by Alex Scarrow
Home. No longer that horrid room back in Whitechapel, that piss-stinking sparse room with damp patches on the low tobacco-browned ceiling, those walls with peeling paper and mottled black spots of mould, but a proud three-storey townhouse with a servants’ floor at the very top.
Mary, do you really know what you’re doing, girl?
As the afternoon greyed and became chilly, they passed along Bayswater and through Notting Hill, thick with market stalls and the pungent aroma of fishmongers, and finally off the busy thoroughfare of Holland Park Avenue and on to the quiet, leafy cul-de-sac that Mary had been returning to for the last couple of nights, preparing for John’s homecoming: removing the various family portraits of the Frampton-Parkers, photographs, paintings and silhouettes.
‘Is this our home?’ asked Argyll.
‘It is.’
He smiled up at her. ‘It’s very nice.’
‘Come on then,’ she said brightly. ‘Let’s get you inside and then I’ll make us some supper.’
Argyll lifted himself out of the wheelchair and shuffled his left leg forward, taking the first of the half dozen steps up to the front door beneath the portico. Mary followed, reversing the chair up each step. At the top, she unlocked the front door.
‘Home, my dear,’ she said as it swung in, revealing old oak floorboards and a dark maroon hallway.
She helped him step over the threshold and onto a mat inside. ‘I’ll get a fire going in the front room,’ she said. ‘Then I’ll go and get us something from the grocer’s around the corner.’
He looked at her, almost reaching out to embrace her, but holding back. ‘I’m so glad to have you, Mary. I . . . I’m not sure what I’d do without you.’
‘We were very much in love, John. I wouldn’t just abandon you.’
‘I just feel so . . . so damned wretched, so guilty that I can’t remember anything about us before, well, before you came and found me in the hospital.’
‘You’ll mend soon, my love. I’m sure of it.’
He turned to look at her. ‘You know, I . . .’ He shook his head.
‘What is it?’
He suddenly leant forward and kissed her heavily on the lips. A clumsy, lurching gesture she hadn’t been expecting. Instinctively, she recoiled a step.
‘Oh, I’m sorry! Please forgive me,’ he uttered immediately, awkwardly. ‘That was improper. I . . .’
‘Forgive you?’ She lowered her gaze a little. ‘We’ve more than kissed before, don’t you know.’
His face flushed crimson. ‘I feel like . . . to me, Mary, this is all so new.’ He sighed. ‘That was wrong of me just then. I . . . just . . .’
She touched his cheek. ‘It’s all right, John. I know this must all seem so new and strange to you. It’ll all come back to you. I promise. You can’t completely forget love, I’m sure of it.’
CHAPTER 13
29th July 1888, Great Queen Street, Central London
Dear Trusted Brother,
I received your telegram of 18th July. Firstly, business. I shall inform you that I have acted on your behalf as requested and established contact. I am assured through a middleman that he is on his way to England and will be able to meet with your representative on the date you specified.
Now, old friend, I think it advisable that I tell you all that we know about the man. His trade name is Candle Man. I have no notion of whether the name is of his choosing, or whether it is one that has grown out of the rich underworld rumour-mill that exists in and around the tenements and slums here in New York. I also have no notion of the significance, if any, of such an unusual name. Does he make candles? I have no idea.
I have asked amongst the Trusted Few in our club about the Candle Man, to contribute to the rest of the knowledge we have on him. It is clear that no one, anywhere, is aware of his true identity, his real name, or his origins. What we have on him are unreliable hearsays from the criminal fraternity and, of course, what little we learned about him on the several occasions that we have employed his services.
I shall start with our firsthand knowledge of him. He is utterly reliable. Should he agree the terms of whatever contract you propose, you may rest assured the task agreed will happen. He can be trusted with complete discretion. He has made it known to many a client that his professional reputation in this matter is of paramount importance, that he is a reliable keeper of secrets. I have no wish to pry into your affairs, Henry, but I am assuming the matter you wish him to deal with has a sensitive angle. If so, then the Candle Man may be the perfect choice of man for the job. I say that as a person with direct experience of his craftsmanship. We used him to deal with a busybody poking his nose into our business affairs. The Candle Man was given instructions to make his demise look like the handiwork of a madman who tormented this city a few years ago with a series of brutal slayings. Suffice to say, that particular murderer was caught and hung for seven murders, only six of which were his!
A note of caution, now. I am certain you have no intentions at all of reneging on whatever contract you propose to arrange with him. But be warned: although this is hearsay gleaned from unreliable quarters of the city, it is said that one of the more prominent Irish crime clan leaders attempted to betray the Candle Man. He disappeared shortly after. The story goes that his family received a parcel some weeks after, containing the putrefying remains of a human heart and a note that claimed it was the one part of the man’s body he couldn’t bring himself to ‘consume’ because it was ‘rotten to the core’. I can’t help but suspect it is a tale that has grown from a kernel of truth and been somewhat embellished upon, but I would say he is certainly not a man you would wish to double-cross.
