The Whitechapel Demon

by Josh Reynolds

  “Yes, it sometimes—ah—sweats, I suppose. Not much, mind, though it is fairly unpleasant.” He reached around her to extract the book from its place on the shelf and tossed it onto his desk. “Best to let it cool down, away from the others. They can get fairly tetchy.”

  “You make them sound as if they’re alive,” she said. He watched her sound out the titles, and the long list unspooled in his head, among them du Nord’s Liber Ivonie in the original French, Artephous’ Key of Wisdom, a concise collected edition of the Seven Cryptical Books of Hsan, Armstrong’s English translation of The Book of Minor Grotesques, the pamphlet edition of The Zanthu Tablets, a partial Negus translation of the Book of Iod, and The Garden of Forking Paths by Ts’ui Pen. Most of the books were dangerous, some more obviously than others. “What’s this one?” she said, extracting a slim, hardback volume. “Arkady Cottonwood,” she said. “The name sounds American.”

  “The Oldest Rite,” St. Cyprian said, naming the book. “Cottonwood was from one of our benevolent empire’s former colonies—South Carolina, I believe.” He cleared his throat and recited, “The oldest emotion of mankind is fear. And it is that fear which impels in man his sense of spirituality. To sacrifice is to placate. To placate is to survive. To survive is to serve.” He took the book from her and placed it back on the shelf. “He was…not a nice fellow. He served in a similar capacity to me, albeit on the wrong side, during our American cousins’ internecine struggle, if the stories are to be believed.”

  “What happened to him?” she said.

  “He was shot, staked through the heart and buried at a crossroads, after the burning of Columbia,” he said. “Or he might’ve gone to San Francisco. No one really knows. I’ve an acquaintance of sorts, a chap named Warren, who has done scads of research on him, but his final fate is a bit of a mystery.” He tapped the book with a finger and sniffed. “Good riddance, though. He used to feed people to a corn-field.”

  “A corn-field,” Andraste said.

  “Quite,” he said. “How are you feeling?”

  Andraste hugged herself. “I feel like I’m coming apart the seams, strand by strand.” She glanced at him. In the fading light of the afternoon, her face was quite striking, he thought, sharp, but soft all at the same time. Given what she’d been through, it was somewhat surprising. There was an iron core, underneath the softness, and a refusal to give in to the horrors of it all.

  “Contact with the outer spheres does tend to have that effect,” he said.

  “I had no idea,” she said, drily.

  He frowned and fumbled his cigarette case from his coat. He popped it open. “Cigarette?” he asked.

  She peered down at the cigarettes. “Not exactly silk cuts,” she said as she took one. She sniffed it and popped it in her mouth. She leaned forward slightly.

  “I have a rule about not skimping on either tailoring or tobacco. Thus far, it has served me quite satisfactorily. Hold still,” he said, and touched the tip of his finger to the end of her cigarette. There was a brief spurt of heat and light and she stepped back, wide-eyed.

  “How did you do that?” she coughed.

  “Practice,” he said. “It’s rather like your trick with the ectoplasm, just a bit different. A bit more focus, you might say.”

  “Could you teach me?”

  He blinked and looked at her. She seemed as surprised at the question as he was. “Do you want to learn? I would have thought that everything that’s gone on in the past day would have stifled any ambitions in that regard in their cradle.”

  “A few days ago, I wouldn’t have even considered it,” she admitted, pulling a drag on the cigarette. “But, I feel as if I’m on a battlefield, naked.”

  “In a sense, you are. And every time you employ your gifts, you’re waving a rather large flag for the enemy to see. You have to understand, it’s all rather like a coral reef,” St. Cyprian said. He sat down on the edge of his desk and took a long drag from his cigarette.

  “What’s like a coral reef?” Andraste said, turning to examine one of the glass-faced cabinets. Something inside rattled as she placed her fingers against the glass and she blinked and stepped back, sucking on her own cigarette speculatively.

  “This—all of it—the sum total of human experience. Our reality, if you will, is a coral reef. And we—our minds, our ectenic selves, if you will—are the fish that inhabit said reef. And while there are predators which lurk within the reef, they are neither numerous nor particularly hard to avoid, if you’re careful. But outside the reef, well…that’s a different matter entirely.”

