by Giles Ekins
With his heart pounding fit to burst and shudders of fear running through his body he read the chill words before him.
My Dear Collingwood,
It gives me pleasure to restore to you herewith those articles that you mislaid whilst trespassing upon my property.
In that regard, may I be permitted offer you my deepest congratulations upon your escape, such resourcefulness and determination I truly do admire.
However, be that as it may, nothing has changed. Dear Lucy, who sat by your bedroom so faithfully during your recent regrettable illness is still the next.
I remain Sir,
Your obedient servant.
E.J, Sinistrari.
Collingwood sat in dread silence, his heart hammering, numb with terror for Lucy, his eyes blurry with fearful tears at the dread words.
Lucy … is still the next!
Chapter 19
BLACK CANDLES, SET IN TALL SILVER CANDLESTICKS, guttered softly, casting deep shadows across the heavily draped walls of a vaulted chamber. The dim candlelight hardened the shadows about the hooded face of a tall figure seated in a black lacquered throne-like chair, raised upon a stepped dais. Before the throne another man knelt in supplication.
‘It shall be as you say Master,’ the acolyte whispered. The tall man stood up from the throne, turned his back and raised his black silk gown, bending slightly to thrust out his buttocks. The acolyte scurried across on his knees to kiss the proffered anus – the osculam-infame, his mark of homage, saluting his master in an obscene parody of the holy kiss to a bishop’s ring.
‘Indeed it had better be. This police officer is becoming a vexation to me. He has certain reserves of fortitude which I failed to detect and I fear he will continue his dogged pursuit of me like a particularly bothersome terrier.’
‘Why not simply kill him, Master? Or have me to kill him. Give me the word Master and I can simply make him disappear? Done that before, sir, many a time.’
‘The idea has certain attractions, but no, the notion is to discredit him.’
‘Master?’
‘To simply kill him, as you so admirably suggest would mean only that another would take his place. One not so resolute perhaps but a nuisance, nonetheless. I propose instead to create a diversion to discredit both Collingwood and the Metropolitan Police to such an extent that they can no longer be of irritation to me. I played with them once – but no more.’
‘Master, anything you demand of me shall be done.’
‘This is what you shall do,’ the hooded figure commanded, spelling out his instructions precisely and clearly, leaving no doubts as to his intentions.
‘It shall be as you command, my Master.’
‘Good, see to it at once, before Collingwood regains his strength,’ At that Edward Sinistrari dismissed his visitor, brushing him aside from his thoughts like fly about his ear.
Bowing deeply again, the fearful acolyte backed out from the chamber, the flickering candle light casting gaunt shadows over his heavily moustachioed face.
As soon as he was away from the fearsome, awesome, presence of Sinistrari, the shaken Satanist wiped his face with his kerchief and hurried out into the street and hailed a passing hansom cab, anxious to commence his task for Sinistrari whilst cursing himself for getting into such a predicament.
Passing by the Three Tuns Hotel, Aldgate, the cab carried on eastwards along Whitechapel High Street before turning south onto Commercial Street. A gaggle of drunken prostitutes shouted invitations to the passing cab, but he took no notice. Past Gower’s Walk and Back church Lane, the streets grew dingier and dirtier and meaner the farther into Whitechapel he travelled. The cabbie was slightly nervous, he came from up west and never liked going into the East End. His passenger had no such fear, although a foreigner, Irish-American to be precise, he knew the East End especially well. On previous visits, he stayed in hotels, but for this particular task, he changed his lifestyle and took up lodgings at 22 Batty Street, deep in the rancid heart of Whitechapel.
Chapter 20
METROPOLITAN POLICE, SCOTLAND YARD, 4, WHITEHALL PLACE, LONDON
CENTRAL OFFICE: CRIMINAL INVESTIGATION DEPARTMENT
‘IS THAT NOT THE MOST FANTASTICAL and unbelievable tale you have ever been told,’ Collingwood asked Sergeant Patrick Flanagan, recently transferred from the Irish Special Branch at the behest of Monro to replace Gimlet. This would be the last act of assistance that Monro could offer; he had finally resigned after incessant disagreements with Commissioner Warren over the independence of the CID. Collingwood had lost a staunch ally and he knew Monro’s replacement, Robert Anderson, previously the Secretary of the Prisons Commissioners, only by name.
