The Candle Man

by Alex Scarrow

  To my wife, Frances – my partner in crime.

  CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  PART I

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  PART II

  CHAPTER 36

  CHAPTER 37

  CHAPTER 38

  CHAPTER 39

  CHAPTER 40

  CHAPTER 41

  CHAPTER 42

  CHAPTER 43

  CHAPTER 44

  CHAPTER 45

  CHAPTER 46

  CHAPTER 47

  CHAPTER 48

  CHAPTER 49

  CHAPTER 50

  CHAPTER 51

  CHAPTER 52

  CHAPTER 53

  CHAPTER 54

  CHAPTER 55

  PART III

  CHAPTER 56

  CHAPTER 57

  CHAPTER 58

  CHAPTER 59

  CHAPTER 60

  CHAPTER 61

  CHAPTER 62

  EPILOGUE

  PROLOGUE

  1912, RMS Titanic

  She was tilting already, he could just detect the subtle hint of it; enough of a tilt that the service trolleys, all on well-oiled castors, seemed to have quietly drifted to the far end of the reading room.

  He looked up from his brandy glass and watched as men in evening suits outside on the promenade deck rushed past the saloon windows, gawping at, laughing excitedly at, the slowly receding peak of the iceberg. No more than an interesting diversion for them, like an unscheduled port visit.

  But the fools haven’t noticed the engines have stopped.

  ‘Mr Larkin, isn’t it?’

  He turned in his armchair. ‘Yes?’

  It was one of the stewards he rather liked: a short, cheerful, ruddy-faced man called Reginald. He was pushing a wheelchair occupied by a pale-looking young woman.

  ‘Would you mind Miss Hammond sitting with you awhile, sir? There’s a lot of commotion going on about the deck . . .’ He smiled disarmingly. ‘A lot of unnecessary runnin’ around, if you ask me. The lady will be better off in here for now, I fancy.’

  He nodded. ‘Yes . . . of course, Reginald.’

  The steward parked the chair opposite him and turned to leave.

  ‘Reginald, you’ll not forget her, I hope?’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘When you start loading up the lifeboats? You’ll not forget her, I trust?’

  ‘Lifeboats, sir?’ The steward’s eyebrows knitted together above a vaguely patronising smile. ‘Oh, I certainly don’t think we’ll be getting those out tonight, Mr Larkin.’

  Larkin glanced at the young woman sitting opposite him, little more than a girl, really. The mention of lifeboats had turned her skin a shade paler. He spread his hands apologetically.

  ‘Of course . . . of course. Perhaps I’m over reacting.’

  Reginald’s eyes met his and in that fleeting moment confirmed what he already suspected. That the ship was going down, albeit very slowly. Gracefully, even. But she was going down nonetheless.

  ‘Aye, Mr Larkin, sir . . . no need for any undue alarm. You’ll be all right here, won’t you, Miss Hammond?’

  She looked at Larkin uncertainly.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘I’ll take very good care of her.’

  ‘Right you are, sir.’ The steward turned to leave them with a touch more haste than perhaps he’d intended.

  Alone now. Just the two of them in the reading room, the crystal chandeliers jangling softly like wind chimes, the growing mélange of voices from the promenade deck and the deck below muted to a background hubbub through the closed windows.

  He glanced up from his brandy glass at her. She wasn’t just pale. She was clearly very ill. Perhaps even dying. Something, then, the pair of them had in common. His eyes wandered down from the pale and delicate oval of her face to the painfully thin frame of her body. She looked as fragile as a freshly hatched chick.

  ‘Is there not someone else travelling with you?’

  Her eyes darted from the windows to him and then back outside to the excited gentlemen in their dinner jackets.

  ‘My guardian. She went outside to find out what is going on,’ she replied in a small voice. She caught his eyes studying her. ‘If you are wondering . . . I have a muscle-wasting disease. The family physician believes I will not last until the summer.’ She sighed. ‘One more summer would have been nice.’

