The House Of Smoke

by Sam Christer

  She would go days without speaking and weeks without even venturing outside the cottage. Most nights I would wake to find her crying in the room where Molly had slept. She seemed to derive no comfort from me covering her with a blanket and lying with her until morning. Each dawn brought renewal of my dim hope that this might be the day we turned a corner.

  The professor often visited and tried his best to raise her from the gloom. He would sit in a chair alongside her, take her hand and reminisce about the life they had both known before I had come along.

  When all the tinctures and tonics had failed, Moriarty insisted on attending her himself and using his powers of phrenology to reveal where in her brain the depressive problems persisted.

  He made Elizabeth sit bolt upright on a chair and spent nigh on an hour combing his fingers through her hair. Occasionally he would break off to refer to several diagrams that showed skulls labelled with descriptions of what he called ‘cerebral controls’. He interrogated her extensively on how she felt, as he prodded and probed different pressure points.

  When he was done, he took me aside and urged that thrice a day I gently rubbed the top and back of her head, because beneath it lay the source of self-esteem, which he reasoned had been badly damaged by Molly’s passing. He showed me vital sections close to the very centre of her skull that he called ‘the Fonts of Hope’ and said these should be massaged at least three to five times a day ‘without fail’.

  I obeyed his instructions assiduously. And even though Elizabeth seemed to derive some comfort from it, I cannot in all honesty say the practice had any lasting effect on her demeanour.

  I found myself wondering if there would ever be a spark of light in our darkness, or was this awful creeping death that consumed Elizabeth God’s punishment for my sins? Was not the loss of our sweet and innocent child payment enough for the squalid, sinful lives I had ended?

  I bowed my head, for I knew it was not. My soul stank of the sulphurs of hell. Elizabeth was doomed and so was I. There was a pistol in the draw of a desk in the corner of our main room. I found myself sitting with it and a glass of whisky. For a full hour, and half a bottle of the fiery liquid, I contemplated ending both our miserable lives. But I had neither the courage nor complete despair to do it. Instead, I sank to my knees and prayed to a God that certainly had no reason to listen.

  Five Days to Execution

  Newgate, 13 January 1900

  Throughout this long and dreary day, my eyes never left the patch of stagnant light pooled on the floor by the window bars. For once, I was impatient for it to disappear. Night-time meant fewer turnkeys, the cover of darkness and a fresh chance to use my precious sliver of steel to try to break through the bars that stood behind that damned wall.

  It was late afternoon when the sun finally sank and the insipid pool of light in my cell evaporated. A supper of stale bread, watery stew and a mug of cold tea followed. I ate quickly and waited to be ‘locked down’, enduring what remained of the day. Keys jangled in locks. Voices called down galleries. Screws completed their chores and settled into noisy rounds of cards and tittle-tattle.

  I made my move. Feverishly, I gouged out both the real mortar and the fake that I had made with paper saturated in dust. I took away all the loosened bricks and, as I had done the previous night, stacked them along the wall so they might be slid quickly back into position if necessary.

  Seated on the floor, I gripped an exposed bar with two hands and pulled with all my strength. At the same time, I planted both feet on adjacent ones and pushed with the might of a kicking mule. I felt like a human arrow pent on a crossbow.

  The bars did not shift.

  I rocked them as hard as I could. Sweat beaded on my brow. Sinews pulsed and strained down my arms. Still the iron would not give up its congress with the stone. I concluded that my efforts were too close to the floor to have an effect and I needed to try higher up the bars, at what might be a weaker point.

  There was still no movement, and my strength was ebbing away.

  I dropped to the stone floor and worked furiously with the nail, jabbing around the base where the bar met the ground, then I repeated all the pulling and straining exercises. To no avail.

  I got to my feet, stepped back as far as my leg irons would allow, ran at the bar from the side, slid and kicked it with the flat of my foot.

  I felt enough ‘give’ to be encouraged to repeat the attack, and the bar loosened. I thumped it several more times and it began to rattle.

