The Pierced Heart: A Novel

by Shepherd, Lynn

  “And it did not occur to you to inform me? That it was my decision to make, not yours?”

  Sam looks across at Charles. “You never said nuffin’ about O’Riordan to me,” he mutters. “An’ as for this vampire carry-on, well it’s the first I’ve bloody well ’eard of it.”

  Charles hesitates. “I thought you would laugh.” His cheeks are burning now. “Both of you. It was such an outlandish idea—I was embarrassed even to mention it. And as for taking it seriously as a theory of the crime—how could any sane person believe it—”

  Rowlandson observes them for a moment. Wheeler, he knows, is loyal to a fault, especially where Charles is concerned, and the reproach in Sam’s tone clearly stems more from sorrow than from anger. But that being the case, it’s no surprise that Charles is still unable to meet his friend’s gaze.

  “So,” continues Rowlandson, “if O’Riordan did not get this story of his from you, then whom? Who is this ‘unimpeachable source’ he refers to? As far as I have been informed, the details of these cases are scarcely known outside this room.”

  Sam considers. “The assistants at the morgue, the doctor, one or two constables workin’ wiv me. That’s it.”

  “So we have an informer in our midst.”

  Rowlandson eyes the two of them heavily then turns to look down at the street. About two hundred people are already gathered outside, shouting up at the windows and pressing against the steps, where four of Vine Street’s burliest are doing their best to hold them at bay. Their anger is audible even three floors away, and this is the West End bourgeoisie, not an East End rabble. Though there are at least half a dozen prostitutes down there, mingling among the esquires. He can tell by their brazen décolletage and tawdry dresses. But there’s nothing tawdry about the fear in their eyes.

  “As if we did not have enough to contend with,” he says grimly. “And how in God’s name did this man manage to break into the mortuary? The window is scarcely big enough to admit a man, and the only other access would be through the station-house itself.”

  “I’m as baffled as you are, sir,” says Sam. “The attendant claims ’e must ’ave slipped past the desk, but some of the lads are already startin’ to say it’s as if ’e walked through the walls.”

  “That’s the last I want to hear of that sort of talk,” snaps Rowlandson. “We cannot afford to give even the slightest credence to this ridiculous theory that a vampire is at large. We need facts, gentlemen, facts. Not some absurd overheated fantasy. So, what exactly are the facts? Is this malicious piece of trouble-making masquerading as journalism accurate? What about the dates—do they indeed tally with the full moon as O’Riordan alleges?”

  He strides to his desk and opens his copy of Old Moore’s Almanack. “When was the first body found?”

  He looks at Charles, but it’s Sam who answers.

  “May twentief, sir, and the second one on the twenty-first. The fird one were the twenty-fif, but we’ve no idea when she actually died.”

  Rowlandson peels back through the pages. “In May the full moon was on the eighteenth. Could the third girl have been dead that long?”

  Sam nods. “I reckon it’s possible, sir.”

  “I see. And this last girl, Rose? What’s her surname?”

  “Danby, sir. We found ’er two days ago.”

  Rowlandson sighs. “The sixteenth. The day of the full moon. But if we hadn’t worked out this connexion, how in heaven’s name did the Daily News do it?”

  Sam shrugs. “Well, as long as you know when the bodies were found, I suppose it ain’t that ’ard to work it out, sir. ’Specially if you’re startin’ on the basis that it were a vampire ’as done ’em. It all adds up, then, don’t it. The moon, the be’eadin’, the teef—”

  “I was coming to that. I had no idea the corpses displayed any such puncture wounds. The beheadings and the removal of the hearts, yes, but teeth marks? What infernal nonsense is this?”

  Sam is shaking his head and opening his mouth to reply when Charles interrupts him. “There are definitely marks on Rose Danby’s body, sir. And on the third victim. But if O’Riordan is claiming that those same marks were on the first two bodies as well, he didn’t get that from me, and no-one I’ve spoken to at the morgue has admitted noticing anything like that, either. I only found the marks on the third corpse afterwards, when I went back to examine it again. Only someone actually looking for them would have even noticed they were there. Frankly, I don’t think they’re teeth marks at all, and as for the rest of it—”

  Rowlandson’s eyes narrow. “Go on.”

