by Alex Scarrow
‘John . . . this is all . . . Why are we in danger? I’m frightened.’
‘We’re safe for the moment.’ He held her hand. ‘I’m taking care of you now.’
She shook her head, a buzzing beehive of questions. ‘You said your memories have all come back? You said that back in the house.’
He nodded. ‘I know who I am now. And I’m going to tell you all about me. Soon. We’re going to find somewhere else to stay. Then I promise you I’ll tell you everything.’
Everything?
No. Just as much as she needed to know, but not all. She would run from him if she knew all the things his hands had done. Run for her life. There was much of it now he’d be happy to leave behind as well, to forget about. He was running from his life.
Today was going to be a new beginning. A goodbye to everything that came before.
‘I’ll tell you everything,’ he said again. ‘I promise.’
She nodded, prepared to accept that for the moment, watching the street widen as they entered Notting Hill. The traders were beginning to close their stalls as the late afternoon traffic was on the wane.
‘It’s awful!’ she said suddenly. ‘I only know you as John. It’s the first name I could think of,’ she said guiltily. She shook her head. ‘It’s so strange. You are John to me, but what’s your real name? Can you remember it?’
He nodded.
‘Tell me! What is it?’
He had a name, but not one anyone had used in years. He had pseudonyms aplenty; ‘Babbitt’ just one of many. Names he’d invented, names and identities he’d stolen from dead men’s wallets. All part of the craft, the art of being what he’d been: an executioner for hire, an extinguisher of human rubbish. But his name, his real name, was all that he had left of ‘before’. And the last person who’d ever spoken that name out loud had been Olivia. Not even spoken; it had been screamed.
Another time. Another life. He closed his eyes and closed a door on all of that.
‘Mary . . .’ He chewed his lip in thought. ‘I really don’t want to be who I was. Could you and I agree that I’m John Argyll?’
She frowned, mock-serious. ‘Oh, come on. I want to know all about you.’ She squeezed his hand. ‘I love you. That’s all I—’
‘Please?’ His smile was a plea. ‘You know, I rather like this name. I’ve grown used to it.’
She studied his face for a moment, her eyes narrowed as a faint smile twisted the corner of her lips. ‘John, you’re even more of a puzzle to me now than you were.’
He shrugged an apology.
‘Will you at least tell me where we’re off to and why the rush?’
‘I was . . . in London on important business.’
‘What business?’
‘Business,’ he said firmly. ‘Best I leave it at that. But there are men who, let me just say, don’t want me to conclude my business.’
‘John? Please, you’re scaring me!’
‘Not now. I can’t explain it all now.’ He smiled, reached for her hand. ‘You and I, we’re going to travel. See some places. And then when we find somewhere we like, we’ll start again. A new life.’
She nodded.
‘So, where would you like to go?’
Her eyes widened. ‘Anywhere?’
‘Anywhere.’
‘Oh . . . I . . .’ She shook her head. ‘I suppose we could get a train down to Southend-on-Sea?’
He sighed and waggled his hand as if the idea sounded boring. ‘I was thinking somewhere further afield.’
She gasped and her jaw hung. ‘You don’t mean Brighton?!’
Argyll stroked his chin. ‘I was thinking more along the lines of . . . America?’
She sputtered and laughed. ‘Oh, go on with you!’
‘I’m quite serious.’
Her lips clamped shut and there wasn’t another word from her all the way to the station.
Robson came down the stairs. ‘All empty, sir. It looks like he’s done a runner.’
Rawlinson mouthed a curse. This matter could’ve been wrapped up here and now. He could have laughed out loud at his wise old musings of ten minutes ago.
Not bloody hasty enough this time, ol’ son.
‘He wasn’t living alone, sir. There’s lady’s things upstairs in one of the rooms. Must have left in a hurry; not much taken and it’s quite a mess.’
Rawlinson turned his back on Robson and wandered down the hallway, deep in thought. So this morning they’d learned their man was actually very much alive and well. And now on the run. That made him even more dangerous. If he felt he had nowhere to turn, he might just do something very foolish. Something very public.
He wandered into the kitchen at the back of the house, still considering their options. Perhaps a much larger settlement. Five or ten times the original fee. A grand gesture of contrition on their part for mistakenly assuming he was no better than a common shiv-man. The New York Lodge had said he was a complete professional. Utterly reliable. Utterly confidential.
‘Dammit,’ he spat under his breath. Their little committee had been too eager to have this matter tightly parcelled up.
Robson entered the room behind him, giving the kitchen a quick and cursory second glance. He opened a door that led onto a small pantry: just empty shelves.
‘Feels like a household closed down for the summer,’ said Robson. ‘Do you think, sir?’
Rawlinson nodded. Yes, it had that feeling. The vague smell of mothballs and dust about it.
‘Hang on.’ Robson strode across the kitchen and reached for something on a shelf. An envelope. ‘It’s a letter, sir. Says on the envelope, “For George”.’
‘Let me see, please?’
Robson passed it across the table to him. The envelope wasn’t glued down. He lifted the flap open and impatiently pulled out the letter inside.
