by Sam Hurcom
‘Sorry I haven’t spoken to you yet, Inspector; I’ve been busy with the telegraph lines.’
He was not a young man, his hair turning grey, the wrinkles around his eyes prominent. He stood nearly a foot shorter than his wife and I.
‘It’s fine, Mr Wilkins. How are the repairs coming along? I need to alert the authorities of what has happened here; I have sent a man to the station but that may not do.’
Mr Wilkins hesitated as he thought. ‘They’re not good. The lines were down all the way up the turnpike and may be even further along to Michaelston. It’s much sturdier from there but there’s no guarantees.’
‘Can you get men to assist you in the repairs?’ I asked. He shrugged and nodded. ‘See to it and do what you can.’
He seemed amenable and happy to help. I left with my thanks, before heading to the General’s estate. I was not there long, relaying to Harriet what happened the previous day.
‘This may all mean nothing to the General, but I assume you will now need to deal with his affairs.’
‘I will,’ Harriet spoke regretfully. ‘In many ways I am glad. Arthur is not a perfect man but loves this place dearly. It would kill him knowing what was really going on.’
I had nothing to say to that and left a little while later wishing Harriet my best.
That took me to mid-morning, whereupon I returned to the Twyn and the gathering crowds of nervous faces. Jacob Clyde was waiting; he informed me that Mr Cummings and Vaughn would remain at Cummings’ estate until needed. I decided that this was probably for the best; it was better they weren’t present and causing a fuss amongst the villagers.
I wasn’t sure what to do then, as a few voices called out to me, sheepishly at first but then with greater authority. All in attendance were anxious, desperate to know what had happened. I gathered the small crowd a little and spoke to them candidly.
‘My enquiry has unearthed the perpetrator of Betsan Tilny’s murder, as well as the murders of the young twins five years ago. I hope that officers from the local Constabularies will arrive here today, at which point they will no doubt begin speaking with some of you. Please ensure you answer them as honestly and clearly as you can.’
‘What of the spirit!’ a man called out.
‘Who was it?’ a woman asked from the back of the crowd. ‘Where are they if they are guilty?’
I saw Solomon’s lifeless body lying on the floor, his cold, merciless eyes staring up at me. I chose not to answer.
‘Please ensure you speak with the police frankly.’
A voice began yelling from further down the Twyn, and as I and the rest of the crowd turned, the young man I had sent to the station came running towards us.
‘The train line,’ he said breathlessly. ‘It’s been cleared this morning. Train just came through. They stopped, and I told ’em what’s happened. They’re going to send for the police in the next town over.’
I spent several hours back in the vacant inn then, knowing it would be some time until the Constables arrived. I went to my room, opening my case to pack away my things. I gathered all the torn and scribbled diary entries I had on the little table, tucking them away in my case, before covering them in my worn and dirty clothes. This was quite a childish act but one I did unconsciously. I didn’t want to look upon them.
I set about searching through the drawers of a little davenport and two cupboards in Solomon’s room. I found a small mahogany box, tucked neatly behind hanging trousers and Sunday shoes. Opening this, I discovered a heap of newspaper clippings which I began to thumb through slowly.
It was grim reading, each small, dog-eared piece of paper, telling its own miserable story. A body found cut up in a back alley. A woman found strangled in her bed. Drunken vagrants stabbed through the chest where they slept. A spate of disappearances over the course of some months. Crimes committed primarily in London, though some enacted in Oxford, Bath and Bristol. The oldest was dated at eighteen ninety.
