by Sam Gafford
“What are other Ceremonies for?”
“There are some that can be used for dark desires. They either seek to pierce the veil between this and other worlds or attempt to unravel the fabric of reality. These are extremely dangerous, of course, and many who are foolish enough to invoke them often perish.”
I considered this for a moment before speaking again. “When Lees had that fit at your party, he spoke in Welsh and, as I recall, you claimed that he said that ‘the Ceremonies have started.’ Is that correct?”
He nodded gravely. “Yes, that was why I went to consult with the Golden Dawn.”
“And they claimed that such a thing was impossible?”
He nodded again. “Yes, but I have had word from them since. They have been consulted by one whose guidance they trust implicitly, and he has seen the signs. They now believe and are taking measures.”
“What measures?”
“I am not sure. They have not shared this information with me, but I have asked for an audience with their guide, so perhaps we will get more details from him.”
“Who is this person?”
“I do not know. I am told only that he refers to himself as ‘The Beast.’ He holds a great deal of influence with the Order, and they are naturally very protective of him.”
“If,” I paused, “Mary Kelly is performing these ‘Ceremonies,’ what is her purpose? I would assume she is not trying to get someone to fall in love with her.”
“No, she is not.” Arthur sighed heavily. “It has been my belief, ever since the party at my house, that whatever is pretending to be Mary Kelly is not human. It is wearing her guise, her shape, in the same way that you or I might wear a coat. Because of that, I cannot guess what its motive may be or what it wishes to accomplish.”
“What could she hope to achieve? Your ruination?”
“That would be too petty a goal, although I would not be surprised if my death factored in there somehow. No, Albert, I fear that she will fracture reality itself, and what remains of this earth will be an unrecognisable cinder.”
I could not help but think my friend had gone mad.
“It seems absurd,” I said, “to be talking about the end of the world while sitting in a London pub on a cool autumn day with the sun shining above us.”
“The greatest sins can be conceived in broad daylight. We, like many, have no idea what walks among us. Those men in the corner there could be plotting the overthrow of the British Government. The barmaid might be contemplating going home and slitting her lover’s throat tonight. The child cleaning the pots might have ripped a poor cat or dog to shreds out in the back alley. We are all only living on a thin veneer of civility. It would take so little to remove that barrier, and then we could see people as they really are.”
I could not help but think of the vision I had seen at Arthur’s party of the naked people copulating with and cannibalising each other. Could Mary have planted that in my brain? Or did she just enable me to see through that ‘thin veneer’ and glimpse the true nature of life?
“What can we do?”
Arthur got up to leave, and I followed him out the door.
“At the moment, all we can do is to try to find Mary Kelly or learn more about her motivations. We have some time, although not a great deal. At most, we have perhaps a little over a month. The things she wishes to attempt can be done only at certain times and under particular conditions. I am off to consult with another friend who may have some insights for me. For now, we look for Mary and hope that she will not have need of any more victims.”
Before I could ask what she might have needed any of them for, Arthur had climbed into another hansom and was gone, leaving me to stare after him in mute astonishment. As much as I disliked the notion, I would have to speak to Amy about him and judge whether Arthur was a hazard to himself. It was clear that he was a hazard to Mary Kelly, but shamefully I did not feel much concern about that.
At the moment, I was more concerned with making my two o’clock appointment with Dr. Gull, even though I was deeply dreading it.
I was not aware of it at the time, but earlier that day “Dark” Annie Chapman was laid to rest. It was a private ceremony known only to family and the police. Possibly, they had hoped to avoid any unsavoury press reports or even an emotional outbreak of violence. Already, tempers were flaring in the streets over the murders and the seeming inability of the police to stop them. The worst was yet to come.
*
Arriving promptly at 2 p.m. as Gull’s note had requested (demanded?), I was shown into the same study I had been in before. Again, I noted the intangible weight of wealth and privilege about the room and feared touching anything. When Gull entered the room a few minutes later, I realised that I had been virtually standing at attention as if I were an errant schoolboy sent to the headmaster’s office.
Gull looked pained, and I noticed that he walked more slowly and deliberately than before. He was favouring his left side somewhat and was trying to take pains not to show it. His voice, however, had lost none of its strength or power to command.
“Mr. Besame,” he began, “so good of you to come. Please sit down. Would you care for some tea?”
Reluctantly, I agreed. A butler appeared from nowhere with a polished silver tea set, poured two cups of tea into exquisite china, and then quickly led the room. Gull motioned that I should help myself. I added cream and a slight touch of sugar to my cup and took a lingering sip of the most wonderful tea I’d ever had in my life. Grateful, I thank him but wondered what had changed in our relationship such that I was now someone with whom it was appropriate to drink afternoon tea.
Gull took a sip of his tea and rather stiffly placed the cup back on the saucer.
“Did you and your lady friend enjoy your evening at the theatre?”
Uncertain, I replied, “Very much so. My thanks for arranging it. The night could not have been more enchanting.”
“Good, I am pleased to hear it. Now,” he said plainly, “you will notice that my son-in-law is not with us this afternoon.”
