The Oeuvre

by Greg James

  But there were always casualties in war, Cargill mused, even at home.

  Sacrifices had to be made.

  With distaste, he negotiated his way through the working-class rabble. He rapped his cane on the door of Elizabeth Cargill.

  Hope, he corrected himself, Elizabeth Hope. She’s not married to me.

  Not yet.

  Liz opened the front door.

  Cargill hopscotched inside quickly.

  “Phinny, this is a surprise.”

  He nodded with a grunt, unsteady eyes darting about, not meeting hers.

  Liz led him through, into the kitchen. Cargill sat down and patted his knee. Sighing inwardly, Liz perched herself on it. This routine was getting old but it made Cargill happy. She could feel his happiness pressing against the underside of her thigh. He joggled his knee up and down, bouncing her in a childish manner. He was like a boy with a toy dummy on his lap, not a human being.

  It all brought a blush to Liz’s cheeks. She couldn’t tell him it was one of humiliation, not excitement.

  After a while, he tired of the game.

  “How are you, my dear?”

  “Well as can be expected. Getting by, y’know.”

  “All is well with the house?”

  “Apart from the rats and the damp, yeah, it’s a palace.”

  “Hmmm. I will see what I can do about that. Yes, yes, I will. There is some tidying up that could be done, certainly.”

  That’s an understatement, thought Liz. She had hoped he would move her out of here, that was why she played along. But, that didn’t seem to be the plan for Cargill. No, she was still dependent on him. He was keeping her here where she needed him as much as he did her.

  “Any chance you could just clean out the cellar? It’s a bloody sty down there. Might help get rid of the rats.”

  “The cellar? Why, of course, I-”

  Cargill stopped speaking. The kitchen door had swung open without a sound and, through it, he could see the closed door that led down to the cellar. Standing before that door was his guest, picking away its scabs with broken fingernails, showing him those teeth, those long diseased splinters. Its mouth was coloured by streaks and smears of old blood. The eyes sunken into the translucence of its skull burned dull white and bright black.

  It was telling him something.

  No.

  Not to be here. To leave, to go now, before it hurt him.

  Cargill jumped to his feet, sending Liz sprawling onto the floor.

  She looked up at him, at the change in his face. His eyes were starting from their sockets, his jaw was rolling in wild geriatric motions. A lame dog’s howl came tearing out of his lungs, striated, abrasive. He ran for the front door, slamming it with a sharp bang.

  Liz picked herself up, frowning after the doctor.

  “What’s up with him then?”

  Jerry was in the doorway, his face stern.

  “Jerry? You going to talk to me or just stand there?”

  “Yeah, I’ll talk to you, Liz. I don’t like Cargill.”

  “Right, I see.”

  “He’s your keeper but he’s not good for you, Liz. There’s something about him. I can feel it, in my gut. He’s bad news.”

  “So what’re you suggesting, Jerry? That I stop seeing him? If I do that, I’m out on the street and so are you.”

  “I know.”

  “The Redcaps’ll run you down. They’ll find you easily enough once you’re out in the open, being in here is all that’s saved your neck so far.”

  “I know you’re right. You are. But I can’t shake this feeling. As soon as I set eyes on him. It’s there. Bang. In my head. An itch behind my eyes. It won’t go away, even when he’s gone.”

  “Shut up.”

  Jerry’s face fell.

  “No, sorry, Jerry, not you. My head. Full of bullshit,” she sighed and sat down. “I know Cargill’s a cunt, Jerry. No two ways about it. I know what he’s made of, more than you do. You don’t need to tell me that to try and get me to turn against him.”

  “No, Liz, it’s more than that. It’s deeper, somehow, like I know him from somewhere else. It’s difficult for me to put into words.”

  “Try to.”

  “Okay, something happened to me in Belgium. It was on my last flight over no man’s land.”

  He paused.

  “The last time I felt like this about something, I was over this place. Black Wood.”

