The Reaper's Kiss

by Robert Southworth

  “But...”

  “Listen, these men prove that the men you once served know that you are within our grasp. You can continue to give us information like a dripping tap. That will take time, which means more men will come and attempt to remove your tongue. Or you can, for once in your pitiful life, tell all you know and in good time. When you have no information left to give, the reason to kill you loses its importance.” Tallow’s eyes burned into Finch.

  “But he will kill me anyway.”

  “He?” Tallow pressed.

  “I do not know his real name and could not pick him out of a crowd. I have, however, met him and I can tell you that I would rather spend a night with a displeased Bakari than five minutes in his presence. He gets beneath your skin. You feel the man more than see him. I am not a good man, Tallow. But the man I met is not of this world...he walks with the devil as a shadow.”

  “Then you should realise that the devil does not deal in forgiveness. You have one hope - pray that we lay our hands on him before he lays his on you.”

  A shot rang out, and Tallow motioned that the conversation was at an end. Within moments, that single shot was joined by further gunfire and screams. Tallow pulled a pistol and fired from the window. Now and then a bullet would hit the brickwork of the tower. Finch forced his impressive bulk beneath his bed frame. He placed his hands over his ears and closed his eyes. Then the silence descended.

  “Stay where you are, do not move until I return,” Tallow ordered.

  “What? Do not leave me,” Finch pleaded.

  “You are safe – just stay away from the window. A fortunate shot kills as readily as a skilful one.”

  Moments later, Tallow had descended the steps of the tower. As he walked out into the bright sunlight of the day he was met with the smiles of his men.

  “Any injuries?”

  “It was an uneventful battle?” Bakari replied.

  “What happens now?” Benjamin asked.

  “You and Josh go and guard our friend. He is currently wedged beneath his bed frame - it is a sight to behold. There is no rush to tell him that the danger has gone.” Tallow laughed but was careful to ensure his merriment would not carry to the ears of Finch. “Bakari and I will clear the bodies and then return to Cloveney.”

  Bakari and Tallow had walked out towards the fallen. The snow was ankle deep, and only the occasional long tuffs of brown grass broke the white blanket. Here and there a body lay crumpled and unmoving. The stillness of the dead somehow matched the mood of the wintry weather. Tallow approached one of the forlorn figures and gave it a nudge with the side of his boot.

  “Acting is a worthwhile profession, but one must realise that the dead do not hide their flesh from the snow.”

  “It is bloody freezing.”

  “Well, you can get up now, William. The brave Mr Finch is currently hiding beneath his bed and will be there for some time.” Suddenly the dead rose from their resting place and shook the snow from their clothes.

  “I hope this was worth the effort,” William grumbled as he continued to brush the snow away. His fingers stung as the piercing cold gnawed at the exposed flesh.

  “I think it will loosen Finch’s tongue. He is beginning to see the fragility of his position. I have no doubt he will hold something back – he is, after all, a deal maker. Men always revert to type when pressure is applied. However, I think your sacrifice will bear fruit.” Tallow slapped William on the shoulder.

  “We will see, but if I do not return to Cloveney in all haste, Emily will ensure that my resurrection is short lived.”

  Chapter 7

  Hartshill Castle lay in the Midlands, situated in the picturesque county of Warwickshire. The building had held a special place in the heart of the local populace for centuries. It also played an essential role in the spiritual lives of those that worked and lived nearby. In the stone age, the site proved vital in supplying flint for tools and weapons. Those that benefited from the site performed rituals in gratitude. As the centuries passed, the location, now with permanent buildings, allowed weary travellers a place of sanctuary in otherwise hostile terrain. It became home to a motte and bailey castle and then later exchanged its timbers for granite. Around the same time as the castle became an effective military building, it also reaffirmed its religious links. A stone chapel was erected, and the local inhabitants would see it as an important place blessed by God. As the 18th century was nearing its end, all but the chapel had fallen into disrepair. The owners, who no longer inhabited the Castle, gave it as a gift to the Saint Mary nuns of Eton of the order of Fontevrault. The building underwent some restoration, and then utilised as a place of training. Young inexperienced nuns, or those who had been deemed mischievous, were placed under a watchful disciplinarian. That is how it remained, until one dark, storm-filled night in 1891.

