by Chris Hales
Wild Intentios
The Legend of the Thief Taker
Book I
By
Chris Hales
Based on a True Story of Old London Town
Prologue
Her screams echoed across the hills with the might of a thousand devils. The shrieks of pain and torment would have caused the blood of even the coldest man to turn rigid and stale.
No one came running. No one came to investigate the source of the suffering. It had happened in the past, but this time seemed different. On this occasion he appeared more determined to do her harm, intent on ending the insufferable whining and constant complaint.
The child knew not to interrupt his father when he was possessed with such a demonic force. Doing so would only cause him injury and force his pater to inflict more pain upon his mother. He hid in the kitchen, as he always did, under the table with his head buried in frozen hands. Prayers filled his young mind. Hopes someone would come knocking on the thick wooden door to investigate the reason for such wailing, but Father was a respected man. Even the most honourable in town were known to beat their wives and lovers. Soon the sounds which petrified him so much came to a sinister conclusion.
Creeping from the kitchen he moved silently through the small house, pausing every few steps to wipe his eyes and nose. Huddled by the fireplace was his mother, beaten and bruised. Blood covered her face and hands. Painful evidence of her failed attempts at self-protection. The son approached the mother, a quiet whine escaping his mouth.
“Mama?”
No reply came from the unresponsive mound of human flesh which lay on the floor. He approached carefully, his attention being drawn by the monster who sat, weeping, at the opposite end of the room. Running to his mother he ignored the man who claimed to be his father. He had never treated the boy as such, considering him a piece of useless property. There was no love between father and son and the child spent his days avoiding the harsh punishments which would doubtlessly descend.
He collapsed by his mother, cuddling and shaking her in order to wake the woman from her slumber. As he pushed at her lifeless form her head swung back. A terrible grimace of pain stretched across her once beautiful face. The eyes were rolled back into their sockets, the whites of those eyes causing him to come to the most terrible of realisations. Mother is dead!
Hugging the corpse which lay before him he sobbed uncontrollably, willing her back to life with all of his might, but this action was more dangerous than he had ever expected.
Father rose, awakened from his grief by the helpless cries. Approaching the boy he raised his hand and brought it down on the child he despised so much. His son was slung across the room with the force, impacting harshly into the wall behind.
“She made me do it,” said father pitifully. Killing his wife had never been his intention. He simply wanted to teach her a lesson which she would never forget. There was no denying she had learned from her mistakes.
The child stood and ran to his mother, tears largely causing blindness and a terrible sickness which grew in his stomach, but Father took a hold of him and shook the boy with all of his might. “Leave her be,” he said. “She is of no use to us anymore.” The child could not simply leave his mother. There may still be hope. He may yet be able to save her.
Father’s decision was quick. In a swift movement he pulled his belt from his waist, curling it around his fist. The large brass buckle glinted in the soft light of the room as it spun in the air. “I said leave her!” screamed Father as he brought the belt down onto the child’s back. The boy collapsed in pain, reaching round to sooth the injury which had been caused. Father took a hold of his son and threw him on his back, leaning over intent to settle his fury. “You will listen to me, Jonathan,” he said, “or, by God, I will teach you the same lesson I taught her.” The child still wanted to bid his farewell to the mother who had cared for him all these years. He scrabbled across the floor in her direction.
Father would have none of it. He brought the belt down on the child’s face, causing a previously unrecognisable and unknown scream of pain. The boy lay still, his hands clasped to his face, dripping with blood. Father pulled them away to inspect the wound. An almighty gash now dominated his face, stretching from one eye to the lowest part of his chin. The right side of his face was now a harsh reminder how painful and evil his father could be.
Leaning down to his son he spoke slowly and clearly. “Changes will be made around here, my boy,” The child was scared stiff, unable to utter even the smallest of sounds. “You will do what I say, when I say it.” The boy had never felt anger, fury or hatred this powerful before. For a six year old to bear witness to such terrible actions was unforgivable. “If you are my son…,” he hissed, “…, then you shall keep to the rules.” He smiled with satisfaction. “You shall be my perfect boy, Jonathan Wild.”
The child dare not move, despite the pain he was suffering. One thought dominated his young mind. A deliberation which should have no place in such a young and innocent body. “I hate you, Father. You will pay.”
Deep down the boy, Jonathan Wild, knew his father would, forever, be a source of disappointment and pain. Whatever happened his life would only get significantly harder from here on in.
The Stench of Failure
1
London, 1706
Fear and trepidation drifted across the city as if it were a listless fog. A killer stalked the streets and each person cowered in fear for their life. The criminal community, especially, found themselves staying alert. All in the hope they could avoid the attentions of this despicable murderer. For they knew something the good honest people of London did not. This maniac…, was one of their own.
His prey, thus far, had been the young women who treaded the streets of the town in the hope money would line their pockets in return for all manner of sexual depravity. These whores were easy pickings for the evil creatures who joined them in the shadows, and no one knew what to do.
