The Beast of London: Book 1 of the Mina Murray series

by Goffigan, L. D.

  I was relieved when the meal came to an end. Jonathan embraced and kissed his mother farewell; she stiffly offered me her cheek to kiss.

  The air outside was damp with the promise of rain, but we still decided to take a brief walk before Jonathan escorted me back to Highgate. A light fog had descended over the Kensington streets, battling with the numerous gas lamps to cloak the neighborhood with its own form of hazy luminescence. In spite of the threat of rain and the increasing lateness of the hour, the streets still bustled with activity, and we had to navigate our way past other couples and passersby.

  As we began our walk, I took Jonathan’s offered arm, glancing up to take in his profile. I met Jonathan at a charity ball over a year ago, where he had quietly mocked the exaggerated accents of the aristocratic guests, eliciting a genuine laugh from me for the first time in months. Our courtship had begun tentatively, with long talks in Mary’s drawing room. Mary had insisted on serving as our chaperone since both of my parents were deceased and I had very little contact with my father’s extended family. Our talks soon transitioned into lengthy walks all around London, and I found myself looking forward to our time together.

  I had told him about Father, our travels, and my love of the sciences; careful to leave out details of exactly what we’d encountered in Transylvania, merely telling him that Father’s death was a tragic accident. To my relief, he had not pressed for more details, innately seeming to understand how painful Father’s death was for me—he’d lost his own father not long before our courtship began.

  Jonathan told me of his work as a solicitor, and how his mother wanted him to become a barrister like his late father, but he took greater joy in helping the less privileged. His firm specialized in handling estate transactions for wealthy clients to purchase housing all throughout London for the poor.

  I fell in love with Jonathan quite against my will. My grief over Father’s death and my long time love for Abe still hovered in the back of my heart, never letting me forget that they were there. Jonathan was not dismayed by my unconventional past, nor by my outsider status in society because of it. You are unlike anyone I have ever met, he’d said earnestly, before kissing me for the first time. When he proposed to me during a rainy carriage ride down Piccadilly, there was only one response I could possibly give him. I knew that with Jonathan, I would finally be able to move forward with my life and leave the tragedy in my past behind. Yes, I had tremulously whispered to him. With all my heart, yes.

  “I’m sorry I was cross with your mother,” I said to him now. “I don’t think she accepted my apology. I’ll call on her tomorrow, if that would—”

  “We both know my mother. There is no need to offer any additional apologies, my darling.”

  He gave me a gentle smile, but he still looked vaguely troubled.

  “Is something wrong, Jonathan? You’ve been distracted all evening.” Had someone spotted me and Abe earlier today? Was that what was troubling him? Jonathan stopped mid-stride and turned to face me, his eyes shadowed with anxiety. I stood stiffly, bracing myself for his response.

  “Someone broke into our offices last night,” he said. “It was completely destroyed when I arrived this morning, yet nothing was taken.”

  “No,” I breathed, frowning with concern.

  “Last week I discovered a few files missing,” Jonathan continued, his brow furrowing. “After what happened today, I’m wondering if the two incidents are related. Peter told me that if there are any further incidents, we might have to move offices. He’s starting to think London’s become too dangerous.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said sympathetically. Peter Hawkins was Jonathan’s partner at their two-man firm, a kind man in his fifties who shared Jonathan’s charitable nature, and whom I liked very much. “Is there anything I can do?”

  “You can walk with me along the river,” he said with a smile, reaching out to pull me in close to his side. “Your presence is all that I require.”

  I returned his smile, and we made our way south through Kensington towards the Thames. Once we reached the walking path that ran along the river, Jonathan pulled me in even closer, and I rested my head on his shoulder.

  “I have been so distracted that I’ve neglected you, darling. How are you? Is Horace giving you any trouble?” Jonathan asked, raising my hand to his lips to give it a loving kiss.

