But still a mere coincidence.
We all exited to the streets one by one. Rufus gave us all a slight nod as he took his leave into the night. Harry did the same, running off into the twilight tinted streets. Palmer followed and left without acknowledging us. Lucius did not emerge behind us.
"You still reckon someone is slipping out at night to do our bidding then?" I teased as I crept up behind Francis in the street, who was idly wandering, lost in his own thoughts.
He grumbled irritably. "You do not have to rub it in. You are right, these things do happen. However, I still believe it too coincidental."
"Something is odd though."
Francis swung round on the spot. "So you admit it?"
"No, no nothing like that," - as I said this, Francis' expression faded - "I meant Rufus; did you see how on edge he looked?"
"I would not worry too much about Rufus. I believe the man has issues at home, and at present it seems the only solution he is able to come up with is to drink night after night. Whatever issue he is going through, it is probably starting to get to him."
"Possibly... You certainly irritated Lucius with your goings on." I could not help but let a smile spread across my face at the image of the grumpy Lucius still sat in the room alone, swilling his drink and mumbling to himself.
"It is not exactly hard, the man is tightly wound. He is bending the law to his whim, but the last thing he probably wants on his doorstop is a few murders."
"I guess even men like Lucius have to draw the line somewhere."
"On another note, have you seen James recently?"
"No, why?"
"He was asking about you – I believe he was worried that you had been unable to find work. I told him that all your affairs were now in order, which seemed to relieve him. I believe he has intended to visit, but has been unable to due to the case he is currently on."
"He was most likely trying to get me to join the force – I know he was always keen for others to take the same path. Still, hopefully I will see him in the coming days. I would very much like his company."
As I finished my sentence Francis slowed to a halt and I realised that we were already at his home. I gave him a smile of strength before he turned to his home. "It looks like this is where we part."
Francis smiled back and nodded. "Indeed. Goodnight, Eric. I will see you next week I presume?"
"That you will. Goodnight, Francis."
Francis smiled and disappeared behind the door of his home as I continued on towards home. As I closed my front door the silence and loneliness of my home struck me. In a matter of minutes I had gone from a crowded club to an empty home, of which the prior occupant had been lost. Once again, I helped myself to the liquor cabinet, prodding at the fire and thinking of my situation. I had returned home to London with the pure intention of leaving once again, yet I had become a thresher of sorrows, a part of a group who existed purely to harvest from others. I dwelled on this thought for a while, perhaps for too long. My mind clouded with worry. I thought of the meeting and of the arguing, of the coincidental murders. Although I did not believe in the murders being linked, the events were enough to cause unrest between the men in those meetings. As late evening rolled round I found myself still wide awake, pacing about the house and still treating myself to the various liquors I had earlier found unopened in my late Father’s drinks cabinet, hoping that it would take my mind off things. I continued late into the night before drinking myself into a cold, purposeful sleep.
Chapter VIII
"Eric, what time do you call this?" Gilbert queried as I entered work the following morning. Admittedly, even by my standards I was late. I had no excuse to offer, so I did not respond. Gilbert's eyes followed me across the room as I made my way to my desk and took my seat. It was not until I began to prepare the books laid out before me that he finally looked back down to his own desk, apparently dropping the subject, although I knew too well that he would not forget the slip in such a hurry. Perhaps he would find a way to dock my pay, I thought to myself, or try to make me work extra hours. I grinned to myself. Of course not. Neither would happen. He had no control over my position in the company. I was free to do as I liked.
I want to be free.
Despite my lateness, I had managed to pick up a copy of The Times on the way past the local vendor. Francis' constant outbursts had started to play heavily on my mind and, mostly out of curiosity, I could not help but to try and find out just how far the coincidence of the murders would go. I unravelled it eagerly in a way that it looked like I was scanning through one of the many trading logs. Although a part of me expected the headline, I still found myself unprepared for it.
THE TIMES, SATURDAY, OCTOBER 16, 1837
LONDON KILLER ATTACKS AGAIN
The man recently responsible for a spree of murders has attacked once again in London. The killer, whose identity remains unknown, attacked and murdered Richard Lawrence, owner of Lawrence & Son. It is said that Mr Lawrence was walking home late from work when a strange figure leapt at him from a dark alley. After immobilising him, he clawed him to death with what was described as knife-like claws. During the attack, a servant girl passing through the area came upon the scene and screamed, making the attacker quickly flee from the scene, making its escape by leaping effortlessly over a set of railings almost 10 feet high. The girl later described the creature as being "Clad in armour of brass and large claw gloves."
A look out is being kept. He has been named "Steel Jack" by the inhabitants of Lewisham, many of whom are afraid to leave their houses after dark.
I laid back in my seat in a cold sweat. Could it be that Francis was right? That this circumstance was more than mere coincidence? The chilling realisation that I may have walked into something that I wished not to be a part of clouded over me and an overwhelming urge to escape overtook me.
A mere coincidence.
