“Perhaps earlier than twelve days, Your Lordship.”
“Excuse me?”
“De Quincey believes that the killer is exaggerating the Ratcliffe Highway murders. If he’s right, the next killings will happen much sooner than the last time and be more savage.”
TO AVOID ATTRACTING ATTENTION, Becker used a cab instead of the police wagon to transport De Quincey and Emily from their townhouse near Russell Square. He chose a roundabout route and looked back to see if any vehicle stayed behind them, a task made less difficult because fewer than usual carriages were on the streets.
Their first destination was the office of the undertaker in charge of burying the Hayworth family. True to her word, Emily had visited the victim’s brother the previous evening and made good on her vow of determining that he was with his wife and son.
Now she told the undertaker, “The deceased had one pound, eight shillings, and two pennies in a cash box. That will serve as a down payment for the funerals.”
Standing in the background, Becker was amazed by Emily’s forthrightness, while De Quincey seemed not to find it unusual.
“One pound, eight shillings, and…!” the undertaker exclaimed. “But all five funerals amount to sixteen pounds! Someone stole my hearse last night! If I’m not paid beforehand, I don’t see how I can arrange for the disposition of the remains in a timely way!”
“I’m sorry about your hearse, but the deceased’s brother is capable of paying only one pound a month until the debt is retired,” Emily responded calmly.
“At that rate…”
“Yes, sixteen months. Delayed but assured. The alternative is that you lose the opportunity to gain a desirable reputation.”
“Lose what opportunity? What are you talking about?”
“These murders have attracted the attention of the newspapers.”
“They certainly have. The murders are all everyone is talking about. Everywhere I go—”
“If you accept one pound a month, my friends in the police department will tell reporters that you’re the undertaker in charge of helping the deceased’s brother in his time of anguish. Your firm’s name will become highly regarded. Your business will prosper.”
“Well, that’s excellent, but I still don’t see…”
“If you refuse, my friends in the police department will tell every reporter how heartless you are at a time when you’re supposed to provide comfort. Everyone in London will read about your cold manner.”
“But…”
“A moment’s reflection will persuade you that one alternative is better than the other.” Emily stood. “In the meantime, here are one pound, eight shillings, and two pennies. Your firm has a stellar reputation. I am confident that you will give the deceased and his family a funeral that people will praise for a long time.”
BECKER HAD NEVER HEARD any woman speak that way. Concealing his amazement, he escorted her and De Quincey outside to the cab, where he scanned the street and observed that no vehicle had stopped in wait for them to emerge from the undertaker’s.
“I don’t think we’re being followed,” he remarked as they continued toward their ultimate destination.
“The killer doesn’t need to follow,” De Quincey said pensively. “After all, he knows where I’ll be at eleven o’clock.”
“But I need to plan for other possibilities. He might intend to surprise you en route.”
“Yes,” De Quincey conceded, “he does not lack surprises.”
FIVE MINUTES AFTER paying the toll and crossing the stone piers of Vauxhall Bridge, Becker told the cabdriver to go beyond the railroad tracks and stop at Upper Kennington Lane. He helped Emily down, then turned toward De Quincey, but discovered that the man, surprisingly limber for his age, was already beside him on the ground.
Amid the odor from a nearby distillery, Becker scanned the working-class neighborhood, mostly shops with rooms above them.
The news of the murders had visibly affected the mood even here on the south side of the Thames, a distance from Ratcliffe Highway. Pedestrians no longer had a leisurely pace. Their expressions were pensive and guarded. A man selling roasted potatoes from a cart appeared suspicious of any customers who approached him, for fear one of them might attack him.
To avoid notice, Becker had been given permission to exchange his uniform for plain clothes. It was a further step in his goal to becoming a police detective, but he wished it had happened under other circumstances.
