Instead of rushing inland, I headed to the right.
Toward the area where Whittle must’ve landed his skiff.
All along, I’d reckoned it would take a miracle to survive the voyage. If the ocean didn’t kill me, Whittle would do the job with his knife. Now I was clear of them both. Safe on land in America.
But Whittle was here, too.
Much as I wanted to be shut of him forever, it was me who had brought him aboard the True D. Light, me who had gotten Michael and the father murdered, me who had failed to save Trudy.
Walking brisk along that beach, leaving the yacht behind with its horrid cargo, I knew it was me who had to track down Jack the Ripper and put an end to him.
PART TWO
The General and His Ladies
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The House in the Snow
I hadn’t walked far before snow started coming down. Not much at first, but soon the night was just thick with big white flakes so I couldn’t see more than a few yards in front of me.
It seemed like a good thing. If Whittle was lurking about, up ahead, he wouldn’t have much luck at spotting me through the heavy downfall. Maybe I could sneak up on him.
I grabbed a chunk of driftwood to use for a club, and shoved a few rocks into the pockets of my coat. They didn’t amount to much as weapons go. They’d do just dandy, though, if I could catch him by surprise.
Having such things gave me a sense of power that made me realize just how helpless I’d felt during those weeks on the yacht.
It sank in that I was actually free. Not a prisoner trapped aboard a boat. Not a lackey who had to obey orders and watch my step, always worried Whittle would punish Trudy if I didn’t behave.
He couldn’t hurt her now. He’d done his worst to her. As horrible as that was, it had taken away his only hold on me.
So I wasn’t his slave any more. I was myself again, Trevor Wellington Bentley. Free. If I had a mind to do so, I could walk away and likely never set eyes on Whittle again.
If I had a mind to. Which I didn’t.
The end of my slavery meant I was free to be a hunter. That was all I cared to be—a hunter of Whittle. I figured I’d stalk him forever, if that’s how long it took.
By and by, I got to hoping he’d hung around the shore and seen me beach the True D. Light. I hoped he’d decided to lay for me. I hoped he might come leaping at me through the falling snow. Just let him. He would catch a couple of rocks in the face for his trouble, and once he was down, I’d bash his head to pudding.
All my eagerness for that skipped out on me, though, when I came to the skiff. The sight of it turned me cold and trembly. I filled my right hand with a rock and twisted around in circles, scared to death he might jump me, wishing the snow would let up so I could see him coming.
When nothing happened, I settled down some and gave the skiff a study. It had been dragged up the sand a few yards beyond the reach of the waves. It was empty except for the oars and a puddle of water that had collected near the stern. The puddle looked black. The snowflakes melted away when they fell on it, but otherwise the bottom of the boat, the bench seats and the tops of the oars all wore smooth, pale mats of snow.
I circled the skiff, looking for footprints. The only ones I found were my own. This near the water, the sand was stiff and hard, so Whittle wouldn’t have left much in the way of impressions and what there might’ve been was hidden under an inch or more of snow.
As he’d left no tracks for me to follow, I put myself in his place and reckoned he had likely headed straight inland. He would want to put distance between himself and the bay, figuring the yacht might be found at daylight. What with the bodies on board, things could get hot for strangers in the area.
That goes for me, too, I realized.
It wasn’t a comforting notion.
I put my back to the bay and started to march. Trekking over the dunes, my night in Whitechapel came back to me as clear as if it had been yesterday. The part about getting chased by the mob that mistook me for the Ripper. That had been an awful dicey time, and it had only been luck, mostly, that saved me. Well, I didn’t need much imagination to see how I could find myself blamed for the killing of Trudy and Michael.
What if they grabbed me for it? How could I prove it was Whittle, and not me, who’d done such foul deeds? Maybe I’d end up swinging at the end of a rope.
When all that sank in, I allowed I had plenty more to worry about than tracking down Whittle.
The trick was to keep clear of everyone, at least until I could put some miles between me and the True D. Light.
