The Candle Man

by Alex Scarrow

  Both Annie and Polly were getting very itchy about it. They were in on the blackmail now. He’d decided to cut them both in, not out of a sense of fraternal charity but because he was being a right clever bastard. The gentleman client he’d done the job for was bound to hire some petty knapper to find out where Tolly’s place was, break in and simply snatch the locket back. So, Annie and Polly could mind it between them. He trusted them not to fuck with him, not to pawn it, hock it, or lose it. Because if they did . . . well, they knew exactly what they’d get from him. Still, both of them, despite being keen to have a slice of the blackmail money, were getting decidedly hot-footed about the whole matter.

  ‘He’s proper rich, that man in the picture,’ said Annie. ‘You can tell it. An’ proper rich ’as means, Bill, you know what I’m sayin’?’

  Polly nodded.

  ‘’Course ’e ’as means, love; ’e’s got money.’

  ‘No, I’m talkin’ about the secret stuff. Them proper rich buggers, most of them’s in secret groups that ’elp each other out. So could ’e be.’

  ‘Them secret groups?’ Tolly laughed. ‘Them secret groups is all story. Don’t tell me you been tryin’ to read the dailies again?’

  ‘Fuck off, you can’t read no better than me, Bill.’

  Tolly grabbed her hair in one of his big fists. ‘Tell me to fuck off again an’ I’ll cut yer nose in half.’

  ‘Ow! Let go! That’s ’urtin’ me!’

  ‘’Course it is.’ He let her go. ‘Just mind yer fuckin’ language in future. It ain’t nice out of a woman, not even a slapper like you.’

  Annie rubbed her head where he’d yanked at her hair. ‘Just sayin’, Bill. Just sayin’ I ain’t ’appy ’angin’ onto that thing. It’s been too long now. We should just get rid of it.’

  ‘The gentleman’s payin’ up. It’s just ’e needs to get the money in a way that’s discreet. That’s what ’e said. That’s why the wait.’ He smiled. ‘You just sit easy. Goin’ to be the easiest fuckin’ money you two will ever make.’

  ‘I ain’t ’appy bein’ the one ’oldin’ it, though.’

  Bill shrugged. ‘So give it to Poll to ’ave for a while.’

  Annie looked at her friend. ‘Yeah?’

  Polly looked unhappy at the suggestion but, with her two co-conspirators staring at her, she realised that unless she offered to do something useful, they were going to start questioning why the hell she was getting a share at all.

  ‘All right.’ She nodded. ‘All right, I s’pose I got a good place to ’ide it.’

  That was earlier. Bill excused himself from their company and decided to come down the Turpin for a couple of scoops. There was a stupid old soak who usually drank in here who owed him some money. If he found him, he could twist some of his dues out of the old fart. Just tap him for a few shillings and call it interest on the loan. Tolly knew that’s how the banks on the big high streets made their lolly: not getting their money back, but getting the rent on that money. That was the clever bit. Money making money. He fancied, once they got their swag off the gentleman, he might set up his own little bank. Set it up right inside the busiest pub he could find in Whitechapel where his customers were going to be too drunk to realise how much ‘rent’ he was going to charge them for their loans.

  As he entered the Turpin, he looked around the sea of faces for the gnarly old sod and, failing to spot him, decided the very next most important thing he needed to attend to was to have a big piss.

  The gentlemen’s lavvy was like any other public house’s: a back room lined with cracked tiles and a stained porcelain gutter along the bottom of one wall in which all manner of unpleasant things sedately floated like tug boats down a piss-yellow canal.

  Bill snorted and spat, adding his own glutinous vessel to the convoy as he unbuttoned his trousers and began to release a long, overdue torrent into the porcelain channel.

  ‘Desperate for it, eh?’

  He looked to his left to see a man as tall as him, all mutton chop whiskers and a cap.

  ‘Yeah, straight in, straight out. Got a bladder smaller ’an a Jew’s purse.’

  The man chuckled at that as he released a torrent beside his. ‘Makes you wonder why we pay for it. I’m sure I’m shootin’ out nothing different to what I just been sippin’.’

  Tolly sniggered. ‘True.’

  The man had the ghost of an accent in there. It sounded vaguely Irish, but he knew it wasn’t. ‘Where you from?’

  ‘Me?’ replied the man. ‘New York, as it happens.’

  ‘Yeah?’ Bill was instantly interested in the man. ‘New York, you say?’

  ‘Aye.’

