Constable & Toop

by Gareth P. Jones

  ‘When you reach our age and look back on your life, I guarantee you will feel ashamed of a great many things: transgressions you have made, people you have hurt, cruelties you have spoken. Even in my dull life, there are things I would rather not dwell on.’

  ‘But murder,’ said Sam.

  The word hung between them as the train rattled onwards. ‘Have you always known about this business with my mother’s father?’ asked Sam.

  ‘Yes,’ said Mr Constable, maintaining eye contact. ‘I suppose that makes me a liar too.’

  ‘It was for my father to tell me. I imagine he asked you to keep it from me.’

  ‘He didn’t have to,’ replied Mr Constable. ‘He wanted to protect you.’

  ‘From the truth?’

  ‘From the pain.’

  Sam had never experienced a conversation so stilted with Mr Constable. When the train pulled in at the next station a smartly attired gentleman looked at the carriage but, thankfully, thought better of it and chose another one.

  Mr Constable sighed. ‘Your mother took her father’s death hard. That his death unlocked the door to her own happiness was no consolation. Your father had to live with that guilt.’

  ‘So you agree that he was guilty?’

  ‘No,’ stated Mr Constable. ‘It was worse than that. He felt guilty when he was not. At the time he had no idea what his brother had become. They argued shortly after and Jack left. He would not return until the day you saw him. But he left in his wake the consequences of his actions, and your father took on his guilt, with a conscience that Jack never possessed. Guilt is a terrible thing. It corrodes from within. It is something your father always wanted to protect you from.’

  ‘What have I to feel guilty about?’

  Mr Constable fell silent.

  ‘I don’t want any more secrets,’ said Sam.

  ‘Even those which protect you?’

  ‘Even those.’

  ‘Your mother didn’t die of a fever. She died giving birth to you, Sam,’ said Mr Constable. ‘Your father kept this from you for fear that you would blame yourself for her death.’

  Sam tried to let the words sink in, but they merely splashed around the edges of his mind, like water on stone. His mother had died bringing him into the world. How many more lies had his father told him?

  Sam’s voice quivered as he asked, ‘Did he blame me?’

  ‘Never,’ said Mr Constable, without a moment’s hesitation.

  The train trundled past a raised hedgerow. Dappled sunlight shone through, flickering on Sam’s face. He shut his eyes until a factory wall blocked it out.

  ‘That’s why I can see Them,’ he said. ‘That’s why I can see ghosts. Death must touch you. Jack got it from murdering, I from my mother’s death.’

  There passed another moment of uncomfortable silence except for the rattling of the carriage.

  ‘What was she like?’ asked Sam.

  ‘A fine woman,’ said Mr Constable. ‘There was never a more troubled beginning to a love affair, but they loved each other more fervently than any couple I’ve ever known. The gossips talked as gossips will. First the courting of a widow, then the timely death of her dissenting father. Your parents were unable to reveal their love to the world. Their wedding was an understated affair. She was a troubled woman. But she eventually found happiness. The month before she died she told me she was the happiest she had ever been. Do you know why?’

  Sam shook his head.

  ‘You, Sam. She was pregnant with you. She was so looking forward to meeting you and to spending every hour with you. You made her happy, Sam.’

  The train made another stop where a woman climbed onboard with her two young children in tow. To the mother’s embarrassment the children were so excited about the train journey that they barely stopped chattering. Mr Constable, however, was his usual charming self and engaged the youngest boy in an amusing conversation regarding the workings of a steam train, a subject about which the boy turned out to be a great authority. Sam, for his part, was grateful for the distraction.

  He knew now he could see death because of his birth. Every dead soul he saw with his right eye was a reminder of the woman who had died so that he could live.

  70

  Grunt’s Decline

  Lapsewood felt like a new ghost. Arriving in London, he didn’t materialise in a dark back alley this time. Instead he chose the middle of the busy thoroughfare of the Strand. Even the tram that trundled straight through him, giving him a distasteful view of the contents of its passengers’ shoes, didn’t put him off. It would take more than a face full of bunions to upset this new Lapsewood. All his life, and his subsequent death, he had watched the world from the sidelines, too fearful to do anything other than that which was expected of him. Now, he was dealing with things himself. He had been devasted when Colonel Penhaligan had taken away his job, but he could no longer imagine returning to his desk job with its endless paperwork. General Colt had asked Lapsewood to do the job alone because he was too cowardly to endanger his own position, but that didn’t matter to Lapsewood. For once in his life he was going to do the right thing rather than the easy one. He would find Tanner, stop the exorcist and vanquish the hell hound back to the Void. The only problem was that he had absolutely no idea where to start.