It seemed like a mighty fine plan, but it flew all to smash the moment I came upon the house.
What I found, first, wasn’t the house but a low stone wall that blocked my way. It stretched out in front of me for as far as I could see through the snowfall. My first thought was to pick one direction or the other and hike around it.
After all, the wall hadn’t just grown out of the ground by itself. Someone had built it, and that meant there must be people nearby. I’d aimed to avoid people.
Then I figured that if Whittle’d come this way, he might’ve seen things different. What if he saw the wall as a sign that a house was close, and went looking for it? Maybe a house was just what he wanted—a place to get out of the weather and warm himself up, maybe have himself a good meal and a sleep. Maybe have himself a high time butchering whoever lived there.
Well, I climbed to the other side of the wall and went searching. I kept an eye out for footprints, but didn’t find any. What with the darkness and the heavy falling snow, there wasn’t much to see at all. Besides, Whittle’d likely had a good head start on me. He might’ve passed through here before the snow’d hardly commenced to fall.
And everybody in the house—if there was a house and folks inside it—might be dead by the time I got there.
By and by, I figured there had to be a house. The area was planted with trees and shrubs, some of which gave me an awful start when they sort of loomed up and I took them for Whittle. There were some sheds, too. And a gazebo. And a walkway that only showed because some overhanging limbs kept the snow off its flagstones.
Finally, the house turned up. It looked to be made of stone, and maybe a couple of stories tall. Standing at the foot of the porch stairs, I could only see as high as an upstairs window, and that was dark. There didn’t seem to be any light at all coming from this side of the house. The corners of its wall were out of sight.
I checked the porch stairs. The snow on them was thick and smooth, trackless.
I climbed three stairs, then got a sudden case of the fantods, so I backed down.
No point rushing things. The last time I’d gone sneaking into a stranger’s digs, that’s when I’d gotten mixed up with the Ripper in the first place. Seemed the wiser course to scout around before making up my mind as to whether I ought to try the house.
With that in mind, I headed off to the right. The windows along the ground floor were high enough so I didn’t need to duck. They were all dark. At the corner, I turned and made for the front. The windows along this wall were dark, too. A couple of times, I stepped back and looked up. Didn’t seem to be any lighted windows upstairs, either.
Well, it stood to reason. If a family was in there, they all would’ve turned in by now. I hoped they were asleep, and not slaughtered.
Whittle was mad, but crafty. Maybe he figured to play things safe, and not mark his arrival in America by killing folks straightaway.
Likely as not, though, he wouldn’t look at it that way.
Pretty soon, I came to the front of the house and followed its long porch to the stairs in the middle. By now, it came as no surprise to find the windows dark. From the look of the snow on the stairs, nobody’d climbed up or down them for a spell.
I had a mind to walk the rest of the way around the place, but figured I was only just looking for an excuse to put off going in.
So up the stairs I went. The snow
on them squeaked under my shoes. Under the porch roof, I put some white tracks on the floorboards, and stomped one foot to shake the clinging powder off my shoe and sock. The thump of it startled me considerable. I felt like a plain fool. Quiet and stealth were called for, not clean shoes.
A single thump shouldn’t have been enough to rouse the household—if anybody was in shape to arouse. And if Whittle was in there, he only would’ve heard it if he had his ear to the front door, likely as not.
Anyhow, I stood still for a long while. Nothing came of the thump. But I wasn’t eager to try the door. I set down my driftwood club and brushed some snow off my hair and coat. Then I bent down for my club, but decided not to take it in with me. If Whittle was inside, I’d have to make do with my rocks. Because he might not be. And I didn’t fancy the notion of creeping inside a strange house with a weapon in my hand. I’d had a knife in my teeth when I climbed aboard the True D. Light, only to get myself laid into by an innocent chap who took me for a villain.
There’s one thing about Trevor Bentley, he doesn’t often make the same mistake twice.
So I kept my hands empty, the rocks in my pockets.
The door wasn’t locked.
