by Dan Waddell
There was a knock on the door. Foster opened it, mumbled a few words and then closed it. In his right hand Nigel recognized the 1879 volume of the Kensington News and West London Times from which he had located details of the third murder on Saturday night.
‘I asked the duty manager to personally bring me the Kensington News for 1879 and mentioned that, if word got out, I would know exactly where it came from.’
He tossed the book on to the table. Dust billowed from between the pages as it landed with a thumping slap.
‘We look in here first,’ Foster said. ‘When the other stuff arrives, we look through that. We build up as much information about these murders as we possibly can.’
‘Most of the national newspapers will be on microfilm,’ Nigel said. ‘We need…’
‘A microfilm reader is on its way down, Mr Barnes,’ Foster said.
Nigel could see that when Foster got his teeth into something, it came away in chunks.
Foster took the job of scouring through the newspaper volume. He turned over the pages until he reached the next edition, dated Friday April 11th.
‘Here we go,’ he said.
Heather came and looked over his shoulder. Nigel stayed where he was, staring at the microfilm reader he’d just been brought.
THE KENSINGTON HORRORS: YET MORE OUTRAGES
Once more, last Saturday morning in Notting Dale, came another of those sadly terrible scenes with which the area has become only too accustomed during the past two weeks.
To describe the event as clearly and succinctly as possible, it is necessary to describe the location which has been the scene of this latest crime. Saunders Road, an incomplete terrace under construction in the heart of the new Norland Town, stands directly west of the West London Junction railway line, in what was until recently deserted commons and farmland.
Last Friday night the occupants of Saunders Road knew little of the horror that took place only yards from where they sought repose, and the throw of a stone from the Norland Castle, where Reverend Booth and his Salvationists are seeking to win hearts and mend the ways of the local poor. As the residents of that quiet street slept soundly abed, the butchered body of poor John Allman, an Irish-born commercial traveller, aged 38, of nearby Stebbing Street, a devoted father of three, was hidden on a small patch of wasteland at the western corner of the terraced street. The next day, around midday, one of the occupants seeking air on a constitutional was met with the awful sight of Mr Allman’s corpse face down beneath the detritus!
Reports suggest Allman, a man of repute and good standing among neighbours despite a known liking for drink, had been making his way home from the Queen’s Arms tavern at the junctions of Queen’s and Norland Road when he was attacked by the ghoul. Like his poor three fellow victims, a stab wound to the abdomen was enough to ensure his demise.
Despite the police’s unwillingness to confirm the atrocity, the news spread that the Kensington murderer had been at his ghastly work again, and within an hour, the environs surrounding Saunders Road were closed to the public by cordons of police. Bedlam then ensued. As night fell, a gang of roughs wielding torches waded across the boundary into Shepherd’s Bush Common, upon hearing of a mendicant smeared with blood in that vicinity. Assuming him to be the culprit, they went in search, terrorizing the filthy scores of unwashed who live their pitiful lives upon the patch of land known as the Green. Encountering a terrified gypsy, the bloodthirst of the mob caused them to beat him almost senseless. The poor soul, believed to be innocent, perished of his injuries.
Foster paused in his reading. ‘Here he goes again,’ he said, a sadness in his voice.
Heather whispered her disbelief behind him.
Alas, it is with great sadness yet increasing anger that we report that the Kensington Killer struck once again, bringing yet more fear and hysteria to our small part of the world. Fewer than 72 hours after the body of poor Allman was found, the lifeless figure of William Kelby, a draper in his fortieth year, was found in Powis Square by a passer-by as the bell of All Saints Church tolled for the first time after midnight on the 8th. His throat had been cut. That damned, demented spirit had been at his evil work once more before slipping back into the safety of the shadows.
