by Kerry Tombs
Quickly she walked away from the inn, leaving the drunkard and the blind beggar still in dispute. Turning the corner, she was relieved to see the cart and its owner making their slow way down one of the narrow alleyways.
She knew now, that he would take her to where their final victim would be waiting — to where she would be able to confront the woman who had been the main cause of the downfall of her family, and to where she would at last be avenged.
The cart and the old man continued on their way. She wondered why he did not turn round to see whether she had followed his instructions, but then she realized that such a man as Monk would have been aware of her every movement.
Suddenly Monk stopped. He abandoned the cart at the side of the alleyway, glanced briefly in her direction, before quickening his pace and turning the corner, disappearing from view.
She hurried after him, fearful that the night fog would encompass the figure before she regained sight of him.
As she turned the corner, she felt herself being grabbed and thrust violently up against the brickwork.
‘You made sure that no one followed you?’ he whispered.
‘Yes. Yes, I am alone,’ she replied, trying to recover her breathing as she attempted to free herself from his grasp.
‘We must be quiet. She is asleep in her room,’ he whispered again as he relaxed his grip upon her, his face hidden by the darkness.
She nodded, her face wet with perspiration as she attempted to stifle her coughing with her trembling hands.
‘You are sure?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ she replied, the words being uttered in no more than a faint whisper, and in a voice that seemed not like her own.
‘Then come!’
Taking her hand, he pulled her into a small courtyard and on towards the window of a room, where she saw the faint flicker of a candle from within.
At last, the final page could be written.
She would be fulfilled.
He pushed open the door and almost dragged her into the small room.
‘There is no one here!’ she protested, but before she could continue, she felt herself being thrown on to the bed that lay in the centre of the room.
‘You waited for me to come out of the church!’ he sneered, his breath coming in short gasps as he looked down at her.
She tried to climb off the bed, but before she could do so, she felt his strong hands forcing her back on to the sheet, as his body came down on top of her.
‘I told you, I work alone. You should have left me alone, but your curiosity got the better of you. You had to see who I was!’ he snarled again, tearing at her clothes.
She tried to cry out, but instead felt his hand clasping her throat, forcing her head back on to the bed.
She knew then, that he had betrayed her and that she was to be his final victim.
‘It is no use! All you can do is die!’ he hissed.
As she struggled to break free, she could feel his grip tightening around her throat. She looked up at his face and saw the hatred and frenzy there.
She had failed her husband and son!
As the blackness came over her, the last thing she saw was the blade, as it prepared to make its downward thrust.
EPILOGUE
DINARD, NORTHERN FRANCE, NOVEMBER 1888
On 12 November, a well-dressed, middle-aged gentleman could be found sipping coffee on the terrace of the Gandolphi Hotel in the fashionable French resort of Dinard. The late autumn sunshine felt warm against the side of his face, as he looked out across the bay to where he could just see the outline of the ancient walls of the imposing fortress of St Malo in the distance. Closer to the shore, the ferry boat was making its slow progress across the waters. On the beach, below the terrace, a small group of children played happily on the sands under the watchful eye of their guardian. A number of sea birds circled overhead in the blue sky. On either side of him, fine stately villas adorned the edges of the cliffs.
Somewhere in the distance a church clock struck the hour of eleven. To this man, the peaceful, tranquil setting seemed a million miles away from the narrow, congested streets of Whitechapel and the ancient stones of Worcester that he had known. As he lay back in his chair, he closed his eyes, knowing that he had at last achieved the inner peace which he had so long desired.
‘Monsieur would like the newspaper?’ inquired a French voice breaking the tranquillity of the scene.
‘Merci, Philippe,’ replied the man taking the paper.
The waiter smiled, collected his empty coffee cup and walked back into the interior of the hotel.
The man, after cleaning the lens in his spectacles, opened the newspaper and turned over the pages, casually glancing at the various news stories, not welcoming the intrusion of the real world into his thoughts. After a brief examination of the cricket scores, he opened the newspaper at the centre page, where a particular item caught his attention.
TERRIBLE MURDER IN WHITECHAPEL
Further Horrific Outrage
Reports are being circulated in the London newspapers regarding the discovery of a woman’s body in the Whitechapel district of the city, early on the morning of 9 November last. We have reason to believe that the unfortunate woman was another victim of the infamous killer who has stalked this area of London over the previous three months. What is particularly disturbing upon this occasion, however, is that the victim was savagely killed in her own rooms. We understand that the victim’s name was one Marie Jeanette Kelly who lodged at 13 Miller’s Court off Dorset Street, although it may not be possible to effect a positive identification of the deceased, as the body was brutally mutilated by her attacker in his frenzied assault. The death of this latest woman has caused widespread outrage within the capital, and we have also learnt that Sir Charles Warren, the Metropolitan Police Commissioner has resigned over the failure of the police force to apprehend the murderer of these poor—
‘Anything interesting in the newspaper today?’ asked a voice at the reader’s elbow.
‘It seems that another poor woman has met with an untimely death in London,’ said the man rising from his seat.