A few people looked with disapproval at Emily’s unorthodox unhooped dress, in which the movement of her legs was visible. Otherwise no one paid attention as they walked along a wooden wall on their right and came to a wide, tall building. Above a large entryway, a faded sign announced VAUXHALL GARDENS.
De Quincey took his laudanum flask from his coat pocket.
“That’s the third time you drank from it since we left the house,” Becker said.
“Thank you for keeping count.”
“The volume of laudanum you consumed so far today would kill most people.”
“It’s medicine prescribed by a physician. When I try to stop, that is more likely to kill me.” De Quincey’s brow was filmed with sweat as he looked at his daughter and changed the subject. “Pleasure gardens were once the rage, Emily. I came here when I was in my thirties to watch a reenactment of the Battle of Waterloo.”
“A reenactment of Waterloo? That seems impossible.”
The morning sky was again clear, a breeze having chased the fog.
“One thousand soldiers took part in it,” De Quincey said, talking to distract himself from what he needed to do. “The audience, perhaps ten thousand, was transported by the din of the muskets and the smoke from the gunpowder.”
“This place is big enough for that?”
“More so.”
“It’s almost eleven,” Becker pointed out.
De Quincey took a nervous breath and nodded.
“Remember,” Becker said. “A dozen constables wearing street clothes gradually came here one at a time, pretending to be customers. If there’s an incident, they’ll rush to help. I still think you should allow me to walk with you so I can defend you in case of an attack.” He looked down at the bulge of the truncheon and handcuffs under his civilian overcoat.
“Whatever the killer has planned, it won’t happen if you’re at my side,” De Quincey responded. “If I’m wrong and this becomes violent, at least I know that Emily has your protection. As for me, I need to take the risk on the chance that I’ll learn about Ann.”
“After all these years, she still means that much to you?” Becker asked.
“When I begged on the streets of London, I owed her my life.”
De Quincey stepped through the entryway.
After counting to twenty, Becker and Emily followed.
The gate was in dire need of fresh paint. Its wood was splintered and in some places broken.
The ticket seller barely looked up from a newspaper he was reading. The item on the front page was about the murders.
“Two shillings,” he said distractedly.
Becker paid from coins he’d been given at Scotland Yard.
Beyond the entrance, they surveyed the almost deserted facility and watched De Quincey proceed along a white gravel path between leafless trees. He seemed to expect that someone would approach him as he passed a concert stage. When that didn’t happen, De Quincey looked ahead toward a long line of open compartments in which dining tables provided a view of the concert area. Again, no one approached from the stillness.
Pretending to admire their surroundings, Becker and Emily passed a building that had the spires, arches, and domes of an East Indian palace. They turned toward a man in circus clothes who walked across a tightrope stretched between trees across a lawn. The performer held a pole to maintain his balance. His once-red costume was faded and frayed.
Becker wondered where the other constables were positioned. Perhaps some had joined a handful of people who looked w
ith disinterest at the tightrope walker and seemed to wish for the return of their money. They were far more fixated on the somber topic of their discussion, and Becker had no doubt that the topic was the murders.
Leafless trees stretched into the distance. Bare bushes surrounded a statue of a man on horseback. The horse’s tail had fallen off.
“Perhaps in spring when the leaves return, this place will be more appealing,” Emily conjectured, looking ahead toward her father.
The smell of smoke and the crackle of a fire brought them to a large canvas balloon where customers could pay to be taken aloft. Like the tightrope walker’s costume, the colors on the balloon were faded. The fire had a screen that prevented sparks from igniting a canvas tube attached to a chimney. The tube captured hot air from the chimney and used it to swell the balloon, beneath which was a wicker basket for passengers. Smoke leaked from the balloon.
A sign proclaimed, SEE VAUXHALL BRIDGE FROM THE HEIGHTS! WESTMINSTER BRIDGE! ST. JAMES’S PARK!
“And maybe a close view of the Thames if the balloon crashes,” Emily suggested.
De Quincey kept walking ahead of them, moving deeper into the gardens.
