by Sam Gafford
Standing, I said, “I don’t blame you, Wendell. I don’t regret any of the actions I took on your behalf. You gave me a chance when no one else would even consider me for a position, and I will always be grateful to you for that. Perhaps the future will be different, but we have no way to see it. I think, however, that I will not come back today. In truth, I am feeling rather exhausted and I don’t relish seeing Robert at the moment.”
We said goodbye and I left the store, feeling that I had closed the door on a large part of my life. It was necessary but still deflating. I’d no idea what I would do in the future for work, but oddly enough that seemed not to be a pressing concern. There were too many other things that were occupying my mind, and Ann was uppermost among them.
*
There had been some truth in my statement to Wendell: I was feeling very tired after all my exertions. By the time I had returned home, I was nearly falling with each step. I walked in and promptly fell asleep in the usual sitting-room parlour.
Sometime later, a hand gently nudged me awake. I opened my eyes, and Ann stood before me. Not the Ann whom I had seen lately but the Ann of old, the one who had won my heart. I smiled happily and she returned my smile with one of her own, but concern soon overwhelmed it.
“Arthur,” she said painfully, “I have to tell you something. It’s very hard for me to say.”
I sat up, afraid of what I might hear. Had she decided to break our engagement? Her face was full of concern, and I was afraid that she would burst into tears at any second.
“What is it?” I said. “What is the matter?”
Placing my hand upon her cheek, I sought to comfort her. Now, I hoped, I was about to hear the answer to all the mysteries that had built up in my mind around her.
“You can tell me anything,” I said tenderly. She grabbed my hand and kissed it lovingly.
“Oh, my love,” Ann whispered, “I wish that I could. There has been so much that has been unsaid between us, but in every way I had only sought to save you pain. Never would I wish to hurt you, dear Albert, although I fear that such an outcome is unavoidable.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, afraid of her answer.
She turned her head away. “I’ve done things, Albert. Horrible, terrible things. I’ve turned my eyes away from all that is good and natural. I did not intend to, but I did so all the same.”
Confused, I tried to get her to look at me but she refused. “What are you talking about?”
“For some time,” she said tearfully, “I have been absent from the church. I have not been doing my Christian charity.”
I laughed lightly. “That is no great tragedy. There is always time to go back.”
Then she turned on me, and her face was like that of the other night. “You mock me? You? You pitiful shell of a man? Your mind would shrivel at the sight of what I have beheld! You are as nothing to me. You and your pitiful love! They are offal to me now.”
I recoiled in fear. Instantaneously, Ann’s face changed back again to the vision of kindness.
“Oh, Albert, I’m sorry! I did not mean that. If only you had never met me! Your life would have been so much happier. The things I want to tell you but cannot! She will not allow it. The things I have seen, the thing I have done! You must leave, Albert. Leave London immediately. Go back to Cornwall. There is nothing but death here. Death!”
She leaped away and ran back up the stairs. This time, I followed her and pounded on her door. She would not answer me, but I could hear her voice coming from inside the room. No matter how I implored, she would not open the door.
I gave up trying and listened intently. From inside, I could hear her voice pleading and imploring. But there was a second voice that replied to her. I have never been a religious man, much to the anger of my father, but I would have sworn that the other voice had been one from the very pit of hell itself. The sound of it chilled me to the marrow, and I shook when I heard it pronounce my own name.
I quickly called for Mrs. Hutchins, who came running from her kitchen downstairs.
At the sound of the two voices, she grew pale and I heard her softly mumble a prayer. Then we could hear something heavy being thrown around inside the room, and the voices grew louder. I motioned for Mrs. Hutchins to come forward and unlock the door, but she would not move any closer. Panicking, I snatched the key from her hand and thrust it into the lock.
At first, it would not turn. It was as if the very key were resisting me. I tried harder and harder until, finally, the lock turned and I threw open the door. Ann was not there.
A curtain fluttered from the open window and the bed had been thrown askew, but nowhere was there any sight of Ann or anyone else. Feeling terror rising within me, I ran to the window and looked out, but there was nothing there to see. We were on the second floor, but there was no ladder below nor a tree or trellis for anyone to climb down. It was as if Ann had flown out of the window and into the night.
There was little doubt in my mind that Ann was in danger and that, somehow or other, I would find her in the East End.
I soothed Mrs. Hutchins as best I could before leaving and heading for Whitechapel. The Witching Hour had just begun.
Chapter 51
I like the spirit of this great London which I feel around me. Who but a coward would pass his whole life in hamlets; and forever abandon his faculties to the eating rust of obscurity?
—Charlotte Brontë
September 18, 1888
Whitechapel never sleeps. It is an area of constant motion, with activity whirling by through all hours of the night. Even more so, Whitechapel never sleeps because there are always unsavoury things to be done. There are houses that look perfectly respectable on the outside, but inside, for the right price, one could have a child of any age of either sex. In the East End there is no lack for places to slake one’s vile and ugly thirst. As I would come to learn myself later, buying a child was but the least evil hiding behind the façade of respectability in this hell hole. It is my belief that evil calls to evil, and together they conspire and spread like some unholy disease.
