by Steve Wilson
Chapter Eighteen
Mrs Rhodes’ Diary — Thursday 1st December 2011
Surprisingly, considering what had happened, I slept like a newborn. Or perhaps it wasn’t surprising, as, after the evening’s adrenalin rush, I was exhausted. I had planned to look at the contents of the satchel as soon as I arrived home, but when I realised I couldn’t keep my eyes open I flung it in a corner of the kitchen and fell asleep with my head on the kitchen table. Early next morning, I was woken by a frantic knocking on the door. It was Julie.
“What was going on last night?”
“I’ll tell you in a minute. Let me have a cup of tea first to wake me up.”
“Dad! I’ve been worried sick all night. Is something wrong?”
“Not any more. Relax. I’m telling you, there’s nothing to worry about.”
“I’m not happy with you. There’d better be a damned good explanation.”
“Oh, there is, I can assure you of that.”
“Okay, then,” she said, cooling down a little. “Are you going to tell me now, or does it have to wait until we meet Debbie?” Then she paused and looked at me with her concerned-daughter face. “Is she the reason for all this?”
I smiled. “Yes, she is, but not in any way you could possibly be thinking. And no, we won’t be meeting Debbie. Not today, not ever.”
“Had a tiff, had you?”
“Let me make that drink, then I’ll tell you.” I went into the kitchen and thought about the previous evening. How could it have happened? Had it really happened? Perhaps it had all been a vivid nightmare? Then I noticed the discarded satchel, and I knew it had been real.
But that didn’t explain the how at all. How could somebody crumble to dust in front of my eyes? How could somebody have committed murders across a century and yet still appear to be a healthy middle-aged woman? Perhaps the satchel might hold the answer?
I walked across and opened it up. All it contained was the writing book that Debbie had said she was using to scribe her novel. As I took it out I was impressed by the magnificence of the tome. It was bound in dark-brown leather, and measured approximately twelve inches by eight inches. There must have been about five hundred pages inside, but when I started skimming through them from the back, all were blank. However, as I came to the front half I could see that the pages were crammed full of neat, handwritten notes.
“What’s that, Dad?” I jumped, as I hadn’t heard Julie coming into the kitchen.
“This? I’m not sure, but it might help explain what has been happening. Last night’s phone calls, for example. Why don’t we take a look?” I sat at the kitchen table, and Julie stood behind me, looking over my shoulder. I opened the book at the beginning.
On the very first page, it read, “The Diary of Eve Haborham, 1908”. The “Haborham” had been crossed out, and the word “Rhodes” was written neatly underneath it. There followed a series of diary entries, but not as in a conventional diary, where something would be recorded for every day. As I flicked through the pages, it looked as if Eve had only recorded events that she considered to be of great importance, as there were whole periods, sometimes several years in length, where no entries had been written. I turned back to the first completed page and we began to read:
Wednesday 13th May 1908. Mama and Papa brought a man home tonight. They said they want me to marry him as nobody else will take me. That’s hardly a surprise; who would want a spinster approaching her fortieth year? So I have to ask, why would he? His name is Anthony Rhodes and he is a lumberjack. He frightens me. He is so big and strong and I feel that he will break me. I know that Mama and Papa hate the shame of having an unmarried offspring, but I am happy here. Why can’t they leave me alone?
Saturday 15th August 1908. The day I have dreaded has arrived. In a few hours’ time, Eve Haborham will be no more and Eve Rhodes will take her place. But I fear that she will live a lonely unloved existence. I should be filling these pages with joy on my wedding day, but the only future I can see is one of sorrow.
Tuesday 17th November 1908. He beat me again last night. This time, he didn’t use the cigarettes to burn my skin; would that he had. He was drunk, as always, and thought it would be good sport to brand me with the bottle of beer he had just finished. His idea of branding was to break the neck of the bottle and jab the broken glass into my back and side. I cried for hours, more from frustration than pain; I’m used to the pain now. I cannot continue like this. Tomorrow, I will leave him and begin a new life.
