15
A Most Disreputable Party
I stood before the hearth, watching the flames as they danced and caught on the coals, carefully placed there by Mrs Coleman shortly after daybreak. The fireplace had a brass surround which was polished to within an inch of its life on a weekly basis by her, too. On one side stood a coal bucket, also brass, which, thanks to Morgan, I had never seen empty in any of the nineteen years that I had lived. The fire was dwindling and I took the poker from the stand, feeling the weight of it, before idly poking at the coals, stirring them into life.
The carriage to take me to York Station had been arranged for eleven and I had ventured out of my bedroom and down the stairs early to the dining room to breakfast. Mrs Coleman, who had served up an insurmountably large plateful for me, was now upstairs putting the finishing touches to my suitcases; she had been told by Father that I should be packed for a long trip and that he did not expect me to return for some time.
Father had arranged rooms for me in Amberley Road, Paddington. I was assured by Father that, whilst small, they would fully meet my needs and would be the ideal starting point for my new life. I would be met at King’s Cross Station by a colleague of Father’s (I did not dare to think in what capacity, as he could have been anything from an archbishop to a brutal gang enforcer). Once met, I would be escorted to my rooms and given the keys, whereupon the associate would then leave me and continue his own business, be that preparing a liturgy or planning a murder.
The rest, Father informed me, was entirely up to me; if I wanted a position on one of the London papers badly enough, then I would have to use my own skills of persuasion. He did, however, add that there would be a monthly allowance available for me to access if I wished; this I understood to be Father’s way of ensuring that, even if I were unsuccessful in finding work, I would not return to York to ask for money.
It was a little after nine when I heard a carriage pull up outside. It was far too early for my ride to the station, so I assumed that it was Father, come back from one of his morning calls to ensure I was indeed leaving. I continued to prod the coals as the door to the drawing room opened behind me and he entered.
‘All is set, then,’ he said. ‘Your carriage should be here in a little over an hour. I take it all your bags are packed?’
‘Yes, thank you, Father,’ I replied. ‘Your thoughtfulness and care for my well-being are quite overwhelming.’ The tip of the poker nudged one of the new coals into the centre of the fire and its edges began to sizzle slightly as the heat took hold. I left the poker pressed into the coals.
‘You know that you can write to me? It would be good to know of your exploits in the capital city. A life in London is all quite exciting; really, I am jealous of this adventure of yours.’
I still had not turned to face him and continued to stare deep into the flames.
‘Well, please feel free to go in my stead if you wish. Far be it for me to deny you the opportunity for excitement – although it would seem that nothing much denies you from engaging in your pleasures. My future life looks positively dull in comparison.’
I heard the rustle of his clothing as he stepped towards me; still I would not turn to look at him. The tip of the poker began to glow red and I could feel the heat of the fire running up the metal and into my hand.
‘One day I hope that we can mend this. Perhaps we will restore what we have lost.’ I could not see him, but I felt sure that he held out an arm towards me, his hand hovering just inches from my shoulder.
‘Restore what we have lost? Tell me, Father, what is it that we lost along the way? Was it Mother?’
‘Let us not bring your mother into this. I did what I did for the good of us all – you do not know the full story.’
‘And nor do I wish to. I know enough now. I have had enough of your tawdry lies!’ The poker was bright red now and my right hand began to burn, the pain tingling in my fingers, making me want to drop it; I did not, though. ‘Did you come to say goodbye, or sorry? Whichever it is, get it over with.’
‘Son, I…’
I felt the weight of his hand upon my shoulder and I swung around, the poker striking him on the left side of his face. He dropped to the floor, smashing into the small drawing-room table, the glass lamp sitting on it moments before hitting the floor and shattering into a thousand pieces. I stood over him, poker in hand, waiting for him to try to rise to his feet; he did not move.
I watched him cautiously, looking for any sense of movement from him.
A light wispy gasp from his lips told me that he still lived and I raised my hand ready to strike once more. There was a large red welt appearing on his temple. His chest rose and fell in the slightest of manners and I knew that he would wake at any second. I put the tip of the poker back into the fire, resting it on the grate, and calmly took a seat, my eyes not once leaving Father.
I glanced up at the clock once more; there was time still.
For a five full minutes I sat and watched him. Here was the man who had imprisoned my mother; here was the man who had lied to me his whole life; here was the man who had taken everything.
Still he did not wake.
Slowly I got to my feet and picked up the woollen cloth which sat by the coal bucket. Wrapping it around my hand I retrieved the poker from the fire. Its end glowed bright as I stood over Father.
With the outside of my boot I nudged his shoulder; no response. I pushed a little harder with my foot, rolling him onto his back. How helpless he was. Any more time wasted and I would lose the heat; it had to be now.
Holding the handle of the poker with both hands I brought it swiftly down. His shirt caught fire and his flesh sizzled as the poker slid into his chest and through his heart. For a terrifying moment he brought his arms and legs up to meet me, but there was no going back now and a gush of smoke billowed up to meet me, filling my nostrils.