Tom Edwards stood in the sludgy filth which lined the bank of the river Thames. His boots slowly sank in the mud and he tried to ignore the stupidity of the situation. City marshals were usually the most egotistical of individuals, yet here he was. Literally stuck in the mud. None of his colleagues would have lowered themselves to this level, preferring to get others to perform the menial tasks, but he had long since learned a good knowledge of the scene could reveal much about a killer.
This murderer, however, was clearly not stupid. He left no evidence of any kind and each of the women they had found was murdered in the most brutal of ways. Beaten about the head, punched repeatedly in the abdomen, throttled with a belt or some other home-made noose and finally their throat sliced open. It was a troubling act indeed.
Tom had seen this before. Too many times. He stood in the mud, as two unkempt and scruffy men pulled a floating corpse towards the shore, hoping it was not as they feared. Praying. People had gathered on the street above, each gazing down to the water with morbid curiosity. They knew what was happening. What the commotion meant.
In his smart, now muddy, uniform he was easy to recognise as a city marshal. In any other circumstance the suit was perfection. Meticulously pressed trousers, a crisp crimson jacket and a shirt crafted by the finest French tailors. He frowned as the men swore, the hooked poles which they brandished persistently missing their target.
“Is it another one?” called a man who stood by the railings above. He was dressed in the same manner as Tom, although he appeared much younger. Lacking the others great experience.
The corpse was finally dragged onto the mud, the men wiping their brows with laboured fa
tigue.
“Bring it up to the street so we can examine it,” said Tom in his impeccable manner. The men stared at each other with a grimace, both angry they were forced to do more hard work.
He ignored them as he climbed the steep accent. When he arrived at his destination he waved the onlookers back. “So is it?” asked the man who had called down to him moments before. “Is it another one?”
He rolled his eyes and leaned against the iron railings. “Do I need remind you, David?” he asked. “We do not make assumptions in this game. We only react to the evidence at hand.” He had little time for this. David Collins had been passed to him as a supporting colleague, but it was quite clear he knew little about being a city marshal. He had been forced to take it upon himself to train him in the art.
Tom was a rare thing; a city marshal who didn’t ally himself with the ideals of corruption and personal gain. Marshals were well known to be the most untrustworthy of the loyal. He was the exception to this rule. He truly believed he was a force for good in this rotten city. Teaching his ideals to Collins, however, was harder than he could ever have imagined.
They both approached an old and rickety wooden cart as the two men hauled the stiff corpse onto the back, causing it to land with a thud.
“Jesus!” screamed Tom. “Be a little more careful!”
Both he and Collins stared at the corpse sorrowfully. The men rolled it over to lie on its back. Tom approached and brushed the long, matted hair which draped over its face and chest away. All of the men sighed as the face of a pretty young woman slowly became clear. Tom ran a finger along her forehead as he studied the body.
“Strangled with a tight noose,” he noted. More for his own use than anything. As he examined the wound his fingers lined deep bruises on her neck. “Beaten to within an inch of her life. See the strangulation marks?” He pointed to the purple bruise which lined her neck. He pulled his hand away as it started to drop into the gash where her throat had been cut open. “So, yes,” he said to him directly, “another one.” His young apprentice couldn’t help the smirk which caused his mouth to twitch. “Take her back to the Bailey,” Tom instructed. “Tell them to prepare her for burial.” He chuckled to himself at his effort to sound professional.
The men climbed onto the cart and snapped the reigns. Slowly an old large horse began to trot away.
“For the love of Jesus,” he wailed, “pull a sheet over her!” There was no need to scare the people of London any more than they were already.
One of the men jumped down and rushed to cover the dead form which lay behind them, ignoring the glances of fear from the surrounding pedestrians. Tom couldn’t fathom how a person could happily ride through the city with pure horror in their wake.
Turning back to Collins he found him deep in thought and struggling with the waterfall of information which cascaded his mind. Tom Edwards was an enigma to him. He was so meticulous and precise, cataloguing all information and detail. He hardly knew what to do with all of those elements, but Tom continuously pressured him to think. To try and see a greater purpose within a crime.
“I don’t get it,” he said in his harsh London tone, “the river is a common dumping ground for dead criminals and other filth, but why are they throwing in their own whores?”
Tom laughed. He was a fine young man, although he was often slow to the point. “While prostitutes are criminals in their own right, I very much doubt they’re subject to the same harsh justice. No, it’s much more worrying than that.” It was the magistrates of London who had specifically asked for his assistance. His reputation was well known and it made him loved by some and hated by others. An honest, Christian man with a strong moral sense often didn’t receive the praise and respect he deserved.
The death of numerous young prostitutes had concerned many. Once this killer had relieved himself of his murderous spree many feared he would turn his attention to other, more innocent and respected, women. His actions had received the highest priority and intrigued the most important of men. Tom had been chosen to discover the identity of this killer, for they believed him to be the only marshal with the intelligence and motivation to complete the task at hand successfully.
