by Sam Hurcom
‘I can’t,’ I grunted, ‘not with my hands bound.’
He struck me hard on the back of the head once more.
‘Do you think me a fool? Do you think me that stupid?’
‘The chain,’ I grimaced, for the blow to my head had made me jar my shoulder. ‘The mutilation. You did all that for show, all that for fear?’
Solomon shifted the chair with force so that I looked straight at him. He knelt his lumbering body down to my level. Still in his grubby vest, I smelt the perspiration rise off him as he leant in ever closer to my face.
‘You feed off it in time, Thomas.’ He spoke with a renewed air of calm, of civility. ‘When you kill as often as I have, you begin to need the fear. I wanted to cut her up into pieces but—’ he shrugged. ‘I left her on the common where everyone would find her. I was surprised to learn she had been found down by the mill.’ He ran the back of his hand across my cheek. ‘Did you ever get to the bottom of that?’
I held my tongue.
‘I guessed it might be Cummings’ doing. He’s a snake, that man.’
‘But why Betsan, Solomon? Why the children?’
He sighed, letting his hand fall to his side ‘Do you believe in God, Thomas?’
I frowned, confused.
‘I think I do,’ he continued. ‘God wouldn’t have made me the way he did had he not wanted me to do what I do. And the day with the children, the night Betsan showed up here, all alone. Fate. Complete fate.’ He ran a finger along his throat. I’d seen him do it before, when we had sat in the bar, talking of ‘his’ murdered children. I recoiled from him, trying to pull my wrists apart then with no real care or thought. Solomon beamed.
‘Whether you show me how this camera works or not, Thomas, I’m going to kill you. I’m going to kill you and hide in plain sight, just as I have for years, just as I will continue to do. People never suspect the bumbling bar man, the silent fool.’
He stepped away out of sight. I wriggled and squirmed, twisting and turning my wrists to find any give, any loose end of thread that I could pinch with my fingers. I heard a rattle of metal, turned my neck painfully to see Solomon as he dragged a chain out from one dusky corner of the room. He let it fall to the floor just by his feet, before bending over to untangle some of the heavy links. The hem of his vest lifted, and there, just above his left hip, I noticed a few clear scratch marks. Betsan’s defence wounds, no doubt.
‘Now then,’ he said quite casually, returning to the shelf and his array of loathsome tools. ‘I’ll ask nicely one last time.’ He took hold of the thin butcher’s knife. ‘Show me how this camera works.’
With the greatest effort I stayed quiet. Solomon nodded with an air of disappointment.
‘This shan’t be pleasant for you, Thomas.’
He moved around me, grabbed at the chair and dragged me a short way from the shelf. Before I knew what was happening, he struck me hard against the face with the back of his meaty hand. I was dazed, my ear ringing; he spoke just at my side.
‘… it drives you quite mad – eats away at you – when you try to fight that urge.’
He stepped before me and swiped the blade close to my eyes. I lurched backwards. He swiped again, again and again, drawing closer with every quick thrust. With his final swipe, he aimed the knife lower, pushing the blade towards my throat and holding it against my skin. I winced, as the jagged edge pricked my flesh and sent a thin trickle of blood down to my collar. The look on the man’s glossy face alarmed me. His skin darkened before my eyes. The veins in his neck throbbed quickly. I could see the depths of his enlarged pupils and felt every tremor of his excitement. As he pulled the knife away from me then, I really thought my time was up. I saw the face of my father in that moment, telling me to be brave, not to cower or falter at the last. I waited for the death blow that would slice open my throat.
It didn’t come. Solomon stepped backwards away from me. He licked his lips as he did.
He began pawing through his tools. ‘Where is it?’ he growled after only a moment. He cursed before traipsing slowly up the stairs without so much as a glance over his shoulder. With the creak of the hatch opening, I stifled the urge to cry out for help.
