The man wore a smartly brushed, black woollen suit, and looked as if he had never worked a day in his life; however, the leather bag which he now held at his side showed him to be a doctor – Doctor J. P. Lubbock to be precise.
‘Put him on there. And keep pressure in the wound; press as hard as you can!’ ordered the doctor, as we entered a large examination room with a cushioned bed in the middle. Thankfully it seemed that, in the case of Dr Lubbock, we had found a medical man confident of treating emergencies.
‘I do not suppose you will tell me exactly how the boy came upon this injury?’ the doctor said, examining the wound, which began to bleed anew as I removed my hands.
‘They were accosted on the Harrow Road, not half a mile from here,’ I answered, the lie slipping effortlessly from my tongue. ‘The man ran away when he saw me approaching. I did not give chase as I knew that the boy was in danger.’
‘You were right, of course.’ The doctor stuck his finger into the hole, which brought a muffled groan from the semi-conscious boy. ‘The wound is dangerously close to the femoral, although I think it has been merely nicked.’
‘Will he die?’ Alice asked, her eyes imploring the doctor for an answer.
‘No, he will not die,’ he returned sharply. ‘Although he will need hospital treatment for his wound and he will be weak from his loss of blood. The man who did this to you, do you know him?’
‘I do not, sir; I didn’t catch a good look at him. He just came out of nowhere, and attacked my brother and myself. He scarpered when this kind man came to our assistance.’ Alice forced a smile at me then.
‘Well, your brother does indeed have a lot to thank this gentleman for. He will have lasting injuries but his life can be saved. When my man from St Mary’s arrives we will dress the wound as best we can, and get him sent to a more suitably equipped hospital.’
‘Any costs, sir. Whatever it takes, I will gladly pay it to secure the boy’s health,’ I said, taking Benjamin’s hand in my own.
‘You are a rare man,’ the doctor said, eyeing me. ‘I am sure that the child will thank you for your aid in the future.’
At that moment the door opened and another man breezed in. He briefly surveyed the scene and nodded in a friendly manner at both Alice and myself, before removing his jacket and addressing the doctor.
‘Good lord, John,’ he exclaimed, a smile upon his face. ‘I thought you left all this behind to look after your French-gout-ridden fireships!’ He waved Alice and me away. ‘Come on then, let a real doctor through – let’s see if we can’t help this boy and get him back to my ward before he contracts a bout of some female malady from this place.’
The grin upon his face was infectious to a degree, and his confident manner sent a cool breath to my heart as I realised that Benjamin would come through this with his life. Within twenty minutes a carriage from the hospital arrived for the boy and, after thanking Dr Lubbock for his aid, we left for St Mary’s with the eternally jovial Dr Holmes.
***
The last time that I saw my mother I was nineteen years old. I admit that I had rarely visited her; I hated hospitals, the smell, the cloying sickness that surrounded me as I entered and the sense of decay and death which seemed to be inherent in the very brickwork. The experience of forcing myself to make the journey to see her drew the life from me, leaving me sullen. The ward in which Mother was held, although lightly painted and high ceilinged, felt oppressive to anyone entering. For the residents, those who had no choice but to remain within the walls of the building, it would seem that there were some benefits to being unsound of mind. Lucidity and clarity of thought, for these poor unfortunates, were rare, not just owing to their particular brand of madness and hysteria, but because of the very fact that they were held within such walls, surrounded by other fragile minds. Indeed, in the case of my own mother, I always felt that had she not been committed to such an institution she would have recovered from whatever ill had caused Father to imprison her.
When last I saw her she was greatly changed from the days when she had been taken from our home some five years earlier; she had aged in those few years and had become pale and drawn, as if she were little more than a ghost of the person she once had been. Her eyes, once so full of blue sparkle and delight at my presence, were now dull and grey with large shadows hanging beneath them. She had always been a lady who had taken so much pride and care in her appearance, but this was gone now; any self-respect had crumbled with her heart and sanity when these were broken by the man she loved.
Father never visited her to my knowledge. He told me that he did, often stating that he would be going to The Retreat to see her and always coming back a few hours later with news of her well-being; but I knew that this was not the case. There were no entries by him in the visitor’s book in the main atrium and I took the time to speak to the attendants, whose care Mother was under, to ask them of other visitors; there were none. I had long since known that my father had given up on my mother in the pursuit of his other interests.
Whenever I pushed myself into a visitation, my time with her was often short, for my stomach churned and a bitter taste sat in my mouth just to look at her. We did not speak any more than a few words to each other. I would offer her vague and paltry news of home and the gardens, and she would answer in a brief dull manner. When I left, it would always be a hurried affair; I would take her hand briefly before kissing her gently on the forehead and bustling past the attendants into the fresh air outside. Each time, following my exit, I would walk the five minutes to the centre of York to drown my sorrows, sitting sullenly and lost in dark thoughts, daring myself never to visit her again.
Father never asked me about my visits and, in truth, I do not know what I would have said to him if he had. We hardly spoke at all in the months prior to my leaving for London. I had nothing to say to the man and, when the time came that we did at last speak frankly to one another, it was the last time that any word was uttered between us.