“This man,” he continued, “is killing for the pleasure of spilling blood. He has a passion for his murder. It has nothing to do with criminal justice.” Collins didn’t understand. “He is killing for the liking of his devious art,” he pondered. “Maybe to satisfy an old grudge against these ladies of the night.” He drifted into thought, seeking the best way to explain the importance of this matter to his squire. “He kills for no reason. With nothing other than his own criminal intentions in mind. Such a man is more dangerous than any other. Sick and evil beyond all reckoning.”
“So how do we find him?” he asked.
He didn’t know. This insane killer was a conundrum to him. “Most killings are a crime of passion,” he explained, “a disagreement between thieves. A quarrel between lovers... This man is killing for some other reason.” A man who killed simply for his own homicidal notions. Unheard of, even in this great city. Then it hit him. What he needed was assistance. Help from those who may be in a better position to offer it.
Collins glared at him with suspicion. A curious and amused gaze encompassed his face. A worrying look of impetuousness. “What are you thinking?” he asked with dread.
He smiled. “We need help. And I’m going to see if I can find it.”
This was dangerous. Collins knew what he was about to do. Tom believed his position and status would keep him safe through everything. The younger knew this was not the case. Tom Edwards was about to enter the lion’s den. The most dangerous place a man such as he could go.
2
Isabel was a prostitute. That much was obvious to any person who passed her on the street. Her oddity was enough to disgust the normal women and amuse the intrigued men of London. A deep purple dress caused her to stand out. Drew all eyes to her, but she didn't care. She had grown used to the curious and distasteful glares of the people who looked upon her.
She stood on a street corner, flaunting herself to entice the men around her. Recent events had come to this. Working only during the day, constantly on the move to avoid the strong arm of the law. The city constables had become well aware young women were selling themselves during the day, all in the hope they could avoid the 'riverside killer’. It was the perfect opportunity for them to catch these depraved girls and lead them back to the Bailey for harsh punishment.
It was a dangerous game to play. Risk the nights in fear of the lunatic who trawled the streets for women, or chance the day and the constables who were determined to find an easy catch. The latter option had become far more appealing to most ladies of the night.
So far, this day, she had been quick on her feet. Whenever she had caught the eye of a constable she had vanished, only to reappear on another street corner. The trick was to place herself in busy areas. Like the market where she now stood.
Her Madam had explained to the girls they should endeavour to be careful. If they had to work during the night they should do so in the safety of her brothel. She cared for them. She loved them. She was the closest many had to a mother. Isabel, herself, had been found on the street at the age of twelve. Taken in she had been washed, clothed and fed. There was only one small catch for this favour of the highest order. Trained as a pickpocket she joined other young girls on the street, claiming property as their own. They were paid well for this duty. Their madam would shower them with all manner of clothes and jewellery, but the next step in their new career was of a far more sexual nature.
This was why she stood on this street corner. The owner of the market stall had tried, time and time again, to push her away, but she kept returning. It was a perfect place for her. She could see the entirety of the market from her vantage point. Always keeping a lookout for constables. Also a good place to catch the attention of men as they entered the street.
Most were quickly ushe
red away by their wives and lovers, but a few came over to talk. Mostly they were seeking free 'merchandise' and she dispensed with them quickly. Finally a smart man approached.
He wore a well-tailored suit which had been perfectly fit for his chubby exterior. He seemed very interested in employing her unique services. Despite the wedding ring he proudly wore. She assumed he had recently come into money. The perfect prey.
Taking his hand she led him away from the market to a boarding house she knew well. When in the safety of their room she began to seductively undress and he watched with interest and sexual longing. Soon she came to him, removing his jacket and unbuttoning his shirt, taking time to feel the cloth and linen for any sign of value.
The act itself was quick enough. She had learned to remove all emotion from the art of lovemaking, simply allowing her mind to wander while her body did all of the work. Afterwards she was quick to dress, anxious to move onto her next victim.
He had done this before. He watched her carefully, but Isabel did not make any worrying move. He slowly relaxed and became excited once again. Clambering from the bed he drew a sheet around his waist and reached for his trousers, shirt and jacket. Placing them on the bed he pulled her towards him in an embrace.
“Leaving so soon?” he asked in his ridiculously common tone.
Isabel smiled at him sweetly. “Places to go, people to see...”
He dismissed her with a short glance and started to dress himself. Disappointment coursed through his sweaty form. He was desperate for love and female contact. His jacket covered his unbuttoned shirt and his trousers hung loosely around his waist.
“Sure I can't persuade you for another go?” he growled, in an attempt to be seductive. In his palm he held a handful of change. She took it gratefully, placing it in a secure pocket.
Isabel chuckled, approaching and hugging him tightly. “Oh, not today, my love.” She kissed him deeply, running her hands over his body affectionately.