Murder (8 page)

They sipped their brandy and the fire crackled between them, punctuating the background hubbub of male voices.

‘But I do wonder,’ Hebbert said, ‘if a younger man might not be better for her. I fear were she to marry Thomas, as fond as I am of him and knowing how deeply he does love her, that she would be achieving the wrong type of security.’

‘She would feel safe with him,’ Kane said, ‘that is for sure.’ If he could not derail the conversation, at least he would not stoop to trying to discredit Thomas Bond’s credentials as a suitor. For a start, he liked and respected the man. And it was becoming clear that Hebbert already had doubts about that possible match, if Bond ever got up the nerve to ask her to marry him, so there was nothing to be gained by sticking the knife in here. If he was going to win Juliana, then it would be through his own efforts, not by trying to malign his rival. It was hard to consider Bond a rival – how old was he? Late-fifties? Not that much younger than Kane’s father had been when he’d died.

‘Yes, yes,’ Hebbert agreed. ‘Thomas is a fine man. But he is nearing retirement and she is still a young woman. London can be a hard city to live in – I often see the very worst of its actions – and no doubt worse as a widow of means.’

He left the rest unsaid but the message was clear. If Edward Kane were to win Juliana’s affections and take her to New York to live a wealthy and privileged life, he would find no argument from her father. He felt a moment of guilt for Bond. He had taken the doctor into his confidence about James Harrington’s letters, and if he were a true gentleman he would back away from his growing relationship with Juliana. Where affairs of the heart were concerned, however, gentleman or not, he’d learned that people invariably did what they wanted to. Fighting it only delayed the inevitable. Even for those less carnally driven than himself.

‘She’s a strong woman,’ he said. ‘Whatever she chooses for her future, I’m sure she’ll do just fine.’ He was careful to say what and not who. He’d seen his father tell a thousand faux truths in boardroom meetings to know the power of choosing the right words.

‘We should play cards,’ Hebbert announced suddenly, changing the tack of the conversation. ‘There is normally a game or two going on, and I don’t feel quite ready to retire yet. What do you say?’

‘I’m always in for the tables,’ Kane replied.

‘Excellent!’ Hebbert was back to his jovial self. ‘Then we shall – Ah, Thomas! There you are. Cards?’

‘Sadly not.’ Bond finally returned to join them, but didn’t sit. ‘I have only just realised the time,’ he said. ‘I fear I must go home. Otherwise I shall be no use to the police in the morning. Nor to my patients at Westminster.’

He appeared slightly flustered, his smile tight.

‘Damn shame,’ Hebbert said. ‘It’s been a most pleasant evening. No doubt we shall meet again soon enough though.’

Bond nodded and shook both their hands. His fingers felt cold in Edward Kane’s grip. What was Bond hiding? Anything? Maybe it was just his own imagination at work, looking for signs that weren’t there. Always possible, he concluded, as he picked up his brandy and followed Charles Hebbert towards the cards room. Possible, but unlikely. He’d learned to trust his instincts and they were telling him that Dr Thomas Bond was onto something.

I did not sleep well that night. At first I had thought my investigations would be easy. On arrival at the club, Hebbert had signed us all into the Members’ ledger before we handed in our coats and hats. It was as I had hoped: a record of each visit was made, and I imagined that the club was quite prestigious enough for the expensive leather-bound books to be kept for posterity.

I ate a good dinner, and entertained Edward Kane with stories of the inquest, glad to be able to avoid the subject of Harrington’s letters, and when we’d retired for brandy and both of my companions were pleasantly merry from wine, I excused myself and hurried to the entrance. With the list of dates of Jack’s murders in my pocket I had hoped to be able to quickly scan the right pages and confirm whether Charles Hebbert had been there that night – even if I only had time to check the date of the Alice McKenzie killing, the one date he’d claimed beyond doubt to be dining at the club.