  Charles takes a deep breath. “If we accept—just for the sake of argument—that there actually was a vampire at work here, then there’d be teeth marks on the bodies, and evidence of considerable if not fatal exsanguination—”

  “But I thought that’s precisely what we do have—”

  “Bear with me, sir. It’s the rest of it that defies logic—the beheadings, and the cutting out of the hearts. People do that because they think it will prevent the victims of a vampire from becoming vampires themselves. In other words it’s the very last thing an actual vampire would ever do to a corpse.”

  Rowlandson frowns. “So what are you suggesting? That these horrible mutilations are purely coincidental—a depraved act of gratuitous violence?”

  “Could be,” answers Sam slowly. “Or maybe what this killer’s really after doin’ is spreadin’ terror in London, ’specially now the Exhibition’s on, an’ ’e finks this is the best an’ quickest way to do it. An’ ’e’s right, ain’t ’e. I mean, look at them people outside. An’ if ’e’s after discreditin’ the police, then ’e might well ’ave given the story to the News ’imself. For if there’s one person outside this room who knows the details of these crimes, it’s ’im. An’ if ’e really does turn out to be a foreigner, like the girls said, then—”

  He stops, and flushes, realising what he’s done. “That is, sir—”

  “Foreigner?” snaps Rowlandson quickly. “I thought that was just yet another of O’Riordan’s inflammatory fabrications?”

  Charles glances at Sam, who stammers, “No, sir. But we only—”

  “Good God, man!” barks Rowlandson, crashing his fist down upon the desk, “are you seriously telling me that you had reason to believe this man is a foreigner and you have not thought fit to report that fact to your superior officer? I could have you up on a disciplinary charge for that alone, never mind all the rest of it—”

  “It’s not Sam’s fault, sir,” says Charles at once. His own career in the Met was wrecked on very similar rocks, and he’s not going to let that happen to Sam—not if he can help it. “A man was seen running from Shepherd’s Market the night Rose Danby’s body was found, but it was only yesterday we picked up that the man who killed her might be a foreigner. I’m sure Sam was going to come and speak to you about it first thing this morning.”

  “Is this right, Wheeler?”

  “Yes, sir. It were one of the Granby Street girls as gave us the lead. She seemed to fink the bloke Rose Danby ’ad been seein’ ’ad a foreign accent. I’ve ’ad the ’Ome Office give us the certificates of arrival for the last couple o’ months, an’ me an’ a few lads ’ave started knockin’ on doors. Only one so far whose alibi don’t quite ring true—strange cove an’ no mistake—I’m ’avin’ Foster look into it—”

  Rowlandson shakes his head. “I’m not sure what’s worse—that the public should actually believe a vampire stalks our streets, or having to explain to the Commissioners that this may all be the work of some political agent provocateur.”

  “I don’t think it’s either, sir,” says Charles.

  “Well, if you have some other theory, Maddox,” retorts Rowlandson sardonically, “and preferably one that will lead to a swift and decisive arrest, then pray, do enlighten us.”

  “I think the marks on the corpses might have been made by a scarificator—it’s a type of blood-letting instrument. There’s a new version that cre
ates a small circular puncture, and can be used not just on the arm but the neck. I think that could be the answer—it would explain the marks, and it would also explain why the corpses were so pale. I’ve arranged to have one sent here, and I’ve obtained a list of all the addresses where these instruments have been delivered in the last two months, since the murders started. And if one of those men turns out to be a foreigner—”

  A knock then, and the desk sergeant appears once more, this time with a small parcel in his hand.

  “Delivery for Mr Maddox, sir. The man who brought it insists it’s urgent.”

  Charles takes the package and rips off the brown paper, and then he opens the box and shows the contents to Rowlandson.

  “This is it, sir. The Heurteloup scarificator. If we can prove this instrument made those marks we may be able to quash this insidious vampire story once and for all.”

