by Simon Clark
Chapter 5
Inspector Abberline stood in the hallway of Mrs Cherryhome’s house as Thomas Lloyd hurried downstairs. The message conveyed to him by Mrs Cherryhome was that Abberline wanted to see Thomas urgently.
Thomas said, ‘You’ve received my telegram, then. You know?’
‘I’ve not had your telegram yet, Thomas. I’m here about the letter.’
Thomas surmised that Abberline had been told about the Prime Minister’s letter, handed to him by the stranger yesterday. However, he couldn’t be more wrong.
Abberline pulled a grimy envelope from his pocket and thrust it at Thomas. Thomas saw what appeared to be reddish-brown fingerprints close to the postage stamp.
‘This letter?’ Thomas said with surprise. ‘I thought …’ His voice trailed away as he saw who the envelope was addressed to: Inspector Abberline, Scotland Yard.
‘Read it.’
Thomas pulled out a scrap of paper and began to read: ‘“Dear boss. Forgive me for being so lazy, and for dragging these idle bones when I should have been at work on the street. Ha! Ha! Cutting, slicing, raising cheery mayhem. Be it hereby known, Inspector Abberline, I will soon be back at my butchery, sending more harlots to bloody Hades – and you can do nothing to stop me, so help me Christ … Yours from the warming pit of hell.” My God, it’s signed Jack the Ripper.’
After Abberline left, Thomas Lloyd returned to his comfortable armchair near the window. Magglyn, in the next room, chose that moment to practise his accordion. Perhaps he’d become more adept with that windbag of an instrument, because the lilting melody he played sounded quite pleasant to Thomas’s ears.
What weighed so heavily on Thomas’s mind were two letters. One apparently sent to Abberline by the murderer known as Jack the Ripper. The other, bearing the address of 10 Downing Street, had come from the very pen of Great Britain’s Prime Minister, the Marquess of Salisbury. Thomas didn’t doubt the provenance of the Prime Minister’s letter, so Thomas brought his thoughts to bear on the Ripper message. Thomas recalled his days as a junior newspaper reporter in Whitechapel two years ago, when a spate of murders throughout that summer of 1888 were attributed to one perpetrator – a mysterious figure that had never been caught, and had never been identified. All that was known for sure was that several women had been murdered. Some of them savagely mutilated. A letter had arrived at the offices of the Central News Agency, claiming to be written by the killer, and promising to cut off the ears of his next victim and send them to the police. The taunting letter writer signed off with the words: Yours truly, Jack the Ripper. Until then, police had referred to the unknown killer as simply ‘the Whitechapel murderer’. The press and the public seized on the name ‘Jack the Ripper’ – a vivid name that perfectly suited the grisly killings. Thus, a legend was born. People still talked about Jack the Ripper with shudders of fear and excitement. Thomas also knew that when newspapers reprinted the ‘Jack the Ripper’ letter, hundreds of hoax letters immediately inundated press offices and police stations.
As far as Thomas was aware, Inspector Abberline had never personally received a letter claiming to be from Jack the Ripper – until now, that is. The detective must be asking himself if the letter had been sent by the killer of those women two years ago, or if it had been sent to him in jest. Although Thomas couldn’t think of a crueller joke. Clearly, Abberline couldn’t dismiss the letter out of hand. He must be asking himself if the infamous murderer intended to attack new victims.
Thomas gazed out at doves settling onto the rooftops. He could picture headlines screaming from the newspapers’ front pages: JACK THE RIPPER IS BACK! SHOCKING LETTER SENT TO INSPECTOR ABBERLINE – THE MAN WHO FAILED TO FIND THE WHITECHAPEL MONSTER. However, Abberline had told him that the letter would not be made public just yet, so those potentially disturbing newspaper headlines wouldn’t be making an appearance for a while.
The ‘Ripper’ note would remain hidden, just as the letter he received from the thin-faced stranger must stay a secret. Last night, he’d read the Prime Minister’s message to him many times. In truth, the great man had praised Thomas’s newspaper articles about Inspector Abberline. Salisbury asked Thomas to keep the letter confidential, although it revealed no secrets. Moreover, it was the kind of congratulatory note that a senior politician could have written to many a sportsman, artist or businessman who’d been successful in their career. The last line of the letter encouraged Thomas to continue his work with Abberline. It read: Your reports that feature this magnificent detective, solving crimes, and protecting the public, are of great value and I do beseech you to write many more.
