The hooded eyes of Cope studied me for a second and he bit the corner of his lip as he tried to judge the level of my sincerity.
‘Who from the force attended the murder scenes?’ I asked.
‘Inspector Thomas, of course,’ he replied. ‘That man is never off duty, no matter what state he is in. There was only one scene, though: a young woman, by the name of Felicity Moore, brutalised and murdered in the most disgusting of manners. Nailed to a tree in St Peter’s Park. I would not dare tell you of the atrocities that were done to her body. If you are interested you should speak to Inspector Thomas; he, like you, seems to revel in that sort of thing.’
The anger within me grew. Why could it not have been just a plain everyday stabbing? Why not a drunken brawl which led to an unfortunate death? This murder sounded exciting and I had missed it due to my obsession with Darke. It was, if nothing else, even more reason to hate him.
‘Is Mr Purkess in, by any chance?’ I asked, motioning towards the stairs which led to his offices.
‘Why of course not, Weaver. Surely you must know his movements better than that. He is lunching and I do not expect him back today, any more than I do any other day when he has gone to lunch.’
I shrugged and said no more to Cope, taking a few minutes to wander the offices and look at the pieces being written for next week’s edition. I found the writer putting the ‘Tragedy of St Peter’s Park’ murder into words. It was sparse to say the least, full of vague assumptions, tawdry descriptions and lazy in its creativity. I had been gently pushing Purkess for some time to allow me regularly to put the words to my pictures, but he had, in the main, been resistant to my more explicit writing efforts.
‘The world is not yet ready for the combined energies of your work, Mr Weaver,’ he had said during one such heated discussion. ‘The words, when combined with your pictures, will cause weakness and distress to any ladies who read them; society will not appreciate the reality and shock value that you bring.’
I disagreed, of course; I knew the hearts and minds of men, their darkest desires for the excitement that came from a brutal and base act, and the thrill that they felt when seeing the cruel suffering of others. I knew men – and I knew that they would happily soak themselves in all the gore and horror that I could offer them, if only they were given the chance.
As I left the offices to return home, I called out to all who would listen that I was now ‘on duty’ once more and would be available to work as and when needed.
***
Over the next week I was indeed called upon to attend some scenes of disarray and tragedy in the city. There were accidental deaths: a man run down by a dray as he returned home from work to see his wife, who had gone into labour that day. And there was the usual array of killings related to drink and its effects: a woman who cut the throat of her drunken and abusive husband as he slept, before preposterously turning herself into the police, claiming that she did it in self-defence. None of the unfortunate events in the area showed any link to the murder of the servant girl in the park. This changed, however, six days after my return from Pluckley.
A police carriage pulled up outside my rooms and I was requested to join Inspector Thomas at a scene in Lancaster Gate, outside Christ Church.
When I arrived I found the Inspector standing at the end of the road.
‘Morning, Abe,’ I said. ‘Another one?’
He did not answer but nodded, pointing up the street to a spot outside the church, where a number of police had gathered. I could tell that the Inspector was in no mood for banter today.
‘Has there been any movement on Boston Place?’ I asked, more in hope than expectation.
‘Nothing official,’ he grumbled. ‘We have the names of most of the girls, to go with Mary Pershaw; but I have the feeling that there is actually a link between Boston Place and these murders.’
‘How so?’
‘The last scene – you will have heard of it. A partly clothed girl, Felicity Moore, arms aloft and nailed by her palms to an oak tree in the middle of St Peter’s Park, her body ripped and her insides emptied onto the ground in front of her feet.’
‘I did hear vague details; I understand that another artist attended the scene.’
‘James Fairchild. Yes, he seemed a decent enough man. Not suited to these places, though. He did well not to lose the contents of his stomach.’ He gave a smile but it was cold; there was no happiness in it.
‘Some people are meant for this, Abe,’ I said solemnly. ‘What’s the link?’
