The Reaper's Touch

by Robert Southworth

  “I agree, so it seems Billy Trimble is our only real line of investigation. “Abberline took an exaggerated suck on his pipe. “It’s not much to go on, but it’s a start.”

  Chapter 7

  Garnet Street was just a stone’s throw from the Thames. William, Abberline and John Branford picked their way through the streets and alleys which would eventually lead to the home of Billy Trimble. William purposely chose a route that would more often than not keep the Thames in view. Despite his new-found happiness with Emily, he could not deny the almost mesmeric attraction he had for open water. His mind drifted to those days where he sailed the waters of the globe. He longingly watched the black vessels, now lighter in the water having discarded their cargoes, race along the great river. He knew they would look for further luxuries. They would travel to far-flung ports and hopefully make a small fortune for their labours.

  John Branford was talking, but his words were lost on William, whose vision of the craft as they bobbed along the mighty Thames, kept his focus.

  “William pay attention man,” Abberline snapped.

  “Uh! I’m sorry.”

  “I was saying Billy’s place is just over there,” Branford pointed as he spoke. Any chance that William had to reply evaporated as a terrible scream split the air.

  “Dog’s cock! What is it now?” Abberline asked in his usual colourful way. William looked at Abberline, whose expression mirrored what William felt. He and Abberline increased their pace. However, the path was not toward the home of Billy but rather towards the area that the sound of a woman’s horror had originated. It was not long before the three men were at the back of a large crowd that had gathered at the extensive, meandering dock wall which separated city from river. It was the booming voice of Abberline stating his rank, which eventually forced the crowd to part. They pushed their way through the transfixed populace. Finally, coming to an abrupt stop as those at the front of the multitude pointed towards the Thames. The three scanned the horizon; finally, William called to Abberline.

  “There Fred, look in the mud flats.”

  The eyes of the experienced Inspector and John Branford followed William’s direction until they too observed the macabre landscape. Abberline sighed and whispered, “Shit.”

  Within the gelatinous mud flats, approximately half-way between river and city, an arm reached forlornly skyward. The limb seemed to all that were present, to be reaching towards the heavens beseeching God for salvation. However, the mud flats had claimed many poor souls and the owner of the limb fared no better. Surprisingly, it was John Branford that was the first to act. He clamoured over a small wall and then lowered himself into the glutinous slop. He had struggled for at least ten paces before William, and Abberline followed. William felt the mud grasp at his legs as each step was taken. He looked around at Abberline, who looked to be having the same trouble. Branford’s head start ensured he was the first to reach the outstretched limb. William saw him pause with an expression of fear. Branford took a deep breath, took the arm in his grasp, and pulled as though with all his might. He wrestled the body from the mud, no small feat, it seemed, as the silt was reluctant to give up its treasure. William watched as John dropped to his knees by the muddied corpse and wailed. The despair in John’s crying made William shudder. He hurried to John’s side and knelt in the mud. John was openly sobbing, occasionally thumping his knees as anger mixed with sorrow.

  “He’s just a boy, why kill a boy?” Branford looked at William, as if pleading for him to answer. Branford was trying to clean the mud from the figure’s head and face.

  “Who is it John?”

  “Billy,” he replied, continuing to wipe the mud from the young lad’s hair. “They’ve gone and killed him - why kill a boy? I want them dead, Mr Harkness – I want the bastards dead.” William reached down and placed a hand on John’s shoulder.

  “Let’s get him somewhere dry, John. This is no place for the lad to have his final sleep.”

  Abberline joined them as they made their arduous journey back to solid ground. It was a task that would sap at all of their strength. The Thames was not ready to give up its prize; it grasped at every limb, and when one of them slipped, it was all too keen to make their fall into the filth permanent. More than thirty minutes had passed before the lifeless body of Billy was heaved from the mud. All three men lay next to the body; each too exhausted to stand. Despite struggling to pull enough air into his lungs, William managed to stretch a hand to Billy’s mouth and gently pull down the jaw. Billy’s mouth was filled with vile slime. William closed his eyes in horrified resignation; he knew that the young lad had been alive as his head slipped or was pushed beneath the surface of the mud flats.

  ∞∞∞

  One hour had passed since the unfortunate Billy Trimble had been laid upon solid ground. The three men reclaiming his body finally managed to regain their feet. The crowd between Garnet Street and the Thames was growing in both size and anger. However, support had arrived in the form of three constables. Abberline ensured they kept order and sent a runner to fetch Fitzgerald. William moved away from the mob and signalled that John Branford should do the same. When John neared him, William leant in close to him and whispered, “We had best visit Billy’s mother.” His announcement was met with grim determination from John. It was a task that William knew must be carried out; however, a responsibility which saddened his very heart. With aching limbs, they moved further from the crowd. The journey was short, but William had no inclination to rush to the destination. He had no wish to tell a mother of her son’s death. Finally, John stopped and pointed to a doorway.

  It wasn’t until the two drew within a couple of steps of the entrance that William, noticed the door was ajar.

