by Andy Conway
37
TOM CONWAY HAD MISSED William Bury leaving the beer house by a minute. The landlord had shrugged his shoulders when asked if he’d seen them that night and hadn’t even bothered when Tom had gone upstairs. Presumably he thought there was nothing worth stealing from any person who would book one of his rooms.
He found the door to the room unlocked and saw instantly that they had fled, because there was not a single item of property left behind. Not a bag, not a razor, not a nightgown.
He slumped on the bed in despair. They no doubt had taken his ticket, redeemed the bag and were already on their way back to London, cackling all the way.
He tried to think it through, calmly. He could report his pension book stolen. Surely they had known that all along? So why had they bothered to steal it? His fingers clutched his new razor in his pocket and he swallowed a lump in his throat.
They would have killed him. That was the only way it would make sense. They still meant to kill him.
He rushed out of the room and through the beer swilling crowd downstairs and up the muddy street, terrified at the thought of William Bury returning. He hailed a passing Victoria on Moseley Road and gave the man Daniel’s address. It was the only thing that made sense now.
The wedding was in the morning. He would stay here and see it through, for his friend’s sake. Daniel had to face up to who he really was. He would know the truth about himself. He would no longer be buried in time. It was already happening. He was clawing his way out of a black grave and would taste the clean air of realisation, and no doubt feel the full force of its horror. It was almost time.
He would be safer with his friends about him. Skulking alone in a hotel room made him an easier target.
As the Victoria rolled through Balsall Heath and crested the gentle rise to Moseley village, he wondered how long he should leave it till he informed the police. Should he give them the names of Catherine and Bury? No, he could merely report the pension book stolen, receive a replacement and have the old one annulled. Let them be arrested when they tried to cash it. Let the police deal with them then.
For tonight, Daniel was more important.
He arrived at the dark entrance to the mews, paid the cabman and let him go. He could see the light on in the window along the row of cottages. Daniel would be there with Arthur, preparing for the wedding day tomorrow.
He rattled the brass knocker and waited for the sound of footsteps down the hall.
Daniel gasped, shocked to see him, his eyes flitting down to the hand wrapped in red.
“I’m sorry,” said Tom. “I am here. To offer my support. If you will have it.”
He would think he meant for the wedding, although it was really for something else entirely.
Daniel seemed as if in a trance, nodding and retreating down the hallway, walking backwards. Tom could read it in his face. Things had moved on apace. This morning there had been definite signs of his fragile hold on the present — he had seemed like a man already fraying at the edges — but now he looked like someone who was already half in another time, another place. His mind had already half departed.
Tom followed him into the parlour and stopped dead at the door. Daniel’s paintings were laid out against one wall. He was hardly surprised at this. The paintings had always been the key.
Arthur sprang to his feet and brandished his cane.
“You dirty blackguard!”
Tom shrank back.
Daniel caught the cane. “No! Arthur!”
“You murdering beast! What have you done with her?” Arthur was pointing at his bandaged hand.
“With whom?” said Tom. “What do you mean?”
“Your hand! Look! Wounded in the attempt!”
“Arthur, please! He is as innocent as you or I.”
“What have I done?” Tom asked, his mind flitting through the terrible possibilities.
“We found your pawn ticket in Louisa Gill’s bedroom,” Arthur cried. “We redeemed it and have your bag.”
“You have my bag?” said Tom. “Thank God!” His relief was instant, but then he wondered at the mention of Louisa Gill. A familiar name. Where did he know it? The newspaper. The city had been buzzing with it all day and he’d only caught it out of the corner of his eye, he was so preoccupied with his own problem. The second girl who’d been murdered. My ticket? In her room?
“I’m calling the police this instant.”
“We don’t have time for this, Arthur. Arabella is in danger!”
“What the Hell is happening?”
Arthur pointed a finger at him. “You tried to murder Arabella tonight, just as you murdered Louisa Gill last night!”
“Murder?” said Tom, dumbfounded, something inside him swooning and plummeting, as if he were falling from a cliff. “Someone has tried to murder Arabella?”
He looked from Arthur to Daniel and back again, wondering what had happened this day, but a growing tumour of realisation in his head, telling him the terrible truth.
“We know you are the murderer,” said Arthur. “We have the evidence and now we see the wound. It is elementary. The mystery is solved!”
“Arthur, please! Why would he do that then turn up here?”
“To make you think he is innocent. Let us pray she’s alive and he hasn’t already killed her outside Christ Church.”
“Could one of you please explain to me what is going on?”
“I think it is you, Conway, who needs to explain to us how your pawn ticket ended up under the bed of a murdered woman.”
“Oh my God,” said Tom, feeling his knees buckle under him. He stumbled to the chair and fell into it. “What on earth has she done?”
“Who, Tom?” said Daniel. “Who do you mean?”
He looked up into the face of his old friend. “Catherine. She stole it. I’m sure of it. Just before we met yesterday. You might have noticed I was somewhat flustered?”
“I did.”
“I would have called it shifty, myself,” said Arthur.
