Whitechapel

by Sam Gafford

  I moved the knife slightly closer. His pants were getting wet but not from blood.

  “Where’s she going? Where’s the child?”

  He wouldn’t talk, so I flicked the knife up quickly, drawing a ribbon of blood along with it.

  “Where’s the child? Gah, Wales! She’s gone to Wales. She took the brat with her back to some stupid town she lived in as a kid or something. I can’t remember the name. She said your friend Machen knows it, but I guess his wife don’t know much of anything right now, do she?” He laughed and I punched him hard in the head, knocking him out again.

  There was nothing more to be gotten out of him. Barnett had no idea what Mary’s final plan might be, and even if he did he wouldn’t understand it. I had what I needed. Mary was bringing the child back to Wales, back (I assumed) to where it had all began with Arthur so many years ago.

  I needed more information from Arthur, and then I would follow. The end, as with the beginning, would be on a hilltop in Wales.

  Chapter 82

  Put the case that he lived in an atmosphere of evil, and that all he saw of children was their being generated in great numbers for certain destruction. Put the case that he often saw children solemnly tried at a criminal bar, where they were held up to be seen; put the case that he habitually knew of their being imprisoned, whipped, transported, neglected, cast out, qualified in all ways for the hangman, and growing up to be hanged. Put the case that pretty nigh all the children he saw in his daily business life he had reason to look upon as so much spawn, to develop into the fish that were to come to his net,––to be prosecuted, defended, forsworn, made orphans, bedevilled somehow.

  —Charles Dickens

  November 10, 1888

  I found Arthur in the ‘quiet ward,’ sitting with Amy. The nurses went from bed to bed, checking on patients. Although they looked as if they were always hurrying, they were calm and collected. Most of the beds were full, but the room was still and I could see dust motes floating in the sunlight as they came through the high windows. Amy was lying in her bed, propped up, while Arthur sat in the lone chair next to her. It looked as if Arthur were reading the paper to her, but I couldn’t tell if she was responding. He heard me coming and looked up. His face showed both alarm and fear.

  “Albert! Thank heaven you’re here. I’ve been waiting for you ever since—well, ever since these papers started coming out.”

  He showed me a small stack of them. They were all covered with headlines concerning the newest Ripper murder. The evening edition of the Star had the most gripping headline:

  WHITECHAPEL.

  ANOTHER CRIME BY THE MURDER-MANIAC.

  MORE REVOLTING THAN EVER.

  THIS DEMONIACAL DEED DONE IN A HOUSE.

  A Woman Is Found in a House in Dorset-Street Decapitated and with Her Body Mutilated in a Manner That Passes Description.

  A brief glance at the article showed that they were already identifying Ann as Mary Kelly, which was not the only fact they got wrong. Some of the other papers were closer with the truth, but each named the victim as Mary.

  “Is it true?” Arthur asked. “Is she dead? Did you kill her?”

  My shoulders hunched over, and for the first time since the previous morning my body was wracked with sobs. I could not stop weeping, and it felt as if I would almost vomit from the strength of my tears. Through my pain, I managed to gasp to Arthur that it was not Mary who had died in that room, but my own Ann.

  Arthur, to his credit, said nothing, but sat me down in his chair and comforted me silently until the tears began to slow and my breath stopped coming in sharp gasps. Amy, who had been awake through all this, said nothing, and I could not tell if she was aware of anything around her.

  After Arthur gave me a glass of water, I slowly began to give him the details.

  “Are you sure that it was Ann?”

  I nodded. “Yes, her clothes were on the chair, and I could recognise what remained of her face. Anyway, Barnett bragged about it being Ann. It’s all my fault. Her death was Mary Kelly’s revenge upon me.”

  Arthur got right in my face. “That’s bull, and you know it! Mary Kelly is the one to blame—and that Barnett fellow as well. I hadn’t realised he was mixed up in this. I thought he was just another one of her victims.”

  “There’s more,” I said, draining the glass. “Barnett said that Mary took Ann’s baby and is headed for Wales. She’s going back, Arthur—back to where you two grew up.”

