by Sarah Rayne
He expected Flossie Totteridge to be listed as the second victim, but it seemed that Mr Arnold Trumbull, a highly respected gentleman who managed a printing company in Islington and was a lay-preacher at his church, had been next.
Trumbull, thought Declan in horror. The little plucked fowl in a waistcoat. The man whose sister gave most of their money to homes for the indigent, and fed her hapless brother on pig’s head and boiled cabbage. The man who had been responsible for Romilly’s fateful pregnancy. So you killed him as well, did you, Colm? he thought, feeling sick.
Colm would hang on only half of this evidence. The judge and the jury would see it as a killing frenzy out of revenge for Romilly.
After Arnold Trumbull had come Flossie Totteridge. The name was not given; the papers merely described her as a widow who took in lodgers. She had been found with her throat cut in her own sitting room in North London. The police would not know Flossie had seen Colm and Declan with Bullfinch’s bloodstained wallet, but they would see it as another piece of Romilly’s story, because Flossie had turned Romilly out of the house for getting pregnant, when she might have helped her.
There was yet another unexpected victim. It was the little man with the walrus moustache who had been at Holly Lodge with Cerise on the afternoon of Flossie’s death. Cerise had called him Arthur. He was described as a tea importer, living and working in Canonbury. Colm must have traced him, and killed him for fear of what Cerise might have told him – and for fear of what the man himself might have seen or suspected of Flossie’s death.
Cerise was the fifth of Colm’s victims. She had tried to blackmail him, thought Declan. And she, too, could have helped Romilly.
He sat for a very long time, his mind flooded with sickening images, dreadful doubt hammering like spikes against his brain. Had Colm spoken the truth when he described something clawing its way into his brain and forcing him to kill? Or had he killed of his own free will out of revenge for Romilly’s death?
He was allowed to see Colm once, and entering Newgate Gaol was a terrible experience. It was like stepping neck-deep into a well of black despair and Declan had to resist the compulsion to turn around and run away. The meeting took place in a dreadfully bleak room, with Colm behind bars and two officers present. It was impossible to say very much, so Declan just said, ‘I’ll do everything I can to help you,’ and Colm, white and sunken-eyed and distraught, merely nodded.
Walking back to the small lodgings which were all he had managed to afford after leaving Holly Lodge, Declan thought: but what can I do? What?
Two days after the visit he suddenly saw how he might get Colm away. The newspapers were still reporting on the Mesmer Murders, and Declan read how Colm was to be taken to stand trial at the Old Bailey Courthouse in three days’ time. The paper would tell its readers the details of the first day of the trial that same evening.
Three days, thought Declan. They’ll take him from that prison – Newgate – in a closed carriage.
The beginnings of a plan began to unfold.
TWENTY-SIX
It was a simple plan – Declan tried to remember that the most successful plans were the simple ones.
On the morning of the trial, he made his way to Newgate Gaol very early. He had spent a sleepless night – he had, in fact, slept very little since Colm was arrested. A small crowd was massing to watch the excitement of a murderer being brought out, and Declan stood with them, hating them because they were relishing Colm’s situation.
As eight o’clock struck from St Paul’s, a kind of jeering cheer went up, and Declan saw the gates open and a closed carriage come out, drawn by two horses.
‘Black Maria’s here,’ shouted several people, and cries of delight went through the crowd. Several people threw their hats in the air, and women nudged one another with a kind of lascivious glee, and asked was it true he was a fine, handsome young man?
Declan was relieved to see the horses drawing the closed-in carriage; he had been unsure whether the police might use a motorized vehicle, which would have made his plan impossible. His plan was frighteningly flimsy, but, if it worked, Colm would be free. If it did not, Colm would hang and probably Declan with him.