***
Dr Holmes had been a saint to us, and especially towards Benjamin. He had taken us personally to St Mary’s and accompanied the boy on his stretcher, talking gaily to him all the way, until we reached the ward. There Benjamin had been tended to by the kindly nurses and given a draught to ease the pain. Holmes left us for a short while, returning to swiftly stitch and dress the wound whilst the boy was mercifully unconscious.
‘He will sleep through the night,’ Holmes told me after taking me aside. ‘I have given instructions that you and the young lady may stay with him if you wish. And I will return in the morning to see how the little man is doing. I do not doubt that he will be able to go home after a short stay with us.’ He placed a hand upon my shoulder. ‘He will be in considerable pain for some time I would imagine, and he will probably require a stick of some kind; I doubt if he will ever run anywhere again.’
The good doctor shook my hand warmly and departed with a wave to Alice, who was still in shock from the whole ordeal. The happy nature and gentle attentions of Holmes, combined with the traumatic circumstances, had caused me to forget that I was standing within a hospital, something which would have normally filled me with revulsion.
I returned to Benjamin’s bedside, where Alice sat holding the sleeping boy’s hand.
‘Alice, I need to explain,’ I said, sitting beside her and placing my arm around her shoulder. She did not resist my affections, but instead turned to sink into my embrace, sobbing quietly. We sat there for a while in silence until finally she removed her head from my chest and spoke.
‘Tell me now, Sam. I am ready to listen.’
And so I told her. I told her of my obsession with the killer Sibelius Darke and of how my investigations had led me to Lord Falconer. I told her of the Dolorian Club and of how I suspected that they were also behind the current spate of murders in the area. I told her of Abe Thomas and his death at the hands of the hooded killer and finally, with regret, I told her of the true nature of Frederick Draper’s visit
and of how I had ignored his veiled threats towards her and Benjamin.
All the while she listened intently and, when I had finished, she did not react with anger, as I had feared, but instead was quiet and kind, telling me that I had been doing the right thing in trying to expose the men behind the murders. For a while we sat in gentle conversation and I vowed to her that this would be the end of it, that I would not push either Alice or her brother further into danger.
‘I have decided that you and Benjamin should go to stay at my family home in York for a while, until all of this settles down,’ I said as I held both of her hands within my own. ‘You will be safe there and the housekeeper, Mrs Coleman, will look after the two of you like you were her own. It will not be for long and I will come up to York to collect you myself when all of this has gone away. Please, Alice. Do this for me, do this for all of us.’
‘But what about you, Sam? How can you expect me to leave you to the mercy of those terrible men?’
‘I will be fine,’ I replied. ‘And I would be more content if I knew that you and Benjamin were out of harm’s way. No one will touch you in York, I promise you, and I can protect myself better if I do not have to worry about your safety.’
Reluctantly she agreed and in the early hours of the morning she climbed onto the bed with Benjamin and slept. I bothered one of the nurses for some writing paper and a pen so that I could write to my family home in York.
I will not divulge the full details of my letter, other than to say that it started with an apology for my hasty departure and the dearth of communication from me since. The rest of the letter was lies, to a point. I said that I was successful in my job, that my editor and the owner of the newspaper found me irreplaceable. I said that I had met a delightful young woman, Alice, who had moved into my home with her brother and they were both as close as family to me now. Unfortunately, however, due to incidents related to Alice and her brother’s background it was not safe for them to remain in London at the moment. The lies flowed easily. I was of course a writer and as such my aptitude for fiction was inbuilt. Finally, I asked that they be looked after for a short while and that I would, despite what I had said in the past, travel up at the soonest opportunity.
The letter finished, I settled back in my chair and, with a last lingering look at my new family asleep before me, I closed my eyes and rested until morning came.
***
Surprisingly, I received a reply to my letter promptly. One week later Mrs Coleman met us at King’s Cross station and, after overprotective fussing, long embraces and promises to be reunited shortly, I watched the little party wave from the carriage window as the train pulled away.
I stood on the platform until the train disappeared fully from view before leaving the station and hailing a hansom to take me to the Strand and the offices of The Illustrated Police News. My employers had, most surprisingly, been very understanding of my recent absence. As far as George Purkess and Henry Cope were aware, I had been forced to travel to York to attend the funeral of my mother and to assist dear Father in the ordering of her affairs. As I strode through the doors of the offices I even saw a hint of sympathy in the eyes of Cope (his own elderly mother having passed away not three months earlier, a fact of which I was aware and which formed the basis for my lie).
‘Hello, Mr Cope,’ I said, my voice suitably subdued and tears welling in my eyes to complete the picture. ‘I am sorry for my absence. It has been a very trying time and I am grateful for your understanding.’
Cope looked as awkward as I had ever seen the man.
‘Do not mention it, Mr Weaver,’ he said. ‘A death in the family is a terrible thing for all concerned. Of course you were aware of my own mother’s demise. I understand what you have had to deal with. Mr Purkess also passes on his condolences.’