“I had.”
Gull nodded. “Yes, I could tell that you were a perceptive fellow. I felt, after our last talk, that I could speak to you privately and could now trust in your discretion and patriotism. What I am about to tell you is highly confidential and, if you were to divulge it, would result in your incarceration on a charge of treason, if not worse. Do I have your assurance, sir?”
I considered the question carefully. Since meeting Arthur Machen, my life had become one of mystery and hidden agendas. I was ill-equipped to deal with such things, but each step felt pre-ordained and I seemed unable to refuse. It was easy to see how one could get swept away by such things until, like a swimmer caught by the tide, the shore was nothing but a thin line on the horizon. Still, despite the question, I did not feel that I would be allowed to refuse it.
“Upon my honour as a subject of Her Majesty, Sir William Gull.”
The old man smiled. “Splendid. Now to business.”
With some effort, he stood up and walked to his desk. Gull opened a drawer with his right hand, reached in, and brought out a small photograph with the same hand. His left hand never moved at all.
He stiffly walked back to me and handed over the photo. It was a side profile of a handsome young man in impeccably tailored clothes looking wistfully off in the distance. I’d gauge his age to be roughly late twenties, and his hair was light and sandy in tone. No glasses, beard, or moustache.
“That,” Gull said, “is James Kenneth Stephen. He is the second son of Mr. Justice Stephen and college friend of Prince Albert Victor. He is also a misogynist and quite mad.
“It is J. K. Stephen who is the ‘S’ described in the Prince’s diary which I know you have read.”
I began to protest, but Gull simply raised his right hand for silence.
“Please, my good man, let us not insult each other. When you recovered the diary, you read it—and that led to your request to meet
the prince in a quest to determine his role in the Whitechapel atrocities. That is what brought you to my attention.
“Stephen murdered Martha Tabram.”
I looked at the picture, unsure of my next step.
“If this man,” I said slowly, “is the ‘S’ mentioned in the prince’s diary, then you also know that he did not act alone.”
Sir William pulled a book from the shelf near him and sat down heavily in an armchair.
“This,” he said, “is a book of poetry written by Stephen. I recommend you read it the better to understand the man and the compulsions that drive him.”
I took the book but did not take the diversion.
“The prince clearly states in his diary that he took part in Tabram’s murder.”
“The question becomes one of timing,” Gull replied. “The prince states that ‘S’ had already stabbed the woman before he came upon them. If she was dead already, he is guilty of nothing more than the mutilation of a dead body. Hardly a crime of a serious nature.”
“Whether she were dead or not, the prince’s intention was clear. He meant to murder her.”
“‘But that was in another country, and besides, the wench is dead.’”
“The Jew of Malta,” I replied swiftly, “by Christopher Marlowe. Act Four, Scene One.”
Gull was impressed. “Indeed, sir, you are quite correct.”
“You will find,” I answered, “that I have a remarkably detailed memory for what I have read.”
“So I see. You must realise, however, that the prince will never be implicated in this matter.”
“I do not agree. Where is the justice? Is he to face no punishment?”
I could sense Gull’s hesitation, but eventually it gave way.
“I hold you to your oath, sir, when I tell you that the prince has been punished.”
“How? Sent away on holiday, perhaps? Kept away from the press or public? Where is the punishment in that?”
“You do not catch my meaning. The prince has already been punished by the Almighty God, sir, for he has syphilis and it is terminal. He will never live to sit on the throne of England. He will never live to be king.”
The news was too monstrous to believe, and Gull could see it in my face.
“I assure you that it is true. Due to my success in treating another . . . case, I was asked to advise after the prince’s initial diagnosis. Sadly, the disease had progressed too far and there was nothing that could be done. It has been slowed somewhat, but the end is certain. He has perhaps a year, certainly no longer than four. These facts are not in dispute. So, Mr. Besame, you can see that there is little to be gained from the arrest and prosecution of a man who has already had a death sentence pronounced upon him.”
“And what of Martha Tabram, Doctor? Is she to receive no justice? None at all?”
“That, Mr. Besame, is completely up to you and the reason I asked you here today.
“Mr. Stephen, the true murderer of Martha Tabram, is missing. It is our belief that he is hiding in the East End and that it was he who hired the thugs who originally stole the prince’s diary. Moreover, we believe that Stephen is the man responsible for the recent murders of Annie Chapman and Mary Nichols and that he will kill more women if he is not captured and stopped.”
Leaning back in my chair, I waved my hands listlessly at him.
“Why send for me then? Why not just go to the police or Inspector Abberline? They would be happy to run Stephen to ground and arrest the fiend.”
“You know that can never happen. Stephen knows too much, and he would not hesitate to implicate the prince and lie to save his own neck. The results would be calamitous for the Realm and the Queen. ‘Will no one help the widow’s son?’”
“What does that mean?”
Gull shrugged. “Simply an ancient call for help. No, the police cannot be involved. This must be handled quietly. You have proven yourself to be a man who can be trusted to operate with discretion.”
