Lost and Gone Forever

by Alex Grecian

  “Is it your name?”

  “Sometimes. But I have many names and I have no preferences among any of them. Now.” Jack clapped the palms of his hands against his thighs and looked round the office as if he’d only now arrived there. “I’ve had a chance to think our situation over and I’ve decided there’s no polite way to proceed. Don’t you agree?”

  “No, sir. We can be polite.”

  “My advice to you, Ambrose, is to embrace the moment. Of course, you must be polite if you can, but there are times when a small amount of rudeness is unavoidable. And there are times when outright savagery is required.”

  “Savagery?”

  “Indeed. And if we shrink from the occasion, then we miss our chance to enjoy the savagery for itself. For the marvelous change of pace that it is.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “It’s not what I’m going to do, Ambrose, it’s what you’re going to do. You seem to feel some regard for our friend here.” He waved a loose, languid hand at Day’s slumbering form. “And so you will run a small errand for me and come right back here.”

  Ambrose shook his head, but couldn’t speak.

  “Yes,” Jack said. “If you do not, or if you tell anyone about me or bring anyone back to this office, I will kill our friend while you watch. And I will kill anyone else you’ve brought here. And then I will kill you. Only I will kill you very slowly. Very slowly indeed. And I will enjoy it so much more than you will. Do you understand?”

  Ambrose shook his head again, then gasped and nodded.

  “Good. Do you believe I will do what I say?”

  Another nod.

  “Wonderful. We’re getting on splendidly, aren’t we?”

  Ambrose cleared his throat and licked his lips with a dry tongue. “What is it that you want me to do?”

  23

  Mr and Mrs Parker had waited outside the coffeehouse and followed Leland Carlyle when he emerged because, as Mrs Parker had rightly pointed out, “The best way to find our man is to track his man.” Jack the Ripper was claiming the lives of the Karstphanomen. They had no clue to his identity, but they did know the identity of the high judge of the Karstphanomen, and it stood to reason that Jack would, sooner or later, get round to murdering Leland Carlyle. So they followed him and waited for someone to make an attempt on his life.

  Carlyle and his wife had taken Hardwick House for the summer months. It was situated on Brook Street near Grosvenor Square, and after leaving the coffeehouse, Carlyle returned there. Mr and Mrs Parker waited outside, across the road in the mews, for hours, but the high judge did not reappear.

  “I’m terribly bored,” Mrs Parker said.

  “You’re speaking English.”

  “When in England . . . It’s good practicing. But I’m bored.”

  “Yes,” Mr Parker said. “This job of work is less straightforward than I would prefer.”

  “It’s all tangled up in itself.”

  “Anything involving Jack the Ripper is bound to be. We’re tasked with discovering the whereabouts of a fellow who escaped the police and a whole club of gents that’ve been trying to find him for a year now.”

  “And killing him. That’s the fun part, of course.”

  “Of course. That’s always the fun part.”

  “It’s just, there aren’t usually so many dull parts before the killing.”

  “But it’s worth it, wouldn’t you say? We’ll be the ones to finally put an end to this whole Ripper business.”

  “You know he plans to have us killed in turn. Carlyle does.”

  “You think so, too?”

  “I do. We’ll do his dirty business for him, and then he’ll do away with us and put it all behind him.”

  “Well,” Mr Parker said, “I don’t plan to let him do that.”

  “I didn’t think you did. But forewarned is forearmed.”

  “I am always armed.”

  Mrs Parker laughed, a light tinkling sound that always reminded Mr Parker of chimes in a gentle breeze. Part of what he enjoyed about the act of murder was the way it made Mrs Parker laugh. It reminded him of her childhood in the country, of watching her ride horses and playing with her in the wood behind the estate, where she had tortured small creatures for fun.

  “Let’s go and come back tomorrow,” Mrs Parker said.

  Mr Parker could rarely deny Mrs Parker anything, but now he frowned. A deep crease appeared between his eyes. “He may not be coming out tonight, but it’s still possible Jack the Ripper might make an appearance while we’re gone, and then we’ll have lost the only means we have for finding him.”

  “He won’t come tonight,” Mrs Parker said.

  “And you know this because?”

  “Because he’s no doubt off doing something more fun than watching a boring old house. Something gooey, like slitting open a serving wench and turning her on a spit over a crackling fire. Watching the fat roll down the skin of her thighs and sizzle on the coals.” Her eyes were closed, and she licked her top lip.

  He watched the tip of her pink tongue. “And if he’s not? If he’s waiting for us to leave so he can kill our client before we do?”

  “Then I will most sincerely apologize to you,” she said.

  “Don’t you want to find our target quickly?”

  “We’re not going to find him tonight.”

  He felt he had pushed her as hard as he could. Any more and she might become dangerous. “Very well,” he said. “What would you prefer?”

  “That place,” she said. “That place he told us about.”

  “He,” in this context, could mean only one person: an old man they had killed in his bedroom in Alsace. His death had taken several days to play out, and Mr Parker’s daughter had spent the entirety of that time at his side. Mr Parker had slept on and off, but Mrs Parker had never slept; she had listened to the old man’s ravings as his body had fed on itself and his fluids had soaked into the mattress beneath him.

