The Killing Hand

by Andrew Bishop

  Arthur answered, with a curious smile. “Eric Godwin? A curious surprise to find you here. A part of me did expect for you to turn up sooner or later.”

  “It did?” I asked, attempting to remain calm. I had to make sure to act casual and avoid raising any sort of alarm.

  “You forget I knew your Father. It was not unlike him to visit to try and come to an agreement. Whilst I feel that you may be wasting your time Eric, I will at least give you the time of day, for I am interested in the outcome. But where are my manners! Come in, come in!"

  Arthur stepped back, opening the door of his home to me. I entered and was lead to his parlour. I smell of smoke lingered in the air and a freshly poured glass of gin rested on the coffee table. He offered me the pleasure of both, but only accepted the offer of the drink.

  The threat of the killer concerned me, but I could do little for the time being. I could not simply tell Arthur that he was to be murdered, there would be too many incriminating questions. I decided my best action would be to delay and, should the murderer appear, then perhaps we could both outwit him and bring an end to this sordid affair whilst simultaneously playing it off as a chance attack. “Mr Shaw,” I said, “How did you come to know my Father?”

  His reply was simple. “Business. In exactly the same fashion as you do now, no different. He and I became acquainted through the contacts one gains in their circles. But that is not what you wish to ask of me, is it, Eric? You wished to ask me how he found himself in such a situation, do you not?”

  I fumbled with my glass and nodded my head.

  He continued, “After you left, Godwin & Co went through a rough patch. Still is, as far as I can tell. Your Father needed money.”

  “And you offered him a lone in exchange for permanent repay?”

  He grinned. “It is good to know that the rumours of your intellect are not accurate. Yes, I offered him a temporary boost for a permanent one in return. An unfair deal viewed from any angle, but men in deep holes grab at any rung within reach – and your Father had few.”

  A slow, purposeful knock resonated from the front door. I knew immediately who it was.

  Arthur said, “Ah! It appears I have another guest tonight.”

  What could I do? If he opened the door then he would be inviting the killer into this home. He would see me as a witness and attempt to remove me as well in the process. I could not let Arthur be caught off guard, for we stood better chance if we were both alive. But what, with me stood in the middle of Arthur Shaw’s parlour with no place to hide, could I do without arousing the suspicion of both parties? I had little option.

  “Are you expecting someone?” I asked, attempting to delay.

  “I am not,” he said as he made his way towards the hall.

  “Then I would suggest you do not open that door, Mr Shaw.”

  He fixed me a queer look. “And why do you say such a thing? Aside from the fact that you seem to have a fear of answering your own at the best of times.”

  I stammered, but grappled onto reason. “You have not seen the news recently? The reports of the wealthy who are murdered at night by some foul beast? The police recommend that people do not answer their doors after light.”

  His look remained, his head tilting slightly. He began to creep towards me. The knocking had since stopped.

  He said, “You believe that the killer may be outside?”

  “I have no way to be certain, but that is the advice they are giving. If the man on the other side of that door has come to kill you, then I believe it best for us to stay here.”

  Arthur smiled, a mix of entertained and confusion. "And why would you think that he would target me?"

  “You are an affluent businessman, the exact sort of target he looks for.”

  Arthur paused. Then, from nowhere, let out a roaring laugh. “You are more strange than the rumours suggest, Mr Godwin. I can assure you the man knocking at my door has not come to kill me.” He patted me on the shoulder and, with a smirk, made his way back to the hall.

  “Wait, Arthur,” I said. “You shall not answer that door.”

  He froze in the doorway. The soles of his feet squeaked against the wooden floor as he turned on the spot. “This is no mere paranoia,” he said, “You know more than you let on.”

  Desperate, I found myself with no alternative. If I refused to argue then he would open that door and we would find ourselves at the mercy of Him. I had no option but to be honest and hope he would listen to reason long enough to devise a plan.

