“Then you know that there’s little chance of me giving Miss Andraste up to your tender ministrations. Your chum in the cloak and the hat can’t get in here, and while your lot certainly can, you’re fairly allergic to lead.”
“Bluntly stated,” Eddowes grunted.
“I find it’s best to be blunt, in situations like these.”
“Then you will not move aside?” Eddowes said.
“Not a jot, old sod,” St. Cyprian said, putting on a cheery tone. “How about you, chum?”
“That, unfortunately, is not within my capacity,” Eddowes said. St. Cyprian was slightly startled to hear what he thought might be regret in the other man’s voice. “The President-elect has demanded Miss Andraste’s head on a platter, and it will be provided for him.”
“President—good God,” St. Cyprian said softly. The realization hit him like a punch to the gut and he felt icy fingers grip his heart as the full import of Eddowes’ words sunk in. “You’re working with him, aren’t you?” Even as he asked it, he knew the answer. The Ripper wasn’t displaying the instinctive caution of a predator after all. No, it was showing the wariness of a man, playing a game.
“I’m afraid my options in that regards were rather severely limited,” Eddowes said stiffly. “Better to have the devil in, leering out and all that.”
“I can help you, Eddowes,” St. Cyprian said hurriedly. “I know how to beat this thing. I know how to send it back where it came from! There’s no need for this!”
“I know,” Eddowes said. “That’s why I’ve asked Mr. Ketch to speak with you.”
“Ketch,” St. Cyprian asked, as Eddowes hung up. He tapped the phone and then slowly set it back on its cradle as he caught whiff of a sudden gust of ash. He heard a thump and turned slowly, his gut churning. He recognized the man now slithering out of his fireplace as one of the ones who’d accompanied Eddowes to the bakery earlier. He was a long, lean man, which explained how he’d navigated the chimney breast.
“Good afternoon, sir. Jack Ketch, at your service,” Ketch hissed through the muffling material of his hangman’s hood as he unfolded to his full height. “I’ve come about the lady.” Before St. Cyprian could shout, Ketch’s fist jabbed out, catching him in the throat. St. Cyprian gagged and stumbled back. “I hope you don’t mind, I came down the chimney. And I should say, sir, you could do with a good sweep. Quite a bit of ash built up in the flue, sir. Not that you’ll need to concern yourself with that much longer, I expect.” Another blow caught him in the solar plexus and St. Cyprian bent double and stumbled, off balance.
“Mr. Eddowes sent me up and over, as it were, while you were peeping out your windows. Clever man, our Mr. Eddowes,” Ketch muttered. He slapped aside St. Cyprian’s groping hands and spun him about as easily as he might have done to a child. “He said you weren’t a man for turning, and as I should see to you, quiet-like.”
A tightly braided coil of rope settled over his head and before he could react, the knot was slid tight and his trachea groaned beneath the pressure of the hangman’s noose. Ketch gave a grunt of satisfaction as he shoved St. Cyprian out of the office and towards the balustrade overlooking the foyer. St. Cyprian clawed at the noose as he tried to force out a cry of warning. But no sound was forthcoming. The noose bit into his throat, cutting off the flow of air. The balustrade struck his waist and he bent forward, gagging mutely.
“I’m an old hand at this, sir, if you’ll pardon a bit of bragging,” Ketch murmured into his ear. “I used to give those filthy Huns a taste of the gallows back in froggy-land, and found as I had a taste for it. It puts a bit of lead in the pencil, if you catch my meaning, sir. Now, you just go quietly on over the side like a good fellow and this will be over before you can blink, and, if I might say so, better old Ketch than the President-elect. He’s a nasty one, Boss Jack is. I can see great times ahead for gen’lmen of my calibre.”
St. Cyprian could only wheeze in reply. Spots flared and danced before his eyes. His hands became frenzied as he clawed at the noose. Ketch’s weight was slowly forcing him over the balustrade. Panic, already humming through him, grew in intensity as he felt his would-be assassin grab the back of his trousers, as if to pitch him over the side. “Now, now, sir, it’ll all be over soon. Just a little drop, they say and a little pain and then you’ll be in a far better world, and won’t that be nice?” Ketch muttered softly. “And then, well, we’ll see to your lady friends. You’ll all be together soon enough and safely away from this fallen world.”