My frame of mind that morning was dark.
Gone was any thought of my own safety or fear of the Gaffer. All that consumed me was finding Ann. But even so, I knew that my chances of doing that were very limited. There were hundreds, perhaps thousands, of places where she could hide that I would never find. I could be walking by her as she sat inside any number of houses or buildings and never have a clue.
My only hope was to run into her in a pub or along the street. Then, just about at 3 a.m., just such an event occurred.
I had been lurching down Commercial Street. My initial explosion of energy had long since expired. My limbs had become heavy, and the stress of the situation was wearing me down considerably.
A slight ways down the road I saw the top of a street coffee-stall, and my spirits rallied a bit. A few cups of strong fluid would revive me and enable me to continue my search. As I drew closer, I noticed that something was happening.
The crowd pulled away and I could see a decently dressed man of roughly middle age, shouting at an older man. From what I could see, the second man had no idea why he was being accosted.
“Ya swine!” the first man said. “I know what you’ve been saying about me. You’ve been lying up and down the street telling everyone I’ve done those murders!”
“Aw, you’re full of mud!” the second man said. “I don’t even know who you are, mate. Just clear off and let me get my coffee.”
The first man would not be put off. He pushed the second man away and, quick as a blink, took a penknife out of his pocket and began brandishing it at the second man, who was now frightened out of his wits.
“Ya think I’ll just let you get away with that? Hey?”
He slashed at the second man, who barely got out of the way. The crowd moved aside, and more than one voice cried out for a constable. The second man tried to run around the stall to get away, but the first man chased
him, trying to stab the other every chance he could. The merchant had pulled far away but was clearly worried that his cart would come to harm before the man.
“Help! Police!” shouted the second man.
“You’re a swine, you are,” taunted the first man, “and you know what we Germans do with swines, don’t ya? Make some good sausage out of you!”
Some of the crowd egged him on, eager to see some bloodshed. Then, just as a P.C. burst his way through the throng, I saw Ann on the other side.
She was watching the fight with a strangely eager expression on her face. It was as if she wanted to see the second man knifed to death in front of her. I shouted out her name as loud as I could, but the crowd drowned it out. Desperate, I moved along the crowd as fast as possible and continued to yell her name.
The constable wrestled the first man to the ground and subdued him. An audible cry of disappointment rippled through the crowd as it began to disperse. A razor and pair of scissors fell out of the man’s pockets as the constable checked him before leading him away down to the station. The second man followed at a safe distance, eager to press charges.
Now that the crowd was breaking up and the murmur had died out, I cried out for Ann again and saw her look directly at me. Her face went from happiness at the sight of me to horror and then anger before she bolted back into the crowd.
I tried to keep up with her as best I could, but she clearly knew the ins and outs of Whitechapel far better than I. She was lost to me in a matter of moments.
Quite alone, I stood in the middle of the street while people walked around me completely oblivious to my torment.
At some point I fell asleep in an alley. I could move no further. When I awoke, the sun was high in the East and the morning had passed me by. Wobbling, I made my way out and found myself at the Ringers, where I fairly collapsed in a seat near the bar.
I ordered coffee and drank it black. Then another and another. After the third cup, my mind began to clear a bit and I was able to take better account of my surroundings. That they were familiar to me was both comforting and depressing, and I saw numerous people whom I now recognised. Perhaps, I began to think, the East End was truly where I belonged. Perhaps I didn’t have the humanity to rise above these dregs and should just allow myself to fall down into their depths.
After all, what had I been able to accomplish? I’d written nothing since this whole business had begun other than a basic account of dates and times and people. I had been a poor friend to Arthur and an even poorer fiancé to Ann, both of whom I’d been entirely unable to help. My mind blamed me for every ill, both real and conceived. I now had no situation, no hope of paying for my future lodgings, and, most likely, no fiancée either. For the first time since it happened, I wished that Arthur had not found me that night and that this was but a dream conceived in my final moments as I drowned at the bottom of the Thames with my pockets full of rocks.
In my despair, I looked idly around without any particular aim in mind. My eye drifted over the crowd of morning customers. Some were workmen either coming in after an early shift or women freshly released from the workhouses or doss houses. There were few laughs to be heard here. This was a place of mourning as much as any funeral parlour. Hope did not exist in this building, this street, this city area. It was easy to see why others might think that God had deserted them. It was more likely that God had never noticed them in the first place.
As I looked about, my sight fell upon a familiar booth. In my confused state of mind, I had not realised exactly where I was or what the time was; if I had, I would not have walked so willingly into this lion’s den. There, sitting calmly, even happily, in his booth was Edwards, and he was looking directly at me. He was smiling, no doubt because he could not believe his luck that I would walk straight into his lair. He raised his glass of ale to me in a toast and, I could swear, winked at me.