  Jerry told Liz everything; the lost duel with Richtofen, the plunge into Black Wood’s depths, the fire, the crash and the blackness that came afterwards, when the wood swallowed him up. The things he thought he saw moving amongst the trees, wights and ghosts, thin and raw-white. Then, the lost hours when he had been god knows where having god knows what done to him. It was a memory that wasn’t a memory, a perfect silence, a hole in his mind.

  He told her about the dreams, those he could remember. When he was done, there was a quiet in the room, disturbed only by the scuffling of rats in the walls.

  “I think I know someone who can help you, Jerry.” Liz said.

  “Who?”

  “Calls himself Dr Spice but he’s not your usual kind of doctor. He’s an investigator. Into ghosts and spirits, that kind of thing. He just calls himself doctor so it sounds better.”

  “A Spiritualist?”

  “That’s right, yeah. He conducts seances all the time. Helping people get in contact with their loved ones. Maybe, he could help you.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Well, I went to see him, to see if he could contact my Harry, my sons.”

  “Did it work?”

  “No, but some of the other girls on this street, those who lost boys at the Somme, it worked for them. We could get him to go inside your head. See if you can get your memory back of what happened.”

  I’m not sure I want it back though, thought Jerry.

  *

  Inside the Hansom, Cargill clutched hard at his cane, watching his knuckles go white. He was not alone. It was sitting next to him, Cargill could feel its taint fouling the air, hear its wet breathing. His guest leaned over, whispering gently into his ear through the ragged meat of its lips.

  Cargill shook, a single great movement that went through every inch of his being, making him thrash his cane against the flooring of the carriage. His guest withdrew, giggling softly to itself. He did not move again for the rest of the journey.

  Now, Mick had been driving his Hansom around the streets of London for years, getting a sore arse ferrying the rich to and fro, listening to other blokes getting their jollies. He often wondered why they couldn’t wait until they got home. A bed must be more comfortable than a cab, but each to their own. He’d seen some queer sights too. Women dressed as men and men dressed as women. In some cases, he wasn’t sure which they were to start with, but the state of the bloke he had in the back today took the cake.

  Mick waited for him to get out when he pulled up outside the gent’s house. No sound from within. Mick feared the old boy had croaked on him. He didn’t like the idea of that happening in his cab, it was bad luck, carrying a dead one. Getting down off the front, he opened the door. The bloke was in there, alive, breathing, but unmoving. He reached in, took the gent by the arm, led him out to his front door and then left him there, just staring into space like a loony.

  Mick drove off.

  There was nothing good going on there. Something was really wrong with that gent. After half a block, he realised he had forgotten to collect his fare.

  He also realised that he didn’t care.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Maygrave sat at his desk, staring into space, willing the pieces to come together, for the pattern to become apparent. He had nothing on Cargill, just a squirming like cold worms in his stomach lining whenever he was near the man.

  The man who had been Jack the Ripper could still be alive, he could be out there, finishing his work after having gone to ground for twenty-odd years. That man could be Ca
rgill. That was feasible, possible, reasonable, right?

  “But I need something hard on the bastard.” he muttered.

  “You awake there, Maygrave?”

  The Superintendent was standing over him.

  “Yeah, sorry, sir. Thinking over the case. In a little world of me own.”

  “Well, you’d better come back to this planet. Sir Henry wants you in his office.”

  Maygrave swallowed hard as he got to his feet. He adjusted the off-blue collar of his shirt and straightened his tie. No point in looking too shabby in front of the Commissioner.

  “It’s about this business, I take it?”

  “Aye, it is. I’d get up there sharpish if I were you. He’s got something hatching.”

  “And he wants me to look after it? Wonderful.”

  Maygrave climbed the stairs to the offices of the almighty and knocked twice on Sir Edward Henry’s door.

  “Come in.”

  The Commissioner smiled an emotionless smile at Maygrave.

