Murder

by Sarah Pinborough

  ‘Hebbert is going to join them there rather than stay in Australia. That will be some comfort to her.’

  ‘So, they will all be together again. That will be nice.’ I felt a prick of bitterness at that. Perhaps the drugs were finally wearing off. So I was to be quite alone. Hebbert, whom I had saved from justice, would be with his family, and I, who had gone to such great lengths to protect us all, would be left alone to face my fate. I watched as Juliana held onto Edward Kane’s arm and leaned against him. It was not just for physical support, I could see that. James’ death had not diminished her love for the American – if anything, it appeared to have made their bond stronger. My stomach, already queasy from the laudanum, twisted into a knot as they approached.

  ‘Thomas,’ she said, ‘I wanted to thank you for everything you did. Before … and after.’

  I took her hand and squeezed it. ‘I am so sorry. I wish I could have saved him.’

  She managed a wan smile. ‘No one could have tried harder. And you made everything, well, a little easier.’

  After the boy had died I had taken over all the arrangements. Juliana had seen this as a sign of my love for them both, but the truth was that I could not risk another doctor examining the boy’s dead body. Not that such a thing had been suggested. My reputation was without tarnish, and the boy was known to have been sickly – there were none who would suspect anything other than a fever had carried him off. There was no call for a second opinion. It was exactly as I had hoped it would be – but even so, it was a relief that the boy was finally in the ground.

  ‘When are you leaving?’ I asked, directing the question at Edward Kane. I could not look at Juliana, and I was not sure why she suddenly filled me with unease. It was as if perhaps she would somehow know.

  ‘Soon. The house can be packed up when we’re gone. We can trust Barker to run things sufficiently until the sale is completed.’

  Barker was on the other side of the grave talking to the Chard Williams. We all looked so awkward, standing around the grave: this dispirited group mourning a child.

  ‘Are you coming back to the house?’ Kane asked.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ Andrews said, ‘but we will not stay for long. I know this is a very difficult day for you both.’

  Juliana had drifted off into her own private world of pain, and as Edward Kane led her away I wondered if she too had embraced the laudanum to dull the echo of those awful last cries. I waved Andrews on and took a moment by the grave. Two men stood a few feet away, sheltering from the rain under a tree. They leaned on their shovels as they chatted, waiting to get to work sealing James into the earth. I looked at the first James Harrington’s gravestone. I had killed them both. The thought was still a strange one.

  I had administered the poison slowly at first, nervous that my actions would be discovered, but the boy, already weak, was really very ill and may not have survived anyway. But I could not take that risk; if he lived, then so would the part of him that was a monster and I could not allow that. I was strong, a grown man, and yet I struggled to control the beast that cursed me. What would the boy have become? He was not like me – his Upir had clearly been inside him, a part of him: symbiotic, not parasitical. No wonder it fed him with images of what his father and I had done. Girls in the river. I shuddered slightly as I remembered the phrase he had repeated, over and over. But they had not been girls – that implied innocence. I would not touch the innocent.

  I gestured to the waiting men and they hurried over and started shovelling. I watched as the damp earth thudded into the hole, scattering against the wood. It was a relief. I had not enjoyed watching the boy in pain and I did not like thinking about what I had done. But there could not be two of us; that was something I could not allow. And the fever would have killed the boy anyway, I was sure of that. I had just helped it along.

  *

  The wake at the house was a sombre affair. I could not grieve James as the others did, not burdened with my terrible knowledge, knowing what he truly was, but even I felt the emptiness in the house that his absence brought. I kept expecting to see him playing quietly in the corner of the room, or hovering by his mother as he used to before he had become more confident. Before Kane had arrived.

  I made polite conversation with Andrews, but the laudanum was wearing off and I felt old and weary. We were spokes on a broken wheel. Everything was changing, and even though it was Kane who had ultimately brought all this misery upon me, I found that a part of me was unhappy about the prospect of his departure. The young were leaving England and there would be only old men left behind: Andrews, Moore and me. Looking into the future was like staring into a grave. Moore might have the energy and enthusiasm of a much younger man, but Andrews had already retired … and what was left for me? I would be sixty years old soon, the woman I loved, the woman I relied on to keep me strong, was leaving to start a new life. My only constant companion in my old age would be the monster on my back.

  I would have taken my own life if I had thought the beast would allow it.

  44

  London. Christmas, 1898

  Dr Bond

  I spent the day alone at home. Walter Andrews had gone to some cousins in Cornwall for a full week, and I had met Henry Moore the day before Christmas Eve. He had invited me to join him for dinner, purely out of pity, I was sure, and pity does nothing to encourage a fine appetite or good humour. I had claimed exhaustion and left as soon as we had drunk our first brandy.

  I had not gone straight home but wandered London’s streets until I found myself outside the wharves that had once been James Harrington’s and then were Juliana’s and now belonged to someone entirely unconnected, as if Harrington’s family had never existed. Everything that Harrington had done in that small warehouse, the fight that Kosminski, the priest and I had had here – none of that mattered any more. The past was so easily whitewashed, scrubbed out of the buildings which would outlast us all. People came and people went – perhaps there would be an echo of them here, a trace of them there, but within a year or so those too would be gone. I wished it were so easy to erase people from one’s thoughts.