  The old man leant forward. ‘Then I’m afraid we both will miss this summer,’ he said.

  ‘You are unwell too?’

  He nodded. ‘I have a cancer. I shall be lucky to enjoy more than a few more months.’

  She smiled sadly. ‘Then you’re right. No more summers for either of us.’

  ‘I fancy we won’t be missing much. Another summer of grey skies and wet days.’

  She laughed softly.

  They listened to the animated chattering of the men outside, rubbing their hands and fidgeting from one foot to the other to stay warm. Plumes of breath and cigar smoke clouded the promenade.

  ‘Why did you ask about the lifeboats?’ the young woman asked. ‘You don’t think we’re in trouble, do you?’

  The old man swilled the half full glass of brandy in his hand.

  ‘Mr Larkin? It is Larkin, isn’t it?’

  He nodded absently.

  ‘Do you think we will sink, Mr Larkin?’

  He was tempted to offer her a platitude. A verbal placebo. But then he suspected, despite her sparrow-like fragility, that she was made of sterner stuff. It appeared she’d already accepted her mortality; that, for her, there was a very clearly bookmarked ending to her life. He could patronise her, but perhaps that didn’t do her justice.

  ‘Yes,’ he replied. He nodded towards the service trolleys gathered in a conspiratorial huddle against one wall. ‘Do you see? We are already listing to the stern.’

  ‘They say she’s unsinkable.’

  He laughed at that. ‘Now doesn’t that sound like hubris to you?’

  She shrugged.

  ‘I would imagine a big enough hole will sink any ship.’

  She gave that some thought. ‘The steward was frightened. I’m certain of it. I could hear it in his voice.’

  He nodded. ‘It’ll be his job now – Reginald and the other stewards – to pretend all is well for as long as they possibly can whilst preparations are made.’

  ‘The lifeboats?’

  ‘Only for the lucky few.’

  She frowned. Dark caterpillar eyebrows above piercing, intelligent eyes. ‘I take it you have counted them too?’

  He smiled, wondering for a moment what things this clever young woman might have gone on to do, to achieve, if her bookmark had been advanced to allow another dozen chapters in her life.

  ‘Indeed. I should say there are enough boats for only a third of the people aboard.’

  She nodded. ‘I did wonder about that.�
��

  He looked out of the saloon windows at the men outside. ‘There will be boats for the first-class passengers, of course. And the crew. But those unfortunate people on deck “C” and below will be without.’

  ‘They will have life-preservers, though?’

  He shrugged. ‘I presume so, but this sea is freezing. I’d imagine they’ll not last an hour in it.’ He pursed his lips. ‘Which is why I rather fancy staying put here. Since I don’t have a great deal of time left . . . someone else might as well have my place.’ He laughed softly. ‘And I shall imagine my sacrifice is made for some young soul with great plans, who will change the world for the better.’ He drained his glass. ‘And this brandy will make that sacrifice a great deal easier.’

  He got up from his armchair, wandered over to the bar and retrieved another bottle of Rémy Martin from the glass cabinet. He closed the door. Slowly, it swung open again.

  He rejoined Miss Hammond and set another glass on the table.

  She looked at it meaningfully. ‘You think I’ve been left here, don’t you?’

  He said nothing as he refilled his glass.

  ‘You think the steward was under orders to just leave me here, don’t you? A cripple in a wheelchair?’

  ‘I think poor Reginald has a lot of things on his mind, principally hoping he has a place reserved aboard one of those lifeboats.’ He sniffed the brandy in his glass. ‘Sat down in here with me, you’re one less thing he has to worry about.’

  She glanced at the empty glass. ‘Go on then . . . I shall join you.’

  He poured her a half glass, more than one would normally pour into a brandy bowl, and passed it to her. ‘The more we drink, my dear, the less we’re going to care.’

  She nodded and took a hefty swig. She made a face as she swallowed it. ‘Urgh! I’ve never drunk brandy before.’