Alone, I gasped and began to breathe heavily. I was engrossed in panic, my body charged, each fibre of my being struggling to break free. I looked about me, to my feet and the wall close to my left side. I still wore my coat, but knew that even if I could move, there was nothing in my pockets of any use. My gun. It was surely my salvation. I pulled at my wrists, the skin now rubbed raw. In dismay, I tried to stand, and awkwardly managed to take a few creeping steps towards the shelf. It was no use, though; my body was weak and in one desperate moment, I felt myself fall awkwardly to my side. I tried to stand but couldn’t, cast my eyes about the room in some vain effort of finding something that would help me. I twisted and bent my fingers and wrists in such an excruciating way, yet all was hopeless. I was at the whim of a complete madman.
I groaned into the cold stone floor, broken, beaten. It was such a pitiful way for all things to end.
The few small candles, dotted around the room, began to flicker. Barely at first so that I thought it merely water dripping from the ceiling, catching the small exposed flames. It lasted only an instant, and whilst then it was hardly something I noticed, it is a moment I am for ever drawn back to in the darker hours of the night, when my mind wanders and reflects on that dreadful encounter in the cellar.
I heard a crash and clatter above. I looked at the shelf, saw the handle of my gun. Water dripped to my right. I watched sullenly, drip after drip, splashing quietly against the floor I would surely die on. Solomon was talking to himself, now close to the open hatch. I waited in morbid anticipation for his return. He cried out, seemingly in mock triumph, before returning with heavy footfalls down the wooden steps. He stopped when he saw me sprawled upon the floor.
‘It will be over quicker, Thomas, if you tell me how this camera works.’
‘Go to hell,’ I stammered, a last pathetic attempt at defiance.
He moved quicker into the cellar then, dropping a shovel at the foot of the steps as he marched over to where I lay. He carried a meat cleaver in his hand. With some effort he hauled me from the floor, though returned immediately to my camera and began hacking the cleaver repeatedly into the wood of the shelf. I admit the outbursts made me reel.
To my shock, my fingers touched upon a loose end of rope around my wrists. I was barely able to grasp it between the thumb and forefinger of my right hand. As I pulled, delicately at first so as not to arouse Solomon’s attention, I felt my bonds loosen, ever so slightly. Cautiously I wriggled my hands. Steadily, only a fraction at a time, I was able to prise my wrists apart. Anxiously I continued to tug on the loose end whilst all the while, Solomon jabbered and grappled with my camera. I watched as he set the quarter plate in, as he lifted and began fixing it to the stand, the lens aimed straight at me. With ever more frantic movements, I pulled and prised until at last, I could feel the bonds give and knew they had been loosened completely.
My body shook. I felt quite delirious.
I had some chance now to overcome my captor, though it would not be an easy task. My shoulder still ached and my vision remained unfocused. Solomon was bigger in stature and heavier in weight; I couldn’t fight him for that would be foolhardy.
My gun – I needed to get it away from Solomon. It was my best chance. I could take him by surprise, shove him aside and make a short dash for it. That seemed my only real choice. I thought little on it, for I needed to act quickly.
‘You’re of a type, Solomon,’ I said then, trying to quell the fear in my voice. ‘I’ve seen it often enough; a weak child, I imagine, likely the disappointment to your father.’
I was rambling but had gained Solomon’s attention. He stopped adjusting the camera and eyed me darkly.
‘Either that o
r he buggered you. It’s a sad fact but most killers share that in common; abusive fathers. It’s why they kill, to regain control, impart their power on others.’
‘Watch your tongue,’ he snarled viciously.
‘What surprises me, however, is that you chose such weak victims, targeting even children, in fact. Most killers challenge themselves, or so they think. They pick ever more difficult prey, at least the ones with any ounce of bravery do.’ None of this was true of course, but I had to goad Solomon towards me.
‘You’re quite weak in truth. You think yourself clever when any fool could do what you have done. You think yourself special for bringing fear to a remote village full of superstitious people? That’s nothing. Not like The Ripper; he made the whole of London cry out in terror.’
Solomon was shaking his head slowly, trying to brush off what I was saying.