Feeling the tip of the poker hit the floor below, I withdrew it quickly. A perfect hole had been created through my father and, at last, the job was done. There was no expression on his face; I did not know what I expected to see there, but I knew that, at that moment, I felt almost a little disappointment that he had not suffered more in his passing. His shirt still smouldered; I stamped it out.
A sound from behind in the doorway caused me to turn suddenly. Mrs Coleman was standing there, my suitcase in her hand.
‘Is it done now?’ she asked.
‘It is; Father and I enjoyed a truly heart-warming moment,’ I said, carefully returning the still-warm poker to the ornate and beautifully polished brass stand. ‘How long will it be before my carriage arrives?’
‘Time enough to clear this mess up,’ she said, placing my suitcase on the floor, her broad smile sitting lovingly upon her face.
***
I awoke early, my head throbbing in pain from the evening’s brandy. I thought of my visitor and listened out for any sign that he was awake; there was none and so, rolling from my bed, I padded through to the living room where I found Higgins still asleep in the armchair. He had not moved an inch, it seemed, and I observed him closely for a short while, just to ensure that he was still breathing. When he jumped a little and muttered in his sleep, I jerked back. Content that he had not expired in the night, I decided to leave him for a bit to continue to sleep it off.
It was as I was walking to the kitchen to put on some coffee that I noticed a letter that had been slipped under my door; it was from George Purkess. It would seem that the events of the previous evening in Park Crescent were now the talk of London and, due to the late hour when the demise of the Golden Woman had occurred, none of the dailies had as yet managed to put anything in print about it. Mr Purkess was worried that they would steal a march on him and his paper by taking the Golden Woman – ‘his own story’ – from him.
I glanced at Higgins once more, still sleeping, and decided to leave him a note, telling him I would be returned before midday and that our journey back to Pluckley would begin straig
ht afterwards. Assured that he still slept and that the note was attached to the first thing he would check upon waking – the brandy bottle – I set off.
The carriage ride to the office was quick and I was soon standing before Henry Cope, who wore a smile at my arrival which unnerved me completely.
‘Weaver, you are prompt indeed, for I only sent the boy with the message not an hour ago. Exciting times. I suppose you will have heard about the events of last night in Park Crescent?’
‘Heard, Mr Cope?’ I replied. ‘I was there myself, sir. Quite remarkable really, and altogether reassuring to know that I, and indeed Mr Purkess, by allowing me to publish, were perfectly correct in our claims of a Golden Woman. Tell me, is he in? I would very much like to see him and tell all.’
‘Why yes, of course; he has been anxious to get hold of you since the news reached his club last night. It is amazing how quickly these things spread about town. Although I suppose Cavendish Square is quite close to where it all happened.’
I made to move towards the staircase which led to Mr Purkess’s office but stopped in my tracks.
‘Cavendish Square, you say. Is that where his club is?’
‘Yes, I suppose that there would be no reason for you to know which club he belonged to, but it is not something that he has ever hidden. Why would he?’
I shrugged my shoulders nonchalantly. ‘No reason, I suppose. I shall go straight up.’
‘Marvellous,’ beamed Cope. ‘I shall go out to fetch coffees for you myself.’
I made to climb the stairs. Surely nowhere was now safe for me? Other than Tom Finnan and Higgins, I could not vouch for a soul any more. I stopped on the second stair and turned quickly. Cope was still watching, a broad grin plastered on his face.
‘Problem?’ he asked.
‘No, Mr Cope, no problem at all. It’s just that, before I go to see Mr Purkess, would it be possible to borrow some paper and a pen of some description? I just want to make sure that I have recorded all the facts of last night and have them clear in my mind before I speak to the old boy.’
Cope fetched me what I had asked for and said that he would return presently with the coffees. I watched him scuttle out of the door before settling down at his desk to write.
I did not, of course, jot down any notes, but instead wrote a short scribbled message for Inspector Langton. I gave the note to one of the boys who regularly sat in the reception awaiting running jobs and, pressing half a crown into his hand, whispered its destination, promising that the man receiving the message would provide the same to him should he deliver it swiftly enough. Without a word, the boy stuffed the note into his pocket and ran from the offices.
I looked once more at the stairs and wondered whether I would gain anything from ascending them and seeing Purkess one more time. My foot resting on the first step, I looked around and noted that all eyes of the office were upon me, almost threatening in their gaze.
I turned and made for the door, calling over my shoulder to anyone who would listen, ‘Tell Mr Purkess I shall return this afternoon; I have a pressing engagement!’
***
The train journey was uneventful, and, in an attempt to lift the gloom and sense of threat which seemed to hang over us, Higgins and I attempted to scare the wits from each other with our most gruesome tales. These invariably involved stories of ghosts and the underworld from Higgins and of terrible murder, blood and depravity from myself. Despite my recent brushes with the supernatural, I remained convinced that it was brutal reality and the terrors that come from within the human soul which send the most chills through the spine.
As much as I enjoyed Higgins’s storytelling, I knew that I was correct in my opinion – and that my very good friend would never even be able to contemplate the types of scenes which I had witnessed and attended in the past. I pictured the look that would be on his face if he were to stand behind me, watching me quickly sketch the body of a small child hacked to pieces by their drunken father; I doubted he could bear to stay more than a minute. I thought of the words that I had told Abe Thomas: ‘Some people are meant for this.’ And it was true, for it took a particular type of individual to be able to cut themselves off from their emotions enough to do paid work when the dead lay before them.