  He laughed. ‘And now you have.’

  She recovered her composure and smacked her lips appreciatively. ‘I think I like it better than the sweet sherry my aunt insists on serving.’

  They sipped from their glasses in silence for a while, listening to the whoop of excitement from the promenade deck as an emergency flare was launched and exploded high in the night sky with a soft pop.

  ‘Are you travelling with anyone?’ she asked after a while.

  He shook his head. ‘I am alone.’ He studied her face, a second question written in the arc of one raised eyebrow. ‘I wanted to visit America,’ he added.

  ‘To see the sights? Myself too.’

  ‘To find someone, actually.’

  She looked intrigued. ‘Find someone? Family?’

  He nodded.

  ‘To say goodbye?’

  ‘Indeed.’ He was reluctant to give her any more than that.

  Her skin had a touch of colour now: faint florets of pink on the side of her pale neck.

  ‘Someone once told me that on every deathbed there’s a story to be told.’ She shrugged. ‘If you’re indeed right, I suppose we shan’t get to lie on our deathbeds now.’

  ‘Perhaps tonight’s a better way to go for the pair of us, then?’

  Her face flickered with a moment of fear that slowly transformed and relaxed into a sanguine expression of acceptance. Perhaps the brandy was working on her; perhaps it was the realisation that going down with the ship tonight was going to save her the weeks, maybe months, of bed-ridden pain ahead.

  ‘Truth be told, I wouldn’t have much of a deathbed story. I’m nineteen. I’ve done little with my life but attend one school after another.’ She tossed her head back and emptied her glass. ‘What about you? I suspect you’ve lived long enough to acquire a deathbed tale or two.’

  He smiled. ‘Perhaps.’

  She held out her glass for a refill. ‘Tell me your story, then,’ she said with a teasing smile and the slightest slur. ‘I won’t tell a soul.’ She giggled.

  He filled her glass and topped up his, the bottle of brandy already a third empty. He settled back in his armchair.

  ‘My story?’ His rheumy eyes found a place inside him: old memories, dusting them off one last time. ‘My deathbed story?’

  She nodded.

  He gave it a few moments’ thought, then finally nodded. ‘Why not?’ He sipped his brandy. ‘I should say it happened . . . let me see . . . just about five years before you were born.’

  Miss Hammond frowned. ‘1888?’

  ‘Yes.’ Larkin stroked his cheek absently. ‘And it all happened over the summer and the autumn.’ His grey eyes twinkled with moisture as they met hers. ‘London. Whitechapel, to be precise.’

  ‘Whitechapel?’ For a moment she hesitated, placing the name in some vaguely recalled context. ‘Is that . . . is that not where those horrible, ghastly murders took place?’

  He nodded slowly. ‘That very year.’

  She stared at him with eyes wide, her small mouth slightly open. ‘Is it about those murders? Is that it? Your story? About . . . Jack the Ripper? They never found him, did they? He just vanished!’

  He sipped from his glass and savoured for a moment the burn of alcohol on his lips. A passing consideration as to whether it was prudent after all these years to tell a perfect stranger about those few weeks, months, those things . . . regrets . . .

  ‘Forgive me,’ she said. ‘I . . . I think I just spoke out of turn. I’m sorry.’

  He found himself smiling. Perhaps that too was the brandy at work. ‘It’s quite all right,’ he continued. ‘Quite all right, my dear.’

  Her cheeks coloured. ‘It was a foolish notion . . . to tell stories like this.’ She leant forward in her wheelchair and placed a hand lightly on his. A gesture emboldened by the drink. ‘I’m so very sorry. You must have lost someone?’

  ‘Not really.’ The smile remained on his lips, but slowly changed form. An expression that shared both regret and satisfaction, rival thespians sharing too small a stage.

  ‘As for the Ripper? Let’s just say . . . I knew the Ripper . . .’