“I had just bumped into Catherine. Or, at least, she bumped into me. Quite literally. Embraced me. Her hand caught on my pocket as I pushed her away. She picked my pocket, I’m sure of it.”
Daniel looked at Arthur. A flicker of doubt between them. They had suspected him of being a killer. Good God. Of course they had. His pawn ticket found in a dead girl’s room.
“Catherine is the killer?” Arthur laughed. “That’s preposterous!”
“Bury was with her too.”
“Bury,” said Arthur, his laughter turning bitter on his tongue.
“Oh, my God,” said Daniel. “It’s Bury.”
“Bury’s the killer?” said Arthur, stroking his chin.
Daniel collapsed onto the sofa, head in his hands, sobbing with relief. “It’s not me. I didn’t do any of it.”
Arthur patted him on the back. “Of course it isn’t you, old chap. You don’t have it in you.”
“But I believed it. I saw it.”
“You have, I believe, a rare and unique talent, Daniel Pearce. You see the future.”
Tom watched both men keenly. Whatever had happened since this morning had split their world asunder. It was happening. After all these years, it was finally happening. His eye flicked to the pamphlet lying on the floor. “The fourth dimension,” he said.
“What’s that?” said Arthur.
“Nothing.”
“We must go now!” Daniel cried, springing up. “Arabella is in great danger.”
“You say she’s been attacked tonight?” asked Tom.
“And will be again,” said Arthur, grimly. “Butchered on a Christ Church gravestone like a human sacrifice.”
“How do you know this?” he asked, even though he knew. He knew exactly how Daniel could have seen something that hadn’t happened yet.
“We haven’t time!” Daniel shouted. “Come on! Now!”
He was already running out of the room. Arthur yanked Tom from his chair. He followed them d
own the hall and slammed the door shut after him. Daniel was already running out of the mews onto the street.
“Hail a cab!” cried Arthur.
“Damn!” said Tom. If only he hadn’t let his Victoria go. He should have asked him to wait.
In a moment they were all three running down St. Mary’s Row, their shadows dancing around them, thrown by gas lamps. The dark tower of St. Mary’s loomed above them, indifferent. He was surprised at Arthur’s running ability. For a portly man he was quite fit and was gaining on Daniel ahead of him. Both were well ahead by the time they reached the village green. Tom wheezed his way toward them, his chest burning and his knees aching.
“Damn it!” Daniel shouted. “There’s usually at least one cab waiting here. Reverend Colmore has been campaigning to have a cabman’s shelter built. If only he’d succeeded, we could be certain of it.”
“Perhaps we should head three ways,” said Arthur. “North, east and south. See who is first to find one.”
Tom looked back up the hill he’d just run down and groaned at the thought of running back up it again.
Then came the beautiful sound of horse’s hooves, echoing from the distance. They all three glanced around, trying to place the source.
“That way,” said Arthur, pointing south towards Kings Heath.
Yes, now that he said it, it was definitely from that direction. Daniel set off, sprinting up the hill, waving his arms in the air. The black carriage came into view, riding down the hill — a Clarence, the cabman sitting front top. He pulled on the reins and brought the horses to a halt.
“Excellent!” Arthur cried.
Daniel leapt onto the side step and shouted something. The cabman cracked his whip and the horses thundered to the village green. As it pulled up before them, Daniel jumped off and opened the door and they piled in.
The Clarence was already pulling away before they’d seated themselves, eager horses’ hooves thundering them towards the city.
Tom coughed and wheezed, feeling his age and his condition. He had waited so long for this night and finally it was here. Finally, his friend Daniel would learn the truth about himself. He only hoped it didn’t kill him, because there was no doubt that it was going to hit him with the force of a steam train.
38
BURY WALKED BLIND DOWN the black alley, sensing his way, as he’d done earlier tonight and then pulled himself up with his fingers on top of the wooden fence.
The quiet back garden, lush with stinking hydrangeas. Lights in the house, but dim, as if the house itself were nodding off.
They would not expect it, he knew. They thought he would flee, defeated, and never return. Lightning did not strike twice. Not in the same night. But he was the bolt that would descend from the heavens unleashing a mighty wrath.
They hadn’t even left a peeler behind to watch over her. This was what made it so easy. The peelers were slow moving, bovine, stupid. It was like playing Blind-Man’s Buff. Turn round three times and catch whom ye may!
He climbed soundlessly over the wooden fence and stood watching the house, a black shadow.
Candlelight flickered in her room, up there above the outhouse. They would have given her a sleeping draught. Of course they would. That was what you gave a nice lady who’d had such a terrible shock. They would have knocked her right out. Make her sleep. Make her forget. Take that terrible reality away.
He crept up the garden and paused at the side gate, sliding the bolt free, knowing he would need it when he came back.
He walked into the yard and peered in through the window. The parents, ashen-faced, in their nightgowns, seated by the dying fire. The father held the mother’s hand clasped in his, his hair unruly and white, as if he’d aged a decade in a day.
A surge of malice thrilled through Bury. This was the man who’d foiled him. His hand bandaged. A stupid old man at that. How much better if he’d sliced him open like a horse in an abattoir.
