“Perhaps crossing a river is one of them.”
“Surely you don’t mean because of what happened to my sister. Have you been drinking laudanum also? Last night you seemed to agree with De Quincey that we do things without understanding why. Heaven help me, while he talks, it all makes crazy sense, but a half hour later, it’s like the fog that’s coming in. Oh, my, here comes his daughter. I confess I find her attractive, but she’s as difficult as…”
“Inspector, what will happen to these women?” Emily asked.
“We’ll transport them back to Oxford Street.”
“And nothing else?”
“The gold coins they were paid might last as long as a month if they don’t spend the money on gin instead of food and lodging.”
“But isn’t there some way you can help them?”
“It’s a life they chose. The Metropolitan Police Department isn’t responsible for them.”
“A life that was forced upon them by poverty. You can’t possibly believe any woman would willingly be in their state. Are there surgeons to whom you can send them for their sores and bad teeth? Can you transport them to farms, where they can work in respectable conditions and regain their health?”
“Miss De Quincey, the police department isn’t a charitable association. We’re not equipped to do what you’re suggesting.”
“But if these women were given an alternative to the streets, there would be less crime and men would be less tempted to fall from virtue. Constable Becker, isn’t there any way you can help? Surely we can all come to a solution.”
We? Ryan thought, fascinated by how she always managed to involve others.
Becker answered, “Tonight, perhaps they’ll receive another gold coin from the man who paid them the first two. We’ll have plainclothes constables watch the alley where they’ll wait for the killer to return.”
De Quincey overheard and came over. “The one place in London the killer won’t be is that alley. He wants you to put men there so that other areas of the city won’t be protected. Did you question every customer who was in the gardens? Almost certainly he was here today, enjoying his game.”
“All the people here could account for themselves.”
“A skilled actor would be able to account for himself,” De Quincey pointed out.
“We’re continuing to investigate the possibility that the killer has a theatrical background,” Ryan said. “We might also have a name.”
“A name?” De Quincey raised his head.
“Before I arrived, I received new information that I didn’t have a chance to mention until now. The house where you’re staying is owned by a businessman who travels frequently on the Continent. He uses a rental agent who tries to keep the house occupied while he’s away.”
“My own inquiries determined that,” De Quincey said. “The owner’s name is Westfall. He sells fabric to clothing manufacturers across the Channel. But the rental agent wouldn’t tell me who paid for us to stay in his house.”
“Because the rental agent was given an additional fee not to disclose the name,” Ryan explained. “But as soon as he understood the gravity of the situation, he cooperated and revealed that the man who signed the rental papers is Edward Symons.”
De Quincey’s expression darkened. “No.”
“Do you recognize the name?”
“Is it spelled S-y-m-o-n-s?”
“Yes. Not the common spelling,” Ryan answered. “How did you know?”
“That’s not the name of the man who rented the house for us.”
“But—”
“Edward Symons is dead.”
Ryan and Becker looked at each other in surprise.
“Thirty years ago, Symons committed several murders in Hoddesdon in Middlesex,” De Quincey told them. “He was hanged.”
“Thirty years ago? But how do you—”
“Symons was a farm servant who developed a fondness for his employer’s wife. When he revealed his affections, she responded that the differences in their stations—his lack of education, means, and physical attractiveness—made his suggestion laughably unsuitable. The woman had two sisters living with her, and they joined in his humiliation. His employment was terminated, but although he departed from Middlesex, he did not forget their insults. He brooded night and day until he could no longer resist the impulse to return to the farm. The women had long since forgotten about him when he surprised them in the farmhouse. In a perfect epilepsy of fury, he swung his knife right and left until all three women lay dead and the kitchen floated in blood.”
Ryan noticed that Emily looked away.
“Are you all right, Miss De Quincey?”
“Yes. It seems that I too can be affected by Father’s manner of speaking. Please continue, Father.”