I was not in luck: despite my entirely plausible excuse of wanting to check some personal dates of attendance to clear up a matter with a friend – banking on the fact that the man in charge would not know whether I had visited there before or not – he could not provide me with the books, for they were stored elsewhere, and in any case, members’ records were a private matter. I could, however, leave a note with my
name and the date in question on it, and someone would check on my behalf and send a message to me. All of this was explained on the presumption that I was a member and not simply a guest, and so I smiled and told him I might well do that if I could not find the details in my own papers; that I wouldn’t put anyone to such trouble until I was certain it was necessary.

After that, I made my excuses to my companions and left. I could not risk the gentleman at the desk changing his mind and coming to find me, for there was no story I could conceive that would explain to Charles my needing to see the club’s records. As I was quite sure he was innocent of the suspicions I needed to allay in my mind, it would make me look a fool, and it would also damage our relationship – and thus my relationship with Juliana.

My sleep was fitful as my mind dragged images and memories I thought had long since faded to the fore of my nightmares and then twisted them with images of Hebbert and Juliana and of course James Harrington until I woke, sweating and terrified, a little after four. There was no laudanum in the house and I was glad of that, for I am sure I would have swallowed half the bottle to calm myself.

I needed to check those records. It was the only way I would find peace for myself again. The kernel of suspicion I held about Hebbert was like a gateway to all the horrors of the past I had worked so hard to put behind me.

After Mrs Parks’ breakfast, which, though I was in no mood to eat, I managed anyway, I took a cab to Walter Andrews’ offices and asked if I could engage his private investigation services to get the records for me. To his credit he did not press when I told him I would rather not share why I wanted them
at this stage, but I did say it had something to do with young Harrington. I was simply trying to clear up a small matter, nothing important.

When he arrived that evening with the Members’ Ledgers for 1888 and 1889 in his hands, he was more curious. Although I was desperate to check the entries, I put the books on a side-table and offered him a drink, which he accepted.

‘I must have them back early tomorrow morning,’ he said. He hadn’t taken his coat off and the heavy raindrops caught in its folds dripped on the rug, marking out the seconds. ‘And there is a small sum to be paid to the employee who provided them – no fee on my part though, Thomas. Consider it a favour to a friend.’

‘Thank you.’ I handed him a small glass of brandy – an ungenerous measure, but I didn’t want him to linger. ‘I shall return them first thing.’

‘You could of course check what you need while I wait,’ he said. ‘And then I could return them tonight.’ I did not miss the curious look in his eyes. I knew Andrews well, and his eye for detail was as acute as mine. We also trusted each other, and I had no doubt he was wondering why I was being so reticent about this.

‘I need to look at these in conjunction with some other documents that aren’t in the house, I’m afraid,’ I extemporised. ‘But have no fear: I shall have them back to you by breakfast time, I assure you.’

‘That’s fine.’ He drained his brandy. ‘Then I shall leave you to it.’

‘Thank you once again,’ I said, trying not to look over-eager as I edged him towards the drawing-room door. ‘I really do appreciate your help.’

He paused in the hallway and studied me in the dimmed
light. ‘I could not help but notice the years of the ledgers: eighty-eight and eighty-nine. Jack’s time.’

I forced a laugh. ‘Sadly, this in not related to our missing killer but a far more mundane matter of spending. Something I would rather keep quiet for others’ sake.’

‘Well, if you need any more help, then just ask. And you know you can talk to me about anything that might be concerning you.’

‘And I would, Walter, I would.’ I shook his hand firmly, hoping my palm wasn’t sweating in his. ‘Now I’m sure you have supper waiting for you at home. I’ve kept you out long enough.’

Finally, he left and I heaved a sigh of relief as the door closed behind him. I gave it a few minutes until I was sure he was truly gone and then I grabbed the ledgers and ran up the stairs to my study. I had already drawn up a list of the dates of the Ripper killings and I placed it next to the books. I’d start with Alice McKenzie. If Hebbert had been in the club as he’d said, then the rest was of no consequence and I could sleep easy in my bed once again, all the while laughing at my own foolishness.

July sixteenth. I scanned through the months until I found the date and then ran my finger down the inked names. I reached the last entry and paused. With a sickly knot forming in my guts I went back to the top and started again. Three more times I searched, my eyes moving faster and faster over the names as dread crept into my limbs.

