by Sam Gafford
The table began to buck under our hands.
“It’s seeking . . . seeking even now. It’s killed once already and it’ll do it again. Four times more! The blood! Oh, God, the blood!”
His voice began to shriek as if he were a pig being gutted.
“Caerleon! Caerleon! It ends there!”
Without missing a beat, Lees began to howl in a voice such as I had never heard before. It came from deep within him, from some primal place that still exists even in the most civilised man. At first it was grunts and roars, but as I listened I was able to determine that it was words in a strange language.
“Wedi cychwyn ar y seremonïau! Wedi cychwyn ar y seremonïau! Wedi cychwyn ar y seremonïau!”
As the sound grew, I could feel each of us being pulled away from the other.
“Wedi cychwyn ar y seremonïau! Wedi cychwyn ar y seremonïau! Wedi cychwyn ar y seremonïau!”
At the height of the cacophony, the sound took on a physical force and exploded over the table. The shock pushed us all back and off our chairs. As quickly as it had started, it stopped.
The lights brightened suddenly and everyone stayed exactly where they were, waiting for something else to happen. Lees looked as surprised as anyone.
“What happened?” Lees said as he slowly got to his feet.
I helped Ann get up and was happy to see that she was leaning on me for support.
“It was quite the experience,” Amy said as Arthur helped her to her feet, “wasn’t it, Arthur?” But Arthur wasn’t amused at all. He had as grave an expression on his face as I ever fear to see.
“I think maybe we’ve all had enough for tonight, Amy. Time to see our guests out.”
Amy looked at him quizzically, as if this event should have caused the party to go on for some time yet, but she quietly obeyed. Rose began to hand the guests their coats, and they all began to filter out of the room. Most of them seemed stunned by what had happened, but I noticed a few of the ladies were very animated and talkative.
Lees was apologising to Arthur. “I’m sorry, old man, did something go ‘off’?”
“No, no, not at all. It’s just getting late and I think everyone is tired now. Thank you for coming, Robert, I shall be by to see you presently.”
Mystified, Lees took his coat and left. I thought I saw him questioning a few of the ladies for the ‘details’ of the séance.
Ann and I were the last to leave. As Ann was making her thank-you’s to Amy, Arthur pulled me aside.
“Albert,” he whispered, “did you see Mary Kelly or Sickert leave?”
“No,” I answered, “I looked for her before the séance and didn’t see her.”
My answer sorely troubled him.
“We must find her. It is more imperative now than ever.”
“Why, Arthur? Did any of that séance make sense to you? Could you understand what Lees was saying at the end?”
As Amy and Ann came up to us, Arthur shivered and whispered to me, “Yes, Albert, that was Welsh. He said, ‘The Ceremonies have begun.’”
Chapter 20
Where London’s column, pointing at the skies,
Like a tall bully, lifts the head and lies.
—Alexander Pope
London is a city of columns. I suppose part of the reason for that may be the Roman history infecting the architecture, but there is rarely a street or avenue one can walk down without finding columns of some sort. And when it comes to memorials, London likes columns the best.
There is, of course, Cleopatra’s Needle (brought to London in 1877) and Nelson’s Column in Trafalgar Square (built in 1840–43), but the one that has always captured my attention and imagination is ‘The Monument.’
Its precise name is the “Monument to the Fire of London,” but everyone just calls it ‘The Monument.’ It stands 202 feet tall near the northern end of London Bridge and is meant to mark the beginning of the Great London Fire of 1666, but is some 61 meters from where the fire actually started. The height of the column is the exact distance to where the baker’s store stood that began the firestorm. The column itself was designed by Sir Christopher Wren and Robert Hooke and is quite a beautiful structure. A long Doric column made from Portland stone, it is capped by a gilded urn of fire. You can climb the 311 steps to the top, where you can look out at the city from behind a cage that was added to keep people from jumping. Even though it is a lovely view from that height, it cannot keep one from thinking of the great fire that swept through the city.
