“But you must understand that if I rebuff your questions, it is because of my gratitude for your help and my concern for your wellbeing, not in ignorance of them. Mr Makepeace, I am involved in matters that are dangerous to know and I urge you to keep me at arm’s length, once you have done me one final favour. I’m afraid it is obvious now that I cannot leave this room tonight.”
As he made to lie back, I lifted his legs onto the bed. “Thank you,” he said. “Now, will you be good enough to take down this message. It will mean little enough to you, and that is how it should remain.”
I took the candle from the mantelpiece again and placed it on a small table by the window. I pulled a sheet of rough paper from the stack and, finding no ink or quill, made do with a somewhat blunt pencil.
“This is to be taken to Mister Jasper Doyle and you’ll find him in the King’s Head on the corner of Marshgate Lane.”
“I know it,” I said. Indeed, I had an enviable knowledge of the public houses of this part of London and, regrettably, those of most other neighbourhoods also.
He smiled at me as if reading my thoughts. “Good. Here is the message. RE- BOW BC. Have you got that?”
I read the message back to him and readied my pencil so that I could write down the remainder. “Yes, please proceed.”
“That is the message. Make sure to deliver it by hand to him and no other. Mr Doyle will know what it means and will take the necessary action.”
“He will contact the asylum? And then the police, presumably?”
With another wolfish smile, Grimes laid himself down and his coal black eyes gazed up at the equally dark ceiling. “He will take the necessary action, Mr Makepeace. Now, if you don’t mind, I would like to sleep.”
I got up rather too quickly and sent the chair flying. Grimes didn’t move and neither did he react when one of the lodgers in the room beneath began to bang on the ceiling. I picked the chair up and crept past his slumbering form as quietly as I could.
As I opened the door, I turned to look back, as if reassuring myself that these events had indeed happened and that I was truly about to go out into the night and find a stranger in a public house to hand a cypher to. I had blown the candle out and the air in the room, fetid enough at the best of times, now smelled of the dying coal fire and tallow smoke. There he lay in the dim glow of the coals.
I went through the door and, as I passed the threshold, I heard him say, “Thank you.”
Valentina
I stepped across the landing to my own room, turned the key in the lock and went inside. I’d left a low fire in the grate to welcome me back from the Black Dog and I cannot begin to tell you how much I wished I could slip out of my wet clothes and into the warm embrace of my bed. Instead, I achieved only the first of these and was at least able to emerge into the night air dry though chilly.
I set off along Bow Road heading towards The King’s Head which lay on Stratford High Street, no more than half a mile distant. It was now after eleven and passing traffic was sparse—the hour before midnight being the domain of the swaying drunk making his way back to his lodgings. Some of these night prowlers I knew by sight as being among the poor unfortunates in the rooms below those of mine and Grimes. Low though I believed I had become since my days in respectable employment, I thanked heaven that I had not descended so far as to be forced to sleep in a room with a dozen other men. No wonder they drink, I thought. What was my excuse?
I felt the air move as I walked across Bow Bridge. I don’t like water and especially when I know it is flowing beneath my feet, so I was glad to feel the solid metalled path on the other side. Fingering the pen-knife in my pocket, I looked left and right, examining each side street as I crossed it. I didn’t know where Grimes had met his attacker, but the image of those teeth was fresh in my mind and I fancied I could see dark shapes moving in the shadows, just beyond the range of my squinting eyes.
Finally, I arrived at The King’s Head. I sighed with relief as I saw the welcoming light coming through the glass door and made it my first order of business to soothe my dry throat with a pint of porter as soon as I arrived. To Hades with Mr Cheeseman—tonight’s events would have been enough to drive the most sober of men to drink. As I stood at the bar, I surveyed the inside of the public house and its clientele. They were both equally disreputable though the patrons were few enough by this time.
Gas light flickered from the glasses and brass surfaces, but it was a dim place and soon enough I remembered my errand and motioned the landlord over.