Now, on to some background information I have on him. Treat the following with a healthy dose of scepticism. There are some who say he is originally from mainland Europe, suggesting he is possibly eastern European. However, there are also rumours that claim he is half Paiute Indian! Of those people who claim to have met him face to face, the estimate of age ranges from late-twenties to early-forties, of middle height and build, and nothing particularly remarkable about his appearance.
For myself, I have spoken with him on only two occasions. Once before on business of our own, and several days ago on your behalf. And this takes me directly onto the subject of how you should arrange to meet with him.
He will post an advertisement in the ‘personals’ in one of your London newspapers on the day you specified to meet him. The advertisement will have ‘Candle Man’ as its title, to ensure you find it. The message itself will employ a keyword alphabet displacement code. The keyword for his advert will be ‘spirit’. Only he, you and I know this keyword. The advertisement will contain very specific instructions about how, where and when he will meet with you. I would strongly advise following this to the very letter, otherwise he will not make an approach and the liaison will fail.
His services are not cheap. I have no idea what fee he will ask of you for this task, but I assure you, for our last business arrangement, it was no trifling sum. Typically, he will accept half of the payment on acceptance of the contract and half on completion of the task.
On a final note, he may make some curious and unpalatable totemic requests. There is something about the man that is unsettlingly ‘barbaric’, for sake of a better word. He spoke to me once of cutting and curing the skin of one of his victims to use as leather. I suspect the man was humouring himself at my expense. I have a suspicion he attempts to cultivate this impression for whatever reasons he has.
If you follow his requests and instructions closely, and he agrees to the undertaking you assign him, I can assure you, whatever problem you have over there will be satisfactorily resolved. What is more, provided this contract works out to both parties’ satisfaction, you may find he is agreeable to further work and will conclude his business with you by leaving behind a unique method by which you, and only you, may contact him again. Thus not needing myself to act further as a middleman.
P
lease ensure, having read this correspondence thoroughly and memorised all that you need to, particularly the code keyword stated above, that you burn this letter.
Sincere regards from your Fellow Trustee
CHAPTER 14
30th July 1888, Liverpool Street Station, London
George Warrington watched the platforms in front of him fill and then empty, fill and then empty, as steam trains came and went. A morass of people in their smartest wear, off for a fortnight out of the choking city to sip on the fresh, bracing air of the seaside, accompanied by porters wheeling trolleys stacked precariously high with travel trunks; businessmen and travelling salesmen in smart but well-worn suits and bowler hats on at jaunty angles, arms laden with canvas carpetbags full of product samples and testers.
The tea-house sat on the edge of the main concourse, a fenced enclosure of green-painted wrought iron swirls decorated along the bottom with potted plants. Inside the enclosure, several rows of cosy wooden booths and benches gave it the intentional feel of a railway carriage.
Warrington checked his timepiece again. The message from this chap had been quite explicit. It was this station, this tea-house, this booth – third one along – and this time. Warrington had wondered how this mysterious Candle Man could be so confident that this particular booth was going to be vacant for him to sit in, but it had been. The ones either side, he noted as he sat down, had both been occupied.
He watched the people milling outside the wrought iron enclosure, curious as to whether he would be able to pick this man out as he approached. A man conspicuously on his own, a man fresh from America, trying to make sense of the curious way the British lay out their railway stations. A man clearly off his familiar ground.
But he won’t stand out, will he? Not if he is as good as they say he is.
The old man, Rawlinson, told him the Candle Man never made face to face contact. That he guarded his identity as if it was his very soul.
A note, then. That’s what Warrington expected now. Not a direct approach, but a hand-delivered note. He could imagine some errand boy, red-cheeked and puffing wind. ‘I fink this is for you, mister!’ Crushing a creased envelope into his hands. He looked around for just that: a mysterious stranger stooped over a small boy, waving a finger in his direction as he uttered instructions into a pink ear and pressed a shilling into a grubby hand. But he saw nothing like that.
‘He’s late,’ Warrington muttered to himself, realising for the first time that he was actually a little bit nervous. The cautionary advice he’d been given, the parts of the letter from America he’d been allowed to look at, seemed to be mythologising him a little, turning him into something much more than what he was: simply a very well-paid shiv man.
A cannibal, for Christ’s sake? He shook his head. Quite obviously that was the kind of fairground patter the Candle Man was happy to see propagated about him. Making him sound like some sort of monster, like some species of gargoyle arisen from the dark depths of the underworld to snatch another victim from the world above, to be taken down and cooked in a pot in some cavern below.
He smiled at the theatricality of it. Well, if their American colleagues were gullible enough to include that kind of nonsense in a communiqué – stories of crime bosses eaten for their sins – more fool them. Provided this chap was actually worth his fee, was discreet and not going to try and pull the same foolish trick as that thug, Tolly, then all would be well.
Two weeks since they’d last met. Tolly had sounded edgy and irritable then, demanding an advance payment of some of the money he was hoping to blackmail them out of. Warrington was there to placate him and actually did give a generous advance on the money and an assurance that if he could be patient, wait just a few more weeks, he’d be able to have all of the amount he was asking for.
But he had the sense that Tolly was getting anxious about the whole thing now. Perhaps worried that this situation was too big a bite for him to chew, bigger than he’d originally realised. Warrington had to wonder whether the man had been doing some homework. Whether Tolly had thought to investigate this trinket, to investigate who was on this portrait it supposedly contained.