Thomas imagined asking his fiancée, Emma, what he should do in the light of such an entreaty. He pictured her smile as she explained that if the Prime Minister himself had taken the time to pen such an appeal, then Thomas’s work was deeply important, and he should continue to portray Abberline as the warrior that battled evil. Thomas had then sent the telegram, informing Abberline that he’d had a change of heart and would continue to shadow the detective. At least for now, anyway. Abberline clearly hadn’t received that telegram when he’d hurried here to inform Thomas about the Jack the Ripper letter.
Thomas took the gold pin from the box, the pin with the tiny pearl set in the end. He studied it for a while, pondering its significance. The gentleman in the coach had insisted that the pin would become extremely useful to Thomas at some point. How would it be useful? Thomas wondered. Does the pin symbolize a certain course of events? Are there others with a pin like this? Do they recognize each other as colleagues in some clandestine organization when they see it?
Thomas Lloyd listened to the haunting Irish melody played by Mr Magglyn in the next room. Tingles of excitement began their distinctive dance upon his spine and instinct told him that a new adventure wasn’t far away.
Chapter 6
Professor Charles Giddings woke late on that Monday morning. He’d stayed up the previous night to work on his new book, The Future Philosopher.
‘Goodness gracious,’ he declared with mild surprise as he drew back the curtains. ‘Maude, have you seen what someone’s done to the windows panes?’
Maude bustled in from the kitchen where she’d been writing a list of groceries. She joined her husband, who stood in front of one of the windows.
‘Someone, I do declare,’ he began ponderously, ‘has an impish, albeit impenetrable sense of humour.’
‘Some devil’s scrawled on our glass,’ snapped his wife in a much more forthright way. ‘I’ll have their guts for garters.’
‘That’s a vivid threat, Maude. Though if you execute such a punishment it will indubitably lead to you being brought before a magistrate on a charge of assault.’
‘See, Charlie! They’ve painted letters!’
‘Indeed so, Maude, indeed so.’
The professor raised a monocle to his eye in order to study the marks that so outraged his wife. Being a man of mild emotions, he didn’t wish Maude to become so angry. Invariably, once ensconced in such a fury her rage would burn for days, which he would have to stoically endure.
‘What do those symbols mean?’ she asked sharply.
‘Well, my dear, two panes bear the letter O, three bear the letter V, while this one in the centre has the letter X. One vowel, four consonants; they do not spell a word I know of.’
‘Foreigners.’
‘More likely rascal children, my dear.’
That’s when he heard a loud popping sound.
‘Goodness gracious.’
‘What was that?’ asked Maude, startled.
‘I venture it was a hard projectile striking the brickwork on the outside of the house.’ Another blast of sound filled the room. This time one of the glass panes shattered. ‘Good grief!’ he shouted. ‘Bullets! We’re being fired upon.’
He fell upon his wife and both tumbled to the floor. More bullets smashed through the panes on which were painted the letters O, V and X. A tall vase on the mantelpiece shattered. The
n … silence. The firing had stopped. The professor warily climbed to his feet. He surveyed the broken glass before helping his wife up. What she said next dispelled any concerns he had that she might have been hurt.
‘Look at the state of my room! The mess! I’ll scratch their blasted eyes out!’
Professor Giddings was relieved to see that Maude was unhurt. Though his heart sank when he realized that she’d be angrily telling him, for many an hour to come, what was wrong with this blessed island they lived upon.
When there were no more shots he ventured to the mantelpiece and picked up an envelope. It was addressed to Scotland Yard, London. A bullet had nicked off the corner of the envelope.
‘I rather think,’ he declared, ‘I should, in the circumstances, send this letter as soon as I possibly can.’