‘The spikes that were used to nail her hands to the tree. They were cut spikes, like those used on railways and…’
‘The same as those used at Boston Place,’ I said, completing his sentence. ‘To nail the bodies to the floor and the hearts to the wall.’
He looked grimly at me.
‘I think that was the beginning,’ he said. ‘The root of these killings. I know murder, Samuel, and that girl at the tree and this poor child are somehow connected to those deaths.’
‘Is Boston Place still being kept out of the press?’ I asked.
‘Not for much longer,’ he replied. ‘People talk and sooner or later the story will come out, or a version of it.’
‘We may not keep it to ourselves for much longer, Abe. Not if there’s a link to these murders.’
‘I know, I know. Just give me another week and I promise you that it’s all yours. Tell Purkess that himself. Tell him I’ll owe him one.’
I nodded in assent and we approached the newest victim.
‘A milk cart found her, just as it was starting to get light this morning. The driver thought that someone had dumped a pile of rubbish in the road,’ Thomas said as we neared the mound. ‘He saw no sign of an assailant other than a tall, jaundiced woman in a light grey cloak. She couldn’t have done it, of course – this isn’t the work of a lady – but I would still like to find her. She may have seen the murderer.’
I could see why the mistake had been made; it did not seem like a body at all but a pile of rags.
‘This is how he found her,’ he continued. ‘We haven’t tried to move her yet as we were waiting for a doctor to arrive. I want to know if she’s all here.’ He breathed out hard and long. ‘We wouldn’t even know it was a girl if it wasn’t for this.’ He pointed down at one side of the bundle and the horror of what was at my feet began to be revealed to me.
The pile sat about two feet high, stacked into a neat pyramid of black, torn clothing and glimpses of pale flesh. Around this lay a moat of blood which had settled into the spaces between the cobbles. Although the cause of death was unclear, one thing was for certain. The girl had been jointed. Each cut section of her had been carefully placed on top of another in a bizarre tower of cut body parts. At the bottom was the torso, followed by the thighs and upper arms; on top of these had been placed the calves and forearms; and finally at its apex sat the hands and feet, reaching up to the heavens. The area where Thomas had pointed gave the positioning of the final piece of the puzzle. The head of a girl with long dark hair, tied into a plait and hanging from the tower, stared out of a cage made of her own limbs. Her eyes were wide in terror and I could only imagine the agony that she felt when her end had come – or had it been relief?
I quickly set about sketching the bundle, knowing that the doctor could arrive at any time and the image, which the killer must have wanted to be witnessed by all, would be dismantled. I could not draw my eyes from her and completed my sketch without ever moving my gaze. Time seemed to stop as I lost myself in the grotesque beauty of this killer’s work.
When the doctor arrived, two young policemen were given the task of taking each of the pieces of her and laying them out on a sheet which had been placed on the pavement. They did so with tears in their eyes and I knew that, however long they lived, they would each bear the memory of this day etched into their minds until their deathbeds. When they had completed their harrowing job, and the doctor set about examining the corpse, I drew
her again.
She was a pretty girl, or had been. The milky white skin on her cheeks was flecked with blood, which gave the impression of a freckle-faced child. I could tell by what was left of her clothes, her calloused hands and her worn fingernails that she was a working girl of some description, perhaps in a kitchen somewhere. Her shoes were flat and sturdy enough, although the edges of the soles had started to wear more than would be tolerated by someone who could easily afford to buy new. Before her legs had been taken from her torso, she had been wearing long skirts; these now lay in a dirty heap at the side of the road.
‘It was a large blade that done her; something long enough and sharp enough to take each piece from her in just one slice. There are no hack marks. There is no sign of a bag or anything to identify her, but someone must know who she is,’ Abe said. He nudged the kneeling doctor in the back with his knee. ‘Can we hurry this up, Doctor?’ he barked. ‘I just need to know. Is she all there?’
The doctor looked up from his grim work and nodded.
‘There is nothing amiss as far as I can tell at this stage, Inspector,’ he said. ‘Not unless the killer took her organs and stitched her back up, which I doubt.’