  Bill had heard all sorts of things about the place. There were opportunities for a man with a businesslike mind, like himself. He decided he was going to buy this man a drink. ‘You lived over there long?’

  ‘Been there most of my life and I travelled the middle states some.’ The man with mutton chops tilted a shoulder casually. ‘Even seen some real Red Indians an’ all.’

  Bill’s eyes lit up like Chinese lanterns ‘Bleedin’ ’ell! Real redskins?! Yer see ’em for yerself?’

  ‘Oh, that’s for sure. Right up close.’ He chuckled. ‘Maybe too close.’

  Bill had finished and tucked himself away. He offered the stranger a hand. ‘William H Tolly, but I’m known mostly as Bill.’

  ‘Just gimme a second here,’ the American said, pissing a little harder. ‘It’s a two-handed job for me.’

  Bill sniggered at that. Presently the man finished and buttoned himself up before offering Bill a hand. ‘The name’s Charlie.’

  ‘Well, Charlie, ol’ son,’ Bill grinned, showing a wall of tobacco-yellow teeth and a couple of gaps, ‘can I buy you a pint?’

  CHAPTER 22

  14th August 1888, Whitechapel, London

  He staggered through the front door of his lodgings. It rattled on old hinges as Tolly clumsily kicked it aside to reveal his dark hallway.

  ‘Now, yer still got that jug of shandygaff with yer?’ said Tolly, his voice slurring lazily. ‘Welcome to me ’umble manor, Mr . . .’ He straightened as a point of protocol suddenly occurred to him. ‘Hoy! Here’s yer comin’ into me place for a piss up an’ I don’t even know yer proper name. It’s Mr . . . ?’

  His American guest smiled as he stood politely outside on the doorstep, waiting to be invited in. ‘Oh? Is that a British custom?’

  ‘Izza fuckin’ East End custom, mate! Bad manners on my part. So? It’s Mr . . . ?’

  ‘Babbitt. Charlie Babbitt.’

  Tolly swayed drunkenly in the doorway, his eyebrows arched. ‘Babbitt, you say? Like . . . rabbit?’

  Babbitt smiled again. ‘Yes, just like rabbit.’

  ‘Welcome in, Mr Rabbit, an’ let’s get that jug of yers uncorked.’

  Babbitt stepped over the threshold into the hallway and closed the door gently behind him as Tolly shuffled up the hallway and stumbled through a door into his kitchen. ‘In ’ere, Mr Rabbit-Babbitt. I got a nice bit of cheese ’ere somewhere.’

  He entered the kitchen behind Tolly and watched as he scraped around in the semi-darkness, the only light coming from the faint amber glow of a gas light outside, stealing in through a small, soot-stained window.

  ‘Ah! There we go,’ he grunted, and the room flickered with the light of a struck match as Tolly drunkenly wafted it above the wick of a candle in the middle of a small kitchen table. He kept misjudging the distance. ‘Fuck me! Must’ve drank more than I thought!’ he said with a giggle.

  ‘Allow me.’ Babbitt took the match from him and deftly lit the wick. ‘There,’ he said, ‘we can both see what we’re doing now.’

  ‘Siddown, Charlie! I’ll get us a coupla mugs an’ cut some of that cheese.’

  Babbitt nodded politely and settled down, placing the corked jug of ale on the table. ‘You live here alone, Bill?’

  ‘All on me own.’ He pulled two mugs from a shelf over his stove. ‘With all me business dealin�
��s goin’ on, it’s better I don’t share me rooms with no one, if yer know what I mean?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’ Babbitt nodded. He could sympathise with that. ‘I must say, I’m a bit of a loner myself.’

  ‘Here.’ Tolly thudded the mugs clumsily onto the table and then slumped into a chair opposite. ‘Fuckin’ cheese . . . Can’t bloody find it.’

  Babbitt uncorked the ale and poured some into each of their mugs. ‘Oh, don’t worry about that, Bill. I’m not so hungry anyway, if truth be told.’

  Tolly raised his mug and clinked it against Babbitt’s. ‘Well, gotta say, been a real pleasure talkin’ to yer, Charlie. Much more interestin’ than all them other buggers down the Turpin. Fuckin’ borin’ shower, the lot of ’em. But you? Bet you seen some things, ain’t cha?’

  Babbitt nodded. ‘Yes, I dare say I’ve seen quite a few things.’

  Tolly made a face: half a grin, half a frown. ‘You sounded funny just then.’

  ‘My accent wanders a little sometimes.’

