Murder

by Sarah Pinborough

  Once a week, in a grimy cellar that stank of beer and stale sweat, I joined the crowd that would squeeze in to bet on an illegal dog-fight.

  ‘’e won’t fight again,’ he had said to me when I expressed an interest in buying the badly injured bull terrier. ‘’is leg’s fucked.’

  ‘I don’t want to use him to fight,’ I had replied. We had left the den and were out in the cooler air of the night, which felt almost as fresh as the countryside compared with the reeking atmosphere inside. ‘I would like one dog every ten days, and I would rather not have to come here to fetch it. We could arrange a place to meet – somewhere discreet. And I would rather you came yourself than sent a lackey.’

  He had sniffed and lit a pipe as he watched me thoughtfully. ‘You a toff or something? Government?’

  ‘Neither,’ I had replied. ‘I am just a private man.’ I took out several coins from my pocket. ‘And I pay well for my privacy.’

  ‘And I’m a businessman,’ he said gruffly after a moment. ‘If I weren’t then I’d probably wonder what a gent like you would want with a useless cunt dog every week or so.’ He took another long draw on his pipe and then smiled as he blew out the smoke. ‘But I find wondering can be bad for business.’

  ‘Then we shall get along well.’

  After brokering the deal with the owner, who was more than happy to be paid for a beast he would no doubt be dumping in the river anyway, George muzzled the dog and I found a cabbie who for the right money would take us somewhere near to where I lived. The dog would have to walk the last of the way home, which it did quite obediently, dragging its torn and broken rear left leg along behind it. When I took it down into the cellar and cut its throat, I was sure there was more than a little relief in its eyes.

  At any rate, that was what I chose to believe as I sliced through the dead creature and pulled out its slick, cold entrails and held them up for the parasite to admire. It had been a long month of slow acceptances on my fate, but I did not wish to cause any living creature to suffer more than it had to. The fighting dog would have died, whether at my hand or its owner’s; now I just had to ensure that it had suffered enough to satisfy the parasite on me. It would have to.

  Still, I felt happier later that night when I had finally deposited the dismembered carcass into the water and the cellar was scrubbed and once again clean and I felt almost my normal self again.

  Even though it was gone midnight by the time I was done and my back and arms ached, I poured myself a brandy and relaxed in my study for a while. My thoughts turned to Henry Moore’s visit and his concerns about Charles Hebbert, and I found myself once again thinking of the lies Charles had told about being at the club and how Jasper Waring had seen him wandering the streets of Whitechapel during the long weeks of Jack’s bloody summer.

  ‘Jack’ had stopped when Harrington died. The priest had said that the parasite brought a mayhem in its wake that enhanced the wickedness in those around it. Now that I had no choice but to accept that the creature existed – for it was either that or consider myself insane, which could not be true for I had never felt more sane in all my years – then I could see the logic of my suspicions of Hebbert with fresh eyes. When I had first felt those awful bouts of dread and anxiety that had forced me to the opium dens in the beginning, the priest had called it a kind of gift – as if I saw a little of what Kosminski did, but on an emotional level, rather than suffering the visions that so plagued him. What if Hebbert had something similar? What if he was capable of absorbing some of this wickedness that was now attached to me?

  It struck me, as I sat there while even the night itself appeared to sleep, that our lives were all webs of lies and deceit. I considered myself a good man and yet I had killed the husband of the woman I loved. James Harrington had murdered women under our very noses. What secrets did Andrews have? And Moore? It was not such a great leap to consider Hebbert to be Jack the Ripper, that most notorious of all London killers. I thought again of the book I had pressed upon Moore as he left, the tale of a man of two halves, one struggling to control the other. Perhaps it was as true of all of us as it had become for me. I did not know if I found comfort in that or whether it should make me shiver. Perhaps both.

  I needed the laudanum to sleep that night.

  *

  By the end of the month the weather had turned and in the bite of the wind and the gloom of the afternoons I could feel winter once again creeping closer. I did not mind the death of the summer; I preferred the cold air to the stifling heat. It was less claustrophobic, without humidity clinging to me as if trying to bind me further to the parasite on my back.