  I hesitated. Now would be the ideal time to tell him about Abe’s visit. Jonathan knew that Abe traveled with me and Father, but he had never inquired about the exact nature of our relationship. I suspected that he didn’t want to know.

  “Mina?” Jonathan persisted.

  As with Clara, I decided that I didn’t want to cause Jonathan undue concern. He had enough on his mind with the incidents at his office. Abe’s visit was inconsequential, I told myself. I will not be seeing him again.

  “Horace scolded me today for telling adventure stories to the children,” I said, forcing a wry but annoyed smile, ignoring my guilt at the purposeful evasion. “He can be truly insufferable. But I love those students. I endure him for their sake.”

  “Your students are lucky to have you. I meant what I said to Mother about your teaching. But I do confess . . .” he began, his words trailing off into silence as he looked away.

  “What?”

  “With all the traveling you’ve done; the life you led before . . . I fear you would be terribly bored as a solicitor’s wife,” he confessed.

  Jonathan had expressed such concerns before, though I had repeatedly assured him otherwise. I wanted nothing of the life I had lived before I met him. I set aside my annoyance at this repeated concern; in light of the day’s events, I didn’t want to quarrel with him.

  I stopped walking, turning him to face me as I gave him a look of mock offense.

  “You are hardly just a solicitor, Jonathan. You perform the best impressions of anyone in London, and I get to be your solo audience.”

  My words had their intended effect, and Jonathan laughed. I smiled, reaching up to gently touch his face.

  “I love you, Jonathan Harker. My place is here with you.”

  I cast a hasty look around to ensure we were alone before boldly reaching up to kiss him. Jonathan responded, and we only pulled away when we heard the footfalls of another approaching couple.

  We continued along the path in companionable silence, periodically stopping to exchange kisses whenever we were alone. During one particularly passionate kiss, it began to rain. Jonathan pulled away from me with great reluctance, looking up at the dark and cloudy sky.

  “We can find a cab,” he suggested.

  “No. . . I rather enjoy walking in the rain. And some of our best memories are from walking in the rain,” I added, with a nostalgic smile. “Remember our walk home from the museum?”

  “Of course,” he said, feigning a grimace as he wound his fingers through mine. “The best and the worst day.”

  Jonathan had not only proposed to me in the rain, he’d also told me he loved me for the first time during a downpour. We had decided to make the long walk back to my home after taking in an exhibition of drawings at the British Museum, when there was a sudden torrential downpour of rain halfway through our walk. Unable to find a cab, we had hurried to the nearest Underground station, our clothing soaked straight through. Ignoring the disapproving gazes of other passengers as we dripped all over the floors of the train, we took in our mutually drenched states and began to laugh.

  “I–I love you, Mina,” Jonathan had said suddenly, as our laughter subsided. An embarrassed flush spread over his cheeks at both my look of astonishment and the other passengers’ stares.

  “I love you too,” I had replied, and he looked greatly relieved as his flush faded. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw many of the other passengers smile at our exchange. As soon as we emerged from the station, we found an isolated side street, where Jonathan passionately kissed me.

  “Clara was quite cross with you when I returned home,” I said now, smilin
g at the memory as we left the walking path to head back towards Kensington. I cleared my throat and did my best impression of Clara’s Yorkshire accent. “‘I thought he was from a gran’ family. Takin’ a lady out int’ pourin’ rain.’”

  “Ah, but we both know that you are not a typical lady. The walk home was your idea,” Jonathan protested, with playful defensiveness.

  “Perhaps,” I returned, with a sly grin.

  When we arrived in Highgate, the light rain had tapered off. We walked hand in hand up the stairs to my front door, and Jonathan turned to look at the dark windows of my home, frowning.

  “I worry about you here all alone.”

  “I’m hardly alone. Clara is often here,” I said. “We could elope, and I could move into your home sooner . . .” I added, with a mischievous smile.

  “Mother would have a heart attack.” Jonathan laughed, looking both horrified and amused at the same time. “Darling, I want to show you off as my bride. The wait will be worth it.”