St. Cyprian was half over the balustrade. Ketch was strong—far stronger than he was. He grabbed for it with one hand while trying to shove the fingers of the other between the rope and his throat. He’d bloodied his fingertips clawing at the rope and his scratched furrows in his neck as he got two fingers between hemp and flesh. “Stop your struggles now, sir. It’s not dignified, a man of your rank,” Ketch hissed.
St. Cyprian twisted around and drove his elbow back, catching Ketch in the side. The assassin grunted and his weight receded a bit. St. Cyprian seized the moment, caught hold of the balustrade with both hands and tore himself around. One leg swept out and up, crashing against Ketch’s shins and he staggered, losing his hold on the noose. The pressure on his throat lessened and he tore the rope loose and sucked in a lungful of air. Ketch was on him a moment later, big hands spread wide, like the talons of a swooping falcon.
The occultist ducked under his opponent’s arms and drove his shoulder into Ketch’s gut. And then, with a single, adrenaline-fuelled heave, he flipped the assassin over his shoulder and over the balustrade. Ketch gave a single cry, and it was followed by a loud crash.
St. Cyprian whirled and leaned over the balustrade, the noose hanging from his neck. Ketch lay sprawled on the floor below, his head awkwardly contorted. Gallowglass and Andraste raced into the foyer, the former unleashing a blistering string of oaths as she caught sight of the dead man.
“I’d say I know what their plan is,” St. Cyprian wheezed.
15.
“They’re working together?” Andraste said, appalled. They’d retreated to his office to consider their options. Gallowglass leaned against the door, obsessively checking and re-checking the cylinder of her Webley, her eyes never straying far from the window. Andraste sat, pale and considering, in the chair, watching St. Cyprian search through his notes and books.
“I doubt it’s that simple,” St. Cyprian said. He’d dragged Ketch’s body out of the hall, and covered it with a blanket minutes before. Now, as he leafed through a pocket-sized French grimoire, he wondered whether Ketch’s ghost would be added to the ranks of those that already haunted No. 427. He hoped not. He had a feeling that such a man might be worse dead than alive. “But their goals converge, for the nonce. They’re not the first group to confuse a moment’s mercy from such a creature for friendship. I doubt they’ll live long enough to regret it. The door?” he said, directing that last question at Gallowglass.
“Bolted and locked. If they decide to bust it in though, they will. Are we forting up?” she said. She holstered her weapon.
“No. No, I think we’re going to be making a hasty exit, at the first available opportunity. The rudiments of a plan are forming,” he said and tapped his brow. He closed the grimoire with a snap. “We need to take Miss Andraste and hie back to Whitechapel.”
“What—why?” Andraste said. “Why do we need to go back there?”
“The easiest way to send the Ripper back is to shatter his shell and shove him back through the crack he slithered in through. By breaking his hold on you, however briefly, we’ve begun that process. We’ve treated the symptoms. Now it’s time to think of ridding the body of the infection, and that means looking at the wound in question.” He pointed at the phone on his desk and looked at Gallowglass. “Go give Morris a bell. Let him know we’ve found our prodigal elemental and that we’ll be bringing it along back to the crime scene shortly. If I know Morris, he’ll want to be in at the kill, and the more obstacles we have b
etween that thing and us, the more likely we are to succeed.”
“Bit cold, that,” Gallowglass said, picking up the phone.
“It’s either Morris and his merry marching society, or us,” St. Cyprian said. “Hop to it, please. The sands in our hourglass are running rather low.”
“You sound as if you’re consigning this Morris fellow to certain death,” Andraste murmured as she drew close to him. He didn’t look at her.
“It’s quite possible that I’m doing so for all of us. The Ripper will be growing weaker, as it devours more of his host’s essence. Whatever is left of Stride won’t satisfy him for long. He’s like a fire, devouring more and more fuel, the longer he burns.”
“What happens when he finishes with Stride?”
St. Cyprian looked at her. “He’ll come for either you or Eddowes. I intend to see that it’s Eddowes.”