  “Stay behind me,” he whispered. As he stepped through the doorway, William silently pulled his pistol from the inside pocket of his jacket. He chanced a quick glance down to the weapon and was relieved to see that the glutinous Thames sludge had not fouled the barrel. He had seen many weapons fail to fire, or worse, explode in its holder’s hands.

  The room showed signs that a struggle had taken place. A small table lay upon its side; its accompanying chair smashed to firewood. As the two moved further into the interior and beyond the table, they spied a dark patch of blood on the floor. The lack of any other furniture confirmed that Billy and his mother lived in virtual poverty. This proved that the fine bakery did not come from Billy, or his mother’s funds. Their home was just the one room, and it was with trepidation that William now glanced at a blanket that had been draped across a line, enabling it to dissect the room. He guessed that it had been done so to create privacy for Mrs. Trimble. William stepped closer to the blanket; he raised his hand slowly. Suddenly, to his rear the door was flung open.

  “Christ! Abberline.” William involuntarily raised a hand to heart fearing it would burst from his chest.

  Abberline looked shocked at William’s response, and then as he took in his surroundings, his face displayed his understanding of the situation. “Sorry,” he replied sheepishly.

  William turned his attention back to the blanket. He knew that the time for surprising a possible attacker had long past. In one movement, his hand grasped the cloth and ripped it aside. Before him, a figure lay motionless upon a bed. It was Abberline that moved first; he slipped past William and bent over what he assumed to be the late Mrs. Trimble. After a few moments, the Inspector stood upright, his hands clasped at the rear of his back, obviously feeling the effects of the laborious task of pulling Billy from the mud flats. He took in a number of deep breaths. “Smothered, no doubt about it. I have seen this type of murder many times,” he finally announced.

  “Are there no wounds?” William asked.

  “None, why?”

  “There is blood on the floor by the upturned table. Someone was bloodied in that part of the room.” He took up a position in the centre of the room. He glanced around, trying to forge a picture of what had taken place. “Fred, imagine yo
u are a killer.”

  “What, again?”

  William ignored Frederick Abberline’s sarcasm. “You’ve committed murder with the aid of an unwitting accomplice.” William crouched down to examine a small blood trail which led to the door and not the bed of Mrs. Trimble. “Perhaps you take your chance to be rid of the accomplice and possible witness. You strike Billy knocking him to the floor. Believing him dead, you take the opportunity to visit the unfortunate Mrs. Trimble and rob her of her life. As you commit the loathsome act, however, the stunned Billy takes flight. Dazed and battered, the young lad stumbles from his home. Realising your mistake, Fred, you give chase. Somehow, Billy ends up in the mud flats. It’s possible that they will be the death of him, but you can’t take that risk. You have no alternative but to go in after him. Finally, you use your bare hands to force his head beneath the filth.”

  “Wouldn’t someone have heard him cry out?”

  “I’ve seen men with head injuries. It’s only the primitive beast within that keeps them moving. Often, speech is beyond them. To the passer-by, he may simply seem to be the worse for drink, as he lurches toward the flats.”

  “Bastard!” John’s face reddened with anger as he spoke.

  “Yes John, the culprit is a bastard and an evil one at that. Would you like him to pay for his sins?”

  “I’d like to rip his bleeding heart out! Then hold it up for him to view before he died!”

  “Work with us and you may well get your opportunity. However, you must follow my orders at all times. We seek justice, not revenge, but if that is acceptable, I would be delighted to have you join us in the hunt.” William held out his hand as he finished speaking. There was no deliberation from John Branford. As he shook William’s hand, he looked down at the body of Billy’s mother. His jaw clenched, and William knew he was trying to fight the anger that he, too, felt. Before he could say another word, the door once again flew open. The short but forceful Fitzgerald entered the room.

  “Gentlemen – my initial observations suggest your victim died in the mud. However, there is a substantial wound above the right ear.” She pointed to her own head to explain the exact position of the blow.

  “It is as we thought, but I’m afraid we have another body for you.” William pointed across the room.

  “Really, gentlemen, I do have other duties.” She smiled but as she approached the second body, her demeanour changed dramatically. She crouched down low and placed a gentle hand on Mrs. Trimble’s cold cheek. “Man’s cruelty has no limits.”

  “We think she was smothered.”

  “Do you, Mr. Harkness? Perhaps you should look to the ‘who’ and let me worry about the ‘how’. Now if you don’t mind I shall go about my work with less interruption.” William looked at Abberline, who simply shrugged at Fitzgerald’s abrupt change in mood. The Inspector clearly had no interest, and calmly walked into the sunlight. William however, wanted to ask Fitzgerald what was wrong but did not feel their relationship had reached the level to share inner turmoils. So reluctantly he followed Abberline out into the street.

  The street seemed awash with anger. One man’s face, however, was not contorted with rage. He smiled and looked directly at William.

  “Mr. Harkness, a word if you please.”

  “What do you want,” he eyed the stranger with suspicion.

  “Are you tracking the Ripper, Harkness?” The smile disappeared; the stranger’s stare burned into William’s soul.

  “I haven’t any idea what you are talking about; I was merely out for a stroll with my friend Inspector Abberline and offered my help.”

