by Simon Clark
Then Thomas returned to the cages where Bertie and Jo sat. He climbed back on top of the one where Jo sat shivering in the cold. He beckoned the child to join him and Jo.
Smiling, Thomas told them that everything would be all right; that they were safe. He put one arm around Jo’s shoulders and the other arm around the little boy, and drew them both close to him. They sat like that for a while until there came the sound of bolts being drawn back, and suddenly the light of lanterns flooded the basement along with the voices of the men who had come to set them free.
Chapter 12
King Ludwig of Faxfleet stared out of the window in utter despair. Thomas Lloyd sat in a corner of the bedroom, balancing sheets of paper on his lap, as he made notes with a pencil. Inspector Abberline sat in a wheelchair close to the bed, the bottom half of his leg and his entire foot swathed in white bandages. Abberline fixed his eyes on the king’s youngest son, who lay on the bed. One of his feet was bandaged too. Tristan gazed dreamily at the ceiling. Thomas wasn’t at all surprised by Tristan’s faraway expression. He’d drunk a large tot of laudanum. Several glasses of brandy had followed that heady potion of opiates blended with wine.
Ludwig turned to Abberline, flung out his arms, and thundered, ‘You will not arrest Tristan. I forbid it!’
‘Sir, you must accept my authority as a senior police officer.’ Abberline spoke firmly. He did not shout, yet his personality dominated the room. He was in charge. ‘Your son has admitted to killing Benedict Feasby with the bow and arrow. He has described how he stirred poison into the rice that Mrs Giddings ate.’
‘No, damn it.’ Ludwig glared at Abberline. ‘I am king of this island. I am the law. I will not permit you to arrest my son. You shall not take him to the mainland.’
‘Tristan has admitted assault, kidnap and murder.’
‘English law has no power on Faxfleet. You, sir, have no authority here.’
Abberline said, ‘So, you will try your son for those crimes? Who will be the judge? You?’
‘There will be no trial. Lloyd fired the shotgun at my son’s foot. Tristan has lost three toes. He will limp for the rest of his life. I want you to arrest Thomas Lloyd, not my boy.’
‘Mr Lloyd saved the lives of a woman and a child. He prevented a killer from striking again. He shouldn’t be arrested; he should be awarded a medal.’
‘Nonsense.’ Ludwig looked as if he wanted to attack Thomas. ‘Now, I demand that you leave Faxfleet.’
Abberline nodded. ‘And Tristan shall go with us. He’ll be taken to the jail in Hull where he will await trial.’
‘No, he will not.’
Ludwig stormed forward to grab the arms of the wheelchair that Abberline sat upon. The king turned the chair away from the bed as if he couldn’t abide Abberline looking at his injured son.
Tristan gave an inebriated chuckle. ‘I shot little Feasby from the tree like he was a pigeon. As for Mrs Giddings and her sister? Well … two birds with one stone I killed. One poisoned. One overcome by gas emanating from Giddings’ belly.’
Abberline didn’t look back at Tristan. He merely asked, ‘Why?’
‘Because …’ Tristan gave a long sigh. ‘My blessed father’s academy must be done away with. He invites … to this island … a vile assortment of eccentrics, lunatics, charlatans, and men with less artistic talent than a pig in its sty. He houses them for free, he feeds them, he gives them salaries … and his wretched, wretched academy uses up all his money.’
Ludwig patted his son on the shoulder. ‘There, Tristan. All is well now. There is no need to talk.’
Abberline spoke quickly. ‘But your father needs to know your motive for murder, doesn’t he?’
‘Yes, he does, Inspector. He does indeed.’ Tristan smiled at the ceiling as the drugs and alcohol swirled through his brain. ‘This island shrinks day by day. When Faxfleet vanishes into the river it will take the kingship with it. The royal line will end. Our family will no longer be able to sell royal titles to wealthy men … our income will then vanish and we shall become destitute.’
‘So,’ Abberline said, ‘you wanted to embarrass your father so much by killing academy members in such a spectacular and newsworthy way that he’d be forced to dissolve the academy?’
‘Yes.’
‘If that happened, and the academy was no more, what should he do with the income that he earns every year?’
