D: Whitby’s Darkest Secret
a novel by
Chris Turnbull
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination, or if real are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
First published 2015 by Follow This Publishing, Bradford (UK)
Text © 2015 Chris Turnbull
Cover Design © 2015 Incredibook Design
The right of Chris Turnbull to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Design and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, transmitted or stored in an information retrieval system in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, taping and recording without prior permission from the publisher.
Copyright © 2015 Chris Turnbull
All rights reserved.
For Dawn & Pete
ALSO BY CHRIS TURNBULL
The Vintage Coat
D: Darkest Beginnings
Carousel
A Home For Emy – Children’s Book
Caedmon’s Hymn
Old English
Nu sculon herigean heofonrices Weard,
Meotodes meahte ond his modgeþanc,
weorc Wuldorfæder; swa he wundra gehwæs
ece Drihten, or onstealde.
He ærest sceop eorðan bearnum
heofon to hrofe, halig Scyppend:
þa middangeard moncynnes Weard,
ece Drihten, æfter teode
firum foldan, Frea ælmihtig.
Modern Translation
Praise now to the keeper of the kingdom of heaven,
the power of the Creator, the profound mind
of the glorious Father, who fashioned the beginning
of every wonder, the eternal Lord.
For the children of men he made first
heaven as a roof, the holy Creator.
Then the Lord of mankind, the everlasting Shepherd,
ordained in the midst as a dwelling place,
Almighty Lord, the earth for men.
Prologue
An enormous ear-piecing scream broke the deathly silence of the night. Footsteps echoed along the narrow street, loud and fast paced as they raced along the street. It was a woman running along the cobbled road crying for help, her face wet from tears that ran down her face, and dark streaks from the mascara that once framed her eyes. She knew perfectly well that people could hear her calls for help, but with the events of recent weeks, nobody dared to leave their houses. Midnight was fast approaching. The woman stopped running for a split second to re-catch her breath. It was another cold night, and her breath could be seen in the darkness before her face; the only light given from the full moon watching her in the clear sky above.
‘Help me, please… anybody…!’
The young woman stopped in the doorway of one of the inns and began banging on the large old oak door; but nobody answered. Finally as the woman was beginning to admit defeat a gentleman emerged from the shadows and grabbed her by the arm.
‘What is the matter my dear?’ the tall man asked, his voice low and stern but the woman could see concern displayed across his handsome face. She gasped with shock at the sudden arrival of the man. The woman tried hastily to tell the man what the matter was but she could not speak. Her hysterical screams and running had caused her difficulty breathing and she could not get out the words. She simply grabbed the man’s hand and led him back along the cobbled street. The gentleman did not speak as he was whisked along the deserted street, his perfectly polished shoes clattering along the cobbles as he took large strides to keep up with the woman’s slow running.
The frost was beginning to set onto the cobblestoned road and the small windows that lined along the street began to sparkle in the moonlight. The small street was not very wide and got narrower still the further they ran along. Coming towards the end she pointed down a small passage between two buildings. A street sign named the alley as Tate Hill. The man paused; he knew that this minor passage lead straight onto a small beach, and a dead end. What horrors was he about to be faced with?
The man made his way down the passage; and wearily peered his head around the corner towards the small sandy beach, before he fully emerged into the open. The beach looked deserted and he slowly made his way along the sand. The beach sparkled in the moonlight, as if tiny diamonds were spread along the ground, leading down to the edge of the water, which was unnaturally calm for early February.
The tall man looked to his left. Whitby harbour was in darkness; the street lights had not been lit for weeks. Nobody had been seen after dark for such long time.
Suddenly the man spotted the outline of a woman lying motionless by the water’s edge. He ran to her side and immediately saw the horrific injuries that lay upon her. Her elegant dress was torn in numerous places; it was dirty and had small splatters of blood around the shoulders. The woman, who was clearly no older than 20, had severe bruises on her neck and arms; her hair was wet as the gentle tide crashed over it.
The man jumped unexpectedly as a hand grabbed his shoulder. It was the hysterical woman who had finally caught her breath and was able to talk.
‘Do you know this woman?’ he asked calmly.
‘She is called Mae, or at least that’s what we all knew her as,’ the woman replied, her voice trembling with fear as her eyes scanned the deserted beach.
‘What do you mean by, that’s what we knew her as?’ the gentleman quizzed. ‘Is she not from around here?’
The woman looked uneasy; she clearly did not know how to respond to this question.
‘Well you see sir… she is a streetwalker; although she hasn’t been around that long, so nobody really got to know her.’ She stopped abruptly and looked at the gentleman with wide guilty eyes. The tall man could tell that the women he spoke to was also a street walker, and in the current situation decided against questioning her any further on the matter.