  “Come now, Harkness, the people of the city are not fools.”

  “Who are you?” William looked at the man. He dressed like a dandy but was built like an ox. The eyes were intelligent, and the man emitted self-confidence.

  “John Smith, independent gatherer of public interest news.”

  “John Smith?” The name was bland and did not suit the man.

  “So, what’s a failed officer of the 66th hoping to do for London? Perhaps you seek redemption?”

  William’s fist clenched, but before he could deliver the blow, a Billy club tapped Smith on the chest.

  “May I suggest that you bugger off.” Abberline’s gravelled voice accompanied the club.

  “Ah! Abberline, still failing to find the Ripper, I see.” The stranger replied.

  Abberline raised the club to Smith’s mouth. “You will fail to see the sun rise, if you don’t mind your careless tongue.”

  “No offence intended,” the smile returned.

  “Bugger off,” growled Abberline, again.

  Smith gave a small nod and then melted into the crowd. William watched him for as long as was possible. He felt unnerved by Smith, feeling an instant dislike for the man.

  Abberline leant in close and kept the sound of his voice at a low whisper. “Newspaper men – cockroaches, every damned one of them. Tell me William, why bring Branford into the investigation?”

  “He has good instincts. He was the first of us to react to the body in the flats.”

  “You seem to attract the strays of London. Or do you intend to aid every person whose life has been affected by the Ripper?”

  William turned to look at Abberline. “Perhaps I recognise a stray because I am one myself. I was born to a family of great wealth, but that family is loathed by the ruling elites. Indeed, within my own family, I am out of place. When I served, I found more comfort with the rank and file than in the officers’ mess, but I would be lying if I said that I was ever truly accepted. Then I arrive in London. I bring law to a city, but I am no officer of the law. Without doubt, I am the biggest stray of them all.” He paused for moment, “As for helping those wronged by the Ripper, if we cannot bring justice to the dead, at least we can bring comfort to the living.”

  Chapter 8

  Whitechapel was an area of London housing many of the Jewish immigrant population. They were faced with persecution in many parts of the world. At least, in this district of the old city they survived relatively unmolested. Most arrived at the famous docks with both empty pockets and stomachs. However, many brought skills that could prove useful to an ever-expanding city and economy. As the Jewish community grew, so did the emergence of Jewish businesses. Soon certain individuals became wealthy enough to offer support to those less fortunate of their faith. The Board of Guardians established in 1859, primarily in the east end of London, saw influential individuals donate substantial funds to protect the impoverished Jews from starvation. Many such charities came to prominence but not all individuals of means chose the same method to carry out altruistic acts.

  An elderly woman strode both confidently and energetically along the crowded street. Her advancing years did not yet prey upon mind or limb. With each step, she met with smiles. Even the drunks seemed to pay her reverence, their alcohol infused bodies rebelling against the intoxication to stand up straight. It was similar to what lower ranked soldiers do for a respected commanding officer, always eager to impress. She stood at just 5 feet tall in her heels but commanded the surrounding area like Caesar. At her rear two men followed in close attendance. One was a hulk of a man; he surveyed all that were nearby. As he did so, his right hand remained over his jacket pocket. Through the thick fabric, he could feel the reassuring weight of a cosh. His comrade was a beast of a different type. Small, and of a slender build, he nervously held his weapons of choice, a notebook and a short pencil. He gave the impression of a fish out of water, the loathing he felt for his surroundings was etched across his features. However, he stuck to his task, which was to await instruction from his diminutive master.

  The woman picked her way up the street, stopping frequently to talk with the impoverished that clung to existence, like a drowning man grasps to a log. Often, she would place a consoling hand upon a shoulder. She would turn and beckon the smaller man to her side. Some of those less fortunate would receive some coins, but others would also receive informa
tion that could, if acted upon, lead to a better life. Then the elderly woman would say her good-byes to the grateful recipient and move on. More streets would be visited, and further good deeds completed. Eventually, the bookkeeper stepped forward without being summoned. His frustration at handing over coin to the wretched creatures of the city was plain for all to see.

  “Mrs. Holbrook, the purse is empty.”

  “Then empty your pockets Alfred, there is more we can do this day,” she replied.

  “There is little point having a budget if you insist on breaking it.”

  “Alfred, I pay you well for your duties; a temporary loan is not much to ask. Besides, you know I am good for it.” Mrs. Holbrook did not wait for a reply, but turned and moved onto the next soul in need. Alfred sighed, and fetched his own purse from his pocket.

  Within thirty minutes, Alfred’s personal wealth was exhausted. It was with some reluctance that the elderly Mrs. Holbrook turned on her heels and returned to a waiting carriage. As the metal, rimmed wheels rattled over the cobbles, Alfred refused to take part in any conversation. He sat perfectly still, eyes glaring at the creatures as they wallowed in their filth and felt nothing but contempt. Secretly, he doubted any of the money would be used for purchasing a hot meal or a warm bed for the night. Most of the recipients would be handing over their newly obtained coins at the nearest gin palace; no doubt laughing at the wealthy fools so easily parted from their riches.