Sinistrari

by Giles Ekins

  ‘Good man, let’s get on and finish this wretched business as quick as we can.’

  They continued down the stairs, which went much deeper than Collingwood had anticipated and it was some relief when they finally reached the floor of the basement. Collingwood turned to look back up the stairs, gauging the depth at twenty feet or more; more than double what he had expected.

  Standing at the foot of the stairs, they quickly looked around, flashing the pale beam of the bulls-eye as far into the darkness as it would throw. Even with the thin light available they could see that the basement was large, as though all the rooms had been joined into one. Even so, the basement was much greater in area than the relatively small house over.

  Collingwood played the torch across the ceiling, surprised to see that the basement was vaulted, of heavy arched construction, of a different age and style from the house above, more ecclesiastical, and obviously much older. Almost as if it had once been a crypt? Even as the thought came to his mind he noticed small niches cut into the walls, reminding him of a monastery ossuary, he almost expected to see ancient skulls grinning at him. Or not so ancient!

  The air felt damp and cool, and Gimlet shivered, not entirely from cold. Both men knew, had known almost from the start of their search that whatever there was to be found – this was where it would be found.

  Gimlet quickly ran to light more gas globes, but as before, the light was sulky and fitful. Slowly they made their way towards the darkness beyond the limit of the torch beam, lighting more gas lamps as they came to them. The echoes of their footsteps echoed hollowly around the cavernous cellar.

  The end of the cellar swelled out into a curved apse. At the head of the apse stood a black granite altar, with black candles half burned down. A chalice and inverted crucifix stood beside the candles. A long bladed knife with grotesquely carved handle was laid at the front of the altar. Thick trickles of dried blood ran down the face of the glistening platform from decapitated chickens, one black cock and one white hen. Before the altar, high-backed chairs were set out, thirteen in all, laid out in a semi-circle, with the centre chair, larger than the others, placed centrally, six chairs to either side. The floor here was carpeted, rich thick, blood red carpet. Woven into the centre of the carpet was a large black pattern, the inter-crossing lines of a five pointed star enclosed within two circles.

  ‘The pentagram,’ Collingwood whispered, recalling the grotesque carving seen on the dead white skin of the murdered girls.

  It was Gimlet who saw it first. The distant glimmer as pale light flickered across white flesh. ‘Oh lordy,’ he whispered, pointing out what he had seen to Collingwood. With a heavy heart Collingwood walked closer and played the bulls-eye across the scene.

  Behind the altar, at the rear of the apse was suspended a huge wooden cross, inverted. Nailed to the cross was the body of a young girl. Sleaks of gore ran down her cold white skin, a weeping gash of severed flesh where her throat had been cut. Long blonde hair, heavily coated with blood, hung below her head like a golden stalactite.

  ‘Katherine Pellew,’ Collingwood said reverently. ‘Katie Cornfields, you poor, poor child.’

  ‘Oh Lord, have mercy,’ whispered Gimlet, holding his hands together in prayer, his head bowed.

  ‘Come Gimlet, we have no more to do here for the moment. We must report this and arrange for the poor girl to be taken down. Mister Sinistrari has some answering to do.’ Collingwood voice was hard and clipped, his anger barely contained.

  ‘This is the Devil’s work,’ Gimlet said.’ The Devil’s work and no mistake.’

  ‘I greatly fear that may be so, Gimlet.’

  Chapter 14

  IT WAS WITH SOME GRIM DISPLEASURE THAT Collingwood drove to Maxton Street Police Station to take possession of Sinistrari and Avram on charges of murder. Macrae was displeased – extremely displeased – at having to give up the prisoner who had murdered one of his officers. And Collingwood had some sympathy; in similar circumstances he would have been annoyed. Nevertheless, the Crucifixion Murders took precedence – and for all his anger and bluster – Macrae had to accept that. However, there was nothing that said he had to accept it with good grace – and he did not.

  Sinistrari was transferred to Newgate Prison to await trail and as it was considered prudent to separate the two men, Avram was incarcerated at Wandsworth.