  * * *

  My anxiety over Abe’s reappearance did not dissipate the next day, and I had to force myself to concentrate on my students as they took turns reading aloud from their grammar books.

  I had gently informed them that we would stick to Horace’s curriculum going forward, and I would not be telling any more adventure stories. My anger towards Horace reawakened when I saw the disappointment on their young faces. My tales of the world outside London was likely the only chance they’d ever have of experiencing it. My own pleasure aside, I loved seeing the light in their eyes as I described seeing the canals of Amsterdam, the multitude of evergreens in the Black Forest of Germany, and the vast Carpathian Mountain range.

  By the end of the school day, the students were more muted than usual, and I noticed a few struggling to keep their eyes open as I had them recite their vocabulary tables. When I dismissed them for the day, they filed out without their usual cheery goodbyes, and I watched them leave with a concerned frown. I would have to find another way to make the lessons enjoyable.

  As I took the Underground back to Highgate, my thoughts drifted to Abe rather than lesson plans. He was persistent, and I sincerely doubted that he had left London. He had once convinced the stubborn leader of a biology conference in Paris to allow me entrance by convincing him I was a distant relative of the queen. I couldn’t help but smile at the memory.

  Tonight I was to attend a London Law Society ball with Jonathan. I knew that I needed to clear my mind, hurry home and get dressed, but when I reached Highgate, I found myself walking into the lush green grounds of Waterlow Park, heading towards a place I had not visited in months.

  4

  The Ball

  The park was quiet, with only a few men and women strolling by or lounging on the various benches that dotted the grounds. By the time I reached the far edge of the park, the only sounds of humanity were the distant clopping of horse hooves and grind of carriage wheels, along with the faint voices of vendors selling their wares at the markets on High Street.

  I soon reached my destination at the far end of the park, Highgate Cemetery. Ignoring the tendrils of dread that coiled around my chest, I made my way past the front gates, heading down a long dusty path that snaked through the cemetery grounds. The silence of the cemetery was as deafening as any noise, and as I walked past the multitude of gothic tombstones, it seemed as if the dead watched me in silent solemnity.

  I reached the edge of the path, taking the left fork onto a narrower path until I arrived at a pair of simple granite headstones. I sank to my knees before them, a heaviness settling over me as I reached out with shaking fingers to trace the engraved words.

  ROBERT MURRAY, BELOVED HUSBAND AND FATHER

  I dropped my hand, reaching out to touch the engraved words of the adjacent headstone.

  EVA MURRAY, BELOVED WIFE AND MOTHER

  I had never truly known my mother. When I was a child of five, she’d left England after a long illness to seek further treatment in Italy. Her ship sank and her body had been lost at sea. I don’t believe Father ever fully recovered from her loss.

  I had precious few memories of her. I could remember that she was beautiful, with long dark hair that I would wrap around my small hands as she laughed, and wide brown eyes that radiated both warmth and sadness. Father didn’t speak of her often, and a great shadow fell over his face whenever I inquired about her. Though I was too young when she died to feel her loss the way I felt Father’s, the ache of her missing presence had always been there. I reached up to touch the gold spinner locket around my neck. It contained a small photograph of me seated on her lap as a child, a gift she had given me shortly before she died.

  A strange sensation on the back of my neck pulled me from my thoughts, and I went still. It was the feeling of a cold gaze searing my skin; an odd bite of frost amidst the warmth of the day. But this sensation felt different than that of the day before; there was an immediate sense of ominous danger.

  I stumbled to my feet, looking around at the empty cemetery grounds, almost hoping to see Abe. There was no one else here, but my instincts told me to leave. I hurried back down the path, still feeling that persistent and haunting sensation of being watched.

  I was still on edge when I returned home, and though I knew I needed to get dressed for tonight’s ball, I spent a good hour searching through Father’s study and the cellar for any sign of his missing journal. It wasn’t until Clara entered the cellar to inform me that Jonathan would shortly arrive that I reluctantly gave up the search.

