by Pat Herbert
He gave her the key without a murmur. If he was concerned to see an old lady enter the house of death, he didn’t say so. This was Dorothy Plunkett’s territory, and she was in charge. She had trouble turning the key but held her hand up as Jerry stepped forward to help her. It was clear she needed no one else today. Soon, she was inside, and the front door was closed. Bernard and Jerry remained at the gate and waited anxiously for her next instruction. The front door opened after a few long minutes.
“I’ve seen the fireplace,” she said, “and I’m convinced that that is where the real trouble lies. The whole house is very troubled – there are many restless spirits here. But the fireplace is possessed by a veritable demon.”
This really wasn’t any news to the two men, of course. What they needed to know was how Dorothy proposed to deal with it all.
“I’m pleased to report that every one of these spirits, including the one responsible for the murders, is anxious to communicate. They’ve been waiting a long time.”
“So, what happens now?” asked Bernard.
“First, I need you both to go away and leave me alone with these spirits. It will take me some time to contact them all.”
“When shall we come back? Will you be safe?” asked Jerry anxiously.
“There you go again, Jerry, dear. Questions, questions. But, in answer to your first one, come back in about four hours. Say, at three o’clock.”
Before Jerry could ask any more questions, Bernard took his arm and began walking with him down the street. “Dorothy knows what’s she’s doing,” he told him. “You’d better come home with me for a while. Let’s see if Mrs Ruddock has any more mince pies, shall we?”
Bernard and Jerry sat beside the fire, hardly speaking. There was little to say. Mrs Ruddock came and went at regular intervals, with supplies of tea, coffee, left over Christmas cake and a lunch of scrambled eggs and baked beans. They constantly looked at their watches and at the mantel clock, waiting for the hour of three. It was almost dark outside as they made their way back to Bockhampton Road through the snow flurries.
Finally, they were outside 57 Bockhampton Road once more. All seemed quiet, peaceful even. The lamp post situated on the opposite side of the road cast an eerie glow over its facade, but neither man felt afraid. Except, there was no sign of Dorothy Plunkett. Jerry was all for going into the house, but then remembered he’d given the key to her.
“I’ll knock on the door,” he said with determination. “She may be lying dead in there, for all we know.”
This time, Bernard agreed that doing nothing was no longer an option. They both started up the garden path together but, as they did so, the front door opened and there was Dorothy, looking shaken, but otherwise unscathed.
“Dorothy, thank goodness!” said Bernard with relief. He took her hand and helped her down the front doorstep. “Are you all right?”
“Yes, I think so. Up to a point.” She turned to Jerry. “Do you possess an axe, young man?”
“Er, I think so. I saw one in the garden shed, but it’s very rusty. Why?”
“Get it, sharpen it and – ”
“And?”
“Break up that bloody fireplace.”
PART FIVE
Ivy Lodge
Harcourt Road, Ealing
2nd February 2010
Dear Bernard,
I enclose, as promised, all the information that I was able to discover when I undertook to rid 57 Bockhampton Road of its evil influence.
Each of the spirits trapped in the house had their stories to tell, and I pass all this on to you in the enclosed pages. You will see I’ve taken down everything they told me as near as possible verbatim, so their speech patterns and cockney dialect in some cases may prove difficult to understand. I hope, however, that you can glean, from all that I have managed to document, what you need to know about that dreadful house.
The fireplace served as a home for the evilest spirit of them all, and that is why I had Jerry destroy it. However, while I have been able to release the tormented souls and enable them to pass over, I was unsuccessful in one instance. The evilest spirit of all has eluded me and, without its home in the fireplace, still poses a danger wherever it goes.
But, Bernard dear, I have done all I can. The forces of pure evil remain unconquered and, for that, I am sincerely sorry.
Yours always,
Dorothy
41
It was not until several days later that Bernard learned the true meaning of what had taken place in 57 Bockhampton Road sporadically over the past decades. He had pieced together information from various sources, but they hadn’t added up to the true and startling facts that Dorothy had managed to discover while communing with the spirits within that troubled house.
She had been physically and mentally exhausted when she had emerged, with just the one instruction to Jerry. He had promised to do her bidding as soon as possible, but she had been adamant.
“Do it now!” she had insisted.
Bernard had then ordered a taxi to take her home, courtesy of Jerry’s mobile, and it was Omar Kemal who had turned up, more by design than luck. Bernard was delighted to see him, and so was Jerry. Dorothy had soon learned the part Omar had played in the drama, and she shook him by the hand. “A terrible business,” she had said, “but it is at an end now.” Then she had paused, looking at all three men as she had said it. “Almost,” she had then added ominously.
“Well, Dorothy, dear, how are you feeling now?” asked Bernard, welcoming her the next evening and settling her opposite him by the cosy fireplace. Mrs Ruddock had made a great fuss of the old woman too, and there was tea and an upside-down cake on the occasional table beside her to prove it.
“Still tired, but coping,” smiled Dorothy, tucking in to Mrs Ruddock’s homemade cake. “Hmm, delicious. What is it with you, Bernard? You always seem to get housekeepers that not only pamper the socks off you, but cook such lovely food, too.”