“Just before Symons was hanged, he told the prison chaplain about an odd sensation he experienced in the midst of his frenzy. He claimed there was someone else in the room, a dark figure on his right who kept pace with him during the murders.”
“Someone else?” Ryan asked.
“The chaplain believed that the dark figure was Satan, who urged Symons on. But Symons was so steeped in rage that he didn’t need any devil to encourage him.”
“Then who was the dark figure?”
“His shadow.”
“His shadow?” Ryan frowned. “I don’t understand. From sunlight coming through a window? From a lamp in the kitchen?”
“From Symons himself. In his frenzy, Symons imagined that the dark part of his personality emerged from him and mirrored all his actions.”
Ryan looked at Becker. “This is what I meant. He speaks like the fog coming in.”
“I wrote about Symons in one of my essays. The killer is taunting me again, comparing himself to Symons, threatening to do to me what Symons did to those women.”
“Mr. De Quincey, you provided new ways to look at these murders, and I thank you. But I’m afraid that I now have an unpleasant duty to perform.”
“Unpleasant?”
“Father, I didn’t have a chance to warn you,” Emily said quickly.
De Quincey looked more baffled. “Warn me about what?”
“When Inspector Ryan arrived here, his preposterous intention was to arrest you.”
WHILE RYAN DEBATED whether Lord Palmerston’s orders obligated him to put handcuffs on De Quincey (he decided not to), across the river a seemingly insignificant, elderly woman was on the verge of a dismaying discovery. Her name was Margaret. She slept in a corner of a bakehouse where she worked a few blocks from the notorious rookery of Seven Dials, so called because seven streets intersected in that slum. The bakehouse was filled with ovens to which the poor, who didn’t have access to a stove, took their main meal to be cooked after the day’s bread was removed. They gave Margaret pots filled with bits of raw meat and potatoes. They came back later to retrieve the baked food and carry it to whatever meager shelter they called home.
Margaret cooked her own modest meals in the ovens, and although the bakehouse could be stifling in summer, its heat was welcome in winter and even soothed her aching bones. Her main requirements were so sufficiently met that, except to use the privy in back, she seldom left the building. Thus she wouldn’t have known about Saturday night’s murders if they hadn’t been the main topic of conversation for everyone who visited the bakehouse on Monday. They brought their pots of food earlier than usual, indicating their need to make certain they returned to their hovels before the yellow fog again engulfed the city and the murderer perhaps repeated his terrible crimes.
“There was two sets of murders back then, you know,” a ragged woman said.
“What murders?” Margaret asked. Her left cheek showed a scar from a long-ago fire. To hide it, she had a habit of turning away from people to whom she spoke.
“Why, the Ratcliffe Highway murders, of course. Ain’t you heard? It’s all over the street.”
The mention of the Ratcliffe Highway murders so startled Margaret that
she almost lost her grip on the pot the woman handed across the counter.
“No, I haven’t been out,” Margaret said quickly. “The Ratcliffe Highway murders happened ages ago. Why are people talking about them?”
“Because of the murders Saturday night,” another ragged woman said, handing Margaret a pot.
“What murders?”
“You really haven’t heard? Happened again near Ratcliffe Highway. A shop that sells to sailors. Socks and underdrawers, linen and such. The same as the last time, except there was more of ’em. Just after the shop closed, five people had their heads bashed and their throats slit.”
“No,” Margaret said.
“My grandpa remembers back then,” a third woman said. “He told me there was two sets of murders all those years ago. Twelve days later, more people had their heads bashed and their throats slit, this time in a tavern. My grandpa says everybody was so terrified nobody went onto the streets.”
The first woman complained, “The constable on the corner promises he’ll keep things safe, but what do peelers care for the likes of us? I’m not taking any chances. I’ll be back in an hour to get my pot and hurry home. Constable or not, anything can happen in the dark.”
“Margaret, your hands are shaking,” another woman said with concern.
“All this talk of murders. Whose hands wouldn’t be shaking?”