  “Why are you lookin’ for your father’s journal?” Clara asked curiously, as she helped me lace up my corset in front of my bedroom mirror moments later. “You’ve not looked through his things in years.”

  “He has notes that I could use for my lessons,” I lied, avoiding Clara’s perceptive scrutiny. Once she secured my corset, I abruptly moved away from her, picking up the evening gown that I was to wear, still not looking at her. “I can finish getting dressed on my own. I don’t want you to miss your train.”

  Clara lived in Luton, in a small home that once belonged to Father’s family, which he’d gifted to her in his will. But Clara often slept here in her old room, especially in the months after Father’s death. It was only after Jonathan and I began courting that she started to spend more time in her own home.

  “I’m stayin’ overnight ta receive t’ bread delivery tomorrow. I told you earlier,” Clara said, her voice shadowed with concern.

  “Right. Of course,” I said, letting out a forced laugh as I put on my petticoat.

  “Mina,” Clara said, in an authoritative tone that I recalled from my childhood, and I instinctively looked up. She was regarding me with a worried frown. “Is everythin’ all right?”

  “You know how much I hate these society balls,” I said, giving her what I hoped was a genuine smile. “I’d much rather stay home and read.”

  Clara knew me too well, and I could tell that she didn’t believe me. But she said nothing, merely stepping forward to help me into my gown. When I was completely dressed and ready to go, she scented my skin with lavender perfume and handed me my cloak and silk gloves.

  “There,” Clara beamed, stepping aside to allow me to take in my reflection.

  The woman who stared back at me was dressed in a ball gown of fine red muslin adorned with symmetrical black lace garnitures at the sleeves and bodice. Her long dark curls were tucked back into a fashionable bun, her cheekbones and full mouth dabbed with a blood red pomade. Her eyelashes had been darkened with elderberries, highlighting her wide amber eyes. She looked very much like a woman of London society; soon to be an official member of the Harker family. She didn’t look like me at all.

  I turned away from my reflection, feeling like an actress who was dressed for a part in a play, about to take her place on stage. Indeed, whenever I attended one of these balls, I felt as if I were putting on a performance. Though Jonathan shared my disdain for such affairs, he always blended in perfectl
y, effortlessly engaging in polite conversation, while I struggled to follow all the rules of etiquette. Do not speak too loudly. Do not cross the ballroom unattended. Do not speak unless invited to, when spoken to, only offer brief replies. There were many more that I had been forced to learn; Mary had practically given me a course in ball etiquette after Jonathan and I were engaged.

  I began to tug on the gloves. Clara stopped me, tightly gripping both my hands in hers.

  “I’m here for you if you need ta talk,” she said, searching my eyes.

  I hesitated, tempted to tell her about Abe’s visit and the sense of being watched at the cemetery, but there was a knock at the door before I could speak. Clara reluctantly released my hands, leaving the room to answer it, and I watched her go. Guilt lingered in me because I had not confided in her, though I assured myself it was for the best.

  Jonathan had arrived in the Harker family carriage. He looked dashing in a black tailcoat with a white bow tie and winged collar. He bid Clara a warm farewell and kissed me softly before escorting me into the carriage. The carriage lurched and jolted over the streets as it made its way towards the Langham Hotel in the West End.

  “You look lovely, darling,” he said. “How will I distract myself from your beauty tonight?”

  “Perhaps playing our game will help,” I replied, with a teasing smile.

  I was relieved that he had returned to his usual cheerful self, and I was determined to enjoy my evening with him, casting aside the dark thoughts that had plagued me since Abe’s visit. Jonathan and I had invented a game of sorts every time we attended a society ball. We would keep track of how many times someone dropped the name of a royal or aristocrat in order to impress the listener, how many times someone would fail some arbitrary rule of etiquette, how many times someone looked quietly horrified when they learned that I was the daughter of Robert Murray and never had an official coming out. Our game made balls more tolerable, if not somewhat enjoyable.