Wednesday 2nd December 1908. He found me and dragged me back to the cabin in Montreal. In the solitude, nobody can hear my cries for help.
Thursday 18th February 1909. A new life grows inside me. I should be happy, but I fear for the kind of existence my baby will have with that brute. Perhaps the beatings will cease while I’m carrying his child. That is all I can hope for.
Friday 4th June 1909. The beatings have intensified as he blames me for getting fat. He is the one responsible for my condition. He takes care not to hit me in my belly any more, and he still ensures there are no visible marks for when my parents visit. They think he is wonderful and won’t hear a bad word against him.
Wednesday 14th July 1909. My baby son was born today, but he took him away from me within moments of him taking his first breath. He appears to dote on the child, but when he saw me looking at him, he began to beat me again even before my bleeding had stopped. I wanted to love my son, but I don’t think I will ever get the chance. Now I have provided an heir, I fear for my life.
There followed several entries detailing the nightmare that Eve’s life became. Twice more she ran, taking her son, Edward, with her, but each time her husband tracked them down and brought her back. I felt a great sympathy for the poor girl. I turned the pages, hoping to find a happier entry. I did, of sorts:
Thursday 10th March 1910. This time I think I have made good my escape, but I had to leave baby Edward behind. It is the hardest thing I have ever done in my life, but I know that he will be safe with his father, even though I would not be. I have left Montreal far behind me and have vowed never again to set foot there. I arrived in Quebec City yesterday and am begging for food on the streets. But even with this level of deprivation, I have never been happier.
Sunday 26th June 1910. I have come across something so amazing that I can hardly believe it is true. It seems incredible, but I know in my bones that it is real. It rained heavily yesterday and I sought shelter in the Samuel de Champlain Booke Shoppe close to the harbour. I have been there many times before, as the proprietor looks kindly upon me, and I do not find his intentions towards me to be too onerous. While I was browsing through the ancient works that he keeps in the cellar, I came upon the book. It was a beautiful leather-bound seventeenth-century vellum tome. Its contents didn’t appear to be anything out of the ordinary at first, but as I read it I could feel its vitality permeating through the pages.
Much of it meant nothing to me, although I wondered if it was akin to the prophecies of Nostradamus, which I had heard of but never seen. One page in particular caused the hairs to stand up on my arms when I read it; it was as if I were outside in the middle of winter. I can remember what it said; I think I will always remember what it said. ‘Eternal Life can be attained if you follow the rule of eleven. The stolen essence of ten souls, taken at periods of eleven revolutions and eleven seven-days, when combined with your own, will provide eternity. Each soul must be nurtured for a full eleven seven-days before it can be captured.’
I should have laughed off the words as being mere fantasy, yet I had no doubt whatsoever that they were true; the book was alive, of that I was certain, although whether its essence was benevolent or malevolent, I could not detect.
I could feel a change happening deep inside me, and it gave me a hope for the future. My future. Something that I felt had been forever taken from me. If I believed in the book — and I did — then I could have that future back. I almost closed the book, knowing that it is wrong to take
another person’s life, but it wouldn’t permit me to. I was no longer in control of my actions.
I continued to read, and deciphered the cryptic references to dates. The next time when the confluence will occur is early in 1911. If I miss that, I will have to wait a further eleven years. But in order to meet the first date, I must initially make contact with the current soul’s host, and that must be in three months’ time. I have much to think about. But I think the book has already decided for me.
I wondered if it spoke to others, and I felt it answer in my head, telling me that it wanted only those with the greatest needs. I had that need, and it had chosen me.
Wednesday 3rd August 1910. Everybody is talking about the arrest of the murderer Dr Crippen. To think that it occurred so close to me. I can see the SS Laurentic at dock as I write. I have been delaying action for far too long, but this has helped make up my mind. I will leave this country behind and begin a new life in England. A life that will last forever.