Collingwood had just that week returned to duty, more than five weeks since his ordeal in the cellars of Blackwater House. He still had not regained full strength, but the constraints and monotony of invalid care at home had almost driven him insane with boredom. And more, he was consumed with the need to carry on his quest for Sinistrari and his failure to protect Gimlet from a horrible death wracked him with guilt – as did the thought that it could easily have been himself impaled upon the cruel spikes of Sinistrari’s mantrap. And as long as ever Sinistrari was at large, Lucy remained in the gravest of peril. Never for one moment did that dread thought ever leave Collingwood’s mind.
Sergeant Flanagan was the very opposite of Gimlet, whereas Gimlet had been small and quick and agitated; ferret like in his frenetic activities, Flanagan was solid and measured. Tall and heavily bearded, he looked like a Jesuit priest. In fact, Flanagan had trained for the priesthood for two years at the seminary in Dublin before deciding to fight evil temporally rather than spiritually.
Collingwood had judged it prudent to take his new sergeant into his confidence at once, to judge Flanagan’s reaction to his tale of satanic forces at large in London, because if Flanagan was to be effective he had to endorse fully the task assigned to him. He had to fully believe, believe implicitly. If Flanagan scorned or could not completely accept what he had been told, he would have to be transferred back from whence he came.
‘Fantastical, certainly sir,’ Flanagan responded slowly, every word carefully considered and precise, ’as fantastical a tale as ever I did hear in all my days. But unbelievable – oh no sir – I do fully believe in the forces of Evil and the power of their Dread Servants walking upon this earth.’
‘You can accept that this fiend Sinistrari, who murdered your predecessor, my good friend Herbert Gimlet, you can accept that he escaped from the gallows after being hanged by the neck until dead and that he escaped to kill again? That bullets cannot harm him? You accept this without reservation?’
‘Without reservation, no sir. I have questions, but questions of clarification – not of doubt.’
‘Tell me then Flanagan, why do you believe this tale?’
‘Well sir, ’tis not easy to put it in precise terms, but I am Irish sir, as you know. And in Ireland, especially rural Ireland, the folk there are very superstitious and very devoutly Catholic. The Catholic Irish people believe implicitly in witchcraft. My Grandmother, who is ninety-seven years of age and still as sharp as a tin tack, she tells of seeing the widow O’Rourke hang as a witch in Sligo when she was but a girl. Yes sir, the Irish people believe in this. Believe in sorcery. In demons. In the very Devil himself!’
Flanagan paused to gather his thoughts. ‘I cannot remember the exact quotation,’ he continued, pulling at his beard as he spoke, ‘but when I was training for the priesthood, Father Slattery taught us a refrain written by an exorcist priest. Oh yes sir, I did so train, for two years,’ Flanagan expounded, catching sight of Collingwood’s querulously raised eyebrow. ‘My mother was devastated, totally devastated, when I forgo becoming a priest to join the Force, she thinks I have sold my soul to the Devil himself, but regardless of that, as I say, Father Slattery taught us a refrain written by this priest from the Church of Notre Dame in Paris. He said, and as I say, I do not recollect the words exactly
but the gist of it was:
If you believe in light, it is because of the darkness;
If you believe in happiness, it is because of … unhappiness;
If you believe in God, then you must believe in the Devil.
And so, yes sir, I do believe in the Lord God our Saviour, and so, Quod Erat Demonstrandum. I believe, sir, I believe implicitly in the Devil, in Satan, in Lucifer, the Evil One, Old Nick, whatever name you put on him – he does exist – and if Sinistrari is his servant, I will help you track him down and destroy him. So help me, sir, I will.’