He crept back and stood gazing up at the window above the outhouse. Above that the attic room where the maid was probably sleeping. That window was black. He worried she might be watching over the girl. If she was, all his plans were foiled.
The apple tree provided a couple of easy steps to the outhouse roof and he stole to her window in moments.
The flickering candlelight allowed him to see everything in the room, which made him stifle a laugh. They thought their peril was over. Thought he could never be so audacious as to return so soon. Everything they had done had made it all so much easier for him.
She slept. He tapped the window. If she woke and screamed, he would flee again. They might even dismiss it as a fantasy and give her the sleeping draught that they had failed to do earlier. Then he could return a third time. Just for jollies.
But she did not stir. There was no sound from the rest of the house.
He slipped out his knife, jammed it into the slit between the windows and prised open the catch. Pushed, ever so gently. The windows were old and came open easily.
He stayed poised, crouched on her window sill. No sound. She did not stir.
He lowered himself into the candlelit room, acutely aware of his clumsy bulk, and crept across to her bed where she lay. Warm life, breathing rhythmically. He thought of the air in her lungs and the blood coursing through her veins, and how he would stop them both.
He pulled the sheets from her, exposing her white-gowned beauty. Like a corpse.
No, not here. Though it would be so easy. The lust for it throbbed in his throat. The knife was in his hand. He could so easily do it now. This moment. But no. There was an altogether better place. It called to him, like a beacon. To do it there would be right, and proper. He had known it all along, and the picture above the last one’s bed had only confirmed it, demanded it from him. It was a message from God. The next one under the shadow of Christ Church.
She did not stir, simply breathed on, deeply, languorously. By the bedside he saw the bottle of opiate. He put his nose to her lips and smelled the sickly sweet tinge of it.
She would not wake. She would not wake ever again.
He slipped a hand under her back, and another under her knees, and with a strenuous effort lifted her from the bed. Bent over, he felt the strain. Had he groaned? Had the bed creaked?
He waited with her in his arms, listening to the sounds of the house, the blood pounding in his head. No one stirred.
Now that she was in his arms she was no weight at all. He knew he could carry her easily.
He pulled her close to him and angled one leg out of the window, sitting astride the sill till he could swing his other leg over and drag her with him.
To make his way down from the outhouse roof to the garden below, he edged her over his shoulder and climbed down gingerly.
As he crept across the garden, he glanced back at the parents sitting in the candlelight. The father was standing at the window, silhouetted, staring right at him.
His heart thumped in his throat and he readied himself to throw the girl aside and run. But the father just stared, doing nothing, and then he drew the curtains closed.
He hadn’t seen him. He hadn’t seen him in the blackness of the garden, even with his daughter’s white gowned body over his shoulder.
He breathed again and in a few moments he was out of the back garden, carrying her along the pitch black alley at the back of the house. On, through the blackness, to the street behind. They would never think to go there, and before they thought to look, he would be gone with her.
The alley came out to a dimly-lit street and he peered out, looking for passersby, but it was deathly quiet at this witching hour. No one passed. He waited, his heart beating like mad, till he heard the ringing of horses’ hooves in the distance. He could tell by the weight of the wheels that it was not a Clarence. Only one horse, two wheels, no passenger. A Victoria. As it pulled closer he waited and waited till it almost sounded like it was about to pass by, then he stepped out, clutching her limp form against him, waving franti
cally.
The cabman pulled up, sensing panic, emergency.
“Thank god!” Bury called. “She needs a doctor, urgently!”
“Whatever’s wrong?” the cabman said.
But he pushed her up into the cab. The cabman twisted in his seat and tried to help him to right her in the passenger seat behind him, and then went wide-eyed, wheezing, choking, not even seeing the knife that Bury plunged into his heart.
39
THE CLARENCE THUNDERED into the gloomy streets of Balsall Heath, its occupants arguing over the best course of action.
Arthur, convinced that Daniel’s premonition of Christ Church was utterly true, demanded they go straight there. But Daniel was adamant they try Arabella’s home first. Whatever her father had said to Inspector Beadle, it mattered not. If Bury was going to make a second attempt on her life tonight, he would have to go there and kidnap her.
Arthur noticed that Tom Conway was looking quite ill, even in the occasional gaslight that washed over his face. He was wheezing and sweating and was giving Daniel furtive looks. Arthur knew when a man was holding something back and he didn’t trust him at all. He thought privately he would keep his wits about him and be ready to pounce if Conway did something untoward. The thought had struck him that they might actually be leading the killer right to her door, even if Daniel was convinced his old friend was nothing to do with the murder of Louisa Gill.
They pulled up outside the house and Daniel leapt out almost before the horses were reined in.
“Wait here, fellow!” Arthur called to the cabman. “We might be for Birmingham next.” He stepped out and kept himself between Daniel and Conway, who stepped down from the cab as if in great pain.
Daniel was already rapping at the brass door knocker. A light came on through the stained glass glazing of the front door, which was yanked open. An elderly gentleman in pyjamas and dressing gown stepped forth.
Daniel shrank back.
The old man was pointing a revolver at him.