As if by Magic (2 page)

He awoke with an alarmed start but was instantly still. There were other people in the room. The fire had died down and he shrank back against the dark wall. They'd switch on the lights, see him and it would all be over. He sat tensely in the darkness waiting to be discovered. What could he say? Why didn't they speak? Surprise tinged his fear: the people in the room were being very, very quiet. Why?

He narrowed his eyes, peering into firelit shadows. There were two men and a woman. What were they doing? Had they broken in too?

‘Why here?' The whisper sounded clearly. He thought it was the woman who'd spoken.

‘Are you sure we're safe?' It was one of the men.

‘Stop worrying,' said the other man in a low voice. ‘All the servants are out, he's having a bath and she's listening to the wireless. We'll be fine.'

The woman gave a dismissive laugh. ‘In that case, let's get on with it, shall we?'

There was a pause. The shapes moved in front of the fire. One of the men stood back, then, without further ado, the other man took the woman in his arms and kissed her passionately. George watched in disbelief. Was he dreaming? The two shapes clung together, the woman's hair golden where the firelight caught it.

The shapes separated. ‘Say you love me,' whispered the woman. ‘Go on. You must say it. I want you to say it.'

The man held the woman at arm's length. ‘I love you,' he said softly. With a little cry, she collapsed in his arms.

The man gave a stifled cry and then, still holding her, laid her down on the rug in front of the fire. He knelt down beside her and held her hand. He put his hand on her chest and breathed out in a long hissing gasp. He moved, black against the light, to look up at the man standing beside the hearth. ‘I . . . I don't like this. She's not breathing. Really. She's not breathing.'

The other man laughed. ‘Are you surprised? It's what you wanted. It's what both of you wanted. A perfect death. You've got it.'

The man on the rug stooped over the woman and touched her hair. ‘I didn't know it'd be like this.'

‘What did you expect? Stop worrying.'

A bell jangled from the next room, followed by the distant sound of three knocks. Both men froze, then the man kneeling by the hearth stood up. ‘Damn! There's someone at the door. We'll have to go. We can't be found in here. What . . . what shall we do about
her
?'

‘Leave her for the moment. It'll be all right.'

The two men walked to the door leading into the house and, going through it, shut it quietly behind them.

George swallowed and cautiously got up from his corner. It had to be a dream. He held on to the kitchen table and could feel the real, solid wood beneath his hand. But the girl was still there, stretched in front of the fire, and she couldn't be real. He must have dreamt it. Hardly liking to move, he forced himself to walk across the room to the fire. The girl's face was turned towards the softly flickering light. Half expecting to feel empty air, he reached out and started when his fingers touched her arm. She
was
real. George swallowed once more and delicately touched her chest where her heart should be. Nothing. No movement. She was real and she was dead.

He backed away, hand to his mouth, then stumbled to the kitchen door. He took a last look at the girl, flung open the door and fled in sheer panic, totally heedless of noise, wanting nothing but to get out of that room and away from the body on the rug. He crashed up the steps and raced through the open iron gate on to the street.

A few feet away were the steps up to the front door of the house. It stood open, sending light streaming into the road. George had a brief glimpse of a woman framed in the doorway, talking to the solid figure of a policeman in a glistening cape, then he ran for it. The policeman turned.

‘Here! You! Stop!'

George heard the blast of a police whistle as he ran down the empty street, the sound deadened under the rasp of his breath and the thumping of his heart. Feet pounded after him, then another policeman loomed up, arms outstretched to stop him. George tried to dodge, wriggling helplessly in the man's grasp, but his arm was held fast. He tried to throw the man off but his strength deserted him. Another hand gripped his shoulder tightly. His legs gave way and he sank to the pavement.

A lantern was shone in his face and George twisted away from the blinding light.

‘Now you come quietly, my lad,' said the policeman holding the lantern. ‘No funny business.'

The second policeman looked down at him. ‘What's he done?'

‘I caught him legging out of number 19.' A hand descended on him. ‘Breaking and entering, I'd say.' George felt his shoulder being shaken. ‘Come on, you. Up you get.'

