by Sam Christer
They clambered for the coins while I disappeared beyond them.
I still had enough money to hail a cab to take me to Clerkenwell. It was only a short distance away and I prayed this was where Moriarty and Moran were headed. Hopefully, they had already secured the safety of Elizabeth and Surrey.
Five minutes later I saw their carriage on the street corner. Alarmingly, there was no sign of the men Moriarty had promised would provide protection.
I paid my driver and made my way to the one house that was completely lit up. The curtains were drawn. Two silhouettes stood out against the cloth of a downstairs front room. From their shapes and sizes I was certain they were Moran and Moriarty.
I rushed to the front door, opened it and froze.
There was blood on the wooden boards in the hallway. Blood on the walls. Blood on the door handle in front of me.
‘Elizabeth!’ I rushed into the front room.
Moriarty and Moran were together in the corner, both on their knees. Hunched over something. They craned their necks my way. Looked shocked to see me.
‘Simeon …’ Moriarty’s tone was disturbingly soft as he rose. ‘Dear boy, I am sorry …’
I didn’t understand what he meant. Then I saw where Moran’s gaze was fixed, what their bodies had been masking In the corner, in front of them, was Elizabeth. And blood. A whole ocean of blood. Her throat had been cut. Her head was tilted back. An obscenely gaping wound showed the inside of her neck, the rawness of her throat, the root of her tongue.
I ran to her, fell to my knees.
Her eyes were white with death.
‘My darling. My angel.’ I lifted her head. Closed that gaping neck wound. Lunatic thoughts told me she could still be saved by my presence, my touch, my love. I pressed my cheek to hers. ‘My sweetness!’ She was cold as glass. ‘My sweet, sweet lady.’
Moriarty tugged my shoulder. ‘You have to leave her. We must go.’
I could not. My mind had lost all reason and my limbs would not surrender my love.
‘Come on, man!’ Moran tried to prise her out of my arms.
‘Get the fuck away!’ I struck out wildly. ‘Touch her again and I will kill you!’
He took a step backwards and grabbed Moriarty’s arm. ‘It’s no use. We must leave.’ Without a further word they fled.
I sat with my back against the wall and held Elizabeth close to me. The action made her sigh. I knew it was only air escaping dead lungs but the illusion of life was enough to break my heart. I rocked her and wept. Cried like a child while I hugged her preciously tight. Her head lay against my chest and her soft hair brushed my face as exquisitely as it had done a thousand times.
A long silhouette fell into the room, followed by another and another. The shadowy figures gathered into a dark, thin army and moved in on me.
‘Jesus, Mary an’ Joseph,’ exclaimed a gruff old voice. ‘What in God’s name ’as gone on ’ere?’
‘Looks like there’s bin a fight, Sergeant,’ replied a youthful man. ‘A big fight an’ ’im ’ere killed ’er there.’
I heard their voices clearly, knew who they were and what they were about to do. But I did not so much as look up from the woman I cradled in my arms. In that moment, I cared for nothing. Everything that mattered to me had just been destroyed.
It took four men to separate me from my love, to prise her beauty from my blood-soaked arms. And when they did, I broke several jaws and bones in my desperation to get back to her.
They flung me into a police wagon and beat my wailing grief into the most painful silence I had endured. Once clapped in chains, they waddled me into the station house, threw me into a cell and recruited new men to beat me again.
Throughout the night, my door opened several times and I was aware of feet and voices gathering around me. There was at least one failed attempt to sit me up and bring me to full consciousness. It concluded with much swearing and slamming of doors. As I sank back into a fitful sleep I was aware only that Elizabeth was dead and I was presumed her murderer.
Four Days to Execution
Newgate, 14 January 1900
Another night in prison had come and gone by the time I reopened my eyes, felt the painful aftermath of my latest beating and pieced together what had happened following my lapse of consciousness.
Johncock had sent in the prison doctor. Fresh blankets had been brought for my bunk and clean clothes for me. Grumbling orderlies had wiped me clean with towels. The quack had put balm on my body where I had been scrubbed raw with stiff brushes. He had bandaged my head and ribs, and made me swallow something to relieve the pain – something that now left me feeling as though iron had been smelted inside me.
My fingers tentatively explored my body. The injuries could have been worse. Much worse. Through the murkiness of my aching mind, I realised that during those missing hours, those wasted hours of unconsciousness, the clemency deal offered by Sherlock Holmes had perished. My only guarantee of avoiding the noose had disappeared. My future, my life itself lay either in the hands of my lawyer and his appeal to the Home Office, or in my own as they scrabbled at the bricks that blocked the chimney in my cell. I resolved to double my efforts to remove them, but I needed to recover first. Heal a little. Gain some strength.
Soon after what passed for breakfast, I was taken into the Press Yard and left on my own in the muddy light of an icy winter morning. A chill wind buffeted me as I voluntarily made slow and painful circuits. I had to stay mobile. Work through the pain. My blistered feet had not yet properly healed from my marathon ordeal in here and unless I escaped they never would. So I walked in defiance. To give up on this right to exercise would be to give up on a possible escape route and I would not do that. Not until the hangman had choked the last breath from my body.