‘That was special,’ I continued. ‘Unlike you, he’ll be remembered.’
He grabbed the cleaver, ripping it from the shelf. He started stepping over to me slowly, brandishing it before him. I could see his knuckles were white as snow as he grasped hold of the hilt.
‘You think you’re smart,’ I spoke on brazenly. ‘You think you have a power over others. You have no power. None will think of you in the years to come. You’re a killer of the helpless. In time, the authorities will catch up to you and you will no doubt surrender before they can shoot you like a dog. They’ll bury you in an unmarked grave, along with every memory of you. No one will ever know who you were.’
Solomon began raising the cleaver as he came within a few feet of me. I could see his fury, his rage. I forced myself to wait for the moment he would strike.
‘No one will remember you, Thomas,’ he howled. ‘I’ll bury you so deep!’
‘You’re angry because you know it’s true. I know what a waste you are—’
It all happened quickly then, a blur. Solomon raised the cleaver higher looking to bring it down upon me. Before he could, I bowed my head, and ignoring the pain from my shoulder, brought my arms out from behind me and leapt out of the chair to tackle him. His gasp, as I surged and knocked him backwards, seemed more from surprise than anything.
We collapsed onto the floor, though there he had the upper hand. Swiping out with the cleaver, he nicked my arm lightly. I cried out, managing to scramble away from him as he swung at my face.
I made for the shelf and my gun. He clearly knew my intention, rising quickly and stepping towards my revolver as well. He swiped clumsily through the air and clattered against my body. I reeled forwards, falling again to the floor just before the shelf. As Solomon slashed downwards, I rolled away, scrambling to my feet and moving back towards the chair.
He now stood between me and the gun, but his excitement got the better of him. He left it and charged with no thought or great skill, thrashing out with the knife in anger. I managed to avoid his first, wayward swipe, before hitting him hard with my good right arm. He lost his grip on the cleaver as he stumbled backwards, it falling to the floor. I took a step forward but to no avail. Solomon was unnerved; he moved backwards and with his eyes fixed on mine, fumbled for my Enfield.
He aimed the gun at me, the hammer already pulled back. He straightened his arm and I readied myself for the shot. I made sure to keep my eyes open to the last.
Solomon’s face, split with a smile of total contempt, changed suddenly. His gaze shifted for the briefest moment; he looked past my shoulder. He lowered the gun slightly, his arms slumping.
I leapt forwards and took him off guard, trying to wrestle the gun from his grasp. He reacted quickly, shoving at me with his free hand. I managed to pull the gun clean away from him, though in that moment he knocked me off balance. I fell backwards hard, fumbling to take hold of the handle as he in turn lunged down onto me. We jostled and wrestled, his heavy hands swinging at my face, I in turn thrashing at him.
Still clenching the barrel of my Enfield, I managed to connect the butt with Solomon’s jaw. He reeled, clawing then towards the cleaver, crying out as he did. I rolled away from him in terror, took hold of the gun proper and fired, the blast of noise deafening in the confined space. My Enfield smoked as Solomon lay dead upon the floor.
I yelled and let go of the gun. The candles in the room seemed brighter than they had before. Clenching my injured shoulder, I stood unsteadily and looked around.
I was alone, with Solomon’s corpse lying at my feet.
28
The Passing of the Storm –
June 24th, 1904
I awoke, to quite the pleasant whistling of birds singing outside the inn window. It seemed such a foreign sound. As I lifted my head from the wooden table, my hand still loosely holding my gun, I noticed the brightness of the room around me. The sun was beaming, casting every corner in warm, golden light. I felt a little dazed, wincing as a sharp pain from my shoulder coursed up my stiff neck. In spite of this, everything was serene, worlds away from the chaos and furore of the storm.
I stood slowly and moved over to the bar area, knocking into a few chairs as I went. Nervously I stretched over and looked behind the bar to the hatch leading down to the cellar. It was closed, as I had left it.
