Suspended In Dusk (10 page)

As the apparition reached the approach to Blackfriars Bridge, my feet broke their bonds. The sudden movement impelled me to stumble forward, hurrying along the pavement towards the unholy pair. Revulsion at the sight raged inside me and I no longer thought of the story that I had originally sought to tell. I sought only to better understand what was happening. I ran towards the bridge, where the monster reached the mid-point. It hoisted Ellen up onto the stone balustrade, and her body tumbled into the freezing waters below. I cried out in despair.

The hooded figure wiped its hand on its cloak, and free of its burden, it drifted towards me. I stared, straining my ears for the sound of footsteps, but there were none. I shouted something nonsensical, I know not what, and while I saw no eyes, I was aware of the weight of its gaze. The malice that this figure bore for me was as apparent as the sensation of winter in December. This was no normal man, ruling and punishing the unfortunates of London. This was something else entirely. The apparition, belonging to some awful class of spectre previously unknown to me, continued down the bridge and turned onto Southwark Street.

I stood in the street, my feet pointed towards the bridge but my body twisted in the direction of the creature’s exit. I wanted to recover Ellen’s body, but I would surely perish in the cold waters, and that would simply add an extra tally to the creature’s card. I had a notion to call for help, but only a priest could help poor Ellen now, and there was naught the constabulary, such as they were, could do. Part of me wanted to turn tail and flee, to run back to my rooms and avoid late night excursions into London’s bizarre streets. Yet despite the animosity that the figure clearly displayed towards me, another impulse wanted to follow it, to make sense of what I’d seen, and to quiet the rising voice inside me that sought answers. As I struggled to decide upon a course of action, another voice added its tones to the clamour, raging about what a fine story this would make.

I could not turn myself away once my feet began walking. I kept the infernal creature in sight, and hurried along Southwark Street. My quarry sped on, although I did not think it knew I was following—unless it knew that I was on its trail, and did not care. Indeed, having seen its manner of murder, I scarcely believed that it would consider me to be a threat of any kind. I wondered if I had perhaps seen a wraith of some kind. Indeed, I remembered the novel of Dr Polidori,
The Vampyre
, and speculated that perhaps this was the manner of their feeding.

The creature darted down another street, and I paid no attention to where I was. I kept thinking of Ellen, the beautiful, tragic blonde dumped into the Thames with cruel abandon. Even if she became nothing else, she could have been my muse. Now she would be another sentence or two in the newspaper, a mere footnote to the country’s mistreatment of unfortunate women.

I followed the figure along Redcross Street. It reached a pair of iron gates, and drifted between the bars. I approached the gates some moments after, and found them fastened with a large padlock. I grasped the bars, pulling on them with all of my strength to determine the means by which the creature gained access. There must have been some way through to which I was not privy, although I suspect my desire to discover a rational explanation was my mind’s defence against the fantastical events to which I had borne witness. I peered between the bars into a simple yard, moonlight falling across its uneven cobbles. The monster made its way toward the centre.

“Hi there, you! Yes, I see you!”

I shouted through the gates. The creature paused at the centre of the yard and turned its head in my direction. An angry hiss filled the yard as it lay down on the bare ground, and melted into the cold night air.

I stared between the gates but there was nothing to be seen. It had simply disappeared. I continued to stare as though it may yet reveal itself, as though the trick might be explained through rational means. I could not allow myself to believe that a being capable of lifting a young woman over a bridge could pass through iron bars and vanish into the cold night air as though it did not exist. An idea flitted through my mind that I had dreamed the entire thing. Perhaps lack of sleep, or a morsel of undigested dinner, had played tricks upon my eyes.

“‘Ey up, what are you doin’ here?” A gruff voice interrupted my thoughts.

I turned around to see an elderly man grasping a staff in one hand and an ancient lantern in the other. A moth-eaten watch cap perched on his balding head, and a tattered cloak did its best to keep out the chill of the night.

“I was just looking for someone. At least, I thought I was.”

“You won’t find no one in there, sir,” replied the night watchman.

“I thought I saw someone go in.”

The watchman frowned. He peered between the bars, and looked down at the padlock. He raised his gaze to meet mine.

“No way to get in, sir.”

“I saw someone, I am sure that I did.” I peered into the yard, and turned my gaze back to the night watchman. A chill ran down my spine, and I shoved my hands into my pockets.

“Tell me what ‘appened, sir?”

I told the watchman about my quest to find a muse, and my need to tell the story of the fallen women. I explained about meeting Ellen, and about what I saw in the alley. I realised the folly of my actions, but the tale poured out in a jumbled rush, and I trailed off into silence when the watchman started nodding.

“I know who you saw.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know ‘er name, but I know ‘er lives in there,” said the watchman, pointing into the yard. “This weren’t always a yard. Many years back, this was a burial ground, yes it were. Only it weren’t fer no usual folk. This was fer the geese of Winchester.”

“The what?”

“The street women what was put to work by the Bishop of Winchester. They was called his geese. The one what you saw… she’s the grand old mother, ain’t she? When you saw her bendin’ over that girl, she was takin’ her soul. She dumps ‘em in the Thames so the running water can wash away their sins.”

“She does what?” If the watchman had told me such a tale yesterday, I would have called for a policeman and recommended he be taken to Bedlam, but after the events of the evening, I found I was incredulous although not entirely disbelieving.

The night watchman repeated his words. I stared at him, eyes wide and unblinking.

“You expect me to believe that a former prostitute, dead for centuries, is taking the souls of fallen women, and dumping the bodies in the river? I thought they were committing suicide.”