‘I am sure that had you been there, you would have apprehended the villain by now,’ smiled the lady.
‘You overestimate my abilities, my dear,’ replied Ravenscroft, discarding the paper on the table. ‘Anyway, I would much prefer to be here in your company, than tracking down some depraved maniac in the grimy streets of Whitechapel. I only wish we did not have to return to England today.’
‘I have been so happy here, Samuel,’ she replied, taking his arm, ‘and would be content to remain here for the rest of our lives, but I’m sure little Richard will be missing us, and—’
‘Pardon, Monsieur Ravenscroft, Madame Ravenscroft. Your carriage is ready to take you to your boat at St Malo,’ interrupted the waiter.
‘Thank you, Philippe,’ replied Ravenscroft.
‘Your bags have been sent on ahead, monsieur.’
‘Thank you.’
‘I trust Madame and monsieur have found everything to their satisfaction at the Hotel Gandolphi, and that we may have the satisfaction of seeing you again some other day?’
‘Indeed,’ said Ravenscroft, tipping the waiter, before taking Lucy’s arm and leading the way towards the front entrance of the hotel, to where a horse-drawn carriage awaited them.
Ravenscroft opened the door of the carriage, as another vehicle suddenly swept into the entrance way. ‘After you, my dear,’ he said, helping his wife up the steps of their carriage, whilst the driver steadied the horse.
The manager of the Gandolphi walked down the entrance steps and opened the door of the other conveyance. ‘Welcome to the Hotel Gandolphi, monsieur, madame.’
Ravenscroft looked across and saw an elderly gentleman with a long white beard alighting from the vehicle. Wearing a black cloak over a shabby black suit, and a large hat, the new arrival stared round at his new surroundings. His companion, a young woman of striking appearan
ce, laughed and smiled as she placed her arm within his and looked up into his face.
For a brief moment, Ravenscroft thought the old man looked across in his direction, before shuffling up the steps of the Gandolphi.
‘Come, Samuel, or our boat will sail without us,’ called Lucy from within the carriage.
‘I’m sorry, my dear. It’s just, I thought I recognized someone, but I must have been mistaken.’
Ravenscroft climbed into the carriage, and their conveyance set off at a brisk pace in the direction of St Malo.
Inside the Gandolphi, the manager was examining the papers of the strange couple who stood before him. ‘These all seem in order. You are Mademoiselle Mary Jane Kelly?’
‘Marie Jeanette,’ corrected the young woman, laughing and squeezing her elder companion’s arm.
‘Pardon, mademoiselle. Marie Jeanette Kelly, of course. Here are your papers as well, monsieur.’
‘Thank you,’ replied the old man.
‘We hope you will enjoy your stay in Dinard, Monsieur Cranston.’
‘I’m sure I will. Thank you. You are most kind. I’m sure I will enjoy my stay here a great deal,’ replied the old man smiling . . .
THE END
Book 3:
THE LEDBURY
LAMPLIGHTERS
A captivating Victorian murder mystery
Kerry Tombs
DEDICATION
For Samuel and Joan
Fond memories of Ledbury
PROLOGUE
DINARD, NORTHERN FRANCE, NOVEMBER 1888
He had always known – of course – that eventually he would have to kill her.
That much was certain.
The outcome of their liaison had never been in dispute. The only question that now remained was when, and how, the deed would be performed.
Four weeks previously he had sought her out in the drinking taverns of Whitechapel. There he had watched her, as she had flaunted her crude charms in front of her prospective customers. Later he had followed her down the dark alleyways of the neighbourhood, where he had observed with almost clinical aloofness the coarse nature of her trade, while he had waited for his opportunity to speak with her alone. Finally one night, he had felt sure of himself and had confronted her in the alleyway near her lodgings. At first she had laughed at the elderly shambling man with his grey hair, flowing beard and polite speech, but as he had shown her the gold coins in his gloved hands, he had witnessed the look of greed flutter across her eyes, and knew that she would eventually undertake all that would be demanded of her. After that initial conversation, he had always been careful that they had only met in places where they could remain unobserved. Slowly, as he had gained her confidence, he had discovered her fancies and desires, and it had been easy to make her believe that if she went with him, and him alone, then he would grant her everything that she wished for. At the same time he had been sure to swear her to secrecy, declaring that their association would end if she told anyone of his existence.
When he had informed her of his impending visit to France, he had known that she would be only too anxious to accompany him, and it had been easy for him to send her on ahead to Portsmouth, while he had used her room to complete the work he had begun so earnestly earlier that autumn. Before the body had been discovered, he had left the capital well behind him, and by the time the news of his latest atrocity had been printed in the newspapers, they had arrived safely in Brittany.
At first she had wanted to travel on to Paris, but he had insisted that they remain in Saint-Malo for a few days, and when he had taken her to the costumiers to purchase some new clothes for her, she had been more than pleased to comply with his request.