‘Thank you, Flanagan. Thank you.’ Collingwood said with relief, offering his new sergeant his hand in welcome. ‘You cannot know how much this affair has haunted me, made me doubt my own sanity, unable to explain it to anyone with any hope that I would be believed. Without any hope that they would not think that Gimlet’s death and my incarceration in Sinistrari’s dungeon had unhinged my mind. If I took this tale to the Commissioner, Sir Charles Warren, he would have me committed to an asylum for the insane within an instant.’
‘More fool he, sir. A closed mind is a most dangerous thing.’
‘Even James Monro, whom you know from the Irish Special Branch, a fine man, my friend, he too is sceptical, believes I have too vivid an imagination, but does not, as yet, believe me so deranged as to relieve me from this assignment.’ This last Collingwood said with a thin smile, knowing that, for now, he still retained the support of Monro despite his resignation.
‘To be sure, sir, Mister Monro is a fine gentleman and a fine policeman. For a Scotsman, that is.’
‘So then, Flanagan, to work. To catch a fiend. As dangerous a quest as ever you shall encounter.’
‘As you say, sir, but as long as the Lord is in our hearts, we shall overcome all evil.’
‘Good man. Now, any questions?’
‘Yes, sir, why, why did Sinistrari allow himself to be captured and tried and hanged like a common criminal?’
‘I too have pondered long and hard on that very question and the only rational explanation I have been able to come up
with is that quite simply; because he could. Because it amused him.’
Flanagan thought a while and then nodded in agreement.
‘Anything else?’ Collingwood asked. Any other questions?’
‘Only the one, sir. Where to start?’
‘As always, Flanagan, at the genesis, at the very beginning. Study the case files, Lord knows I have studied them until every word, every photograph, every scene of crime diagram is imprinted on my very brain like a tapestry, but there may be something that I have overlooked, indeed I hope there is. You know the ancient saw about not seeing the wood for the trees, so there may well be something that has escaped my notice.’ Collingwood looked around the small office, files piled high in every corner and across every surface.
‘Very good, sir, I’ll get onto it straight away, I’ll do a general review of all the files and then concentrate on any aspects that seem promising.’ Flanagan almost seemed to rub his hands with glee at the prospect of wading through the mountains of paper.
‘Welcome aboard, Mister Flanagan, I have the deepest impression that you will turn out to be a very worthy replacement.’
‘Indeed I do so hope, sir.’
HOWEVER, NOTHING THAT FLANAGAN READ or reviewed could shed any new light on the whereabouts of Sinistrari. An occasional watch was put on Blackwater House, but following it’s almost total destruction, Collingwood doubted that Sinistrari had any intention of returning, but it would have been foolish not to keep watch – just in case.
At Flanagan’s suggestion, copies all registered house and property sales were examined in case Sinistrari had been so helpful as to purchase another property using his own name but he had not been so obliging. Attempts to track him through rental agreements was all but impossible with the manpower available and Collingwood felt himself growing increasingly frustrated with the lack of progress.
And still Lucy remained in peril.
Chapter 21
WHITECHAPEL – PAST MIDNIGHT
THURSDAY AUGUST 6TH, 1888
THE AIR IN THE ‘FRYING PAN’ PUBLIC HOUSE in Brick Lane was thick and heavy with tobacco smoke; the sweat of long unwashed bodies and of rotting food trodden into the filthy verminous straw underfoot. Mangy dogs, belonging to the clientele of the alehouse, lurked amongst the table legs hoping for a scrap of meat or a hunk of three day old bread, a chicken bone or a gobbet of fat from the noxious stews served up to those who could afford no better.
Mary Anne Nicholls, better known as Polly, lurched up from the table, knocking over an empty beer bottle that spun slowly along the table before falling to the floor but did not break. She hissed obscenely at the soldier, an off duty Coldstream Guardsman from the Wellington Barracks, who lay slumped across the table, all but insensible, far too drunk to avail himself of Polly’s dubious favours.
Why had she wasted time on him, she asked herself bitterly, it was getting late, past 12.30 and Polly had still not made enough money to pay for her lodgings that night. She staggered out into Brick Lane, shivering slightly as she stepped from the fetid heat of the pub into the chill night air, pulling her worn-thin brown Ulster overcoat tighter about herself and settling her black straw hat, the one with the black velvet trim, more firmly onto her head.