The crowd surged forward, eager to get a glimpse of the notorious Mesmer Murder. The driver urged the horses through them; the horses occasionally shied and showed the whites of their eyes, but Declan thought they were accustomed to crowds and not very much disturbed by them. As the carriage drew closer, judging his moment, he leapt forward and grabbed the bridle of the nearer horse, jerking it away from its companion. The second horse reared up at once, and the carriage slewed round, the wheels scraping and bouncing erratically. The driver leapt from his seat to calm the now-plunging and whinnying horses, and as the crowd backed away, the carriage rocked dangerously. There were shouts from inside, and the driver, trying to get the frightened horses under control, shouted, ‘Get ’im out! It’ll overturn – get ’im out!’
The door was opened, and two men emerged, holding Colm between them. Declan, watching his chance, saw that one of them was bruised and dazed-looking, and guessed the man had been flung against the carriage’s sides as it swayed. It was now or never. He darted forward, willing Colm to respond, praying there was enough confusion to get him clear, agonizing in case Colm was handcuffed or in chains.
All his prayers were answered. There were no fetters of any kind, and Colm’s eyes lit up as soon as he saw Declan. He swung a blow at the dazed officer, knocking him from his feet, then he leapt forward, and Declan grabbed his arm. Together they ran, scarcely noticing where they went, not really caring. Narrow streets, cobbled alleys, huddles of shops, barrows with fruit, vendors with chestnuts and flowers and jellied eels . . . Pounding feet came after them, with cries to stop.
‘Don’t stop,’ gasped Colm. ‘Not for anything, or I’m a dead man.’
At some stage Colm tore off the shameful prison garb so that he was wearing plain trousers and a singlet. It looked no more odd than some of the barrow boys and fruit sellers who had stripped off jackets the better to carry their heavy wares.
At first Declan thought they would never shake off their pursuers, but suddenly, in the way London has of springing its surprises, they went across a square and down an alley, and found themselves in a completely different district, near a small park. And they could no longer hear the sounds of pursuit.
‘Have we done it?’ demanded Colm, white-faced, his eyes blazing. ‘Have we got away?’
‘I think so. Let’s just walk normally, so as not to attract attention.’
‘Where are we, d’you think?’
‘I don’t know, but it doesn’t matter,’ said Declan. ‘Because we’re going to get out of London. We may have to walk most of the way, but we walked in, and we can walk out.’
‘They’ll be looking for me though,’ said Colm. ‘For both of us. Have we money?’
‘Some.’ Declan had brought the remains of the money from Bullfinch’s wallet. He hated doing it, but he could not see any other way.
‘Enough to get to Liverpool and the ferry?’
Declan paused and looked at him. ‘Are we going home? I mean – back to Kilglenn?’
Colm sat down on a little low wall overlooking a patch of green. ‘We are,’ he said. ‘But you don’t have to come with me. And if I can get there I can hide out in the shack. No one will know I’m there if I’m careful.’
‘But . . . why? Colm, all the world’s at our disposal! I thought we’d cross to America – they say there’s plenty of work to be had—’
‘We thought there was plenty of work to be had here,’ said Colm bitterly. ‘And yes, we’ll go to America afterwards. But there’s something I have to do first.’
‘What?’ But Declan already knew.
Colm said, ‘I have to get that accursed chess figure back to the watchtower.’
‘Because the other pieces are there,’ said Declan after a moment.
‘Yes. I know they’re cinders under the
burned-out tower,’ said Colm, before Declan could go on. ‘And I don’t understand it, not really. But I think it’s got to be done.’
Declan said, ‘But I didn’t bring the chess piece. I brought all the things I thought we’d need, so we wouldn’t have to go back, but I left the chess piece at Holly Lodge.’
‘Then,’ said Colm, ‘we’ll have to go back and get it.’
They argued for hours, sitting in the unknown park with London’s life teeming all around them. At midday Declan bought food from a passing street vendor.
‘You have no idea how good that tastes after Newgate fare,’ said Colm, eating hungrily.
‘Is it really bread and water they give you?’
‘It tasted like it.’ He finished the food and stood up. ‘I’m going back to Holly Lodge,’ he said. ‘I’ll find my way somehow. I’ll meet you here as soon as I can.’