  “That place is in France, my dear,” Mr Parker said. “He was talking about Paris, I think.”

  “And where are we now?”

  “London.”

  “And they are different?”

  “They are some miles apart from each other.”

  “Can we go to Paris tonight?”

  “Not if we want to fulfill this contract.” She was tugging her earlobe and tapping her finger against her throat and, watching her, Mr Parker began to feel nervous himself. Without realizing he was doing it, he began to rub the two-inch scar on his left temple. One of many reminders he carried of Mrs Parker’s temper. “Very well,” he said. “We need to stay in London if we’re to make any money this trip, but perhaps we can take the rest of the evening off and find something fun to do here.”

  Mrs Parker instantly relaxed and lowered her hand from her throat. Mr Parker smiled at her. She really was quite lovely when she wasn’t screaming or hurting him.

  “Nobody old this time,” she said. “I want to find someone young and healthy. It’s so much more satisfying when they start out strong.”

  “Yes, my darling,” Mr Parker said. He reasoned that they might find a suitable distraction for her in Hyde Park and gestured for her to walk ahead of him down Brook Street. There was no way he would have her at his back. Never again.

  24

  Esther Paxton was worried. She had taken down the wire from across her front window and folded and put away the display clothes. She had shuttered the windows, but she’d left the globe above the door lit. She had not seen Walter all day. Normally he would have returned before she closed up the shop. He would have walked her home, and perhaps they would have shared a light supper along the way. Then he would go back and lock up the shop and get busy rolling cigarettes and cigars for the following day’s business. He was unfailing in his routine. But today he had been gone befo
re she arrived and there was still no sign of him.

  Of course, he was free to leave, to find another place to live, though Esther would miss the extra income. But surely he would have told her, would have given her proper notice, would have been more considerate than to simply disappear. There were unresolved issues between them, at least she felt there were, and Walter would not have left her alone without warning.

  She had just resolved to stroll about the neighborhood and look for him when there was a knock at the door. She peeked out the small inset window and saw a tall man with dark wavy hair smiling back at her. He was quite handsome, but there was something unusual about his smile, like it had been painted on, like he was a mannequin made up to look human. She banished the thought and silently chided herself for being so ridiculous. She was just worried about Walter, that was all.

  “I’m afraid I’m closed for today,” she said, loudly enough to be heard through the door. “Please come back in the morning.”

  “Oh,” the stranger said, “but I have a message from Walter Day for you.”

  “Walter Day?” (Was that Walter’s full name?) “A message?”

  “It’s a note from him. He’s sorry to be so late this evening, but wondered if you’d wait for him. There’s more, but he wanted me to give it to you myself.”

  “Please slide it under the door.” That mannequin smile still bothered her. She was watching the man through the window, and his mouth barely moved as he spoke. He was like a puppet being worked by invisible strings and rods.

  “There’s also a small box here,” from the unmoving grin. “I’m afraid it won’t all fit.”

  “Oh, very well,” Esther said. She threw the bolt and opened the door.

  The man stepped across the threshold and removed his hat. He was carrying Walter’s cane, with the bright brass knob at the top. He bowed to her, too low and too formal, making a show of it. “Thank you, madam.”

  “Where is it? The box?”

  “Oh, that.” The man turned and shut the door behind him. “I’m afraid I lied about the box. But I do have a message for you from Walter Day. Or rather, it’s about Walter Day. He didn’t send it personally.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Didn’t I introduce myself? Please, call me Jack.”

  He raised Walter’s walking stick high above his head and brought it down in a glimmering arc.

  25

  Leland Carlyle woke in the wee hours with a dreadful realization that felt physical, like some enormous toad sitting on his chest, crushing him, sucking the breath out of him. The girl at the coffeehouse, the one with the apron, she had heard everything. Carlyle couldn’t remember what he’d said, what the Parkers had said. He had been careful, hadn’t hinted at any impropriety while the girl had been within earshot, but now he felt convinced that she had listened in. Why wouldn’t she? Carlyle was clearly a gentleman of means, and girls like that were always trying to better themselves. She would have listened to their conversation. She might, even now, be planning to blackmail him, might be writing a note to his wife or to the authorities. He should have known, should have been more careful.

  He snorted and rubbed his eyes. They were tearing up, and he felt a lump in his throat. It was so hard to be strong, to remain resolute in all situations, all day every day. Sometimes a man struggled to bear up under it all. Especially when there were so many people around him who would take advantage if he showed weakness, who were waiting for an opportunity to turn things around, to work against him.

  He had been strong once, much stronger than he was now, but a year of being hunted like a damn fox had begun to wear him down. He jumped at every shadow now, distrusted every new person he met. It was impossible to be too careful when Jack was lurking somewhere nearby.

  If the girl had heard anything—had she? He felt certain, but he’d also felt certain he was being careful—if she had heard him use specific names or heard him mention the killing specifically, then she was a danger to him and to the entire Karstphanomen. The thought of disappointing those worthy men was somehow worse than his fear of Jack.

