“Speak for me, William.” She turned and pointed towards the other spectral forms. “Speak for all of his victims.”
As he looked, more and more victims appeared through the darkness, until, like a military parade, they stood in testament to the Ripper’s evil.
“William!” Emily shook her lover as she called his name. Finally, the former officer of the 66th was dragged into the real world. His eyes flickered and then opened to see the beautiful Emily leaning over him. “You were having a nightmare.”
“No, it wasn’t a nightmare.” William paused as he thought about the horrific images. “It was a call to arms.” He kissed her and placed his arms around her warm and inviting body. “It’s fine now.”
Chapter 3
The following morning William was late to rise. He had lain in bed listening to the staff within Emily’s London home go about their daily chores. Emily herself rose early and had been determined to allow William a chance to rest. However, as the sizeable family clock, which stood on the upper landing, struck the hour of nine she entered their sleeping quarters carrying a large tray. William never failed to recognise her beauty. As she entered the room carrying a large tray, he felt a warmth of emotion run through him. Even when carrying out mundane tasks such as bringing him his breakfast did Emily’s beauty quicken his heart.
“I missed you, come back to bed.” He made a lunge in the attempt to catch her and drag her into the bed. She stepped backwards avoiding his grasp.
“Never mind that, let me take a look at that hand,” she replied.
“It’s fine.” He had been so consumed in his own thoughts the previous night that the swollen hand had gone unnoticed.
“William it’s twice the size it should be, the man you hit must be feeling the effects from the blow.”
“Unlikely.”
“Oh,” she paused and then added, “Was it awful William?”
“He had killed two women and crippled another when Abberline asked me to help. He thought that the murderer may be involved in my investigation. We got him but not before he killed a young constable.”
“Oh, William!” She placed a hand upon his cheek. “But you got him, William. He cannot hurt anyone else.” William did not reply, and Emily sensed that the man she loved had no wish to discuss the matter further. “Do you travel to Slaughter Yard today?”
“Yes, I have to see both Abberline and Isaac.”
Emily’s face lit up with the mention of Isaac Naismith. “Isaac! How is he?”
“I have no idea; I haven’t seen him since his brother died. He sent me a letter requesting a meeting.” William frowned showing clearly that he was not keen on the meeting.
“Is that a problem?”
“I killed his brother, Emily. I doubt Isaac will want to share pleasantries.”
“William, you have no reason to feel guilt. You killed a man who sought your death. He was responsible for the murder of countless others. He would have certainly murdered Isaac, if you had not acted.”
“Blood runs deep, Emily, and no matter his crimes, he was still Isaac’s brother.”
“And you are his friend, true friendship can be a bond as strong as a family tie.” Emily placed her hand on William’s cheek. “Isaac will know you had only one course of action.”
“That remains to be seen.” William kissed Emily, partly because he loved her but mostly because it was another conversation that he did not wish to pursue. It seemed too much weighed heavily upon his mind. “Perhaps, in a few days, we could take some time away from the City and visit Cloveney.”
“Oh, William, that would be wonderful.”
∞∞∞
Two hours later, William entered his office at Slaughter Yard. He took a deep breath; thankful that Isaac Naismith had not arrived. He glanced down and opened the drawer within his desk. He smiled and then silently thanked Obadiah for ensuring a full bottle of Bushmills lay invitingly in its wooden sarcophagus. He lifted the bottle and a glass from the drawer eager to sample his favourite liquid. However, as he attempted to sit upright, he caught his hand on the desk. The glass fell to the floor, and although it did not break, it did make a determined bid for freedom and rolled beneath the desk. William cursed and disappeared under the wooden barrier to reclaim the wayward drinking vessel.
“If you don’t mind I will have a clean glass.”
“Naismith!” William was surprised that Isaac Naismith had entered his room without a sound.
“Thank you for agreeing to meet me, William. I know you must feel that I have let you down.”
“Excuse me?” William was taken aback by the statement.
“All that time hunting a killer, and it turned out to be my brother. I don’t understand it, William. He was with me at the time of Mary Kelly’s death.”
“You haven’t been told, have you?”
“Told what?”
“Your brother was not working alone. Your theory that more than one killer was at work, proved to be correct. Mary Kelly was either killed by the former Abbess of the Mops or by an unknown accomplice. I thought Anderson would have informed you. I gave him quite a detailed report.”
Isaac was clearly surprised by the news. “I err… have left my former employment. Anderson could hardly trust a man that could not even unearth a killer in his own household.”
“You take too much responsibility, Isaac. What your brother did does not reflect upon you as a man. He may have been insane, but he was also intelligent. He fooled all of us.”
“Thank you, William.”
For a moment, William studied Isaac from across the desk. “So, you are currently without a position?”
