Murder (32 page)
‘I could have the baby there,’ she said. ‘I would like that.’ Her eyes softened and sadness darkened them. ‘I would like to show James his little brother or sister. I think it would …’ She struggled for the right words. ‘I think it would make things better,’ she said at last.
‘Then that is what we shall do,’ he said, getting up from the desk and wrapping his arms around her. ‘We’ll go to London and look after Thomas Bond and we’ll have our baby there. But you must see a doctor first, and I think we go nowhere for a month or so. Let’s make sure our baby is happy to travel first.’
She smiled at that and cried a bit and then they kissed and the heat between them that had never faded grew urgent and he locked the door and closed the blinds and they loved each other slowly and gently right there on his desk. Life was good. They would go to London and say farewell to the past. It was time to focus on the future.
London. 29
th
May, 1901
Dr Bond
Things were changing. I could feel it. The
Upir
, so strong now it gorged regularly on the products of my crimes, was becoming restless. I could feel its impatience, its longing for freshness. I knew why: I was broken, after all. I shuffled through my existence, a puppet to the thing on my back, with no fight left in me. I had begun to realise that the
Upir
gained as much joy from the destruction of its host as it did from the deaths of others. There was no fun left to be had from me. I also knew that when it moved on it would not end well for me, but I found I cared little for that. I was tired; I wanted it done. I wished for my whole sorry existence to be over. I had started to go out during the day, trying to engage with people, in the hope that the creature would select one and move on, but it did not. Instead I suffered its increasing rage and frustration as none seemed to fit whatever strange requirements it had.
On those days the killings were more brutal. They barely touched me.
The first human emotion I had felt in a long time came this morning when I received a letter from Juliana: she and Edward Kane were in London and they wished to call on me, for they had heard I was unwell and this made her unhappy. She wanted to nurse me back to good health and then perhaps persuade me to return to New York with them until I was myself again. I stared at the delicate sheet of paper, my eyes
running over her words again and again.
Juliana
. In London.
Here
. I was filled with a sudden terror. She could not come here! She was the only goodness left in my world, even after I had destroyed so much of hers, and although I longed to see her, I knew I could not. As my heart raced and my hands trembled, I felt the cold excitement of the creature on my back and dread overwhelmed me, for it was clear it had found a new pleasure, a new way to taunt me. My love for Juliana was all I had left of my former self and I knew without doubt that if Juliana came here, the
Upir
would force me to take her to the cellar. But I would not do that. I
would not
.
I went to my study and sat, shaking, at my desk. Henry Moore must have told her I was unwell – it was the only explanation. My loathing of him burned bright and I fought to control it. I needed to master my feelings – so many of which I was sure were not my feelings at all but the wickedness of the
Upir
running through my veins. I needed to call up the last of my energy, the last dregs of the man who had once been Dr Thomas Bond, respected Police surgeon. I needed to focus.
For the first time in a long time I did not reach for the brandy bottle or the laudanum, even though I itched for both. I had to
think
. This was no longer about my survival; this was about Juliana’s. I needed clarity – and I also needed to free myself of my secrets, to face the growing list of deadly sins that I hid from in drug and alcohol use.
Juliana was in London and the
Upir
wanted her. That could not happen. I needed to separate myself from the demon, if only in my own mind, if I was to protect her. I thought of the priest and the way he had wrestled the creature from Harrington’s back. I needed to see the beast that clung to me if I was to fight it. Later, I would go to the dens, not to partake,
even though my stomach was already clenching in sharp need, but to hunt down that special opium we had used so long ago. I withdrew into a cool corner of my mind, away from the heat and emotions that the
Upir
drew on, and hid within myself.
There were long hours ahead before I could venture east, and I knew how I needed to fill them. I needed to get the wickedness out, whether as a warning or a confession, maybe both. I had to write it all down so there would be a record when I was gone. And I would leave it for the attention of Henry Moore, the strongest, most rational man I knew, to do with what he would. I knew exactly where to begin: on that grim day in October, 1888, when, plagued by insomnia and anxiety, I was called to Whitehall.
