by Sam Gafford
I could feel her making some motions, but she kept her back to me and I could not tell what she was doing until her dress began to fall away from her shoulders. The back of her neck came clearly into sight, and still the dress dipped down until her bustier was visible. Hesitantly, but irresistibly, I touched the delicate skin where her neck joined her shoulders.
Her skin was as cold as the dead.
Before I could react, Ann quickly turned around and kissed me fully, passionately on the lips. I had never felt such aching in her before; but as fiery as her kiss was, the lips were icy and lifeless.
Unable to resist, I gave in to the kiss and pulled her to me. Ann took my left hand and pressed it to her right breast, rubbing herself with it. I felt her hands moving over me, and her right hand began to rub me through my pants. My enthusiasm growing, I broke the kiss and sighed while she grabbed me fully, her fingers trying to find their way through my clothing to the flesh beneath. Her face and head were beside me, and I could feel her cold breath upon my ear when she whispered lustily, “I want to feel you inside me now.”
In that moment my passion faded with her words, and I nearly pushed her off of me. Within the space of instants, multiple emotions played over her face as if it were made of clay that was constantly being remoulded by a sculptor: anger—fear—sadness—rage—desire—disgust. All passed before me.
“You’re pathetic,” she hissed in the same voice that she had whispered into my ear. “I should have known you were no sort of man. As if you could satisfy a real woman!”
Her breasts heaved as rage shook her entire body. Ann looked as if she were mere seconds away from flying into a murderous rage because I had refused her—then, just as quickly, the moment passed.
The look on her face was now complete shock and shame, as tears came to her eyes and she quickly pulled her dress back up to cover herself. “Oh, Albert!” she sobbed. Her voice had returned to that which I had known and loved so deeply. “I’m so sorry! I—I just can’t anymore!”
Ann ran up the stairs and shut her door. I could hear her lock the bolt; I could hear her crying in her room. I stood there, completely stunned and horrified at what had just occurred.
To my own shame, I hesitated. I should have gone up there and comforted her, reasoned with her into opening the door, and given her my forgiveness. But I did none of those things. I stood there in the sitting room and listened to her sobs but was too terrified to move.
For that voice that had whispered in my ear, that had encouraged me to pleasure myself with her body, and then later raged at me for my refusal, was not Ann’s voice. I had recognised it, and it was that realisation which had chilled me to the bone and pushed her away from me.
I knew for a certainty that it was Mary Kelly’s voice speaking to me through Ann’s lips.
Chapter 48
Thirty-five is a very attractive age. London society is full of women of the highest birth who have, of their own free choice, remained thirty-five for years.
—Oscar Wilde
September 15, 1888
Even though I had tried desperately to catch Ann before she left the house, I awoke to find her already gone. When I knocked at her door there was no response, so I hazarded a look inside only to discover her room empty and several clothes thrown about the floor. Feeling guilty, I looked for the small box with the clay man inside, but it was gone as well.
Even Mrs. Hutchins was surprised that Ann had left.
“I’ve been up since four this morning, Mr. Albert,” she said, “and I never heard a sound. Normally she comes in for a cup of coffee or just to say goodbye, but nothing today. If you hadn’t told me, I’d think she were still in bed.”
Her distress over the situation made Mrs. Hutchins overlook the social impropriety of my looking into a single woman’s bedroom. At this point, I feared that she had deeper worries about Ann than her reputation.
I was still upset over the previous night. Try as I might, I could not convince myself that I had not heard Mary Kelly’s voice come from Ann’s lips. Despite my fatigue and state of hopelessness, I could not shake the belief that I was right. Now I was debating whether to mention it to Arthur even though it would only bolster his insane theory about Mary. I had just determined to check in with Arthur even if only to see whether Amy might know anything about the whole mess, when Arthur came bounding into the dining room in a state of advanced excitement.