As they had made their way down the narrow winding streets of the historic town, or sat in pavement cafes, he had become used to people turning their heads to observe the unusual couple – the old man with his walking stick and large hat, progressing slowly on his way, and the young, laughing woman full of charm and good looks, her arm looped through his, seemingly dependent on her new benefactor for everything.
Then he had deemed it prudent to move on – that had always been his way – and they had travelled the few miles along the coast until they had arrived at Dinard and the Hotel Gandolphi. As they had alighted from their carriage, however, he had been momentarily taken aback when he had seen that nuisance Ravenscroft and his new wife departing from the hotel. For a brief moment he had been afraid that the interfering policeman had recognized him, but as he had shuffled his way up the steps of the front entrance and the other carriage had driven away, he had recovered his confidence, knowing that his disguise had served him well.
For several days after their arrival, they had enjoyed the late autumn sunshine, sitting out on the balcony of the Gandolphi overlooking the sand and the sea, visiting the town of Dinan to admire its steep cobbled streets and gentle river, stopping off for refreshment at cafes in small Breton villages. And all the time he had been careful that they had kept to themselves, shunning the polite after-dinner conversations of their fellow guests, always travelling alone and above all making sure that she had no opportunity to read the London papers, where she might have learnt of the outrage that had taken place at her former lodgings.
Now, however, he had become restless and unsettled. The quiet, unhurried pattern of their existence, which had at first been so welcoming and enlightening, had begun to bore him. Worse still, he had grown tired and embarrassed by the attentions of his young companion, whose pretentious French mannerisms and silly conversation had started to irritate him. And when she had cast glances at one or two of the more eligible male single diners in the hotel dining-room, he had known that it would be only a matter of time before she abandoned him for another perhaps more appealing prospect – or worse still, would reveal her true identity to some passing stranger.
When he had announced that they were about to return to London, she had become annoyed, still believing that he had intended taking her on to Paris, but he had bought off her displeasure with the promise that once they returned to England he would visit his lawyer to instruct him to draw up his will, leaving his entire estate to her and her alone.
‘We are sorry to see you leaving us, Monsieur Cranston, Mademoiselle Kelly, and trust that you have enjoyed your stay at the Gandolphi,’ said the manager of the hotel on the morning of their departure.
‘Yes, thank you,’ he had replied, and she had laughed and squeezed his arm.
‘We wish you a safe journey, and hope to see you both again someday.’
‘Thank you, I’m sure that we will.’
They had made their way out the hotel and down the steps to their waiting carriage.
Later that afternoon, as they had boarded the ferry, the sun had already begun setting over the fortress walls of Saint-Malo, bathing the town in a gentle autumnal glow. He had been sure to book a cabin in a quiet part of the boat, and once there he had complained that he was unwell, lying on the bed and requesting that his companion read to him so that they would not have recourse to mix with the other passengers.
Presently, they had dressed for dinner and had begun to make their slow way towards the dining-room.
Suddenly he paused as they were about to climb the steps on to the deck.
‘What is the matter?’ she asked anxiously, looking into his face.
‘I am still feeling unwell, my dear.’
‘Shall we return to the cabin?’
‘No. I shall be well in a moment. I think if we could go up above for a brief moment or two, I would be much better after some air. I find the close confines of the boat somewhat oppressive, my dear.’
Taking his arm, they made their way up the steps and out through the door that brought them up on to one of the promenade decks.
‘It is far too windy!’ she recoiled, drawing her shawl close around her, and wishing to return indoors.
‘I am sorry, my dear, to bring you up here. I promise we will not be very long. I feel a li
ttle better already. Perhaps we could walk for just a minute or two, before we go into dinner,’ he suggested.
She gave him a look of momentary displeasure, then remembering the reason for their journey, smiled and complied with his request.
The couple made their way along the empty, dimly lit deck. He looked out across the wide expanse of sea, to where a solitary lamp somewhere in the far distance broke the intense darkness of the night – and knew that the time had come.
‘Please can we go into dinner? It is so cold and dark out here!’ she pleaded, shouting above the noise of the crashing waves.
‘I think you are right, my dear. I am so sorry to have brought you up here,’ he replied.
Suddenly he let out a groan and staggered forward. She moved quickly and reached out to prevent his fall.
‘Shall I call someone?’ she said anxiously, holding his arm tightly.
‘Over there,’ he muttered, moving towards the rail.
‘Do let me call someone. You are not well.’
‘No. It will pass,’ he replied, reaching out for the rail. ‘Just hold on to me. All will be well in a moment.’
‘Of course, but—’
‘Just hold me tight.’
She complied with his instructions. ‘Let me fetch someone.’
‘I am so sorry it has come to this, but believe me, there is no other way.’
She said nothing, but as she looked into his eyes she saw the sudden flash of hatred there, and as the hands closed quickly around her neck she knew that she was powerless to prevent the draining away of her short life. A few seconds later her head fell silently on to his shoulder. He held her close, feeling the fragile, limp body against his own.
‘Madame is not well?’
The unexpected voice startled him. He had been so sure that they had been alone.
‘Madame does not like the sea air?’ enquired the new arrival.