Chapter 7
Monday afternoon saw Thomas Lloyd climb the stairs to the editor’s office. The editor was Thomas’s boss. They’d never been on friendly terms, and Thomas suspected that the permanently grumpy man wished he could dismiss Thomas from his post. However, the articles he’d written about Abberline’s cases had been so popular, boosting the Pictorial’s circulation by many thousands, that the editor’s own superior would never agree to Thomas being sacked.
Thomas knocked.
‘In you come, then,’ came the grumpy command.
The editor sat at his desk, a cigar clamped between his teeth. The bushy moustache was in danger of igniting as the glowing tip of the cigar crept closer.
‘Good morning, sir.’
‘Sit your backside down, Lloyd.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Hmm!’ That was the editor’s far from eloquent way of asking What would you like to talk to me about?
Thomas spoke politely. ‘Sir. I sent you a letter last week saying that I would no longer accompany Inspector Abberline, and that I wished to work on more general news stories.’
‘Hmm. Got that letter, I did. It drove the newspaper’s owners into a panic. Those adventures of yours with Abberline have got the public hooked. The owners are terrified that their profits are going to drop like a damn stone.’
‘I’m here to tell you, sir, that I’ve had a change of heart. I’ll continue to write first-hand accounts of Abberline’s investigations.’
‘Thank the Almighty for that.’ The editor plucked the cigar from his teeth and exhaled a huge cloud of smoke. ‘The owners’d have kicked my bones out into the street if you’d gone back to being a blasted hack. What changed your mind, Lloyd?’
Thomas Lloyd couldn’t reveal the contents of the Prime Minister’s letter. Shrugging, he said, ‘I wasn’t myself after what happened in the canal.’
‘I’m not surprised. You nearly went to your grave.’
‘I realize I was too hasty in telling you that I’d stop shadowing Inspector Abberline.’
‘Yes, remember you are his shadow, not his puppet. Stick close to him, Lloyd. Always write what the public want to read. Just don’t let that Scotland Yard chap influence you.’
‘I always write what I see as accurately and as truthfully as I can.’
‘Glad to hear it. Here … this’ll interest you.’ The editor wiped tobacco ash from a handwritten letter. ‘It’s from the paper’s owners. What do you think? Bet it’s come as a surprise, huh?’
Beneath an elaborate crest was a directive ordering the editor to gather up Thomas Lloyd’s Abberline reports he’d written for the Pictorial Evening News and publish them in a book.
‘So, Lloyd. You are going to be the author of a book, which will be sold throughout the empire. What do you say to that?’
‘That’s amazing, sir. Marvellous news.’ Thomas felt a surge of excitement. ‘I’ll send copies to my parents, to my fiancée, and to Inspector Abberline, of course.’
‘You will be provided with ten free copies, so you can do just that.’ He stubbed the cigar out on a plate that held a sandwich. ‘You won’t get any royalties, though, or any additional fees.’
Thomas flinched with shock. ‘I wrote the articles. They are from my pen alone.’
‘You wrote ’em as part of your employment here. That means the copyright belongs to the newspaper, not you.’
‘I’ve earned the owners thousands of pounds. The Abberline reports are so popular that circulation of the Pictorial has doubled.’
‘The owners are grateful, I’m sure. No doubt they’ve nailed a photograph of you to their living-room wall and salute it every morning.’ The editor laughed loudly at his own sarcastic quip.
‘Dash it all.’ Thomas grew angry now. Earnings from the book would enable him to visit Emma in Ceylon – after all, he couldn’t afford a steamer ticket on his newspaperman wages. ‘It’s only right and proper that I receive a fair share from the sales of the book.’
‘You signed a contract when you started work for the Pictorial, my lad. Everything you write is owned by the paper.’ He then added reluctantly, ‘There will be a small token in recognition of your work; the owners have stipulated a payment of twenty-five pounds.’
Thomas Lloyd left the newspaper office seething with the injustice of what had just happened. His book, featuring Abberline’s criminal investigations, might sell a million copies. Yet he’d only be paid a few pounds – a nominal payment, nothing more.
Even though he walked at a furious rate, his instincts didn’t let him down. He abruptly turned around. A middle-aged man in a bowler hat had stopped dead behind him. Pedestrians flowed by the two men on the busy London street.