  It was late afternoon and Juliana had her arm linked in mine as we walked along the road by the river, the breeze making her face flush healthily as she told me all she had been learning, and the new contracts she had secured. She was obviously pleased with herself and her growing confidence in the world made her walk tall and proud, which in turn made her even more beautiful. But I was distracted from her gay chatter, not just because the world of business was not one I understood well, never having been involved in it, but because of a disturbing discovery the previous night. The visit to Juliana had been meant to raise my spirits, but I confess I was finding it difficult to shake off my fear. The iron taint in my mouth and the nausea in the pit of my stomach suggested that I understood perfectly well what had happened the previous night, even if I could not remember it.

  I had taken possession of another wounded dog from my unsavoury associate George two nights previously, and had killed that poor beast in order to keep my own tamed. But when I returned to the cellar last night to parcel up the piecemeal corpse and take it to the river, I could not find the liver. For a long moment I had stared at the bench, thinking my tired eyes were playing tricks on me, but it was not there. I have always been methodical in my work, and I had dissected the animal as I would a human body – after so many years in medicine it was second nature to do so. The dog’s liver was definitely missing.

  Worse than that, I had awakened that morning with a strange metallic tang in my mouth, as if I had bitten my cheek hard in the night and blood had pooled there while I slept. When the meaning of the missing organ dawned on me I had run back upstairs and tried to force myself to vomit, but my stomach would not oblige, leaving me with a raw throat and trembling with horror as I clung to the cool ceramic of the kitchen sink, for there was only one rational explanation, however unwilling I was to contemplate it.

  I took more laudanum to calm myself and vowed to be more vigilant. I would no longer take laudanum or even brandy before killing the dogs, no matter how much it eased the awfulness of what I was doing. The creature – my infection – was always lurking, just waiting to take control where it could, and I had been over-confident in my complacency. I could not allow it to happen again.

  ‘What have you got there?’ I asked, looking down at James, who was fiddling with a piece of rope as he wandered along beside us. I ruffled his hair slightly in an attempt at affection. Now that I carried what his father had, I thought I might love the boy more, but if anything, my resentment had grown, for his father brought this curse into our lives and he was still my living memory of that.

  ‘I’m doing a fisherman’s knot,’ he said, and held it up for me to examine. ‘Mrs Chard Williams showed me how.’

  ‘That looks quite tricky,’ I said. ‘Although I hope you are learning more than just knots.’

  ‘Yes, I am,’ he said proudly, swinging the knotted rope at his side. ‘Mr Chard Williams says I will be ready to go to school in no time at all. He says I am a very fast learner.’

  ‘I am not surprised, for you are a very clever young man.’ I smiled at him. I could at least enjoy the pleasure our interaction gave Juliana. ‘And do you like going to your lessons?’

  James nodded and said seriously, ‘It can be noisy sometimes. Mrs Chard Williams likes looking after babies.’ He shrugged. ‘But we close the door and then we don’t hear them very much.�
��

  ‘Perhaps one day you shall have a baby brother or sister of your own. Would you like that?’ I did not look at Juliana, but I was sure she would understand the subtext of my question. I was well now – aside from my on-going new condition – and she appeared recovered from her grief and the ailments that had plagued her since her pregnancy. It was the perfect time for us to push our marriage plans forward.

  James crinkled his nose and then smiled. ‘A brother. The girl babies cry louder.’

  Juliana laughed at this and leaned closer in on my arm, and my heart swelled. Why should I deny myself love when I had lived without for so long, simply because of this parasite? I would never hurt Juliana – I would die first. I knew that if she were my wife, if we were living together as a family, then there would be no lapses like that which had just occurred, for I would not allow myself to relax. I would keep them safe.

  ‘Then we shall see what we can do about that,’ I said, proud of my forwardness.