Thursday 11th August 1910. All is arranged. I read the book, for the thousandth time, and am clear what it entails. My victim must also fulfil the rule of eleven by name. I have everything I need to start my adventure. The proprietor of the Booke Shoppe won’t even know I have stolen from his till until I am on the other side of the world; besides, it is my due, in return for the favours he has taken from me so freely. My passage is booked, on board the SS Laurentic when it sets sail next for England. I feel it is fitting that my new life should begin on the decks graced by so eminent a doctor as Crippen. All I need do now is make my pledge to the task ahead of me, on pain of forfeiture of my very soul should I fail. But failure is not an option.
Friday 12th August 1910. The pledge is taken, the words have been said. I feel more alive than I have ever done before; I can sense the essence flowing through my veins. Any tiny doubts I might have had about the veracity of the text are now long gone.
Tuesday 11th October 1910. I cannot go through with it. What seemed so straightforward three months ago has become a constant worry for me. How can I take someone’s life? The memory of the horrors I had endured faded with each mile I travelled. Now I am in a new world, and I can make a new life for myself. I can see now that the pledge that I spoke was nothing other than meaningless words. I have found some lodgings, and now I will seek out a job.
Thursday 13th October 1910. My new life has begun! A nice man called Mr Rodgers saw me walking home tonight and he offered me a job. He wants me to be a nanny to his three children. He is a widower and the children’s previous nanny left suddenly earlier this week, so he has nobody else he can turn to. I am to meet the children tomorrow afternoon. He said I have a kind face, which is why he approached me. I hope he doesn’t change his mind when he sees me in daylight, for I am sure I still bear the browbeaten look from my previous life. He has the same initials as my brute of a husband, but, unlike him, he is kind and gentle. I am so happy that I chose to abandon the path of hatred.
Friday 14th October 1910. How could I have been so stupid? How could I have ever believed that any man could be trusted? I went to the address where I was supposed to meet that man and his children, but it was an old abandoned building. I was about to leave, thinking I had come to the wrong establishment, when he grabbed me. Only then did I realise that it was a trap. He subjected me to hours of torture and humiliation that even my husband would have baulked at, and in all that time he never once looked me in the face, which somehow made it many times worse. He abused me repeatedly, laughing as he did so, saying I was fulfilling a need that his wife found abhorrent. I felt sympathy for his wife, having to live with such a brute, until he said that she was the one who advised him to undertake these despicable activities while she is at work. Now, I despise both Enid and Alfred Rodgers in equal measures.
Saturday 15th October 1910. I reflected for a long time on what happened to me yesterday. Now I am clear in my resolve. I will take the first step along the path that initially brought me to this country. And, because of what happened yesterday, I have already selected my victim. I have yet to meet her – the book told me that I must wait another six-days before that can happen. It is Enid Rodgers. I would have preferred it to be her husband, but his name contains more than the requisite number of letters. I considered ignoring the demands of the tome altogether and just killing him, but it speaks to me in my head again now, telling me to follow the chosen path. It will give me tremendous pleasure and satisfaction to see him found guilty of the murder of his wife, and I pledge to make that happen. I have found out that she works at the mill, and I will seek employment there next week.
Friday 21st October 1910. The contact has been made, everything is set in motion. It was easy to get to know her at the mill, as she is a friendless woman. She has already offered me an invite to her home in Arnside Street. I have few worries that he might recognise me. He barely looked at me, and on the few occasions that he did it was night-time. I had my hair cut and coloured before I commenced work, so now my appearance is much changed from the terrified girl that he preyed on. I have also decided on my method; I will use poison, just as Dr Crippen did.
Friday 6th January 1911. Enid Rodgers is dead and I feel so alive; her essence flows through my body, mingling with mine, rejuvenating me. It was a wonderful sensation when her soul combined with mine, a feeling that no opiate could ever hope to match. I suppose I didn’t fully believe in the book until I felt her spirit join with mine; up until that point, revenge on her husband was the driving force, but now I know where my full destiny lies. I will follow the path through to its conclusion, and eternal life will be mine.
And yet, she could easily have died too soon — or even too late — for I had little control over how long it would take the poison to act. Now I have purpose to my life, I must move on. I have eleven years to make preparations for the next victim, and this time I will take no chances; the execution will be precise and at the specified time.