  On the pavement outside Charing Cross Station where the taxicabs gathered, a man waved the latest edition of the Evening Standard in the air.

  ‘Standarstandarstandar,’ he shouted, ‘Kitchen Killer kills again.’

  Lapsewood glanced at the headline. If the living really knew what death was like, would they be more careful with their lives? he wondered.

  ‘Five murdered,’ cried the newspaper seller. ‘Confused coppers can’t cope.’

  A uniformed policeman with his hands behind his back stopped beside the man and coughed. ‘Ah-hem.’

  The newspaper seller tipped his cap to the officer and shouted, ‘The city’s finest constabulary close to cracking the case. Standarstandarstandard.’

  The policeman nodded approvingly and moved on.

  Lapsewood turned to Ether Dust and left in search of Nell. She would be able to help him track down Tanner. However, after several hours, there was still no sign of her. In fact there were far fewer ghosts on the streets than the last time he had visited. Several hours of fruitless searching later he eventually found a spirit lying in a doorway. He was hitched up on one elbow, with a half-drunk bottle of spirit ale in one hand, mumbling quietly to himself.

  ‘Grunt?’ said Lapsewood. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Lying down,’ replied Grunt, sounding worse for wear. ‘And drinking. You want some?’ He offered up the bottle.

  ‘No, thank you,’ replied Lapsewood. ‘What happened to you?’

  ‘You were right. Getting out of that place did me the world of good. I’m much happier now.’ To prove it, Grunt let out a loud sob and took another swig of ale.

  ‘You’re drunk.’

  ‘Yep,’ agreed Grunt. ‘It’s not the same, you know, getting drunk with spirit ale. Do you remember what it was like getting drunk when you were alive?’

  ‘I was never a drinker,’ said Lapsewood.

  ‘When you’re alive, it numbs the pain. After I found my wife dead, the first thing I did was find myself a bottle. Our pain, though, it’s different, isn’t it? Memory, Lapsewood. That’s our pain. It takes something stronger than spirit ale to take that away.’

  ‘Yes.’ Lapsewood noticed how the ale had turned the grey goo that leaked out of Grunt’s neck an alarming shade of purple.

  ‘I think people should be ghosts first,’ said Grunt. ‘If we were dead before we were alive we’d appreciate it more, wouldn’t we?’

  ‘Perhaps we are,’ said Lapsewood. ‘Maybe a new life lies on the other side of the Unseen Door.’

  Grunt emitted a snort of unamused laughter at the notion.

  ‘Did you find Tanner?’ asked Lapsewood. ‘Did you give him the message?’


  More laughter. ‘I gave him the message, all right. Haven’t you heard?’

  ‘Heard what?’

  ‘Your boy has got someone murdering people.’

  ‘Murdering?’ said Lapsewood, thinking he must have misheard him.

  ‘Yep. For their ghosts,’ slurred Grunt. ‘They call him the Kitchen Killer.’

  ‘I . . . I . . .’ Lapsewood was lost for words.

  ‘What with Tanner’s killer terrorising the living and this black demon hound that roams the city feeding on the souls of ghosts, there’s very little hope left in London. Haven’t you noticed how few Rogues there are around? Us ghosts are a dying breed.’ He laughed so much that the fluid bubbled up through the gap in his neck.

  ‘I have to speak to Tanner,’ said Lapsewood. ‘I’m sure he can’t have meant to . . . I mean, I never said . . .’

  ‘Whatever means necessary. Those were your exact words.’

  ‘I have to put this right,’ said Lapsewood determinedly.

  ‘That’s what I tried to do. I tried to put things right.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I haunted him, Lapsewood.’

  ‘Who? Tanner?’ said Lapsewood, confused by how one could haunt a ghost.