‘I’ll go,’ said Declan. ‘You daren’t be seen.’
‘Nor dare you. The police will know you were the one who caused the escape.’
‘But no one at Holly Lodge will know that yet,’ said Declan. ‘So you’re the one who’ll wait here until I come back.’
‘All right,’ said Colm. ‘If you see anything of Romilly’s while you’re there, bring that as well, would you? I think she had some photos from Kilglenn.’
‘For pity’s sake, I can’t go rummaging through all the rooms—’
‘I suppose not. But there’s one very important thing—’
‘Yes?’
‘See if you can find the Title Deeds to the house,’ said Colm. ‘For I’m damned if I’m leaving without getting something out of this.’
It was vital not to feel angry or annoyed with Colm. Declan, threading his way through the streets, watchful for police, reminded himself that the request to find the deeds to Holly Lodge was reasonable – even sensible. They had hardly any money between them, and they would be fugitives for some time to come. To own a house would be a fine thing. But how could it possibly profit them? They would not dare live in it, nor would they dare sell it or rent it out. And were you allowed to profit from a crime you had committed? Declan had no knowledge of the law, but he thought it was a reasonable assumption that you were not.
Still, if he could get the Title Deeds he would do so, although he would not endanger either himself or Colm in the process.
The chess figure was another matter entirely.
Thinking furiously, Declan began to make his way across London.
In the end he simply walked openly into Holly Lodge. If anyone appeared – police or any of the girls – he would say he was collecting a couple of items of clothing he had left behind and he would be ignorant of Colm’s escape.
But no one did appear. Declan heard faint sounds of crockery from the kitchens, but he was able to go up to the room he and Colm had shared. Moving quickly, listening for footsteps on the stairs, he scooped up the few odds and ends that were there. Then, taking a deep breath, he opened the bedside drawer and took out the chess piece, dropping it into his pocket. It felt heavy, as if it was dragging down the cloth of his coat.
There did not seem to be anything in the room that might have been Romilly’s though, and Declan went back down the stairs. No one seemed to be around, although he could still hear someone moving around the scullery. Dare he go into Flossie’s part of the house? Surely the police would have taken away all her papers and documents anyway? But Colm had been insistent, and Declan, remembering the way Colm’s eyes could blaze with anger, did not feel like returning without having at least tried to find the Title Deeds. His heart thudding, he went through to the little sitting room where Flossie had died.
Everything was neat and tidy; furniture stacked to one side, a tea chest standing in the centre, containing what looked like a miscellany of Flossie’s possessions. Declan made a cursory search of this, but there was nothing except ordinary household goods, a few sketches of local scenes, some china and glass ornaments. Where would papers be kept? There was a small bureau-cum-desk in one corner; it was almost certainly locked, but it was worth trying.
It was locked, but the lock was a flimsy one and it snapped fairly easily. Feeling like a housebreaker, Declan went swiftly through the papers inside it. There were letters, bills, odd receipts from various local merchants. He opened the small drawers at the back of the desk.
The Deeds were there. Several pages of thick, expensive-looking paper, tied with narrow green tape, bearing the legend: Holly Lodge, freehold messuage and lands in the district of Highbury, County of London.
Declan thrust the papers into the inside of his jacket and almost ran from the house.
The present
‘So that’s how you did it,’ said Benedict softly, in the ruins of Colm’s cottage, with the ocean-scented air blowing all round him.
We did. And it took a long and weary time to get back up to Liverpool.
‘But you came back here?’
We did. And for a time we thought we were safe. We thought we could hide out, and I’d take the chess figure back to the watchtower.
‘To be with the embers of the others,’ said Benedict, softly.
Yes. I wish I could explain to you about its force – about how it poured itself into me and made me feel such hatred and such malevolence.
‘I understand a little,’ said Benedict, remembering parts of Fergal McMahon’s memoirs.