  Tolly tipped his mug and slurped frothy ale. ‘Y’think someone like me could do all right over there in America? In New York? You know, do good? Make some decent money?’

  ‘Certainly. It’s a place full of opportunities for the likes of you, Bill.’

  ‘S’what I ’eard.’

  ‘You’d fit right in.’ Babbitt smiled.

  Tolly smacked his lips. ‘So you was sayin’ earlier you come over ’ere for some work, right? You got any? ’Cause if you ain’t, I s’pose I could help you out. I know people in this manor, people who could use a bloke like yourself to—’

  ‘Oh, I’m just fine, Bill. I have a job already.’

  ‘Yeah? What you got lined up?’

  Babbitt smiled. Beneath the kitchen table, his left hand eased a nine-inch long blade out of a hip pocket. Nine inches long and barely a half inch wide. One side of the narrow blade was as keen as a surgeon’s knife, the other side had small, serrated teeth that could saw through gristle and bone with ease. A knife he’d had purpose-made years ago by an expensive Swiss bladesmith.

  ‘I have a job arranged. Some gentlemen have paid me quite a handsome fee to find something of theirs.’

  ‘Well tha’s all right then!’ Tolly grinned encouragingly. ‘Yer stayin’ in the area? ’Cause if y’are, then I’ll show yer round if yer like?’

  ‘That’s really rather kind of you, Bill.’

  Tolly looked a little bemused. ‘Yer speakin’ totally different now. No offence, mate, but you sound a bit like a ponce.’

  He recognised he was letting his accent wander. His natural American accent was becoming something else – dry, proper. Almost that of a British gent. The persona he’d begun to associate with the name he’d appropriated: Mr Babbitt.

  He was letting his accent wander partly because it didn’t matter any longer. They were all alone now and Tolly only had a few more moments of sweet ignorance left before Babbitt set to work on him. But partly because this bit was fun; the slow, dawning realisation was soon to come – the moment when Tolly’s eyes would widen as he understood he’d invited death into his home.

  ‘Actually, I like talking like this, Bill,’ he continued. ‘I prefer it to the mongrel English you speak.’

  Tolly took that as a joke and laughed. ‘Hoy! You musta learned off some posh bloke or summin’. Got a whole loada learnin’ an’ what ’ave you?’

  Babbitt smiled. ‘Yer . . . I got learnin’ an’ such.’ A not too bad attempt at impersonating Tolly.

  Tolly’s good-natured smile was wavering uncertainly. ‘Hang on . . . yer takin’ the piss outta me or summin’?’

  ‘I learned me that yer a bit of a stupid fool, ain’t cha, Bill?’

  Tolly’s confused smile was entirely gone now.

  ‘I’ve learned that you’re a big, stupid oaf who’s been very, very silly.’ Babbitt’s exaggerated New York dockside accent was gone entirely now as well; too much of an inconvenience for him to bother keeping up. ‘I’ve learned that you’re like a child. A stupid, lumbering child. And like a child, you take, take, take.’

  Tolly’s brow furrowed. ‘You takin’ the piss outta me, Charlie?’

  Stupid drunken fool was still stuck on that.

  ‘I’ve learned that you did a job recently, Bill.’

  Tolly’s jaw suddenly swung open.

  ‘Did a job for some “posh” gentleman, didn’t you?’

  Tolly stood up clumsily, pushing his stool back so that it clattered noisily onto the stone floor. ‘You get the fuck out now, ’fore I throw you out!’

  Babbitt slowly produced his knife from beneath the table, caressing the long, thin blade. ‘Best if you sit down. You and I have some talking to do.’

  He could see Tolly’s eyes were on the blade, that the man was considering making an embarrassingly obvious lunge for it. ‘A note of caution, Bill. You are drunk . . . and I am not.’

  That fact seemed to be registering on his florid face.

  ‘Why don’t you pick up that stool and sit down,’ said Babbitt. ‘And you and I will share this ale together as we originally planned, hmmm?’

  Tolly finally stooped down for the stool, stood it up and slumped down heavily onto it. ‘That . . . that gentleman,’ he said after a while. ‘S’pose he sent you, right?’

  Babbitt nodded. ‘Indeed.’

  His eyes were on the knife still. ‘All right, I ain’t stupid. He don’t wanna pay up. That’s what this is about, right?’

  ‘Oh, he was never going to pay you, Bill. You have to understand this, my friend. This particular client of yours has enough money to make any problem at all go away. And you? You’re just a very small problem.’