  PART I

  CHAPTER 1

  11th September 1888, London

  Mary hastened along the alleyway: a dirty rat-run, little more than two shoulders in width of uneven cobblestones between dark, damp brick walls. She could hear the man calling after her, an angry foreign-accented voice promising to gut her like a fish when he caught up with her.

  She lifted her long skirts as she stepped across a backed-up drain thick with faeces and the prone hump of a drunkard, or just as easily a corpse.

  The man’s shrill voice bounced off the brick walls, lost amidst the warren of gas-lit backstreets.

  ‘Bitch! I cut you nose off . . . you bitch!’

  She glanced back down the alley she’d darted into to see a dark shadow cast by a lamp slowly rise up the wall opposite. It loomed and wobbled, and then finally she saw the man’s lurching outline as he passed by, not giving the dark alley a second glance. She listened to his slurred voice slowly recede as he staggered on, each new promised threat of mutilation growing fainter, each scraping footstep more distant.

  Finally sure she wasn’t going to have to run again, she slumped against a wall, almost immediately feeling its clammy dampness through the thin material of her shawl.

  Mary hunkered down to a tired squat, all of a sudden robbed of the adrenaline that had helped her escape . . . this time. And in the dark space she was sharing with a stream of shit, and with the light tapping of feet nearby of countless rats, she allowed tears to tumble down her cheeks.

  Thruppence. This . . . for just a thrupenny bit?

  She couldn’t imagine for one moment what her parents would make of the pitiful wretch she was now. A girl with convent schooling, a girl who once upon a time wrote home weekly, a clever, bonny girl who enjoyed Austen, Dickens, even Mrs Beeton, and loved playing a few of Gilbert and Sullivan’s easier parlour ballads on the school’s upright piano. A young woman who had managed to talk herself into that job with such a wealthy, prestigious family . . . and now? In five short years she ha
d fallen from being the bright, young girl from the Welsh valleys with dreams and goals, to being this twilight creature squatting in shit. This thing that offered to lift her skirts to any man for a quick fuck for no more than thruppence.

  Often she couldn’t bring herself to do it. On some occasions, with a man too drunk to manage it, she could get away with her modest fee by doing little more than tolerating several poorly aimed prods. Sometimes, clamping her thighs tightly around a probing member, she could fool a drunk man into thinking he’d made penetration and wipe the semen from her stockings later on. But occasionally, as on this occasion, her John was less drunk than she’d thought and quite well aware of some of the tricks tarts at the cheaper end of the market were prepared to pull to dodge their part of the contract.

  This one had quickly realised in the darkness that she was presenting him with nothing more than the tops of her bare thighs and had angrily pulled a knife on her. Mary ran, taking the coin he’d paid, for services yet to be properly rendered, with her.

  Mary, Mary, quite contrary, how does your little song go?

  She replied with nothing more than a mewling whimper.

  She knew that one of these nights she wasn’t going to be able to escape. One of these nights she was going to end up like the prone form further back down the alleyway: another bundle of threadbare clothes lying in a drainage ditch. Ignored. Not missed by anyone. Forgotten.

  All this for thruppence.

  The price of a spoon of laudanum. A little alchemy. A little dose of cheer.

  She wiped a string of snot from the end of her nose and the tears from her blotchy cheeks. She needed another couple of customers before the last business of the night was gone. Two more and she’d be able to buy some scran as well.

  Mary pulled herself to her feet and began to pick her way carefully towards the far end of the alley where faint amber blooms of flickering gas light promised a little more business.

  She was about to step out into the wider street, still a narrow back road, but at least wide enough to have its own grime-encrusted sign post – Argyll Street – when she heard a low moan.

  Light pooled beneath two gas lamps and faded away across drizzle-wet cobblestones into darkness. On the periphery of faint light, she thought she could make out the huddled form of someone. A man, by the timbre of his keening voice, sitting on his haunches, rocking backwards and forwards with his head in his hands.