The police have failed utterly in their attempts to prevent this ghoul butchering almost at will, the total now being five poor unfortunates slain by a single stab to the heart. Outsiders are beginning to regard North Kensington, Notting Hill and the Dale as dens of infamy so deep as to be impenetrable. We are one and all, so to speak, branded on our brows with the mark of Cain. That this stain has been fixed on the locality by reason of the crimes committed with such impunity in its area, who can doubt? And the police have had five crimes in which to obtain clues and catch the fiend, but have failed without question.
We request the culprit be caught. Nay, we, on behalf of our terrified readers, demand it.
Three victims in eight days, Foster thought. Five in two weeks. Even if there was little doubt, this confirmed his view that this was personal. A mere copycat would surely have selected a killer with a less hectic schedule.
The following week’s edition announced that three days after the fifth victim was found, the police arrested a thirty-year-old crofter named Eke Fairbairn. Barnes told him the meaning of the name was ‘handsome child’, which seemed cruel given the newspaper’s description of Fairbairn as a ‘giant’, whose ‘aspect was gruesome to behold’. A mob had gathered at the station in Notting Dale, hundreds of people baying for the suspect’s life. A set of makeshift gallows had been erected.
The police made confident noises to the press about the arrest. The suspect’s neighbours queued up to confirm that they had always known he was a bad one, that there had always been something shifty about him. He was single, but his mother and father, who shared his house, had been forced to flee the area, though whether as a result of shame or mob rule was not elucidated. Then the suspect was charged. The newspaper, previously incredulous at the police’s incompetence, had reversed its position: the division and its senior detective in charge of the case were now being celebrated, albeit with one caveat. ‘We trust a conviction will be secured,’ a leader thundered ominously.
Foster’s mobile rang, sucking him back into the twenty-first century. It was Drinkwater.
‘Andy,’ Foster said.
‘How’s it going, sir?’
‘He killed five times.’
Drinkwater let out a whistle. ‘Two more to go, then.’
‘What you after?’
‘Just wanted to let you know that the first victim has been officially identified as Graham Ellis.’
‘The ex-wife come up with anything interesting?’
‘Not really. She had nothing to do with him over the last year of his life. Not an amicable divorce, apparently.’
‘I presume someone’s going through the firm’s files to find out whether there’s anything that links Ellis with Darbyshire and Perry?’
‘A team’s on its way to Cheshire as we speak. There’s one other thing: we’ve finally got the tox report on Darbyshire.’
‘And?’
‘Traces of GHB in his blood. PCP too.’
Foster knew ‘liquid Ecstasy’ – or ‘Grievous Bodily Harm’, as it was quirkily known on the street. Its original use was as a surgical anaesthetic, before word spread and people started to use it for weight loss. Then it was picked up by clubbers sated by Ecstasy and seeking a different high. Widespread use had led to another, more sinister purpose: as a ‘date rape’ drug that rendered victims incapable, comalike. It was easy to get hold of these days, so this discovery hardly heralded a breakthrough. Though at least it shed light on the killer’s MO.
‘Enough to kill him?’ he asked.
‘No. Just enough to make him lose consciousness for a few hours. Williams and his team are at the pub now, and they seem intent on tracking down every GHB user in London.’
There would be a few of those. GHB was not just t
he drug of choice for those too ugly, shy or perverted to attract members of the opposite sex without knocking the object of their lust out, but also clubbers who wanted to shed their inhibitions.
‘Makes sense,’ he said eventually. ‘Anything on the other two?’
‘They reckon first thing tomorrow for Ellis, the day after for Perry, but Harris is telling everyone he’s put a rocket up their arse to get the reports later today.’
‘Tomorrow morning it’ll be, then. Call me if anything else turns up.’
Foster snapped his phone shut.
‘What’s going on?’ Heather asked.
‘The ex-wife confirmed the tramp was Ellis. Which means, if the last sighting was correct, the killer held him for two months. Darbyshire tested positive for GHB. Which explains why he was able to hold Ellis for that length of time. That’s a truckload of GHB, though.’
It also explained the bed sores. He had been on his back for the whole time.
‘He kept him drugged and sedated for all that time? But he held Perry for little more than a day, and Darbyshire for only a couple of hours.’