“Albert!” he cried. “Excellent! I was afraid I had missed you and would need to spring you from The Brothers’ dungeon again. I’ve gotten a reply from Robert James Lees, and he has agreed to see me this morning. There’s no time to waste!”
Eager for any distraction, I was out the door and following quickly on his heels. As we settled back in the hansom, however, I couldn’t resist asking something.
“Arthur,” I asked, “have you see Ann with Amy lately?”
“Well, funny you should ask. Ann showed up at the house very early this morning and Amy left with her. I gather they are going to volunteer at the church and will be gone most of the day. I only had the merest glimpse of Ann, but I had the feeling she was upset about something. Have you two argued?”
I nodded. “It’s nothing,” I lied. “I’ve been too busy lately and she is claiming that I’m not paying her enough attention.”
Arthur smiled at that. “Ah, well, that’s something that can be easily rectified. As soon as this whole business is over, we will both have more time for them. Until then, we must remain focused.”
“And why are we going to see Lees?”
“I wanted to talk to him more about the séance. I also have a feeling he is holding something back. I’ve heard that he has been to the police more than once to report visions of the murders. Perhaps there is a clue there that can help us put an end to this horror.”
*
The cab pulled up in front of a splendid house in the West End. While not as opulent as Gull’s residence, it was still palatial in comparison to anything I’d known before. Evidently, spiritualism paid well—in money, at least.
A maid answered the door and escorted us to a bright sitting room that was well lit by the late morning sun. It was a room that was obviously much used and loved, not the sterile sort of parlour one finds in the homes of the vastly rich who provide a separate room just for those guests who aren’t worthy of entering their inner circle.
Lees was sitting in a comfortable wingback chair and staring out the large window to the neat garden in back of the house. The man looked tired and far more worn than the last time I had seen him. His eyes were weak and heavy, and his face had become drawn and shallow. He attempted to rise to greet us, but Arthur motioned him to keep his seat.
“Ah, yes, Mr. Besame. I remember you from Arthur’s party. How do you do?”
He held out his hand and I shook it, but I found it to be listless and wan.
“We’ve come,” Arthur began, taking a seat on the lounge facing Lees, “because we need your help.”
Lees’ eyebrows arched slightly, the way a cat might at the sound of a mouse running behind the wainscoting. Similarly, he was unsure if he desired to chase the bait.
“I fear I am not of much help to anyone at the moment. Certain, ah, experiences have drained me quite badly. Sometimes I feel it is all I can do to maintain this fragile tether to reality. One careless slip and I will drift away.”
Arthur nodded. “We will not task you more than necessary, Robert. That night at my party, when you held the séance, what did you see?”
The seer closed his eyes and sighed heavily. “I saw nothing.”
Arthur and I looked at each other.
“Come now,” Arthur said, “you did see something, remember? You were channelling the spirit of that young boy when there was suddenly a force running around the table like a whirling dervish. You said that ‘all was blackness’ and that ‘something had killed once and would do so four times more.’ Do you remember?”
Lees nodded his head a
nd opened his eyes. “Aye, I remember. But you do not completely understand. In trances like that, I do not see forms. All is light and images and impulses. Except for that thing that came after: that was pure blackness. There was no light in it at all. It was evil in its most pure and dangerous form.”
I leaned in, trying to hear his speech, which was getting weaker by the moment.
“You also spoke in Welsh. Do you remember that?” Arthur was getting more desperate as our subject was diminishing.
“Did I? How extraordinary. What did I say? Do you know?”
I broke in. “You said that ‘the ceremonies have begun.’ What did you mean?”
He stared at me with the most horrible intentness.
Suddenly, Lees’ eyes bulged and he started gasping for air like a hooked fish. He leaned back in his chair and never took his eyes off of me.
“What’s happening?” I shouted at Arthur.
Arthur quickly jumped to his feet and pulled the bell rope for the butler. “He’s having a seizure. We need to steady him and keep him from hurting himself.”