She paled. “You’re condemning him.”
“As he would’ve condemned you,” St. Cyprian said.
“I—I’m not complaining,” she said, haltingly. “If I must choose, I choose me, but, isn’t there another way?”
“No,” St. Cyprian said. “Understand me—Eddowes would have no compunction about feeding you to that thing, and neither would Morris, if he thought it would save him the paperwork. In fact, it is very likely, should you survive this, that he will attempt to arrest you.”
“What—why?”
“They’re making their move,” Gallowglass said, before he could reply.
“Yes, thank you,” St. Cyprian shouted. He took the small chest down off the shelf and ran his hand over it. The chest was old and ornate, with brass clasps and hinges. Ancient scorch marks marred the treated wood. The Gothic characters inscribed on the lock harkened back to its original owner, Prince Rupert of the Rhine. He opened it carefully, as if wary of something leaping out to strike him. Which, given what was in the chest, wouldn’t be unexpected.
“From ghoulies and ghosties and long-leggedy beasties and things that go bump in the night, good lord, deliver us,” he murmured softly as he examined the contents. There were oddly coloured stones of many types, the fangs of beasts as yet unidentified by science and tangled knots of amulets of varying ages and degrees of effectiveness. And beneath them all was the odd shape of the Monas Glyph.
Created by Dr. John Dee in the rein of Elizabeth the First, the esoteric sigil was a composite of various astrological and religious symbols, combining ankh, cruciform and crescent. It was a potent artefact, but one he rarely employed. He had seen Carnacki use it to exorcise visitors from the Outer Spheres more than once, and Dee was said to have employed it in putting paid to the last English dragon. He extracted it and held it up. The weak streamers of sunlight that came through the window ran across the swoops and curves of glyph in odd ways. He blinked and looked away. He stuffed it into the pocket of his greatcoat, grabbed several more amulets of varying uses and said, “Downstairs, now.”
They trooped downstairs. “Watch the back door,” St. Cyprian said, checking his Webley’s cylinder. “They might try to slip over the garden wall.” Gallowglass nodded and darted for the kitchen.
“I thought you said this place was protected,” Andraste said.
“It is. Just not from gun-toting lunatics. This is London,” he said, snapping the Webley closed. “Short of an invasion, this house shouldn’t come under siege, barring that incident with Crowley’s bunch a few years back, him and the bloody Order of the Golden Dawn. And that wasn’t a siege so much as a rather annoying social gathering.”
“We could ring the police,” Andraste said, following him as he crossed to the window.
“The police and this office have long had an understanding,” he said, “They pretend this house doesn’t exist and we try to handle our sort of thing before it becomes a nuisance. Everyone has been quite happy with that arrangement.” He looked at her and took her arm. “Let’s go.”
“Go? Go where,” she said, as he hurried her along.
“The pantry,” he said.
“What’s in the pantry?”
“You,” he said, hustling her into the kitchen. Gallowglass was peering out through the door into the back garden.
“Nothing yet,” she said. “Not that I could spot them in that bloody jungle.”
“You know where the gardening shears are. When things calm down, feel free to exercise your green thumb,” he said, opening the pantry. “Myself, I’ve never seen the benefit to a well-ordered garden.” He pulled Andraste towards the pantry and said, “In, if you would.”
“This? This is your plan? Stick me in the pantry?” Andraste spluttered.
“It is rather brilliant, what?” he said, smiling and closing the pantry door as she opened her mouth to reply. He leaned against it as she thumped on it, and looked at Gallowglass. “This is a terrible idea, isn’t it?”
“Would you rather stick her in the cellar?” Gallowglass said.
“God no,” St. Cyprian said and shuddered. “We might never get her back.” He expelled a breath. “This is a rum do, and no mistake. Not an auspicious start to the Year of Our Lord 1920, I’d say.”
“I’m having fun,” Gallowglass said.
“Of course you are,” St. Cyprian muttered. He heard a thump. “Hark I hear a knock at our gates.”
“Best go greet them, then,” Gallowglass said. She opened the back door. “I’ll go over the wall, get around them and bring the car around, if you’re willing to take the chance.”