George tried to get up but his legs were like cotton wool. He reached out his hand for help and two puzzled faces looked down at him, swimming in and out of focus. He tried to speak but the words came out as a little gulp of a cry.

The two policemen stepped back in alarm. ‘Strewth, I don't like the sound of that,' said one. He hauled George to his feet. George leaned heavily against him and vainly tried to speak once more.

The policeman shook him. ‘Here, you! Stop that.'

George buried his face in his hands and waited, gasping for breath. ‘You . . . you don't understand,' he managed to say. ‘She's dead, I tell you, dead.'

The two policemen exchanged looks. ‘I think he's off his rocker,' said one quietly. ‘Who's dead?'

Panic welled up inside him once more. ‘The girl,' he managed to say. ‘The girl in the kitchen!'

There were footsteps behind him and a woman approached. She looked at him curiously. ‘What's the problem, officer?' she asked. Her voice was clear but gentle and George felt instantly soothed. He could explain things to her. She'd understand. He could tell her what had happened.

Still holding George, the policeman answered. ‘This is the man who broke in, miss.' He glanced at the other policeman. ‘This is the lady from number 19. I was just telling her that her area gate was unlocked when this geezer shot out.'

‘He doesn't look like a criminal,' said the girl doubtfully. ‘I mean, look how he's dressed. Are you sure it's the right man?'

‘Perfectly sure, miss. I caught him red-handed.'

‘I'm sorry,' gasped George. ‘I'm so sorry. I saw the fire and there's . . . there's a dead girl. She's been murdered. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.'

The girl stepped back. ‘A murder? Where?'

‘In the kitchen,' George managed to say. Her face blurred in front of him and he held his hand to his eyes. ‘I'm sorry.'

‘In the
kitchen
?' said the girl sharply.

The policeman holding him coughed. ‘Don't you believe a word of it, miss,' he said, adding in a quieter voice, ‘I think he's a bit of a nutcase.'

She bit her lip. ‘Perhaps . . . Look, would you mind coming into the kitchen with me? I don't know what this man's seen but there might be something.'

‘Just as you like, miss,' said the policeman with the lantern. ‘Come on, you,' he said to George. ‘Come and show us what you saw.'

‘No!' George struggled weakly in the policeman's grasp. ‘I'm not going back. I'm not!' His voice was nearly a sob.

The policemen exchanged shrugs. ‘You'd better have a look,' said the man holding George to the other policeman. George continued to struggle. ‘Keep still, will you! You stay here with me.'

George subsided as the girl and the policeman went off, leaving him with his captor. They were back a few minutes later.

‘There's nothing there,' said the policeman. ‘Just as we thought.' He gave the girl beside him a long-suffering glance. ‘And this lady says that as nothing was touched as far as she can see, she doesn't want to press charges. Let him go.'

The policeman holding him released him and George staggered to the railings.

‘He's ill,' said the woman in sudden concern. ‘Look at him.' She reached out and touched George on the forehead.

‘Why, you're burning hot.'

George blinked. She'd got it wrong. He wasn't hot, he was cold, deathly cold. Hadn't she seen the girl in the kitchen? She must have seen her. ‘Where is she?' he asked.

‘Where's she gone?'

‘There's no one there,' she said. ‘You must have imagined it.'

Imagined it? Could he have done? He gazed at her and tried hard to speak but the words got twisted round. It was gibberish, he knew it was, but he couldn't help it.

‘He's really ill,' said the woman.

Her voice came from very far away. George shut his eyes as the world split up into jerky, unrelated images. Then that intense cold seized him and dragged him off to a faraway Arctic of darkness.

Jack Haldean, two pints of bitter in hand, negotiated his way through the snug of the Heroes of Waterloo to the table where his friend, Inspector William Rackham, sat waiting for him. Jack liked the Heroes. It was a cheerfully unpretentious pub, minutes round the corner from his rooms in Chandos Row, with a welcoming fire, a resident cat, an agreeable landlady and oak panels which, dividing the snug into cosy little booths, were stained dark by years of London soot and placidly smoked pipes.