I eased it open and stood for a spell with my head in the crack. There wasn’t much to see but only darkness. Nothing to hear but the ticktock of a clock pendulum somewhere close by. So in I crept, and shut the door real soft.
It was mighty good to be out of the snowy weather. The air felt warm and friendly. It smelled a trifle old and stale like Grandmother’s place near Oxford. It smelled of wood smoke, too. From a fireplace, I reckoned. And there was a bittersweet aroma that put me in mind of Daws the cabman. I remembered how he’d kept his pipe upside down so the rain wouldn’t put it out, the night I went to fetch Uncle William, and suddenly I felt mighty lonesome for home.
I would’ve given just about anything, right then, to be there with Mother.
I told myself this was no time to stand around feeling sorry for myself. This was dangerous territory, after all, whether or not Whittle was lurking about.
Keeping my eyes and ears sharp, I took to snooping about. Part of the time, rug was under my shoes. Other times, it was wooden floor. I moved slow, crouching some, my hands feeling ahead to warn me off collisions. I met up with an umbrella stand, a small table, a lamp, a couple of chairs. I only knew what they were by their feel. Somehow, I missed knocking any over. By and by, I found a newel post and stairway. The stairs seemed to be as wide as I was long.
It seemed smart to explore where I was before venturing into the upper parts of the house. So that’s what I did. And before long, I found myself in a parlor. That’s where the fireplace was. The fire had burned itself down to glowing embers, but it gave the room some extra warmth and enough ruddy light for me to see I wasn’t blind, after all.
Though the light was faint and left swarms of shadows, I saw right off that the room had walls and walls full of books. Where there weren’t bookshelves or curtained windows, there were cabinets or paintings. The place was all aclutter. It had a sofa, and so many tables and lamps and chairs and so on that it seemed more like a storage room than a place for folks to spend their time.
Even though I worried some about what might be hiding in the shadows, I wasn’t eager to move on. I stepped over close to the fire, instead, and huddled down to feel its warmth better.
From somewhere behind me, a voice said, “Chuck another log on there, fellow.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The General
Well, I jumped up so quick I near hurt myself, and swung around.
Off in a corner, a match flared. It showed a broad, wrinkled face with white hair curled all around it and a thick, droopy mustache. The old man was sitting in an armchair off to the side a ways. I must’ve walked right by him on my way to the fireplace.
He sucked the match flame down into his pipe a few times, and puffed out some smoke. “Get that fire blazing,” he said. “I only let her burn down because I was too comfy to get up and fool with it.”
He didn’t sound like he meant me any harm. He sounded downright friendly, in fact. So I figured there was no good reason to hightail. I turned to the fireplace, moved the screen aside, added some wood onto the andiron, and puffed away with the bellows till the fire took. After putting the screen back where it belonged, I faced the old man again.
“Much appreciated,” he said.
What with the shimmery red light, I could see him better now. He was a husky fellow, all abulge under his flannel nightshirt. A blanket covered his legs. He sat there, looking at me, sucking on his pipe, just as calm as if I’d been invited into his parlor, not snuck in like a thief.
“General Matthew Forrest,” he said.
A General?That might explain how come I hadn’t riled him.
“Don’t stand there with your maw hanging,” he said. “Introduce yourself.”
I let out a couple of noises like “Uhhh, uhhh” while I tried to figure things out. He talked like a Yank, pretty much the same as Michael and Trudy, rather flat and clipped. Just a few words from me, and he’d know by my voice I wasn’t any native. Then I’d have an awful piece of explaining to do. What I needed was a good string of lies about who I was and where I’d come from—lies that left out everything about Whittle and the yacht.
“What’s the matter, cat got your tongue?”
I nodded, and suddenly hit on a plan. Cat got your tongue?Yes, indeed!
I commenced to frown and shake my head and touch my lips. Then I remembered how one of those rascals in Huckleberry Finn had let on to be a dummy. He’d wriggled his fingers and such, pretending it was sign language. So I had a go at that.