  “And that’s what happened, is it? I went outside the reef did I?” she said.

  “Not necessarily, but that fellow—Stride, was it?—certainly did. He poked his head out, with your help, and—snap!—something gobbled him right up.” He slapped his hands together for emphasis, startling her. “And now it’s squirmed into the reef through the opening you made, and it is sniffing you out.”

  “Is there any way to stop it? To send it back?” she said.

  “Possibly,” he said. “I think I’ve found a way, at least. It’s been done before. But it’ll be tricky. You can’t outwit something like that, you see. It’s too dumb to be fooled. It doesn’t think like a person. It can put on a good show, play a pantomime villain, but in the end, it’s just a flea. It wants you, and it’ll go through anything and everything in its path to get you.”

  “Including you?”

  “Including me,” St. Cyprian said. He hesitated and added, “Especially me, now.”

  “So why not just let it have me, then?” she said softly. “I don’t fancy anyone dying for my sake.” She looked at him and he felt absurdly nervous, as if there were an artillery strike in the offing and he was trapped in the wire.

  “Is that why you were planning to leave the bakery?” he said.

  She nodded. “Bobbie and the others might be able to handle men in masks, but I’m not putting odds on them seeing off our Ripper with a sack of flour and a rolling pin.”

  “Speaking of the former, did you recognize them?”

  “No, I—wait, yes, one of them,” she said. “The one with the gun was one of the men who came to the garret for the séance.”

  “The survivor,” St. Cyprian said. That made a certain grisly sense. Men who employed such measures in pursuit of their goals were not the type to give up so easily.

  “Eddowes is what he called himself,” she said.

  “You don’t think it was his real name?” St. Cyprian said. He reached into his pocket and fished around for the pin in the shape of a hangman’s noose he’d found on the body in the garret. He produced it with a theatrical flourish. “What about this? Have you ever seen this before?”

  “No, and no,” she said.

  St. Cyprian frowned and knocked his knuckles on his desk. “I’m certain that there are a number of reasons why someone might want to rouse the spectre of a monster like Jack the Ripper, but I’m dashed if I can think of one at the moment. Clearly, one has to do with the other.” He bounced the pin on his palm. He blinked. “Unless—oh my…” He thrust himself off of the desk and spun about. He tossed books and papers aside, hunting for one book in particular.

  “What is it?” Andraste said, joining him at the desk.

  “A few years ago, my predecessor made a sort of concordance of some of the more esoteric clubs and societies rumoured to haunt London—groups like the Cult of the Horrible, the Saturn Society, the Jade Chrysanthemum, the Black Brotherhood, the Order of the Cosmic Ram, et cetera ad nauseum. It’s a sort of ‘occultist’s guide to London’. Most of it is useless tosh—rumours, half-truths, innuendo, but some of it has the ring of lamentable authenticity. One of the groups was a dreadful little congregation of murder enthusiasts, very big on your gallows’ bait sorts, like the dreadful Dr. Cream, and, of course, the Ripper. The actual Ripper, I mean. Ha!” He pulled a small, battered notebook out of the pile and opened it, releasing a flock of scrap-paper which made a dash
for freedom all over the desk and the floor. He whipped through the pages until he found the one he was looking for and he smacked it with a knuckle. “There we are. The Whitechapel Club, est. 1898.”

  “So how does that help me, exactly?” she said.

  “Know thy enemy,” St. Cyprian said, still examining the entry in the notebook. “Carnacki suspected that the club might have gotten up to a few dreadful shenanigans here and there, but nothing concrete. Most clubs of the darker sort dabble in one form of spiritualism or another—séances, a bit of necromancy, occasional grave-robbing, skulls for drinking cups, that sort of rot. Not strictly harmful, save to themselves. But this, this is beyond the pale.” He closed the notebook with a snap. “What were they after, I wonder?”

  “I told you,” Andraste said, impatiently.

