by Sam Gafford
“So Gull sent me there to find him. In truth, he was using me as bait which, clearly, worked as Stephens was loaded into a private coach and driven away when I was freed. I’ve no idea where he is now, but I assume Gull has him under tight supervision—if he hasn’t had him killed yet.”
I drank my ale and saw, with some surprise, that Arthur hadn’t even finished his first one.
“But, why, Albert? Why did you do that for Gull?”
“Truthfully, I didn’t believe that Gull had left me any choice. He made it clear that, should I refuse him, I might go missing. My fear was that Gull would take Ann away and that she would suffer the same treatment at his hands that you told me happened to that poor sweetshop girl, Annie Crook. But there’s more, Arthur.
“Gull believed that Stephens was responsible for the murders of Polly Nichols and Annie Chapman. If I helped capture him, that would be the end of these dreadful atrocities. As much as I didn’t want to help Gull, I couldn’t refuse if that meant that no more unfortunate women would be butchered in the street.”
Arthur sat back and shook his head at me this time. “Albert, Albert, Albert. After all this time, you still do not believe? Stephens is not the Whitechapel murderer any more than I am. It is Mary Kelly who is behind this—she and her wicked determination to complete the Ceremonies.”
“Arthur, I know that you believe that, but I’m just not that sure. I’ve not seen anything to suggest that the killer is anything other than a madman. And I should add that I deeply wish that to be true because your alternative is too frightening to imagine.”
I could tell that my admission hurt him deeply. More than anything else, it drew a line between us. I could not permit myself to believe Arthur’s theories. It was simply too dangerous.
“What about Ann’s behaviour then? Do you not find it unsettling?”
I cleared my throat. “I do—very much so. I think that she has fallen under the influence of a dark spell. But I feel that the culprit is more likely to be Richard Mansfield than any evil force.”
And, just like that, a gulf grew between us; but I pressed on with a request that had been waiting for me to give it speech.
“Even so, I wonder if I might be able to stay at your house for a few days, Arthur? I do not think that being near Ann right now is good for me.”
A gloom passed over Arthur. “I’m sorry, Albert, but it’s not a good time.”
I thought that his response was due to my disagreeing with his theories, but he saw this and quickly dismissed this notion.
“The truth of the matter is that Amy has not been feeling well. She has been confined to her bed for the past few days, which is why I was not by your side in the hospital the entire time.”
Guilt washed over me. “Arthur, I’m so sorry. I had no idea. What’s happened?”
He was worried—as worried as I’d ever seen him.
“A few days ago she started coughing, and her sputum was bloody. I called the doctor, afraid it might be consumption. Then she began raving. Just for a few minutes a couple of times a day. She would have no memory of it afterwards.”
“What did she say?”
“I’ve no idea. Near as we can tell, it’s no language anyone knows. But it was ugly, guttural. She’s been sedated the last few days and seems to be getting better, but the doctor is watching her closely.”
I instantly felt like a scoundrel for not only disputing my friend’s theories to his face but also for keeping him from his wife’s bedside.
“Arthur, you must go home. Be with Amy until this passes. You should not be here.”
He smiled wanly. “I could not let you walk into the lion’s den alone. What kind of friend would I be?”
I patted him on the shoulder as I stood up. “Let’s get you home then.”
“And what of you? Are you going home?”
I looked my friend straight in the eye and lied to him. “Yes, I’m sure everything will be fine. The Whitechapel fiend has been caught. There will be no more murders.”
Arthur nodded and knew that I was lying to him. But he never called me on it nor shamed me about it later. By then, he knew what my lie ended up costing me.
*
When I arrived home, Ann and Mrs. Hutchins made the required fuss over me. I assured them that I was well and simply needed more rest. Mrs. Hutchins made a half-hearted effort to feed me, which I declined. I was no longer sure I could trust anything coming out of her kitchen.
Ann, for her part, acted perfectly normal. She was every measure the concerned lover and fussed over me to such an extent that I was sure that she was actually mocking me. Neither asked me the details of my ordeal, nor even the reason behind it. When Ann began to make insipid comments about a recent society ball I finally made my way up to my bedroom.
Alone, I locked my door for the very first time. After undressing, I retrieved the gun I had bought so long ago from the closet where I had hidden and forgotten about it and lay down in bed.
Eventually, with my gun in my hand, I fell asleep.
Later, in the early morning around 2 a.m., I heard Ann’s voice coming from her room. She was singing. At first it was soft and pleasant, like a lullaby. I lay there, calm and peaceful, almost willing to believe that everything I’d experienced was simply an illusion brought on from my activities. The sound had nearly lulled me back to sleep when it began to change. It took on a darker, lower register. The song itself lost its soothing rhythm and became more of a dirge. I could no longer recognise any sort of words or even language. It was syllables being grunted and barked as if a pig were trying to sing. As I listened, I couldn’t help but wonder if, in the bedroom of a house many streets away, Amy Machen was singing the very same song.