  The only light came from the ember within Faraday’s pipe. At his rear, six constables stood without uttering a word. One of the men fingered the collar of his uniform.

  “Stop bloody fidgeting,” Faraday gave a whispered bark.

  “Don’t know how peelers can wear the bloody thing,” the man replied.

  “Because they have a sense of duty, which makes the discomfort insignificant.”

  “Stupid bleeders.”

  “Enough! Now keep your mouths shut and follow me.” Faraday tapped his pipe against the trunk of a nearby tree and then stamped out the embers as they fell to the ground. Faraday crossed the lane that ran across the front of Hartshill Castle. As he reached a massive timbered gate, he stretched out a hand and rapped his knuckles on its unyielding surface. Only an eerie silence answered his summons. He was not surprised; the hour was late, and people were loathed to open the door to an unknown visitor shrouded in the darkness of the night. He placed his hand in his pocket and felt the metal object, which lay within. As he embraced the metal, he felt deep shame. William had presented him with the magic pocket lamp for helping smuggle his men from London to Cloveney Hall. Faraday had known that it was no ordinary trinket. The latest tool for lighting cigars and pipes alike had been the talk of the city. However, few other magic pocket lamps could match the quality of the one that he now held within his hand. The case was of silver, adorned with the most exquisite scrolling decoration. On its frontage, the words ‘To George, My gratitude...your friend, William.’ The message was without fuss, but Faraday knew that William did not offer friendship lightly and that was the true gift, the lamp was merely symbolic. For the time being the beauty of the piece was hidden from the world by the oppressive night. He fumbled with the piece, it noisily clicked a number of times and then the wick erupted in flame. He raised his arm and moved it from side to side. The small dancing flame highlighted a door pull, and then light from the lamp was gone.

  The bell was yanked downward, and beyond the timbers barring Faraday and his men, the clanging of bells sounded. For a moment, there was silence as he and his men listened without comment. Each man subconsciously held their breath as they strained their ears to detect the thud of footsteps. Faraday raised his hand again and was about to give the bell pull another tug when his hand froze, his eyes narrowed as his ears detected the smallest of sounds. What started as a shuffle became the unmistakable sound of footsteps.

  A light appeared around the edge of the gateway signalling that the person approaching carried a lantern. Faraday expected to hear a bolt being moved and the gate to open. However, a small hatchway in the gate was suddenly pulled away from the main timbers to reveal an elderly and stern looking face.

  “The hour is late, and we do not accept visitors at any time of the day,” she snapped.

  “I’m Inspector Faraday, of Scotland Yard.”

  “I have just said that we do not accept visitors.” The eyes in the hatchway narrowed, displaying their owner’s annoyance.

  “I am not seeking room and board.” Faraday snapped back. “We have two escaped criminals on the loose. If they have gained access to this place, then you will nee
d more than God to protect you.” The hatchway slammed shut and for a moment, Faraday thought that his way would remain barred but then he heard a bolt slide from its housing and the timbers creak their displeasure at being woken from slumber. He stepped through the gateway and for the first time could see with whom he had conversed. The woman was old and the flickering lantern highlighted the many wrinkles that stood testament to her advancing years. “Who are you and how many reside within?”

  “Crockworth. Those within have taken a vow of silence. It is my duty to deal with the outside world on their behalf.” She spat out the words, clearly annoyed at the Inspector’s rudeness.

  “How many and where are they?” he demanded to know.

  “Three are in the chapel - the rest will be in their beds. I cannot see them forgiving this disturbance. I doubt God will look kindly on your actions, either.”

  Faraday’s powerful hand grasped the old woman by the throat and pinned her against the wall. Her face was forced to look upward, and as it did so, the clouds parted to reveal the moon in all its glory.

  “I think - it is a certainty that God is absent from this house tonight,” Faraday muttered as he raised the knife with his free hand. “I am sorry.” He watched his own blade as it went to work. His mind noted how the moonlight can be a wondrous beauty as it dances across the surface of a lake. Or enhances the twinkle in a lover’s stare. However, as that same light caresses the length of a blade, it loses its lustre. The brilliant whiteness of the glimmer becomes spoiled with a hint of crimson and the splendour is replaced with horror. Beauty becomes a hideous testament to the shadowy world of men.

