by Sam Gafford
“How extraordinarily odd. So Arthur just decided to come and investigate on his own?”
“Yes. I don’t believe he knew this woman, but he seemed to know a great deal of all the others involved. I am being constantly amazed by the people he seems to know. It’s almost uncanny.”
“Well, he seems to get around quite a bit. Mrs. Hutchins hasn’t told me much about him other than that he’s very nice, of course, and wants to be a writer.”
“And, according to Arthur, you cannot write without having observed life first.”
“Is that what you’re doing, Albert? Observing life?”
“I suppose so. I hope to be a writer someday as well.”
Ann turned her head slightly to me. The sun from the kitchen window caught her face and lit her eyes in the most extraordinary way. I have never seen a more beautiful woman before or since.
“But wouldn’t you rather experience life? Feel the thrill of living?”
She touched my hand, and I felt that thrill run through my body.
“Ann, I . . . I don’t know what to say.”
“Say simply that your heart leaps at my touch. Say that your blood has never been so warm nor your face so flushed. Say that you see your life in my eyes when we meet.”
“I think that perhaps you should be the one to become a writer.”
She grinned. “You do not feel so then?”
I looked into her eyes and her beautiful face and could feel time stopping around me.
“I have felt so since the day I first saw you, Ann. I was just not sure that you felt the same.”
She laughed. That light laugh now haunts my dreams.
“Oh, my dear Albert,” she said, touching my face lovingly with her hand, “what am I to do with you?”
“Love me?” I asked.
“I already do,” she answered.
And there, in the kitchen of the small rectory of St. Lucy’s in the abyss that was the East End of London, I found total joy and happiness in the arms of my beloved. As a writer, I should have known that the shortest course to tragedy is through happiness.
Chapter 11
Hell is a city much like London—
A populous and a smoky city;
There are all sorts of people undone,
And there is little or no fun done;
Small justice shown, and still less pity.
—Percy Bysshe Shelley
As we walked out of the kitchen, Ann put her hand in mine. Just the touch of her skin was electrifying to me. I heard the women talking in the other room, and it seemed as if they were discussing the recent murder—but, to my surprise, not Polly Nichols.
“I swear that God himself needs to come down and clean out the East End, Mrs. Barnett. Only He would be strong enough for such a job.”
“But Trudy,” Mrs. Barnett replied, “surely you don’t think that all is lost?”
“Look at that murder this morning. The whole East End is talking about it,” said another woman.
“And there have been other murders,” said yet another woman.
“It is sad,” Mrs. Barnett said, “but murder seems to be a common occurrence here. I can’t believe that these are any more than the product of hate and anger, the Devil’s breeding ground.”
We came into the room and all talk ceased. If you have ever been a young person standing before a group of older people with the one you loved beside you, you will understand the kind of scrutiny we were facing.
“I beg your pardon,” I said, “but did I hear someone say that there had been another murder before?”
“Oh, yes,” Mrs. Barnett said, “another ‘unfortunate’ girl, I’m afraid. But I do not think that these are all by the same hand.”
Several of the other woman made tut-tut sounds, but Mrs. Barnett was implacable.
“I’m sorry, but I don’t agree. I do not see conspiracies everywhere, Margaret, nor do I think that the socialists are killing women to bring down the Government. I can’t imagine where you heard such a thing.”
“Everyone on the street is talking about it. Makes you afraid to go anywhere at night now.”
“After all, what could possibly be the reason for these brutal attacks? These women had no money.”
“Just what I said, dear,” Mrs. Barnett replied, “it is the Devil’s work. You know the Enemy works through our baser instincts; and here in the East End, I’m afraid, he has a great deal to work with.”
“Then what can we do?” one of the ladies asked. “Is there no redemption?”
“My dears,” Mrs. Barnett beamed, “there is always redemption, but one has to ask for it and be truly remorseful for one’s sins. Sadly, all I seem to find in Whitechapel are people willing to blame others for their sins and evils.”
“Could these murders be divine retribution then? For their sins?” I asked.
Mrs. Barnett stared at me. “What an extraordinary thought. Of course not, young man. God is just, but He is also kind and merciful. It is not His hand guiding these killers.”
Ann quickly spoke up. “I think I need to get Albert home, Mrs. Barnett. He took a rather nasty knock to the head this morning trying to stop a robber and needs some rest.”
The women quickly chirped up, all eager to hear the story.
“Next time, Mrs. Barnett,” Ann replied. “Albert needs to rest now.”
“Of course, dear. I’m sure we’ll have plenty of time to talk and get to know Mr. Besame and his . . . unusual thoughts on religion.”
Ann hurried me out to the street so quickly that I was barely able to get my feet under me.
“What’s the matter? Did I do something wrong?”
Ann laughed. “Wrong? Whatever gave you that idea? You only asked the wife of the Canon of St. Jude’s if she thought that God was killing prostitutes. I’m just thankful she didn’t keel over dead at the mere thought of it!”
“I’m sorry. I guess I wasn’t thinking.”
“Oh, don’t worry, Albert. Of course, I shall have to hear about this for weeks now. All about how my young man has all these unusual thoughts.”