  “Yes, yes, but why bother contacting the spirit of Jack the Ripper at all?” he said. “What did they intend to ask him?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Probably not, but I despise mysteries.” He tossed the notebook on the desk. He frowned. “Whatever it was, they got more than they bargained for. And now I’m forced to clean up their mess.” He glanced at her. “No offense.”

  “Oh none taken,” she said.

  He winced. “I know that tone. Bobbie used to use that tone.”

  “Who do you think she learned it from,” Andraste said, smiling slightly. “Do you do a lot of that, then? Cleaning up messes?” She went to the desk and picked up an idol. It had been worn smooth by the tides of time, but its features were still visible and somewhat disturbing. St. Cyprian took it from her and placed it gingerly back on the desk.

  “A requirement of the job, I’m afraid,” he said.

  “You should get a different job.”

  “One does not choose. One is chosen,” he said. “It’s that sort of job.”

  “Sounds fairly depressing,” she said. She picked up a book. “Traite de Metapsychique,” she said. She raised an eyebrow. “You read French?”

  “Oui,” St. Cyprian said, “Et vous?”

  “Un peu,” she said, waggling her hand. “Jadwiga had a lot of books like this.” She put the book down. “I always intended to read them, but I never got around to it.”

  “Would you like to?” He hesitated. “If you were serious, before, about wanting to learn, I mean. I’d be happy to teach you, if you’d like.”

  “And what would Miss Gallowglass say?” Andraste said. She reached out and began fiddling with his lapel. “I haven’t yet said thank you.”

  “No thanks necessary,” he said. He was very aware of how close she was. His mouth was suddenly quite dry. “I’m only sorry I couldn’t do the same for your—partner?—Jadwiga.”

  She hesitated, and then stepped back. “Partner,” she confirmed. “Just a partner, though sometimes he was a friend.” She looked away.

  “Not a good friend, then,” he asked, even as he wondered why he was asking. It was an impertinent question, and an inconsiderate one at that.

  “No, not quite,” she said.

  “I’m sorry, I’m being as ass,” he said.

  “Jadwiga was a good man, with many bad habits,” she said, not looking at him. “But he was smart, and he wasn’t scared of what I could do. You wouldn’t believe how many people are. I’ve been chased out of more than one town. Most people don’t credit their eyes, and they’re happy to think what I do is fakery, and I’m happy to let them. It’s easier to get at their wallets while they’re looking for wires and seams and drafts. But that’s just mummery. This—this is something different.”

  He said nothing. She looked at him. “I want to—I need to send it back. They used me, and brought it here, and people are dead. And more people will die, if what you’ve told me is true, all because of me. Do you understand?”

  “More than one might think,” he said softly.

  “That’s why I want to learn. Can you teach me what I need to know?”

  He was silent for a moment. But before he could reply, they heard a shout from downstairs. “We’ve got trouble,” Gallowglass shouted, as she scrambled up the stairs. “Trouble,” she repeated as she swept into the office. She latched onto St. Cyprian’s arm and dragged him to the window.

  “You could have just told me,” he said, jerking his arm free of her grip. “This is a new jacket!” He straightened his jacket, trying to smooth out the wrinkles.

  “Bugger your jacket,” Gallowglass growled, “Look!”

  He did. Outside, the sun was riding low over London, and the sky was steadily darkening. On the Embankment, a tall, dark shape stared up at them, archaic top-hat on his head and cloak undulating in the January wind. Eyes like simmering coals met his, and he felt a shock. His mental defences, by no means weak, shuddered and a swirl of grotesque images spun through his mind. He closed his eyes and turned away. He gulped at the air, trying to control his pounding heart.

  “What is it?” Andraste said. Her hand flew to her mouth, and her eyes widened. “Oh. Oh no, he’s here, isn’t he?”

  “And he’s not alone,” Gallowglass said, “The crows are gathering.”

  Momentarily confused, St. Cyprian looked back out the window. They weren’t wearing their masks, but he had no trouble picking out the members of the Whitechapel Club, where they stood on the Embankment, well away from the Ripper. There was something about them, an alertness that put them at odds with the everyday people walking along the Embankment, like jackals watching a lion stalk its prey.

  “Bugger,” he said.

  14.

