1888

by Andrew Hastie

‘And it mentioned her ears,’ she said, looking at the photograph of the woman’s face. ‘Her right ear was sliced through at an oblique angle. We should check the original.’

  Sabien came over to join her. ‘Swanson told me it’s with Inspector Reid at H division. He’s got some graphologist looking it over.’

  ‘We should get over there.’

  Sabien shook his head. ‘We aren’t going anywhere. I will go and see Reid while you go back over the evidence with Eddington. There has to be a link between the victims, he’s just looking in all the wrong places.’

  Her bottom lip pouted ever so slightly, and he could see the hunger in her eyes. She wasn’t like the other interns they had sent him. She cared — which was not something that you could teach, it had to be there, like an itch you could never quite scratch, a burning desire to make things right.

  ‘Why do you do this?’ she asked, her lip retreating to meet its upper half.

  The question caught him off-guard. ‘Because I’m good at it.’

  ‘Do you ever think about trying to stop them?’

  His face darkened. ‘I tried once. It didn’t end well.’

  ‘I don’t know how you can just stand there and watch them do it, over and over again — doesn’t it get to you?’

  ‘Every time,’ he said through clenched teeth.

  22

  Inspector Reid

  [Leman Street, London. Date: 0045, 16th October, 1888]

  The streets were empty as Sabien’s hansom cab turned into Leman Street. Patrols from the vigilante group known as the Whitechapel Vigilance Committee were visible on every corner. Their chairman, George Lusk, had apparently been sent another letter, and part of a kidney preserved in spirits.

  The hansom slowed as it drew up to the station house. Two officers stood on duty by the door. There had been a great deal of friction between Lusk’s vigilantes and the police over their lack of progress with the case.

  Sabien took out his warrant card as he approached them. The Protectorate had infiltrated police forces throughout the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. It was a logical role for them to adopt and many, like Swanson, chose to remain behind after their tour of duty had ended. Sabien was using a warrant from Special Branch, a unit created to investigate the Irish Republican Brotherhood, commonly known as Fenians.

  He was waved through and made his way to the front desk.

  ‘Inspector Reid is expecting you,’ said the desk sergeant grudgingly, his beard still flecked with the crust of the steak and kidney pie he had been eating before Sabien arrived.

  ‘Second floor, third door on the right,’ he added, wiping his face with a napkin.

  Swanson had called ahead as promised, which made things easier.

  * * *

  Edmund Reid sat in his small office surrounded by folders and documents. He was a well-dressed gentleman with a thick black beard. Reid was a linear and a good detective, and he stood up as Sabien entered, holding a letter in one hand and a magnifying glass in the other.

  ‘Inspector Sabien, please take a seat.’

  Sabien unbuttoned his jacket and sat down. ‘Is that the latest?’

  ‘Yes.’ Reid handed the note to Sabien. ‘We receive hundreds every day, but when Lusk showed us the kidney we took it a little more seriously.’

  ‘Do you think it’s Eddowes’s kidney?’

  Reid’s right eye twitched. Sabien assumed it was a nervous tick. ‘Lusk believes it was a prank, sent by some medical student. I’ve had it sent to Doctor Openshaw at the London Hospital, in the hope that he can shed some light on its previous owner.’

  Sabien read the letter to himself.

  * * *

  From hell.

  Mr Lusk,

  Sor

  I send you half the Kidne I took from one women prasarved it for you tother piece I fried and ate it was very nise. I may send you the bloody knif that took it out if you only wate a whil longer

  signed

  Catch me when you can Mishter Lusk

  Reid walked around his desk and leaned in so close over Sabien’s shoulder that he could smell the oil on his hair. ‘Notice the literacy level and the errors in spelling and grammar. I suspect those are fabricated, although some of my colleagues believe the misspelling of “preserved” points to a man of Irish descent.’

  ‘Francis Tumblety?’

  Reid straightened up. ‘Indeed. Although I think that quack is more of a threat to the lads of this parish rather than the ladies.’

  ‘And the handwriting?’ asked Sabien, putting the letter down on the desk and taking off his gloves. Reid picked up the paper once more and held the glass over the letters.

  ‘Same as the “Dear Boss” letter, the experts believe that the loop in the “Y” belies a certain mental derangement, as does the spacing of the words and letter grouping.’

  Sabien scoffed. ‘I could have told you that. May I take another look?’

  Reluctantly, the inspector handed over the letter again.

  The paper was rough under his fingers. ‘Not a quality fibre, and the ink spotting points towards an unfamiliar pen.’ Sabien observed, playing for time while he felt its chronology slide under the surface of the paper. Unseen by Reid, the lines of energy unravelled and wrapped around his fingers revealing a short, linear map of the last few months.

  He could see the newspaper office quite clearly, a man sitting at his desk, the nib of his pen scratching across the sheet. It was hardly a surprise to find that it wasn’t the killer, but a journalist. The media were having a field day fuelling the conspiracy theories of the general public and goading the police for their lack of success. It had been a mistake to allow the press to publish the first letter, but nothing sold newspapers better than a mysterious serial murderer.