“There used to be acrobats, jugglers, and musicians,” Becker said. “Fireworks. At one time, I was told, fifteen thousand lamps illuminated the grounds at night, so many that the glow could be seen across the Thames. But now…” He pointed toward shattered globes on poles along the path. “The owners had financial difficulties. The evening festivities used to glitter like a royal ball. But the things that happen here at night became unsuitable.”
“You’re referring to prostitution?” Emily asked.
Becker felt himself blush.
“I don’t mean to embarrass you,” she said.
“The truth is, I was worried about embarrassing you,” Becker said.
“Father always speaks directly with me. Even when I was a child, he didn’t treat me like one. In Father’s household, among my six surviving brothers and sisters, I grew up fast.”
“Yes, with the bailiff searching for him, I imagine you learned about life quickly.”
“Father called me his spy.”
“Oh?” The word attracted Becker’s attention.
“In Edinburgh, many times he couldn’t live with us for fear of being arrested, so he found secret lodgings, where I brought him food and other necessities such as pen and ink. With the bailiff watching our home, I squirmed from back windows, over walls, and through holes in fences. When I finally reached Father in whatever room he’d managed to find refuge, he gave me manuscript to take to his publishers. But his publishers were being watched also. Again I needed to go over walls and through back windows to deliver the pages, receive payment, and return to Father. Of the money I gave him, he subtracted the minimum he needed and told me to take the bulk of it to Mother.”
“Sounds like you had a difficult childhood.”
“To the contrary, it was fascinating.”
Becker heard rapid footsteps behind him.
“Stay close,” Becker told her.
Ready for trouble, he turned, surprised to see Ryan hurrying along the path.
Ryan didn’t look his usual self. In place of his scruffy street clothes, he wore a dress overcoat that hung open, revealing formal gray trousers, a matching waistcoat, and a black coat that came down to his knees. If not for the newspaperboy’s cap concealing his red hair, he could have passed as a commissioner rather than a detective.
“Everything’s quiet,” Becker reported.
But Ryan’s features were troubled. The sky matched his gloom, dark clouds now drifting in.
“What’s wrong, Inspector?” Emily asked.
“When I met your father yesterday, I’d have been pleased to do it. But now…”
“To do what? I don’t understand.”
“I’ve been ordered to arrest him.”
“Arrest him?” Emily exclaimed. “You can’t be serious.”
“I wish I weren’t. Where is he?” Ryan asked.
“Ahead of us,” Becker told him.
“But where?”
“On the path. He’s…” Becker turned to indicate De Quincey’s location. “My God, he isn’t there. What happened to him?”
THE OPIUM-EATER PROCEEDED along the path. Decades of drinking large quantities of laudanum had created many realities for him. The unnatural combination of elements at Vauxhall Gardens—the spires and domes of an East Indian pavilion, the outdoor concert stage, the tightrope walker, the hot-air balloon, smoke leaking from it, and even a statue of Milton—so resembled his opium dreams that he didn’t know if this was a wide-awake nightmare or if he was still in bed, asleep.
Disoriented, he wondered if perhaps he had never left Edinburgh. Perhaps he had never received the message that promised to reveal what had happened to Ann if he came to London. More than anything, he hoped that he was dreaming because that would mean the murders had not occurred on Saturday night and that even worse would not soon happen.
The front area of the gardens was devoted to public events such as dances, plays, concerts, and banquets. But the rear section provided an amazing forest in the middle of the city. At one time, the forest had been scrupulously maintained, inviting people to walk among the trees, but over the years, negligence and lack of funds had caused it to revert to a wild state of which his friend Wordsworth would have approved but which in fact was so densely overgrown, filled with so many hiding places, that De Quincey felt threatened.
Adding to the sense of chaos were faux ruins among the trees, reproductions of ancient Greek and Roman landmarks that appeared to have collapsed in a weird concatenation of centuries, pillars of the Parthenon lying next to a segment of the Colosseum, dead weeds and vines obscuring them.