In 1888, I never thought of such things. I was too busy trying to make my way in the world and keep myself from drowning in the strange waters around me. Had I been more sensible, I might have appreciated the irony that the week in which the horror truly began for me was the anniversary of that great fire. Begun in a simple baker’s shop, it spread to engulf the entire City of London and threatened to burn everything to the ground. Only the quick thinking of the garrison at the Tower of London, which used gunpowder to collapse the buildings and cause a break-wall in the fire, ended the blaze. The official report afterwards stated that only a few people had died in the fire. “Not even double digits,” one politician said. But ask the people who lived in the slums and poverty rows that the fire consumed, and they would have a different story. “No one counts the poor when they’re alive; why would you think they’d count us when we’re dead?”
It’s easy to give in to that sort of defeatism when you’re in the East End. It overwhelms you until you literally feel it pushing your shoulders into the ground through your feet. Eventually, it becomes all you know and your life is a grey, drudge march from one day to the next.
But as I helped Ann into the cab after Arthur’s party, I wasn’t thinking about any of those things. In truth, all I really wanted to do was get home and go to sleep. Netley, however, was blissfully unaware of our moods.
“Well, now, was it a good party? Nothing like a fine time to lift your spirits, I always say. Did you enjoy yourself, miss?”
Ann faded further into the coach. “Yes, it was lovely.”
“There ya go! Good friends, good food, good drink. Nothing better, says I. Shall I be taking you straight home, sir?”
“Yes, Netley,” I said tiredly, “straight home.”
“Ya sure, sir? I could take a nice long route back?”
“No, that’s not necessary. We’d like to go back now.”
And I would have liked to have gone back—back to before the party when everything seemed so perfect and fine, back to when Ann smiled at me and held my hand. She made no effort to hold my hand on the way home.
“Did you enjoy the party?” I asked after several minutes of silence.
“Hmm? Oh, yes, of course. Your friend and his wife seemed very nice. It was a little more . . . ‘dramatic’ than I expected.”
“Yes, I agree. It wasn’t exactly what I had in mind.”
After a moment of silence wherein Ann gazed at me, not with love but with a clinical sort of investigation, she answered, “No, I suppose it wasn’t.”
We said nothing else the rest of the way back. Softly, under her breath, Ann hummed the tune she had sung earlier that night.
When we arrived back home, I helped Ann out of the carriage and said, “Why don’t you go in? I’m going to settle up with the coachman.”
To my surprise, she readily agreed and walked inside. She didn’t even hesitate at the door.
Sighing, I turned to Netley.
“Begging yer pardon, sir,” Netley said, “I didn’t want to mention this earlier, but something happened while you were inside at the party.”
“What? Was there a problem?”
“No problem, leastways not for me there wasn’t, but maybe for you, sir. While I was waitin’, someone came up to me and asked if I was waiting for you. When I said I was, he handed me this note and asked me to give it to you, but only when you was alone. That’s why I didn’t give it to you earlier.”
Netley handed me a piece of paper. I unf
olded it and discovered that it was a note written in the same hand I had seen the East End criminal Ben Edwards use before. It said simply, “Cohen found. Come to Ringers.”
“Who gave you this?”
“Just some street brat. No one in particular. I’m guessing that this is important.”
“It could be, Netley.” I stood and thought for a moment. Looking up at the house, I could see Ann moving around in her room. At that moment, I had a decision to make. Should I go inside and apologise to Ann for everything that had happened that night (whether it was my fault or not), or follow up on this lead on Cohen? If I hesitated, Cohen might disappear with the prince’s book and I might never lay my hands on him again.
Sighing, I made my decision. “Netley, are you still free?”
He smiled. Perhaps he wasn’t the smartest of men and maybe not even the noblest, but I was beginning to like this coachman. “Free and able, sir! Well, not ‘free’ exactly, you know . . .”
