by Alex Scarrow
There was enough on those two pieces of foolscap to ignite a powder keg. Babbitt chuckled at the thought of it, like a naughty schoolboy preparing a classroom prank. The future King of England, Eddy, guilty not only of falling in love with and screwing a common girl – a French one at that, quite possibly even a Catholic – but far, far worse than that. As a result of the ill-conceived affair, he’d produced an illegitimate child. And the silent establishment – the Masons, or perhaps some even more secret sub-set within the Masons – had carefully set about tidying up the mess left behind by the stupid prince. Their complicity was stamped all over the murders.
What mischief this note could cause.
Every day the papers were filled with stories written for the working man. Stories phrased in clever ways to anger tired men at lunchtime with the dirt of labour on their hands. Stories of the rich and privileged, stories of unspeakable extravagances, selfishness, foolishness. And Eddy, future King of England, an all too regular character in this enraging pantomime. Babbitt could only imagine what sort of revolutionary fire he could ignite by applying a single candle’s flame to that kind of a tinderbox.
He dropped the small photograph into the envelope, rough and bent around the edges with flecks of the photographic emulsion peeling from too much handling, but still very clearly that stupid young prince clutching adoringly at a common-born woman. He tucked the envelope under the jam jar and, for a moment, watched the half of Annie’s kidney bob in its cloudy solution.
All the evidence was there, right there on the room’s writing table.
Now, there were other matters to attend to.
He already had passage booked aboard a cargo ship leaving Liverpool in approximately two months’ time. Not knowing the precise details of this contract before he’d set sail from New York, he had allowed himself three months for the job to be done before returning home. His business had been wrapped up far quicker than he thought it would be, and now caution dictated he would be better finding himself a ship home soon.
But the matter was not finished yet, was it? His clients still owed him the second half of his fee and without that, the income earned from this job wasn’t going to do a great deal more than cover the costs he’d incurred coming to England and his hotel suite booked for three months’ use.
There was also the principle. A fee was still owed.
He stroked the bristles of his sideburns, deep in thought, watching strands of organic sediment seesaw down through the jar’s murky water, past the kidney that was already beginning to wrinkle and pucker.
The rooms were already paid for, the ship was already booked. He had a couple of months ahead of him now. A couple of months which he could use to lie low, perhaps even explore London a little more. He knew the Victoria Docks quite well now and the Royal Albert Docks; Millwall, too. A warren of warehouses, backstreet water inlets and canals a man could lose himself in. A couple of months to take his time, relax, read, meditate.
All he needed to do now was arrange a time and place to collect what he was still owed, and be sure to make it very clear when they met that he had in his possession, sitting on his hotel room’s writing table, enough evidence to . . . well, to cause these gentlemen some serious problems. Just in case, that is, they were entertaining the notion of jumping him before he could leave with his fee.
He picked up his ink pen and pulled out another sheet of the hotel’s writing paper from the drawer and began to carefully word an advert that would appear in the Illustrated London News in a couple of days, if he managed to drop it downstairs in the concierge’s pigeon-hole before lunch time.
CHAPTER 35
11th September 1888, Blackfriars, London
Warrington acknowledged to himself that he was trembling because he was nervous; not as he’d earlier tried to tell himself that it was because it was a surprisingly cool night for September.
‘Nervous’ was perhaps not the right word to use. ‘Scared witless’ did it more justice. He felt too exposed standing out here, even if it was the quieter end of West India Quay. He looked up at the tall brick warehouses behind him. Gaslight lit a pair of windows from within; square amber eyes that regarded him suspiciously from on high. No doubt shipping clerks working late on manifests and ledgers, ready for an early start for the dockworkers tomorrow morning.
By the wan light of the moon, playing hide and seek behind racing clouds, he checked the hour on his timepiece. It was twenty minutes past midnight.
He’s late.
According to Rawlinson, the Candle Man was never late. Wholly reliable in every important way, that’s what their American colleagues had informed them. But not reliable tonight, so it seemed.