  James ran ahead to look at a barge passing on the river and I seized my moment. I stopped and turned to look at Juliana. ‘Perhaps now is the time for us to make our engagement more formal,’ I suggested. ‘A spring wedding maybe?’

  Her eyes darted downwards. ‘I’m so very busy with the business,’ she started, and then she drew a deep breath. ‘I am not sure I would make you a very good wife, Thomas—’

  ‘Nonsense,’ I said firmly. ‘I am very proud of you and all you are doing. I have no issue with you securing James’ future.’ I laughed and assured her, ‘I am no old man who thinks women have nothing to contribute.’ I squeezed her arm. ‘Indeed, underneath this professional exterior I am quite forward-thinking.’

  ‘I know, Thomas,’ she said, and started walking again, ‘and I am truly sorry for making you wait. I just want to be certain before I marry again.’

  My heart folded in on itself in a way I did not know was possible. If there was one thing in this world of which I was certain, it was my love for her, and I had hoped she felt the same. I suddenly felt every single one of the years between us.

  ‘I understand,’ I said. The pain I was trying to hide must have been evident in my tone because she stopped walking and looked at me.

  ‘Never doubt that I love you, Thomas. You have been the kindest, most wonderful friend to me. There is no man in my life like you, and there could never be. But everything is changing at the moment and I feel like I need to take things one step at a time. Can you understand that?’

  Her dark eyes were so full of worry that I just wanted to pull her close to me and keep her there forever. I was being selfish. I was forgetting how cautious she had become since Harrington’s death.

  ‘Of course I understand,’ I said. ‘And I will wait patiently. You know that.’

  She smiled and took my arm again and steered us back towards the house. The wind was getting sharper as the afternoon faded. It was time to get into the warm. I did not wish to be walking alongside when it became the night river, the slick black creature I fed from my secret deeds. Juliana did not belong with that river but with the daylight one, the benign Thames, the city’s lifeblood. I had managed to separate the two and I wanted to keep it that way.

  ‘Are you seeing my father soon?’ Juliana asked. ‘He hasn’t visited us for a while – I had hoped he would come with you today.’

  Fortuitously, I had already arranged a dinner date with Charles Hebbert, and I assured her now, ‘I am looking forward to seeing him tomorrow. I am dining with him and Walter Andrews.’ I added, ‘I hear he has been working very hard.’ I kept the last sentence light, knowing that whatever her own concerns might be, Juliana would hate to think that we had all been discussing Charles’ behaviour and his heavy drinking behind his back.

  ‘It’s not like him, not to want to spend time with James and me,’ she murmured, her voice low, almost as if she was embarrassed to voice her fears. ‘I hope he does not disapprove of the amount of time I am spending at the business. Since you recovered I feel as if I have hardly seen him. Perhaps that’s my fault for being preoccupied.’

  ‘Nonsense. Your father is very proud of you.’ I squeezed her arm. ‘I shall find out if there is anything troubling him. Can you trust me with that?’

  She smiled, and the worry lifted from her beautiful face. ‘I trust you with everything, Thomas. You should know that by now.’

  The wind no longer touched me. She loved me. I was sure of it. She had to love me.

  30

  The Colonist

  October 14, 1897

  ANOTHER ‘JACK THE RIPPER’

  Paris, October 12

  A man named Vacher has been arrested in Lyons in connections with a number of mysterious crimes. He has confessed that he murdered eight women under circumstances similar to the murders committed a few years back in Whitechapel, England, and attributed to ‘Jack the Ripper’.

  31

  London. November, 1897

  Dr Bond

  We dined at Charles Hebbert’s. Perhaps it was my imagination, but as we sat at the table, even with the lights glowing brightly, it seemed as if the darkness that had filled the house before – when James Harrington had been living here – had once again returned. Shadows crept up the walls, bleeding darkness into the patterns, and although it was cold outside, the air felt stifled, as if no windows had been opened all summer. Even the fire barely crackled in the grate, as if it too felt the weight that hung over the room. Was this my fault? Had some part of what had infected Harrington and now had me in its grip touched Hebbert so badly that it lingered in his house?