I turned from the girl and, saying my goodbyes to Abe, I walked away. I had all the pictures that I needed to compose something shocking enough to make the front page of next week’s edition, if given the nod by the Inspector. I would visit Abe later this evening to find out if there had been any developments. The sound of the doctor’s voice stopped me in my tracks, however.
‘There is nothing missing, Inspector, but there has certainly been something added.’ I turned to see what he spoke of.
In his hand he held the iron cut spike that he had withdrawn from her.
***
It was a week after the discovery of the jointed girl that I finally had time to visit the asylum near Dartford. There had been no further killings, although both Inspector Thomas and all who knew of them expected another at any time. The only link between the dead girls was they were clearly in service of some kind. Thomas had sent his men to ask discreet questions at houses in both the St Peter’s Park and Marylebone areas, but the owners and their staff were cagey and unhelpful, to say the least.
News of the two murders and the twelve bodies at Boston Place were hearsay only and the police refused to confirm or deny their existence. It would not be long before I would be forced to make this knowledge public, but in the meantime I kept my word to the Inspector. I knew that, if handled clumsily, telling all, although sensational and good for circulation, would cause irreparable long-term damage to the goodwill that we had carefully and methodically nurtured with the police.
It was mid-afternoon and the sun threw a dazzling blaze upon the asylum, seeming to bathe it in warmth and happiness. From my knowledge of such institutions, I knew that this would not be the case once inside the doors and this realisation made me pause for a while outside. I took this time to sketch the building, paying particular attention to the tall tower which rose above it. I had been informed, following a number of letters over the past two weeks, that Bethany Finnan resided within the tower itself, away from the other residents.
I had written claiming to be the cousin of Bethany Finnan, and explaining that I had come over from Dublin and wished to visit. This was a ploy filled with risk, as her father could have been contacted by the asylum at any stage to confirm my identity. My enquiries had taught me that Bethany had been committed to the asylum by Tom following a number of violent incidents where she put herself and others at risk of injury or death. Tom had asked that she be kept in separate quarters and paid a fee to the medical superintendent Dr Octavius Jepson. My prior knowledge of such places, both through my father’s church activities with the York asylum and my own mother’s care at The Retreat, led me to believe that the only place such funds went was into the pockets and accounts of those in charge of the asylum.
I swallowed hard before pushing open the large doors at the entrance to the building and, after introducing myself, was led into the tower and up a steep spiral staircase to the room at the top.
The room was a bright burning in my eyes as the warden unlocked and opened the door for me and I stepped inside. Every part of the room was white and reflected the light of the day shining in through the large windows which seemed to circle the room. There was a sparsely dressed bed in the centre of the room, the only bedding a soft white blanket which lay neatly stretched across the sheeted mattress.
As my eyes became accustomed to the blankness of the room, I saw her. She was sitting upon a painted window seat, her face turned away from me as she gazed out into the freedom of the countryside beyond. She wore a thin white dress, no more than a nightgown, which caused her to further blend in to her surroundings.
‘I have come to visit with you, miss; I recently stayed with your father, Tom.’
She did not respond and I studied her frame, slight and poised. Her hands lay crossed upon her lap, their skin as pale and smooth as to almost appear translucent. Her hair was long, dark and brushed so as to give it a glossy sheen and there were tinges of red within which I saw elements of her father. The hair hung softly in ringed curls across her shoulder and her back, and I thought then about how striking a form she was, almost ethereal and ghostly.
As I approached the window seat, she did not stir, and I slowly sat down. I saw her face and I understood the truth in what her father, Tom, had told me about the love which she had inspired in all who met her. Her green eyes remained fixed upon some indefinable place within the trees which surrounded the hospital. She was indeed a most beautiful creature, her eyes soft and large, framed by gently curved cheekbones which lifted her face and caused her mouth to appear pursed. Her lips, although without the benefit of rouge, were red, cushioned and tender as if awaiting the kiss of her long-dead beau.