With every step, I carried an unseen weight, one felt heavier now than at any other time of my life.
Guilt.
As I hobbled across the yard it crushed me just as surely as stones had in the past crushed confessions from inmates who walked here. Years of guilt were piling up on me. The justifications I had given myself for the murders were disappearing on a daily scale. The weightless shadows I had seen my victims as were now dead weights in my troubled mind.
Elizabeth’s death also troubled me. I blamed myself for her demise. My role in life should solely have been that of loving and protecting her. I should not have accompanied Moriarty and Moran to Harley Street to meet Chan and his cronies. I should have gone to Clerkenwell to stand guard over my darling angel.
Because of my incarceration, I had been unable to see her laid to rest. Not dropped earth on her coffin, nor laid flowers on her grave. The only image I had was the brutal one of her lying, almost decapitated, in my arms.
James Moriarty’s lawyers had seen to it that Elizabeth had been buried in the grounds of the family’s chapel at Dovedale. They had acted discreetly, purchasing the undertaker’s silence with threats as well as clink.
I walked more briskly in the yard, worked aching muscles and frozen bones to build strength and keep warm. Tried to use the exertion and pain to take my mind off that fateful night. But I could not. There were still too many unanswered questions.
Why had the young oaf Frederick turned on me, after Moriarty and Moran had escaped through the window?
Initially, I had simply believed the youth to have been of such low intelligence that he reacted like a startled dog, one that in the midst of being frightened inadvertently bites its master. But now I wondered if Frederick had been briefed to kill me.
As ludicrous as it seemed, James Moriarty had never hidden his dislike for Alex. He had described him bitterly as Brogan’s effeminate companion. And very disrespectfully, he had not worn black when news had reached the house that the kindly young lawyer had passed. It occurred to me that James might have planned to kill both Elizabeth and me. He would blame our deaths on the Chans and once and for all bury any witnesses to his brother’s homosexuality.
Then there
were questions relating to Surrey: her whereabouts after Elizabeth’s murder and why she hadn’t visited me or been heard of since the killing.
Had she been complicit in Elizabeth’s murder, believing she would then have an open route to my heart?
I could not believe such a thing.
It was more likely that James had dismissed her from her duties and told her Elizabeth was safe with him and Moran. Given Surrey had worked for them on other occasions she would unquestionably have taken such an instruction. If all that were true, then it made sense that when Surrey learned of the awful events that ensued, she would be either too ashamed or too frightened to come out of hiding and visit me in prison.
I paused opposite the exit door in the Press Yard, blew warmth into my ice-chilled hands and tried to make sense of it all.
Probably none of what I had feared was true.
I was just driving myself mad. Most likely, a vengeful Chan had planned Elizabeth’s death to hurt and humiliate the Moriarty family, and Surrey had been abducted and killed by the Chinese because she was in the way. This was what I had long believed, what fired me to escape and made me ache to kill at least one more man before I died.
The yard door opened. Huntley entered and walked my way. He wore a long coat but still slapped his upper arms to ward off the cold. ‘Lynch, what happened to you wasn’t right. They shouldn’t have beaten you. Shouldn’t have beaten you at all.’
‘Is that why you’re here? Come to take my written testimony against your colleagues?’
‘I think you know I haven’t. I have however lodged an official complaint with the keeper, but he, like everyone else, seems powerless to control Johncock. That man is a veritable force of nature inside this gaol.’ He moved closer and lowered his voice. ‘In truth, I need to speak to you about something else.’
‘Then speak.’
‘It is about Father Deagan. Considering how close you had become, I thought you might be concerned about his health, following his collapse in your cell. The Diocese has called the governor and it seems he has taken to his bed and not risen since.’
‘What is his affliction?’
‘I do not know. Let us hope it is not gaol flu. But for the moment he is unable to go about his duties and has sent a message that while he will try to rally and be at your side for …’ he hesitated, ‘… for the final hour, he cannot guarantee his presence.’
‘The final hour? Your delicacy amuses me. Call it what it is. My execution. Please let the good Father know that I wish him a speedy recovery and hope for him it is not consumption.’
‘As does the Diocese. They have enquired as to whether you would like a new priest to visit.’
‘No.’
‘It is your right.’
‘Right? I did not know I had rights,’ I said sarcastically and instantly wished I hadn’t. ‘I am sorry; you deserve better than my bile. There is no need for another priest. I have made my peace with my maker. That is, whatever peace can be made by a man like me.’
London, November 1899
With the new day came new policemen to rouse me, kick me and hold me accountable for the previous day’s troubles. At least they let me wash in cold water and use a toilet, albeit chained, before leading me into a windowless room at the back of the station house.
Two uniformed coppers sat either side of me on a rough bench, while across a wobbly-legged table was another bobby and a plainly dressed man about five years older than me who seemed to be in charge of proceedings, for all eyes were on him.
He wore a brown lounge suite that like his stubbly cheeks and shadowy eyes had seen better days.
‘I am Inspector Mather,’ he announced politely. ‘Felix Mather of the Criminal Investigation Department of Scotland Yard.’ He smiled, and I sensed he derived great pride from announcing himself in such a formal fashion.
