Mayhem (28 page)

Although June had moved into July and the heat and stench were stifling in London, the days had been cold and dark for me, haunted by thoughts of Elizabeth Jackson and her misfortune at meeting James Harrington.

I had contacted the Harrington family doctor, under the guise of research into a disease I had come across at
the hospital, and learned more about James’ affliction; during our subsequent conversation, I heard the story of his parents’ painful death. I put out enquiries on murders similar to ours, and discovered one similar had taken place in Paris, at the very time that James Harrington was travelling through France on his way back to London.

None of this filled me with any comfort. I was ready for some kind of confrontation, if only because I could no longer stand the bleak tension building inside me.

I had been invited to dinner the next day at the Hebberts’ – James and Juliana had once again taken up residence there, while the top floor of their Chelsea house was completed. I had intended to take the strange opium and confront Harrington over his connection with Elizabeth Jackson, to see if I could see the
Upir
. I tried to convince myself that the latter was less important than the former; for all the priest’s talk of the monster possessing him, I was more concerned with finding some trace of suspicious behaviour in the man himself, believing that if I abandoned the rational entirely, then I would have lost myself entirely too.

My plans came undone, however, by a chance meeting while I was returning from an inquest. London is a large city, but there they were, on the pavement in front of me, laughing happily together. My initial disquiet was forced aside by their effervescence and
it was clear that although they had intended to keep their news until the next day, they could not hold it in.

‘We are expecting our first child,’ Juliana exclaimed, reaching out and gripping my arm. ‘Isn’t it wonderful?’

I almost recoiled with the impact of the words. My mouth dropped open as I fought to find some emotional footing. Thankfully, they were both so wrapped up in it themselves, they did not notice, nor give me time to respond.

‘We were going to tell you tomorrow,’ James said. His eyes danced merrily and his skin looked healthy. ‘But as you can see, we cannot contain ourselves – a new arrival for our new house. And we would like you to be Godfather.’

‘Oh, I could not—’ I was still reeling from the news – and then this.
Godfather?

‘Of course you can,’ Juliana said, ‘and you must – we insist. We would not want anyone else. You have been so kind to us.’

‘We shall celebrate at dinner tomorrow,’ Harrington said, ‘but now, we must get on, or we shall be late for our appointment.’

‘Of course, of course,’ I said, finally gathering myself. ‘And my heartiest congratulations to you both.’

I did not take the opium with me the next night – how could I? Juliana had looked so happy; how could I spoil that? She glowed as we all laughed and ate and
drank, and for the first time in a long time, it felt as if life were normal. Charles was on fine form as we toasted all of our soon-to-be new roles in the life of the unborn child, and although it was high summer, there was a feel of Christmas to the night: an expectation of better things to come. I could not ruin that by asking questions about cold, dead girls, however much I felt their ghosts watching me and waiting for justice. I could not bear to be the one who destroyed Juliana’s joy that way.

I studied James. Every now and then he would absently touch Juliana’s hand, a gesture of love and affection that she would return. I saw no sign of madness in him. He was a gentle man; quiet and studious – could I really believe that he had a secret life in which he carved up women and threw them, bit by bit, into the river? For
Upir
or not, that is what I had convinced myself of. Even if I
had
taken the drug, how could I be sure it would not show me just what I expected to see – how would
that
be proof of anything at all?

I could not see how I could trust myself, and suddenly, I was full of doubt. For the next few days, I threw myself into work, forcing all thought of James Harrington from my mind. I discussed the cases with Moore and Andrews and drew out the names of Ripper suspects from them. The priest had not lied to me; Kosminski was indeed a ‘favourite’ of one of Moore’s superiors. I suggested that the killer they sought
would probably be far more contained and controlled than the little hairdresser; his madness would not be apparent but would come to the fore only in the frenzied bouts during which he had murdered those unfortunate women. In short, he would appear quite normal, to all intents and purposes.

