It seemed best at this time to continue with the ruse and I turned to run towards the iron steps.
I touched the brim of my cap as I started ascending the stairs to the metal walkway which ran near the roof of the room and along its length. I continued on to the end of the gangway to the door marked Boiling Room.
It was the heat of the room which affected me the most as I walked in. My clothes immediately stuck to my skin and I felt a cloying nausea within me as the mixture of moist warmth and the choking sweetness of the room assailed my body. The room itself was large, although not as huge as the main factory floor that I had just left. There were three enormous metal drums, each over twenty feet in height, which dominated the room, and from each of these vats ran pipes which led off out of the room. Each drum was full of hot melted chocolate. It was only then that I realised the purpose of the factory. Standing on the walkway just ahead of me was a man armed with a long wooden pole, which he used to stir each vat in turn.
The man was tall, thin and of older years. He wore a set of blue, loose-fitting canvas overalls with a bib top which attached over his shoulders. Under these he wore a linen shirt which, although once white, was now covered in brown stains and the dampness of sweat. On his head a blue cloth cap did a poor job of covering a mop of wiry grey hair which protruded from the bottom, sticking out in all directions, and equally thick, grey whiskers adorned his cheeks. He toiled in his task and, as I studied him, I noted that his lips constantly moved as he muttered to himself under his breath.
He had not noticed me and, seeing an opportunity, I took my sketchbook and pencil from my satchel and began to sketch the man at work. He leaned as far as he could over the metal railing and waved his pole around in the thick, brown, creamy liquid. As he withdrew the pole to move on to the next vat, he looked up and saw me.
‘What you doing, boy?’ he shouted, his red, puffed face glistening with sweat. I didn’t reply and hurriedly pushed the book back into my bag. Twenty yards past the chocolate stirrer was a set of metal steps leading down and I decided that my adventure in the factory should end and the best way of escape was forwards to floor level, where I could find a way out of the building. He called to me again but I continued to ignore him, lowering my head and walking towards the staircase behind him.
As I neared him I could hear him muttering to himself, cursing all born children and asking for a return to the days when a boy like me would have been forced into gainful employment. Hearing his grumbles, I sped up, pushing myself forwards towards my goal. As I reached him he suddenly turned towards me. His thin arms reached for my jacket, grabbing handfuls of cloth and pulling me towards him.
‘Do you not answer when someone speaks to you?’ he spat in my face. ‘I asked you a simple question, boy!’ There was a rattle in his voice as he pulled me closer to him; his face was just inches from my own now and the thick stench of the man and his breath overcame the sweetness of the chocolate. ‘Where’s your tongue, boy? What are you doing here?’
Fear hit me and I tried to wriggle free from his grasp; crying out, I threw my arms up in an attempt to dislodge his hands. I must have misjudged the strength required for the task, however, for he fell backwards, his lower back striking the gangway’s railing.
The next few moments have lived clearly in my memory ever since. Whenever I close my eyes I am able to replay them within my mind, like a zoetrope at a funfair, each individual image shown to me with near-perfect clarity. My eyes did not leave his face, as his expression changed from anger to astonishment and finally to fear, as he realised what was happening to him. As he hit the barrier his feet must have slipped on the floor, flying forwards and upwards as he tipped over the top and began to fall. His hand reached out to grab at me again, not in anger or aggression but in pure fear for his life. As his fingers outstretched before me my first instinct was to grab at his hands. I resisted this urge.
The old man cried out as he disappeared over the edge and I lurched forward to watch him tumble into the vat of chocolate below. The brown liquid sucked him down and within seconds he disappeared completely from my view, the only sign of his impact being the outline of his body shape left upon the skin of the surface.
Suddenly panic hit me and I shook myself out of my torpor. I had to get away, run far away from this room before anyone realised what had happened.
As I turned to run, a sudden noise caught my attention and, like a sweet but deadly volcanic eruption, the old man burst to the surface, gasping for air. His arms reached desperately up to me and he tried to cry out for help. Whatever sound he tried to make from his mouth was lost in a morass of wet gurgling chocolate.
I reached for the long wooden pole and hauled it over the side. Images flooded through my mind: I would be a hero, the boy who saved the man from drowning. I would be in the papers, and everyone would know me. Thoughts of the future possibilities flashed in front of me and I made my decision.
With all of the strength I could muster in my young body, I swung the wooden pole as hard as I could, striking the drowning man on the side of the head with a sickening crack.
He sank for the final time.
I stood watching the gently bubbling surface of chocolate for a further minute, before turning to run for the stairs – and I did not stop running until I was clear of the factory gates.
***
The match flared, illuminating the broad, smiling face of Inspector Abe Thomas above me.
‘Feeling a little jumpy today are we, Samuel?’ he said as he began to relight the candles along the mantelpiece.
I pushed myself to my feet, looking down at the blood that now smeared my best woollen trousers.
‘It is a scene from hell, is it not?’ I replied, ignoring his attempt to unnerve me. ‘I have nearly got all I need in terms of sketches. To be honest, it is not an image I will be forgetting any time in a hurry, and I will be able to complete my work at home. Are there any thoughts on who could be responsible for such an act?’