  “So what’s their plan then, d’you think?” Gallowglass asked, glaring through the curtains at the figures out on the Embankment.

  “No clue,” St. Cyprian said, pouring tea into Andraste’s cup. “I wouldn’t spend too much time worrying over it. The Ripper, nasty as he is, can’t get in here, or at least not easily. This house has been ringed about by defensive wards and spells a-plenty, over the years.” He looked at Andraste. “Ordinarily, your presence would be enough to give him a crack to squeeze through, but he’s well and truly anchored now by the body he’s currently riding, thanks to our efforts to dislodge him from your person. He’d almost certainly kill his host getting in here, and then, well, we’d have him.”

  “And what if his host is already dead?”

  St. Cyprian frowned. “Then he’ll be even more careful,” he said. Creatures like the one currently glowering at his front door could ride a corpse for a limited time. Sometimes for months, years even. It depended on how many souls they supped on.

  “I thought you said this thing wasn’t smart?” Andraste said.

  “It doesn’t require intelligence to be wary. Even a tiger knows enough to hesitate before lunging for the tethered kid. Three of the previous incumbents spent no small effort in building up this structure’s psychical defences. It’s probably getting on his nerves something fierce to even be standing that close.”

  “Well, he’s not leaving,” Gallowglass said. “And neither are they. Make our lives a lot bloody simpler if they’d go after each other.”

  “One assumes that they’re thinking something similar,” St. Cyprian said. “No, it’s the old Mexican stand-off for us, I’m afraid, until one of the other parties gets bored and begins shooting, at least.”

  “So why isn’t it going after them?” Andraste said. “You said that it wanted to kill all of us who were involved in the séance. So why isn’t it killing them?”

  “For the same reason the lion doesn’t drive off the hyenas until after they’ve made the kill,” St. Cyprian said. “Like all predators, it’s lazy. If it can bag two scalps for the price of one, it’s willing to sit and watch, even if in doing so its hold on our world grows ever more tenuous.” He set down the tea and frowned. “At least, I hope that’s the case.”

  “One of them is heading to the phone box,” Gallowglass said, from the window. “Who do you think they’re going to ring?”

  Before St. Cyprian could answer, the phone in
his upstairs off began to jangle. He smiled thinly. “Well, that answers that, I suppose. Back in a tick,” he said. He headed for the stairs. When he reached his office, he went to the window and peered out. He could see the phone box clearly, and the members of the Whitechapel Club scattered about the Embankment, doing a very bad job of looking nonchalant. He saw no sign of the Ripper, for which he was thankful.

  He sat down on his desk and watched the phone ring. He counted to ten and then snatched up the receiver. “Good afternoon. Who might I be speaking with?”

  “You know who I am. I saw you peering out the window, St. Cyprian. Your number is hard to procure. And your house is even harder to find. But we persevered.”

  “Biffing for you, old top,” St. Cyprian said. His thumb caressed the rings on his fingers. “Still, jolly rude of you not to announce yourself.”

  “My name is Eddowes. We’ve met previously. At the bakery,” he added.

  “Are you the chappy who tried to shoot me?”

  “If I had been trying to shoot you, we would not be having this conversation,” Eddowes said. “Your interference has cost me—cost us—dearly. It must cease.”

  “Oh? Dear me, that sounds very much like an ultimatum,” St. Cyprian said.

  “Simply put, you must yield,” Eddowes said.

  “Must is a strong word, Mr.—ah—Eddowes, was it? That’s a rather ghastly nom de guerre, that, what?” St. Cyprian said. “Invoking a victim to bind a killer; bit of the old black Kush, a terrible sort of thing, not-so sympathetic magic, eh?”

  “Are you really this great a fool, or are you simply play-acting? It doesn’t matter, I suppose. Give us the woman. Turn her out of your house, and we shall say no more about it. Live and let live has always been the motto of our society, and there is no reason that our causes must be at odds,” Eddowes said.

  “Now who’s play-acting,” St. Cyprian said.

  “Steady on, there’s no reason to be insulting,” Eddowes said. “We can settle this like gentlemen, I believe. A meeting of the minds, as it were. I am well aware of who—and what—you are, St. Cyprian.”