  “Shut the door and sit down, Maygrave. We have things to discuss.”

  Sir Henry smoothed a hand through his receding white hair. He was plucking at his moustache, “You’ve done well, Maygrave. Inspector, Second Class. Working class boy made good. You’re a credit to the Force.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Pleasantries like this never boded well.

  “But this business in Whitechapel, it’s not resolving itself, is it?”

  “Not yet, sir, but we are making progress with our enquiries.”

  “You are?”

  “We are.”

  “Can you give me any further details? Do you have a man in the frame?”

  “Not yet, sir.”

  Sir Henry huffed before he continued.

  “There’s been another death, Maygrave.”

  Maygrave nodded.

  This Jack was keeping to the pattern, following it to the letter, making a proper little ritual of it. Must be him, thought Maygrave, the same man, surely.

  “She was found in Mitre Square. Dead as a dodo. Cut up like the others. Frightful mess. Do you have anyone you can question about this, Maygrave?”

  He knew he didn’t need to ask the question. Whatever was going to be done had been decided, Maygrave could tell from the Commissioner’s tone. They were grooming him, little Inspector Maygrave, to be their scapegoat. Their Lamb of God, in fact, if things came to a head.

  “You are going to attend the local barracks and speak to Captain Thwaite this afternoon. They have a runaway, a Sergeant, American chappie who lost his marbles at the front. We’ve decided that he will be put on trial for these murders.”

  “But what if we find the man who did commit them, sir? The real Jack?”

  “And how successful were they at doing that in the last century, Inspector? They did not catch him, besides, the decision has been taken. You are to redirect your resources into hunting down this Reinhart chap. He’s our man.”

  Sir Henry passed a sepia photograph to Maygrave. He studied it closely. A young man of medium height dressed in the cap and khaki of an American pilot. One arm resting on the nose of his plane, a right old banger it was. A bright, carefree smile on his face. His sure expression had an optimistic mien to it. Maygrave was sure the man had seen things in life by now that had wiped the smile clean off his face.

  Maygrave didn’t like this, looking at the face of an innocent man, being told he was going to put him away for murder. No, not put him away, this man would be hanged, without a doubt. It was better that way, the dead don’t answer back.

  “You can get further details from the Captain. He is eager for this to be a joint operation between the Redcaps and ourselves.”

  “Understood, sir.”

  “Dismissed.”

  Maygrave took a cab down to the deadhouse in Old Montague Street. The body of victim four would be there, waiting for post mortem. He wanted a look at her, a chance to get some clue to the killer’s identity. He couldn’t just roll over, be a good dog, and let this deserter go to hang for it.

  He had to try.

  In the grey light of the mortuary, Dr Cargill was examining the body. He was wearing a leather apron, his back was to Maygrave as the Inspector entered. He banged the door closed, making Cargill jump. The doctor, his face looking as beaten and worn as his apron, turned shakily to see who was there. His arms were sheathed in dripping gloves of gore, all the way up to the elbows.

  “Expecting someone else, doctor?” asked Maygrave.

  The fright went out of Cargill’s eyes, he composed himself. “No, I was just curious to see who could be so unprofessional as to disturb my examination in such a manner.”

  “Only me, doctor. Other coppers would be far more courteous, I’m sure.”

  “What are you doing here, Inspector? My understanding was that they have a man in the frame. There can be nothing more for you to learn from this poor creature if that is the case.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “I told you before, Inspector, that I rank very highly in London society. I get to know certain things.”

  “You do, do you? Well, that’s nice. Now, how about you let me have a butcher’s at the recently deceased.”

  “By all means,” Cargill sneered, rinsing off his hands in a bowl of water.

  Maygrave approached the mortuary slab.

  Jesus wept, what a sight she was.

  “What was her name?”

  “We don’t know yet. Unidentified.”