  Keys jangled in my lock; I froze.

  A screw shouted through the door, ‘What’s all that noise? Is it you, Lynch?’

  There was no time to move the bricks back into position. If he opened up then I was done for.

  ‘It is me. I am as mad as hell and letting off steam. So you just open that door you piece of prison shit and come in here, so I can vent my anger on you.’

  ‘Fuck you, Lynch! We’ll all be drinking ale when they get round to popping your head in a noose.’ He banged the door and moved on.

  I stayed as still as possible, listening to his feet click down the landing, and made sure he was gone before I took so much as a peek through the newly bent bars into the hole in the wall next to me.

  For a moment, I wondered if he would come back, maybe with some other screws, to teach me a lesson. Or would he steer well clear, prefer a quiet life to one that could end up in serious injury?

  I gambled on the latter.

  One of the bars had bent. Better still, it had broken the stone where it had been set. I worked on it with the nail. Ground out all I could around the metal. Pulled hard. Pulled left, right, backwards and forwards. Stone splintered away.

  Excitedly, I grabbed the bar and heaved it towards me. Got to my knees and pulled with every ounce of effort I had left. Unable to do more, I sat back and looked at the result.

  It was bent as far as it would go.

  I crawled to the bars, twisted my head and angled my shoulders.

  I could fit!

  It was tight, but I could get through.

  Quickly, I shuffled back and used the nail to pick the lock on my leg irons. Then I stuffed my pockets with the booty I had taken from Father Deagan’s bag and returned to the exposed chimney.

  Iron and brick had been defeated. Wind whistled down from the outside world. Somewhere up there in the darkness above my head lay freedom. Never had I so longed to be outside in the stinking, foul air of London Town.

  I worked my way back inside the hole, leaned against a wall and pushed my feet against the bricks opposite me. By keeping my hands at my side and pressing hard on the wall, I was able to inch my way slowly upward.

  Tired and panting, I stopped, for fear of falling. Rain fell on my face – glorious, glorious rain! One drop, two drops, then many. A delicious downpour. It renewed my muscles and I moved on.

  Progress was painful and slow. At times my hand or foot slipped on the soot-covered walls and I feared a back-breaking drop to the stone below. The climb was hard and I was not as strong as I used to be. Prison slops had sapped muscle from my frame. The higher I got the weaker I grew.

  I saw moonlight, felt the cold breeze of unchained air and more of that heavenly rain. But only through a slit. I could see now that the chimney had been blocked off, except for a small rectangle. I ran my fingers around the hole. It was much less than a foot wide and not two feet in length. I could get a hand and arm through, but that was all.

  After a minute or so, my fingers found some purchase and I was able to pull down on the end of the block.

  Nothing gave.

  I grabbed the stubborn stone with both hands, took my best grip, released my feet from the side of the chimney and dangled recklessly free.

  Not even my weight would dislodge it.

  I swung back into my braced position, feet planted against one wall, back firmly against the one opposite; I pulled and pushed on the block, but to no avail. My energy was spent. There was nothing more I could do for now. With he
avy heart and exhausted limbs, I climbed back down.

  Soaked and saddened, I replaced each and every brick as best I could. I used the last of the toilet paper to fill the wall cracks. Once my leg irons had been replaced, I endeavoured to wash my hands, face and hair but the water in the bowl almost instantly turned black as ink.

  It was then that I realised I was not only covered in an unmovable amount of soot, I also stank of it. The smell was ingrained in every pore. I felt it in my eyes, tasted it in my throat. Not even the most stupid of the screws would fail to notice the smell of the chimney on me and in the room. In fact, it would only be a matter of time before they came into the cell. They would smell it down the corridor and then, like dogs, they’d track down the source.

  My bowels rumbled at the thought of the kicking they would give me. And I dared not imagine the delight they would derive from discovering my attempted escape.

  I worked out there was only one thing that could be done: a shocking act that would baffle them and at the same time afford me one more chance to scale that chimney.