Chapter 61
It was a Sunday evening in London, gloomy, close and stale. Maddening church bells of all degrees of dissonance, sharp and flat, cracked and clear, fast and slow, made the brick and mortar echoes hideous. Melancholy streets in a penitential garb of soot, steeped the souls of the people who were condemned to look at them out of windows, in a dire despondency.
—Charles Dickens
September 29, 1888
“Oh, no, Albert, I’m sorry, I can’t stay home today. I have an appointment.”
The next day I tested Ann by asking if she would keep me company while I rested at home. I had no doubt that she would refuse.
“With whom?”
“It’s with a theatrical agent. He’s a friend of Richard’s and thinks he can get me some work as a lead. Not just chorus. Can you believe it?”
Yes, I had no trouble believing that because I knew it was probably a lie.
“Ann,” I asked, taking a chance, “the morning I disappeared, do you remember anything?”
She looked at me puzzled. “What do you mean?”
“You were in Whitechapel that morning, weren’t you? Around Dorset Street?”
At first she looked angry, and then she looked very afraid.
“Albert, you don’t know what you’re talking about. I was at the church with Reverend Barnett all day. You know, I really wish you’d just go away and go back to Cornwall!”
With that, she ran out the door. I did not have the energy to follow her, so I let her go. Eventually she’d be back—or something in her place would.
*
I sat in the front parlour for most of the morning. Although Mrs. Hutchins had been solicitous before Ann left, she effectively ignored me afterwards. When she left to go run errands, I stole into her kitchen and made some tea. There were some packages of biscuits which I hoped where untouched and sat down to a thin lunch. My bruises hurt a little less and, although still tight, my ribs were mending and I could breathe a little better.
When the post came, I found a letter to me from The Brothers.
Feeling oddly nervous, I sat down and opened it. The letter was written in a fine, delicate hand which, I suspected, was Wendell’s. It said:
My dear Albert,
It is with
extreme regret that we write you to inform you of the termination of your employment with the firm of Carslyle & Robslake. Given the recent events, I am sure you will understand that this is the best conclusion for all involved. Please be assured that we hold you in the highest esteem and have nothing but compliments for the way that you discharged your duties.
However, given your stated reluctance to continue in your situation, we have obtained the services of another to take your place. We will remain ever thankful for your efforts on our behalf. As some slight recompense, please accept the enclosed cheque which would cover a year’s worth of your salary.
We trust that we can rely on your continued discretion concerning the matters of our business and our clientele. In that regard, we are very happy to include a letter of recommendation to present to your prospective employers.
We thank you again for your service and remain
Very truly yours,
Robert Carslake and Wendell Robsdale.
Beneath was a personal note: “I shall never forget your service, Albert. May God bless you in your future. Wendell.”
A very generous cheque was included, along with the aforementioned letter of recommendation. The letter was effusive in its praise of my character, work, and knowledge. So much so that I believe that any prospective employer would wonder why such an exemplary man was without a situation.
The cheque, however, presented several possibilities.
It was large enough that I could live for a year doing nothing but writing. The amount would cover my living expenses so long as I was frugal. Or I could flee. I could take the money and run away. I didn’t even have to go back to Cornwall. There was enough to allow me to go anywhere I wished, even America, assuming I travelled cheaply enough. Or, still more, Ann and I could run away. We could buy a small farm somewhere in Cotswold or the Lake District. It would not be an easy life, but it would be good and honest and away from London and the theatre and Whitechapel.
My heart knew what I wanted to do. I only had one obligation left to perform, and then I would ask Ann to run away with me. Away from London, I hoped that she would return to the woman who had won my heart and who had pledged me hers. But first, I had to be done with Gull.
*
I was not surprised that Gull decided to receive me at his home. I was, however, surprised that he actually was home and a little uncomfortable that his son-in-law accompanied him.
“Mr. Besame,” Gull beamed, “so good of you to come and visit. You remember my son-in-law, of course?”
I nodded.
Gull settled into a large sofa, but Ackland stayed alert just slightly behind him and to the side.
“I must confess that I am surprised to see you up and about, sir. I should think that you could do with a good week of rest.”
“I intend to do just that, Dr. Gull, as soon as I complete some business. I am considering retiring to the country, perhaps permanently.”
“Excellent news, Mr. Besame! A vacation at a spa would do you wonders. I daresay your colour is quite ashen. Sunshine and rest are my prescription for you, dear boy. Yes, and plenty of it.”
The false concern was becoming quite nauseating.
“Before I leave, I wished to discharge my obligation to you, Dr. Gull. You tasked me to find James Stephens and, rather unfortunately for myself, I did so. I conclude, of course, that it was your men who initially located where I was being confined.”
Gull nodded. “Very true. You see, you were not our only agent in the area. John Netley, the cabman, had been assigned to follow you as you rooted out Stephens.”
I was startled, but only slightly.
“Really? I was under the impression that Netley was under Edwards’ employ and had sold me to him.”
Gull chuckled. “As we wished you to think. No, Netley was our man, although I have no doubt he was happy to take money from Edwards as well. And the fact that you were the target made it easier to sell. You never thought to check on him after that unfortunate affair at Ah Sing’s. A grudge was something that Edwards could sympathise with, and so Netley gained his confidence—so much so that, once he learned where they were holding you, Netley sent the information to me and placed himself there at the right time.”