“Must be my riveting personality,” he grinned. “Now, tell me, Dorothy, are the trials of that house at an end at last?”
She looked serious now, returning her half-eaten cake to the plate for a moment. “More or less,” she hedged. “More or less.”
“What does that mean?”
“I shall explain in due course, dear.”
“Very well. But do you now know exactly what happened to cause all those awful tragedies?”
“Yes, I do. I’m sure you know most of it, though.”
“Well, I have made it my business to find out as much as I can about the place, but there’s still so much I don’t yet fully understand.”
Dorothy sat back in her chair and sighed. “It is hard, I grant you. The whole thing was brought about by a great wickedness. That is nothing new to you, I take it?”
“I know about the triple murders back in – when was it?”
“1896,” Dorothy clarified. “That was the start of it. I was able to contact all the spirits still trapped in that house and gradually get their stories from them. Poor Beth was the first one I spoke to, she having been there little over a few months or so.”
“Did she tell you exactly how she was killed and who killed her?”
“Oh, yes, she knew how she had died, but she didn’t know who had killed her. And that was true of Mary Allardyce and the Freemans. They had all been killed by the fireside poker, but not one of them had seen who had wielded it.”
“It must have been someone very strong,” commented Bernard.
“Not necessarily. The element of surprise comes into play and a few sharp whacks with a heavy iron object like that poker would soon despatch the poor victim to Kingdom Come.”
“Point taken.”
“Anyway, thanks to my shorthand training, I was able to take down all that they had to say verbatim, and I will let you have printed versions once I can summon up the energy to do it.”
“Thank you, dear,” said Bernard, patting her knee. “More tea?�
��
“Yes, please.”
When the tea was poured, Bernard watched her as she drank it. She looked tired and old, but there was still that spark of fire in her brown eyes that had always captivated him. They could have made a go of it, he thought with a tinge of bitterness. All that devotion he had wasted on Sophie made him angry every time he thought about it. Why had he always kept Dorothy at arm’s length? After all, he had never expected to see Sophie again. He forced his thoughts back to the present.
“Can you tell me who killed Hayter and those poor Lomax children?” It was the crux of the story, and he needed to know.
“I will tell you, Bernard, but it will take all my strength to go over it again, and I really don’t feel up to it tonight. Can I send you the information? It will be better if you read it all for yourself. You will understand the motivation for what went on better than I could ever explain to you over a cup of tea.”
Bernard was disappointed but had no option but to agree. “I will await the post with eager anticipation,” he smiled.
“I know you need answers, but all those awful tragedies occurred over the space of more than a century. A few more weeks, won’t hurt, will it?”
In the event, it was only a matter of five days before the awaited information plopped on Bernard’s doormat. He read with sadness, mixed with horror, the fates of Beth Morrison, Mary Allardyce, John and Carol Freeman, and Cathy, his own daughter. The testimony of little Jemima and Georgina Lomax nearly broke his heart. He even felt sympathy for Edith Lomax, their unfeeling mother, when he read her account.
George Arthur Hayter had been a monster, there was no gainsaying that, but his motive for murdering three women was clear. Bernard couldn’t condone his actions, but there was at least a spark of humanity in the man that had led him, ironically, to act so inhumanely.
He read and reread the accounts of Hayter and the maidservant, Martha Finch, with growing dismay and horror.
GEORGE ARTHUR HAYTER
I wasn’t always a strangler of women. I killed my first victim almost by accident. I had only intended to shut her up and teach her a lesson. No woman should neglect her own child. I had her by the throat and I was just trying to drum this into her, but she struggled so much, my grip grew tighter. It was then I realised I had gone too far. She was a limp rag in my arms. I would like to be able to say that this shocked and saddened me deeply and set me back on the path of righteousness. But, once the killing had started, I am ashamed to say I could not stop. It became my crusade: to rid the world of women who did not care for their children; women like Edith Lomax.
By the time I met Edith, I had killed three women. She was to be my fourth. I was drawn to her, not by her beauty, which I own was considerable, but by her arrogance and vanity. I would see her parading up and down the street, looking at herself in shop windows, and obviously intent on drawing the admiration of the male sex. She thought nothing of leaving her two small daughters with the maidservant. I regret not managing to complete my work. It was ironic, and I suppose poetic justice, that Edith got to me first.
My penance for my crimes has been to be incarcerated here in this house. I took my punishment like a man, and all had been well until Edith herself joined me. But that was some time later. However, I have been able to avoid her company, as the pleasure I would get from killing her is somewhat tempered by the fact she is dead already. I also keep well out of Martha’s way, despite the fact that I love her. I still love her, even though she has been a disappointment to me.
Martha Finch was, at first, a means to an end. I sought her out on purpose because it seemed the easiest way to get to Edith. And so it turned out. I found out from Martha how her mistress neglected her children and left them in her care most of the time. Edith Lomax was just like my mother and my wife. They were all cut from the same vile cloth.