  Derbyshire, autumn 1899

  Christmas and the winter of ’98 glumly passed with no difference in Elizabeth’s mood; the spring and summer of ’99 followed suit. She had moved only from black to grey and at times, it seemed her melancholia had become even worse than in the weeks immediately following Molly’s death.

  Moriarty and Alexander decided it was time for their annual escape to the home they kept in New York – a last retreat before the onset of winter. They were in the habit of travelling White Star from Liverpool and were excited that some new ship promised to land them in America in less than six full days.

  As usual, Sirius travelled with them as protection, leaving Surrey and I to look after whatever ‘urgent jobs’ needed dealing with in Britain and Europe. Since my daughter’s death and Elizabeth’s depression my former lover and I had grown a little closer again. I should stress that by ‘closer’, I mean in the sense of friendship, rather than anything physical. Time, it seemed, had healed the wounds inflicted at the end of our relationship and Surrey had even ‘looked out’ for Elizabeth whenever I had to travel to perform my duties. It was with some sadness then that I learned soon after Moriarty’s departure for New York that she had to leave Derbyshire for business in the northernmost part of England and would be gone for perhaps a month. The following week was the second anniversary of Molly’s passing and I was anxious about the emotions it would arouse.

  My fears were well-founded. When the dreadful moment came, Elizabeth cried throughout the day. The only time she spoke was while visiting Molly’s graveside. The words she uttered cut me to the quick: ‘I forgive you, Simeon, but the good Lord may never do so.’

  That night we lay together in bed and though I held her, I knew her heart and mind were not with me. They were in the cold soil of our child’s grave.

  When dawn warmed the windows of the cottage, we rose from our sleepless bed and went to the kitchen so that I might brew tea and muster the resolve for a fresh day. The fire in the range had burned out and Elizabeth wrapped a blanket around her shoulders to keep off the chill. She sat in a chair by the table while I remade it with kindling, paper and coal.

  By the time I had warmed the room and boiled water, she was fast asleep. I put the drink down beside her, kissed her lightly and went to walk in the garden to clear my head.

  Life could not go on like this. My own mood was blackening. The dogs of depression sensed my vulnerability and were intent on hounding me into the dark hole that Elizabeth had already toppled into.

  Selfishly, I tracked down Thackeray to the carriage workshop for some male companionship. I knew my mind was not capable of focusing fully on more than one thing so I was pleased to accept the distraction of helping him mend a broken chassis on a carriage.

  I was even interested, for once, in his tales about horses and how they could only breathe through their noses because their mouths were too big to keep open. ‘Jus’ imagine wot mess that could lodge in there,’ he said with amusement. ‘An ’orse’s gob is so big it could catch a bird in it – that’s if th’ animal’s stupid enough to go runnin’ around with its ’ead up at the right angle.’

  ‘And a bird is misguided enough to fly into its mouth,’ I pointed out.

  We laughed and bantered for a good hour and a half before we took a break from the work and walked outside for a cigarette. I was lighting a rollup when the figure of a woman appeared over the distant crest of lawn. I did not recognise her at first because of the shimmering purple coat and bonnet paired with it.

  Then I did.

  It was Elizabeth.

  My heart raced as she slowly approached us.

  ‘My dear …’

  ‘Please don’t say anything.’ She held a hand up to halt my exuberance. ‘It is time for us to start again,’ she announced determinedly. Then added in a weaker tone, ‘Or at least, I am ready to try to do so.’

  ‘That’s wonderful.’ I had to force myself not to embrace her. ‘I am travelling into Matlock later; please let me know if you would feel able to come.’

  ‘I will. But do not rush me, Simeon. Let me do this at my own pace.’

  She turned swiftly so I might not see the strain on her face and, to my relief, headed towards the eastern side of the lake and not back to our cottage or the chapel grounds.

  ‘Lady Elizabeth looks brighter,’ remarked Thackeray.