I tried to hold down Lees’ arms, but he pulled further away at my merest touch. The door opened swiftly, and a butler and an older woman rushed into the room.
The butler quickly dumped a mixture into a glass of water which gave a sickly, yellow pall to it and proceeded to pour it carefully down his master’s throat. The woman, who proved to be his wife, stood behind the chair, lovingly caressing Lees’ head and whispering words of comfort to her husband.
We backed away. Slowly, painfully, reason returned to Lees’ eyes.
“Gentlemen,” Mrs. Lees said, “you must leave. You’ve exerted my husband far too much. Go.”
But Lees’ hand quickly came up in protest. “No!” he said with as much strength as was his to command. “I must speak to them.”
“Husband!”
Lees looked at her with an expression of love that filled me with envy. “I must, my dear. Otherwise, I will have to bear the guilt of keeping my visions secret. I have pledged never to do so again.”
Lees waved the butler away, and his wife moved to one of the outer chairs. Her watchful gaze never left her husband.
“Mr. Besame,” he said, still struggling for breath, “my ‘talents’ are often hard to explain. Whereas in the séance I could only receive impressions from the other side and allow others to use my voice, I often receive visions. Sometimes they come to me in dreams. Other times, well, I could be riding in a cab in Pall Mall and be suddenly afflicted. It is why I seldom go out anymore and, when I do, I never go alone.”
The man sat up in his chair and pierced me with his gaze.
“I have just had the most terrifying vision, Mr. Besame. And it is about you.”
My confusion must have been evident upon my face, for he became deathly earnest in his speech.
“Just now I had a vision of you, standing atop a green and verdant hill. You were alone. There, you were fighting a great force that was all around you, but it was not a man or woman or beast but something from beyond. I saw it press down upon you, and you fell beneath its attack. Mr. Besame, I saw you die.”
The room was still. No one spoke.
“Where was this?” Arthur asked.
Lees looked at him and shook his head. “I do not know. I believe it to be somewhere in England, but I did not recognise it. There were no landmarks.”
Something about this seemed to spark something in Arthur, but I noticed that he did not say anything.
“Is . . . is this predestined?” I asked. “Or only something that might be?”
Lees sat back in his chair. “I cannot say. Sometimes my visions do not come to pass, but other times . . .”
He paused, as if not sure if he should continue; but then he pressed onward.
“You have read of the horrible murders in the East End, yes?” Lees asked.
We nodded.
“I had visions of both of those deaths in my dreams before they occurred. I went to Scotland Yard, but they dismissed me as some kind of fool. Then, when the second murder happened exactly as I had described, they considered me to be the killer.”
“They came and took him away,” his wife interjected unexpectedly. “An odious little man named Spratling came to the door and demanded he accompany them. He was gone nearly a day.”
Lees nodded his head. “True. They pressed me hard for answers. They were convinced that I was involved in the murders, and I don’t doubt they were ready to lock me up for them. Fortunately, a detective there recognised me and remembered my more, ah, royal clients and ordered his subordinates to let me go. I still feel they are out there though, watching and waiting to arrest me.”
“These visions,” Arthur asked, “could you see the face of the killer?”
Lees shook his head. “Sadly, I could not. I was seeing the events of the killing from his viewpoint. I saw the knife slice through the throats of those poor women and felt the shock travel up my frame as he cut their insides open. I had never seen such horror in my life . . . until I saw another murder.”
“Another?” I asked. “Has it happened already?”
“No,” Lees sighed, “but it will soon. I can feel it getting closer, like the sound of a hansom trotting through the fog.”
“Did you see the victim?” Arthur asked. “Can you recognise her? So we can hide her away and keep this from happening?”
Lees swallowed hard and took another gulp of his yellowish drink.
“What was done to her was horrible, Arthur. Beyond any human comprehension. Parts of her were cut down to the bone. Her flesh was sliced off and placed on a table. I shall never forget that sight as long as I live.”