But Martha was different, or so I thought then. She seemed to have none of the vices I had come to expect from women in a class above her. She had no airs and graces and I could see her by my side in the years to come, when I had made her my wife. She was a rough diamond, it was true, and would require some polishing. But her beauty and natural intelligence more than made up for what she lacked in breeding.
I was a widower and free to marry, my first wife having died some years before. (No, I did not kill her.) I had married Hermione when she was an innocent young woman of eighteen; pretty, vivacious and very much in love with me. We had met at a mutual friend’s soirée and were both equally smitten with each other. It wasn’t long before I had walked her up the aisle, everyone agreeing it was a match made in heaven. But it very soon became clear to me that it was a match made in the other place.
My mother had died shortly after the wedding, and my father was happy to welcome my pretty wife into the bosom of the family. My older brother, Maximilian, had shown no intention of settling down, so it was up to me to carry on the family line, which I did dutifully and, I say this in all modesty, well.
Maximilian, meanwhile, was busy running up huge gambling debts and becoming addicted to opium. I was, by contrast, every inch the country squire, ready to follow in the footsteps of my now ailing father. Even though I was a credit to the family, it was Max who got the lion’s share of the attention and love. My mother had had time only for her first born, and my father had always been too busy to notice how I was being neglected. I doubt he would have lifted a finger if he had known, in any case.
My mother never forgave me for not being born a girl, and I was a grisly child, which added to my crimes. Max, on the other hand, possessed a sunny disposition that won over everyone with whom he came into contact. I wasn’t able to compete for his popularity, even though I was just as handsome, perhaps more so. So, I reached my manhood unloved and ignored by those closest to me, at best merely tolerated, sowing the seeds of hatred in me that rooted and grew deeper with each passing year.
Life looked up when I married Hermione. She gave me the attention and love I had never received from any of my family and I was happy for probably the first, and last, time in my life. I was delighted when our son James was born, even though my wife concentrated all her attention on him. You see, I was assured by everyone it was only natural, and I was glad to see her so happy. All was well until our second son, Reginald, was born a year later. But, instead of loving him just as much as her first-born, she had no time for him, content to leave him to the ministrations of Nanny Perkins. History was repeating itself, and I saw in him the little unloved boy I had once been.
My heart hardened towards Hermione after that, and I began casting around for a way to avenge Reginald’s neglect, as well as my own. But, in those early years of our marriage, murder couldn’t have been further from my mind. There were other ways of skinning a cat. I would ruin her happiness with James. I would ignore her just as she ignored me and Reggie.
At first, she didn’t notice, but eventually she understood what was happening between us. She tried to make amends, but it was too late. I continued to neglect her, just as my mother had neglected me. I could see she was miserable, but she had James, hadn’t she? She didn’t need me. Then more tragedy occurred. An outbreak of typhoid fever carried off not only my wife, but both my sons as well. I didn’t care about Hermione: she deserved it. But the children. My heart bled for them.
After I had got over the worst, I found my grudge against women like my mother and Hermione continued unabated and, this time, my thoughts turned to murder. Yes, I killed those women. I courted them and won them. They were silly and vain with little time to devote to their children, but plenty to spare for me, their handsome suitor. I flattered their egos and they were putty in my hands. I do not regret, for a single moment, what I did. I used a false name each time, careful not to give away anything about myself. They would never know how or why they had met such a fate at my hands.
I was satisfied for a while between each killing, vowing that my vendetta was now at an end. But then I met Edith Lomax.
She angered me even more than the others and I realised my work, my crusade, was far from done.
It was Edith that struck me that day when I was in the parlour with Martha. I never knew anything else, except I vaguely remember coming to and someone, not Edith, was screaming. I think it was probably Martha. She is such a disappointment to me.
MARTHA FINCH
It was all ’cos of them stupid brats. I suppose it weren’t their fault, really, but I ’ave to blame someone, don’t I?
My life weren’t going nowhere. I’d been in service since I was fourteen and, in all that time, I’d never ’ad the chance for a lie-in to seven o’clock, even! Up at the crack of dawn, clearing out grates, preparing breakfast, making beds. A girl like me deserved something better. Maybe if I ’adn’t thought that, then things wouldn’t ’ave ’appened the way they did.
I’d been dismissed from a snooty family in Stoke and been told I’d never get another job if they ’ad anything to do with it. All I’d done was try on some of the mistress’s dresses and she’d caught me at it. It weren’t a hanging offence – or I didn’t think so, anyway. But, no matter, I was sacked anyway and told never to darken their door again. They thought I’d be upset and beg to stay, but I showed them. I was glad to go, but not before I told them what their randy son ’ad been up to. ’E was always trying it on with me. ’E’d creep up be’ind me when I was clearing out the grates and try to interfere with me. ’E never got nowhere, though. ’E ’ad no idea ’ow to work ’is way through my petticoats to get at my knickers. I used to ’it ’im with the dustpan – that usually dampened ’is ardour. ’E was ’armless enough, really, ’e just got on my nerves.
Anyway, now I was dismissed and my employers ’ad it in for me, I decided I’d better move right away, and London seemed to be the obvious place. Luckily, I still ’ad some money left from the pittance I’d been paid so was able to travel by carriage more or less all the way.