  He had not redecorated since Mary had died and there was an emptiness in the building that no amount of forced laughter could fill. I had not realised the depth of his grief for his wife’s loss, instead trusting in his stoicism and his apparent return to good humour, but the house was haunted with echoes of her. They were far more visible now that this ‘other’ bleakness was back.

  I let the other two make most of the conversation as the housekeeper brought in various dishes of roast meats and vegetables, interjecting occasionally, but mainly watching Charles’ behaviour. His hands were twitching in what had become almost a nervous tic, and he had refilled his wine glass twice before I had finished my first. His speech was too loud and too fast, almost manic, and I had to concede that if he was behaving like this around Henry Moore, the policeman had every right to be worried.

  I sipped some more wine, and then at last we fell into a comfortable almost-silence as we ate. The food was delicious, and for once I found that I was ravenously hungry. It was only when Andrews put his cutlery down and looked with surprise at both Charles and me that I paused.

  ‘Have you two been out with the hunt today?’ he asked quizzically. ‘I’ve never seen men eat so much so quickly.’ He laughed, clearly finding it entertaining, but only then did I realise that I had refilled my plate once already and was about to help myself to more. I had been eating in a daze, but my hunger felt bottomless. I thought of the dead dog and the missing liver and my stomach turned.

  I laid down my own knife and fork and looked up at Charles, trying to ignore the gravy dripping down his chin. ‘It would appear the change in the weather has made us hungry,’ I said, trying to laugh it off. ‘And I must confess that I have not eaten yet today – perhaps that was not wise.’

  ‘Well, you’re obviously completely recovered,’ Andrews said with a smile. ‘There’s nothing wrong with a healthy appetite – but I foresee two rather portly gentlemen at this table in the future if you carry on in this manner!’

  Both Hebbert and I laughed at that, and I resumed eating, more slowly this time, and resisted the urge to consume much more, instead just finishing what was left on my plate and then declaring myself finally full. When Andrews excused himself for a moment Charles took the opportunity to break the last chicken wing free and eat it with his hands.

  I watched him in silence for a minute, then asked, ‘Are you well, Charles? I have not seen you
much of late, and that saddens me. I owe you a great debt of gratitude for the care you showed me during my illness.’

  His eyes met mine – and then something shifted in his gaze and his expression became slightly vague and confused as he glanced towards my shoulder, as if he could almost see something there, but not quite. His mouth slackened and hung open, and for a moment I could see the half-chewed chicken on his tongue. He frowned slightly and then snapped his mouth shut around the bone and sucked the remaining meat from it hungrily.

  For my part I was suddenly aware of a weight on my back that seeped in through my clothes like a dense chill and wrapped itself around my spine. Where Charles’ mouth had slackened, so mine tightened as I felt a surge of energy run through me. My back stiffened and I was filled with a sense of malevolence that threatened to overwhelm me.

  Had Harrington felt like this? He must have done – but at least I knew what was causing it, and that meant I had more chance of controlling the infection – for control it I must.

  Andrews came back into the room and the moment was suddenly over. The weight lifted and Charles’ eyes cleared of their haze. One thing had been proven, however. My old friend had some sort of gift for seeing things that others could not, and the creature on my back knew it. I had felt the delight in the cold wickedness that had gripped me and knew that the parasite revelled in Hebbert’s partial awareness. The priest had been right: it took pleasure in taunting those around it.

  We drank our brandies, and I longed for Andrews to leave, for he was outside of our bubble of bleakness. At last he did, and as we said our goodnights I envied him his pleasant retirement and peaceful mind.

  ‘Shall we have a nightcap?’ I asked when there was just Charles and I left. The stairs loomed dark and cavernous in the hall and I was sure I saw a flicker of fear in his eyes, although he smiled and said that was a jolly idea. Was he even aware of this reaction he now had to me? Were there times when he sensed the presence more than others? I imagined that nights were worse than in the daylight; that was certainly the case for me. It was in the darkness that I would feel the first shivers of fever and know that I must feed the river again.