Foster shrugged. ‘Perhaps the day he kidnapped him was the only day he could get to Cheshire. Maybe his job, or something else, keeps him in London most of the time.’ Foster knew he was getting somewhere. ‘Or his job took him to Cheshire on that day and he thought he’d take his chance.’
Nigel was silent, staring at the giant screen of his microfilm reader as if hypnotized.
‘What have you got so far?’ Foster asked him.
Nigel, still looking at the reader, scrunched up his face in response.
‘Nothing much different to what we know. Not about the killings, at least.’
Foster felt a flicker of anger. Nigel had told him that The Times would prove to be the best source of a reliable day-by-day narrative of the killings and their aftermath.
‘There is one thing, though. The Times, which usually kept itself above the fray, wrote three leaders castigating the police, including one on the day of Fairbairn’s arrest. These killings were big news. Questions were even asked in the House of Commons about the police investigation. Also, the man they arrested is described in one report here as a “lunatic”.’
Foster couldn’t see the significance. The guy had slaughtered five people in two weeks. That was hardly the behaviour of the sane.
‘They had a very different way of classifying mental illness back then,’ Nigel continued. ‘From 1871 onwards, census returns recorded if someone was a lunatic, an imbecile or an idiot. The latter meant someone was classed as congenitally mad. An imbecile was someone who was judged to have been sane once but had become insane. A lunatic was prone to losing his or her reason but had moments of clarity. That covered a multitude of conditions. New mothers, for example. Back then, post-natal depression was considered a sign of lunacy.’
‘So what you’re saying, Nigel, is that this guy might have been mentally unstable, but it doesn’t mean he was psychotic, or schizophrenic?’ Heather said.
‘No, he could just have been a bit odd. An eccentric.’
‘Did they let lunatics stand trial back then?’ Foster asked.
‘Certainly. You’d have to be well and truly off your rocker to be declared too insane to stand trial. The Victorians believed in crime and punishment with few exceptions.’
‘Find out whether this guy stood trial. If he did, what happened to him, everything. I also need to find out where Saunders Road is. If it still exists…’
Heather interrupted to get his attention. ‘I looked it up on Streetmap on the Internet. There is no Saunders Road in W10 or W11.’
‘Shit,’ Foster said.
‘The local library should know,’ Nigel suggested.
‘The newspaper report mentioned that the road was being built,’ Foster added. ‘It also said it was in Notting Dale, by the railway track. That means it must have been on the border of Kensington and Chelsea with Hammersmith and Fulham. You know what runs through there now, don’t you? The Westway – a motorway. You telling me he’s going to throw a body out of a car on one of London’s busiest roads?’
‘An underpass runs beneath it,’ Heather volunteered.
A darkened underpass. That would be too obvious, Foster thought. Nothing this guy did was obvious.
He needed to be out there, moving the investigation on, not stuck in a room reading, flicking through old newspapers.
‘Heather and I are going to the library, then. We’ll see where this road was exactly. Nigel, you stay here and find out whether Eke Fairbairn was tried,’ he said.
17
Nigel enjoyed the sense of being alone with the information. Foster and Heather had barely spoken over the past couple of hours, but the sighing detective was a large, distracting presence; he made a simple act such as turning a page sound symphonic. Now the room was empty, and the only noise was the buzz of the strip light above his head. Nigel felt he could roll back the years and build a complete picture of the events that followed the ‘Kensington Horrors’. He had asked for the News of the World reel to be brought to him, so that he could soak up every nuance and detail, the more salacious the better, and immerse himself in the case.
The picture swiftly became clear. The accused was a simple giant, ‘nearer seven feet than six’. Nigel knew this would have marked him out as extraordinary in a time when the average size was about a foot shorter than the present day. The man was itinerant, travelling the country in search of work, as many of his class did, transported by the booming railways. The press had used this common fact to imply shiftiness, as if there were sinister reasons behind Fairbairn’s many travels. One interview with a Liverpudlian, a native of the city where Fairbairn had worked on the docks for less than a year, said that he had been hounded from his job by colleagues.