  Sabien handed the note back to Reid. ‘It’s probably nothing more than another hoax.’

  ‘It appears you’ve had a wasted journey.’

  ‘Nothing of the sort,’ replied Sabien, putting his gloves back on. ‘Although you may want to speak to The Star regarding a certain journalist called Frederick Best.’

  Reid looked confused. ‘How could you deduce that from such a small piece of evidence.’

  ‘Special branch has their sources.’

  23

  The Fifth Victim

  [Miller’s Court, Dorset Street. Date: Friday November 9, 1888]

  Sabien stood in the doorway to the small house, the smell of burning flesh a strong enough indication of what he was about to witness.

  Maddox stood outside trying to stare through a hole in one of the grimy windows.

  ‘She’s on the bed,’ she observed. ‘Can’t see much, looks pretty bad.’

  He knew better than to hold his breath, it only made it worse. The best approach was to take short, shallow breaths until your nose became desensitised. It was a natural protection mechanism that stopped the olfactory receptors of the brain from being overloaded with constant stimuli.

  ‘Wait here,’ he ordered, stepping into the room.

  The first impression was always the one he valued the most, no matter how many times he went back to a scene, the details that caught his eye on the first visit were always the most important.

  The room was small, twelve feet square, with a bed set against one wall and a broken side table wedged against it. Above the fireplace hung a painting of a widow being consoled by her mother in some rundown cottage overlooking the sea. The Fisherman’s Widow, noted Sabien.

  Something was burning fiercely in the fire. Half-covered in charred rags, a lump of meat blackened on the coals.

  He could see it was a human heart.

  By the light of the fire, the sheets appeared to be stained with black ink. Her body was nothing more than a shell, as if it had melted into the bed. Blood covered everything, the walls, the floor, the splatter patterns looked as though someone had detonated a bomb in her abdomen.

  The murderer had taken his time. Sabien’s analytical eye studied the details
of the mutilation impassively, not seeing a human being, but a crime scene, trying to piece together the last moments of this woman’s life.

  She was naked. Her body slightly inclined to the left side of the bed, her head resting on her left cheek. Both breasts had been removed, one was lying by her right foot.

  ‘We have less than ten minutes before Bowyer will be here,’ Maddox reminded him, through the broken window.

  He stepped back instinctively, blocking Maddox from entering. There was something about the woman’s hair that troubled him; it was short and blonde. He couldn’t make out her face, it had been hacked beyond all recognition, but he could see the Ouroboros mark on her arm, the snake eating its own tail — the symbol of the Order.

  Maddox was the fifth victim.

  Sabien clenched his teeth, holding back the scream that was rising in his chest, until his lungs felt like they would burst. His head filled with a thousand questions, each one vying for priority; How the hell had she ended up here? What causal path had led her to be the next victim? This was why he always preferred to work alone. Getting attached to someone else just made things complicated. One day they would let you down or die.

  There were strict protocols for these situations, designed to prevent causation loops and closed time curves. Every member of the Protectorate was trained on how to deal with one, but none of that meant anything when you were staring at the mutilated body of a fellow officer.

  He placed his hand against the doorframe, like a bouncer at a cheap nightclub. ‘You’re not going in,’ he whispered through clenched teeth.

  ‘Why not?’ she complained, trying to peer over his shoulder.

  ‘The whole scene is covered in her blood. We’ll corrupt the event.’

  He heard her curse. ‘Who is she?’

  ‘Another prostitute. Looks like he took his time with this one,’ he said, mixing the lie with truth to make it sound more credible.

  ‘Is there any usable evidence?’ she said, putting her hand on his arm and poking her head through the gap.

  He turned on her, his eyes full of anger. ‘Back off!’ he shouted, pushing her roughly back into the street.

  ‘What the hell? Suddenly you’re worried about my sensitive nature?’

  ‘Remember you’re just here to observe,’ he said, his face becoming like stone. ‘I’ve already let you get too close. I need you to leave now. Go back to Swanson and help with the suspects. It should give you more than enough for your thesis.’

  The confusion in her eyes cut him deeper than any words, but he knew he couldn’t let her see her own corpse.

  ‘But —’

  ‘Just go!’

  24

  Trial

  [Star Chamber. Date: 1930]

  The jury returned from recess and took their seats.

  ‘Call the next witness,’ said the clerk once the courtroom had settled.

  Professor Eddington walked up onto the stand.

  ‘Professor, can you describe in your own words the events that led to the death of the fifth victim?’

  Sabien stared at Eddington, his face was gaunt and dark circles ringed his eyes. The man looked as if he hadn’t slept for days.

  ‘The events of the fifth murder are somewhat complicated. Our calculations were imprecise, we lacked important information. Data that the Inspector withheld from the investigation.’

  25

  Sabien

  [Scotland Yard. Date: Wednesday November 7, 1888]

  ‘What do you mean you can’t find her?’ asked Sabien, his face failing to hide his disbelief.

  Swanson and Eddington stood amongst the piles of documents, their expressions sullen and downcast, like naughty schoolboys.

