The Inspector drained his drink and a new one appeared at the table just in time. He immediately reached for it – this was too easy.
‘I knew Darke,’ he said between gulps.
‘Who?’
‘The killer, Sibelius Darke, the Pale Demon. Surely do not tell me you have never heard of him? I met him a few times, and had him down for it from the start. I had him within my grasp – but I was foiled by my betters and forces out of my control. I even had him the night before his most terrible act.’ His faced flushed at the memory.
‘The Pale Demon,’ I said. ‘I had not heard of him before last year. Even in York, a city where we pride ourselves on knowing the nation’s events, the name of Sibelius Darke is not one which I had heard mentioned.’
This was of course an extreme lie; I had known of the name Sibelius Darke since the first stories of him appeared on the front pages of every newspaper worth its salt six years earlier.
An immigrant of Finnish descent, Darke (born Dhakrot) had brutally carved a name out for himself in Whitechapel during the late autumn of 1877. He was a portrait photographer who had a studio on Osborn Street, a short walk away from his family’s undertaking business. Despite not following in his father’s footsteps in the funeral trade, he did have a peculiarly morbid speciality regarding the photographs that he made his business from. It was from family portraits of the recently deceased that he made his name, creating what had become known as memento mori: reminders of the loved ones lost and of the fleeting nature of our time in this world.
Following a series of deaths in the area involving young street children, Sibelius Darke had come to the attention of the police and the investigating Inspector Frederick Draper, on the discovery of Darke’s father and brother, who were murdered in their home and suffering from similar injuries to those suffered by the urchins. He was questioned on more than one occasion, but never arrested for the string of murders, which eventually came to a crescendo following the terrible murder one night of several boys in St Mark’s Orphanage, just yards from Inspector Draper’s police station.
Strangely he was not arrested, despite being seen outside the orphanage on the night of the killings. The following day, Darke visited the Dolorian Club, his gentlemen’s club in Pall Mall, shooting many members at random and setting fire to the building. His guilt could no longer be denied; but, before he could be taken in by the police, he committed suicide by taking poison and setting his own studio ablaze.
The case of Sibelius Darke had been an obsession of mine since I first heard the name, and when I moved to London I began to collect as much information about him as I could, in the hope of bringing it all together by writing a book on his terrible crimes. The fact that I was now sitting drinking with Abraham Thomas, who knew both Inspector Draper and Sibelius Darke, was no lucky coincidence; I am a man who always succeeds in getting what he wants, whatever the price.
I looked at Thomas now and drummed my fingers upon the table. ‘Tell me,’ I said innocently. ‘Is it true that he was a child killer and a cannibal?’
‘He was, and more besides. Do you know that he killed his own father and brother? Strung up by their ankles from the staircase like sides of beef, they were. The things that he did to them do not bear belief. His brother Nikolas’s head was torn clear of his shoulders, separated by nothing more than a madman’s hands. That poor boy was spared, though, when compared to the treatment meted out to their father. Tortured he was, slowly ripped and shredded with no weapons other than teeth and nails – his tongue was even taken from him whilst he lived. The doctor said that it was probably bitten out. You can only wonder at the depths of depravity and bloodlust that Darke sank to in his murderous frenzies.’
He pushed some more of the drink down his throat, before placing the now empty tankard on the table.
The barman came over with another and I asked for a whisky for the pair of us, a small tot to push the big man over the edge.
‘I had him, you know, Sam. Just before he did his worst,’ he continued.
‘The orphanage? I heard it was a terrible scene.’
‘Poor little bleeders. Darke was in the station and being held on both sides by my officers on the night it happened. I shall never forgive myself for not keeping him, but I knew that I would be for the chop if I held him.’
‘What do you mean, Abe?’ I asked. This was new to me.
‘I had been told that he was not to be held, not to be locked up; my hands were tied. We were told to follow him, to watch him, but that he was in no way a suspect and was not to be treated as such. We were told that our killer had been found the previous night, a man named Arthur Downing, found hanged from his rafters on Love Lane.’
The Inspector paused for a moment. ‘He came to us, though! He came through our very doors at Leman Street and taunted us with what he was about to do! I bade the men hold him for a while, but I was just playing with him, having some sport. Nobody believed that he would actually do it. When he made to escape from the hands of my men I told them to leave him be. He was crazed and harmless, I told them. Those boys, those poor, poor boys.’ He drifted away from me. ‘I saw their remains, Sam. I walked among their broken and torn bodies, saw what was left of them, what he had done.’
‘How did it end? How was he caught?’
‘He wasn’t caught. He died and got away with it all. Burned to ashes at his rooms he was, two days after the orphanage. I remember a young constable, Townsend I think his name was, ran into the station calling out that the Darke place was alight, so we ran to it thinking that the mob had burned him for a child killer.
‘When I got to Osborn Street, the place was on fire. Crowds had gathered; most had come to see it and to help to try to put it out before it spread, but there was some fighting an’ all. Some of the crowd had started shouting out to let the place burn to the ground, let the flames take Darke back to hell. They tried to stop the people carrying water; they knocked the pails out of their hands. That was when the woman ran out of the building and into my arms.’
