Whilst sitting in the cool fresh air, William had begun to relax, and the gentle breeze soothed his senses so that he was almost closing his eyes, and once again his thoughts began to slip back to the spectral world. He was disturbed when the door to the cottage opened and a more thoughtful looking Fitzgerald, stepped into the daylight. William stood up and stared at her for a moment, wondering if her mood had improved. Deciding to rise above any tension he offered her a mug of tea. “It’s weaker than rat’s piss, but it’s hot and might wash the filth away.”
“Thank you,” she clasped the offering. Ignoring the heat, she drank deeply of the cleansing liquid. “He didn’t die in there of course.”
“No, we found him over there.” William pointed to the scarecrow cross, which stood in memorial to the slaughter.
“Well it seems we have been here before. A two-pronged implement driven into the throat; it caused massive blood loss. The body was mutilated after death; the genitalia and tongue removed. There are signs that various animals feasted upon the remains; I expect the parts that had been cut from the body have been consumed. The foot was chewed from the ankle and was not part of the original attack. I will have a more detailed report once I get him back to the workhouse. Then there was this...” She threw an object to William. He caught it and recognised it instantly as another gold ring that matched the one taken from Kostya’s body.
“Was it in the mouth?”
“Oh no, this was far more inventive. The heart had been removed, most likely it went the same way as the tongue, and in its place sat that delicate little trinket.”
“Oh my God,” Isaac could not hide his disgust.
“It seems God is sleeping, Mr. Naismith, on the other hand, perhaps he has just grown tired of man’s butchery?”
“Either way we are buggered,” William announced in a matter of fact way. “There is some rabbit left or would you rather we loaded the body on the wagon?”
“I will be on my way.” She strode towards the wagon without another word.
∞∞∞
Unknown to William, a country residence no more than fifteen miles away, was playing host to a small gathering of people.
A figure, its hair cut almost to the scalp; its body showing the evidence of mistreatment, stood unmoving in a trance-like state. Its body was stripped of its fat; only hard, unyielding and uncompromising muscle remained. The weeks that had passed had driven away the excess, in both body and mind. Coldridge did not react as the bonds that held his hands were cut. His eyes were fixed upon the horizon; however, they portrayed no yearning for the chance to escape. He seemed oblivious to the hooded figures amongst the crowd that spied him with obvious interest. One such figure took a step closer to him.
“Your training has progressed well. Clearly, you are ready for your first test and we,” his hands pointed out those that were near, “have gathered to witness your triumph.”
Coldridge did not reply. He gave only the very shortest of nods to bear witness to the fact he heard the speaker. He showed no emotion when those gathered around him cheered and called out his name. Three figures, their hands tied and mouths gagged, were escorted to stand before him. He felt no pity, he felt nothing.
The hooded figure held his hands aloft to quiet the crowd. “Three creatures that represent our brother’s past.” The hooded figure was now addressing all that were present. He raised a hand and pointed to the first prisoner. “The thief – as Charles Coldridge you stole from the good people of London.” He then pointed to the second prisoner. “The whore – as Charles Coldridge you wasted your inheritance in decadent ways. The hooded figure then raised his hand more slowly for the third prisoner, allowing his words to have more impact. “The murderer – as Charles Coldridge you used this creature to remove any that opposed you.” The crowd grumbled its discontent at those tied, and Coldridge’s previous life. “But we deal in redemption.” The figure dropped three ceremonial daggers onto the ground. Then he turned to the three captives and held aloft a large bag. “Within this bag is a small fortune in gold. I would wager that it contained enough wealth to make each of you able to live very respectable lives. All you have to do is take a blade from the ground and kill Charles Coldridge.” The figure cut the bonds of the captives and Coldridge saw that the hooded man’s words sparked an interest in more than one of the captive’s eyes. The hooded ringmaster slowly walked from the fighting area and waited patiently for greed to overwhelm caution.
The thief burst forward but Coldridge remained perfectly still. His would-be attacker clasped one of the ceremonial daggers and now slowed his forward momentum. The thief clearly wanted to be the one who plunged his blade into Coldridge. Obviously, he was the kind of man who did not concern himself with morality. He doesn’t know me, thought Coldridge. He knows only the clink of gold and the opportunity for wealth. As the man neared him, it seemed his confidence had grown. After all, Coldridge had made no attempt to prepare for an attack and would have seemed oblivious to danger. Coldridge’s attacker was smiling now, probably thinking about the gold, and then callously aimed a lunge at Coldridge’s throat. The thief’s smile faltered as his blade failed to connect with vulnerable flesh.