“I’m looking for Mr Doyle,” I said, keeping my voice only just above the level of the background murmurs. “I was told he resides here.”
The landlord was a scar-faced man of middle years with the sort of rotund strength perfectly suited to keeping order in a working-class meeting place. He leaned on the bar and regarded me carefully while he absent-mindedly flexed his tattooed biceps.
“Who wants to know?”
This presented me with a problem. Like a fool, I hadn’t asked Grimes if he wished his name to be revealed to a third party. On the other hand, he hadn’t cautioned me against doing so. I am a somewhat unimaginative man and it’s this, perhaps, that means I am extremely uncomfortable telling untruths.
“I was asked to deliver a message to Mr Doyle by a Mr Grimes who is a fellow tenant at the lodging house on Bow Road. He was injured tonight and wishes me to inform Mr Doyle.”
I watched the landlord’s craggy face as his mind worked. “You ain’t with the peelers, then?”
I opened my mouth to speak, but he smiled and shook his head. “No, I don’t reckon so,” he said, leaving me feeling unaccountably offended. “As for Jasper, I ain’t seen ‘im since supper-time. Went out for a blow, he said. Not been back.”
“Do you have any idea where he might have gone?”
The landlord’s smile disappeared. “Look, mate, I ain’t my brother’s keeper, right? You want to go look for ‘im, be my guest. Or you can leave your name and I’ll let ‘im know.”
“I was instructed to hand the note to him in person,” I responded.
“Then I suggest you starts with the brothels.”
With that, the landlord stood up, took my empty glass and swept it away.
I turned to go, determined to walk back to my lodgings and remonstrate with Grimes who, I suspected, knew exactly what sort of man this Doyle was, when I walked into a shape lurking in the shadows by the door.
My apology was interrupted by a harsh whisper. “You want to find Doyle?”
The stranger was of slender build, wearing an ulster and with a head that was completely covered by a rabbit-fur cap wrapped in a rough woollen scarf. I didn’t have time to properly compose myself, but I must have nodded because I was soon out in the cold night air.
“You’re a woman?” I gasped as the cap was pulled off to reveal dark hair severely tied at the top. When the scarf was unwound, I was left in no doubt. She was a woman of indeterminate age, neither young nor old, and of an appearance I can best describe as hawkish, though indisputably attractive.
“And you are observant,” she responded in the perfect English of the well-attuned foreigner. German, I suspected.
I ignored the barb. “Do you know where Mr Doyle is?”
“Follow me,” she said, before marching across the road with barely a look. I scampered on behind, aware that I was being manipulated by this striking woman, and yet unable to do anything other than to follow her.
She moved with fluid grace and I struggled to keep up as she strode along Stratford High Street. Finally, she stopped at a door, above which hung a sign that said Marshall’s.
“He’s here?” I said, unable to hide my astonishment. “In the match factory?”
The woman pointed to the alley that ran alongside the factory. “He is in that shed.”
I looked from her to the wooden building she was indicating, and my blood turned to ice. Despite myself, I edged towards it to find the door half open. I pulled on t
he iron latch and it swung back to reveal a scene of such horror as I’d never experienced before.
There, swaying gently in the half-light of the street lamps, was a body. Its throat had been cut, though there was little enough blood on the torso or, as far as I could tell, the floor, and it was suspended on a hook that, I could only imagine, had been thrust into its back. I only prayed he had been dead when that was done.
I choked down the vomit that was rising in my throat and croaked, “Do you mean to say that this is Doyle?”
She nodded but said no more.
“Did you have anything to do with this?”
“I did not kill Mr Doyle, if that’s what you mean,” she said. “I saw him leave and, when he didn’t return, followed his trail to here.”
“What happened? Who killed him?” I said as disgust turned to anger and frustration. “Why haven’t the police been called?”