The General furrowed his brow. He tapped the bit of his pipe against a front tooth. “I see,” he said. “You’re a mute. Not deaf, however. I knew a fellow name of Clay who suffered from just such a predicament. That was back in ‘74. A couple of Comanches laid their hands on him, cut his tongue clean off at the root. This wasn’t more than half a mile from Adobe Walls. A buffalo hunter happened along, just afterward, and picked off the savages with his Sharps. Saved Clay, but his tongue was already out. Being reluctant to part with it, he poked a hole in the tongue and wore it around his neck. Before long, the thing dried up like jerky. I hear he ate it, a year or two later on, to stave off hunger after he lost his mount and had to hole up in a cave for a week till the Indians cleared out.”
This General sure was a talker, which suited me fine. He rather put me in mind of Uncle William, the way he seemed to relish his grisly tale.
“I don’t suppose the Comanches got yours,” he said.
Shaking my head, I stuck out my tongue so he could see I had one. Then I fingered my throat and let out a grunt.
“A problem with the voice box, eh?”
Nod, nod.
“That’s a shame. However, it does give you a certain edge in conversational gambits.”
When he came out with that, I couldn’t help but laugh.
“The Lord has seen fit to saddle me with not one but two women in my dotage, so your silence is mighty refreshing.”
Two women! That set off alarms in me. What if Whittle’d come in, skipped the parlor and missed the General, but found the gals?
I must’ve looked anxious and fidgety, because the General waved his empty hand in my direction and said, “Oh, don’t bother about them. They aren’t likely to stray down and interrupt us. Once they’ve turned in for the night, they remain turned in. That’s why I’ve taken to the habit of coming down for a smoke and a drink this time of…”
“I fear they might be in danger, sir!” I blurted.
So much for acting mute.
If the General was surprised to hear me talk, he didn’t show it. He didn’t sit still for a blink, but bounded out of the chair so quick it was amazing. “Explain yourself,” he said. Turning his back to me, he dropped his pipe on a table and struck a match.
While he plucked the glass chimney off
a lamp and lit the wick, I said, “I followed a murderer tonight. He may’ve come here.”
The General didn’t say a thing. He stepped past me lively with the lamp and snatched a revolver off the fireplace mantel. It was huge.
I bet he knew how to use it, too.
“Follow me,” he said. “Look sharp.”
We hotfooted it out of the parlor, across the foyer and up the stairs. My heart pounded fierce. I hoped the women weren’t dead, as that would be a sorry loss for General Forrest. But I sure hoped we’d find Whittle. Scared as I was of the man, I was keen to see him struck by lead. Five or six slugs in the chest would do him proper.
I fetched one of the rocks out of my coat pocket before we reached the top of the stairs. The General moved fast and silent into a hallway up there. I stayed close behind him. The lamp cast a glow that lit us and the walls on both sides, but left a long stretch of darkness ahead.
A runner on the floor kept our footsteps quiet, but boards creaked plenty. They would creak for Whittle, too, I judged, if he came sneaking along. But that didn’t ease my mind much, so I looked over my shoulder every few seconds. When we walked past a couple of shut doors, I worried they might fly open and Whittle’d leap out. But they stayed shut.
The next door we came to, it stood open and the General hurried through. He didn’t tell me to stay out, so I followed him, not hankering to be left all alone in the hallway. We rushed over to a big canopy bed. I could tell, right off, that Whittle hadn’t been at the woman because the covers weren’t thrown off and she wasn’t a bloody carcass. Only her head showed. It wore a bonnet.
The General’s hands were full, what with the lamp in one and his revolver in the other, so he gave the mattress a jolt with his knee. The woman let out a moan.
“Stir your bones, Mable.”
She mumbled, “Huh? Whuh?”
“We may have trouble. Get up now and come along, and be quiet about it.”
She rolled onto her back, caught sight of me and bolted up fast, clutching the covers to her front. She was a skinny, wrinkled old woman. Some white hair stuck out from under the edges of her bonnet. She blinked and worked her jaw. “Who…? What in heaven’s name…?”
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