“So he squirrelled Stephens away? And now you have him locked up somewhere?”
Gull was a bit flustered. “Well, not locked up so to speak, but he is guarded and watched and his every minute is accounted for. He will never have a free moment for the rest of his life. You can rest assured that the Whitechapel killer has been put to ground.”
I did not feel any comfort from this; but if I did not at least attempt to do so, I could not allow myself to flee with Ann.
“I commend you for your work, sir,” he said, “and say to you that your obligations have been fulfilled. As recompense, I cannot offer you any funds, as that would be injudicious; but if there is anything else I can do, you have but to ask. Another play, perhaps?”
Gull smiled. I don’t know why, but suddenly I wished to wipe that smug smile from his face, so I let out the one last weapon I had.
“Can you give Annie Crook back her mind, Dr. Gull?”
The reaction was instantaneous.
Gull went white, and Ackland looked as if he wanted to throttle me.
“You dare?” Ackland shouted. “Who the hell are you to question us?”
To his credit, Gull recovered quickly. He held up a hand which instantly silenced his son-in-law.
Nodding, he looked at me differently. “I give you your fair due, sir. I am impressed. Your investigations have taken you further than I anticipated.”
I refused to acknowledge his statement.
“May I speak plainly, sir?” I asked.
Gull nodded.
“I do not care for you or for your attempts at manipulating me. It has been clear that your only motivation here is to spare the royal family any shame or repercussions from their actions. I cannot judge that or them. A higher court will do so one day. However, you have shown yourself willing to sacrifice anyone to accomplish that purpose, myself included. Your reaction to the mere mention of the name Annie Crook indicates to me that she was sacrificed as well. Sadly, her fate was not as fortunate as my own. But now, any such threats to the Crown have been ‘detained’ or eliminated. My part in this conspiracy is done. You have Stephens. You have the diary—which, no doubt, has either been destroyed or placed beyond the reach of common enquiries. I will speak no more of these events to anyone for as long as I live, unless . . .”
I let my voice trail off to heighten their anxiety.
“. . . unless word comes to me of the mysterious ‘death’ of Annie Crook or anyone else with knowledge of the prince’s lack of discretion. In that case, I will tear this building down with my words and the House of Lords as well if need be.”
If Ackland had a gun, I am sure he would have shot me dead then and there for my brazen effrontery.
“I see,” Gull said, weighing my words and his carefully. “And how would you do that? You are but one man, Mr. Besame—one man who would not be missed should his body be found floating in the Thames tomorrow.”
I had no choice but to bluff my way through now. “The contents of the diary have been saved with certain individuals whom I trust to raise the alarm if I go missing. Likewise, packages have been secured that will be sent to very particular institutions should my death be anything other than natural. They will go to various newspapers, anarchist groups, even playwrights. The resulting hue and cry will be beyond even your capability to silence.”
There were, of course, no such measures taken. I merely needed Gull and Ackland to believe me capable of making them.
“I am curious,” Gull replied, “why do you have such an interest in this ‘non-person’? She means nothing to you. She is neither kith nor kin to you. Why does her health and long life concern you?”
“It concerns me,” I answered, “because no one, least of all you, Dr. Gull, have the ri
ght to classify anyone as a ‘non-person.’ Because this was a woman who, by all accounts, committed no evil act, harmed no person, and whose only crime was that she allowed herself to be seduced by a man with no morals or compunctions. She matters, sir, because she is every woman, every man, every person who has been abused by those who considered themselves superior to all others. She matters because I say she does.”
“Indeed. Indeed. My word,” Gull chuckled, “you are like a small terrier that attacks a bull mastiff. Your chest is all puffed out. Well, it matters little, sir. The ‘person’ to whom you refer is confined to a hospital where she will be well cared for until the end of her natural days. You have my word on it.”
I was not sure how much that was worth, but I knew that would be all I would get from him.
“I would caution you, however,” he went on, “about whom you chose to place in your trust. My suggestion to you is that you remain silent on this matter and never utter another word about it to anyone. I am not, you see, the only agent of the Crown in this affair, and others may not be as accommodating as I am. If, for example, they were to take steps against you without my knowledge, I cannot be held accountable. You understand, of course?”
I nodded. Gull was working, even now, to distance himself from the entire matter. All the better should he, in the future, have to deny knowing about it.
Gull stood, signalling that this audience was over.
“It has been a pleasure, sir. You have surprised me at nearly every turn. I regret that circumstances find us on opposite sides of the fence in this matter, but perhaps it will not always be so, eh?”
I followed him to the door, which was opened by the footman almost as if he had appeared through some sort of magic spell.
“If there is but one achievement we can take away from this business, Mr. Besame, it is that at least the Whitechapel murderer will not claim another victim.”
As I moved through the door, I turned and looked at Gull, who gave me the strange half-smile of one who had suffered a stroke.
“Assuming,” he said as the footman closed the door behind me, “James Stephens was the killer in the first place.”