But that was not the worst. There was another man in his booth, opposite him. At the sight of the toast, he turned around and also looked at me. I saw Edwards point me out to him and heard the sound of my name upon his lips. I felt myself go numb because there, sitting very calmly without a care in the world, was James Kenneth Stephens. He was waving at me to come over.
I, of course, bolted out the doors, but I could hear Edwards’ laughter following me out.
Chapter 52
This is a London particular . . . A fog, miss.
—Charles Dickens
I ended up at Arthur’s house because I could not think of anywhere else to go.
I was surprised that the door was not answered by their maid but by Amy Machen herself, who seemed completely surprised to find me on her doorstep.
“Albert! I’m sorry, but Arthur is not here right now.”
“Actually, Amy, if you don’t mind, I’d like to talk to you for a moment if I could.”
She seemed confused by this but stood aside so I could enter. She led me down the hall to a small sitting room that I had not been in before. It was even more of a formal room than the large space where they’d held their party.
“Should I have some tea or coffee brought in?” she asked.
“Please,” I responded and waited while she gave instructions to her maid.
We sat down across from each other, and I realised that I really knew next to nothing about this woman. I’d no idea where she was born, where she grew up, or where she went to school. Nor did I know who her people were or what kind of person she was herself. Based on what Arthur had said in the past, I knew that she had a deep interest in the arts but little beyond that. Suddenly, I was unsure if I was standing on solid ground with her. My questions might end up being considered at best rude and, at worst, deeply concerning.
The coffee came and was poured, and we were left alone in the sitting room. Now that we were here, I had no idea how to begin. I really wanted to talk about Ann but thought that perhaps Arthur might be a safer subject.
“Do you know,” I began, “where Arthur is?”
“No,” she replied. “He mentioned that he needed to consult with some friends of his, but I don’t know who. Is that really what you wanted to talk to me about?”
There was an iciness about Amy that I had not noticed before.
“No, not exactly. Are you aware that he has taken a strong personal interest in the recent Whitechapel murders?”
She nodded sadly. “Yes, he has spoken of them to me in great detail. Like so many of us, he is appalled at the murders of these poor women and the horrendous conditions in which they live. I know that he has had several conversations with Shaw about them. He reads every paper that comes out, every edition. His study is littered with them. But why do you ask? Has he talked about them to you?”
I’d no idea how to proceed next.
“Yes, he has. In fact, we have been to several of the inquests and have talked with many of the people in the area. Arthur has a rather unorthodox theory of the crime. In truth, his theory concerns me.”
Amy looked confused, so I plunged onward.
“Since our first meeting,” I explained, “Arthur has told me his unique ideas about what constitutes sin and evil in this world.”
She smiled. “Oh, yes, he’s discussed these things with me many times. I’m very familiar with them. They are a great part of his philosophy and his writing. But what does this have to do with these horrible murders?”
“Well, it’s a bit hard for me to explain. You see, Arthur doesn’t believe that the Whitechapel murderer is a man. Rather, he believes that it is a creature called a dhole and, more to the point, something that he accidently created this thing when he was a child.”
I paused to let this sink in. To my amazement, she did not seem terribly surprised at this.
“And you fear that he is not sane because of this, yes?”
I nodded. “Would you be surprised to hear that many journalists have also claimed that the murderer is not a man? Based on his ability to kill without detection and vanish, they c
laim that he could not be human. These are, of course, absurd notions created, I am sure, in order to sell more papers, but you can see how someone might consider them as a legitimate theory.”
“I suppose, but Arthur is not a journalist seeking to make money.”
“No, but he is a man with vision. You must understand that he is trying to reconcile his way of thinking with the way the world truly is, and that is not easily accomplished.”
“So you don’t think there is anything unusual in what he says? That the murderer is actually a creature from some other realm?”
She laughed. “Oh, Albert, I’ve heard far stranger things from Arthur. Someday you should ask him about his ‘Little People’ who live beneath the hills. Please, you mustn’t take these ‘flights of fancy’ so seriously. I’m sure that once the killer is caught, and he is proven to be nothing more than a regular madman, Arthur will be on to something else. It’s happened before.”
I sat back in my chair, rather deflated. Although I had not expected her to call immediately for Arthur’s confinement in Bedlam, I did think she would be more concerned. Going by her reaction, this was perfectly normal behaviour for Arthur—and perhaps it was! After all, I had not known him all that long either. He could just be given to this type of daydreaming as a part of his regular life. But he had been so sure! His horror at the murders had only been enhanced by what I took to be his anguish at believing himself to have been responsible for them. In the end, he may not be any more harmful than the person who decides that he will wear nothing but black no matter what the season or occasion. Many people have an ‘odd relative’ somewhere who, in all other aspects of their lives, are completely normal and rational.
“There is another thing I wanted to talk about,” I said. “Arthur tells me that you and Ann have been spending some time together.”
Amy smiled again. “Indeed we have,” she replied. “But I have not seen her much as of late. Is she unwell?”
This confused me.