‘It is searingly obvious.’ Tristan rolled his head sideways on the pillow in order to look at where Thomas sat making notes. ‘Mr Lloyd, the island is shrinking as the river shaves it away inch by inch. What would you do?’
Thomas realized that the man was so steeped in opiates and alcohol that he seemed to bear Thomas no ill-will for blowing part of his foot off. Thomas said, ‘There must be an engineering solution to the island being eroded. Perhaps walls could be built along the beaches to prevent the island from being gradually destroyed.’
‘Exactly!’ Tristan sat up straight on the bed. ‘Exactly! Father, old blunderbuss Lloyd here knows what should be done. But you, Father, waste your money. You have given away a fortune to absurd people who believe the earth is flat, or the shape of a skull determines whether the individual is good or evil … you shower men with gold coins so they can daub hideously incompetent portraits or compose music that sounds like a chorus of demented cats. You, Father, are like Nero who happily played his fiddle while he watched Rome burn to the ground. Damn you, sir. You are a fool!’
‘Tristan,’ began Ludwig with tears in his eyes. His son’s tirade clearly crushed him. ‘Don’t say these things. I care about you deeply. I have always –’
‘Always done what? Done the wrong thing! Don’t you realize that it will cost millions to fortify the island against it being washed away? You should dissolve that joke of an academy today and save every penny of your income for the next ten years … only then will you have enough to reinforce this mound of boulder clay and dirt with granite. Then the island will last for a thousand years and so will our family’s wealth.’
The young man had come close to raving. Ludwig sat on the bed with his head in his hands.
Abberline said, ‘The ferry is sailing to the mainland today. My colleagues and I will be on it. Tristan shall, too. He is to be taken to Hull where he’ll await trial.’
Ludwig shook his head. ‘No … no. English law has no jurisdiction here.’
‘Faxfleet lies in the heart of England. If the public hear that a man will literally get away with murder in this country, there will be uproar. Neither the British royal family nor the government will protect you.’
‘What am I to do, Abberline?’
‘Surrender Tristan to me. He must face justice.’
‘If I refuse?’
‘There will be consequences. You must know that?’
Thomas spoke up, addressing Ludwig. ‘Sir, Tristan was prepared to kill in order to protect the royal line and its wealth. Forgive me for stating this so plainly, sir: I believe that you, yourself, would eventually fall victim to him. Tristan is ruthless.’
Tristan lay on the bed and giggled.
Abberline spoke firmly: ‘I agree. If you had stood in the way of his schemes then he would have found a way to dispose of you without drawing attention to himself.’
King Ludwig stared at his son, lying there, grinning, chuckling.
Tristan’s head moved in an exaggerated theatrical nod. ‘Father … those gentlemen are much wiser than you.’
King Ludwig looked a broken man. At last he sighed. ‘Very well. I surrender Tristan to your care, Inspector.’
Abberline asked Thomas to fetch one of the constables. The time had come to prepare for departure. However, Abberline told Thomas there was one other matter to settle.
As Thomas wheeled Abberline along the corridor, Abberline said, ‘Would you please take me to the conservatory? Then ask Lionel Metcalfe to join me there.’
‘Of course.’ Thomas’s mood had lightened. The dangerous and troubling times on the island were be
hind them. ‘Would you like me to find Harry, too?’
‘No, thank you. However, when I am alone with Metcalfe I would like you to hide outside the conservatory in the bushes and eavesdrop on our conversation.’
‘Really?’ Thomas was so surprised by this request that he stopped wheeling Abberline. ‘Why on earth do you want me to do that?’
‘It will become clear in the next few minutes. But it’s vital you hear every word. Please make notes, too.’
Thomas did as he was asked. After wheeling Abberline into the conservatory, he went and found the detective by the name of Metcalfe and asked him to join Abberline. After that, Thomas made his way outside, where he settled down behind a bush close to an open conservatory window – there he could hear everything without being seen by Metcalfe.
Lionel Metcalfe arrived at the conservatory. Thomas couldn’t see the two men. He heard every word, however, with absolute clarity.
Abberline spoke first. ‘Please sit down, Metcalfe.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘I’ve been reading the witness statements you took yesterday.’