George,
It appears you and your colleagues acted precipitously in this matter. The act of betrayal was frankly impolite, extremely amateur and entirely unnecessary. I made no attempt to raise my fee on discovering exactly whose dirty peccadilloes you and your colleagues were attempting to cover up, did I? And yet I can only presume you thought I would attempt some sort of a blackmail at a later date.
Well, now things have gotten out of hand.
Perhaps it is time to conclude this matter. Despite your unforgivable behaviour, I have no plans at this stage to get even with you. I do, however, wish to return to my own affairs in one piece, if possible, without having to maintain a watchful eye for those heavy-handed clods you employ.
I will, in due course, make contact in the already established way and perhaps we can settle this matter face to face.
Until then, George, you and your colleagues can wait.
Candle Man
CHAPTER 51
1st October 1888 (7.00 pm), Whitechapel, London
Warrington was getting twitchy with impatience. The afternoon had passed into early evening stuck in this small, squalid room with these two women. He had a feeling he’d extracted every last nugget of useful information out of the pair of them without even having to lift a finger, no less. They both seemed utterly relieved to unburden themselves of their story. Quite convinced they were talking to some senior, non-uniformed representative of Scotland Yard. The taller one, Liz, had been a little more wary than the other one, who kept mentioning things that Liz could only then ruefully, reluctantly acknowledge.
Such was how he learned all about their mutual friend – Mary Kelly.
He marvelled at this young girl’s ingenuity. She’d come across their man in rather poor shape, then discovered he had money. Moreover, discovered he had no memories whatsoever of how he came to be where she’d discovered him. ‘Amnesia’, Warrington believed the official medical term was. And this Mary had convinced him that the pair of them were sweethearts.
Absolutely ingenious.
Not for the first time this afternoon, he was learning how clever and conniving the gutter class could
be. So easy to write them off as little more than freshly scrubbed and shaved primates in clothes, as he’d been hitherto inclined to do. They might sound sub-normal with their swallowed half-words and incomprehensibly garbled sentences, but this girl, Kelly, sounded every bit as divisive and sharp-witted as some of the more duplicitous barristers he crossed paths with from time to time.
Clever girl. Pity, though . . . Pity.
All of them heard the front door’s handle rattling as it was turned then a moment later the door clicking open, followed by the scrape and fall of footsteps outside in the hallway. They heard that appalling creature Marge emerging from her rooms like a spider down one thread of her web, enquiring who was there. Warrington heard Robson’s voice as he bluntly shooed her away.
A rap on the door. On opening it, Warrington was surprised to see Sir Henry Rawlinson standing outside in the dark hallway.
‘Good grief, Henry! I didn’t expect you to come down here!’
The old man removed his top hat. ‘George. What an eventful afternoon, eh?’
Robson stepped in behind him, his bowler hat respectfully grasped in both hands.
‘We missed him, George. The chap bolted before we could get there. He’s not alone, either. We think he has a lady friend with him.’
‘Yes, these two,’ Warrington gestured at Liz and Cath, ‘ladies . . . know of her. She’s an associate of theirs. A woman called Mary Kelly.’
Rawlinson raised a snow-white feathered brow. ‘A hostage to fortune, is she?’
‘Perhaps.’ Warrington explained quickly what the women had told him.
Rawlinson produced the letter. ‘The rascal left this behind. He must have guessed we were coming for him.’
Warrington read the note quickly. ‘I think I know exactly where he’ll be going.’
‘Where?’
‘Euston station. He’s leaving the country. He’ll try for a train up to Liverpool tonight. I’m certain of it. If we’re quick, we could catch up with him at the station.’
Rawlinson considered that in silence.
‘Henry?’
‘Perhaps it might be better if we don’t try to catch him.’
Warrington looked around the room; too many damned ears listening for them to talk openly. He went to the door, pulled it open and stepped into the dark hallway. ‘Henry? A word, sir?’
Rawlinson followed him and the pair of them walked down the hall, pulled the front door open and stepped outside. The sun was just above the slate roof opposite and the narrow street was a little busier, with men returning home from work. They looked too conspicuous: a pair of very well-to-do gentlemen standing on the doorstep of a dilapidated lodging house, talking in whispers . . . But needs must.
‘Henry, we have to at least try and follow him. We can’t let him completely disappear like he did last time!’
The old man pursed his lips for a moment. ‘All right, George. All right. But would you be able to properly identify him in a crowd?’
Warrington had met him twice now and on both occasions he had been unable to see his face; quite deliberate, of course. He had an idea of the man’s approximate build – tall and lean – and an impression of the man’s agility. But that was all.
‘I could take one of those two women.’ He tipped his head at the door behind them. ‘They know Kelly. I could take the taller woman with me to the station. If she can point out Kelly, then we’d have him.’
‘Hmm. That’s true.’
‘And if I take Robson and Hain with me, if they get on a train, we’ll get on it too. Once they’ve gone to ground and we know where they’re staying, I’ll put in a call.’
Rawlinson nodded. ‘All right, but listen, George. We really can’t afford a big scene at the station, you understand?’ He lowered his voice. ‘We do not have infinite resources to play around with. There are only so many favours I can pull in from our colleagues on the force. Just follow him, that’s all.’