I grinned. “Yes, I know. Come on then, it looks as if I will not get to sleep just yet after all.”
I climbed into the coach and settled back into the cushion. I steeled myself and was determined not to look back. Perhaps if I had, I might have noticed the dark figure that had been watching my house and myself. But it is always easier afterwards to identify those times in your life when momentous events were either about to occur or could have been averted altogether. This was one of them.
“Where to, sir?” Netley asked from the front of the carriage.
“The Britannia Public House in Whitechapel.”
Netley turned around in his seat and stared at me. “Are you quite certain, sir? Whitechapel is a tricky enough place in the daytime, but it’s much worse at night. And I have to say that I don’t feel comfortable waiting there.”
“Don’t worry. I don’t intend to be there very long.”
In other parts of London, the streets tend to get quiet late at night. There are fewer people about and the streetlamps are usually the only source of light. Not so in the East End. If anything, the street traffic increases as the labourers throw off the day’s work and the taverns and bars explode with light and noise. There are all sorts of people on the streets from all ages. As the coach rolled along, I saw a wide mix of men, women, and children milling about. Many were drunk, and most were tired and covered in dirt and mud. If they shared any trait, it was the blank stare of the hopeless. Tonight was simply just another night and probably one that many fervently wished would be their last. I glanced at the street clock as we drew up in front of the Ringers. It was nearly midnight, and the street was as crowded as if it were the middle of market day.
I climbed out of the cab and walked up to Netley.
“You really shouldn’t be here, sir. It’s not safe,” he whispered.
I agreed with him, but given what I had seen and experienced already that night, I doubted if anywhere was truly safe anymore.
“I’ll be fine. Listen, here’s what I owe you.” I placed some coins in his eager hand and could feel the eyes of many upon me. “Will you wait?”
Netley looked uncertain and torn. I do not think he truly wanted to leave me here in the middle of Commercial Street, but neither did he wish to remain.
“Perhaps,” I said, “I could buy you a pint while you wait?”
A grin spread upon his face. “That would suit me down to the ground, guv’nor.”
We walked into the pub, and it fairly exploded around us with light and noise. This was the busiest I had seen the place, and there was virtually nowhere to sit and fewer places to stand. A vast variety of people were milling about. Plenty of men who had been working all day were spending their day’s wages on drink. Women were moving about, drinking their own fill and often leaving with one man and returning with another.
I looked over to Edwards’ booth, but he was not there. I felt my heart sink. I had probably taken too long and he had left. By the time Edwards returned in the morning, Cohen would have moved on. As we made our way to the bar, I noticed Netley looking at me anxiously.
The barman looked up at us without stopping his pouring and cleaning. He nodded silently at me but looked angrily at Netley.
“Netley? What are you doing here? I thought I told you I didn’t want to see you in here again!”
“It’s all right, he’s with me,” I said. The barman looked at me with an amused look on his face.
“Oh, that’s all right then, is it? As if that makes all the difference? I never seen you before a few days ago and now you’re vouching for the likes of him?”
“I’m not,” I said, “this is.”
I slid a coin across the bar.
He slipped it into his pocket. “Well, that’s a horse of a different colour, isn’t it? What can I be getting you gents?”
“How about a couple o’ pints of your special brew?” Netley said happily.
“And a bit of information?” I added.
He grumbled while Netley gulped his beer.
“I’m looking for Edwards. Was he here?”
The barman went back to his wiping and cleaning. “He was, up until about an hour ago . . . waiting on you, matter o’ fact.”
I cursed myself for taking too long. If I had known, I would have happily left that party earlier.
“Did he,” I began to form a brief hope, “leave anything for me?”
Trying to look uninterested, he replied, “He might have.”
My patience was wearing thin. “And do you think I could have it?”
The barman made as if he had to leave to help other customers. My hand went into my pocket and I was about to take out another coin when my anger got the best of me. I’d already had a hell of a night, and now this man was purposefully making it worse.