‘Thank you again, Mr Cope. Tell me, is he in at present? I very much hoped to see him in person to thank him for his patience.’
‘No, I am afraid not. He has not been in all week in fact – family matters of his own. He has sent messengers every day, of course, requesting news of this week’s edition and making decisions on stories as always. I will let him know that you have returned.’
‘I would be most grateful. Shall I return to my rooms and await your call?’
‘Yes, there is always work and I shall no doubt be in contact presently. We have a new contact in the police who has asked after you personally, an Inspector George Langton. He has taken on poor Inspector Thomas’s position.’
‘He asked for me?’
‘Yes, nice man he seemed. He said he had followed and enjoyed your work immensely in the past and wondered when you would be sent to attend an incident with him. I shall of course let him know that you are back, if you wish?’
My back stiffened somewhat. ‘Of course, I would be glad to meet him when the opportunity arises,’ I said. ‘Send a boy around when I’m required. And once again thank you. It is good to know who your friends are in such difficult times.’ I shook his hand and left, wondering if this Langton was indeed a follower of my work or, more likely, attached to the Dolorian Club and Falconer.
Over the next week some work did trickle through from Mr Cope, some of which was of the dull court variety, while other pieces included post-incident interviews and accompanying sketches of robberies, beatings and fires. I was thankful for the work when it arrived, but also enjoyed the spare time that I had, during which I worked at home on my written manuscript of the Sibelius Darke affair. I had decided to cut my losses and halt the investigations into Lord Falconer and the Dolorian Club. I had lost enough from my blundering and was glad that I had come out of the ordeal with both Alice and Benjamin still alive. I would send my completed work to Mr Purkess, but I would leave it up to him as to if and when it was published. My time with Alice and her brother had shown me that there were greater things in life.
I received letters from Alice and Benjamin on an almost daily basis, telling me of how well they had settled into my old family home and of how warm and loving both Mrs Coleman and Mr Morgan were towards the pair of them. Benjamin had been enrolled in a local school and was very much looking forward to starting his lessons, while Alice had begun the search for work in York.
I missed them both. It was strange to me that, although they had been a part of my life for such a short time, they had left a void and I often returned to my rooms expecting to find them there waiting for me; Benjamin desperate to know where I had been and Alice smiling and warm, happy to see me. In those two weeks, following their move up to York, I struggled at times and wondered how I had ever been so content on my own.
***
I had begun to sink into a funk. At times I even thought of packing up and heading back up north myself to be reunited with Benjamin and Alice, even if it meant facing up to my past indiscretions. This changed, however, after I arrived home one evening from a particularly nasty stabbing outside the Crown and Anchor in the Strand. The incident itself came as quite a shock to me as I had actually witnessed the crime in question.
I had stopped in for a drink on my way home after dropping off some sketches at the office, when an argument started between two men at the bar. I recognised one of the men, Neil Bates, a man well known locally as someone who dealt in stolen and smuggled goods. I do not know the true cause of the argument but I could guess that it would be one of two reasons: money or women. The voices of the men rose to a point where all other conversation in the bar stopped.
‘You cheated me, Batesy!’ the smaller man snarled. ‘I bought them fish off you in good faith – you said they was fresh! They was rotten within a day!’
‘And they was,’ replied Bates. ‘They was fresh when I got ’em and I sold ’em to you the same day. What you do with them after you hand over yer money is up to you. Don’t you go blaming me.’
The men suddenly noticed the silence around them and Bates got up to leave, finishing the argument with a particularly coarse reference to the family history of th
e other. The door had just closed on the departee, when the smaller man charged out of the pub, bottle in hand.
Like most others in the bar, I raced after him, not necessarily to stop the inevitable assault but more to witness it. I reached the open doorway just in time to see the bottle broken over the head of Bates, and the remaining broken glass jammed hard into his throat and pulled outwards, causing the skin on his neck to turn to ribbon. In that moment all time seemed to freeze and, as I later drew to horrifying effect, a huge spurt of blood shot outwards covering all within its reach, including me. The attacker threw his weapon to the ground, where it smashed into pieces on the paving slabs, and immediately ran off down the road, closely chased by a number of men. I, however, found myself catching the falling victim, and attempted with great futility to stop the blood from flowing from his neck wound. By the time the police arrived on the scene there was no more blood left to flow and I was sat on the sodden ground cradling a bled-out corpse. Neil Bates had suffered the consequences of his final dodgy deal.
And so it was that, not one hour later, I traipsed slowly back to my rooms covered from head to foot in drying blood, and wondering how on earth I was to get my best suit cleaned to a degree where I would ever feel comfortable wearing it again. As I opened the door I was shocked to discover a figure waiting for me in the doorway of my kitchen.
‘Oh good God, Sam!’ she cried. ‘Please tell me that that is not your blood!’
‘Alice, what are you doing here? Where is Benjamin?’ I thought for a fleeting moment to run into her arms, such was my joy at the sight of her, but my present state prevented such an action.
Domini Mortum Page 17