  ‘No.’ Grunt spat. ‘That villain who killed my wife. I haunted him good and proper. I didn’t have a licence either, and I don’t care. They can throw me in the Vault if they want. It can’t be any worse than this.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  Grunt took a big swig from the bottle and Lapsewood watched as half of it oozed back through the neck scarf. ‘I threw a cup at him,’ he said.

  ‘A cup?’

  Grunt nodded. ‘A tin cup.’

  ‘The man who killed your wife, whose crime you were hanged for? You threw a tin cup at him?’

  ‘The strange thing is that it didn’t make me feel any better.’

  ‘No,’ replied Lapsewood flatly.

  ‘He was terrified, scared out of his wits, and yet even then I wished I could swap places with him. I’d rather feel fear than nothing, but the next day in the pub, he was there telling it like it was a funny story. That’s when I realised there’s nothing we can do, us ghosts. Nothing. Working at the Bureau makes us feel like we’re making a difference, but we’re not. With all our licences, forms and permissions, what difference does it make? None that I can see. That’s when I found this bottle. Are you sure you won’t have a drink?’

  ‘Thank you, but no,’ said Lapsewood. ‘I can do something. I can put right that which I’ve made wrong.’

  ‘I’ll drink to that,’ said Grunt. ‘Good luck, Lapsewood.’

  ‘Good luck, Grunt.’

  71

  An Unexpected Visitor

  Clara had spent all morning waiting for the knock on the door. Today she would finally communicate with a ghost. Not just any ghost either. Her ghost. She was excited to see Sam again too. With his mournful eyes and quiet disposition, he was easily the most interesting person she had ever met.

  But when the knock finally came, just after eleven o’clock, Clara was alone in the house and felt unsure what to do. Her father was at work, her mother was visiting a shop to discuss furnishings for the new house and Hopkins had asked permission to accompany Mrs Preston to the shop, seeing as she was so nervous about leaving the house these days.

  Even Clara understood it would not be right for her and Sam to be alone in the house. She resolved to ask him to wait outside until Hopkins and Mrs Preston returned.

  However, when she opened the door, it wasn’t Sam who was stood on the doorstep.

  ‘Hello, my dear,’ said Reverend Fallowfield.

  ‘What do you want?’ she asked, as rudely as possible.

  ‘You ruined my show,’ he replied.

  ‘You said it wasn’t a show.’

  ‘I was there to show people what I do.’

  ‘Go away. There’s no one else here,’ she replied.

  ‘Oh yes, there is.’ Reverend Fallowfield pushed past her and stepped inside. He sniffed the air like a bloodhound picking up the scent of its prey. ‘You have a new one. A fresh demon.’

  ‘Get out,’ she exclaimed.

  ‘He’s working against me, this Kitchen Killer, filling the holes I make. But I will rid this house of its new tenent as easily as I rid it of the previous one.’

  ‘No!’ shouted Clara.

  ‘You would defy me?’ he pronounced. ‘I am on a mission from God.’

  ‘You’re mad.’

  ‘I have been touched by the Almighty, not madness. Those hypocrites in the church call me heretic. It’s a word used by those who do not understand the true gift I have.’

  ‘Get out of my house.’ Clara felt panicked.

  Reverend Fallowfield pushed her away. ‘I must clean this lair of Satan. I must cleanse the world of those who dare defy God’s natural order. Earth is for the living. The dead must go to almighty heaven or damnable hell.’ He raised his hands. ‘Spirit, show yourself.’

  ‘No!’ screamed Clara. ‘No!’

  Fallowfield grabbed one of Clara’s wrists and squeezed hard, twisting her arm behind her back, causing her to bend over in pain. He strong-armed her into the drawing room, slammed the door shut and turned the key, locking her on the other side.

  ‘Let me out! Get out of my house!’ Clara screamed at the top of her voice. On the other side of the door she could hear Reverend Fallowfield muttering incantations, but there was nothing she could do to stop him. ‘Please,’ she sobbed. ‘Leave her alone.’

  72

  Jack’s Final Victim

  Mr Reeve had always valued Jack Toop above the other thieves who worked for him. Jack was the closest thing he had to family, but when he had got ideas above his station Mr Reeve had curtailed his ability to operate in the city. He had chased him out, so he was surprised when Jack Toop stepped into his office. While Mr Reeve’s face gave away nothing, his right hand, unseen by Jack, reached into a drawer in the desk and extracted a knife, which he kept hidden from sight.