Unlike the weather on my last visit to Pluckley, there was not an inch of clear sky to be seen overhead as the train pulled into the station. Grey, stormy clouds fought for space above us, moving swiftly as the harsh winds pushed them about, sending them rumbling into one another. Of rain, however, there was no sign, not even the slim portent of such; the afternoon was instead dry and drawn tight.
We stepped from the train onto the empty platform and I wondered whether anyone, other than myself and Higgins, had set foot in this place since I left here in the summer. As I expected, the station clock read twenty minutes past eight and I told myself that it was not worth even looking at my watch or asking for the time for the duration of my stay here.
‘Are we walking to the village, old man?’ I asked.
‘No, Sam, I have arranged for a carriage to take us to the Black Horse,’ Higgins replied, looking along the lane for any sign of life. ‘Once there I must return to my cottage for a short while. Tom is expecting you and there will be much to talk about before my return.’ Although his face was dour he attempted to lighten the tone by adding, ‘Perhaps you can have a large drink or two ready for me on my return; something to strengthen the nerves.’ His eyes flashed nervously at me, as if searching for any hint of happiness that might break through the overwhelming sense of oppression which hung in the air.
‘Of course.’ I forced a smile.
He smiled and pointed towards the gate of the station, where a small horse-drawn carriage awaited us, next to the Dering Arms. The driver, seeing us approach, stepped down from his seat and, without saying a word, nodded towards Higgins and opened the door for us.
‘How do you have access to such a carriage in the middle of nowhere?’ I joked as we took our seats.
Edward looked a little embarrassed by my comment and would only reply, ‘I know people, Samuel. You would be amazed. There is a lot to be gained from being the jovial drunkard who is a friend to all.’
I smiled at this comment; I had honestly known no better nor friendlier man in my lifetime and could not imagine anyone refusing a request of his. We spent the short journey up the lane to the Black Horse looking out over the rolling fields, and my attention was drawn once to more to the houses which, as during my last visit, betrayed no trace of inhabitation or their occupants.
‘Tell me, Edward,’ I said, as we ambled past a deserted farm. ‘Where does everyone in this village actually live? The only place where I have seen any of the residents is in Tom’s pub. Surely they must return home or go out to work at some point?’
‘Oh they are there,’ he replied, staring out over the fields.
We lapsed into silence as, on a hill in the distance, we saw Surrenden Manor. Somehow it looked more imposing and deathly now: a dark scar on the landscape casting a shadow over everything in its view. If what Higgins had told me was correct about the place, combined with my own knowledge of the ritual murders carried out by the Dolorian Club at Boston Place and in the streets of London, then it surely was a place to be feared; and yet here we were heading.
We neared the end of the lane and turned left, the church and Tom’s pub coming into view. There was no smoke coming from the chimney of the Black Horse and I wondered whether it was even open, as there seemed to be no sign of life. As the carriage pulled up outside, I jumped down with my small bag, turning to wave Edward off as the wheels started turning once more.
‘I shall be a short while, Sam!’ Higgins called from the window. ‘Don’t do anything rash without me. Just sit and hear what Finnan has to say!’
I watched the carriage as it disappeared from sight, before trying the door of the pub; it was locked. I thought to check my watch, but knew it to be a pointless task. There was no light com
ing from inside and I could see no sign of activity. I returned to the door, rapping hard on the wood.
‘Mr Finnan, are you in there?’ I called. ‘It is Sam Weaver!’ Nothing; I knocked again and stepped back to look up at the windows on the first floor. As my eyes travelled upwards I caught a glimpse of the movement of a curtain.
‘Tom!’ I called again. ‘It is Samuel Weaver; Higgins has brought me to see you, as you asked!’ The curtain twitched again and I saw Anne Finnan’s face appear, pale and ghostly. ‘Miss Finnan, it is Samuel Weaver, do you remember me? I stayed here in the summer… Is your brother in?’
She struggled with the window momentarily before forcing it open and leaning out. ‘Go away!’ she called. ‘Tom is not here and we’re shut. I shall not open up again until he returns!’
‘When will he return? He sent Edward Higgins to fetch me from London; it is a matter of some urgency. Can you not let me in to wait until he returns?’
Her face was thunderous and she pulled the window closed with a slam. I was beginning to wonder if she had decided to ignore me, when I heard a bustling from inside and the locks of the pub door were pulled clear, the door opening slightly. Anne’s face appeared from the darkness.
‘I don’t know when he will be back… or if,’ she said.
‘What do you mean? Can I come in?’
The door was opened just enough so that I could squeeze inside. Once she had bolted it shut behind me, she broke down.
‘I do not know where he has gone,’ she sobbed. ‘He left yesterday, before the pub was due to open. He seemed very agitated about something. When I asked him what was going on, he said that he couldn’t tell me all of it, as it would put me further in danger. He said that I should close up behind him and not open the door again until he returned here. Where is Edward? You say he brought you back to see Tom?’
Domini Mortum Page 25