The memories came flooding back and I could see the events of that day as if it were yesterday. I pulled a blank journal from the shelf and once I had steadied my hands, I began to write.
‘How much further?’ The shafts of bright sunlight filling the building site above were finally petering out and leaving us in a cool, grey darkness that felt clammy against my skin
.
‘A little way, Dr Bond,’ Hawkins said. The detective was grim. ‘It’s in the vault.’ He held his lamp up higher. ‘We’re lucky it was found at all.’
Huddled over like the rest of the small group of men, I made my way under the dark arches and down stairways from one sub-level to the next. We fell into a silence that was marked only by the clatter of heels moving urgently downwards. I’m sure it wasn’t just I who found the gloom to be claustrophobic – especially given what we knew to be waiting for us in the bowels of this building – and I’m sure part of our haste was simply so we could face what we must and get back to the fresh air as quickly as possible
.
The workmen above had downed their tools, adding to the eerie quiet. We were a long way down, and with the walls damp and rough beside me, I
could not shake the feeling that I was in a tomb rather than the unfinished basement of what was to be the new Police Headquarters. But perhaps I was – an unintentional tomb, of course, but a resting place of the dead all the same. I shivered. There had been enough death of late, even for someone like me, who was trained in all its ways. Recently I had begun to think that soon this city would be forever stained in cold, dead blood
.
Finally, we made our way down the last few steps and arrived at the vault. It was time to work
.
‘They moved it over here before they opened it,’ Hawkins said, standing over a lumpen object nearby, ‘where there was better light to see it.’ The foreman and the poor carpenter who had found and unwrapped the parcel were keeping their distance, shuffling their feet as they stayed well clear of what lay at the detective’s feet. As I looked down, I found I did not blame them
.
‘Dear Lord,’ I muttered. After the slayings of recent weeks I had thought we must all be immune to sudden shock, but this proved that was not the case. My stomach twisted greasily and I fought a slight tremble in my hands. More gruesome murder in London. Had we not seen enough? The parcel the workmen had found was approximately two and a half feet long. It had been wrapped in newspaper and tied with cheap twine, the ends now hanging loose where they had been cut open to reveal the horrific secret inside
.
‘We’ve not touched it since,’ the foreman, a Mr Brown, said nervously. ‘Fetched the constable straight away, we did, an’ he stayed with it while we fetched the detective. We ’aven’t touched it.’
He didn’t need to repeat himself to convince me. Regardless of the sickly stench of rot that now filled the air, who would choose to touch this? The woman’s torso was lacking arms, legs and a head, and across its surface and tumbling from the severed edges was a sea of maggots that writhed and squirmed over each other as they dug into the dead flesh. In the quiet of the vault we could hear the slick, wet sound made by the seething maggots. Here and there they dropped free to the black ground below
.
I fought a shiver of repulsion. Whoever this woman was – and despite the
physical trauma it was clear this was the torso of a woman – her death was no recent event
.
I crouched lower to examine the damaged body more closely, and held the light close as I bent down to the floor in order to peer into the largest cavity. What was left of her insides was a mess: whoever had done this had not been content with just amputating her limbs. Much of her bowel and her female internal organs had also been removed. This killer had taken his time
.
I did not notice the hours passing and the day darkening as I scribbled, my hand struggling to keep up with the terrible story unfolding on the pages. I relived every step of the doomed journey I had taken, flinching from nothing. At points in my tale I wept, loud, racking sobs that blurred my vision and spilled salty drops that made the ink run words into each other, but I did not stop until my shame had been laid bare for anyone who opened the book to see. When I had finished, I leaned back in my chair, my hand and spine cramping from the task I had undertaken, but my heart felt lifted. I had faced my slow downfall and I felt better for it.
I sealed the journal in an envelope and marked it for the attention of Henry Moore in the event of my death. There would be no more killings. The cellar would remain clean. One way or another, the
Upir
and I were done. Little Kosminski had managed to starve it and I would do that too. I had to protect Juliana. I had to keep her safe.