The candles lit, Thomas stared down at the women on the floor and spoke in a low rumble.
‘None that I could tell you. There are spiritualist groups and occultists springing up all over London – it is hard to keep track of them all.’ He walked slowly along the line of corpses before raising his head to gaze on the bloody stag upon the wall. ‘This is a revelation. I’ve never seen the like.’
I retrieved my sketchbook from the floor and moved closer to one of the bodies to capture some of the detail of the carvings on the arms.
‘There is something of the occult in these markings, Abe, and this hart must signify something; both the hart and indeed the hearts for that matter.’ I tried to vanquish any trace of humour in my voice, failing as I made the quip. The look of disgust on Thomas’s face was cold enough to make me lower my gaze.
‘You may want to note these also, Samuel,’ the Inspector said, pointing to the floor by the doorway, where two perfectly formed footprints were marked upon the floorboards. I had completely overlooked them when I had entered the room; I suppose I was too in awe of the spectacle that met me but, as I neared them and took a closer look, I noted that they were golden, as if someone had stood barefoot in a pot of gold paint and marked the floor. There was no trail leading from them – they stood alone and I wondered what their purpose had been, if indeed they had been part of whatever accursed ceremony had been performed in this room.
‘Who does the house belong to?’ I asked, running my fingers over the footprints.
‘The previous owner left in a hurry two years ago, according to the neighbours. Six months ago, all of the properties in this street, and the next one over, were bought up by the Falconer estate. No change for the tenants, really; just a different person to pay rent to. This house has stood empty, though. There has been no attempt to fill it, although there have been some comings and goings in the past few weeks apparently. The neighbours reckoned they were just workmen coming to do the place up. I’ve got some descriptions but they wer
e all a bit vague; people mind their own business around here.’
His words drifted over me somewhat, so intense were my attempts to capture the scene. ‘Keep me informed if you hear anything more, will you, Abe?’ I said. ‘I’m sure Old Mr Purkess will be chomping at the bit to get the edge on the others for this.’
‘Tell Purkess to hold off on putting it in this week’s edition,’ the Inspector said. ‘I will need to make good headway with my investigations before I am ready to see this in print. Tell him it will be the usual arrangement: access to my files in return for the time required to catch the killer… or killers.’
I nodded in assent, finishing my work hastily. As I stood and turned to leave, the voice of Abe Thomas stopped me in my tracks.
‘One more thing,’ he said, pointing towards one of the bodies. ‘Do you see that one on the end? It’s Mary Pershaw, the woman suspected of killing her daughter last week. It looks like we have found her at last.’
I peered down at the sliced carcass and noted that my sketch of ‘Mad Mary, the Crazed Child Killer on the loose in Paddington’, which I had submitted to Henry Cope, and which would be appearing in this week’s issue, was uncannily similar to her true looks.
‘Unfortunate for her, Abe, although at least she won’t kill again.’
‘None of them will,’ said the Inspector, his voice almost a whisper.
‘What do you mean?’
He turned to face me, his cheeks glowing red.
‘Do you remember I told you of the other women who’d killed their children and disappeared recently? Well, to the best of my knowledge, you’re looking at them.’
I was silenced by this knowledge and, without another word, I left him in his room of hell.
***
Three days later I found myself seated upon a train bound for the Kent countryside. I had passed on the wishes of the Inspector to George Purkess, who had accepted his terms with the hint of a clenched fist. I knew that he was desperate to get the exclusive on this terrible incident, but Mr Purkess was nothing if not astute in keeping those within his pay, be they colleagues or police, within his grasp when required. Sensationalism and stealing the edge on his competitors was a keen hobby of his, but his enthusiasm was best kept in check in instances such as these.
With promises of sensationally graphic drawings and words dripping with horror and mystery to come, I then told Purkess that I would be unavailable for two days due to a family concern which required me to travel immediately to York.
Mr Purkess of course agreed to my terms. I had long since built up enough bounty with the man – although not enough yet to push for his support for my investigations into the murderer Darke. In truth, if he were to find out the actual destination and nature of my journey all of this hard-earned bounty would be lost immediately.
The journey was not a long one but I found the time to read The Times as well as the first proof of the coming weekend’s edition of The Illustrated Police News. I had not, to my disappointment, made the front page with my sketch of a terrible fire which took place at a paper factory in Shoreditch, killing five men. The article, which I had also written, finally appeared on the third page and I read through it, noting at least two details with which I was unhappy but which now would be too late to change – even though this edition would not be on public sale until the coming Saturday.
I was not alone in the carriage and, over the top of my newspaper, I watched with interest the couple travelling in my car. The first, an older man, spent the entire journey staring out of the window. My second unknown companion was a broad-chested woman of middle age, who knitted with an angry temperament, her needles clicking with sharp and rhythmic stabs. Throughout the whole of the journey neither said a word, until they reached Tunbridge Wells, when the gentleman stood up and reached out his hand for the woman.
‘This is our stop, my dear,’ he said, motioning out of the window at the sign on the platform. She did not reply but, after roughly pushing her knitting into a carpet bag, took his hand and stood.