  He demanded, “Tell me why you say such things.”

  “Because I know the man who sent him,” I stuttered. “That is why I came here tonight.”

  “To warn me?”

  I did not answer. No lies, no fault.

  I expected him to strike me. Shout at me, in the very least. Instead he simply smiled and said, “Fool.” With that he made his way towards the front door.

  “But, Mr Shaw, do you not understand? The man is a killer?” I called to him as he vanished into the hall.

  His voice echoed as he walked down the hallway. “Then, if that is the case, he will not simply stop at a door knock, will he?”

  I hear the latch slide and the door open. I hunt about the room, searching for any nook in which I could hide myself, but there were none. I was trapped. A spider caught in its own web. I could only stand, frozen to the spot in cold realisation that I had painted my own downfall, my eyes forever widening. I heard the sounds beyond the room: a short silence. Then the door opening further. Footsteps, slow and heavy. Two sets of footsteps approaching the parlour.

  Then Arthur Shaw appeared in the doorway of the parlour, his face blank and expressionless. He stepped inside and a man behind him followed. He was large in frame, dressed in a long black coat, his face concealed by a mask and his hands by leather gloves.

  Arthur said, “Is this your killer?”

  I knew immediately that I had walked into a trap; that the very grave mistake I had been told I had made was composing itself before my eyes, yet the dots were failing to join. I merely stood in disbelief for some time, nodding out of obedient fear, before managing to speak, “W-what is this?”

  “A foolish attempt, I would say,” Arthur responded. “Admirable, however. I did not believe you had it in you. You first marked me for death merely because you found me to be a thorn in your side – a situation I had suspected may occur and I made plans accordingly, but what I did not expect was for you to turn up this very evening. A change of heart, was it? I applaud you for your attempt at the very least, but it was short sighted in the end. This, as I believe you are already aware, is the infamous ‘Terror of London’, although his current name appears to be ‘Spring-heeled Jack’, a title neither of us are fond of. Tell me, how many times have you been a Jack now?”

  The killer did not respond. He did not so much as acknowledge the question, instead remaining silent and transfixed upon me. Upon his prey.

  “No matter,” Arthur continued. “It should probably be apparent to you by now, Eric, that you have cornered yourself.”

  “W-why?” I asked, perhaps in futility. “To what purpose and gain?”

  “Such a thing should be obvious: money. Is that not what fuels us all? Even you? It is a lucrative business, Eric, although you appear to already know such things. I should imagine that you are now asking how you could free yourself from such a situation. You cannot. There is nothing to be done. You appear to think me a villain, but you must understand that villainy is merely a matter of perspective. I am no mastermind. I am a businessman, such as yourself, although admittedly dissimilar in every way. My interest is in acquiring assets – now that is something I am sure you do understand since your involvement in those meetings. However, in this case, you are and your friends happen to be the ones that I am after.”

  “But why us?”

  Arthur smiled. “Why you, in particular? You would have to ask your good friend Lucius why he has committed you to this path. I cannot ans
wer for his reasoning, although I will say it is fitting. Beware though, that should you start down that route of discovery, you may not like what you find.” For a fleeting second I thought that he may expand, that the explanation would be laid out before me, but he did not, instead opting to leave me guessing.

  Jack, the fearful being that had stood silent throughout this exchange, suddenly twitched. It was slight, as if a cold chill had ran down His spine, but when I saw the claws spring out from the tips of his gloves I knew His movements were purposeful. My stomach dropped. Was this the end?

  The next series of events remain very clear in my mind. They played in slow motion, as if I were meant to take in every horrific detail. Jack spun around on the spot and those claws dug deep into the stomach of Arthur Shaw. He let out a cry and dropped his glass to the floor. He attempted to scream something – possibly a “What are you doing?”, but the foul creature dug the claws in deeper and twisted. There was a slurping sound as he did so, followed by a crunch as the twist began to slow and judder. He repeated this action several times, each one more ferocious than filled with anger, until Arthur Shaw’s torso was reduced to mangled meat. Jack removed his arm from the once-stomach of Arthur Shaw. It was shining with a coat of blood up to the elbow. With a weak moan, Arthur Shaw collapsed to the floor. The impact against it silenced him and he moved no longer.