The woman reached into her pocket and, to my utter astonishment, pulled out a packet of cigarettes. She took one and lit it, before offering the packet to me and then withdrawing it as I shook my head. “Why did your friend Grimes not call the police? Was he not involved in an altercation earlier this evening?”
“I don’t know why; I just remember that it seemed to make sense at the time. Something about a lunatic.”
“How much do you know of Mr Grimes’ business?”
“Nothing.”
She smiled. “Then you are fortunate. You can simply forget what you have seen here, hand me the message and walk off into the night. I suggest finding a different lodging house but, otherwise, you may continue to live your ordinary life.”
“But I promised to hand this message to Mr Doyle,” I said.
“Then do so, he is right there.”
I huffed about, pacing back and forth in the wet alley as the corpse swung. “I should return to Grimes and tell him of this,” I said, finally.
“And risk the police finding the other body?”
“Whose body?”
She gave an amused grunt. “The corpse of whoever tangled with Mr Grimes tonight.”
“How did you know about that?”
“I didn’t,” she said, before taking another drag on her cigarette. “But it is the logical conclusion. You would not be here if Grimes were dead or if he’d survived uninjured. Therefore, he must have been attacked somewhere near to his lodging house and you were foolish enough to aid him. Perhaps your choices narrow, Mr...”
“Makepeace, John Makepeace,” I replied without thinking.
I leaned against the wall of the factory, looking back to the road for any sign of the police. “Who are you?”
She seemed surprised by my question, and then, perhaps, pleased. “You may call me Valentina, and if you wish to return to your ordinary existence you will ask no more questions. Now, please hand me the message.”
“First tell me this,” I said. “The man that attacked Grimes had pointed teeth and I can see, even from here, that Doyle’s body is punctured. Could the same man be responsible for both crimes?”
Valentina sighed. “I told you not to ask any more questions, Mr Makepeace. This is my final warning. If I answer you, there will be no possibility of resuming your life as it was. If I answer, then you will be swept into events that are far more dangerous, far more shocking than anything you have seen before.”
With this, she waved at the still swaying body of Doyle and I caught a glint of light reflected in his dead eyes as if he were warning me like some criminal on a gibbet. Do not follow my path, he seemed to say, or you will suffer the same fate as me.
I looked into her dark eyes. “Tell me,” I said.
My mind was in turmoil as we strode along the road back to the graveyard. Valentina had revealed little—it seemed she was reluctant to expose me to the secret shared by herself and Grimes despite my insistence. What she did say only served to increase my frustration and I could feel my anger building as we neared our destination.
The man whose body lay behind the Baptist Church was, according to her, a member of a secret organisation that indulged in what could only be described as satanic rituals. Their aim, she said, was to undermine civilised order and spark a revolution—Grimes was an agent of the government tasked with infiltrating this group and providing intelligence. If this wasn’t unbelievable enough, Valentina then revealed that she, also, was such an agent although not working for my government.
So, as we approached the graveyard I felt as though I was as much groping in the dark mentally as I was physically. The body lay where it had been left and I watched as Valentina knelt beside it and sought out the wound on the back of the man’s head with her fingers. I cringed as I imagined it, but no longer had any doubts of her capability to handle actions that most women—most people—would find disgusting. Something deep within my mind, some reptilian vestige from antediluvian times, was stirring as if I were a prey animal on the plains of the Transvaal. In all this uncertainty, I knew one thing—she was dangerous.
She drew her fingers up to the dim illumination of the factory lights and, for one horrific moment, I thought she was going to lick the blood from them. Her eyes met mine and it was all I could do to stop myself from running. We held the gaze for a moment before she gave a slight nod and resumed her inspection.
“Come, we must return him to the asylum.”
“So he is a lunatic!” I cried. “That explains everything!”
Again, her eyes locked with mine. “Does it? Well, if so, then let that be your way of rationalising what you have seen here tonight.”
I felt anger flood my body again. It was as if she were toying with me. “What better explanation can there be than that he is an escaped madman?”