As they left the carriage I allowed myself a smile. There before my eyes and sitting within the same car as myself had been the perfect answer to those who asked me why I would never marry.
Within half an hour the train pulled into Pluckley and I withdrew my bag from the rack above my seat. I was the only passenger to disembark and, as I opened the door of the carriage and stepped down, I felt the eyes of the train’s passengers upon me. I wondered whether there was a secret which I had not been let into, for the platform was deserted.
It was a summer’s afternoon, the sun shining unashamedly, unrestrained by cloud, yet there was an unnatural feel about the place. The sun, which had been causing London to swelter and stink when I set off, seemed to give no heat here and the cold brought a shiver to me.
I thought to head straight through the exit gate but found myself walking towards the wooden building at the centre of the platform, my inquisitive nature urging me to discover if this place was as barren as it seemed. I peered through the filthy windows, wondering if there was any life here. There was none. Even in the ticket office, which I assumed would be manned throughout the day, there was no sign of habitation. Partially assured that there was no one to be found, I decided to walk into the village to find the Black Horse and its landlord, Tom Finnan. As I approached the gate, however, I caught sight of the clock hanging over the platform; it struck me as quite odd. The clock ticked, I could hear it quite clearly; in fact, it was the only sound I could hear in this empty place. The time on it was quite wrong, however, stating that it was twenty past eight. I knew that this could not be correct as my train had left London Bridge at ten-thirty that morning.
I pulled out my watch but noted that it had also stopped at twenty past eight. I was sure that I had wound it; I always did as soon as I woke every day. No matter, I would correct it as soon as I could. I hazarded a guess that the time must be about one o’clock and altered my watch accordingly, winding it once more. As I did so, I sensed a movement ahead of me and glanced up to see a solitary figure standing at the end of the platform. It looked to be an elderly man dressed in the livery of a railway guard. He had not been there moments before and I wondered how he had managed to appear at such speed. I reached down to pick up my bag, with the intention of speaking to him and asking for directions to the Black Horse, and in that briefest of moments when I took my eyes off him, he disappeared. I considered that it perhaps had been a trick of the light but the day was so bright; I had clearly seen him.
I sighed, wondering if the village of Pluckley were conspiring against me. Bag in hand, I strolled through the gate, to find an inn called the Dering Arms before me.
The doors to the pub were closed and locked, although I could see that a fire was lit within and heard voices from inside. I rapped hard on the door and the voices quickly stopped, to be replaced by the scraping of bolts. The door opened, just enough for me to see a thin, hawkish-faced man who eyed me suspiciously.
‘Are you not open?’ I asked.
The man sniffed, his eyes darting around to see if I was accompanied.
‘Not at this time, not on a Thursday!’ he snapped and shut the door again.
The bolts were being fastened as I knocked on the door again. A curse came from within.
‘We’re shut, I said!’ came the muffled voice within.
‘I’m looking for the Black Horse,’ I called. ‘Is it near?’
‘Mile an’ arf up tha’ road. Keep walkin’ n’ you’ll fin’ it!’ came a distant cry.
I went to leave, but stopped sharply and shouted through the door a final time.
‘One last thing.’ I withdrew my watch from my pocket. ‘Do you have the correct time?’
There was no reply.
I set off with the cold sun shining down upon me. There was not a breath of wind and the only sound came from my footsteps along the country track. How such bright daylight and stillness could be described as eerie was a mystery to me, bu
t eerie it was. I had the feeling of eyes upon me, a malevolence of sorts that I could not shake, and I found myself repeatedly looking back over my shoulder, even though the lane was deserted.
I passed the odd house on my journey, but I saw neither man nor beast along the way. I thought to stop and call at one to enquire whether I was indeed on the right road but my stubborn will forced me to push on under my own initiative.
Eventually I came across a group of squat and dilapidated houses at a distance, which looked to be more of a village than what I had seen of Pluckley so far. I walked towards them and saw a sign that told me I had indeed found the Black Horse. The chimney was smoking and there were signs of light and movement inside the building.
As I stepped through the doors of the pub, all conversation ceased and I felt the eyes of every customer upon me. I stopped for a moment, meeting their glares and smiling. I went up to the bar, the tide of locals parting to create a path of sorts for me. The barman was deep in conversation with an older man but, noticing me, he cut off his discourse and strode over to where I stood.
He had red-coloured hair streaked with white. Although I could plainly see that he was over sixty years old, time had not dimmed the strength and power of the man. His skin was weathered and lined, each crease upon his face a deep and hard-earned crevice. It was his eyes which struck me the most, however: they were a shade of green and most friendly in manner. This was a man who exuded comfort and trust in those who met him, a most favourable requisite in the landlord of a public house. I guessed almost instinctively that this was Tom Finnan, the associate of Sibelius Darke. As he approached he did not speak to me; he merely placed the palms of his hands upon the bar and raised his eyebrows slightly.
‘I am visiting the village for a couple of days and wished to find somewhere to stay,’ I said. ‘Have you rooms available?’ As I spoke, the noise and hubbub of the room resumed and the locals continued with the conversations that I had interrupted by my entrance.
Domini Mortum Page 4