It was short work laying out each clipping on the floor, plotting the course of Solomon’s despicable career. The crimes became more violent, the victims’ bodies left in ever more gruesome and grotesque states of depravity. There were names I recognised, cases I was aware of but not privy to at the time. To my horror, I realised I had indeed worked on one case, in the winter of eighteen ninety-four, though it had been far earlier in my career and I was not an investigator at that stage. That was little comfort though – a misplaced sense of guilt washed over me. Had I known then, I could have stopped him. Had I known then …
There was a diary in the box. On the first page were a list of names, locations and dates, each correlating to the clippings spread out before me. Beyond this, I saw the terrible extent to which Solomon had documented each of his murders. Page upon page of hand-scribbled notes, sketches of bodies bound and screaming, lists of tools used, details on sordid desires and fantasies. I tried to look upon it as I would any other piece of evidence. I found no sign of my photographic negatives but did happen upon a few small brown vials. They were all unmarked, though it was not an outlandish assumption that they contained the belladonna poison Solomon had laced into my food.
Taking a few sheets of letter paper from the davenport, I returned to my room and began writing my initial report. I was succinct, recalling the actions I had undertaken in my first few days in Dinas Powys and the manner in which I had fallen ill. I made no mention of spirits, or spectres, or things scratching in the night. I merely noted my whereabouts and questioning, that evidence had been collected in the form of photographic negatives, though these were currently missing, no doubt taken by the killer. I outlined the enquiries I had made following my speedy recovery, noting what I now knew to be the nature of my poisoning. I detailed all the illicit activities I had uncovered; Cummings’ and Vaughn’s reprehensible deeds I spoke of fully, as well as my recommendations for what action should be taken against them.
I struggled to write of my final discovery – Solomon wearing Betsan’s ring. It first appeared to me as a band of light in a picture, nothing more. How could I explain that, the manner in which I had learnt of it? After a few minutes of thought, I outlined that Geraint Davey, Betsan’s fiancé, had testified such a ring was missing. He had given me a description and finding a ring of said description about Solomon’s person, I had questioned the man about its origin. I needed then to provide a summary of my time captured in the cellar.
I finally stated thus: Solomon had failed to bind me adequately to my chair. After some time in which he confessed all his crimes to me, including the murder of Betsan Tilny and the murders of two children five years previous, he had attempted to kill me. At this point, free of my bonds, I was able to overcome him, grappling my pistol and shooting him with one fatal shot. I outlined in brief my actions that morning, stating how I had sought the assistance of the Constabulary.
It was not long, only three pages. I intended to write something far more significant in the days ahead, but this would do as a preliminary. I read it back once, twice. I continued to read through it again and again in fact.
It all made sense to me then. What I had written was the truth. The entirety of it. It felt so uplifting.
I thought first on my negatives. I had developed them in the height of fever. I have no doubts of my skill or the techniques I employed during development, but it would be more than plausible, nay completely likely, that my poor condition made me see all manner of strange things in those pictures. I had ‘seen’ the girl’s ghost lunge at me, raging, an inferno, in the cellar of All Saints church – was it not just as likely I may see the very same thing in the negatives I had taken? Could it be that lacking any opportunity to look upon those images again since my fever had passed, I may simply have reinforced the absurd notion that something awry, unnatural, had lingered in them?
How then did I come to know of the ring? It was made plain to me (or so I believed
), in the very negatives I now cast doubts on, present on Betsan’s wedding finger. This visage had come to me in the town hall, upon which I had questioned Geraint, who confirmed such a ring was indeed real. Was that the case, though? I was still quite unwell, in need of rest. Perhaps the idea of the ring – like everything else – had come from the depths of my imagination, concocted in this false pretence of ‘what I had seen in the negatives’. Was it such a coincidence that Geraint, as smitten as he was, should have asked Betsan to marry him, giving her a ring, a common custom that almost all men adhere to upon seeking engagement? In short, was it such a leap, the conclusion that I had come to? Could the existence of a ring, one that was missing at the time, not simply have been a ‘hunch’, a result of years of investigatory experience on my part?
It seemed very plausible.