  The man’s face went white. “Are you sure? Do you believe him?”

  I nodded. “Oh, yes. I gave him great incentive to be truthful. Of course, there is always the possibility that Mary is setting a trap in Wales.”

  Arthur looked as if he might faint. This time I guided him to the chair.

  “Arthur, what’s the matter?”

  He thought for a moment. “If—if she is going back to Caerleon-on-Usk, she’s going back to Isca Silurum, back to the hill where it all began. We’ve no time to waste!”

  He nearly leapt out of his seat, but I gently eased him back down. Under his hospital gown, I could see that his abdomen was still wrapped in gauze.

  “No, you’re not coming.”

  “The hell I’m not!” he bellowed, gaining more attention than I wished to attract.

  “Do you know where Isca Silurum is? Do you know how to make the moves or faces so that you can go behind the curtain? No, you do not. This is not open for discussion, Albert; you cannot succeed without me.”

  “But Arthur,” I reasoned, “if you go back to Wales, you will surely die.”

  “And if I do not go, you surely will. There is no choice here. We go together.”

  I felt a strong kinship with Arthur at that moment, despite all that had happened. Rather than cut and run, he was willing to stand up with me and try to end this evil.

  “What about Amy? How is she?”

  He looked at her, and I could feel his heart breaking.

  “She is getting better. She has moments where her reason comes back and she knows me. But there are also times when she recognises no one and has the most horrible screaming fits. That’s why they are sedating her. The doctors are hopeful that she will recover with sufficient rest.”

  “And you?”

  He looked at me determinedly. “I know that she will get better. She has to.”

  I gave him time to say goodbye but don’t know if she heard him.

  The arrangements were made for Amy to be kept in the quiet ward for the next couple of weeks. One way or the other, the matter would be settled by then. Arthur wrote a quick letter to his solicitor with instructions in case neither of us returned. I considered writing a letter to my mother but decided against it. Other than that, there was no one left for me to say goodbye to anymore.

  A brief cab ride to Arthur’s house and a mad dash of packing and we were off to the station. A quick consultation of the railroad time tables showed that we could make it to Caerleon-on-Usk in roughly twenty-six hours. We would be at least a day behind Mary Kelly and whatever horrors she’d hope to unleash.

  Chapter 83

  The lowest and vilest alleys of London do not present a more dreadful record of sin than does the smiling and beautiful countryside.

  —Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

  The trip to Wales from London is, very nearly, a process of going from the East Coast of England to the West. But of course, this being England, nothing is ever done quickly or easily. There is no direct line between Wales and London, so one is forced to change trains several times while going through Berkshire to Gloucester, then to Monmouth and finally down to Cardiff. From there, a connexion to a smaller train is made that brings one to Newport and finally to Caerleon-on-Usk. Because of transfers that have to be made and waiting for connexions, it takes more than a day or, if there is a problem on the line, perhaps even longer.

  I’d never been to Wales before and was curious to see the country that bred Arthur and, to a lesser degree, Mary Kelly as well. While w
e rode and studied train timetables, we made sure to get as many papers as we could while dashing between stations and platforms. It seemed that London had exploded into chaos soon after our escape.

  Sir Charles Warren had tendered his resignation the day before the discovery of the body in Miller’s Court (which I could still not bring myself to think of as Ann). Apparently the press of both the common folk and the wealthy had begun to be too much for him, and the stress had forced him to resign. Arthur, of course, had his own theories on the subject.

  “They need a scapegoat,” he said. “Nothing they have tried has worked, and the last atrocity only highlighted their incompetence. Someone has to pay the price. Mark my words, though, Warren will land somewhere quite comfortable where he will be compensated for his silence.”

  The papers, however, were savage in their attacks. The fact that the latest murder had taken place indoors only heightened the hysteria, as the poor now feared they would be ‘murdered in their own beds.’ Demands for results and rewards filled the papers, and it was rumoured that Queen Victoria herself was expressing her displeasure with the police.