“Yes, but debtor's prison is some way off. I am not without means. I confess the mind tires from the lack of exercise.”
“Slaughter Yard is always in need of good men.”
“You would trust me, William?” William’s offer of employment clearly stunned Isaac.
“Of course, I damn well trust you.”
“I would be honoured,” Isaac replied excitedly.
“Don’t be so keen, the pay is dreadful, and you will more than likely end up face down, drinking the Thames.”
“I already have more money than I could spend. The risk is worth it, I want nothing more than to find those that aided my brother.
“Isaac…” William put on a grave face.
“What is it?” Isaac replied, Isaac’s expression reflected William’s sudden change in mood.
“I am sorry, Isaac.”
“For?”
“Killing your brother – if there had been any other way…”
“It was for the best, William. There was something wrong with him, no matter how hard I tried. I could not reach the demons that plagued his mind. I certainly hold no malice towards you. It was an action that I would have taken myself. Now, how about that drink?” A knock sounded at the door. William looked up to see Abberline.
“I’m sure he can smell the bottle the moment it leaves the draw.” William announced, his words causing Isaac to laugh.
Abberline entered and pulled up a chair and then stared expectantly at the bottle of Bushmills. William took the hint and poured his friend a generous serving of his cherished beverage.
“You said you had news, Fred.”
“That I have.” Abberline paused long enough to empty the contents of his glass, “I am going to be leaving London for some time.”
“But why?” William made no attempt to hide the fact that he was disappointed by the news.
“Anderson wants my experience on the coast. It’s not permanent, but I will be away for a number of months.”
“When do you leave?” Isaac asked.
“Not until the start of the month. Anderson has arranged a replacement to cover my duties in liaising with you, William. I have been given assurances that he will only assist and not interfere.”
“That will make a pleasant change,” joked William. Despite the humour, William liked having Abberline cl
ose. His experience and friendship were invaluable in a city of deceit.
“Bastard! That will cost you another drink.” Abberline slid his glass towards William, and he obliged the Inspector with a refill.
The three men settled down to discuss the Ripper investigation. They also continued to enjoy the contents of William’s whiskey bottle.
∞∞∞
Three different men were spending time in not so entertaining circumstances, despite their place of work.
The Lyceum Theatre was proud of its role as guardian of excellence for London’s enthusiastic theatre goers. The renowned stage had been responsible for delivering masterpieces to an ever-eager crowd for many years. Despite its success, the theatre still required financial backing to deliver plays to the populace. Henry Irving quietly discussed the setting up of their next endeavour with his ever-present friend and employee Bram Stoker. The two men were not happy; it was not the production of the play but the benefactor’s interference which vexed them to an almost breaking point. A cough sounded out from one of the upper boxes causing Henry Irving to roll his eyes.
“Perhaps we should get the fool a bell,” the shorter man snapped. His Dublin tone always became harsher as his nerves became more frayed.
“Calm yourself Brammie. A few weeks and the applause will drown out the old cock’s crowing.”
“I could just go up there and tease him from the balcony. It’s dark… a man could easily take a fall.”
Irving laughed,
“Tempting, but alas, we still need the man’s purse. However, when those who hammer at the door for coin no longer call, then please, allow your primal instinct to flourish.” Henry patted his friend on the shoulder, who begrudgingly turned and began the long walk into the theatre’s shadows to meet with the creature that owned the cough.
As Irving entered the booth, he was met by thick, acrid cigar smoke. He wondered how his benefactor could even observe the stage through the self-induced fog. The figure to his front was shrouded in darkness and smoke. Only the glowing tip of an enormous cigar highlighted the faintest glimpse of the man’s face.
“Irving, I am not happy with the progress.” The confident voice sounded with the thick, deep Russian accent trawling slowly over the syllables.
“Which part of the play, Kostya?” Irving asked, ensuring his tone was neutral. He loathed the man, but as he had told Brammie, the Lyceum needed his funds. He even doubted Kostya’s claims to be Russian, and that it was nothing more than an elaborate act. As he looked toward the back of the man’s head, he decided that Kostya had never stepped foot beyond the British shores.
“I believe your choice of our female lead is a mistake. I hope I don’t have to remind you that it is my wealth that is risked in this venture.”
“Ellen Terry is the finest actress to grace a stage.”
“She has too many summers in her past. I want youth and vibrancy.”
“Vibrancy comes from the skill of the actor, Kostya, not the lack of years. Besides, having Ellen on that stage will ensure the seats are full, which is what we both want.”
“Very well, have it your way, Irving.” Kostya had at no point looked at Irving, and to signal that the conversation was at an end, he merely threw a hand in the air, and dismissed Irving. He waved him away. “Do not fail me.”