Polly walked slowly down the lane, befuddled with drink, a not unusual circumstance; Polly Nicholls had a serious drinking problem, so much so that it had broken up her marriage to William Nicholls, a printer’s machinist and father of her five children. Eleven years ago he had run off with one of her friends, in her befuddled state Polly forgot who the friend was; huh, some friend she was and no mistake.
Polly was now forty-two years old, a sad, lonely and destitute woman, desperate to find a customer, any customer, who would give her the few coppers for a ‘fourpenny touch’ – hurried copulation backed up against an alley wall to earn the few pennies she needed to pay for her lodgings.
Ten minutes later Polly, by now in a foul temper, reached the common lodging house at No 18 Thrawl Street where she lodged, without having found any custom. Her feet hurt and rather than go on, she went indoors and made her way to the kitchen in the desperate hope that Billy Killeen, the lodging house deputy, might let her have her bed without payment.
‘Go on Billy, I’ll give you the money tomorrer, no doubts. There’s nobody about, no custom, I can’t make the coins. Come on now, don’t be a soddin’ tightarse.’
‘Away wit’ ya, ye old whore, you know the rules, gelt up front, else no lodgings.’ Billy turned to spit in the fire, his spittle hissing as it dancing upon the coals.
‘I tell you Billy, there’s no bugger about.’
‘And if there was? Nobody’ll tek up with the likes of an old scrubber like you, anyhow.’
‘How about you then, Billy,’ Polly asked, dragging up her skirts to show him the wares on offer; she wore no pantalettes, no respectable lady would ever go out without pantalettes, but of course, Polly Nicholls was about as far from being a respectable lady is it is possible to be. She thrust her hips towards him, reaching down to part herself. ‘Just a quick poke for the price of me bed,’
‘Shit, I wouldn’t fuck that wit’ the cock of me worst enemy, a poxed up twat like that.’
‘Up yer arse then, Billy Killeen, next time you fuckin’ want it you can bleedin’ whistle for. Shite on you and your fucking bed.’ Furious at being turned down, Polly slammed out back into the streets, Billy Killeen’s raucous laughter echoing in her ears. Then she realised that even if she made her coins, Billy might let her place go and so she went back inside and all but begged Killeen to keep her place open.
‘I’ll be back in no time, just you see, Billy Killeen, and I’ll bring you a gin if you like.’ Polly wheedled, knowing she had to keep on the right side of the deputy if she wanted to sleep indoors that night. ‘And then mebbes a poke for free?’
‘Aye well then Polly, I’ll hol
d a place ‘til three o’clock, not a minute later mind, come three o’clock, if yous are not back here with money in yer hand and a dram or two, don’t bodder fucking coming at all.’
Polly Nicholls stepped out into the night again and set off towards Commercial Road, perhaps she might find some trade there. As well as her bed for the night, Polly needed to make money for another drink or two, a desperate craving for a drink surging through her like fire.
She would also need to take a gin back for Billy; else the tight-arse would surely refuse her a place. Polly suddenly needed to urinate, should have gone whilst she was at Thrawl Street but now couldn’t hold it long enough to make it back there again. In Upper Seath Street, she stepped into the gutter, hoisted her skirts and petticoats and squatted down to piss. The heavy stench of urine assailed her nostrils and hot steam swirled up between her white thighs. She finished, stood, wiped herself with her petticoats, dropped her skirts again and carried on towards Commercial Street.
Still no trade; Commercial Street was surprisingly quiet and after some time she headed towards Whitechapel High Street. A railway worker, having finished his shift at the goods yard in Mansell Street was briefly interested when she accosted him, but then as he saw her more clearly under the gas street light, he turned away, looking for younger, less raddled meat.
Polly spat after him but now felt too weary to make much fuss. Dragging her feet she carried on up Whitechapel High Street towards Whitechapel Road, the effects of the nights long drinking now heavy on her, ringing in her ears. At the corner of Whitechapel Road and Osborne Street, she met up with Ellen Holland, another prostitute who lodged at Thrawl Street.