The next few entries detailed Eve’s journey across Lancashire, and I skipped forward until I came to the time of the second murder. I winced as Julie’s fingers bit into my shoulder; I don’t think she even knew that she had done it.
Tuesday 3rd January 1922. The time fast approaches when I will make contact with my second victim. The craving has intensified the nearer the date arrives. Sometimes, the need is so intense that it is almost impossible to get through each day. I live in Ormskirk now, and have selected a man who goes by the name of Len Phillips to be next. I, too, have decided on a different chosen name. Eve Rhodes is no more. Bea Ashmere will take her place. I will make this a century-long game, choosing names and places that are all connected to the letters in my real name. Eve Haborham Rhodes will live on through my art.
Friday 6th January 1922. I can feel the essence flowing away from me. It crawled to a trickle once I made acquaintance with Phillips. Now I understand why I had to meet the next victim on the eleventh anniversary of the previous death. And if ever I had doubts about continuing, they disappeared once I realised what truly was at stake here.
Friday 24th March 1922. Bea Ashmere is no more. Neither is Len Phillips. Or perhaps that is not so, for surely he lives within me. I was at my weakest in the final moments before I took his life, but the invigorating effect afterwards far exceeded that which I experienced eleven years prior.
I flicked through the pages as she described, in a gloating manner, how Rose Ember and Maeve O’Hara disposed of Harold Scott and Virginia Lee. The author of the diary was no longer the frightened woman who had left Canada.
Her next murder, when Odea Shearer killed Thomas Brent, proved a little trickier.
Thursday 10th November 1955. This one was more troublesome. Before I pushed Brent out of the window, I had to be certain that nobody was in the street, as I had to get down there to ensure his demise and draw in his essence before anybody could save him. In my rush to get down to street level, I neglected to return Brent’s hearing aid. The police will be alerted to foul play and I must
make sure I am not suspected and searched for. It is my own fault; I could have shot him, but I wanted to have a different method for each of the ten. But I’m halfway through, now, and I’ve never felt more alive.
The account continued with details of how she became, in turn, Hermosa Vebraho to run Chris Newton down, Vera Broad to stab Yasmine Bond — after first adding rotten meat to one of Yasmine’s meals to force her away from work with a stomach bug —- Sarah Moore to suffocate Frank Uttley and Amber Davore to electrocute Alan Ingleby. I realised I was coming up to the present attempted murder, and curiosity made me continue, as I wanted to know what she had written about each of us. There was an entry a few years before, though, that caught my attention:
Monday 8th May 2006. For the first time in almost a hundred years, I have returned to the land of my birth. Not by sea this time, but by air. It wasn’t easy, of course. Is anything? Since 9/11 and 7/7, security has been tightened considerably. I could hardly apply for a passport using my real birth certificate, could I? I can just imagine them at passport control: My, don’t you look young for your age?” But I am nothing if not resourceful, and I have had plenty of opportunity to use my full resources over the years. Even so, applying for a passport using the birth certificate of Alita Reija’s daughter — her mother left the papers behind in her haste to flee the country nearly forty years ago — was fraught with concern. Thankfully, officialdom might have tightened many measures, but they still believe that people are inherently truthful, and if you are sincere enough I have found that you will normally be believed. Especially by men, who equate truth in direct proportion to the shortness of a hemline.
Now that I have experienced air-travel, I can’t believe I didn’t try it before. I think I will enjoy flying for many years to come. While in Quebec, I sought out the old Booke Shoppe. Hardly surprisingly, it didn’t exist any more; but that wasn’t where my search ended. I came across an antiquarian bookstore — you could say I was drawn to it, for I felt the presence as I entered. And there was the tome, exactly as it had been the last time I saw it. I swear it growled with pleasure and anticipation when I reached out to touch it. It is reassuring to know that it still lives, driving me on to fulfil my purpose in life. I know it will be here, waiting for me, when I complete my task in five and a half years’ time.