Turning his attention back to the woman who lay on the ground he noticed something in her mouth, peeking between her lips. Gently the man removed the item to take a better look. It was a card, the size of a regular playing card. On the back it showed the silhouette of a large black dog, and on the front it displayed only one letter: D. It was painted on in a dark thick red liquid. Blood.
‘Oh no!’ the man said out loud. ‘Not again’. The fragile woman appeared at his side to see what he had found. Upon seeing the item her eyes widened and she looked at the man with horror. A moments’ silence passed as they looked at one and other, both unsure what to say next.
‘I thought you had caught this man, Detective,’ the woman hissed with pain in her voice.
‘I thought you were saying only this morning to the Gazette that the man responsible for these crimes was sat in your custody?’
The tall man froze and could not speak; he just gazed at the card with a puzzled look on his face.
‘Well,’ demanded the woman, ‘what is happening here Detective Matthews?’ She gave him a sharp probe with her finger.
Detective Matthews blinked harshly as he moved his stare from the card to look at the woman, her face filled with anticipation.
‘Well, Detective?’ she asked again, looking angrier as she waited for a response.
The detective inhaled loudly and returned his gaze to the woman lying on the ground before him, avoiding eye contact with the woman with whom he spoke.
‘I think my dear; I have arrested the wrong man.’
Chapter 1
Victoria
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Saturday 10th February 1900
I couldn’t help being so angry. All this time he had told me that we were going away for a romantic week away, a belated honeymoon he had said, and now as we are minutes away from pulling into the station he tells me how he has arranged to meet up with his old mentor, now council chairman of the town, and has agreed to sit in on a selection of meetings. I knew he would do this, for this is the reason why our honeymoon has been postponed four times already. This is also the reason he hadn’t told me until now; he knows I would probably have refused to come.
I knew perfectly well what lay ahead before I married him. After all you can’t marry a politician who is running for Lord Mayor of London and not expect him to attend many meetings during his campaign. It has been his dream longer than I have known him, and who am I to stand in the way of that dream? But still, I would have loved our week away to have been for just the two of us.
The journey north had been miserable the entire way. Dark grey rain clouds hovered over us like vultures in the sky, yet no rain fell upon us as the train bustled through the English countryside. Our train left London mid-morning, and we changed in York to a smaller train. I did not get to see York as we passed through; although I was able see the top of the minster over the small buildings. It stood much taller than any other building and looked beautiful against the dark cloud filled sky. I must remember to visit one day.
I am originally from Somerset, and only moved to London three years ago; thus far London had been the furthest north I had ever been. I enjoyed travelling up the country and taking in the scenery. My sister had even bought me a map of the British Isles so I could see how far I was travelling, and regardless of the distance I was still surprised as to quite how long it took.
When we finally pulled in to Whitby train station I was exhausted, it was now completely dark outside in spite of it being barely 6 o’clock. I hated the dark evenings of winter and longed for the warmth of spring to burst back into life. Spring had always been my favourite season; I loved how it turned the harshness of winter around to reveal the beauty and colour that had been missing from the world; just when you think that it could never look as beautiful again.
Whitby was the end of the line, yet very few people seemed to emerge from the other carriages of the train. The platform was full of smoke coming from the large steam engine still throwing out white puffs of cloud; yet through the smoke I could see that not only was the platform quiet, but the entire train station seemed to be uninhabited. Surely these places do not shut down so early? Where were the conductors? The passengers waiting to board the train back to York? And where were the porters to help carry our luggage?
In the end my husband, Albert, carried our cases out of the station. He held them with such ease, as though they were filled with nothing more than cotton, his muscular arms taking the brunt of the weight. Whitby station was only small, yet despite this the lack of people made it feel like we had wandered into an abandoned old station. The only train pulled in was the one we had just dismounted, the only people walking along the platform were Albert and I; even the driver had stayed at his post as though eager to get back as soon as possible.
As we exited the station I was shocked to see that the streets were also quiet, barely a soul could be seen. The sea fog was also beginning to creep in which did not help. We were desperate to find our accommodation before it got too late.
Suddenly I was startled by the voice of a young boy. I did not hear him approach us in the cold deserted street.
‘Would you like me to take your luggage, Sir, Madam?’
The skinny boy must have been barely eight years old. He was certainly not dressed for the cold night ahead, with his ripped dirty trousers that could have been mistaken for shorts and the smallest grey shirt which he had clearly been wearing for a very long time; it must have been at least two sizes too small. His feet were covered in what took the shape of shoes, but were barely held together with a piece of string. He looked up at me as though I was strange to him; he seemed intrigued by what I was wearing - a long amber day dress that brushed the floor, with mid sleeves that had beautiful lace patterns along the edge as well as around the neckline. Yet it was my large brimmed hat with pheasant feather that seemed to intrigue the young boy the most; had he never seen a lady wearing such a hat?