  Juliana’s farewell had been something of an anticlimax. Although I still loved her, I loved a past her, when I was a different me. Face to face, watching her cry as she said good-bye, I had been almost unable to bear the sight of her. Although I knew I had done the right thing in hastening James’ demise, it still played on my mind; I did occasionally wonder if perhaps I should have left it longer, in the interests of scientific research, and watched the creature develop. At night I still heard the echoes of his agonised cries, and they tore at my heart in a way I could not understand. All this left me unable to look into Juliana’s hollow eyes, her grief a constant reminder that I had taken her husband and child from her. If she were ever to find out, she would not understand. I would be the monster, not the saviour I knew myself truly to be. That I could not bear.

  *

  Once Juliana and Edward Kane had left for their new life in New York, there was little focus to my social life. Andrews and I had met once or twice, and Moore made an effort to get the three of us together too, but it was clear that things were not the same and never would be.

  I found that this did not bother me as much as I had expected. In many ways it was something of a relief. I was beginning to find other people’s company hard work. I had too much business of my own to take care of.

  The mess in the cellar was testament to that.

  45

  Extract from letter from Edward Kane to Walter Andrews, dated April 1889

  You will be happy to hear that we have settled in well to New York life. I think the change is doing Juliana the world of good. She still grieves, of course; we both do. There is an empty space beside us where James should be, but over the past week or so she has begun to be able to speak about him without tears, and we remember him fondly. I am hoping – although I haven’t voiced this to her, of course – that soon we will have a child of ou
r own, and that will ease her pain.

  I was very sorry to read of your worries regarding Thomas Bond. He was very kind to me – especially given his own warm feelings towards Juliana – and I hope that he comes out of this self-imposed seclusion you describe. I know that back pain can be a terrible thing, but it strikes me that he has changed somewhat in the time that I have known him. His illness and injury aside, I feel as if he has been withdrawing for a while now. I had thought it was simply my presence and my marriage to Juliana, but now that I am back home I find myself looking at things differently.

  I can’t help but wonder (and this could well be nothing more than paranoia on my part; I feel plenty of guilt where Bond’s well-being is concerned) if maybe I affected his relationship with Charles Hebbert. Charles visits us often here in New York and he is generally in relatively good spirits, but he changes when we mention Bond to him. It is as if he closes down. Given how well Bond looked after Juliana in the years after James Harrington’s death, I find Charles’ reaction to any mention of him strange, and it bothers me that maybe something occurred between them as a result of my asking Bond for help. Of course, I’m probably wrong and it was nothing to do with me, but the thought still niggles.

  You see, when I first came to England, I had some concerns about my old friend James Harrington. One of the reasons for my initial visit was to find him and allay my fears. He had written to me – letters I did not receive at the time; you know about my domineering father, of course – and they contained tales of dark deeds and murder. Of course, I soon found out that Harrington was dead, but I realised that Bond was in a position to understand the contents far more fully than I was. More importantly, I knew him to be an honest and trustworthy man. I gave the letters to him and asked his opinion, and after he had examined them at some length he assured me that the contents were nothing more than the result of hallucinations deriving from Harrington’s frequent fevers. I believe him on this, because he gave me practical evidence to support his conclusions. I no longer have the letters so I cannot go back through them, but I am beginning to wonder – even though Bond assured me that there was no truth in the main content – whether there was something in them that I missed, something that affected him in some way or revealed something about Charles Hebbert that disturbed him …

  Extract from letter from Edward Kane to Walter Andrews, dated June 1889

  …with regards to your questions about the letters I gave to Thomas Bond, I cannot remember the dates but it was some time after I first came to England and found out about Harrington’s death, after I had met Juliana. He kept the letters but I am sure he must have destroyed them by now as he was insistent – and I believe him – that there was nothing more than madness in them. On reflection, I probably shouldn’t have mentioned them and you should give them no more thought.

  I am very sorry to hear that you are still worried about him, that he is still avoiding society. His back must be causing him a great deal of pain, and Juliana tells me that he is prone to insomnia, so I imagine the two are not a good combination. Juliana has written to him – I told her you were concerned for his wellbeing – but she has as yet had no reply.

  I wonder if perhaps he too is grieving still? He was a father to James for most of the boy’s life, and we must not forget that not only has he lost the boy who was to all intents and purposes a son to him, but Juliana too. And Hebbert as well, of course – for all their friendship seems to have undergone some shift, they were obviously close for many, many years.

  It is strange how life changes us. You don’t see it when you’re young, but I suppose neither we nor life can stay the same for ever. Friendships come and go as men grow old. And I guess that’s not always a bad thing, but I don’t like the thought of Thomas Bond being alone. He’s a proud man and I can understand him hiding away if he feels weak, but he hadn’t been well before we left. I do hope you manage to get through to him.

  Please ignore my worries of previous letters. Whatever is plaguing Thomas, it can’t be anything to do with Hebbert. The two have been apart a long time now and I cannot see how any argument they might have had could still be affecting him now, when they are living in separate countries.