“I think you’d better hand it over right now!”
I swear that time stood still at that moment and the room fell silent. Netley started moving backwards towards the door as the barman circled back to face me and his hand went for the cudgel under the bar.
“What did you say?”
I could feel my feet shaking as I stared at those massive arms that could probably tear me apart.
“How do you think Mr. Edwards,” my voice rising, “would like to know that you failed to give me his message? Do you think that would make him happy?”
I turned around to the crowd forming around me. “Perhaps we should ask everyone here! Hello, people! Do you think that Mr. Edwards would be happy that I didn’t get the very important message he left for me?”
Many of the people laughed drunkenly, and it struck me that they would not be unhappy to see the barman on Edwards’ bad side.
The barman growled but reached under the bar and pulled out a piece of paper. He tossed it at me and walked away to the other end of the bar, making a point of ignoring me.
Trying to steady my hands, I opened the paper. Netley had come back to my side and began drinking my beer.
The paper said only, “New Court, Victoria Street, E.” I had no idea what that meant, but Netley did as he quietly gasped.
“Do you know this place?” I asked.
He nodded. “You don’t wanna go there, guv’nor. Trust me. It’s not a place for you.”
“Why not?” I asked.
Netley looked around and finally decided to risk speaking. “That’s Ah Sing’s, that is. Everyone knows that. Bad place. People go in there and don’t come out again.”
He took another swig of my beer.
“It’s a place for those who want to ‘chase the dragon,’” Netley said confidentially. I didn’t know what he meant.
Seeing my confusion, he leaned closer to me. The stench of his breath was unbearable.
“It’s an opium den. Toughest one in all London, too.”
I had heard of such things—places where men, and women, went to smoke the opium drug that would bring peace, hallucinations, ravings or death. The stories went that many were run by the Chinese and men were often ‘shanghaied
’ there to be trapped on ships once they woke up. They could be brutal places, and I truly had no desire to visit one; but that was where Edwards said that Cohen would be, and I was duty-bound to try and lay my hands on him. In the end, there could be only one choice.
“Will you take me there?”
Netley sputtered and drops of beer went over his jacket.
“Didn’t ya just hear me? You don’t wanna go there!”
“I know, but I have to go all the same.”
Netley thought for a moment. “Now, don’t get me wrong, guv’nor. I likes ya. Ya seem a decent sort and all. Ya don’t talk down to me and ya didn’t try and gyp me on your fare. But this . . . I don’t know.”
“One way or another, I have to go there. I would prefer to have a friend with me.”
At the word ‘friend,’ Netley brightened like a new sun. “A’ight, mate.” He held out his hand and I shook it. “I’m with you.”
We left the pub and I climbed back into the cab. Back then, I was not of a suspicious mind. I had not learned to watch my back or cover my tracks. Despite my experiences, I was still naïve and trustful. That explains why I didn’t notice the large black shadow that followed us from the Ringer’s. Nor did I notice the second shadow following the first. I was so young back then.
The trip took much less time than I thought it would, and Netley broke into my thoughts with a terse, “We’re here.”
I stepped out of the cab into the street. Before me was the entrance to an interior courtyard. Even from where I stood, I could see that it was a rough place. I looked at Netley.
“I can’t go any further,” he whined. “My cab won’t fit in the square and I can’t risk leaving it here unprotected. I’ll wait here for ye.”
I was about to walk into the courtyard when Netley stopped me. “Here,” he said, “take this.”
He tossed a small object at me and I caught it in my hand. Opening my fist, I saw that it was a little tin whistle, battered and worn. “Blow it when ya get in trouble. Then I’ll know where to find ya.”
I did not miss how Netley said “when” I get into trouble, not “if.”
Entering the courtyard, I saw that it had seen better days. I think that it was allowed to run down so that it would not be noticed in the neighbourhood. There were a number of doors on the other side of the court, but there was only one that had a Chinese woman sitting in front of it.