I looked at her. “So I’m your young man now, am I?”
She smiled. “Yes, yes, you are—and you be sure to tell your friend Arthur with all his strange ideas that you are and that he makes sure that all those women he knows leave you alone.”
“I shall do so indeed! I had no idea I was such a valuable commodity.”
“More precious than rubies, Albert, at least to me.”
I held her hand and she walked close to me.
At the corner, she looked around and hailed a cab. She saw my confusion and quickly said, “No arguments, Albert. I want you to go back home and rest. You’ve had enough adventures for one day.”
“Aren’t you coming with me?”
“No, I have to go back to Toynbee Hall. The Reverend Barnett needs me there right now, but I’ll be home for supper. Now go rest!”
Ann pushed me into the cab and thrust a coin into the cabman’s hand. After shouting the address, she backed away from the curb but continued to watch and wave as the cab rolled down the street. I watched until she grew small in the distance and wondered why God had given me so much in such a short time.
When I arrived home, I found Mrs. Hutchins in an extreme state of distress. I had barely gone through the door when she fairly pounced on me.
“Well, there you are, Mr. Albert! I’ve been worried sick about you.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that you have kept your employer, Mr. Wendell Robson, waiting for nearly an hour. He was under the impression that you were here resting after some trouble this morning with a robber. Imagine my surprise at hearing this and you not being here at all! For all we knew, you could be lying in the road somewhere, waiting for a cab to run you over! Most inconsiderate.”
Fumbling, I said, “My apologies, Mrs. Hutchins. Arthur and I went for a walk to clear my head. I did not mean to cause you any distress.”
&nbs
p; “Humph,” she replied, “next time, just do what you say you’re going to do. Save people a lot of worry that way.”
“Yes, Mrs. Hutchins. Where is Mr. Robson?”
“In the drawing room—and he is most anxious.”
I entered the room to find Wendell pacing the floor.
“Albert! Thank heavens. I was afraid you’d collapsed somewhere!”
“I’m quite all right, Mr. Robson. Just a little tired and fatigued. Arthur and I went for a walk to clear out the cobwebs in my head. But I am surprised to see you here.”
I sat down in a chair and Wendell sat opposite me.
“Yes, well, I did want to make sure that you were all right, you know. You had an awful blow on the head this morning. But . . . well, I felt that I needed to talk to you about what happened.”
“There was a robbery, wasn’t there? Rather simple, isn’t it?”
Wendell lowered his head. “I’m afraid that it’s not nearly that simple. This thief was very specific. He stole only a few books, but they were very particular books. You see, an important client trusted us to hold these items for him for safekeeping. He reasoned that no one would look in a humble bookstore for them, and he could get them whenever he wanted without causing suspicion.”
“Are they valuable?”
“Very much so, but not because of their rarity—because of what they contain. Albert”—Wendell’s voice grew very serious and he moved closer to me—”I cannot stress to you how important this is and how much a risk I am taking telling you about it. You must swear to me that you will not breathe a word of this to anyone, not even to Arthur. Do you swear?”
I was confused and more than a little frightened. I had come to London to be a writer, not to investigate murders or book-stealing conspiracies.
“I do. I swear.”
“Then listen to me closely, Albert. Those books were given to us as a royal trust. One of them was the diary of Prince Albert Victor Christian Edward, son of the Prince of Wales and heir to the throne of England.”
I was stunned.
“The prince has many enemies, Albert, and they would use this diary against both him and the Crown. This was an unofficial royal appointment and one that Robert and I took on happily. We have long been honoured by the commerce of the royal family and often undertake discreet buying and selling on the behalf of Princess Alix and Prince Albert Edward. Although he is not much of a reader himself, their son often comes to us for certain . . . um . . . unusual items that he cannot obtain elsewhere for himself and his friends. That was the reason the princess visited us the other day when she discovered some of these items and asked that we no longer procure them for her son or any of his friends. Of course, we agreed. And then this terrible thing happened today.”
“But I don’t understand. If this diary was so important, why not keep it locked in a safe or in the Bank of England even?”
“Because the prince is seen far too often going into places he shouldn’t. His enemies, and even his friends, could discover where that diary was and weasel their way to them. But who would suspect that when the prince visits a common bookshop, he is actually stashing his private books and papers? As loyalists, Robert and I are above reproach and we have proved our dedication to the royal family many times over.”
“What is in this book?”
Wendell sat back in his chair. “That I do not know. We swore to the prince that we would not break his trust and read it, and we never have. But clearly, someone knew it was there and someone knew what was in it. I believe that the diary was the true motive of the robbery and the other books taken to throw us off the track. Or perhaps they were all close to the same size and colour. But someone knew that diary was in our shop.”
I gasped. “Surely you don’t think that I . . . ?”
Wendell face widened and his hands quickly moved up and down. “What? Oh, no, no, no, no, Albert! We think nothing of the sort! You’ve barely had time to learn our stock and never could have found those books. No, it was someone else and, I fear, it was well planned.”
“What do you mean?”