Understand in the warm light of that day, so far removed from the madness of the previous few, my thinking then went beyond simply trying to convince myself. I genuinely started to believe these conclusions, for they were well reasoned, logical. Everything I thought I had seen was mere fantasy, delusions brought on by my combined stress, illness and lack of sleep. I was reflecting on an enquiry that had been one of my most bizarre; any man would have been affected in the manner in which I was. Most would have simply left the village after a day, realising that their illness was getting worse, afflicting them and hampering any enquiry. My stubbornness had perhaps been my undoing, but it seemed to matter little now.
My duties were done. I was in need of recuperation, of a well-earned leave of absence. All talk of ghosts and ghouls would be left behind, and as with the day I had awoken from my fever, I began to laugh a little. Bexley the Crypt Inspector – the name was growing on me somewhat.
I was revived, rejuvenated. Sitting at the table I couldn’t help but feel a sense of pride and one of relief. My world was rebalanced, returned to its status quo. I would leave this place and lead the life I had before my arrival. I let the image of Betsan’s spectre linger in my mind, thought hard on it as I stared at the milling villagers out on the Twyn.
Then I let the image fade, for in truth it was nothing but nonsense.
At three o’clock, a troop of officers arrived. I had been waiting for them on the station, and seeing the steamer approach, had beamed with sheer delight. They were Glamorgan Constables, and they piled onto the platform briskly. They were normal, nothing out of the ordinary. Like the little steamer with its fireman and driver. They were normal too. It was such a joy to reconnect with the outside world, with things that were all so familiar.
Their Sergeant introduced himself and at times like these, a reputation such as mine is not a bad thing. He was aware of who I was, as were several more of the men.
‘I’ve read about your work in the London papers,’ Sergeant Davis said kindly. ‘Surprised to see you down here.’
‘It was by request of your Chief Inspector.’
Davis laughed at that. ‘He kept that one quiet. So, what’s all this of a murder?’
Davis turned to the engine driver and told him to hold at the station. I led the troop of Constables up to the Twyn, explaining in brief what had transpired.
I shan’t detail here the following hours as it seems unnecessary other than to say thus: Betsan’s body was brought back to the village, upon which the Constables took ownership. Solomon’s body was brought out from the cellar, to quite the shock of the villagers in attendance. Both bodies were then taken to the steamer. Cummings and Vaughn were brought down from the estate and formally charged, in my presence, with conspiring to pervert the course of justice (among other things). Vaughn was too ashamed to look at me. Cummings, in a makeshift gurney carried by two men, spat hellfire as he was taken away. The train left with both men and the bodies to Cardiff, scheduled to return later in the day.
Many of the gathered villagers were questioned; Sergeant Davis and I sat to review my draft report and the evidence I had in the form of Betsan’s ring, the children’s possessions and Solomon’s deplorable diary.
‘The photographs you took,’ Davis asked me. ‘You can’t find them anywhere?’
I shook my head. ‘Solomon likely took charge and disposed of them. Probably thought it would help conceal the truth somehow. It matters little – there’s enough evidence here to outline what really happened. These names,’ I held up the diary, ‘will need to be corroborated, but I have no doubts each is of a man or woman murdered or missing, with a case file still open.’
‘It’s hard to believe,’ Davis mused. ‘How could a man get away with all these killings for so long?’
I couldn’t think of an answer to give.
I thought of how I had escaped my bonds.
‘We will need to collect more evidence from Mr Cummings’ estate regarding some of his illicit business practices, and there are others who conspired with him. The girl’s mother must be informed as well …’
The hours slipped by, afternoon turning to evening. Davis was going to remain in the village late into the night, along with half of his Constables. I made no secret of my desire to leave. He understood and with the aid of a young officer sporting a rather flamboyant moustache, I took my case and camera equipment down to the station.
It was nearly half past seven. The sun was still shining brightly, descending in the clear sky. The train was due to return in a little while. The young officer remained with me, passing small talk and enquiring about what had happened. He commented more than once on my clear relief, to which I concurred. I was happy to be rid of this place, to be returning to a city, to a little normality.
Normal. Everything would be normal again.