  “In that case, Maddox, I suggest we lose no further time.”

  The three of them descend the two flights of stairs to the morgue. There is an awkward moment when Charles comes face-to-face with the doctor, who cannot be expected to relish this usurpation of his territory, but after a moment he steps back, and they take their places around the corpse. Rowlandson nods to the attendant, and Charles goes to the end of the slab as the man takes the sheet and lifts it away from the severed head. One eye is a mass of pulp now, and the whole of that side of the face is pitted with sharp indentations where pieces of flesh have been ripped away. Charles looks up at Sam.

  “There was a bloody great crow in ’ere earlier. Must ’a got in through the window.”

  Charles takes a deep breath but still his fingers are trembling as he eases the scarificator from its case, all too aware of the doctor’s unsmiling stare. He bends over the body and places the circular blade against the punctured skin.

  Then he straightens up and replaces the instrument in its box. “It’s a perfect fit.”

  He hears Rowlandson exhale, and the murmurs of the two young constables standing behind him.

  “Do you ’ave that list?” says Sam at his shoulder. “The addresses where they sent those instruments to?”

  Charles pulls the paper from his pocket and hands it to Sam, and the attendant comes forward to replace the sheet. And as he lifts it up to cover her face, Charles sees for the first time what lies beneath—the heart resting on the belly, the skeins of arteries and muscle oozing slimy grey.

  Sam notices nothing of this—he’s set Charles’s list down beside his own, and is scanning the addresses frantically, looking for a match. But Rowlandson sees; Rowlandson observes.

  “What is it, Maddox?”

  For Charles is staring now, staring with the horror of a man aghast.

  “I’ve seen this before,” he says eventually. “I’ve seen this before—”

  “I do not take your meaning,” says Rowlandson. “I thought you had examined the body already?”

  “No, sir,” interjects the doctor. “Not in its present state. I do not admit idle spectators.”

  Rowlandson turns again to Charles. “Maddox?”

  “You don’t understand,” says Charles, “I’ve seen exactly this before. The heart on the belly, the head removed—only that girl wasn’t real.”

  Rowlandson scowls. “We can do without your damn riddles, Maddox.”

  “You don’t understand—it was in Austria, not three months ago, in a collection of waxworks owned by the man I was investigating. A nobleman by the name of—”

  “—the Baron Von Reisenberg.”

  It’s Sam’s voice, and Charles turns to him, open-mouthed. “How on earth—”

  Sam holds out Charles’s list, pointing to a name. “The Albany—they sent one of those instruments to the Albany. Same bloody address where I went last night. This Baron of yours is the bloke I mentioned before—the one who gave me the creeps—the one with the dodgy alibi. Accordin’ to the ’Ome Office ’e arrived at Grimsby on the Ceres in the first week of April, and ’e’s been at the Albany since the twenty-fird. ’Es been ’ere all this time. For all the killin’s. It all adds up, sir,” he finishes excitedly to Rowlandson, “it does. It’s ’im. We’ve got ’im!”

  The Inspector frowns. “Not so fast, Wheeler. I’m not having you two crashing about arresting a member of the Austrian nobility without better cause than that. It may all be some bizarre coincidence. Do you, for example,” he says, turning to Charles and gesturing at the corpse, “have any explanation for this—this—abomination? Beyond this man’s peculiar not to say unsavoury taste in curios?”

  “Whatever it is, sir, it’s not that. This man is deliberately turning these women into exact simulacra of the models I saw in his collection. Though whether he does so from some macabre and misplaced quest for scientific knowledge, or for his own perverted pleasure, I cannot tell you.”

  Rowlandson frowns. “What pleasure could there be in such barbarity?”

  “There are killers who would find a depraved gratification in the violence of such an act, and others who derive satisfaction of a wholly different kind.”

  He pauses; Rowlandson is still staring at him and Charles feels his cheeks going red. He can hear the constable behind him shifting uneasily: He for one knows exactly what Charles is talking about.