The young boy turned and gestured towards a horse and carriage parked at the road side. We followed his lead and Albert helped the young boy place our luggage onto the rear of the carriage. The boy then turned and opened the side door and offered me his hand in gesture of helping me inside. I could have cried there and then. This polite young boy was so charming and adorable, his face was innocent and helpless yet his eyes told a story of hardship and maturity beyond his years. His large smile told me that he was more than happy to be helping. I took his dirty hand gladly and allowed him to help me into the carriage. Once Albert had joined me the young boy closed the door, securing it behind us, and climbed up to the front where he could take the reins and guide the two enormous black stallions along the darkened road. A small candle lantern attached to the front of the carriage was our only source of light.
The young boy had told Albert that he knew exactly where we were staying, as the inn’s landlord had purposely sent him to collect us. As we set off along the cobbled road I began to search through Albert’s jacket pockets.
‘What are you looking for?’ Albert asked, his voice hushed so as not to be heard by the young boy. I told Albert how I wanted to find some money to give the boy. At first Albert did not look too pleased about this, but I soon convinced him it was the right thing to do.
The streets of Whitby were dark; why where there no street lamps lit this evening? As we got further from the station the fog was beginning to get thicker; I was now struggling to see in which direction we were going. After only a couple of minutes we were crossing a bridge. I had looked up everything I could find about Whitby before we left home, so I was positive this must be the River Esk. I was disappointed not to be able to see anything: I had been reading that Whitby was one of the largest fishing towns in England, and strangely I was looking forward to seeing the harbour and all the boats which lined the river.
Only a short distance from the bridge we took a left turn, down a much narrower street that could clearly only handle one passing carriage at a time. The cobbles seemed to be more uneven, and the young boy slowed the horses in recognition of this. I was just able to make out the name on the corner building: Church Street.
It wasn’t long before we had stopped outside an inn. I hadn’t known where we were staying; Albert had made all the arrangements for the trip as normal, and I knew it would be somewhere nice. I didn’t like when he booked large expensive hotels, and much preferred smaller cosier inns. Thankfully Albert knew this and would always try to find the quaintest place possible on our trips.
As I emerged from the small carriage I found myself immediately at the doorway of a very slender building. A faint light was coming from the window, and the large wooden door that faced me had clearly seen better days. Surely this was not the right place.
Albert followed the young boy through the door, helping to take the luggage inside. I waited in the doorway for a moment for the boy to return, and as soon as he did I thanked him for our ride and wished him a good night; handing over the tip before he left. His face instantly lit up when he saw the amount in which I had given.
‘I cannot accept this ma’am.’ The boy’s voice trembled, his breath becoming visible in the cold night air as he spoke.
‘I will not have it any other way, please see this as a thank you for looking after us and seeing we found our way here this evening.’ My own voice was slightly shaky too; the slight breeze flowing down the narrow street was beginning to send shivers through me. The frail boy did not seem to notice the cold and extended his hand in gesture to shake my own.
‘Thank you ever so much, Madam.’ His smile was warm and gentle. ‘I’m
Tom by the way, you’ll see me around I imagine. I hope you enjoy your stay in Whitby, Ma’am, and g-night to you both.’
Young Tom turned back to his horses and taking hold of the reins, he began to lead them along the street. I found myself watching him for a couple of seconds and it wasn’t long before they disappeared around a corner out of sight, yet I could still hear the distant sound of the horses hooves clapping against the ground, the only sound to be heard in the darkness. I already hoped I would see him again.
At that moment I caught something moving from the corner of my eye. It was a man, but I could not make out any of his features through the darkness. His face was shadowed by the rim of his top hat as he leaned against the corner of a building opposite but I was certain he was looking straight at me.
Suddenly a hand grabbed my arm and I let out a scream, which echoed up the street. I turned briskly around to see Albert standing beside me.
‘Are you coming inside?’ His voice deep and serious, yet his face looked concerned at the thought of frightening me. He let go of my arm and led the way inside. I briefly looked back up the street for the shadowed man, but he had gone.
As I entered the inn I noticed the name on the doorframe: ‘The White Horse and Griffin’.
Chapter 2
D.
I don’t know why I felt the need to go to the train station that evening. It is very rare I would go near that place, it is usually so busy, yet today something was telling me to be there.
It is not the season for tourists so trains are scarce these days, and with all the talk of murders in the newspaper lately I do not blame people for staying away.
I watched as the 6 o’clock train entered the station. It was a couple of minutes early; a beaten up old steam train which had seen better days. It rolled into the quiet station, its brakes hissing and the wheels screeching as the gigantic engine and carriages came to a halt. Smoke filled the platform instantly and as I watched from the doorway I became curious to see if anybody was getting out. That is when I saw her.
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