‘What is your name?’
‘Terry,’ I lied. ‘Terry Perch.’
He opened a notebook on the table and with pen poised asked, ‘Terry as in Terence and Perch as in fish?’
‘Yes.’
‘I like to be precise.’ He made his note then looked up in earnest. ‘Are you an honest man, Mr Perch? The kind to respect the police and not tell them lies?’
‘I am, sir. I am exactly such a person.’
‘Then describe for me the circumstances surrounding yourself and the dead young woman you were found with last night. The one whose throat had been cut and whose blood was all over you and your clothes.’
‘She is my cousin, sir. A Miss Elizabeth MacIntosh.’
His pen moved to his notebook. ‘How do you spell that? M small C, or Mac and capital I?’
The latter, sir.’
‘Thank you, Mr Perch. Do go on.’
‘Well, I had arranged to meet her and a friend on the street corner in Clerkenwell, and when I turned up, I heard her screaming from within the nearby house. I rushed inside and well, I found her in that awful state.’
Mather made further notes. ‘Where had you been beforehand?’
I struggled to answer and sensed my hesitancy aroused his suspicions. ‘Forgive me sir, I have a great headache from the beating, and cannot easily remember the entire events of the evening, but I believe I visited a tavern. Yes, that is correct, I went to a tavern to see if any of my friends were there.’
‘Which tavern?’
‘The One Tun, on Saffron Hill.’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘A known den for thieves; I wouldn’t have thought an honest man like yourself would sup in such a place.’
‘I would not have done had I known it had such a reputation.’
‘It is the type of establishment where policemen and their enquiries are not welcome. A place where alibis are as cheap as ale.’
‘I will steer clear of it in the future.’
‘Oh, I am most certain you will never set foot inside it again.’ His tone intimated that I would not have the chance to do so. He drummed the fingers of his right hand, added percussion from his left and watched the flailing digits for all of ten seconds. Finally, he looked up at me and smiled easily, as clearly was his way. ‘Sir, I am a patient man. A calm man. I understand the emotions of those involved in death, in murder, and the conflict between the soul and the feet. The soul wishes to be clean. Pure. Such a thing can only happen with confession. The feet … well, the feet are different. They need to run. They ache to flee. Carry you far away from harm, from places like this station house and people like me.’ He drummed his fingers again, then added, ‘This is your final chance to come clean, sir, to purify yourself and save that soul of yours.’ He looked away, took a deep breath and then slammed his hand down loudly on the table, making even the policemen jump. ‘Damn you! You killed her, didn’t you? You cut the poor woman’s throat!’
My heart pounded. Not from fear of him but with grief. I spoke no words, only shook my head.
Mather glared at me. ‘By God, man, you will swing for what you have done. Now confess your crimes and be done with it!’
‘I swear on my soul, I never harmed a hair of her head.’
The inspector nodded to the beefy man at his side. The constable stood up and walked around the table. ‘Hold him,’ he told the men who flanked me.
They did and the constable punched me in the face. For such a big man, it was a small blow. His second effort was more impressive and by the time he sat back down I had cause to spit a tooth onto the table.
‘You are a killer,’ said Mather, ‘a killer destined for the rope.’ He turned to the back of his notebook and took from there a folded sheet of paper. He languorously straightened it out and smoothed it flat. ‘You are not Terry Perch. You are Simeon Lynch, and you are wanted for the murder of PC Thomas Jackson of the Metropolitan Police Southwark Division.’ He turned the paper and slid it across for me to see.
I stared at a document marked WANTED FOR MURDER and beneath it was a picture of me as a young man. I recognised it straight away. It had been taken during my t
ime in the workhouse, when I was boxing regularly and had won a local tournament.
‘I was there, Lynch,’ said Mather. ‘In that house, when you and Paddy Hoolihan’s monsters killed my colleague. I was a young PC then and I will never forget the horror of seeing Jackson’s body and that knife you put through his throat.’
He snatched back the paper and refolded it. ‘I’ve looked at every murder in London since that day. Sat face to face with every cut-throat arrested in the country. I knew you’d turn up, eventually. Come out of the wood, like a worm. Well, now I’ve got you. Got you bang to bloody rights!’
PART FIVE
All you that in the condemned hold do lie,
Prepare you, for tomorrow you shall die!
Watch all, and pray, the hour is drawing near,
That you before th’Almighty must appear.
Examine well yourselves, in time repent,
That you may not t’eternal flames be sent;
And when St Sepulchre’s bell tomorrow tolls,
The Lord above have mercy on your souls!
Chant of the Execution Bellmen
Three Days to Execution
Newgate, 15 January 1900
I drummed my fingers on the table to which I had been manacled. Levine was late. I had sixty hours of my life left, and he was late.
Finally, he was ushered in and to my surprise and annoyance was not alone. With him was a shabby clerk – a dreary, hunched figure swathed in a dull brown cape, the hood of which was still pulled high. Close to his chest, he clutched a tied bundle of legal books and a slim leather document case.
‘Dear God, what happened to you?’ Levine asked, as he saw my bandages.