  Charles swallows. “I saw the Baron’s waxworks on only one occasion, and by accident, when he left the door unlocked. But from what I did see, it’s possible some of them had been used for, well, carnal pleasure. I assumed, at the time, that this explained why he was so careful to keep the collection private.”

  Rowlandson gapes at him. “This man slakes his lusts on lifeless dolls?”

  “It’s conceivable, sir, yes. But my point is that only some of his waxworks resembled living women. There were others that were headless, or mere torsos, and some with the organs exposed. Just like the corpses we found. And one of the waxworks was of a woman with her heart resting on her belly—a woman whose head had been removed. Just like this. This man is systematically re-creating those wax models in living flesh, and I don’t think these latest victims are the only ones. A doctor living close to his castle told me that another girl had been found dead there only a few weeks before, and her body was later mutilated in exactly the same way as Rose and the others. I think the Baron came perilously near discovery then—indeed I suspect it was only the superstitious terror of his own peasants that saved him. They believed that an act of such vicious brutality could only be the work of a nosferatu, not a real man.”

  “I am rather inclined to agree with them,” says Rowlandson heavily.

  “But here, sir, in London, he can move unseen among the crowds and have his pick of desperate and half-starving whores. And if the rumour now runs rife that a vampire is to blame, then so much the better. For the very last person we will then suspect is a man such as he—an industrialist and a scientist, and a member of the nobility.”

  “That’s exactly what ’e said to me,” says Sam quickly. “When I questioned him about the murders—”

  “Good God, man, you actually questioned him?”

  “He talked about cut-froats and whores, sir. Only I never told ’im who the victims were. There was no way ’e could ’ave known the girls were tarts. That’s when I knew somefing was wrong.”

  “But anyone might have made the same assumption, Wheeler. The vast majority of the women killed in this city are those who work on its streets.”

  “With respect, sir,” intervenes Charles, “they’re also the least likely to be missed. That’s why we still don’t know who the first three were. That’s why he chose them. That’s why he came.”

  There is a silence. The young constable standing behind Charles seems scarcely to be breathing.

  “And the marks on the necks,” says Rowlandson eventually. “The blood-letting—does your theory explain that?”

  “I can only guess that he wishes to weaken them, perhaps to render them unable to defend themselves,” replies Charles. “Other than that
, I do not know.”

  “And you’re suggesting that this Baron Von Reisenberg broke in here last night to mutilate this woman? Despite the enormous risk that he would be seen and caught?”

  Charles shrugs. “I cannot think of any other explanation.”

  Rowlandson looks from one to the other. And then decides. “Take two sturdy men with you, and bring him in for questioning. And discreetly. And in the meantime I will deal with our Mr O’Riordan. I want the name of that ‘unimpeachable source’ of his, and I fully intend to get it.”

  The courtyard at the Albany is thronged with people when the horses pull up, and for one terrible moment Charles thinks that the news has gone before them—that a vengeful mob is gathered here already. But as they step down from the carriage it’s obvious that this is a gathering of quite a different social order. There are white-clothed tables bearing pitchers of punch and champagne, and a number of the bachelor residents are accompanied by daintily dressed young women in silk dresses and summer bonnets. The enclaves of the Albany are rarely sullied by the presence of the police, and especially not when en fête, and Sam is forced in consequence to leave one of the constables outside to appease the indignation of a red-faced gentleman with mutton-chop whiskers who is clearly the host of these proceedings.

  Inside, the corridors and staircases are deserted, and when they come to a halt in front of the Baron’s door they hear only silence.

  “Police! Open up!” cries Sam, knocking on the door. And then, when there is no reply, he nods to the constable accompanying them. “Go on then, break it down.”

  The apartment is empty, Charles can see that at once, but he follows Sam and the constable as they search, first the sitting-room and then the bedroom, but all is neat, all is normal. There is nothing amiss, nothing out of place. Apart from one thing. Heaped on the bedspread is a satin cloth of deep red.

  “I reckon ’e’s definitely ’ad tarts in ’ere,” says Sam, eyeing several darker patches on the silk. “But if ’e did kill ’em, it don’t look like this was where ’e did it.”