“And what better place to hide the unusual than in a lunatic asylum?” she responded. “Do people not look the other way when they pass it? Madness is the hidden fear that lurks inside the minds of those who call themselves ‘normal’ and so they pretend it is not there. The irony is that they are correct to fear it and it is better that they do not examine it more closely.”
I helped her lift the body. It felt surprisingly light—or perhaps she was unexpectedly strong. “How are we going to get it to the asylum without being stopped?”
She pointed at the buildings behind the graveyard. “That factory backs onto Convent Green and the asylum grounds are on the opposite side.”
We pushed the corpse over the low wall that marked the edge of the chapel’s grounds. On the other side a narrow alley ran between the brick and tin sheds of the factory. There was a distinct tang of creosote and something else in the air—the Anderson factory made waterproof clothing so it might have been rubber, or some chemical used in the process of making felt.
We only had the light of the occasional lamp for illumination, but Valentina took us faultlessly along the alley and towards the northern edge of the factory. There, a more substantial barrier met us—a high brick wall—but she nudged my arm to direct me along the wall until we reached what felt like a studded door, though I could see little of it.
I could hear a scraping sound and perceived that Valentina was concentrating on a point halfway up the door. After a few moments, she gave a satisfied grunt and it swung open, squealing against hinges that clearly weren’t often used. Cool air wafted in from the open space beyond and we hauled our cargo through.
I couldn’t say how long it took us to reach the outer fence of the hospital and to then trace our way round until we reached the main gate.
A shape detached itself from a small booth beside the entrance.
“Hospital’s closed,” said the gruff voice of a man.
“We are returning one of Mr Peregrine’s charges,” Valentina announced.
The man’s demeanour altered instantly. “Oh, I’m sorry ma’am, didn’t recognise you. Of course, go straight in. I’ll send a signal through to the office.”
“Thank you,” Valentina said, before hoisting the dead man’s arm back around her shoulder.<
br />
We dragged him across the cobbled yard and towards the only lit set of windows on the dark facade of the block which, to my eyes, looked more like a prison than a hospital.
“Who is this Peregrine fellow?” I asked as we struggled with the dead weight strung between us.
“He is responsible for cases such as this,” she said. “Ask no more. You will meet him soon enough.”
And indeed, as we climbed the stone steps to the entrance, a man emerged and stood, arms crossed, awaiting us. He was a short man with dark hair that was receding from a high forehead. He wore a white coat and, for no obvious reason, round spectacles of black glass.
“It’s Klaus, isn’t it?” he said, holding out his hands and lifting the head of the dead man. He sighed. “I thought so, he has been so restless these past weeks, though how he escaped, I do not know.”
“I’ll expect a full report,” Valentina said and, to my surprise, rather than protesting, Peregrine nodded nervously and muttered an acknowledgement.
Valentina looked into the hallway beyond the door. “Where are the night porters?”
“I am sorry,” Peregrine said, “they are otherwise engaged, I am afraid.”
I felt Valentina’s sigh rather than heard it. “Will you help me, Mr Makepeace? At least then we will see the job to its end.”
I grunted assent though, in truth, I wanted nothing more than to turn around and leave this place never to come back. We followed Peregrine into the hospital’s entrance way, and I was soon quite lost.
More than once, as we walked those dark corridors, our boots squeaking on the polished floors, I was startled by a cry echoing from somewhere else in the hospital. It was only the little pride remaining to me that kept me going. If Valentina had been a man, I doubt I’d have made it past the entrance, but I was determined to show no weakness in front of a woman. Especially one as singular as she.
We finally paused outside a door marked ‘Mortuary’ while Peregrine found a key and turned it in the lock. An electric bulb hung from the ceiling, its light reflecting on two long tables that sat, side by side, in the centre of the room. Each had a marble surface and on one lay a body covered in a white cloth.
The Last Watchman Page 2