“Robert believes that I am a foolish fat man and have no head for anything other than books, but he is wrong. He does not even know that I am here with you now. But I have come to ask a favour of you, Albert, if you are willing.”
“Of course! What do you need?”
“I want you to make some enquiries for me. You are not well known in London, and I doubt if anyone knows of your connexion with us as yet. You would not be seen as our agent and could act quietly and anonymously. Robert thinks I see conspiracies everywhere, but I am certain that there is one at the heart of this. Albert, think before you accept what I ask of you. This could be very dangerous. I would not blame you if you refused.”
“I am honoured by your request, Mr. Robson, and shall do all I can on your behalf.”
Wendell rose and held out his hand to me. I shook it firmly. “Splendid! I had a feeling you would accept. And, Albert, I think that you can start calling me Wendell now.” He smiled.
“Thank you . . . Wendell,” I replied.
We started walking towards the door. “I will speak to you tomorrow at the store, Albert. I have one or two thoughts that I want you to chase down for me. Robert is beside himself and does not know what to do. He wants to send a cable to the prince asking for instructions, but I have been able to put him off for a day or two. It is my hope that we can have the book safely back in hand before the prince returns to London.”
“The prince is not here now?” I asked.
“No, he left for Danby Lodge in Yorkshire two days ago. He is not due to return until the tenth of September. We must have this resolved by then. Get some rest, Albert, you shall need your strength in the coming days. I fear we all will.”
I saw Wendell to the door and then climbed the stairs to my own bed. My mind was spinning. Murdered prostitutes—armies of the poor marching upon Windsor Castle and Parliament—conspiracies within conspiracies . . . all spiraling through my brain. It was a little more than I could take. As I lay down, I tried to make sense of it all, but it was beyond me. Kings and queens and princes and royal physicians and fallen women and a killer whose savagery could not be human. I was a very small guppy swimming in a sea of behemoths and sharks with no knowledge of how he got there.
Chapter 12
The truth is, that in London it is always a sickly season. Nobody is healthy in London, nobody can be.
—Jane Austen
By the time I opened my eyes, it was dark. Afraid that I had slept beyond supper-time, I bolted out of my bed and down the stairs. Bursting into the dining room, I found Ann and Mrs. Hutchins engaged in what looked like a very serious conversation which ended the second I entered the room.
“Uh-oh, should I be nervous?” I asked. “Were you talking about me?”
Ann smiled and Mrs. Hutchins stood up. “As a matter of fact, we were, Mr. Albert. Ann was telling me about your little adventure today at your shop. Seems it was a little more serious than you let on.”
I sat down in my usual seat, across from Ann. “That was nothing. I barely feel it now.”
“Oh, really?” Ann said with more than a little mischievous tone. “Let’s take a look then, shall we?”
She jumped up, and both she and Mrs. Hutchins descended upon my head like cats upon a wounded mouse. “Here now! What are you doing?”
Laughing, Ann said, “Just showing Mrs. Hutchins what I was talking about. There! You see it?”
“Oh, my, yes! That is quite the bump there. I wonder you didn’t go around to hospital, Mr. Albert.”
“Please, please, you’re making far too much of this.”
Ann turned to Mrs. Hutchins. “He’s trying to be brave for my benefit. Wants to impress me with how strong he is!” She playfully slapped my head.
“Ow!” I yelled.
“Why don’t you impress me with how sensible you are? I swear, walking around all afternoon with that bump on your
head.”
Mrs. Hutchins made a ‘harumphing’ sound. “Needs a good woman to look after him, if you ask me.”
“Do you think?” Ann said. “Well, I pity the poor woman who takes on that task!”
They both laughed together, and I felt like every other man who was left out of a private joke between women.
“I say,” I finally managed to blurt out, “do you think I might have some supper now? Or are you planning on laughing at me some more?”
“Just like a man,” Mrs. Hutchins said, “always thinking about his stomach. You missed supper a few hours ago, but luckily I kept some of it warm for you.”
She disappeared into the kitchen and Ann sat back down. “How’s your head?” she asked.
“Honestly, it feels fine. I got some sleep and I’m all right now. How did your thing at Toynbee Hall go?”
Ann looked away slightly. “Oh, fine. There was something that the Reverend had to take care of, that’s all.”
“Anything important?”
Just then, Mrs. Hutchins came back in with a steaming plate of food. It was just about the best thing I’d ever smelled in my life.
“No, nothing important. Why don’t you eat up?”
I practically engulfed the food. I did not realise I was so hungry until I started eating.
We spent the remainder of the evening talking about anything we could think about. This conversation was different from all the ones we had had before. This time, we spoke not just as friends, but as two people in love. Even, cautiously, about such things as the future.
“And where should you like to live, Albert? The country? Cornwall, perhaps?”
I laughed. “I should be very happy, my dear, if I never saw Cornwall again.”
“But why? That is your home, where you grew up!”
“Where I grew up is not important, and my home shall always be with you.”
She blushed. “I knew that you would have the gift of sweet words. But it is late and there will be much time to talk of such things later.” She held my face in her hands and I believed her.