  I remained routed to the spot in cold silence. What had happened here? Was Arthur Shaw not the creature’s controller? Was I next? I knew that Jack would not forget my presence. If I did not take action, he would kill me without hesitation.

  “What are you doing?” I managed to cough out in a crazed panic, for I saw little else I could do. My legs failed me and my mind was incoherent.

  “Business,” he said. “Business as usual, Mr Godwin.” And with that he ran from the room, leaving me to find my own way from the murder scene.

  Chapter XIX

  Following the ordeal at Arthur Shaw’s house I did the only thing I could think to do; I fled. I was too afraid to be found near the murder scene so immediately ran home. It was early morning when I finally reached my front door, having ducked and weaved through the streets in avoidance of the shadows of officers and strangers. I was cold and damp from the twilight rain. I turned out all the lights and slumped in a mess in the hallway of my home. The events were a haze of confusion and horror, and I had little desire to recall them, but I knew far too well that I would have to face it eventually. Even if I wished to turn a blind eye to the occurrence, my heart still acknowledged that there was an evil beyond my door that was getting ever closer.

  Perhaps a stronger man may have done something, but I was too exhausted. I removed my shirt, throwing it out of sight, and went to my chamber to attempt to sleep, to little success. Despite what should have been a heavy and exhausted sleep, I awoke not long after. I drifted in and out, awaking at odd hours of the morning, but occasionally managing to catch several hours of sleep. Eventually, I managed to drift off into a long doze and did not awake until early afternoon, having missed work. No matter.

  What the hell had gone on last night? Arthur Shaw, who revealed that the meetings were of his own creation, suddenly killed by his own assassin? It made little sense, and that worried me even further. Were we now in the hands of a madman who could kill any of us for any given reason? Although the situation had not been ideal, at least there was some logic behind the operations. But now, with Shaw dead, all logic had collapsed and replaced with horror. I kept thinking to myself: what was the motive? Why? Perhaps Shaw had been killed for no reason at all? Perhaps we were finally dealing with the madman himself.

  I spent the remainder of my day merely existing. I drew the curtains to brood in the confines of my own home, away from the bustle of the outside world, but neither warmth nor realisation came to me. Should I tell the others in the meeting? Perhaps they could help, or perhaps they would be privy to additional knowledge that could resolve this entire thing. In the end I decided against it: a madman controlled those meetings, and I still was unsure if I could trust all within that room. I would not be willing to stick my neck on the line to find out. I knew I could not trust Lucius, for Arthur referenced him directly, and that was enough for me to know to keep quiet.

  And should I return to the meetings? The previous night had left me confused as to what I should do, but those words resonated inside me. "Business as usual." He wanted us to continue as if nothing had happened. And so, without any real choice in the matter, that is what I decided to do: I would walk to The Flying Knave the following week as if nothing has occurred. I would pour myself a drink and sit in my seat in silence. I would obey.

  It was the only option I felt that I was left with. I felt defeated. I was cornered, and the hunter knew it. Any direction I took to flee would result in my demise. I was resigned to this, and knew that I had few choices: wait until an opportunity to escape presented itself, which seemed unlikely, or proceed to aid James with his investigation. The hunting of Jack appeared to be the only way I could end this thing.

  With that in mind I posted a letter to James, telling him that I missed our conversations and would like to see him again, when his schedule permitted. Not two days later he called round and I welcomed him with open arms, although he was not mutual in his greeting.

  “You look worn,” I said as I lead him to the living room. “Is it the work?”