  ‘She does!’ I said joyously. ‘She really does.’

  ‘Still got time to ’elp me finish up?’

  ‘Of course. You have been my lucky mascot.’

  We were about to head off when the sight of a peculiar-looking carriage entering the drive stopped us. We both put hands to our brows, to shield the sun and squint out a better view.

  ‘What on earth is that?’ I asked.

  ‘It’s ’orseless,’ cried Thackeray with excitement.

  I had heard of such automobiles and understood there were now many of them in London, but I had never seen one, let alone been near one.

  ‘It’s a fast bugger,’ he added. ‘I reckons that thing’s doin’ summit round ten, maybe fifteen miles ’n hour.’

  We both watched dirt drift from the dusty drive as the open-topped vehicle closed in on us. A man in a black uniform and cap brought it to a halt not far away. Several other men were now visible, one at the front and two more at the rear.

  ‘God’s bollocks,’ Thackeray exclaimed, amid the loud noise of the engine. ‘It’s the Devil ’imself.’

  ‘Who is the Devil himself?’

  He covered his mouth with his hand because the driver had turned off the engine and it was spluttering to a stop. ‘The professor’s pig of a brother, James, that’s who. I’m goin’. Best keep out that bugger’s way.’

  I had heard much about James from Surrey and a little of the jobs that she had done for him, but we had never met.

  The driver and a large, well-built fellow in his early thirties disembarked. They walked to the back, where they joined a younger, clean-shaven man who, when he stood to his full height, must have been close to seven feet tall.

  A final figure appeared – James Moriarty. Quite the smallest but also the most captivating of the four. He was broad-shouldered with a thick russet beard and wiry hair. Before he moved so much as an inch away from the motorised carriage, his dark brown eyes took in everything around him.

  His gaze found me for the second time and he shouted, ‘You there, come over here.’

  It had been a long time since someone had called to me like a servant. I strolled slowly towards him.

  Moriarty unbuttoned his brown tweed jacket. A gold watch glinted in the sunlight and he lifted it for inspection. ‘Hurry up now, or I’ll have my men dig a hole and bury you where you stand.’

  If anything, I slowed my pace in order to assess the possible dangers. The driver presented no threat, but the other three men did. The big young one would be strong but stupid. His older companion was a dif
ferent proposition. He stood like a soldier and I took him to be a fellow Surrey had mentioned – Colonel Sebastian Moran, a veteran of several foreign campaigns and James’s principle protector.

  Then there was the master himself. While clearly past his prime, he still appeared fit and powerful. He wagged a finger at me as I neared him. ‘You – you are Simeon, are you not?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘I thought so.’ He smiled at his own cleverness. ‘My brother said you exuded defiance, and so you do.’

  ‘The professor is not here, sir.’

  ‘I know. His absence is why I am.’ His eyes darted off me. Checked left and right. Found me again. ‘Walk with me. There is a matter best discussed in private.’

  As we headed inside, ‘the Devil’ as Thackeray had called him, strode into the hall, down the west wing and directly into a study, behaving as though the house were his own.

  The room smelled heavily of polish and it must not have been to his liking for he immediately slid open a window. ‘Close the door.’

  I did and when I turned around he was in front of the desk, leaning back against it, his hands holding the edges. The look on his face was one of great consternation. ‘Brogan and that effeminate companion of his have been attacked in their New York home and left for dead.’

  ‘My God! Who killed them?’

  ‘You did not listen correctly. I said left for dead. Their wounds were not fatal but they are gravely ill. Both are in hospital and have lost a great deal of blood.’

  I grimaced as I imagined the injuries Alex and the professor must have sustained. ‘I am truly sorry to—’

  ‘Save your words. I need action from you, not sympathy. The attacks were orchestrated by Lee Chan. It appears that his grandfather died last week and he is now completely in charge of the family’s operations.’

  I was bursting with questions. ‘How did the Chans get to the professor and Alex? I thought Sirius was with them. And surely they had plenty of local protection as well?’