Metcalfe sounded concerned when he spoke. ‘Is there something unsatisfactory about them?’
‘I found them completely satisfactory.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘You wrote them in your own hand?’
‘Yes.’
‘As you know, as your commanding officer, I have to sign each one in order to verify that I’ve read them. Ah … may I borrow your pen? I forgot mine.’
Thomas frowned. Abberline never forgets anything.
‘Thank you.’
Thomas couldn’t risk lifting his head above the bush to see what was happening. Metcalfe would notice him. However, Thomas guessed that Metcalfe had handed Abberline the pen so he could add his signature to the written statements.
What Abberline said next made Thomas’s heart lurch with shock.
Abberline spoke quite calmly. ‘Metcalfe, recently you forged a number of letters, supposedly from the Whitechapel Ripper, and sent them to me. Why?’
A pause. A long one, then Lionel Metcalfe exclaimed, ‘Inspector? In God’s name, why do you accuse me of such a thing?’
‘The forgeries are excellent. Although when I see your handwriting here, on these statements, there are faint yet telling similarities to the letters I received that are signed “Jack the Ripper”.’
‘I deny it.’
‘I have also studied earlier documents, which you’ve written using this pen you’ve just handed to me. I have compared the writing under a microscope with the latest Ripper letters.’
‘Sir, you are mistaken.’
‘I don’t think so, Metcalfe.’ Abberline spoke with complete confidence. ‘The nib of your pen is slightly damaged. The downward stroke of a letter “l”, for example, is split into two downward strokes running parallel to one another. The left-hand stroke is slightly, but measurably, wider than the right-hand stroke. Look, see for yourself. This is one of the Ripper letters. See how the downward strokes are formed by two lines, not one.’
‘Why would I send hoax letters to you?’
‘For some reason you wish to discredit me.’
‘I’m sorry that you’ve drawn these bizarre and inaccurate deductions.’
‘I shall tell you what I have concluded,’ Abberline told him. ‘You forged the Ripper letters, knowing that these would draw the newspapers’ attention to me, the detective who failed to catch Jack the Ripper two years ago.’
‘Sir, I would not –’
‘Please let me finish. You forged the letters. Somehow, you discovered the body of Mrs Ruth Verity in a river in another part of London. You cleaned the body, dried the clothes, dressed her again, then smuggled the body into Whitechapel where you left it in a derelict house after mutilating it, so the poor woman resembled the original victims of the Ripper.’
‘Why would I do that?’
‘You wanted to publicly humiliate me so that I’d be forced to resign. Because I never would find Mrs Verity’s killer, would I? The woman drowned in another part of the city. I daresay you want rid of me because you don’t like my approach to policing. I am sure you are not acting alone, Metcalfe. I believe you, together with a number of your colleagues, want to build your own little kingdoms in London that you will rule. You will grow rich on the bribes you receive from criminals. You and your crooked friends might even resort to crime as well. After all, how did Mrs Verity die?’
‘I freely admit that Mrs Verity took her own life. After I discovered her body in a river in Wembley I went to her house and found a suicide note, which I destroyed.’
‘You will make an official confession.’
‘Ha, never, Abberline. But I did want to see your face when I told you that I’d outwitted you.’
‘I have evidence, Metcalfe. See this pen with the ever so slightly splayed nib? I can scientifically prove that this pen of yours wrote the Ripper letters that you sent to me recently.’
‘Yes, of course you can prove that exact pen was used by the forger. I will make a statement saying that I found the pen on the floor at Scotland Yard just before I came to Faxfleet. If you insist the pen was used to forge the letters then, in effect, you are accusing every police officer based at Scotland Yard. After all, who is to say which man wrote the letters? Your accusation will outrage every constable and detective. They will despise you.’
‘So, that’s your plan, is it? You have engineered hoax letters and a false murder in order to publicly humiliate me.’
‘Yes.’
‘You know that would mean I’d have to resign from the police force? Without a salary I can’t pay the rent on my home. My wife and I will be penniless.’
‘That, Abberline, would be a deliciously satisfactory state of affairs. You, and your high-minded kind, have denied the ordinary policeman the right to earn a little extra on the side.’