  “It’s a tinderbox,” I said to Arthur, “just waiting for a lit match.”

  “At least we know that there will be no more ‘Ripper’ murders,” Arthur replied. “With time, tempers should calm. That is, if the anarchists allow them to do so.”

  “Should we alert Abberline of our goal? That might reduce some of the tensions.”

  “No,” Arthur said, “he wouldn’t believe us anyway. He is a policeman and prefers more mundane theories.”

  As the scenery outside the window began to change from industrial buildings and mills to the type of farmlands I had known in my youth, my uneasiness grew. Evil, I knew full well, could hide in those barns, farmhouses, and villages as easily as it did in the streets of Whitechapel. I could not forget those prophetic words of Hamlet:

  “The devil hath power

  To assume a pleasing shape.”

  I had to turn away from the window as the sight of those lonely farms made me shiver.

  November 12, 1888

  I had expected to find Caerleon-on-Usk a gentle farming community but instead discovered it to be a vital, bustling seaport. “The biggest on the river Usk,” Arthur boasted; “but I hear tell of plans to build up docks in Newport, which would allow ships to move further up the river. It’ll probably break Caerleon’s economy.”

  There were several pleasant commons around which the town had grown up. By all appearances, Caerleon-on-Usk gave the impression of a place with high aspirations. Still, the people were pleasant enough, and several stopped to greet Machen as we walked the streets.

  “We’ll have to get rooms at the local inn,” Arthur explained. “My father was the vicar of the parish of Llanddewi Fach; but he died last year, so we’ll get no shelter there.”

  In truth, having Arthur along had already proven to be a great help in that he was able to speak to the people in their native Welsh, which was incomprehensible to me. I noticed, however, that a lot of people seemed to be mulling about and there was a festive feeling in the air.

  When we came to the inn, the Wee Waif, there was an air of frivolity about, and I noticed several men dressed in odd costumes. One looked like an adult version of Punch, another was a man dressed as a woman, while a few others were wearing ‘merrymen’ or clownish costumes. I pointed them out to Arthur, and he looked as if he were seeing a ghost.

  “It’s the Mari Lwyd,” he said softly. “Good Christ, how could I have been so stupid?”

  “What are you talking about?” I asked. “What’s a Mari Lwyd?”

  “It’s an old folk ritual. You must have something like that around Cornwall. There’s a parade with a ‘leader’—a man wearing a horse’s skull. They walk through the village, knocking on doors and asking entrance. Those who relent have their homes wrecked through their revelry. Those who don’t—well, the legend goes that if you don’t allow entrance to the souls of the dead who knock on your door, then they play a trick on you. An evil trick. Of course, that’s why Mary is here now. I may have forgotten, but she hasn’t.”

  Arthur pulled me over to the side, away from the reveling group.

  “Albert, there are days when the barriers between realities are thin and can be breached. All Hallow’s Eve is one, and the day of the Mari Lwyd is another. It may look like a type of Christmas ritual, but in Caerleon it has an older meaning that was handed down through the generations until few now remember it. This is the night when all the ‘ghoulies and ghosties and long-leggedy beasties’ have sway. We can’t delay. We have to get up to Isca Silurum tonight!”

  He pressed a key into my hand. “I’ve gotten rooms for us. Put away your bags and meet me back here. And, Albert, make sure you bring the dagger.”

  I quickly threw my bag into my room and only took a moment to check that I had the dagger, my revolver, and ammunition. Then I was back downstairs, waiting for Arthur. I turned around the corner at the bottom of the stairs and was instantly startled by what I nearly ran into. Two men were helping put a horse’s skull on top of a pole held by another man who was covered by a large, almost tent-like cloth that masked his entire body. In the dark, it would look as if the skull were floating in the air.

  The innkeeper noticed my discomfort and laughed a bit.

  “Take no mind, sir,” he said, smirking, “it’s just a bit of frivolity. The kids seem to like it. You’ve never seen a Mari Lwyd, then?” He was an older man, probably near sixty or so, and looked as if he could have posed for a painting of Father Christmas. It was hard to tell if his jovial attitude was genuine or just a mask he wore for his customers.