The fight, my single gunshot. The moments I had sat bound in the chair, the sharpened edge of Solomon’s blade pushed against my neck, or the barrel of my gun held against my temple. I tried pushing all such thoughts from my mind.
Uncertain as to what to do but compelled to be in the morning air, I left the inn and stood in the sunken patio outside. The day was glorious, rich blue skies unblemished by a single wisp of cloud. The trees of the Twyn had been battered however, branches snapped, limbs torn away exposing fresh bark. It was clear that some of the cottages and other properties had been damaged by the freak weather as well. Slate roof tiles lined the dusky road; a window opposite where I stood had been smashed.
There was no one in sight. I stepped out of the patio and looked towards the town hall. I doubted Cummings or Vaughn would still be there; they had likely struggled back up Britway Road to Cummings’ estate.
I walked down the length of the Twyn. I began to see a few people stirring within their homes – curtains being opened, doors unbolted. It wasn’t long before I heard voices and saw a small huddle of men gathered outside the church with its three simple spires. There were five or six; they fell silent as I approached and didn’t say anything as I stood beside them. They eyed me with the same infuriating suspicion that I had grown accustomed to. Today, I was in no mood to stand for it.
‘I need to contact the Glamorgan Constabulary, or Cardiff, whichever is easier. They are needed immediately.’
It was the ironmonger I had interviewed two days previously who spoke first.
‘What’s happened?’
‘A man is dead. I need the police here at once.’
The men looked from me to each other.
‘Who?’ the ironmonger asked me.
‘It is none of your concern. I need someone at the station – the lines will have to be cleared today. I can’t wire anyone so that’s the only way we’ll be able to make contact.’
Nobody stirred. I spoke angrily then, pointing to a man on my left.
‘You. Get down to the station and be on watch. If a steamer comes, you flag them down. Tell them a killer has been apprehended and they need to get the police here as soon as possible. It doesn’t matter which way the train is headed.’
The man remained rooted to the spot.
‘Well, come on, move!’
He hurried away then towards the station. The expression of those he left had changed completely. They looked at me with some alarm.
‘The body of Betsan Tilny. It lies in rest at Michaelston as I am sure you know.’ I turned from one man to the next. ‘I’ll need her brought here in all haste. Take a cart.’
The ironmonger shook his head unea
sily. ‘Mr Cummings, and Constable Vaughn—’
‘Have no say in this village anymore,’ I interrupted. ‘This is no enviable task, but it must be done. If you would like, you can speak to the police when they arrive; I’m sure they will be keen to hear of your refusal.’
The men, visibly aggrieved, made no complaints. They stepped down the Twyn without a word, their heads all bowed.
I took a deep breath, looking upwards and feeling the warmth of the day. It was going to be a long one.
The village awoke slowly, but by mid-morning, word had spread. A small crowd of men and women gathered on the Twyn, some smoking and muttering quietly, others sitting and watching, concern etched into their faces.
By then I had returned to the inn and found Solomon’s keys, blessedly tucked safely behind the bar. I had no great desire to head down into the cellar and search about his corpse. With these I had locked up the inn completely, before spending two hours or so flitting from place to place.
I had gone to Geraint and Lewis’ house; the pair had been awake though Geraint had looked in no fit state. I had done him the courtesy of explaining what had happened, watching as he broke down in a mixture of anger and shock. Lewis consoled him softly. I left asking only that they kept the circumstances quiet until the police had arrived. By then it wouldn’t matter much.
Next, I made my way to the Beacon House, though en route I met Jacob Clyde, the Postmaster. He tried prying into what had happened.
‘Never you mind,’ I said brashly. ‘I need you to track down Coun— Mr Cummings and Mr Vaughn. Tell them only that I seek them and that the enquiry has been closed. If they are not at Cummings’ residence make sure to search for them.’ I waved him off and he left obligingly.
At the telegraph station, Mrs Wilkins was as curt with me as she had been when last we met. Her husband was in attendance, though, and he seemed quite the opposite.