‘The “ordinary” policeman? The correct phrase is “corrupt policeman”.’
‘Well, seeing as we’re done here, Abberline, I’ll go and pack my things. We’re returning to London today, aren’t we? Oh, cat got your tongue? I wonder what kind of stories the newspapers will publish when they tire of your incompetence at finding Jack the Ripper – even though he’s returned to Whitechapel under your very nose. Tell Mrs Abberline to pawn her wedding ring. You will need that money very soon. I’ll join you on the ferry, sir. Cheerio.’
Thomas waited for the man to leave. A moment later, he heard Abberline say: ‘He’s gone, Thomas. Please come in.’
Thomas all but stormed into the conservatory. Lionel Metcalfe’s vile words had made him furious.
‘You heard, Thomas?’
‘I’ll say. Every poisonous syllable that man uttered.’
‘Good. I’m pleased the matter of the letters has been cleared up and that devil they call Jack the Ripper hasn’t returned to Whitechapel after all.’
‘Pleased? Metcalfe is an absolute scoundrel. You will arrest him?’
‘You heard what he said, Thomas. If I accuse him of writing the letters, he’ll claim he found the pen at Scotland Yard. He’s right. I’d be making every single person who works at Scotland Yard a suspect. They would hate me for making such a wide-ranging accusation.’
‘So, what will you do now?’
‘With regard to the hoax letters and the body left in Whitechapel? Nothing, Thomas. Absolutely nothing. My hands are tied.’ Abberline looked up. ‘Don’t worry, my friend. We’ve succeeded here on Faxfleet. Or, rather, you have. You will be able to write some very exciting articles for your newspaper.’
‘But it’s not finished, though. Not properly. Metcalfe must be brought to justice.’
‘We can’t win every battle, Thomas. Sometimes we must admit defeat. Now, will you wheel your grateful friend down to the jetty? The ferry leaves in twenty minutes.’
The sun shone down on the River Humber’s wide waters. Many of the islanders came to the jetty to watch P
rince Tristan being carried onto the ferry-boat. The young man’s foot was heavily bandaged. Thomas saw spots of red on the bandages that covered the toes, or what was left of the toes. When Thomas fired the shotgun at the man’s foot in the mill it had torn away the end of his foot. Thomas had expected to feel remorse at inflicting such mutilation; he realized he felt nothing of the sort. Tristan had killed innocent people and intended to kill more. In the end, the killings became a sort of game for him. He chose his victims on a whim, for his real motive was simply to draw public attention to his father’s academy in the hope that there’d be widespread ridicule of the academy members and their bizarre work.
Thomas watched the constables lift Tristan aboard the ferry. The man was still inebriated and he waved to people on the jetty. Abberline’s colleagues from Scotland Yard took their seats on the boat. Harry Scott chatted to Abberline, who sat beside him. It seemed that Scott had no idea that his friend and colleague, Lionel Metcalfe, had hatched a plot to discredit Abberline. Of course, Abberline could say nothing. He’d have to keep that loathsome conspiracy a secret. Thomas had to force himself not to glare angrily at Metcalfe.
As for Metcalfe, he sat opposite Abberline. He gave Abberline knowing smiles that were nothing less than gloating. He’d got the better of his superior officer and he knew it.
‘Mr Lloyd, Mr Lloyd!’ Bertie ran along the jetty to throw his arms around Thomas’s waist. ‘Sir, why don’t you stay on the island? You have become a good friend to us.’ Bertie turned back as he said the words. He looked directly at Jo, who walked towards them.
‘I’m sorry, Bertie,’ Thomas said. ‘My home is in London. My place of work, too.’
‘You’re a newspaperman, aren’t you, sir? Will you put all that happened to us in the paper? Will I see my name written there?’
‘You will, Bertie. I shall write about you specially.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
Jo approached. Her smile was as friendly as ever. ‘So, it’s farewell, my dear Thomas.’
He nodded. ‘Tristan will be taken to the jail in Hull. Then I’ll head back to London with Inspector Abberline and his colleague.’
‘We shall see each other again, Thomas. I know we will.’ She held out her hand.