  ‘She appears to have left her tachyon and almanac at her home in the twenty-first, we currently have no way of tracing her.’

  Sabien could still see her body lying in the hovel, the colour of her dress obliterated by the blood. ‘She may be in grave danger,’ he said, choosing his words carefully. Under Protectorate rules he should have alerted the Office of Internal Affairs when he found her, but no one wanted the OIA on their case. It would mean the end of his career, and he knew he could fix it, if he could work out how Maddox had got there.

  Eddington frowned. ‘We’re not showing any indication of a threat to officer Maddox. Do you have new information?’

  Sabien shook his head. ‘Just a hunch,’ he said. ‘She’s headstrong, she wants to prove herself. I’m concerned that she may have gone rogue.’

  Swanson flinched at the word. Being classified as ‘rogue’ was tantamount to a death sentence. An officer could have their memories redacted, or in extreme cases, their life would be excised — removed from history as if they never existed.

  ‘That would be a very serious matter indeed,’ noted Eddington gravely. ‘Do you know of her last location?’

  ‘I sent her back here from the site of the fifth murder.’

  Eddington went over to the board with the latest version of the timeline and stared at the thousands of tiny interconnecting lines.

  ‘There’s no doubt something has corrupted the continuum. As far as we can ascertain none of the victims’ deaths have a significant impact on the future, most would have died in the next few years. All had given birth and separated from their families over alcoholism or domestic issues. But nevertheless, there is the question of the perpetrator and what he may do next.’

  ‘We could apply for an intervention,’ suggested Swanson, ‘get a warrant to have her lifeline opened.’

  Sabien groaned. ‘That will take far too long. No offence.’

  ‘None taken,’ said Eddington. ‘I should inform you, however, that the Xenobiology department are requesting access to all of the data. They believe these are some kind of ritualistic attacks. Potential summonings.’

  ‘Everything is a potential summoning to them. What I really need is a seer.’

  Swanson raised his eyebrows. ‘But I thought you—’

  ‘I believe Maddox’s grandmother was a very capable one,’ interrupted Eddington. ‘Although she is deceased and under protocol three her timeline has been sealed. So you will have to intuit.’

  ‘It’ll do,’ growled Sabien.

  26

  Home

  [Present Day]

  Maddox had no idea what was going on in Sabien’s head. He was a complete mystery to her, one minute the perfect, albeit cranky, mentor — the next a total ogre. Since he’d been so adamant for her to make herself scarce, she decided to go back to the twenty-first and get drunk.

  DI Jacobson and the rest of the murder squad gave her a round of applause as she walked through the doors of the Britannia. They had already been drinking for a couple of hours, so she had to make some excuse about checking on her mum, but it was all forgotten in the time it took her to buy a round of drinks.

  It took her a while to get used to the comparative luxury of the present day. The thing they never told you about when you went back was the smell. The movies never could prepare you for how badly people used to reek in those days.

  * * *

  Three hours and six mojitos later she stepped out of an uber and wandered up to the front door of her mother’s house. The windows were dark, a sure sign that her mother had gone to bed. Maddox realised she had left her keys in her locker at headquarters, which meant she would have to go around the back, she was too drunk to attempt to jump back to an earlier part of the day and she had promised her mother she would never do it in broad daylight for the sake of the neighbours.

  The ability to travel through time was not something every eight-year-old discovers on their birthday. There had always been something special about her, Maddox’s mother had told her. Since she was a baby, she’d been able to see things that others couldn’t, chuckling away to thin air while she was being fed or simply staring at an empty corner of the room.

  It never bothered her mother. She was one of those open-minded women who believed that anything was p
ossible. Spirits, afterlife, ghosts, alien abductions — all manner of conspiracy theories. Some of Maddox’s favourite times were watching re-runs of the X-Files together on the sofa in their pyjamas, stuffing their faces with huge bowls of chocolate ice cream.

  And she longed for that kind of comfort right now.

  * * *

  On her eighth birthday her mother had given her one of her grandma’s old rings. It was made from beautiful old gold, with a sapphire surrounded by diamonds. Too valuable to wear and far too big for her delicate little fingers, but her mum said that her grandmother made her promise to give it to Halli on her eighth birthday but wouldn’t give a reason.

  The moment she put it onto her finger she knew why.

  Suddenly, she wasn’t standing in front of her mother, but in the house of her grandma, the smiling, benevolent old woman whose soft eyes filled with tears as she leaned forward and took her hand.

  ‘Hello darling. I’ve been expecting you.’

  Halli sat beside her and they talked about many things. Her grandmother made her feel safe, feeding her cake and letting her old cat, Tiberius, sit on her lap.

  She told her about the ‘gift’, how there was a special way to travel through time using certain objects, and that not many people knew about it. It was a kind of special secret, one that would allow her to come back and visit any time she wanted to.

  At the time it seemed like a dream, but as the years passed Halli used it more frequently. First going back to see her grandma, and then, as her confidence grew, using other objects to investigate other parts of her family history.

  Her mother knew nothing about it, until she caught her in the closet, wearing one of her old dresses when she was fourteen.