I knew that Moore respected my opinions and would pass this on, and hopefully, it would help Kosminski – the man was tortured enough without being suspected of being a monster. I felt very little guilt, because my evaluation was entirely honest: I
did
believe the Ripper walked among polite gentlemen, unnoticed as the madman he was.

Despite myself, I could not help but apply the same logic to my own suspicions of Harrington: he
had
known Elizabeth Jackson, after all, and yet he had not mentioned it – why was that? He would surely know she was a victim. Juliana was always abreast of her father’s cases and my own, and even if we had not discussed it, she would have seen it reported in the newspapers. My head was filled with questions, and I could not empty it.

37

London. July, 1889

Dr Bond

As the days passed, my thoughts grew increasingly dark and all pretence at sleep left me. I took too much laudanum and paced the house through the long hours of the night. I felt like a ghost; an echo of the man who used to live here.

One late afternoon I found myself in church. Like all good Englishmen, I am a Christian, and I have faith in the Lord, but my belief was more a habit, an effect of my upbringing, than something I felt in the core of my being. The study of science can be at odds with matters of the spirit, but now that so much of my thinking concerned the existence of the supernatural, I wondered if perhaps I could find some comfort in God’s house.

As it was, I found the empty silence of the austere building oppressive. I tried to pray, but my mind wandered and my tired eyes rested on the figures stained in glass who looked down on me. Was that pity or revulsion? Was I working for God, or against him? My mind was dulled by exhaustion and laudanum and I longed for the quieter times of years past. Eventually I got up, my knees aching, and turned to leave. There
was no peace for me here. I wondered if Hell was eating me up from the inside in a mass of doubts and wavering commitment.

‘It will feed again.’

The words came so suddenly out of nowhere that I gasped aloud, my heart almost stopping in my chest.

‘You cannot hide from what you know – what you
need
to know.’ The priest stepped out of the shadows by the vestry. I had felt unwelcome here, but he was truly an interloper. He might be a man of the cloth, but there was no place for him in the public face of the Church.

‘I am not sure I have the right man,’ I said. The words sounded feeble, even to me, and I moved quickly, wanting to scurry past him and back out into the throb of the city. I kept my head down.

‘Then make sure,’ he growled. He grabbed my arm, and I was aware of how thin and weak it felt in his tight grip. The past year had taken its toll on me physically, and while those around me might not have noticed the gradual changes, when I faced myself naked in the mirror it was clear how much this had literally eaten away at me.

‘He will kill again. And we must stop him.’

I could not help but meet his resolute gaze. ‘I will not do anything without proof. I cannot – it goes against everything I am. I must have more solid evidence against him.’

The priest hissed in disgust and cast my arm aside,
sending me twisting awkwardly into the stone wall. ‘Always there must be a doubter,’ he said, ‘a half-believer.’

We stared at each other as I nursed my arm.
Always?
How many times had he done this? Were there always a Kosminski and a me involved?

‘Perhaps,’ I said, straightening myself up and remembering the sacred nature of the building in which we stood, ‘I am here to serve as your conscience.’

There was the slightest slump in his shoulders at that. I had hit a nerve of truth.

‘You need to trust your instincts,’ he said. His words were quieter now. ‘I will not wait for ever. Find your proof if you must, but also find mine: take the drug and tell me what you see.’ His eyes softened. ‘Believe me, mine will be the hardest part in our trials.’

I did not want to know what he meant by that, but there was a melancholy sadness in his words that made me shiver.

He left the church, and by the time I had followed him out onto the street he had disappeared. I reached into my coat for the laudanum bottle, not caring if anyone could see me. Nor did I look to see how much was left in the bottle since I had refilled it this morning. Would the Dr Bond of even a year ago recognise himself now, I wondered. Would he be disgusted?

The priest was right: only answers would bring me the peace I craved. I had to see our mad adventure through to the end.