No, it was no coincidence. Not anymore. It seemed that Francis had been right all along.
I snapped out of my daze when the front door opened as I could hear Gilbert call out. "Good morning Sebastian."
Sebastian, a young Irish boy who regularly ran errands for Gilbert, gave a cheery hullo as he bobbed up to Gilberts desk. His face was sprightly, still retaining the energetic youthfulness of innocence. "Any jobs today, mister?" he chirped.
"I have an errand, to deliver some papers to the post office. Let me fetch them for you." Gilbert strode away into a back room, rummaging through bookshelves for his archived papers.
As Sebastian waited for Gilberts return, he glanced about the room idly. I returned to my paper, avoiding eye contact and any suggestion of a conversation, but after looking about he eventually held out his dirty hand and pointed right at my newspaper. "He sounds a right horror that Jack bloke."
I peered at him from over my paper. "You have heard of him?"
"Course I have. Killed three people they reckon. Wouldn't be surprised if he got a fourth. Always manages to escape too. Sounds scary if you ask me, jumpin' about with those claws."
"They are just tall tales constructed by the media," I concluded, shutting the paper and ending the conversation. "It is probably no more than a man with a knife. Any fool can jump."
"That's not what they're saying mister, they reckon he can scale walls as high as houses!"
"And who is it who says such things?"
"Well, me dad for one."
"And has your dad seen this 'Jack' fellow?"
"Well ...no." The boy looked slightly deflated. "But he knows a bloke who did!"
I did not respond. Such hearsay was only muddying the situation, probably passed from drunkard to drunkard. With such misinformation, it would not have surprised me if the murders were carried out by three separate individuals. Still, one could not deny the sheer circumstance of the situation, three different men named by ourselves, murdered not long after in similar circumstance. This was the fact that I could not shake.
Gilbert returned not long after,
giving the boy some change and rushing him along. The remainder of my working day was dull, consisting of working in silence alongside Gilbert, scrawling meaningless notes in logs and tallying up numbers that no one would ever see. I was exhausted when I returned home, and in no mood to entertain any company. Instead of turning to the drink, I instead immediately retired to bed, drifting off into an instant, dreamless sleep.
It was past midday when I rose the next day. The sun eventually angled itself to shine through my window, causing me to stir and eventually wake. Managing to climb out of bed, I made my way to the window and parted the curtains to check the street – devoid of strangers in the night, it was now filled with men, women and carriages all rushing about purposely.
As it was a weekend I made no endeavour to get ready quickly. I laid in bed for a while, staring at the ceiling with all the willpower of a corpse. It was only after wasting an indeterminate amount of time that I decided it would be best to go out for a walk - for some fresh air. For anything other than sitting in the confines of that tomb I called a home. I took my time to groom and dress myself, prolonging any sort of departure from by idly staring at myself in the mirror. The long and thin face of a tired man stared back at me, his short black hair unkempt and his eyes blackened through tiredness. I could barely believe that it was I that was staring back. The face acted as a reminder of everything I had lost – both youth and joy.
As I attempted to freshen up there came a knock from the door downstairs. My first reaction was to ignore it; perhaps it would be Francis coming to talk to me about the group and the murders, or possibly another member visiting to confide in further business opportunities I wished not to know. I had no doubt that the meetings were merely the tip of the iceberg as far as some of those gentlemen's illegal activities went and, as far as I could see, the less I knew about such illegal activities the better. However, the knocking continued and I realised that it would not stop until answered. I decided to get it over and done with, rising from the mirror stoically and slumping down the stairs. I was surprised, however, to open the door to James.
"Forgive the intrusion." He smiled whilst taking off his cap. The smile faded the moment he saw my condition. "Have you just woken up?"
I opened the door to invite him in. "There is little reason for me to rise before this hour. Please, come in."
Thanking me, once again with a smile, James stepped into the house and admired it. "It looks a whole lot better without the dust, do you not think?"
I smiled and nodded, unsure of exactly what to say to such idle talk. I led him into the lounge and offered him a drink, to which he declined.
"How have you been feeling of late?" he asked as he made himself comfortable on the settee.
"I have been feeling better, thank you. I am presently getting into my usual custom."
He smiled. "Is it customary for you to rise past midday?" I knew James meant no disrespect. He had always had that cheek and was the only man who could get away with it. "I am glad you are feeling better," he continued. "I was worrying about you, I will have you know. That is to say – when you were travelling around Europe. How was the experience?"
"Life in Europe was in many ways different to our present way of life. The people and places are indeed foreign and I certainly feel foreign. The climate and cuisine has a lasting impact on those fortunate enough to venture to such a part of the world."
"I can imagine. I would wager you are still glad to be back in the land of the civilised. You can never trust those foreigners. They are a queer bunch."
"You have yet to tell me about your latest preoccupations. I have heard it mentioned that you are quite the famous detective now?"
"Ha, not quite."
"The most famous detective in London, it is said."
"Have you been reading the papers? I would not believe everything I read in such things."