“Be quick, if you please,” St. Cyprian said, waving her out. “And be careful!” He turned back towards the front and peered at the foyer. The front door wobbled in its frame. It was more durable than most, but it would prove little bar to determined attackers. He’d have to see about getting it reinforced, when he had it replaced. If I survive long enough to replace it, he thought.
The door rattled again and he looked down at his Webley. He felt the old familiar sick feeling building in his gut. He’d shot his fair share of men—of enemies—during the War, but to do so here felt wrong. It might be necessary, but his soul recoiled from that necessity. He’d never been an especially bloodthirsty man, and the fires of War had, he thought, purged him of what little love for the fray he’d once possessed. “The things we do for God, King and Country,” he murmured.
The door burst inward. St. Cyprian shoved himself away from the wall and fired. A man staggered back with a gulping scream. He fired again, and the screamer fell. His companions bounded over him. There were five of them and they carried no firearms that he could see, but they weren’t unarmed. Knives glittered in their hands and clubs, and one snapped a length of cheese-wire taut between his fists. “Four cartridges left, lads,” St. Cyprian said, “Who’s first?”
They came at him in a rush. He fired, catching one in the knee and then they were on him. A club slammed down on his hand and the Webley clattered away. He smashed his elbow into a proffered head, dislodging a mask and sending its owner stumbling. Hand aching, he stumbled back and dug his other fist into his pocket to retrieve the brass knuckles. He slipped them on just in time. A second club swung down towards him and he caught it on his forearm and drove his brass-sheathed fist into the face of his attacker. The plaster mask shattered, as did the nose beneath it and the man toppled backwards with nary a sound.
“I guess those boxing lessons I got from Captain Drummond that night in Marseille came in handy, eh?” he said, dancing back as a knife blade licked out. “Big one for a barney was Drummond, and always willing to punch above his weight. He taught me quite a bit about this sort of thing,” he puffed as he slid inside the knifeman’s lunge and planted a fist square in his breadbasket. He had them caught fast. There wasn’t enough room in the narrow corridor for them to come at him all at once without getting in one another’s way. If he could just keep from being stabbed, he might manage to come out ahead. As he kicked the feet out from under another of his opponents, he realized that he’d forgotten the garrotter.
H
e got his hand up just in time to keep the cheese-wire from cutting taut about his throat. “What is it with you fellows and strangling? You aren’t Thuggee by chance?” he croaked. The garrotter didn’t reply. He merely hauled on his garrotte and leaned back. His knee shot up and caught St. Cyprian in the back.
St. Cyprian threw himself forward, dragging his attacker with him. They hit the floor and St. Cyprian gasped as his opponent’s weight fell on him. The latter lost his hold on St. Cyprian’s neck and rolled off. St. Cyprian spotted and scrambled towards his Bulldog. He snatched it up even as the garrotter lunged for him, and twisted about to fire, plugging the man through the chest.
He heard shots boom from somewhere outside the house, and he scrambled to his feet. Gallowglass had run into trouble. He darted a glance back towards the kitchen, and hoped Andraste would be sensible enough to stay in the pantry. He started towards the door. As he stepped out of the corridor, something heavy caught him in the side of the head and he was sent staggering sideways into the sitting room.
“You killed Ketch, then, I surmise,” Eddowes said, pacing after him. Before St. Cyprian could react, the former struck him again with the pistol. St. Cyprian jerked back, striking his chair. Chair and man tumbled over in a tangle. The Bulldog went flying from his grip and Eddowes halted its skidding journey across the floor with his foot. He picked up the pistol and hefted it. “A shame,” he said, pocketing the weapon. “Ketch would have been quite useful, along and along.”
St. Cyprian tried to get back to his feet, but Eddowes was on him in an instant, and he kicked St. Cyprian in the chest and knocked him sprawling. “The others, not so much,” he said as he pulled the chair upright and sat down in it. He took his mask off and tossed it aside carelessly. “Given those gunshots, I’m guessing the others are seeing to your associate. She won’t get far, more is the pity.” He leaned forward. “Let’s take this moment for a frank and honest discussion of our situation, shall we?”
The Whitechapel Demon Page 14