  He turned over onto his side and stared at the wall, glad Mrs Carlyle slept in another room. Perhaps the girl hadn’t heard him order a murder. And perhaps, if she had heard, she would applaud him for hiring the murder of Jack the Ripper. Surely nobody wanted that madman running around free.

  But if she had heard, and no matter what she thought of it, she could implicate Leland Carlyle, she could ruin him.

  He would have to do something about her.

  Perhaps he could add her to the task he’d given the Parkers. One more body would be nothing to them. They could dispatch her easily. But, of course, in doing so they would have a certain power over him. They would know that he was frightened of a girl. And what would they charge him for it? Whatever the amount, it would be difficult to hide any more money from his accountant. No, he couldn’t ask them to take care of any more than they already were.

  He would have to do it himself.

  And, satisfied that he had arrived at the proper conclusion, Leland Carlyle turned onto his back again and fell instantly asleep. Within moments he was snoring.

  26

  At the back of the Whistle and Flute, in a corner where there were no lamps and the light from the street failed to reach, was a large round table with four chairs. Blackleg was not always to be found sitting at this table, but when he was gone nobody else sat there. It was his table. And anyone who had the second chair, across from him, should be bearing good news if he wished to be seen anywhere again.

  Hammersmith entered the pub and waited for his eyes to adjust. How strange, he thought, that the gas lamps outside are so much brighter than the light inside. The table in the corner was occupied. The chair opposite Blackleg was empty. The burly criminal was reading a newspaper, and there were two glasses of beer in front of him. Sometimes Hammersmith had seen men pull chairs over from neighboring tables and play games of Happy Families with the powerful criminal, but this was not one of those times. Hammersmith snaked his way around the other tables, which were set about in no discernible pattern, and pulled out the empty chair. Blackleg folded his newspaper and slid one of the two glasses across to Hammersmith.

  “You’re on time,” Blackleg said.

  “I always am.”

  “I took the liberty of ordering for you.”

  “Thanks.” Hammersmith raised the glass and drained half of the murky liquid, then wiped his lips on his sleeve. He noticed a suspicious yellow stain on his cuff and frowned at it. He couldn’t remember eating or drinking anything yellow recently.

  “This about your missing mate again?” Blackleg gestured for another two glasses, and a woman across the room nodded to show she’d seen him.

  “It is,” Hammersmith said.

  “I been lookin’. Like I told you I would. And had my girls lookin’. Everybody else, too.”

  “You know what he looked like?”

  Blackleg smiled. He knew whatever he wanted to know. He had started as a common criminal, crossing picket lines at the docks, but had worked his way to the center of certain crime rings in London. He controlled all the illegal activities that his warped moral code told him were necessary to society, which meant in practical terms that he avoided anything that might harm children. And unnecessary murders.

  What he considered “unnecessary” seemed to change from moment to moment.

  “And there’s no sign of him in any of your . . .” Hammersmith broke off, not sure how to phrase the rest of the question.

  “Naw, none of my people have seen anything,” Blackleg said.

  Hammersmith took another pull from the glass and stared off at the back wall of the pub, which was streaked liberally with rust and mildew.

  “Don’t take it bad,” Blackleg said. “One good thing is there’s no sign of any bodies or nuthin’, either.”


  Hammersmith turned his gaze on the criminal and scowled.

  “What I mean,” Blackleg said, “is I done questioned everybody I know might’ve done your friend bodily harm, might’ve had it in for a peeler and taken matters in their own hands, so to speak. Nobody knows nuthin’.”

  “Nothing they’re telling you.”

  Blackleg sat back and smiled. The woman appeared and set down two more glasses, foam sloshing over her hands and across the tabletop. She flicked her fingers at the wall and hurried away.

  “They’d tell me,” Blackleg said. “The one thing, the one thing, is they don’t lie to me. Most other problems I can help with or forgive, but lying destroys trust, and without trust . . . well, what do we have?” He spread his hands wide, then clapped them together and lifted his glass.

  “So there’s no body,” Hammersmith said. “No body after a year of looking. Then someone hid his body very well, don’t you think?”

  “No. No, I don’t just mean there ain’t a corpse. I mean nobody kilt him.”

  “I mean no offense, but isn’t it possible someone else harmed him, someone you don’t know or doesn’t work for you?”

  “No, it’s not possible without my knowing. A body’s a big thing, it is, if it’s a grown man. You can chop it up, you can melt it with certain things, but then you’ve got pieces or chemicals, you’ve got evidence. That’s the sort of evidence you lot, you police, look for. But that’s the evidence the rest of us hide from you, and I know about hidin’ better than you or anybody you know. Nuthin’ stays hidden from me if I want it found.”

  Hammersmith frowned and sipped his beer.

  Blackleg leaned forward and clasped his hands atop his folded newspaper. “Sumpin’s odd about all this, I’ll grant you that,” he said. “But what I’m givin’ you here’s good news. If he’s dead, he died in another city, maybe a different country entire. But he didn’t die here. Not in my city.”