Margaret had an unusual number of customers for most of the day. But by late afternoon, the bakeshop was nearly empty, a few nervous people hurrying in with blankets to carry their steaming pots away. Except for her trembling hands, she managed to conceal how startled she was by news of the murders.
Her worst fear was coming true. It was happening again. Back then, there had been four murders in a linen shop, whereas this time there had been five. That there would be another set of murders, Margaret had no doubt, just as she was certain that the next set of murders would take place in a tavern, the same as the last time.
She was certain of something else. They would come sooner.
And be worse.
She slumped against a back corner of the bakeshop.
“Margaret, are you sick?” one of the other workers asked.
“I need to leave on an errand.”
“But you never leave. The fog will soon be here. Aren’t you afraid to go out?”
“This can’t wait.”
Margaret hurriedly put on her thin coat and emerged from the warm building onto the grim, cold street. Its usual bustle was absent.
“How do I get to Scotland Yard?” she asked the constable on the corner. Again, she turned her head so that the scar on the left side of her face didn’t show.
“The Yard’s a distance, ma’am.”
“I need to talk to whoever’s in charge of investigating Saturday night’s murders.”
“That would be Inspector Ryan. What do you know about those murders?”
“Not them. The others.”
“The others, ma’am?”
“The ones that happened forty-three years ago.”
“The recent ones are what concern us.”
“But I know the truth about the ones that happened back then, and Lord help me, I’m afraid I know who killed those people on Saturday night.”
YOU’RE MAKING A MISTAKE,” De Quincey insisted as the police wagon transported the four of them up Farringdon Road. Having returned to the north side of the Thames, they were only a mile east of the Russell Square neighborhood where the killer had arranged lodgings for De Quincey and his daughter. But the contrast in the areas was extreme. Farringdon Road was dismal, on the verge of poverty. Normally it would have been crowded with dustmen, street sweepers, and costermongers desperate to earn a living by selling fruit, vegetables, and fish from their carts, but with the fog spreading, everyone was hurrying home before an early dark threatened to bring new violence. The nervousness on the faces the wagon passed was obvious.
“I ask you not to do this,” De Quincey protested.
The wagon wheels clattered. High, stone walls loomed as the vehicle turned left onto Mount Pleasant Street. The gray of the approaching fog made the stone wall even more somber.
“Coldbath Fields Prison,” De Quincey said. “No.”
“I don’t have a choice,” Ryan told him. “I take Lord Palmerston more seriously than I do the prime minister. If I don’t arrest you, I’ll be dismissed from the force, and right now, the city needs every detective and constable it can muster to stop the killer from slaughtering more people.”
They reached an ugly, arched, barred entrance flanked by stern-looking guards. A group of men in civilian coats stood impatiently nearby. When the wagon stopped, the men rushed forward, ready with pencils and notepads.
“Is he the Opium-Eater?” one of them shouted.
“Why did you kill all those people?” another demanded.
“Newspaper reporters?” Emily exclaimed. “How did they know we were coming?”
Becker jumped down and spread his arms. “Stay back!”
“Did the opium make you do it?” a third reporter shouted.
The guards near the gate hurried to help Becker.
“Keep away!”
“Lord Palmerston must have spread the word,” Ryan told De Quincey in disgust. “He thinks that by arresting you, people won’t be afraid while we continue hunting for the killer.”
“But it’s good for people to be afraid,” De Quincey said. “If they’re suspicious, it might save their lives.”
“The only thing Palmerston cares about is his political reputation. If you don’t walk in there on your own…”
“No need to resort to the alternative.”
De Quincey stepped down from the wagon, shielding himself behind Becker.
“Did you kill the Marr family and the Williamsons forty-three years ago?” a reporter shouted.
Ryan looked at Emily and then at the commotion. “I hoped you could wait here while we went inside. But now…”
“Even if the reporters were absent, I wouldn’t have agreed to remain outside.”