He’s playing games with us.
The murder of the tart called Chapman at the beginning of the week was his handiwork. That much was for sure. He’d made it quite clear with the ridiculously theatrical gesture: the trademark candle of his left beside her body. What was the fool thinking about, doing that? And the way he’d mutilated her? Yes, of course, they’d instructed him to make it look like the work of some deranged fool; some insane person to which no notion of motive or logic could be applied. But to mutilate her in the specific way he had . . . to leave her so symbolically arranged? They’d had the devil of a time over the last week keeping as much of the details as they could out of the newspapers. Even with the tacit assistance of both Scotland Yard’s and the Met’s chief inspectors, one of the policemen who’d first attended the scene of the crime must have spoken out of turn. Revealed enough details – none of them officially confirmed, of course – to allow the scribblers on Fleet Street to start coming up with dangerously suggestive theories about Freemasons.
He’s warning us.
He knows. He suspects, at least.
That’s what Warrington was beginning to suspect. The Candle Man had somehow managed to figure out that they had no intention of letting him go on his merry way back to America. The man must have figured out the stakes were too high. Which could only mean one thing.
He’s seen the photograph. He knows it’s Prince Albert. And if so, then he’d probably understand how desperately important it was for this indiscretion to be completely guaranteed. There were socialist rumblings in the capital; all over Europe, in fact. Next year was the centenary of the French Revolution. Socialist and working men’s groups were planning a Europe-wide organisation, a congress of workers’ delegates, to meet to mark the occasion. Even now, editorials were talking up the notion that something similar to the French Revolution might be sparked here in England. The Candle Man was clearly no fool. He had understood how the stability, the very future of this country – the British Empire, even – hung on how tidily Eddy’s little mess was cleared up.
God help us if that’s the truth.
Warrington glanced out into the dark. His five men were out there, hidden in the corners of the warehouse. Out of sight but able to see him standing in a pool of moonlight in the middle of the wide, empty floor. Faint spears of pallid light angled down through the grimy skylight in the roof, through panels missing their glass. He could hear the soft cooing of pigeons in the iron spars directly above him and the patter of dripping water somewhere inside the abandoned and empty building, echoing between the ground and the low roof.
He’d had quite enough of this game-playing. ‘Hello?!’
His voice rang through the warehouse, stirring the flutter of wings from above and causing a dusting of fluffy feathers to fall down into the beams of moonlight. He hated that too-obvious tremble in his voice. He tried again, this time doing his best to infuse his voice with a tone of irritable impatience.
‘Hello? Are you there, or not?’
‘Oh . . . I’m here.’ The voice was no more than a finely judged whisper. There was no need to shout in this place; every little noise seemed to carry. ‘I’ve been here for a while.’
Warrington’s heart skipped. How long? Long enough to watch them arrive? To hear him give instructions to the
others to find hiding places? Shit.
He heard the soft tap and scrape of footsteps approaching him. Slow and deliberate. Not a man in a hurry to do the deal. Not a man unsettled or nervous. Perhaps the suppositions were all his? Perhaps the Candle Man had no idea at all that Warrington intended him not to leave this place alive.
Just remain calm, George. Make sure the job’s done. Warrington adjusted his waistcoat, cleared his throat. ‘Come on out, then, where I can see you.’
Presently his eyes picked out a tall, dark shape standing cautiously just outside of the undulating pool of moonlight.
‘A bit of a melodramatic place you’ve chosen for us to meet,’ said Warrington.
‘It suits our business, George.’ He took a step closer into the edge of pallid light. Beneath the brim of a billycock, his face remained a dark, formless shadow.
‘It’s, uh . . . it’s rather funny you picked that name for me by chance.’ Warrington smiled. ‘That is my first name. A lucky guess?’
‘As I said . . . you look like a George.’