The steamer trundled towards us, and quite oddly I laughed with joy. The officer smiled as I took hold of his hand and shook it vigorously. He helped me bundle onto the train with my case and camera equipment, shutting the carriage door before waiting to wave me off.
I went to sit, the carriage deserted. I felt foolish and laughed again. The whole while I had been carrying my preliminary report in one hand. I had meant to leave it with Sergeant Davis; in my haste I had clearly not.
I opened the door of the carriage and the young officer stepped to me, still smiling beneath his fulsome moustache.
‘Forgotten something, sir?’
‘Yes, yes, quite foolish of me.’ I handed him the three-page document. ‘This is my preliminary report. It is rough, but I intend to write a comprehensive follow up. See to it that it arrives on the desk of your Chief Inspector Brent, with my regards.’
The young officer’s expression changed then. ‘Beg pardon, sir?’
I frowned. ‘The report. See to it that it gets to Chief Inspector Brent.’
The officer looked from the papers in his hand to me with some confusion.
‘Sir. There is no Chief Inspector by that name.’
I shook my head, a little irritated. ‘Well, of course there is, man. He requested I come here in the first place. His letter is somewhere about my person.’
I began checking through my pockets, though I had a feeling it was in my case. I set my hand upon something soft and pulled out the ragdoll, the one Betsan’s mother had given me. I had forgotten all about it. Its little face, with its blank expression, looked up at me. The steamer’s whistle bellowed out.
‘Sorry, sir. With respect, I have worked at the Constabulary for the last five years. There is no such Chief Inspector by that name. I don’t know anyone by that name, in fact.’ He looked from me to the engine and acknowledged a voice that spoke to him. ‘They’re pulling off now, sir. I’ll see to it that Sergeant Davis gets this.’
He pushed shut the door of the carriage, me standing motionless. I watched as he and the platform, and the village of Dinas Powys, drifted away into the distance, before moving out of sight entirely. Only then did I take to a seat, the little ragdoll still in hand. A few minutes later I dropped it to m
y side and began pawing through the pockets of my coat, fumbling then for the clasps of my case and rummaging clumsily through its contents. Tucked neatly in a side pocket I found the letter I had received. I read through it quickly to the name typed and signed at the very bottom.
Chief Inspector Taliesin Cedwyn Brent.
I had not been mistaken. I sat back and pondered as the train rattled on.
The young Constable was surely confused. There was no other explanation for it. I tucked the letter in my coat pocket and looked out of the carriage window as the world drifted by. It was not long till we came to Cardiff, the blue skies of eve dulled by the dry haze of dust and dirt. We passed by the rows of terraced houses, young children still at play, their voices wailing and crying out in wild ecstasy. In the distance, large ships were visible, cargo being lifted from their bowels by monstrous steel cranes. People moved in horse-drawn carriages and carts down thin cobbled roads, and I even spotted a new automobile, a rare sight if any. As we alighted at Cardiff station, I saw the clerks and businessmen, stationmasters, pedlars, colliers from the valleys in the north.
All normal. Nothing out of the ordinary. Yet still I felt a growing unease.
Like Dinas Powys before, I wanted to leave this city. Without thought I asked of a train to London. The last for the day was leaving in fifteen minutes. I moved to the platform, taking nothing in around me. The young Constable must surely have been wrong. There was no other explanation.
Yet he looked at me with such certainty.
It wasn’t long before I was sat on a long, fine carriage headed to London. It was not empty; a man and a woman in their mid-fifties, a gentleman in a fine suit with a slender briefcase. A few others, though there was plenty of seats to choose from. I sat as far away as I could from anyone else.
There is no Chief Inspector by that name.
The young Constable had seemed so certain.
As we pulled away, I took out the letter and read through it repeatedly, noting the date it was sent, the address, all manner of minor things. I recalled that Vaughn had received a similar telegram from Chief Inspector Brent, informing him that I was soon to arrive and the services I would carry out. He would attest to it, and two lots of correspondence would be more than enough to prove I wasn’t mistaken.