“I will not fail the Lyceum,” Irving replied. Only the darkness of the theatre prevented the rising crimson of anger in Irving’s face from being evident. If he had not turned to leave so quickly before Kostya could speak any further, he would have seen the smug, contented smile on the Russian’s face.
Kostya loathed the pompous Englishman; especially, the way he oozed self-importance. He could not be more pleased with himself at putting the dandy in his place and now would retire, looking forward to further opportunities to ruffle Irving’s feathers.
***
Kostya did not take a carriage. He strolled down the streets of London, the two men he paid to ensure his protection no more than a couple of paces behind. The journey to Kostya’s newly acquired residence on the east side of Regent’s park did not take long. The white neoclassic terraced block rose from the London Street like a man-made mountain. The three men passed the black iron railings which ran along the front of Cumberland Terrace as a physical barrier which screamed at the lower classes to mind their place. Kostya entered his home by the front door. The two men behind him, however, had to retrace their footsteps and enter via the staff quarters in the rear of the building.
Once inside they removed their boots and walked toward the kitchen. The room became the gathering spot for the servants about the house to complain fervently about their master. Miss Doyle, sat at the table, her grey hair held up from her shoulders by a white bonnet. The elderly, plump woman commanded the kitchen like an old General marshalling his troops. She was stirring an unknown mix within a large bowl and did so with an air of self-importance. The table played host to one of her troops; a beautiful creature despite her plain maid’s apparel. She busied herself darning a tear in the front of her apron.
“Elizabeth, you need to pay more attention to your duties without making rags of your clothes.” The stern voice of Miss Doyle sounded.
“Yes, Miss Doyle.” The maid replied annoyed that once again Miss Doyle had chosen to call her Elizabeth, rather than her preferred title.
“Now, now, Miss Doyle, let Bessie alone. That Russian bastard has gone to his bed, and we are in need of food.” The shorter of the two men rubbed his stomach to emphasise his hunger.
“Let her alone? If you only knew what it took to run this household with just the girl and that idiot, Billy. He has failed to show up for his duties again.”
“I will speak to him,” he replied and then added, “He’s probably tending to his mother.”
“Oh, that’s all right then. Pardon me for mentioning it.” Miss Doyle made no attempt to keep the sarcasm from her voice.
“Miss Doyle it’s a fact that this place would crumble and fall into the Thames if it was not for tireless work. Plus, your beauty stirs the beast within me.” He rushed forward and grasped the elderly woman and then planted a large wet kiss on her cheek.
“John Branford! Kindly keep your hands to yourself.” Despite Miss Doyle’s protestations, an unmistakable glint appeared within her eyes.
John laughed, and then he and his comrade took a seat at the large wooden table. For a moment, not a word was said because each of the men’s eyes was fixed firmly on an object that occupied the centre of the table. The cake was a delight to behold. John only saw such luxury in the most expensive establishments, such as Pagani’s or the Savoy. It was with jealously in both eye and gut, for his enjoyment was merely the observation through the windows of beguiling eateries.
“A wonderful cake, Miss Doyle. However, did you find the time?”
“I don’t have the time for such frivolity; Billy dropped it in as a way of an apology. His mam said it is to be enjoyed by us alone and not for the master. I hope she doesn’t think this means Billy has been excused his duties.
“Still, it would be a shame to waste,” replied John.
“Very well.” Miss Doyle’s starchy exterior seemed to soften. In truth, she had struggled to restrain herself from sampling the exquisite looking bakery. “Bessie, bring some plates.”
The crockery was gathered, and the pile of plates placed in front of John. He stood, eager to slice into the magnificent cake. He could feel saliva building in his mouth in anticipation of the indulgence He calmed himself, for even in the company of the lowly, behaving like a gentleman still ruled. The first slice was passed to Miss Doyle. Bessie received the following portion and then his fellow guard, Tom. John took his piece and hoped that his fellow diners did not notice that his slice was slightly bigger.
Five minutes later the room seemed to be revolving about them. The faces that swam before the diners took on an almost spectral form. Voices seemed to be spoken from a great distance with no individual word dis
cernible. Another five minutes passed; the room fell into silence. Miss Doyle, Bessie and Tom sat with their heads slumped on the sturdy table. John had obviously tried to rise, but his attempt had been folly. He lay upon the floor, ignorant of the figure that now slipped through the door to the servant quarters. He did not feel the figure place a hand on his throat or see it give Bessie a testing poke. If any had been in possession of their senses, they would have seen the smile upon the stranger’s contented face. They might have heard him move from the kitchen into the inner sanctum of Kostya’s household or heard the click of the front door as another figure was allowed entrance. However, those that served the household of the arrogant Russian, were oblivious to all that took place.
The Reaper's Touch Page 3