‘Of course.’
‘You can take my hansom. It’s waiting at the end of Dorset Street.’
Warrington turned to go back inside, then stopped. ‘The other woman, Cath; what are we doing with her?’
Rawlinson’s long sigh carried a note of regret. ‘This Whitechapel murderer the newspapers seem to be wholly in love with . . . I have a feeling he may just strike again tonight.’
‘Both of them?’
He turned his nose up, as if the decision had its own odour. ‘Once she manages to point out her friend, send her back here in a cab. You’re probably best promising her a reward. I’ll have one of our chaps take care of things.’
‘What about the room at The Grantham Hotel?’
‘We stopped by there. Hain took care of those things. That confession and the piece of . . . organ are ashes now.’
‘In that case, we could have a go at killing him! We could produce evidence that frames him as the murderer. We could easily—’
‘George, no. We’re having to react to events far too quickly. There’ll be a dreadful mistake in there somewhere that will hang us!’ He stroked the tip of his long nose. ‘Two more missing tarts in Whitechapel is one thing, but a man shot dead right in the middle of Euston station is quite another.’
Warrington drew a breath. The old man was right.
‘Follow him until he goes to ground, then we’ll discuss what needs to happen next.’
‘Right.’
Rawlinson gestured with his hand. ‘Go on then, George; you’d better get a move on to Euston station.’
CHAPTER 52
1st October 1888 (6.30 pm), Euston Station, London
Euston was busier than Mary imagined it would be; the main hall before the departure and arrival platforms was thick with porters and passengers, knots of people waiting for arrivals or saying farewells.
Argyll led Mary by the hand through the bustling crowd, the main hall echoing with the sounds of trains readying for departure or rolling in to clunk gently against the buffer-stops and bellow geysers of steam to announce their arrival.
Mary had only ever been on a train once before and that was several years ago: her journey to London, away from the stultifying valleys of Carmarthenshire. She’d felt like this then, trembling uncontrollably with excitement at the prospect of stepping over the threshold into a new world, a brand new life. But this time, for this far bigger journey, she had John Argyll holding her hand.
Liverpool. Liverpool! And after that, as soon as he could organise things, a ship to America!
She wished she could contain the foolish gape on her face. She imagined she must look very much like some sort of village idiot being led by the hand along the concourse.
Argyll found space on a wooden bench. ‘Take a seat, Mary. I shall go and get us some tickets.’
She nodded obediently, sat down and watched him go. He was a whole head taller than most of the bustling crowd. She eventually lost sight of him, only to spot him a moment later scooting athletically up the sweeping marble staircase at the end of the hall, taking three steps at a time and causing a couple of elderly women to shake their heads disapprovingly and a porter to bark out something in his wake. He walked along the gallery and into the booking office.
She was excited, yes, but also nervous. John was suddenly so very different. Almost another person to the one she’d clumsily poured tea over at breakfast this morning. He still looked the same, he still spoke the same; that soft, exotic accent that hinted at exciting frontiers of untamed wilderness. He still treated her with a gentle formality, treated her like a lady. And yet one thing was gone from him – that childlike vulnerability, the wide-eyed man lost at sea, holding onto her like a life vest.
He didn’t need her anymore. He was the carer now, the grown-up, and she the child. Which made her wonder how long it would be before he tired of her. How long this part of the fairytale would last. Yesterday, he would have been entirely lost without her. Today, she was just a young working-class woman – oh, be honest, a common tart – w
ho somehow had managed to catch the eye of this wholly mysterious man. How long before he let go of that needful devotion to her, now he seemed so different, so in control. So awake.
She chastised herself. Don’t think that way! He loves you . . . He does!
Then, not forgotten, there was the matter of that word ‘danger’. John had used that word just the once and had not offered another word of explanation as to why. Mary was no fool; there must be people who were after John, for whatever reason. There was a reason why they’d left in such a dreadful hurry. Just like there was a reason why he had all that money on him. Just like there was a reason why she’d found him weeks ago, his skull stove in, and covered in so much blood.
She wasn’t stupid. This much she could guess at: whomever he was running from had done that to him, tried to kill him once before. And when she’d claimed him like lost property from St Bartholomew’s hospital, perhaps she’d unwittingly saved him, whisked him away from his pursuers. But now, whoever they were, they had somehow managed to find him again.
That could only mean she was in some sort of danger too.
She looked around at the swirling waltz of people: gentlemen in bowlers and billycock hats, hurrying to catch trains home; flustered women in bustles and feathers; and bewildered children holding hands so tightly in fear of becoming lost and separated in the crowd. So many bustling, busy people; surely nothing was going to happen to her or John? Not here, not in front of all these people?
Ten minutes passed before she caught sight of him returning, pressing through and offering his polite pardon-me’s as he made his way across the concourse.
‘The next available train to Liverpool is at nine o’clock.’ He turned to look at the large clock face overlooking the concourse. ‘We have a couple of hours.’
There was a space beside her on the bench; she beckoned him to sit down with her. With a quick glance around the milling faces, he did.
‘John,’ she said quietly, ‘what’s happening? What’s this all about? Leavin’ the house like that, so sudden?’