Do you? But you can’t begin to imagine how weary these years have been. The poets write about beckoning ghosts in moonlight shades, and they wax lyrical about wizard oaks and Homer’s thin airy shoals of visionary ghosts. Oh yes, Benedict, I have the learning and I have the classics at my beck and I can quote the great minds with the best, for the monks wouldn’t have sent their pupils out into the world deformed and unfinished before their time . . . But the moonlight shades are lonely and desolate and as for wizard oaks, I wouldn’t have them as a gift, even if I knew what they were.
Benedict said, ‘Why did you kill my parents? And my grandfather, who was Declan’s son after all.’
But isn’t every man somebody’s son? And I didn’t mean to kill them. They were hell-bent on destroying the chess figure. They had a few shreds of its story, handed down by Declan; they knew it was something to be feared. But I knew that if it was destroyed I’d lose my only chance of reaching one of Declan’s descendants, and ridding myself of the sins. It had to be one of Declan’s family, because—
‘Because he was the one who set the ritual working,’ said Benedict, softly.
So you understand that, do you? When I realized your father intended to destroy the figure I tried to stop him. They were taking it to the old St Stephen’s cemetery to bury it or burn it – he and your grandfather had pieced together some of the links to the past, mostly from half-memories Declan had left them. They hadn’t got it quite right, but they knew enough to realize it was the source of the house’s strangeness – that it was connected to the person they sometimes saw looking out of the mirrors. I had to prevent them destroying it, but I didn’t intend them to die. And then afterwards there was only you, Benedict.
‘The figure in the mirror,’ said Benedict, half to himself. ‘So my father did see you.’
Oh yes. But all those years ago when your great-grandfather got me out of Newgate Gaol, I wanted to destroy the chess piece – I knew it had made me a murderer. Declan didn’t want to come back here – he said we’d be seen and recognized. But I persuaded him. I could always persuade him to do what I wanted. I said even if we were seen, we’d be the prodigal sons returning.
But once we reached this cottage, it all went dreadfully wrong and the nightmare began . . .
Kilglenn, 1890s
For the first few hours of their return, Declan and Colm stayed in the shack, waiting for nightfall.
‘Then we’ll go up to the watchtower, and we’ll cast this devil-inspired figure into the rubble,’ said Colm. ‘It can reunite itself with the others, and for all I care they can spend the
next thousand years raising Satan’s armies to invade the world.’
‘I hate being here and not seeing my family,’ said Declan.
‘When we make our fortunes in America we’ll come back and bestow largesse everywhere. What is largesse, by the way?’
‘No idea, but we’ll bestow it anyway.’
Darkness had not completely fallen when they set off for the watchtower. A faint glimmer came from the ocean, and the moon was rising, casting a cool silvery light.
There was a dreamlike quality to the cliff path as they climbed it, and they both remembered again the old tales of the Sidhe who could lure men to their deaths with their chill fatal singing.
The watchtower reared up above them as they came round the last curve of the path, stark and bleak against the night sky, and they both stopped and stared up at it.
‘Just think,’ said Declan softly, ‘how we used to make up stories about it – how it was a giant’s castle with a captive princess inside, or how it had been built from the magic-soaked stones of the ancient Irish Court of Tara.’
‘And now,’ said Colm softly, ‘it’s a burned-out wreck, with the bones of a renegade priest in the rubble.’ He began to walk up the last few yards, then stopped. ‘Can you hear that?’
‘I hear nothing. And if you’re starting to think this place is haunted, or the Sidhe are calling . . .’ Then Declan heard it as well, and the sounds were not ghosts and they were certainly not the Sidhe.
The sounds were human. Several voices, all shouting, ‘Murderer.’
They turned and saw, on the path below them, torch lights flaring through the dusk. At least twenty people – most of them men, but some women – were coming towards them.
‘That’s half the village of Kilglenn!’ said Colm, staring at the people in fear. ‘And they’re coming for me.’
‘But we needn’t be afraid,’ said Declan. ‘Those are people we know – we grew up among them. My father isn’t there, though,’ he said, scanning the faces. ‘Neither is Fintan.’