  ‘Jack,’ he said. ‘Close the door behind you.’

  ‘Expectin’ someone else, were you?’ replied Jack.

  ‘You know how I work. Bazeley announces my visitors. You know that, Jack.’

  ‘Bazeley won’t be announcin’ no one no more.’

  Mr Reeve shook his head as though dealing with a badly behaved child. ‘You’ve been doing a lot of killing recently. Careless, Jack, very careless.’

  ‘I was never that,’ said Jack. ‘All these years and they never caught me once. They didn’t even ’ave my name until you gave it to them.’ Jack leaned over the desk but Mr Reeve showed no sign of being intimidated.

  ‘I want to help you, but I can’t do that with you in London where you’re a wanted man. You get yourself up to Liverpool, I know a man who will take good care of you.’

  ‘I’m sure you do.’ It was the first time Jack had smiled since entering the office.

  ‘Don’t be like that, Jack. Sit down, won’t you?’

  ‘I’ll stay standin’ if you don’t mind.’ Jack stepped away from the desk and paced the room, all the time keeping his eyes on Mr Reeve. ‘When would you say it all started going wrong for me?’

  ‘Around about when you got caught up to your elbows in some copper’s blood,’ replied Mr Reeve. ‘And that was no one’s fault but your own. Like I said, you got careless, Jack.’

  ‘I killed Heale because you asked me to. You said he started askin’ for too much.’

  ‘I didn’t tell you to get caught.’

  ‘I didn’t,’ growled Jack. ‘You put Savage on to me.’

  ‘Savage?’

  ‘Yeah. I know now he’s on your books too. I know now you gave him my name and told him where I lived.’

  Under the table, Mr Reeve’s knuckles went white as he tightened his grip on the knife. ‘And you tell me, Jack. Why would I want to lose you? You were always a good thief. The best, Jack. Why would I want to lose such a good thief?’ />
  Jack drew his knife. Its handle was stained with dried blood but its blade was clean. ‘No,’ he said. ‘You tell me.’

  ‘Ambition is a dangerous thing,’ said Mr Reeve. ‘For years we worked well together, you and me, but then you started sniffing around my business, trying to turn my own against me, trying to steal from me, Jack.’ Mr Reeve’s voice grew louder and louder.

  ‘I helped build this empire of yours,’ replied Jack. ‘I been helpin’ you out all my life and yet here I was still riskin’ my neck breakin’ into ’ouses, while you sat pretty in this office, playin’ at being respectable.’

  Mr Reeve nodded. ‘You wanted me out of the way, Heale wanted more money and Savage needed reminding of who was the boss. Him catching you killing Heale was the perfect solution.’

  ‘Except I got away.’

  ‘Ah, well, yes, but here’s the thing, Jack. You’ve gone and turned yourself into a celebrated murderer now. Anonymous Jack is now the Kitchen Killer.’ He laughed. ‘You’re famous, Jack. Notorious. You’re the most famous man in London and when Savage brings you in they’ll make him commissioner and he’ll owe it all to me. You see, even when you think you’re winning, you’ll still never beat me. I’m better at this than you, Jack. That’s why you’re a thief. That’s why that’s all you’ll ever be.’

  Jack lunged forward, aiming his knife at Mr Reeve’s throat. Mr Reeve blocked him, stopping the knife with the flesh of his forearm. He then rammed his own knife into Jack’s stomach. With an almighty cry, Jack rolled off the desk and pulled the knife from his stomach and one from Mr Reeve’s arm. Blood gushed from both their wounds. Jack was now holding a knife in each hand. Mr Reeve stood and backed away, trying to stop the flow of blood with his hand.

  ‘You’re a dead man,’ said Mr Reeve. ‘Killing me won’t change that.’

  ‘The way I see it, there ain’t all that much difference between life and death,’ said Jack.

  Mr Reeve made a bolt for the door but Jack was too quick for him. He brought him down with two knives plunged into his back. Mr Reeve’s legs buckled. Jack grabbed his chin and pulled his head back. ‘Goodbye, Mr Reeve,’ he said and he dragged Mr Reeve’s own knife across his throat. More blood, but Jack didn’t leave it there. He fell on the twitching body, and repeatedly stabbed it until it went still.