  I confessed to him that I hadn’t seen anything quite like this; certainly Cornwall had nothing to compare with it. Every year, the local vicar would bless the fishing boats at the start of the season, but it was never a carnival like this. “What does it all mean?” I asked.

  “Oh, just a lark, really. I suppose it used to have some meaning hundreds of years ago, but now it’s just an excuse for some fun. You see the horse there? That’s the Mari Lwyd, and it goes through the village with its mates and they knock on doors asking to be let in. If the people answer ‘yes,’ the group goes inside, where they are given food and drink (and often make a mess of the place), but their visit is considered a good omen. If they answer ‘no,’ the Mari Lwyd places a curse on the house and people for their inhospitality. So throughout the town tonight, you’ll find lots of homes having parties, waiting for the Mari Lwyd to knock on their door. It’s quite an honour to be chosen by the Mari Lwyd, you see.”

  “Does anyone ever say no?”

  The landlord made a sour face. “A few do, but they’re just old cranks, the lot of them. There’ll be a lot of revelry in the town tonight, you can be sure! But you didn’t come for this, did you?”

  I shook my head. “I’m looking for someone I believe would have arrived in Caerleon yesterday. She’s a young, attractive redhead and would be travelling with an infant. Her name is Mary Kelly.”

  At this, the landlord’s mood became ugly.

  “Aye, she was here yesterday all right. I’m not so old that I’d have forgotten that witch. Your friend thinks I don’t remember him either, but I do. Still, there’s no hard feelings against him. It were Kelly who was the problem.”

  “Did she rent a room here?”

  He laughed. “Ha! She wanted to, but I told her to keep on walking, her and that whelp of hers.”

  “She had the child with her? Did you see it?”

  “Nah, she kept it wrapped up. I could see it moving, but it never made a sound. Odd that, isn’t it? All my children scream the whole day long, but not this one.”

  “When was this?”

  He thought briefly for a moment. “Roughly about this time yesterday. I showed her the door pretty quick, all right. She just went walking along heading out to the hills. If this had been another year, we’d have run her out of town, but now w
e’ve got all these young people around with their bright ideas and no respect for the old ways. I reckon they’ll even do away with the Mari Lwyd someday unless they find a way to make money on it. Bring tourists in for it, I suppose.”

  He excused himself and went to help the man holding the stick holding the skull, who apparently couldn’t see where he was going. Along with others, they directed him out the door and into the street where the procession began in full. Voices rose in Welsh song. I couldn’t understand a word of what they were singing, but it held a strange and unworldly cadence, almost hypnotic.

  Before I could run and get Arthur, he came down the stairs himself. By his movement I could tell that his side was hurting, and I was worried that even this amount of exertion might have reopened his wound. I quickly told him that the landlord had seen and refused Mary just yesterday and that he last saw her on the way to the hills outside town.

  “Then we have to hurry. She may have slept in the wild last night, but she is sure to act on her plans tonight.”

  “What do you think she’s planning to do?”

  We quickly moved through the inn’s front door and into the street, where we had to avoid the town’s revellers. “I’m not sure. We stopped her in London, keeping her from performing the Scarlet Ceremony, but she may be trying it again here.”

  “I thought you said that it can only be done under certain conditions and in certain places.”

  “I did. This is one of those places, and the night of Mari Lwyd is one of those conditions. It’s a last-ditch chance, trying it here; but considering what she and I did here before, it might work or be even worse.”

  “How could it be worse?”

  Arthur kept moving, his pace getting quicker but more jagged. “She might be able to pierce through more than just one reality.”

  *

  After we left the outskirts of the town, the sun began to go down. I deeply wished we could go back to the inn and make our assault the next day in bright sunshine, but I knew we could not tarry. The sunset should have been spectacular against the wide vista of rolling hills and far-off lights of the town, but instead every increase in darkness only filled me with dread.