‘He weren’t right,’ was the damning verdict.
There was no shortage of neighbours to echo that view. Fairbairn kept himself to himself, he didn’t mix, he barely spoke. Each character quirk was taken and finessed to insinuate a loner, a crank, a nut. Even more damning was the fact he was known to frequent local pubs, an insignificant nugget the News of the World regarded as important enough to mention in every update on the investigation.
On 5th May Fairbairn, now almost universally known as ‘The Giant’, appeared at the Old Bailey. He loped to the dock and spent the whole proceedings fixing his focus on the floor. ‘Not once did he raise his baleful gaze from his boots,’ The Times reporter noted. ‘Not even when his name was called, nor even when his fateful plea of Not Guilty was recorded.’
Two weeks later, on 19th May – the wheels of justice were not slow to turn in the nineteenth century – the trial began. The court was teeming, the best seats bought by the upper classes in search of low-class thrills. When Fairbairn took his place in court, high-pitched gasps broke the expectant hush. Most of them emanated from wealthy women in the ringside seats. This being the judicial equivalent of opening night, they were dressed in their best – hats and all. One reporter noted the rustle as one after the other they produced fans to cool themselves: ‘Such was the crush around the venerable court that gathering breath was a trial.’ The same reporter noticed the mixture of distasteful and admiring looks directed towards the defendant, which accompanied the furious fanning.
Those in the cheap seats were less demure. Cries of ‘Hang, you bastard’ and ‘Let him dangle’ led to at least four men being ejected, a scene described by the man from The Times as ‘a sordid kerfuffle’. Through it it all Fairbairn’s gaze never once lifted from his feet. Instead of the giant man who had appeared at the arraignment, Fairbairn seemed to have been physically altered by his ordeal. His shoulders slumped, he had lost weight, he winced when he moved, and one arm remained seemingly immobile at his side. ‘Never has a sorrier, more pathetic creature answered such a grave charge,’ The Times opined.
Nigel noted with interest the fact that Fairbairn was being charged with only two of the Kensington ki
llings, presumably for lack of evidence regarding the other three. He recorded this in his notepad, knowing that it might be something to pursue later. The two he was answering were the first and third killings, just over a week apart.
The case was prosecuted by Mr John J. Dart, QC, MP who, from the transcript provided by one of the newspapers, was not going to allow the opportunities afforded by such a stage to be squandered. There was no physical description of the barrister, but Nigel pictured a portly, pompous politico, florid features glowing under his white wig as he preened on the floor of the packed courthouse. He opened by asking the jury to strike from their minds all that had been written about the case, which would be decided on the known facts.
Here Dart turned and slowly raised his finger in the direction of the accused. The Times recorded how the eyes of the courtroom followed the direction of the digit.
It is the Crown’s case that that man stood there, Eke Fairbairn, did with malice and in cold blood murder Samuel Roebuck and Leonard Childe.
Dart held his pose, allowing the impact of his gesture and words to settle on the audience. Once again, from the public gallery, came the cry ‘Let him dangle!’ followed by a brief halt in proceedings while the judge called for order. When they reconvened, Dart outlined the prosecution case.
On the evening of March 24th, Mr Roebuck, as he was in the habit of doing, was seeking refreshment in the Clarendon public house on Clarendon Road. According to witnesses, Mr Roebuck had taken a considerable amount of porter during the evening hours. He was a working man and this was nearing the end of a working week. It is not for us here to judge his behaviour. No, Mr Roebuck has met our maker and judgement has already been passed by a higher authority. Late in the evening he was described as drunk yet not incapable. For reasons unknown, you will hear how Roebuck became embroiled in a quarrel with the prisoner at the bar, which culminated in the ejection from the premises of both men, the expectation being that the quarrel would be settled there and not within sight of womenfolk. The two men departed…