Thomas spoke sharply. ‘You’re following me. Why?’
‘I admire your writing, Mr Lloyd.’
‘Very well. But why are you stalking me?’
‘I have information for you.’
‘Oh?’
‘It is important.’
‘Do you wish to make an appointment to discuss it with me?’
‘Here is sufficient.’
‘In the street?’
‘It won’t take long.’
‘Very well.’
A boy carrying a basketful of oranges hurried by.
‘Mr Lloyd,’ said the stranger, looking him in the eye. ‘Inspector Abberline has enemies. They plot against him. You should be aware of that.’
‘What makes you think I will believe what you say?’
The man’s expression remained serious as he gripped the lapel of his own jacket and turned it over. ‘This is all the evidence you need.’
Thomas saw that the man wore a gold pin on the underside of his lapel. At one end of the pin was a small white pearl.
‘Good day, Mr Lloyd.’ The man politely lifted his hat before vanishing into the crowds.
Today had been an unusual one. Thomas Lloyd had visited his editor and learnt that his Abberline case reports would be made into a book, and then he had been followed by a stranger who had warned him that Abberline had enemies who plotted against him. The stranger had revealed that he wore a gold pin on the underside of his lapel. The gold pin, terminating with a small pearl, was identical to the one worn by the thin-faced gentleman in the carriage, and the pin that had been given to Thomas.
The business about the book annoyed Thomas, while the business of the gold pin perplexed him. Am I to believe that I’ve been conscripted into a secret society? He turned this question over in his mind as he walked toward the post office, carrying a small parcel, wrapped in brown paper. What is the name of the organization? Order of the Golden Pin? The Pearl and Pin Society? No … now I’m being flippant. Clearly, this is serious. Even the Prime Minister suggests that my work is important. The letter was genuine, wasn’t it? I’m not being duped, am I? What if the thin-faced man and the stranger I met today are the real enemies of Inspector Abberline? Am I being exploited because I’m his friend? Will they get to him through me? Should I confide in Abberline? Tell him everything? Show him the gold pin and the Prime Minister’s letter? However, I’ve been asked to keep all this secret. Even from Abberline. What should I do?
&n
bsp; ‘Wait and see,’ he murmured to himself as he entered the post office. ‘All this about plots and grand schemes to transform Britain may come to nothing. I might never hear from my gold pin friends again.’
A woman in spectacles and a long black dress gave him a very hard stare. He realized he’d been thinking aloud. She clearly suspected him of lunacy. He smiled and raised his hat.
‘I’m rehearsing lines for a play. It opens tonight.’
She frowned and turned away.
That’s so unlike me, he thought. Why did I lie to her, or even try to explain why I was talking to myself? Perhaps these mysterious encounters with strangers had left him feeling that he’d been plunged into a melodrama full of spies and intrigue.
‘Ah, Mr Lloyd. Parcel for the lady, is it?’
Thomas knew the post office clerk from frequent visits to his counter. The young man always had a cheerful smile. Thomas liked him.
‘Yes, a little gift,’ Thomas said. ‘Some Scottish lace.’
‘Scottish lace will look fine indeed in her home out there. Surrounded by a jungle full of monkeys, I don’t doubt, sir?’
‘Monkeys, snakes, and all manner of creatures.’
The clerk weighed the package. It bore the address of Emma Bright, and in large clear print: CEYLON.
The clerk gave Thomas a sideways glance. ‘I should warn you, sir. There have been some changes.’
Thomas felt his backbone tingle. Another warning? He watched as the clerk’s hand moved up to his lapel. Thomas thought: He’ll be wearing a gold pin, too. He belongs to the secret society, and now he has a message for me. Thomas’s heart pounded. This situation became stranger by the moment.
‘What message do you have?’ His chest felt tight as he wondered what the clerk would reveal to him.
‘Postal charges, sir.’ The clerk’s fingers did brush the lapel as he reached into his breast pocket to pull out a pencil. ‘It will cost more to send your parcel to Ceylon.’ He wrote the cost of postage on the parcel. ‘I quite forgot to warn you that the charges were increasing the last time you were here.’