Charles Hebbert’s name was not there. I looked to my list and reached for the 1888 books. Martha Tabram, Polly Nicholls, Annie Chapman, Elizabeth Stride, Catherine Eddowes and lastly poor Mary Jane Kelly, the wreck of whose body I had studied in her room. Hebbert had not been at his club on the nights of any of their murders.

I sat back in my chair, a boulder settling on my chest. Could I really be suspecting Charles Hebbert of such crimes? And if it was Hebbert, why had the killings stopped so suddenly?

Because Harrington had died
. My mind’s whisper was like a worm burrowing deep into my head.
And Harrington was the
Upir
and the
Upir
had brought the mayhem
.
Without the
Upir
close by, Hebbert was saved from the dark urges and fantasies that had lived inside him
.

It was preposterous – it had to be. I poured myself a brandy and drank it quickly, hoping to stop the trembling in my hands. Then I flicked through the pages of the books once more. Even where Hebbert was present, I could find only two occasions when he had taken Harrington with him – and yet Juliana had complained to me at the time that Harrington and her father were always at his club. Why would Hebbert lie about that? Surely one or the other would have revealed the truth at some point – so was this lie complicit? Had they known of each others’ awful secret deeds?

I needed to look at Harrington’s letters. The thought filled me with a terrible fear, but I knew my curiosity would drive me to madness otherwise. I would not read them all, I vowed, as I went downstairs and pulled on my coat and hat. I would simply scan them, looking for references to Hebbert’s club, no more than that. I would not be pulled into the insanity of the supernatural again. I had to go to my office at the Westminster and see what the letters held.

As I stepped outside, the freezing night gathered round me like a shroud and in my wake I could feel the ghosts of dead women reaching out to cling to me. They needed answers. And, God help me, so did I.

… I have been so wrapped up in my fears for my sanity that when she said she was upset about my behaviour I was expecting some revelation that she knew of my blackouts, or perhaps something worse, some confirmation of the things I fear I am doing in those times. But it was none of that. She said only that she felt lonely. I had promised her she could come and help me with some of the books and she said she did not mind that the opportunity had not arisen (although it was clear that had upset her too, but how could I let her near the wharves? How could she see how little I concentrated there and how my mind was focused on whatever was behind that locked door that I trembled to open?) and that she was glad her father and I clearly found each other’s company interesting, but she was tired of spending evenings alone while we dined at the club
.

I did not know how to answer that. As far as I was aware I had dined with Hebbert at the club only once, maybe twice; it certainly was no regular occurrence. I did not say this though; I opened my mouth to deny it, but found I could not speak the words.

I know what you’re thinking, Edward – if you’re thinking anything other than I should be in an asylum by now – and that is that if I am suffering blackouts from my fever or something worse then perhaps I
am
dining with Dr Hebbert and simply not remembering it
.

The vague spaces I sometimes occupy don’t work like that. And my
strands of memory related to them are always grim. Surely if I was dining so frequently with her father that it was upsetting Juliana then I would remember at least some of it? I wondered if it was a lie I had told her at some point and forgotten but it was not something that it would strike me to say. I know that when I returned from wherever I found myself late at night I would tell her I had been working late (another reason I could not allow her to come to my offices to help me), but I could not recall ever including her father in my terrible deceptions. Why would I? It would be so easy for her to prove wrong.

I mumbled an apology, and did my best to make her feel better. She loves me very much and it hurts me terribly to see her so distressed. It is not the grand passion I had with Elizabeth – that was a first love, and I was different then – but I do love her and I wish that this terrible weight on my back and in my soul did not plague me so, that I could be a good future husband to her.

At times, when the dream-like visions of what I am coming more and more to believe are recollections of my own actions overwhelm me, I think I should break off our engagement. Surely it is wrong of me to marry her knowing how troubled I am, but the idea of being alone – more alone than I feel already – terrifies me even more. It is as if Juliana and the normality of my life with her is the only anchor I have against this growing madness. And when the fever passes and my mind clears it is easier to dismiss all my terrible misgivings as flights of fancy. Then I think myself foolish for even considering giving her up.