Warrington’s perfunctory laugh sounded giddy and childish. He hated it. ‘So . . . I have the other half of your fee. Do you have . . . ?’
‘Yes, I have the locket Tolly found.’
‘And the . . . uh . . .’ He didn’t want to attract too much attention to what was inside. ‘And the contents of the locket?’ he continued, his voice as casual as he could manage.
He heard a soft, breathy laugh. ‘Oh, yes . . . I have that too.’
‘Good. And Tolly involved no one else?’
‘Correct.’
Warrington bent down and picked up the small parcel at his feet. ‘Then, on behalf of my colleagues, I’d like to thank you.’ He held out the parcel to the Candle Man. A gloved hand stretched out through the moon beams and took it from him. Even though this man was going to be dead inside of five minutes Warrington decided that the parcel should contain real money, just in case he chose to inspect it there and then. In fact, that might be a useful distraction. As he counted his money, Warrington could touch his hat – that was the signal.
‘Do you not wish to count it?’
No answer. He heard the jingle of a bag buckle, the slap of a leather flap and the parcel rustle as it was tucked away somewhere.
Warrington quickly touched the peak of his top hat. The sign for his men to close in. ‘We’re very pleased with how this turned out. But . . . you have caused us some difficulties with the last one. Why did you—?’
‘Make it look Masonic?’
‘Indeed.’
A long pause. Warrington listened intently for the approaching footfalls of his men. They were no light-footed assassins. Two of them, Smith and Warren, were detective inspectors from Scotland Yard. The other three were all veterans from that nasty little war in Afghanistan: Hain, Orman and Robson. Mercenaries now. Those three had seen enough barbarity in those far-off mountains to cope with a little shiv-work for the Lodge. Most importantly, all five of them were Masons. Junior brothers, yes, but still bound by the code of silence.
‘I suspect you have made plans for me, hmm?’
Warrington did his best to look utterly bemused. ‘I . . . I’m sorry?’
‘A foolish prince?’ The Candle Man took another step towards him and Warrington found himself nervously taking a half-step back.
‘I really . . . I don’t know—’
‘Yes . . . but you see I do know. I know now.’
‘Know what?’
‘I wasn’t sure. That’s why I had to come. But now I know for certain.’
‘For Christ’s sake, what the devil are you talking about?!’
‘That you, George, have plans to cross me.’
Warrington saw the blur of something large and pale flicker through the slither of moonlight, then bounce heavily and skitter across the floor, leaving an ink-black smear behind it. It took a moment for him to understand what he was looking at: the balding pate and the dark beard, a protruding tongue, thick like a cricket ball, and two eyes, glazed and strangely wistful. Detective Inspector Orville Warren.
Warrington’s voice was a child’s scream. ‘NOW!!! KILL HIM NOW!!!’
Babbitt suspected that there were probably more of them out there. This balding, bearded one he’d almost tripped over. Too good an opportunity not to take advantage of. A hand over the hapless man’s mouth and a quick slice; the patter of gushing blood had sounded like nothing more than a dripping tap.
He’d hoped to have some more time to talk to George. He’d hoped the head resting on the floor between them, a silent witness to their softly spoken discussions, might just have focused George’s jittery mind a little. Caused him to wave his clumsy bloodhounds back into their corners and listen for a moment. But instead, his woman-like shriek had triggered the others. He could feel their thundering feet vibrate on the rotten planks of the wooden floor, racing towards them.
No time to talk, then.
Time to run.
He darted out of the pool of moonlight, away from the sound of rasping breath; heavyset men, from the noises they were making, and no knowing for sure how many of them exactly. He ran far more lightly than them, making much less noise. Behind him, George was barking useless orders for his men to spread out and find him, stupidly covering up the receding patter of his footsteps.
He was heading for the rear of the warehouse, the delivery entrance, double doors that rolled aside on rusty castors. The delivery entrance opened onto a small courtyard, the courtyard’s gates opened onto a backstreet, the backstreet split into a three-way junction, any one way as good as the others for escape. He’d discovered this place, an abandoned print works, several days ago, and made sure to walk through the warehouse and know its layout thoroughly.