  The way she glistened reminded him of Heather, his niece, when she was born. The woman’s face was a lattice-work of injury, there was blood in her unwashed hair and the throat had been thoroughly hacked open, down to the bone. Flesh, muscles, cartilage, vocal chords, all cut through. From the beginnings of her pubic hair up to the breastbone, she’d been gutted. Maygrave could see the left kidney and the womb were gone from the cavity. There were the same rough edges to the wounds, as with the others, the same ugly bite-marks.

  The same teeth.

  Her clothes were laid out on the next slab. Maygrave went through them; an old dress and old boots, dirty, tattered and torn, made colourless by neglect. Anonymous wares for an anonymous woman.

  She was without identity, leaving him without clues, without a lead. He had been hoping for something but he had nothing. What was the bloody use of being a policeman, a detective, if there was nothing to detect with.

  No evidence.

  “Are you done, Inspector?”

  “Yes, I’m done, doctor.”

  “Good day then. Please. I believe you have an appointment with Captain Thwaite, Inspector.”

  Maygrave met Cargill’s gaze with his own, hard as iron. For a moment, the doctor paled, his lip trembled, then his composure returned. With a brute grunt, Maygrave pushed past him, out the door, making the eminent doctor stumble away. He paused outside, breathing heavy, drawing the livid, burning threads of his temper back together.

  He stopped and listened.

  What was that?

  Cargill was talking, must be him, but the voice, it was wrong somehow. Distorted and flat, a weird insect chattering.

  “We be the echo.”

  Then, the sound of sobbing, distraught, deep and profound. Definitely Cargill, that. No-one had come in or out of there. No other doors that he could see.

  Maygrave left the deadhouse, his brow dense with furrows, and went on his way. Not long afterwards, he was sitting, uncomfortable, in Captain Thwaite’s office. He didn’t like it in there and he didn’t like why he was there. The office was resplendent with the trappings of the next class up; the polish, the brass and the thick odour of expensive tobacco. Captain Thwaite was speaking. “The Americans have got a man on the run and you need someone to pin this murder business on. Am I right?”

  “Yes, you’re right,” Maygrave said. His tone stating his reluctance to admit this but that’s what the Commissioner wanted. He wanted a suspect, a conviction. Maygrave wanted a conviction too. He wanted
a man to go down for what had had happened to those women but he didn’t like doing it this way.

  This was dirty. This was shitty. This was cold.

  The door behind him opened and closed. The atmosphere of the room changed. There was an undercurrent making the hairs on the back of his neck bristle.

  “Take a seat, Sergeant Cutter. We were just discussing the Reinhart situation.”

  Sergeant Cutter sat on the chair next to Maygrave.

  The Inspector cast a sidelong glance at the young man. His face was a mess, badly bruised on one side and the other was raw with scabs and cuts. Cutter picked off a strip of dried blood, flicking it to the floor, as crimson beads began peeping out from the tenderised flesh.

  Christ, thought Maygrave, why do that to yourself?

  Cutter was talking to the Captain, Maygrave ignored the words and instead listened to the man’s voice. It was not a voice coming from that mouth. It was a dead sound, an insect-echo. Like the one he’d heard in the deadhouse.

  Maygrave shivered.

  “Are you unwell, Inspector?” asked Thwaite.

  “No, fine. Just tired is all.”

  “Indeed. I’m sure this ugly affair has been giving you some sleepless nights. Well, that should soon be over. With the help of H Division, I’m sure my men will be able to ferret out Reinhart. The Americans are anxious for us to deal with this too. He has become something of an embarrassment to them. They had hoped he would come forward, turn himself in. He has not. They don’t care what we do now as long as he is dealt with. They will look after his family, concoct a suitable fate to have befallen him at the Front.”

  Cutter nodded his agreement to this, with a smile.

  Maygrave grunted, non-committal.

  The Captain continued. “We will conduct a house to house search of the area.”

  “How d’you know he hasn’t cleared out already?” asked Maygrave.