Coldridge moved with tremendous speed. In one motion, he had negated the thief’s lunge, and now his fist exploded towards his attacker’s groin. The thief slipped to his knees, agony twisting his expression. Before he could draw breath, Coldridge had wrapped his powerful limb round his throat. His arm muscles contracted, and the life was taken from the thief. As the body was allowed to slip to the floor Coldridge sensed danger. He spun around and moved to his left, but not in time to evade the blade that slashed at him. He did not feel the pain of the cut to his upper shoulder or react to the crowd that gave a sharp intake of breath at seeing the wound.
Now it was the whore who stood before him, snarling like a frustrated animal that had missed the chance of an easy kill. She was of a dainty build but a lifetime of working the streets of London had robbed her of humanity and as such, Coldridge knew she was dangerous. She lunged again, but this time Coldridge caught her arm and then hoisted her bodily into the air. For a moment, he paused, frozen in time. He heard her whimper and then slammed her down on his knee. The whore’s look of rage had disappeared, only the mask of fear and pain dominated her face as she was raised once more into the air. Then she was being pulled downwards at a great velocity. The momentum was only halted as her tiny frame was again brought unceremoniously onto Coldridge’s knee. The loud crack of her spine caused the crowd to gasp. The woman lay unmoving; her eyelids blinked rapidly, then slowed, and finally stopped. As the second captive lay dying, losing her battle for freedom and wealth, Coldridge turned to face the last of his enemies.
The third captive did not race into battle; he did not even venture to pick up a blade from the soil.
“Mr. Coldridge?” The figure which stood before Coldridge seemed reluctant to enter battle. He was a big man, but perhaps not so lucky in knife fights. His left ear was conspicuous by its absence. “It is me Mr. Coldridge, your driver. “
The words seemed to have little impact as Coldridge bent and retrieved the ceremonial dagger. Slowly and without outward any sign of emotion began to close the gap between himself and his former employee.
“Please Sir, I have always followed your instructions,” the man begged. Coldridge heard the words, but they had no effect. As Coldridge reached striking distance, he stopped abruptly. For the first time, a wave of emotion crept into his damaged soul. He felt confused, somewhere deep within, he felt something was urging him not to strike. Memories of a loyal employee, who drove his carriage among other duties, flooded his mind. Coldridge raised his hand; the fingers opened, and the dagger slipped to the ground. The action caused a grumbling of discontent from the onlookers. The hooded figure, who seemed in control over the proceedings, stepped in between them. He placed a comforting hand on Coldridge’s shoulder.
“You have done well; it would have been remarkable
to complete such a task so early in your training.” Suddenly, a pistol appeared from the hooded figure's sleeve. “However, the will of Cronos must be obeyed.” The pistol belched its fire. The driver’s head was driven backwards as face, skull and brain matter were violently torn apart.
∞∞∞
William stepped cautiously into the cottage. He was thankful to see that Fitzgerald had washed down the table; any evidence that a body had been present had been eradicated. William hoped that his relief was not too obvious to those that followed him into the cottage. He admitted to himself that the night had been profoundly unsettling. The night had proved as challenging as any fighting for Queen and country.
“I saw some paperwork in the room opposite, Isaac. Jack and I will search the upper level and leave you to deal with the documents.” Isaac nodded his acceptance of the task and immediately walked towards the next room.
“What are we looking for?” Jack asked.
William blew out his cheeks and shrugged. “In truth, I have no idea. However, it would be beneficial to know who met with such an unfortunate end at this place. His connection to Kostya and who would wish to do the two of them harm. Failing that, the names of the killers would be acceptable.” William smiled for the first time since re-entering the cottage.
The hours passed as each man set about his task in earnest. It was with frustration that William finally surrendered any hope of finding evidence on the upper level of the cottage. He motioned to Jack that they should take their search downstairs. He hoped that Isaac, a man who had an eye for the fine detail, had been more successful. However, to William’s surprise when he entered the cottage’s sitting room, Isaac was not focused on paperwork. The usually studious Isaac was part standing, part leaning against a small cabinet. He seemed to be staring at the opposite wall; a look of deep concentration on his face. William looked at the wall but could see nothing of any interest.
“Have you found anything?” William asked. His tone was almost accusatory.
“I have our victim’s name, Edmund Stand.” When Isaac replied, his eyes still refused to leave the opposite wall.
“Isaac, what are you looking at?” William asked a little exasperated.
“That clock.”
“A clock – do you not think we have more pressing matters than admiring furniture?” William could help noticing the monstrosity. It was not an elegant piece; it was too large for the room. Although the quality of the piece could not be ignored; the gilt adornments of classical figures from Greek mythology gave the clock an almost farcical look.
Isaac’s head was twisted to the side as he continued to fix his stare on the timepiece. “It is strange, that a timepiece of such quality should be found in such undeserving surroundings.
“No doubt,” replied William. He was finding Isaac’s obsession with the clock tiresome.
“William, the value of that clock could purchase this cottage and its lands five times over.” Isaac walked over to the piece of furniture and stroked its trunk. “David Roentgen was cabinet maker of some repute. His many customers included the very best that society could offer; they included the Queen of France.”