Emily stepped down before Ryan could help, amazing him with her agility. No woman in a hooped dress could have ridden in the wagon, let alone climbed down easily, so difficult was it to keep a hooped dress from popping up and revealing undergarments.
“After you bashed in their heads, why did you slit their throats?” a reporter yelled.
“Why did you slaughter the baby?”
As Becker struggled to make a path through the reporters, more guards ran from the barred entrance.
“Don’t force us to get nasty!” Becker told the reporters. “Clear the way!”
Doing his best to shield De Quincey and Emily, Ryan guided them past the guards and through the entrance.
Instantly the air became darker and colder.
COLDBATH FIELDS PRISON derived its name from a field in which a spring had once provided the opportunity for bathing on the outskirts of London. But then the metropolis had spread to the north and overtaken the field. The wet ground upon which the prison had been built made the walls feel permanently, achingly damp.
As soon as Becker joined Ryan, De Quincey, and Emily, the barred entrance clanged shut. They stood in a courtyard, the cobblestones of which were dirty and worn. A puzzling rumble vibrated from the center of the complex. On the left was a bleak structure with the sign GOVERNOR’S QUARTERS. On the right, an equally bleak structure had the sign GATEKEEPER’S QUARTERS.
From the former, an overweight man in a tight suit emerged, wiping his mouth with a food-stained cloth napkin. His cheeks were florid.
“Inspector Ryan,” he said in hurried greeting, “Lord Palmerston sent word that you’d be arriving, but I had no idea when. I was just catching a bite. Sorry to keep you waiting. This is the prisoner, I take it.”
“His name is Thomas De Quincey.”
Prison administrators were known as governors. This one was not only taller than De Quincey but three times his girth, making De
Quincey seem even smaller. The governor spoke as if De Quincey weren’t present. “The Opium-Eater. Well, when he sees what I have in store for him, he’ll wish he’d kept his mallet and his razor in his pocket.”
“Perhaps there’s been a misunderstanding,” Ryan said. “Mr. De Quincey is here for protective custody.”
“Mister? We don’t call prisoners ‘mister.’ The note Lord Palmerston sent implied that this man is a principal suspect.”
“The newspaper reporters are supposed to think so, yes, but in reality Mr. De Quincey is a consultant whose safety we want to guarantee.”
“This is very irregular.” The governor pivoted toward Emily. “And the presence of this young lady makes the situation even more so. Miss, I’m afraid you’ll need to be escorted outside. This is no place for—”
Becker interrupted. “May I present Miss Emily De Quincey, our consultant’s daughter?”
“You may, but she still needs to be escorted outside.”
“Not with those reporters making trouble out there,” Becker said.
“And who might you be?”
“Constable Becker.”
“Why aren’t you in uniform?”
Before Becker could reply, Emily extended her hand, saying, “Governor, I’m delighted to meet you.”
“Really?” Suspicious, the governor nonetheless appeared captivated by Emily’s bright, brown hair and lively blue eyes as he took the hand she offered.
“You’d do me a great service if you’d explain your responsibilities,” Emily continued. “They must be immense. What are your theories about prison reform? I imagine they’re extremely interesting.”
“Prison reform? Theories?”
“I’ve read Jeremy Bentham. The greatest good for the greatest number and so forth, but I’m sure that your own theories must be equally enlightening.”
“Jeremy Bentham?”
The group stood on a pathway that led to stark buildings from which the low rumble continued to vibrate. As fog gathered overhead, particles of soot drifted down.
“Jeremy Bentham?” the governor repeated, baffled. He wiped the falling soot from his sleeve. “Perhaps we should step inside.”
They entered a clammy structure from which corridors radiated like spokes in a wheel. There were five corridors, for each of which a barred, metal door provided a barrier to the rows of cells. The design allowed an observer to stand in the hub and see any activity in any of the corridors merely by turning to the right or left. Although aboveground, the place felt like a cellar.
Murder as a Fine Art Page 16