  Speaking of separate countries, you really should come and visit us in New York. I know you have been here before on police business, but trust me, you won’t have seen the best of our city. I swear it changes and grows every month, and I am not sure even London can match the energy and life that fills New York streets. I know Juliana would love to see you and show you our beautiful home. Perhaps when he’s feeling better you could persuade Bond to come with you? Hell, everyone needs a vacation every once in a while. So why not come here and be amongst friends?

  46

  London. August, 1899

  Walter Andrews

  ‘We do not do this often enough,’ Henry declared, leaning back in his chair. ‘Us old dogs should stick together.’

  ‘I’m afraid my back pain is not making me very good company,’ Thomas Bond said, sipping his brandy. ‘Most days simply walking around my house is quite enough to bear. It stops me sleeping well too, and inflicting my bad mood on others is not what I wish for my friends. Although I must admit this has been a pleasant escape from the tedium.’

  ‘A fall, was it?’ Moore asked.

  ‘Yes. I doubt I’ll be back at the hunt any time soon – if at all.’

  Andrews watched them both. Henry Moore had grown thicker around the waist over the years, but his eyes were still as sharp as ever and he exuded the same earthy energy that he had when they had worked together. He would never tire of detecting; it was in his blood. Bond, however, had changed dramatically over the past ten years, and even more so over the past two or three. He wondered if their friendship was nothing more than habit, rather than based on any solid foundation. How had that come to pass? And why was he now sitting here studying the tics and twitches in the older man’s face, feeling some sort of vague mistrust that he did not understand? Bond had laughed and joined in the conversation as much as he ever had done, but Andrews could not shake a feeling of distance coming from the doctor. What was he hiding?

  Whatever it was, he doubted he would discover Bond’s secret any time soon. He changed the subject, saying, ‘I have heard from Edward Kane. Apparently they are settling in well and Juliana is slowly recovering from her loss.’

  ‘Good to hear,’ Moore said. ‘They’re young. The death of a child is a terrible thing, but time will heal her.’

  ‘Kane says that Juliana has written to you, Thomas, but has not heard back. I think she is worried about you. I told them that you had been suffering with your health somewhat.’

  ‘How strange,’ Bond said, his eyes slipping down to his glass. ‘I have not received any correspondence. But this is their new life and they do not need me in it. However, if a letter does arrive, of course I shall be sure to answer it. I’m glad they’re doing well, and putting the past behind them.’

  ‘Not entirely behind them,’ Andrews said, lightly. Perhaps it was time to probe a little. ‘Kane mentioned some letters that Harrington wrote to him before he died – quite worrying letters. He said that you had looked into them for him. That must have been strange.’

  ‘He mentioned those, did he? He seems to have forgotten that he asked me to be discreet. I did not expect him to tell anyone else.’

  ‘What letters were these?’ Moore asked.

  ‘Did he tell you their content?’ Bond looked directly at Andrews, who nodded, then continued, ‘They were disturbing, to be sure. Harrington was ill and delusional. He had convinced himself that he might in some way be connected to several murders of the time – the Whitehall one, for example.’

  ‘Ah, the priest’s murders?’ Moore said.

  ‘Exactly.’ Bond glanced once again at Andrews. ‘I fear,’ he said, ‘that Hebbert and I had perhaps spoken too frequently on the subject in front of him and it had somehow confused Harrington’s fevered mind.’

&nbs
p; Andrews was a little taken aback; he would have sworn Bond had looked almost triumphant. What was going on?

  ‘A terrible business,’ Moore said. ‘I am glad I have never suffered any problems with my sanity.’

  ‘I doubt you ever will,’ Andrews said with a smile. ‘I don’t think I have ever known a more practical man than you, Henry. I imagine you do not even dream.’

  ‘If I do, I don’t remember them.’ Moore smiled. ‘And I like it that way. My mind is busy enough during the day. I like to sleep like the dead at night.’

  Andrews wasn’t sure why, but the words made him shiver slightly. He looked back to Bond. ‘What did you do with the letters?’

  ‘I burned them. I did not want anyone else reading them – or worse, Juliana finding them. She was fragile enough after Harrington’s death and there was nothing in them that was a real cause for concern; they were just a sad insight into a sick man’s mind.’ He looked at Moore. ‘Anyway, I have been little use to you or anyone else of late, but tell us what cases you’ve been working on? Anything interesting?’

  Life came back into Moore’s face as he leaned forward; he was always most animated when he was talking about chasing criminals. Andrews only half-listened, and he was sure Bond was only half-listening too. The question had been to change the subject from the letters, Andrews was sure of it. But why? He could not forget what Kane had said: that perhaps something in those letters had prompted the change in the relationship between Hebbert and Bond – what could that have been? On the afternoon that little James fell in the river, Bond had heatedly called Hebbert a liar, a strong accusation to make against a colleague, let alone a friend of many years; standing. And he had said it with such vehemence. What suspicions did Bond have of Hebbert? Could it have been something suggested in the letters and then confirmed by that private detective work Andrews had provided for him? Had there been something relevant in the registers of Hebbert’s club?