Heading for the delivery doors in the pitch black, he collided with something that grunted on impact. The next moment, he was sprawled on the wooden floor, tangled up in someone else’s fleshy arms and legs.
‘Fuck!’ he heard a man growl. ‘Over ’ere! Fucker’s over ’ere!’
He felt fat fingers scrabbling at his face, finding and grabbing the lapel of his coat. He could feel the man’s body tense and lurch with exertion as something swung though the air, aimed at his head. It knocked his hat off.
Babbitt’s response was instinctive, silent and deadly, although the lumbering oaf on top of him wasn’t going to appreciate that for at least another half a minute. For now he’d think it was a limp-wristed punch at his belly. But it wasn’t; it was nine inches of slender blade embedded to the hilt, and the odd upward tugging sensation this man felt directly after was the serrated edge being yanked savagely upwards, slicing into his liver and opening his stomach, so that any attempt to get up would result in his feet tangling, and most likely tripping, in the loops of intestine that spilled out.
‘Shit, ’old fuckin’ still!’ grunted the man, still seemingly unaware that the front of him was now open.
Babbitt was getting ready to stick him again with his knife when he felt the man’s body tense and lurch again.
This time, Babbitt felt the world explode.
A shower of brilliant white sparks suddenly erupted in front, no, behind his eyes; his ears full of a shrill ringing that completely blocked out the noises of everything else. He felt the scrape of rough splinters across his left cheek and realised he was sliding across the floor.
His feet seemed to be the only part of him that could function, while the rest of him flopped rag-doll-like.
Run, fool! Run!
His feet got him off the floor as he cradled his spinning head. His legs carried him in dizzy zigzags towards a softly glowing slither of moonlight: the gap between the open delivery doors. He slammed against them, producing a rattle of chains and counterweights, rusty wheels and loose planks. Enough to broadcast to everyone inside the building exactly where he was. He heard none of that, though. His ears were still playing a deafening white noise.
He was staggering across the courtyard no
w, the light of the moon almost blinding like daylight by comparison to the darkness of the print works. His shoulder crashed heavily against the loose railing gate and spilled him out into the backstreet. He tripped and rolled across uneven paving slabs. Up again, his feet, his legs, undeniably the only part of him doing anything useful. And he wobbled uncertainly, his eyes now no longer showing fireworks, instead offering him a spinning kaleidoscope facsimile of the back-street.
He picked a direction and ran; more like a drunkard’s staggering waltz than a run.
His mind was still reeling from the blow, but now it was closing down. The blow had done damage to his head. A hammer, perhaps a crowbar, that’s what that man had used. Losing the capacity to think straight, to do anything, he was vaguely aware that his hands were now empty, that he’d dropped his beloved knife at some point, somewhere. He was vaguely aware that the side of his head and his face were wet, streaming; that his mouth tasted of copper coins. Finally, as if it was the very next moment, although it couldn’t possibly be, he was foggily aware of being slumped in the gutter of a much wider street that now glowed faint amber from a street lamp, instead of the ink-blue of moonlight. And the last thing his closing-down, dying mind managed to be aware of was a pair of small feminine hands tugging and probing the folds of his coat.
PART II
CHAPTER 36
30th September 1888 (9.00 am),
Great Queen Street, Central London
‘It has been what? Two weeks?’
‘Nearly three, actually, Oscar.’
Warrington looked at the other four men of ‘The Steering Committee’ in the room with him, the same room as last time, the log fire crackling as if it had never been out.
‘Three weeks then,’ continued Crosbourne. The man had the faintest hint of a European accent. Like their queen, a thin trace of Germanic heredity ran through his veins and his vowels. ‘He is probably dead. You said, did you not, George, that the man’s head was smashed in with an . . . an ice pick?’