  “Yes, but not like that. Sorry, a lot on my mind at the moment. I am glad that you contacted me, though. I am sorry that I have not been too attentive to your cause since your return.”

  I poured tea and served it to him. “Nonsense. You are not my carer, James, and you have your own life. I just miss the old days when you used to visit with some strange case and we talk about it for hours on end.”

  James smiled. “We are not entirely ourselves anymore, I suppose. Besides, I have been on just the one case since your return. I wish I could see the end of it.”

  “Perhaps you would wish to talk about it? It may help. You do look strained.”

  “Yes, perhaps, although I fear that you will be as confused by recent news as I.”

  “And perhaps, as an outsider, it may make perfect sense.”

  James let out a chuckle. “True, true. You were always good for that. Whenever I had my head far too deep in a case, you could offer a subjective view. You should have joined me as an officer, Eric. I think you would have liked it.”

  “Perhaps, but I have chosen my own path. Besides, you did well enough in my absence. That whole business with the wife killer.”

  “Yes.”

  “So, about this current case.”

  “Yes, yes of course. Well – you must keep this to yourself, although I know you would, only the newspapers have not to catch wind of this. A few days ago a chap called Arthur Shaw was murdered.”

  “Yes, I know. It is already in the newspapers, James.”

  “No – I mean, yes. I know that much is known. Shaw was a crook, hands in many pockets, but he operated as a businessman and knew many contacts. He was always known, but untouched, by the law as he made donations to the right places.”

  “Does not seem like such a thing to need to keep quiet.”

  “Listen, Eric, and shush! A full day after the murder a man entered the station and turned himself in. Said he killed Arthur Shaw. And the others. All the Spring-heeled Jack murders. Admitted to them all.”

  I paused. It could not be Him, surely? Why would He suddenly do it? Perhaps guilt over Shaw’s death? No, of course not. I said, “Well, who was it?”

  “None other than our old friend, Lucius.”

  Lucius? Why would Lucius suddenly accept all responsibility for the murders? What the devil was he up to. He could not be Jack… no. The voice, the height, the build. None of that was Lucius in disguise. So what did he think he was up to?

  James continued, “Eric..?”

  “I cannot believe it.”

  “No, me either. Nor any of the other officers
at the station.”

  “What?”

  “Well, he admitted to the murders. Said he killed the lot of them, but when we interrogated him, his story was… well, fantastical. He said they were all killed by a hired assassin who operated over a – get this – a card game.”

  “A… what?”

  “A card game. Apparently, he would sit down and play cards, and somebody would die. Like some sort of witchcraft! Nonsense.”

  “Nonsense… indeed. So, what has become of him?”

  “We locked him up for a few days and were then forced to charge him on wasting police time. I do not know what the man was up to. He admitted to the murders, but on many of the nights when they occurred he was with company at local clubs, definitely not as home summoning demons with cards. Fool.”

  “So, he is free?”

  “Yes. Free to go daydream. Anyway, the official line is that he was simply wasting our time, but Lucius seemed genuinely concerned. Whilst I do not believe his reasoning’s, I do believe some truth behind it. Perhaps he is the victim in this, and someone is killing and intends to use him as a scapegoat.”

  “Lucius, the victim?”

  “Yes, I know. Ludicrous. Even I hate to admit it. But we must explore all options, am I correct?”

  I nodded. “Yes, yes you are.”

  James and I sat and talked for a while longer, but had nothing much further on the case to speak about. Instead we talked idly of life, but my mind remained with the thoughts of Lucius. When they would not vanish I wished James a good day and, once he had wandered from my street, set out to Lucius’ house.

  It was a house I only knew from vague memory, but I managed to find it easy enough. I knocked on the door and waited until I heard the delicate tapping of the maids feet as she approached. The door opened to reveal none other than the very same maid who served Lucius’ parents years back, a middle aged woman who brimmed with joy as she opened the door, remaking on how long it had been since she had seen me last and lamenting over the death of my Father.