I was so struck by her countenance that when she spoke it caused me to start somewhat.
‘Have you brought news of Sibelius to me?’ Her voice was low and smooth.
‘I have not,’ I responded, ‘just news from your father.’
‘Father, I know Father’s message already,’ she said. ‘He loves me and that is why he keeps me here. It is… for the best, I am told.’ There was a sharpness to her voice.
‘Why did you ask about Sibelius? Was it not Nikolas Darke that you loved and were betrothed to?’
‘I did, and I was, but I said goodbye to Niko. We had our time for farewells; Sibelius gave that to us.’
‘Then you do not believe that Sibelius murdered his brother?’
‘Sibelius Darke was the bravest, kindest and most gentle man I ever knew. He did not kill Niko! Nor any of those children either, he did not have it within him!’
‘But the evidence would say differently. I have read the newspapers; I’ve even spoken to those that were there.’
‘Then you are a fool,’ she laughed. ‘Do you really believe everything you read in the press? Even I know that they lie and exaggerate in order to sell the latest edition – and I am supposedly a lunatic.’
‘But what about the Dolorian Club, Bethany? He was seen by more than two dozen witnesses leaving the blazing building in his wake. He walked through that club armed to the teeth and killing all who stood in his way, including Dr Earnshaw, the man who arranged his membership of the club. You cannot deny that he was guilty of that.’
‘Were you sent by Dr Jepson?’
‘No, why?’
‘Because Jepson has sent dolts like you before – I do not know why, perhaps it is for his own amusement. He is sicker than most held within these walls.’ Her eyes fixed on me for an uncomfortable period of time and I found myself looking away from her to avoid her scrutiny. ‘The Dolorian Club was a place of evil; it was the place where the demon Surma was reborn. Do not tell me that Sibelius was a guilty man for killing everyone in that building.’
‘I am sorry but I cannot see it,’ I said. The poor girl was obviously damaged.
‘They watch me here still, you know,’ she said, a small upturn of her lips showing some amusement.
‘Who?’
‘The club and its members, those who worked their evil with Earnshaw.’ She spat the name as if the word burned her mouth.
‘You do mean Dr Charles Earnshaw? He was known to be a good man, well known for his charitable work; he was Darke’s most famous victim.’
‘He was never a victim,’ she murmured.
‘He died in the fire, Bethany; the few that survived said Darke shot him. I think that makes Earnshaw a victim.’
‘Then you are madder than I,’ she said. ‘He dragged Sibelius into it all, even tried to get Sib to join them but he wouldn’t. No, Sib killed them instead.’ She laughed aloud, a noise that seemed more of a wail, more of pain than humour. A tear formed in her eye and she threw her head sideways into the wall sharply, striking it with a crack. I reached forward to stop her, but she turned on me. ‘Do not touch me. I belong to my love. The one who still visits and talks to me, the one who died so that I could live. Oh how I wish I was dead with him now!’
‘A ghost, Bethany? Are you saying that a ghost comes to you?’ I suddenly thought of the figure at Frith Corner, the image of Sibelius Darke hovering above the ground, trying to speak to me. An apparition caused by my own drunkenness, nothing more.
‘Of course, he speaks to me in the night, when no one else is here; he speaks soft words into my ears and sometimes even stands at the foot of my bed.’
‘I do not believe in ghosts, miss. They are a sign of an unsure and desperate mind as far as I am concerned.’
Bethany smiled at me and did not say another word. I stayed by her side for another twenty minutes, but despite my questioning she would say no more. She sat staring out of the window, a gentle smile upon her face, her eyes glazed and thick with unspent tears.
I knocked upon the inside of the door and heard it unlocking. I had hoped to discover more detail about Darke the man but had only found a confused and maddened young woman, lost and wasting away in her tower. The only new part of the puzzle that I had found was the involvement of Dr Earnshaw. I had heard the name in passing in my earlier investigations but decided that I should attempt some further enquiry into him.
Domini Mortum Page 9