*

It was nearly six by the time I arrived at the wharves, but they were still busy, with men rushing this way and that, loading or unloading great crates and boxes in and out of the warehouses that lined the river’s edge. They started early and worked late here, long hours of heavy labour lugging things on and off boats and into storage or onto vehicles.

Finally I found someone who could point me in the right direction, and I headed towards James Harrington’s office. Outside steps led up to the offices. I kept my eyes away from the river – I had never visited the wharves before and I had not realised just how close James worked to the water. The closest I had come before now was Bluegate Fields, the maze of alleyways where the opium dens were hidden, but my focus had always been elsewhere.

Harrington’s secretary, a rather nervous man of indeterminate age, was sorting through a large pile of invoices and noting them in a ledger. He eyed me rather suspiciously until I declared myself a friend of the family, and then his smile warmed.

‘Mr Harrington is in his office, sir,’ he said. ‘Come with me.’ He led me up a further flight of narrow wooden stairs overlooking the warehouse below, where various crates were being stacked, no doubt from a just-arrived ship. I had not paid that much attention to Harrington’s business affairs, but it looked as if his father had left him with a successful enterprise, just as Juliana had told me. The men at
work below looked up, and again I caught a sense of unease in their glances. What were they wary of? Who did they think I was?

James was behind his desk when we came in, and he jumped slightly at our interruption. There were papers everywhere, but he had been staring into space rather than at them. The secretary closed the door behind us, and although I smiled jovially in greeting, Harrington’s face was wary.

‘If you’ve come about Juliana, then I had rather you just left,’ he said bluntly.

‘Juliana?’ I was thrown slightly. ‘No, I was simply passing and thought I would come in and take a look at your empire – you know so much about my world, and I … What about Juliana?’

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, now feeling awkward in his turn. ‘I thought she might have come to you,’ he said. ‘I know she feels close to you.’

‘Is everything all right?’ I might have come here because of my suspicions of Harrington, but my own feeling for Juliana overrode everything else. My stomach tightened at the thought of her having come to any harm.

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘she’s fine – we had an argument.’ He frowned, and moved some papers around on his desk. There appeared to be no order to them, and the cause of the worry on the faces of his secretary and the men who worked for him below started to become clear. ‘She wanted to help me,’ he said. ‘There have been a
few … problems. Confusion over some bills. Nothing that cannot be sorted out.’ He sat up straight in his chair and forced a smile. ‘But I cannot have her here, not now she’s carrying our child. What if something happened to her? I would never live with myself. So I told her no, it would be better if she stayed at home. You can understand that, can’t you, Dr Bond? You can see this is no place for a woman.’

‘Of course,’ I said, although I could see no reason why Juliana should not be safe enough up here, away from the docks and boats, and the loads of herbs and spices that came in and out. But I wished to placate him.

‘Women get so emotional,’ James muttered. ‘I just do not want her to come here – not here. This is where I work.’

‘I suppose,’ I said, keeping my tone light, ‘that she recalls you once told her she could help you in the office. I imagine she misses you. You work such long hours.’

‘Did I say that?’ He looked genuinely confused. Was it the proximity to the river that affected him? Did it make the
Upir
stronger, quashing his naturally gentle personality? Even if there was no
Upir
, he was still a troubled man, and I truly believed he had some involvement with the death of Elizabeth Jackson; I felt it in every nerve that jangled in my tired body.

There was a monster of some kind inside James Harrington, I was sure of it –and whether it was just
part of his tortured mind, or a real beast from the bottom of a Polish river, it was connected to the water. That was where most of the girls’ bodies had been pulled from.

‘Yes, you did.’

‘I do not recall. I forget a lot these days. My illness, I think – that’s why I have to work so hard, to stay focused.’ He looked up at me, and I could see no sign of that happy man I had met in the street only days before; he did not exist in those glassy eyes. Perhaps in the wake of their good news, Harrington had been able to fight his personal demons for a while, but now that he was back in London, whatever plagued him was settling back in.