‘Here we are,' he said, putting down the glasses. He took off his coat and hat, laid them on the oak settle and wedged himself in behind the table across from Rackham. Bill Rackham, a big, untidy man with vivid ginger hair, folded up his newspaper and picked up his beer. ‘Cheers, Jack.' He took a long drink. ‘My word, I needed that.'

‘Is there anything wrong?' asked Jack, offering him his cigarette case.

‘Not really. Should there be?'

Jack lit his cigarette. ‘Not especially. You just don't look too happy with life.'

Rackham ran a hand through his hair. ‘It's nothing. Just work. My sister's been down from Manchester,' he added after a pause.

‘I know,' said Jack patiently. ‘The three of us had dinner together, if you remember.'

‘What? Oh yes, we did, didn't we. Sorry. I saw her on to the train before I called for you. I was supposed to be having a few days off but that went up in smoke.'

‘Bad luck.'

It was a few moments before Rackham, who was staring moodily at the ashtray, apparently in a world of his own, replied. ‘What? Oh, my sister, you mean. Yes, poor Sue. I had to more or less leave her to her own devices.' The conversation died down again, then Rackham made an effort. ‘What have you been up to?'

‘Nothing much. My cousin Isabelle's been up for a couple of days. We went to see
Hurry Along!
on Wednesday. You've seen it, haven't you?'

‘Yes, I took Sue. Did you enjoy it?'

‘Very much. Isabelle was a bit disappointed because Stephanie Granger's understudy was on, but I thought she was fine.'

The conversation lapsed once more.

‘She lugged me round the shops yesterday,' added Jack when it became obvious Rackham wasn't tempted by a discussion of musical theatre. ‘You know she's getting married in the spring?' Rackham nodded abstractedly. ‘I think she must have bought half of Selfridges. I certainly seemed to be carrying half of Selfridges with most of Harrods thrown in by the end of the afternoon. Linen, you know, and so on.' Jack picked up his beer. ‘She said she needed elephants so we bought three. I suggested a couple of walruses but she insisted on elephants.'

Rackham gazed past him blankly before saying, after an appreciable pause, ‘Shopping, eh?'

Jack grinned. ‘I knew it! I knew you weren't listening. Look, stop pretending there's nothing biting you and tell me what's wrong. You look whacked out and worried to death.'

Rackham half smiled and put his hands behind his neck, stretching his shoulders. ‘All right. I'm sorry, I wasn't really listening. As I said, it's work.'

‘Anything interesting?' asked Jack with a lift of his eyebrows. He tapped Rackham's folded newspaper on the table in front of him. ‘I saw you had a naked man in the Thames. I read about it this morning. Is he your pigeon?'

‘The naked man? Yes, he's mine, so to speak, but that's not the problem. You asked if there was anything interesting. It depends what you call interesting.' He picked up the paper and tossed it over to Jack. ‘See for yourself. That's the evening edition. Another dead girl turned up in the Thames this morning. She'd been strangled.'

Jack unfolded the newspaper and read the headline out loud.
‘Jack the Ripper! The X man strikes again!'
He looked at Rackham. ‘Not another Ripper murder, Bill?'

Rackham winced. ‘So the press says. Every time an unfortunate, as the press delicately calls these women, gets murdered, the newspapers trot out Jack the Ripper.'

‘Well, hang on,' said Jack. ‘Someone must be killing the poor girls and the comparison with Jack the Ripper is inevitable. I mean, the bloke must be a lunatic.'

Rackham leaned back. ‘You think so? Don't get me wrong. I want to nail him as much as anyone, but we're stuck. Over the past eighteen months or so there have been five unfortunates, to use that word, murdered, whose killer we can't trace. We know it's the work of one man because he has the nasty little habit of leaving all his victims marked with a cross, which is why he's also called the X man. All the women come from different areas of London and it's a devil of a job to guess where he'll strike next. We can't guess. There doesn't seem to be any pattern in it. One had her throat cut, two were beaten up and two were strangled, including this latest woman, Bridget Flynn. We haven't had a single sighting that's of any use to us. We're being hounded by the press but murder's far too easy, Jack, when the killer picks his victims at random.'

‘And when the only motive is the desire to kill,' added Jack quietly. ‘That's a nasty one. Don't the victims have anything in common?'