When night had enveloped the city, I ventured out. The beast squirmed on my back as if it could sense my rebellion but I kept myself resolute, even as I passed the women who called at me from doorways, seeking out business and completely unaware that they were toying with their own deaths. I had a large purse of money with me, but it was not for them. The
Chi-Chi who had first sold me the strange drug had long since vanished or died, but there would be others, I was sure of it. The Eastern men had different knowledge to us, and if one Chi-Chi knew of the drug that enhanced men’s ability to
see
, then I could not believe that he was alone.
London. 5
th
June, 1901
Edward Kane
‘We have called on him several times for days now,’ Edward said, pacing around the sitting room of their hotel apartments, ‘and never an answer. His neighbours say they haven’t seen him for weeks, although they hear coming and goings at night.’
Henry Moore smoked and listened, his brow furrowed into a frown. ‘He’s not a well man. He hasn’t answered my notes either.’
‘But what can we do?’ Juliana, hot and flustered and weighed down by the child who was so very nearly grown inside her, fanned herself. ‘It can’t go on. Is there any way you can call on some of your police colleagues to get us into the house?’
‘It’s not impossible – there are plenty of the Force who owe debts of gratitude to him. But to break into a respectable man’s house with no real cause …’ He paused, and then said, ‘It could do more harm than good. He will not welcome the intrusion.’
‘I do not care about upsetting him, Mr Moore,’ Juliana said. ‘I care only about his welfare.’
‘You make a good point.’ Moore smiled at her. ‘Leave it with me. I shall go make some enquiries and let you know this evening. We won’t be able to do anything until tomorrow at the earliest, though.’
‘Tomorrow is plenty soon enough,’ Edward said, relieved.
He shook Moore’s hand. ‘And we owe you for this. I know you’re a busy man.’
‘No, you owe me nothing. My problem is that I’m often too busy or distracted by work,’ he said. ‘I’ve neglected my old friend and I feel bad about that.’ He got to his feet. ‘You’ve come a long way to see Thomas’ – he looked at Juliana – ‘at a time when you should be concentrating on other things. I won’t add to your worries. We’ll get you in that house.’
After Edward had seen the erstwhile policeman to the door Juliana asked for the hundredth time, ‘But why won’t he let us in? We are his friends.’
‘You are, my darling.’ Edward poured a cup of tea from the tray and took it to her. ‘Me? Perhaps not. I stole you from him, after all. Maybe he doesn’t want me to see him weak and old.’
‘That is not like Thomas. He’s a good man – a kind man. He always has been.’
‘Sickness changes people,’ Kane said. Although he didn’t wish to upset Juliana, he was regretting their trip. Andrews was dead, Bond was sick and there was something deeply oppressive about the city that he could not quite shake. He wasn’t sleeping well, and as he lay awake with his hand on Juliana’s stomach, taking comfort from the kicking child, he thought if anything were to happen to her or the baby he would never forgive himself.
He had no idea where this dread had come from. Juliana had been in perfect health throughout her pregnancy, unlike when she had carried James, and the travel had caused her no sickness at all. They were staying in one of London’s finest hotels and wanted for nothing. There was no danger – and yet still his skin prickled with it. Whatever love he had had for London was gone. He ached for the grime of New York.
‘Perhaps we should try calling on him again?’ Juliana asked.
‘Today?’
‘Let’s wait and see what Moore says. I suggest we take a day for ourselves.’
‘We could visit James’ grave,’ she said softly. ‘And perhaps Walter Andrews’.’ She looked out of the window. ‘While the weather is so pleasant.’
The air felt clammy to Edward. He had hoped they might walk in the park and then have an early dinner before a quiet night in, but it looked like that was not to be. The graveyards were what she wanted to go. He shuddered, for no reason. Why was he so overwhelmed by the presence of death? Why wouldn’t it leave him?
‘If that’s what you want.’ He leaned over and kissed her soft cheek, enjoying the scented warmth of her skin, ‘then that’s what we’ll do.’ He smiled, and she smiled back.