‘A woman? There was a woman in the building with him?’ I had not heard this before either.
‘Yes, young thing she was, little more than a child herself. God only knows what horrors he had put her through; she was crying and raving, as crazed as I have ever seen someone.’ He shivered, and took another drink, knocking back the whisky and starting on the next beer. ‘The words coming out of her mouth didn’t make no sense; demons and spirits, hell and death.’ He paused for a cold second, before adding, ‘I believed her.’
I let out the slightest of laughs and immediately cursed myself, as the large man lunged across the table at me, knocking its contents onto the floor. Huge hands found my collar, pulling it tight, and his damp, red face came within an inch of my own, the stench of stale whisky and sweat overpowering.
‘Laugh at me?’ he growled. ‘Laugh at old Abe Thomas! Stupid old drunk am I? Is that what you think? Someone to be laughed at?’
Around the room, all other movement and sound had stopped, every face turned towards us.
‘I… I’m sorry, Abe,’ I wheezed; each word carried pain and effort as it was forced out through my constricted throat.
‘I know what I saw, Weaver! I am not a madman and I know what I saw!’ He suddenly noted the silence around him and, seeing that we were the focus of attention, released his grip, his voice dropping to a tight whisper. ‘As I held that poor girl into my chest and listened to her ramblings, I looked towards the fire and saw something that I shall never forget.’
‘What was it?’ I croaked. ‘What did you see?’
‘I saw the beast that was Darke, rising up in the smoke as it poured from the building. Large and white he was, unearthly and cold – a pale demon. He rose into the air, above that blazing building, dragging with him the souls of his victims. She was right, the girl was right. Darke was from hell itself, returning from where he came. And I could see them, God help me, I could see them dead boys being dragged off
to hell with him.’
He let go of me with a push that sent me tumbling onto the floor. Standing up on unsteady legs, he made his way towards the doors, snarling and snapping at those who came in his way, causing them to jump backwards in fright.
‘The girl, Abe?’ I called after him, in desperation. ‘What was her name?’
He stopped in his tracks.
‘She was called Beth, Beth Finnan,’ he said, his voice a low rumble. ‘She was the fiancée of Darke’s brother, Nikolas; her father, Tom, owned the Princess Alice.’ His hands shot forwards, hitting the doors hard, sending them crashing outwards, a sudden and final noise signalling his departure, as he disappeared into the bright street beyond.
The noise echoed through the bar as the dust slowly settled once more.
I allowed myself a smile and, pushing myself to my feet, made my way outside, throwing money onto the bar as I went. My investigations and eventual road to fortune could now begin in earnest.
2
The Twelve
Over the next week I threw myself into discovering more about the girl, Beth Finnan. I travelled across the city to Whitechapel at the first opportunity, taking with me a small binding of sketch paper, a couple of pencils and a portion of my spare ready, to use for the procurement of useful information.
I decided to take the most direct route to the Princess Alice, which I found, as prominent as ever, on the corner of Wentworth Street and Commercial Street. I knew from my previous enquiries that this place was a regular haunt of Sibelius Darke from his childhood, required as he was to regularly visit public houses in order to recruit hired mourners for his father’s funeral business.
As I stepped through the doors into the bar, I wondered how many times the Pale Demon himself had walked through these doors with murder in mind. Within the bar, light was a precious commodity, despite the fact that it was midday outside; the only sign of such were the dulled white beams which fought their way into the room and did little more than highlight the dust, smoke and flies which thickened the air.
I approached the bar, ignoring the staring eyes of the other customers. In places like these, any new person could easily attract attention through the cut of his clothes or simply by being a new face. I knew that someone as square rigged as myself would be under scrutiny as soon as I entered the door and I would quickly be taken for a mark.
I had, of course, visited the area many times in the six years since my arrival in London. My sharp interest in Darke had made that a necessary pilgrimage. I had visited the shop front where his photographic studio once stood, long since gutted by fire; it was now a bakery. I had also journeyed around the corner onto Whitechapel Road to the undertaking parlour once owned by his family. It was now under the ownership of George Woodrow, a one-time friend of the family who would not, despite my best appeals, talk of Darke.
‘What will it be?’ asked the young woman behind the bar, a pale-looking, plain thing with a sullen expression upon her face.
‘I’m after some information actually. Is the landlord around?’
‘No drink then?’ Her dull eyes showed little in the way of any willingness to engage in conversation.
‘I’ll have a small beer and the landlord, thank you. That is all.’
She did not respond and lifted a glass from the shelf above the bar. With the numb demeanour shown only by the most ignorant of society, she poured my drink before placing it on the bar before me. She then turned away and started towards the other end of the bar. As I raised my hand to further attract her attention, she barked over her shoulder, cutting short my reminder, ‘I’m getting him!’
‘Thank you, my dear,’ I called, in a tone that she would not have recognised as sarcasm.
The landlord appeared presently, an overweight man with a pockmarked, unshaven face, who bustled over to me, squeezing his frame past his dour employee.
‘Selling something? I’m not interested, so there’s no need for any patter,’ he grumbled as he approached, his eyes flicking over me.
