immediately, and I racked my brain for ways I could do this and have a valid explanation to give to Kane but I found none. Instead, I opened the bottom drawer and threw them inside – but still I felt their presence – Harrington’s presence – too close to me and knew I would not be able to work in peace at my desk with them inside it. I swallowed the brandy before taking the package into the second bedroom and forcing it under the mattress, as far in as I could reach. I closed the door and calmed myself.

  I could forget them now. I had no desire to read their contents. Harrington had been a murderer of women and that is what the pages would tell me, nothing more. There would be no talk of monsters. Of Upirs.

  Even if there was, I did not want to read it: I would not unlock the door to that insanity again. The past was done and I would not allow Edward Kane to bring back the ghost of Harrington to taunt me. My hands were still trembling and I drank another brandy before going to bed, but even then I did not sleep easily, for my dreams were tormented with flashes of memory. When I woke, I knew I had to get the letters out of my house. I would lock them in a drawer in my office at the hospital. I would not have them near me.

  I felt calmer after that. The world was still steady. I was a sane man.

  8

  Colney Hatch Lunatic Asylum. 1893

  Aaron Kosminski

  Assessment

  The patient’s condition continues to deteriorate. His agitations have increased quite dramatically over a period of six months. His illness presents in the form of delusions that are paranoid in nature and he sleeps little.

  The patient has a fixation with the river. His rants when in the grip of his delusions are difficult to analyse as anything other than the result of a confused mind. When questioned as to what is disturbing him, he says ‘It is not in the river. It did not go in the river.’ He repeats this statement several times, each time with increasing anxiety. Occasionally, he mentions blood. Were he a less pathetic and obviously terrified individual I would have concerns that he has an unknown violent past, but I conclude that he is suffering some form of disease of the mind.

  He continues to refuse to wash unless forced by nurses while re
strained, and he resists human contact.

  9

  The Times

  Saturday, February 14, 1897

  MURDER IN A RAILWAY CARRIAGE

  As was briefly reported in The Times of yesterday, a shocking murder was committed on the London and South-Western Railway on Thursday night. Up to yesterday evening no arrests had been made…

  …The deceased apparently sat with her back to the engine. Her assailant probably first hit her a blow on the forehead, partially stunning her. She must have then grappled with the man, for splashes of blood were found on the opposite side of the carriage, and her umbrella was found broken. It was supposed that the murderer then swung round and inflicted a second blow on the left side of the head, smashing in her skull and killing her. She was then pushed under the seat, and when found was lying on her back with her legs across the floor of the carriage.

  The Daily Mail

  Tuesday, February 16, 1897

  Any arguments deduced from the nature of Elizabeth Camp’s wounds suggest not that she was murdered for her money – for a robber would not have waited to inflict supererogatory injuries such as those the dead woman’s head exhibit – but that she was assassinated by somebody who found a revengeful satisfaction in battering her even after his first blows had killed her.

  The post-mortem examination was concluded yesterday by Mr. Thomas Bond, the eminent Westminster Hospital surgeon. When seen by a “Daily Mail” reporter yesterday, Mr. Bond said that the pestle found on the railway lines between Putney and Wandsworth was undoubtedly a weapon with which Miss Camp’s injuries could have been inflicted.

  “Miss Camp was killed by five or six blows from the pestle,” went on Mr. Bond. “The so-called stab in the forehead was not a stab at all, but the result of a blow from the pestle. I frequently notice that a blow on the forehead or on any portion of the body under which there is a good bone support gives the appearance of a stab wound. The skin is broken cleanly against the bone beneath, and always looks as if it had been cut. I have even known of an appearance as of stabbing in the cases of people who came to their death from a fall on the pavement, the bruise where the forehead struck the stone being so clean cut.” Questioned further, Mr. Bond said that the stomach of the victim showed that Miss Camp had not partaken for several hours before her death of anything more than a cup of tea and a roll. He also said that the fact of the body being warm when discovered at Waterloo meant nothing more, in the case of a stout young woman like Miss Camp, then that she had been killed within the preceding twenty-four hours. Mr. Bond said that so far as he knew no analytical examination of the pestle had yet been made.

  The coroner’s inquest will be opened this morning.

  10

  London. February, 1897

  Dr Bond

  ‘And you’re sure she didn’t put up a fight?’ Superintendent Robinson asked, leaning against the desk. ‘She was a solid woman. Thirteen stone.’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘I know the doctor who examined the scene thinks differently, but with all due respect to him I would say she had no time to offer resistance, or indeed, to even cry out.’

  The pestle that had killed the unfortunate Miss Camp sat on the wooden desktop between us, still coated with her blood and strands of her hair.

  ‘There were four blows, perhaps six,’ I continued. ‘I imagine the attack was frenzied and took no more than a minute in total. That is a heavy weapon and the first blow – to her forehead – would have stunned her. Why would he pause, allow her to recover and fight back, and then attack again? That logic aside, the placement of the injuries on her skull would indicate a furious flurry of strikes while she remained in much the same position: with her assailant standing above her. Are you any closer to discovering who that might be?’