Again the Opium-Eater had a dizzying sensation that what he saw was the result of laudanum. But no matter how much he attempted to assure himself that he was enduring an opium nightmare in Edinburgh, he kept remembering the smell of the murder scene and the grief on the face of the victim’s brother.
An intersection gave him a choice of three directions: left, right, or straight ahead. Arbitrarily he chose the white gravel path on the left. Thicker forest flanked him: a skeletal tangle of leafless shrubs and trees. His chest felt swollen. His breathing was rapid.
Ann.
He had never forgotten the long-ago evening of his youth when he had told her how much he loved her. He had vowed to return to London in eight days, to share his future with her just as she had shared her meager resources with him.
But Ann had understood the future far better than he had. Tears had trickled down her cheeks. She had returned his embrace, but she hadn’t said a word, and indeed he had never heard her speak again.
How he longed to walk hand in hand with her once more, to listen to the music of the street organ with her, to kiss her. Countless times he had dreamed about her. Again and again in various essays and books he had written about her—accounts that the killer had obviously studied. There was always the chance that the summons here wasn’t merely a taunt. Perhaps the killer had become similarly obsessed with Ann and had discovered crucial information about her.
De Quincey resisted the urge to take out his flask and swallow more laudanum. But more than by fear, he was motivated by hope—and the need to punish himself for leaving Ann. If there was even the slightest possibility that he could learn something about the woman he had searched for throughout his life, he couldn’t turn away.
On each side, the trees and bushes seemed to reach for him. A cold wind seeped beneath his overcoat. His boots crunched unnervingly on the gravel. Branches scraped. The wind made a faint keening sound.
Then he realized that the keening sound wasn’t the wind but instead a voice. A woman’s voice.
“Thomas.”
It came from his right—a high-pitched, mournful plea.
“Thomas.”
“Is it you, Ann?”
“Thomas.”
Uns
ure if he was imagining the voice, he stepped from the path. His boots crushed dead leaves as he shifted between bushes and tree trunks, straining to see in the accumulating shadows.
“Ann?”
“Here I am, Thomas.”
“Where?”
A woman stepped from behind a tree.
He stared. Then he gasped and stumbled backward, certain that he was indeed experiencing a nightmare.
The woman was wizened, almost bald. Her face was gaunt, her eyes sunken. Sores festered on her cheeks.
“Here, Thomas. Take me. Your Ann.”
“No.”
“You didn’t return when you promised. You abandoned me.”
“No!”
“But now we’re together.” Dressed in rags, the festering woman held out her arms. “Love me, Thomas. We’ll always be together now.”
“You can’t be Ann!”
“This is what you want.” The woman raised her ragged coat and skirt, exposing her wrinkled nakedness. “Love me, Thomas.”
As a scream formed in his throat, another plaintive voice startled him.
From another tree, another wizened, festering woman emerged, raising her coat and dress, exposing herself. “Here I am, Thomas. Your sister Jane. Do you remember me? Do you remember playing with me in the nursery? Do you want me? You can have me.”
Now he did scream as another woman stepped from a tree, raising her coat and dress.
“Here, Thomas. I’m your sister Elizabeth. Remember how you sneaked into the room where I lay dead? You stared at my body all afternoon. Then you kissed me. You can kiss me again now, Thomas. You can have me.”
“I’m Catharine, Thomas.” Yet another woman emerged, exposing herself. “Remember me? The little girl who lived near you at Dove Cottage? Wordsworth’s daughter? Remember how you lay on my grave for days, sobbing, thinking of Jane and Elizabeth and Ann. The terrible loss. But not any longer. We’re here, Thomas. You can have us all.”
Weeping uncontrollably, De Quincey watched even more women step from the trees, their features destroyed by pustules.
Murder as a Fine Art Page 12