I was not convinced. “Surely you have access to men who have experience handling this sort of thing?”
“We do. But, again, their ways can be too blunt and conspicuous. This matter must be dealt with using the accuracy of a scalpel, not the savagery of an axe. Moreover, you can move quietly within the East End and you already know about the prince’s involvement, so there is no further risk on that account.”
I leaned forward and glared at Gull. I knew he had the power to crush me like a bug under his heel, but I was determined to let him know that I would still bite fiercely while I died.
“And what happens then to this son of a famous judge? No court or trial, I assume?”
Gull stiffened his lip. “There will be a trial, of sorts. But it will be private and the result is already decided even now. Stephen will be sent off to an asylum under an assumed name. There, he will be properly ‘treated’ for his terminal condition.”
“Which is?”
“Homicidal mania, of course. Trust me, once we lay our hands on the man, he will never roam the streets of London again.”
I glared at the face in the photo. I was coming to hate that face as much as I already hated the system that was still shielding him.
“I could go to Abberline myself, tell him the whole story. Or even to the papers.”
Gull smirked. “You’re too smart a man to do that, Mr. Besame. I have no desire to resort to threats or demands. You will either do this thing or you will not. I rely upon your patriotism and good sense to make the proper choice. You may keep the photo—oh, and the book as well. This is no easy task I set before you, sir. You are tracking a very dangerous man, and if by chance you should be killed or captured, then every trace and memory of our agreement will vanish and be denied. Are we clear on this?”
I nodded.
“When you have ascertained Stephen’s location, send word to me here. I will respond within the hour with a team of specially trained agents who will remove him with the utmost care and silence. His death is not desired, but if it is unavoidable, so be it.”
“And what do I receive for such service?” I asked.
Gull smiled. “Gratitude, my good sir, from the highest level.”
I stood up, but Gull remained seated. The door to the study opened as if by some secret signal and the butler was standing in the doorway, waiting for me to leave. There was no effort made to shake hands. We both knew where we stood. I was not a hunter, I was the bait.
Without another word, I left the room and the house.
*
That night, I ate alone.
Ann had not returned from another day ‘helping’ at the church, and despite our mutual disbelief of the excuse, neither Mrs. Hutchins nor I mentioned it. The food was good, but I found that I had little appetite. Later, in the sitting room, I found I also had little desire for tobacco and abandoned my pipe. I should have been thrilled at the knowledge that the Whitechapel murderer was in all probability this James Stephen and not one of Arthur’s hideous creatures from the dark, outside realms, but for some reason I was not.
The world had spiralled out of all semblance of control. I had a dear friend, for whom I would gladly sacrifice my own life, who I was convinced was quite mad. I had a fiancée, even though a ‘secret’ one, who was already being deceitful to me and possibly involving Arthur’s wife in her doings as well. A job that I had embraced with enthusiasm and great hope now left me empty and aimless. Clearly, I would have to end my employment with The Brothers even if it meant I once again risked a future of nothing but poverty. Gull had obviously learned of me from them, which meant that, should anything come to a head, I could not rely upon them.
I felt that I no longer had anyone I could rely upon.
And then there was Gull. I puzzled over that for a long while. There was little doubt in my mind that he was simply using me as a way to bring Stephen out of hiding. I was known to the Gaffer and now, no doubt, to Stephen as well. If my suspicions were correct, Stephen had many contacts in the
East End, any number of whom would be happy to sell me out to the prince’s old friend. My only hope, I concluded, was to fail. Although I had no choice but to accept the assignment from Gull, I was under no obligation to fulfil it. I would make some inconsequential enquiries and allow the whole matter to fall away. But if Gull were telling the truth, I would be enabling a mad killer to strike again. Could I live with that guilt knowing that I could have prevented it?
The thoughts ran around and around in my head until I eventually fell asleep in the chair.
I was awakened by the soft touch of a hand upon my cheek.
I jumped up in the chair but relaxed at the sight of Ann watching me.
Breathing a sigh of relief, I asked, “What are you doing? You startled me.”
She smiled and gave a sort of half-chuckle. “I was just watching you sleep. I like doing that. It gives me pleasure.”
I could not help but smile even as I said what I should not have said. “Where have you been all day?”
She tossed her head in indifference. “I was out.”
“At the church?”
Ann looked at me from out of the corner of her eyes. There was something different in that look, almost predatory.
“Well,” she replied, “if you must know, I was with Amy all day. She knows some of the most fascinating people. So many artists and writers and poets. She’s quite the ‘bohemian,’ you know.”
I could see Ann’s coat and hat resting on the nearby couch, thrown there carelessly. She was wearing a purplish dress with a white collar and cuffs. Her hair was piled upon her head in a type of configuration I would never be able to unravel in a million years.
“It’s cold out,” she said, absently gazing into the fire. “I’ve never known such a cool September. There’s a chill in my bones. Albert, will you warm me?”
“Of course,” I replied, and she came and sat on the edge of my chair with her back to me. I felt her hands, which were as cold as a January snow. I vigorously rubbed her back and arms through the dress, trying to generate some warmth.