  The murder of Elizabeth Camp two days before on the seven-forty-two train from Hounslow to Waterloo had grabbed the attention of the population, which didn’t surprise me. She had not been sexually assaulted, and because her jewellery was still present when her body was found – one arm sticking out from under the blood-splattered carriage seat – the motive was obviously not robbery. The idea that this could happen to a respectable woman travelling alone in a railway carriage in the early evening had struck fear into the female population, especially given the fevered nature of the attack.

  ‘We’re trying to track down the sister’s husband, a fellow called Haynes, but I can’t see what motive he’d have. He and his wife have been living apart for several months at least. Miss Camp’s fiancé says she had never mentioned to him any animosity between her and her brother-in-law.’

  ‘She did burn some letters a few days ago, though,’ Sergeant Leonard, a slight but hardy young man, cut in. ‘No idea as to what they contained yet.’

  ‘And no witnesses?’ I did not envy these men their investigation. If they had no clear suspect from within the victim’s life then it was likely a random act of madness, and they would need to have the luck of the devil to catch him.

  ‘You know how it is,’ Robinson sighed. ‘One man’s word is immediately discounted by another’s. A pastry cook called Burgess – also a second-class passenger – said he saw a man dressed in a dark coat and top hat leaving in a hurry, but the porter on the platform remembers nothing of the sort. We’ve got two barmaids in a pub in Vauxhall who report a pale, haggard man in an overcoat and bowler hat who came in and ordered a brandy, but his hand was shaking so much he could barely hold it; they said he left suddenly and got into a hansom.’ He paused, then added sadly, ‘So no, really we have nothing.’

  ‘You’re lucky you found the pestle,’ I said. ‘At least we know she was killed before the Wandsworth stop. I know this line quite well myself – I take it to visit Dr Hebbert’s daughter and her son in Barnes. Thankfully, I was not travelling on that day, so I believe you can rule me out of your enquiries. And that is not my pestle.’ Both men smiled at my attempt at humour, and I turned my attention once again to the murder weapon. It was old and heavy, with the number six or nine imprinted on it depending on which way up you held it. If the pestle did indeed belong to the killer, then I would have guessed it to be a six if he, by habit, held it the right way when attacking.

  ‘We’re having no luck with that either,’ Robinson said, ‘but we’re still visiting all the chemists – perhaps that number will lead us somewhere.’

  ‘I fear this inquest may last for several weeks,’ I said, ‘and it will keep you busier than me. I am only sorry I cannot give you more information, but rest assured, my assistance is available whenever you require it.’

  We said our farewells and I left them sifting through the little evidence they had. In truth, although of course I was not glad that Miss Camp was dead, I was happy for the distraction. Edward Kane had returned from his business in Southampton and was once again spending time in Juliana and little James’ company. Although he had not yet asked me outright for my verdict on the letters he had given me, I could feel his eyes searching mine when we met. I had managed thus far to avoid being alone with him, which meant that I had often declined dinner invitations, or left early on the pretext of work or a paper to finish, and this in turn had led to a little jealousy on my part over the amount of time Kane was spending alone with Juliana. She remained affectionate towards me, of course, and there were still times when I dined with her alone, but it was becoming clear that something in Kane’s nature – perhaps the same natural good humour that had attracted James Harrington to him – was having a revitalising effect on Juliana. She had begun to laugh more freely, and her eyes sparkled at times, just as they had when I’d first met her.

  I was not sure how that made me feel. I was glad that she was happier, but I could not deny that I wished very much that Kane would just go back to America and leave us to be happy together, alone – and perhaps then I would have the courage to ask her to become my wife.

  Still, the Elizabeth Camp murder had given me the excuse I needed to avoid any conversation about the letters an
d to start seeing more of Juliana again: I could tell Kane that I had started them but not yet finished, and now the inquest was taking up so much of my time I could not spare any to focus on the letters right now. It was perhaps a little weak as excuses go, but Kane was a gentleman and he would not push me. I, on the other hand, might be able to start gently pushing him to one side, to ensure that Juliana’s fondness for him did not grow during my absence.

  And so it was with a slight spring in my step that I came out of the police station, my thoughts on happier things than poor Miss Camp’s battered body.

  ‘Dr Bond!’ Newsmen all had the same tone, I had learned over years of working alongside the police: a blend of aggression and hunger as they vocally jostled for attention. ‘Dr Bond! Just a minute of your time, please. What can you tell us about Elizabeth Camp’s death? Do you think the killer will strike again?’

  I scanned the street for a hansom, but luck was not with me.

  ‘I’m afraid I have to get back to Westminster.’ I turned, irritated, and stared at the reporter. ‘You should direct your questions to Superintendent Robinson of the railway police.’

  ‘I expect I should.’ The man grinned. ‘But I helped you before, Dr Bond – in the vault at Whitehall, remember? Thought maybe you could return the favour.’

  I stared for a long moment before suddenly I recognised Jasper Waring, the reporter who had persuaded Henry Moore to let his dog search the vault of the building at New Scotland Yard where the torso had been found. The dog had done better than the police bloodhounds, for it had uncovered an arm and a leg.

  ‘Smoker,’ I said, the dog’s name coming from somewhere buried deep in my subconscious. ‘How is he?’

  ‘Dead a couple of years.’ Waring lit a cigarette and offered me one, but I shook my head. ‘He was a good dog – won’t be another like him.’