‘I am not selling anything, sir,’ I said, raising my palms. ‘Merely wishing to find someone, a client of my employers, Hodgson, Hathaway and Head.’
‘Debt collectors are they?’
‘No, nothing so brutal. They are solicitors. I have been tasked with finding their client regarding the sale of a business within which he has a stake.’
‘Money due, eh?’ He scanned the room as he settled his broad arms on the bar in front of me, leaning forwards. His voice lowered to a whisper. ‘Is there a fee to be paid to those that can help?’
‘I have expenses at my disposal.’ I gained his interest immediately. ‘The man in question is the previous owner of this establishment, a Mr Tom Finnan. Do you know of him?’
‘I met the man on one occasion a few years ago. He lived here with his sister and daughter. They left in a bit of a hurry – it was a quick sale.’
‘Excellent, and do you know of his whereabouts now?’
His eyes narrowed and he remained silent. I reached into my coat for my wallet, which I placed on the bar in front of me.
‘Pluckley, I think he moved to Pluckley in Kent. I heard he took on a pub there, the Black something, it could be Swan or maybe Horse. I can’t remember too clearly.’
I pushed some coins across the counter towards him.
‘Horse, it was, definitely Horse. He left something behind as well.’ A spark lit and I added more coins to the pot.
‘Did he? Well then perhaps I could deliver it. Is it a large package?’
He said nothing and, snatching the coins up from the bar, walked off to the doorway which led upstairs. He returned holding a large black tin.
‘It’s locked,’ he said. ‘I never tried to open it of course.’ I examined the tin. It was old and dented in places and the paint had been scratched off around the lock and rim.
I lifted the tin from the bar; there was a little weight to it and, upon shaking it, there was a rattling sound.
‘I shall make sure that it is delivered to him. Tell me, you say that he left in some haste. Was there a reason for this?’
The landlord folded his arms and set his face in stone. ‘Family business. His daughter was… unwell.’ His head lowered and turned away; it was clear that our conversation was over.
With the location of Tom Finnan established and my battered package in hand, I left the Princess Alice with a broad smile across my face and headed back to the offices of my employer.
***
‘This fixation with Sibelius Darke will lead you to trouble, Weaver. You drive idle curiosity to the limits of obsession!’
‘But it is a good story, sir – possibly the greatest. I am uncovering new, important information every day, information which you would be the first to publish, enough for a special edition all of its own. I could fill eight pages with the information and pictures that I have already; people will buy it, you know they will. It would sell more copies than Calcraft.’
‘I admire your spirit, you have a lot to offer. You are superior with a pencil and ink and I have seen no other who can quite recreate a scene the way you do.’ The warmth in George Purkess’s smile was sincere and I felt a surge of confidence within me. ‘However, you are one of seventy artists that I have at my disposal. Others are begging for the kind of attention you demand, and it would be easy for me to cast you aside if you continue to press me with these matters.’ He reached onto his desk and picked up a piece of notepaper. ‘If it’s murder you want then this city is producing it afresh every day. Nobody wants to hear old news; I cannot sell it. Go to this address in St John’s Wood. There has been some kind of incident at a house in Boston Place. My man in the police has been a little touchy about the details, but go and see all the same – for me.’
I looked at him in hope for a change of heart but there would be none. For a day that had promised so much and provided me with such excitement, the spark of exhilaration ignited by the news of Tom Finnan’s whereabouts was quick
ly being extinguished by my normally malleable patron.
Mr Purkess was a man large in both size and in presence; he had the ability to walk into a room and immediately draw all eyes towards him like moths towards gaslight. His frame was round, although not so stretched as to make him seem fat; he was more solid, like an oaken barrel, immovable and well formed.
As he sat behind his desk now, idly rubbing his fingers over his pocket watch, which was attached to his waistcoat by a heavy gold chain, I could see that his immovability stretched to stubbornness in this matter. I would have to work further on the man to turn him to my path.
I sighed in temporary defeat, a sign to Mr Purkess that I was, for now, beaten. His little victory made him straighten himself somewhat and he once again pushed forwards the piece of paper with the address on it.
‘Take this job, Samuel. They are expecting you and it is on your way home. You are dear to me, boy, but I cannot allow you to disappear off hunting for things that no one wants to hear of any more.’
I forced a smile and took the note. ‘I will not give in, you know, Mr Purkess,’ I said, the overfamiliarity of my tone fully intentional and aimed at annoying him. I misjudged his response, however, as he laughed out loud and stood, guiding me to the door.
‘Get out of my office before I lose my humour and retire you early! Go to Boston Place and do not come back until you have drawn for me a grisly murder set to shock and disgust everyone who sees it!’
I joined in his laughter and set off. Despite my need to carry on my investigation, I could not deny him.
***
I had first come to Mr Purkess’s establishment in the Strand a little more than six years earlier, fresh from King’s Cross. I had travelled down from York carrying only a small suitcase containing a set of clothes, a toilet bag and some examples of my illustrations.
I presented myself at the offices of The Illustrated Police News and found myself quickly embroiled in an altercation with an older gentleman named Mr Henry Cope, the current editor.
Domini Mortum Page 2