“No, sir. It’s the Mother Goose. She takes ‘em. Frees ‘em from a bad life. You know ‘er cloak? It’s the cloak of all ‘er sin when she were alive. She’s been quiet for a while, dunno what’s prompted her to take it up again.”

“I see.”

“I reckon yer would be best off goin’ home, sir.”

I nodded and moved away from the gate, casting a last look into the yard before I walked away down the street. The night watchman waved as I turned the corner. I believed it to be only my imagination when I saw the faint outlines of the street through him.

* * *

The following morning, I browsed the newspaper over breakfast, immersing myself in society gossip and business news until the events of the previous evening seemed naught but a bad dream.

A knock at the door disrupted my reading. I glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece—only eight o’clock, yet I expected no visitors at such an hour.

I opened the door. My landlady stood in the hallway, flanked by a policeman and a well-dressed gentleman. I clung to the door, my knees suddenly weak. I had done no wrong, but the sight of a policeman at one’s door is apt to cause discomfort of some kind.

“Yes?”

“Are you Edward Bonneville?” asked the gentleman.

“I already told you he is,” said the landlady.

“I just need sir to confirm this, madam.” The gentleman’s tone was light but firm. He gave her a pointed look, and she pursed her lips.

“If you need me, I’ll be downstairs.” The landlady hobbled away along the corridor. The third step down creaked, and I assumed she had stopped on the stairs to eavesdrop. Unless I took action, the contents of our transaction would be spread around the parish before lunchtime.

“Perhaps you’d care to come inside?”

I held open the door and gestured for the men to enter and they shuffled inside. I sat in my threadbare armchair, and offered its twin to the gentleman. The policeman took up a position near the door, hands clasped before him.

“Yes, I am Edward Bonneville. What can I do for you, Mr…?”

“Inspector Abbott. I just have a few questions for you, Mr Bonneville, shouldn’t take too much time. First, could you confirm your whereabouts yesterday evening?”

“I went to visit my friend, Henry Woollenby. He’s an artist, and he wanted me to see his latest painting.”

Inspector Abbott nodded to the policeman, who fished a notebook out of his pocket and scribbled down Henry’s name.

“What else did you do, sir?”

“I came home, Inspector.”

“I see, sir. Did you do anything in between? Did you perhaps visit another establishment on your way home?”

Inspector Abbott stared at me, his gaze pinning me to my seat. A lie withered and died on my lips, and I sank into the chair. It was no use pretending anything other than the truth.

“I did swing by the Virginia Club for a spell.”

“Did you talk to anyone while you were there?”

“Yes, a lovely young woman named Ellen. I was doing some research—I’m a writer, you see, and I wanted to get some first-hand impressions to enrich my latest work. I realise it’s not the most salubrious club in London, but it was on the way home and it was recommended to me.” I ignored the policeman’s sneer.

“I see, sir. And did you see this Miss Ellen after you left?”

“Not at all, Inspector.”

“It’s a pity you say that, sir. Only I have it on good authority that you did see the lady later that evening. Does Blackfriars Bridge ring any bells for you?”

My stomach clenched and an icy weight coiled itself into a knot in my gut. I opened and closed my mouth several times as I fought to find the right words.

“I know what you’re getting at, Inspector, but it’s not what you think. I did not kill Ellen, and I certainly didn’t throw her body in the Thames.”

“Ah, so you know what became of her.”

I fell silent. Any lies would be useless now as I had given myself away.

“If you didn’t kill her, then who did?”

I studied the inspector’s face. He had a warm countenance, and a kindly expression that encouraged me to trust him. I sat forward in my chair and spilled the story in an uninterrupted flow. I told him about the hooded figure, the one from Henry’s painting, and I described my pursuit of the creature to the old yard. I recounted the night watchman’s words, even explaining the figure’s strange garb.

“What a to-do! I’ve never heard anything quite like it.”

“Yes, I realise it sounds bizarre, but it’s the truth. Go and find the old watchman, he’ll back me up.”

“We’ll do just that, sir. I’m sure he can clear all of this up in a jiffy. One question though, if this creature doesn’t like you, why hasn’t it done anything to you yet?”

“I do not know. I have asked myself that as well but… I just do not know.”

“I see. Well will you excuse me? I just need to speak to my colleague here, double check his notes.”

The two policemen ventured into the hall, leaving the door ajar. I leaned forward, straining to hear their conversation. Only snippets floated through the crack.

“I think he did it alright… oh I know he believes all that rubbish… clearly insane… Bedlam.”

I leapt out of the chair like a cat on a hotplate at the mention of Bedlam. No, I would not spend my days in a madhouse for anyone. I searched the room for proof of my innocence, but all I found was scribbled notes from the night before. I could not even read some of my writing, so desperate was the scrawl.

“We’ll have to get permission…”

Even in my state of panic, I recognised that I had to get away. They would not seek out the night watchman, so I would be forced to do so myself. With his testimony, they would see I spoke the truth, and all would be well.

I hurried to the window, slid the sash up and crawled out of the gap. The yard lay two storeys below me, but the kitchen roof provided a platform of sorts to my right. I inched along the windowsill and jumped across the narrow gap to the sill of the neighbouring room. Flakes of lime wash peeled away from the sill, coating my feet.

“The window!”

The inspector’s voice floated out of the open window, and his head poked out into the cold morning air. He looked across at me, his kindly expression grown hard and unyielding.

“Stop!”

I threw myself into open space, and landed on the kitchen roof with a thump. Dazed and winded from the fall, I rolled down the roof and into the yard. I cried out when my knee made impact with a misshapen cobblestone. I looked up and Inspector Abbott disappeared from the window. Shouting came from inside the lodging house.