Is it possible he’s worked out who it is?
He’d decided probably not. If Tolly really knew, or even suspected he knew, then the asking price would undoubtedly have been increased. Substantially. He suspected Tolly didn’t know yet, but maybe that was only going to be a matter of time. The newspapers printed regular photographs and illustrations of the man. Given that he was such a busy bee, at some point Tolly was surely going to catch a glimpse of his face on a front page and realise he recognised it. Realise exactly what he had in his possession.
But he doesn’t know yet.
That much was for sure.
Tolly was clearly getting anxious; a journeyman trying to play a craftsman’s game. Not for the first time, Warrington wondered whether he’d hired someone too low down the criminal fraternity. He’d wanted a cheap thug. After all, the target required little skill – just a tart and her baby. The hired man just needed to have a strong stomach, was all. But also, some thug who could be made to disappear afterwards without much fuss. A low-life without too many friends or contacts who might start wondering why their old colleague no longer seemed to turn up at his regular haunts.
Tolly, though, seemed to be getting a little too edgy now. Dangerously edgy.
‘Excuse me.’
A whispered voice.
‘What is the word?’
The voice seemed to be right beside his ear. Warrington lurched in his seat. Looked either side of him and saw no one.
‘Tell me, what is the word?’
This time he detected the soft voice coming around the end of the booth divide. He twisted on his seat to look behind him. Above the shoulder-high wooden panelling was a frieze of decorative frosted glass, and through its foggy mist he could see the dark outline of the back of a head. Perfectly still.
‘The keyword. The word that allowed you to read my message, if you please.’
He’s right there. Warrington could feel his heart skipping a jig.
‘Spirit,’ said Warrington quietly.
‘Very good. Now, best if you settle down. Turn back around. You don’t need to be staring at this partition to hear me, do you?’
Warrington nodded. ‘No, no, of course not.’
He heard the rustle of a newspaper. ‘Do you have a paper to look at while we talk?’
‘Yes.’ Warrington pulled the Illustrated London News from his coat pocket, shook out the folds and opened it up.
‘Splendid. Now, before we discuss the particulars, I’d like to know a little bit about who I’m dealing with.’ Warrington heard the man shuffle slightly on the other side of the thin wooden partition. ‘I’d like to know a little about you.’
‘My name is—’
‘No, I don’t need a name. It’s best if we don’t exchange real names.’ His voice was a little clearer. He must have shifted position so that his mouth was just around the edge of the booth. Just a few inches away from Warrington, just around the corner of a thin lip of wood. ‘For the duration of our little discussion, I shall think of you as, let’s see . . . you seem like a “George”. So that’s what I’m going to call you. And as for me? Well, you have my nom de plume.’
Warrington shook his head with an uneasy incredulity at the man’s lucky guess. ‘What do you want to know?’
‘The sort of people I shall be dealing with, George.’
‘You have dealt with associates of ours before, I believe? In New York?’
‘Indeed. Reliable clients. Settled their fee promptly. I have no complaints. But what about you, George? Are you reliable? Will this particular contract end with both parties satisfied?’
Warrington swallowed nervously. ‘We’ve been informed you are wholly reliable. Full discretion assured.’
‘Of course, of course. I really wouldn’t come so highly recommended if that were not so. But for my part,
I need to know if I can trust you. No half-truths, George, no hidden arrangements, no contingency plans that I’m not aware of.’
‘Of course not.’
The Candle Man said nothing. Across the station’s busy concourse, a platform attendant blew a shrill whistle to announce the imminent departure of a train.
‘We have a man we paid to do a job for us. And now he’s attempting to blackmail—’
‘The details can come later. Since I’m dealing directly with you, George, I want to know what kind of a person are you. Can you deal with me honestly?’
‘I shan’t attempt to deceive you. We . . . uh . . . we’ve heard stories, rumours, of what happened last time a client tried to . . . uh . . . tried to con you. The cannibalism story. Whether that particular rumour is true or—’
He heard a soft chuckle come around the edge of the booth. ‘Stories . . . The underworld does love its little fairytales, doesn’t it? All part of the business of reputation.’
Warrington noted that was not exactly a complete denial of the rumours. He felt something roll and flip lazily in his stomach. ‘Indeed.’
‘It does my professional reputation no harm at all, George, for little folk tales like that to proceed me. Keeps a client on his guard.’ The newspaper rustled. ‘Rest assured, I’ve been satisfied with the outcome of my business dealings thus far.’ That soft chuckle again. ‘One way or another, my clients always settle up.’
‘Well, I’m certain there will be no difficulty agreeing on your fee.’
He seemed to ignore that. ‘So tell me, George: what’s this all about? I’m assuming there’s somebody you wish me to locate, someone you wish me to deal with. But what is the motive? Tell me the “why”.’
‘This is a sensitive area. It could lead to some sort of a scandal which we really can’t afford to happen right—’
‘Ahhh, a politician, is it? Someone’s been naughty?’
Warrington was hesitant to give too much away. ‘Perhaps one might say . . . careless.’