“But did you know her? Who is this poor woman?”
“Yes, I met her,” Lees started, “at your party, Arthur. Quite a lovely young woman with beautiful red hair. It was you who introduced us, actually. You said her name was Mary Kelly.”
Chapter 49
London is full of women who trust their husbands. One can always recognise them. They look so thoroughly unhappy.
—Oscar Wilde
Mrs. Lees would allow no further questioning; and for our part, we were too stunned to ask any. We left after Arthur secured a promise from Lees that he would alert us if he experienced any more visions. Our mood was grim as we left the looming building, which now felt to me cold and sinister.
“Do you trust Lees, Arthur?” I asked finally.
“I’m not sure. He has some notoriety as a spiritualist, but that is hardly conclusive. I know he has been consulted by the Queen, who is always desperate for communication from her dead husband, but I’m not sure that is exactly an endorsement.”
We were moving briskly down the street, heading away from the residential area of the West End and into the commercial zone. Eventually we would reach Fleet Street, but Arthur seemed disinclined to walk in the more populated streets.
“He seems very certain that the next victim of the Whitechapel murderer will be your friend, Mary Kelly. She was not, as you felt, the killer herself.”
Arthur glared at me ominously.
“I never said she was the killer, just that she is mixed up in this evil business somehow.”
“Perhaps her confederate turns on her; threatens to go to the police and he kills her?”
He paused momentarily. “I know you will think it strange to hear me say this, but I do not believe that Mary can be killed by any human agency. No, I suspect that Lees’ vision is wrong or incorrect in some way. He could not have seen Mary Kelly being murdered. I am certain of this, but I cannot explain it.”
We went back to his house and talked for some time. I had the feeling that I was standing on the edge of a dizzying precipice but was trying to keep my balance without anything to steady me. Arthur’s talk was guarded, as if he still did not want to reveal too much; but he remained convinced that not only was the incident during the séance connected to the entire business, but so was Mary Kelly.
For my part, I was hoping to stay long enough to catch Arthur’s wife, Amy, coming home with Ann, and I dragged the conversation on as long as I could. As the night advanced, however, Arthur grew tired and apologised for needing to go to bed. Although Amy had not come home yet, he was not concerned. “She is more resilient than you give her credit for, Albert,” he said. “Indeed, she is stronger than I am most of the time. Goodnight!”
So I was surprised when, upon arriving home, Mrs. Hutchins informed me that Ann was already in her room.
“When did she come in?” I asked.
“Oh, about an hour or so ago, Mr. Albert. She went straight up to her room and asked not to be disturbed.”
Puzzled, I looked up the stairway, half expecting to see something standing there, waiting for me.
“How was she? I mean, how did she look?”
“Oh, I’ve no idea. I was in the kitchen when I heard the door slam. By the time I got out here, she’d already scarpered up the stairs. All I heard was her asking to be left alone. Oh, it’s an odd thing, isn’t it?”
I admitted that it was, but tried to comfort her as much as I could. I ate a plate of cold meat and potato before climbing up to my own room.
There was barely a sound coming from Ann’s bedroom. I was determined that I would follow her the next time she left the house, so I left my clothes on and settled into my chair.
I heard no sounds until roughly 1 a.m., when I detected the light sound of movement from her room. It was as if she were pacing back and forth, over and over again. Eventually it quieted, but I had the curious certainty that she was no longer there.
I quietly crept out and listened at her door, but could hear nothing. I knew that I was risking eviction from Mrs. Hutchins’ house, but I had to know; so I turned the doorknob softly and gently opened the door.
There was an oil lamp burning low on her side table and the window was open, but she was not in the room. I carefully entered but could see that the place was empty. What was more, many of her personal items were gone—not all, but enough to make an impression upon me. The conviction that Ann was getting ready to quit Mrs. Hutchins’ house grew in my heart, and I felt more distant from her than ever.