“This is all very interesting, but I’m not sure how it helps us with our investigation.”
“It may interest you to know that David Roentgen was renowned for building furniture with secret compartments.” As Isaac stopped speaking he began to inspect the clock in more detail. Then suddenly, he stood upright, a smile spreading across his face. “A hidden button, catch or springs were commonplace." He reached up and turned the head of one of the gilded classical figures and instantly a drawer popped into view at the foot of the clock. Isaac reached inside the drawer and retrieved its contents. What lay within was guarded by yet another barrier in the form of a locked tin box.
The tin in Isaac’s hand was of a substantial weight. The lock, however, guarding its contents was no match for William and his blade. The lid flew open and Isaac pulled free some old documents from their prison. Isaac’s eyes were wide as he stared at William. William returned his friend’s stare with his own look of amazement.
“Isaac, old chap, I think we have stumbled onto something very important to this investigation.”
Chapter 16
The carriage trundled along the lanes and roads which led back to London. It was a day filled with all the beauty nature could muster. A slight refreshing breeze tickled the leaves of the trees making the foliage dance rhythmically as it bathed in the morning sun. Bird song and the bark of foxes were commonplace, but the humans encroaching on the picturesque scene were devoid of appreciation.
As the driver concentrated on the journey, those within the carriage discussed the recently discovered documents. The men looked through the reports before their eyes and could not believe that they had been found within the quaint little cottage.
“These documents are not the work of an amateur interested in the grotesque.” Isaac lifted one of the papers from the tin and pointed to his own signature. “This is a copy of my theory around the possible political aspirations of the Ripper. It was never made public and only a select few had ever laid eyes upon its contents.”
“Could,” William hesitated but decided he must ask. “Could Jonathan Locke have copied the documents? You told me he had a talent for such a task.”
“My brother was a clerk of the highest order, he also had a gift for forging signatures, but many of these documents would have been beyond his ability to obtain. Besides, it would have been difficult for him to copy this,” Isaac held up a report. “It shows the particulars of his death at the hands of William Harkness.” William blushed and timidly took the report from Isaac.
“Then it’s clear that someone is passing sensitive information to people we cannot identify, for a reason we cannot know. Damn London!”
“I have told you, the City is nought but a nest of deceit.” Isaac replied.
The three men continued to be amazed at the documents. Some of the reports were even new to Isaac. However, the real astonishment came with the very last piece of paper contained within the tin. The paper was no more than a note, and looked as though it had been written down as an afterthought. It contained none of the professional touches that the previous documents had in abundance. It simply contained five names; four of the names had addresses next to them. The fifth, rather than an address had a substantial monetary figure. Two of the names on the list they knew, and both had met with an untimely and violent end.
“Two thousand pounds!” Jack gasped and then whistled.
“That is a sizeable amount of money. However, for what purpose was the money intended, and did this man,” Isaac pointed to the final name on the note, “receive or pay the sum?”
“I think we can assume that these people are not involved with the Ripper or Cronos,” William announced. It was a leap of faith, but was sure his reasoning was sound. Seeing the look of interest on Isaac’s face, he knew he must explain further. “Look at the reports, this is no trophy case of a murderer. This is an investigation, the gathering of evidence to lead them to the Ripper.”
“So, these people were searching for the killers, but ended up as prey themselves.” Isaac smiled as he digested William’s theory. He dropped the note back into the tin and nodded his head. “I concur; it is the only thing that makes sense. Perhaps, they have made more progress than we have managed and the Ripper or one of his followers felt compelled to remove the danger.”
“In which case, we had better try and find the remaining names on the list before he does.”
∞∞∞
The journey back to London seemed never ending. William grew impatient. The possibility of exploring a real clue in the case was tantalising. He was also aware that if the people on the list were to meet with the same fate as Kostya, then the chance of capturing the Ripper would once again be a remote possibility. He longed to see the dirt and grime of London. His eagerness permitted only one stop to be made, which was at the insi
stence of the driver.
Inside the carriage William and his companions had fallen into silence, and he wondered if they, like he, were pondering the danger that lay before them. With a shudder, he remembered how, a year ago, as their investigation got closer to the murderer, Jonathan Locke, the death toll rose among their ranks. The Ripper and his followers seemed to sense danger and liked a trapped beast acted accordingly.
It was past midday before the streets of London were passing beneath the wheels of the carriage. The transport was initially brought to a halt at William’s home. He quickly informed Obadiah of the latest developments and changed his clothes. As urgent as the task before him was, spending the night with the deceased Mr. Stand had left him feeling soiled. Part of him hoped that the new clothes would go some way to erasing from his mind the previous night’s experiences. On departing his home, once more, he kissed Emily as a soldier kisses his sweetheart.
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