  Crockworth’s eyes no longer witnessed the moon. As Faraday released his grip, the old woman slumped without ceremony to the floor. The Inspector turned to his men. “You two go the chapel – the rest of you go to the sleeping quarters.” Faraday noticed the salacious, almost ravenous look on some of the men’s faces. “Our job is to take their lives not their dignity. If your cocks leave your breeches, I will remove them.” He raised his bloodied blade to enforce his words. “Now go, work quickly.”

  ***

  Two of Faraday’s men walked with determination toward the chapel. They were killers, men that saw cutting a throat as part of their trade. It posed no more soul searching than it did for a farmer, as he took a scythe to his crop of wheat. In truth, these men probably took a little too much enjoyment in their work and did not appreciate Faraday restricting the opportunity for them to have fun with their prey.

  “He still thinks he’s better than us,” one announced but he was sure to keep his voice no more than a whisper.

  “Aye, you’re right there. Never trust a man that doesn’t know what side he’s on,” his comrade replied.

  “This night’s work will make up his mind. There will be no going back to those bastards at the Yard after this - so he had best take the starch from his breeches. Come let’s get this over with.”

  The two men had reached the door to the Chapel. The shorter of the two men leaned forward and placed his ear against the timbers.

  “What are you doing, you bloody idiot? They have taken a vow of silence.”

  “Haven’t you ever broken a vow?” The diminutive figure asked.

  “Yes – but I’m not a bloody nun. Get in there.”

  The door was pushed forward and as the first killer emerged into the lantern light of the chapel he immediately came face to face with a young nun. Her face was etched with confusion and surprise. Her eyes widened even further when he placed a dirty powerful hand over her mouth to prevent her scream. He pushed her backwards, toppling her from her feet and onto the cold surface of the chapel’s floor. His body pressed down upon the delicate frame of the nun, and before she could attempt to wriggle free, a blade sought out her flesh. The savage implement entered just beneath her right breast. The killer ignored the pleading within her eyes as he pushed his blade forward. He did not stop until the tip struck the hard surface beneath her body. As the light faded from her eyes, the second killer stepped over both victim and slayer.

  Another daughter of St. Mary knelt in prayer unaware of the slaughter that had taken place behind her. She must have heard the footsteps to her rear, but if they caused concern, then she showed no outward physical sign of anxiety. When a hand was clamped over her mouth, and her head pulled backwards, she was not afforded the opportunity to scream. The blade’s wickedly sharp edge was drawn in one movement from ear to ear. The chapel’s floor played witness to the butchery as blood left the now lifeless body of the nun. The killer allowed his victim to fall to the ground; the nun landing face down in the crimson liquid. He allowed himself a contented smile at a task completed and raised his gaze to find the third and last of their victims. He found himself staring directly into the eyes of his next intended victim. For a moment, they were locked in that stare as the world stood still. The killer wondered why she did not cry out. He then noticed her mouth moving but was unable to declare her horror to the world. He smiled and then took a step forward. To his annoyance, his movement stirred the nun into action. There remained a silence between them, but now his prey had chosen to flee. He cursed and gave chase.

  ***

  Faraday tried to drive the slaughter from his mind. He focussed on the task of preparing the property to hold Alpha and his followers. He strolled around the courtyard, and as he drew level with the chapel, a figure emerged from a side door. It was moving at speed, and in the poor light, Faraday struggled to take in its features. It came to an abrupt halt and drooped to its knees in front of the Inspector.

  “Please,” the young nun sobbed, “they have killed them.”

  “Stand up – calm yourself” Faraday reached out an arm and helped the nun to her feet. For the first time, he could see all of her features; she was no more than a girl. Closing his eyes for a moment, his mind raced in search of a way to prevent her death. However, he knew that he was powerless to deny Alpha’s orders. He forced himself to open his eyes and gaze at the terrified creature. To his horror, the fear had gone from her face. In its place, a mask of confusion reigned as it spied the blade that now protruded from her chest. She slipped from Faraday’s view to be replaced by a smiling killer.