  He picked up the jug of ale and filled Tolly’s mug. ‘I suggest you have a little to drink. And look . . .’ He poured some into his own mug, ‘I shall join you. Two friends drinking together, hmmm?’

  Tolly ignored the ale. A twitch of anxiety appeared on his face. ‘I get it, I get it. All right.’ He sighed. ‘You go tell that fucker I’ll leave him alone an’ won’t say nuffin’ more ’bout the job.’

  ‘It’s ancient history now. The job is done. You got paid for it. The matter is closed, right?’

  Tolly nodded eagerly. ‘S’right. I got a decent enough pay out of him. Call it quits.’

  ‘Excellent.’ Babbitt smiled. ‘There’s a good chap. Shake on it?’

  Tolly shrugged. ‘’Course,’ and offered his hand.

  The smack, like a claw hammer into an apple, echoed off the bare walls of the kitchen. Tolly took a couple of seconds to register the fact that his wrist was pinned to the table. The knife’s slender blade was embedded an inch into the old, dry oak of the table, through the cluster of bones and tendons where his hand met his wrist.

  Babbitt knew it was the shock of the sight of it that made Tolly whimper, not the pain; that was going to take a few seconds more to kick in.

  ‘There,’ said Babbitt. ‘Now I know for certain you’re going to sit still whilst we talk. The less you move around, by the way, the less damage you’re going to do to your wrist.’

  ‘My . . . my arm! My fuckin’ arm! You’ve—’ He reached for the handle of the knife to pull it out of the his wrist and the table beneath, but screamed with agony as he tried to waggle the blade loose.

  Babbitt put a finger to his lips. ‘Shhhh . . . Bill, I need you to hush and listen.’ He watched Tolly squirming on his stool. ‘And really, you should try and keep very still; the more you struggle, the more it’s going to damage your arm.’ He smiled. ‘And I suspect it will be a two-handed job pulling that out.’

  Tolly clamped his mouth shut and mewled quietly.

  ‘Now then, this little job of yours . . . Getting rid of some tart, wasn’t it? And her baby?’

  Tolly nodded, grunting an affirmative.

  ‘But you told your client – who, by the way, is now my client – that you found something on her, something that could cause some difficulties, shall we say?’

  ‘L
ocket,’ he blurted between gasps. ‘Locket with a picture in it.’

  ‘Yes. I believe it was a photograph, wasn’t it?’

  Tolly’s head nodded vigorously. ‘Please . . . pull the knife out!’

  ‘So, that’s the thing I’m after, then. If you just tell me where you’ve stashed it, you and I will be done here.’ He smiled warmly. ‘I’ll un-peg you. I’ll even leave you the ale, how about that?’

  Tolly gritted his teeth; dots of perspiration were appearing all over his forehead. He huffed and puffed to keep from fainting. ‘I ain’t got it ’ere.’

  Babbitt pursed his lips. ‘Oh dear, that’s a little bit disappointing. Someone else then; a friend of yours, perhaps?’

  Tolly said nothing.

  ‘Yes, my client said you mentioned to him you had a friend help you out on the job. I can safely presume it’s with that friend of yours, then?’

  ‘Yes! Yes! All right . . . I ’ad some ’elp. Please! Take this fuckin’ thing outta me arm!’

  ‘Not yet, Bill. I just need your friend’s name and where he lives.’

  ‘Don’t . . . don’t know where she lives!’

  ‘A she, is it? Hmm.’ Babbitt grinned. ‘You’re not very good at hanging onto secrets, are you, Bill?’

  Tolly whimpered.

  ‘So, let’s start with her name, then.’

  Tolly was not in the mood for loyalty. Honour among thieves? Fuck it. ‘Polly! Name’s Polly! Polly Nichols.’

  Babbitt looked into his eyes as he said that. There were no tells, no giveaway moment of hesitation for a panicking mind to conjure up a fictional name. He could believe that sounded like the truth.

  ‘And you say you don’t know where she lives? A good friend like Polly?’

  ‘Fuckin’ tart! Moves round . . . place to place. Got no idea. Please? I . . . I . . .’ Tolly was swaying. He looked like he was ready to faint.

  Blood was pooling on the table beneath his wrist. By the look of things, his blade had managed to sever an artery. Babbitt silently cursed. He’d wanted to merely pin the man’s hand, that’s all; just pin him in place until he was all done with asking him questions. But Tolly’s hand must have lurched too far forward as he’d struck down with the blade. The man was going to bleed out quickly and, as he started slipping into unconsciousness, he was going to become much less useful.