"Still as modest as ever."
"Not at all." He smiled and began to spend the following half hour excitedly recounting anecdotes from the various investigations he had been involved during my absence, the most noteworthy being the chilling tale of the daughter who visited her mother from beyond the grave to identify her murderer – his most famous case to date, he said.
Whilst recounting one particular strange tale of a man who dressed as a bear purely to stalk women at night, he suddenly extended his hand to point to the table between us. He was pointing at my copy of The Times from the previous day, the one reporting the death of Richard Lawrence. "I have been investigating the Lawrence case too. A grim way to go it must be said."
I listened intently as he begun to recount the details. "He was travelling home late when he was attacked. The poor soul was dragged from the street and murdered in an alley. No witnesses, no leads. Nothing to identify the culprit."
"That is not what the papers say. They mention of a servant girl who witnessed the attack."
"The girl only thinks she saw the attack," James responded, deflating back into his seat. "I have interviewed her. Her story changed with every questioning. In my opinion, the girl barely saw a thing."
"So she was lying? Perhaps to get her name in the papers?"
"Perhaps, although I think she has convinced herself she has seen otherwise – fear is a strange thing. It can make you see and hear what you do not wish to and make them seem as if they were a reality. I merely believe she was either drunk on the night, or in hysterics upon seeing even the slightest hint of violence before her. Either way, her statement is untrustworthy and useless."
As James slouched back into his seat I read over the article once more. It reeled off like any other murder to be read from the newspapers, although the coincidental connection to the meetings I had attended only further interested me. "Do you have any idea who is responsible?" I asked.
James shook his head. "The man had a long list of enemies, apparently. People were not fond of how aggressive he was in the workplace. However, there are no suspects at present."
"And what of this name, an alias? Jack they're calling him."
James laughed. "Since when did you believe the nonsense they print? Jack is simply a made up name. If I had a coin for every Jack..." He paused in thought for a second before that warm smile crept in once again. "Anyway, enough of work, I did not come to talk about such grim matters. What are you going to do now that you are back?"
"With the death of my Father the family business has fallen into my hands. I own half the business and I intend to utilise my share to the fullest."
James clapped with joy. "I must say I am surprised, I never envisioned you taking over the business as you seemed ill-suited. Europe must have affected you deeply!"
"Indeed, it has a lasting effect on me." I poured another drink, offering one out to James to which he declined once again. "In actuality I think it is London to which I am more ill-suited. Nothing is as it used to be."
Nor as it should be I thought to myself as we sat and talked of idle matters for the remainder of our time. Such things I had become involved in since my arrival, the illegal activities, the murders, the strangers stalking the night. London was a cesspit as far as I could tell – and one that I would do better to leave the first opportunity arose.
James left before all the light from the sky had dimmed. I watched him as he disappeared into the streets beyond. He looked like any other man disappearing to his home, rushing to see their wife and family. Only James never married - and never would. Pardon the worn expression, but it seemed as if James was married to his work more than he could ever could be to a woman.
I decided to go for that walk I had intended on. I wandered at my own pace, idly passing through streets and alleys. The dark no longer scared me, what scared me the most was that I knew all too well what lurked beyond it. I had become acquainted with a bringer of death, and now stood beside him in business as a partner. How had such a horrific situation befell me? I had not asked for it, nor did I desire it. Perhaps this was my punishment for divulging in gl
uttony, for we were all in debt for being sinners.
I lost myself in thought for several hours, walking aimlessly through London. I did not wish to return home, knowing only far too well that I would drink and think and remain miserable. I walked and visited places. None were inviting in the night, but it swayed my mind from current affairs nevertheless.
Eventually the taverns began to shut, kicking the drunkards out into the harshness of the night. Precious few remained open, but they were fronts for illegal operations, or dens for pickpockets and thugs. Defeated, I made my way home.
I resumed my usual practice of making myself comfy beside the fire. I poured myself some wine, made sure the flames were tall and slouched into the armchair. I felt tired, but knew my mind was not ready for rest. Instead I simply supped and watched the flames and made sure to never look away. To look away was to invite thought.
But thought did creep in, as it always does. Mere coincidence, I thought. But I thought more than that, and deeper. Although the situation I was in was both worrying and strange, it was not what dominated my mind. No, that prize went to the house. The house which should not be mine at all. My Father should have been there. It was his house. His life. And there I was doing a pale imitation of him. I knew I was out of my depth, but I never quite realised how much.
It was the thoughts of my Father that made me remember the chest. The one Lilly had rediscovered it when cleaning the house upon my return, but had caused us so much pain that we put it aside. The chest contained letters and notes from my parents - as parents do. Simple notes, diaries. I put the wine glass down and went to the cupboard at the bottom of the stairs.
The chest was as it was, hidden underneath a curtain of coats. I pulled it out, huffing at the immense weight of the solid oak chest and coughing from the disturbed dust. Once it was out I had to take a moment to catch my breath and have a swig of wine.
The Killing Hand Page 8