  “She was a slippery bugger – for a nun,” he announced. He reached down and pulled up the girl’s attire. “Shame she could have kept me warm tonight.” His grin faltered as he observed Faraday’s obvious rage and the Inspector’s powerful fist speed through the air. The crack of a fist against jaw split the stillness of the night, and then moments later, the killer’s unconscious body lay next to the slaughtered nun.

  It was twenty minutes before all of his men returned to the courtyard. All indicated that the gruesome task they had been set had been carried out.

  “What do we do with the bodies?” One of them asked.

  Faraday was suddenly aware that he had no wish to be reminded of his ungodly act, and having the bodies close would not help his enforced forgetfulness. Also, he was aware that the dead were a testament to a crime. He decided that all the evidence needed to removed. “Bring the bodies out here and burn them. When they are nought but ash, collect those ashes and discard them in the woods beyond. Remove any signs that murder has taken place – not one drop of blood is to remain.”

  Chapter 8

  One week later, William sat in his London home. He had been grateful to his father that Emily had been allowed to stay at Cloveney Hall. However, he could not deny his inner feeling of loneliness. The house felt deserted; the staff only worked a few hours of each day and then returned to Emily’s family home. William had spent the majority of his time at Slaughter Yard; he tried to avoid returning to the empty shell. He appreciated his love more each day. Also, he was realising that it was Emily and her vibrant spirit that had made the place a home. He had arrived late the previous night after investigating the various papers of the late Peter Simmons. He and Isaac had gone through each line and drained more than one bottle of Bushmills whiskey.
The search had bore little fruit with only a couple of leads, and they were no more than business irregularities. William had decided that he would have the documents delivered to the Ripper’s former man, Finch. He hoped that if the documents were used in conjunction with those held by the loathsome fellow, then it may help open a pathway to the Ripper. His thoughts were of Finch and whether he would prove useful to the investigation when a knock sounded at the door.

  William buttoned his red waistcoat as he moved toward the front door. He spied his pepperbox pistol sitting on a small side table just to the left of the entrance. His hand stretched out to clasp the weapon but then forced himself to leave it undisturbed. He silently cursed himself for being worried about opening his own front door. Forcing himself to appear casual; he opened the door.

  “Are you feeling alright, William? You look a little anxious.” Isaac had a look of genuine concern on his face.

  “Errm – Yes just…never mind. What are you doing here? I was unaware that we had arranged to meet this morning.”

  “I arrived at Slaughter Yard early today wanting to go over a few things. Within the hour Tallow walked into the office and declared that Finch had finally given some useful information.”

  “Which was?” William pressed.

  “I have no idea. I believe that he didn’t feel like sharing that information with anyone but you. He has sent word to Inspector Abberline. Jack has gone to collect Gossup, and they will be arriving here shortly.” At that very moment, Isaac ceased talking as another knock at the door signalled another visitor.

  ***

  A home that had seemed far too empty suddenly became cramped. William watched as his men and those that served his father engaged in conversation. The two inspector’s Abberline and Faraday were talking animatedly about the death of Simmons. The rest of William’s men seemed determined to tease Isaac and his dedication to his new-found love, Rebecca. John Branford however, had joined in conversation with Bakari. Their talk centred on a fine bone-handled knife in Bakari’s possession. It had been a gift from Bakari’s father as he had reached manhood. The pride on the man’s face matched John’s obvious admiration of the blade. John reached inside his jacket and pulled out a fine blade of his own. John told Bakari the tale of his father leaving him the weapon on his death bed. Bakari complimented it despite its rather simple design compared to his own. Tallow like, William, was busy observing rather than entering into any meaningful exchange of views. Tallow looked directly at him and William realised that the man was waiting for him to start the meeting. William did not rush; he wondered if Tallow had been given orders by his father not to take over the investigation. He rose from his chair as he pondered the new caring attitude of his father. Then William admitted to himself that perhaps his father had always been that way. The animosity he had held for his father in his early years may have cloaked the positive attributes of Sir Simeon Harkness. He shook his mind free of the thoughts.