  On many occasions Collingwood attempted to interview Sinistrari as to the killings, but at no time did the accused man ever speak. Not even to confirm that in fact he was Edward James Sinistrari. In fact, Sinistrari barely deigned to acknowledge Collingwood’s presence; he would stare at some point over Collingwood’s shoulder, smoking his long Coronas. In time Collingwood also began not to speak. He would light his foul pipe and stare at Sinistrari and both men sat there in silence, gently polluting the fetid air of Newgate Gaol until the smoke was as dense as a London Particular Fog.

  PC Percy Gutteridge was given a full Police funeral with the entire Division – B Division – marching in slow time behind the black horse drawn hearse as it made its mournful way from his home, past the Maxton Street Police Station to the church for the service. A great number of local residents lined the streets to pay their respects to a likeable copper whom many knew as their friend and several of the criminal fraternity sent wreaths. It was made abundantly clear to Collingwood that his presence would not be welcomed.

  Eventually, Sinistrari came to trial and was charged with the murders of Mary Margaret Hopewell, Alice Newton, Susan Siddons and Katherine Anne Pelew. He was not charged with the murder of PC Percy Gutteridge – the Crown Prosecution were of the opinion that it could not be proved that Avram was acting under instruction – that he was not acting alone. Avram, who also spoke not a word during his incarceration and interrogations – it was not known whether he even understood or spoke English – was solely charged with the policeman’s murder.

  At his trail at the Old Bailey Sinistrari spoke only twice. On the first occasion, he denounced the court and refused legal representation. The second occasion took place after his conviction and sentence of death – when he laid the hex on the Judge and Collingwood.

  Avram was duly convicted and sentenced to die. His execution took place two days prior to that of his master. Unlike his master however, he did not escape the throttling clutches of the hangman’s noose and died twitching at the end of a rope in the Execution Shed of Wandsworth Prison (known as the Cold Meat Shed). His body is buried in an unmarked grave in the grounds of the prison.

  Sinistrari’s hanging also duly took place. As has been related, Sinistrari survived the execution and disappeared without trace.

  A long and bloody revenge was to stalk his footsteps.

  Chapter 15

  THE P & O STEAMSHIP SS ‘PEVERIL CASTLE’, SOUTHAMPTON

  JULY 18th, 1888

  SIR WILLIAM BILLINGTON, ONE TIME GOVERNOR OF NEWGATE PRISON looked around disdainfully at the First Class cabin that was to be his home for several weeks on his unwanted voyage to Australia. It was not even a stateroom. And most annoying of all, he was housed on the starboard side. Sure to catch the worst of the heat as the sun beat endlessly down upon that side of the vessel.

  Anyone who was anyone always, always, berthed on the port side. The port side was in shade. Port Out, Starboard Home, hence POSH, everybody knew that. It must be some mistake, Sir William decided, obviously some clerk or underling had organised things badly. ‘Damned incompetence, I can see I’ll have to smarten someone up for this,’ he muttered to himself as he reached for the bell push to summon the steward. He was in his shirtsleeves, braces dangling around the back of his knees as he prepared to dress for dinner. His dinner jacket had been pressed and now hung on a hanger beside the long mirror set into the book matched walnut panelling of his cabin.

  Billington still seethed with indignation at his position; forced to resign from the Governorship of Newgate. Sent out to Australia in virtual exile – transported in all but name! Never mind the f
ancy titles, Inspector General of Prisons and Penal Institutions in the Australian Territories – he had been banished and no amount of smooth official blandishments (unique opportunity, only man for the job, limited potential in Britain these days for a man of your talents, etc, etc, etc) could ever change that fact. And all because some incompetent hangman had botched Sinistrari’s execution, despite the very clear instructions that he, Billington, had given on the matter. Irritably he jabbed his thumb onto the bell push again and reached for the bottle of port on the table, filling a large cut glass tumbler almost to the brim. Blast Dennison and his bungled execution, bringing me, Sir William Billington, to this. He jabbed repeatedly at the bell push, his ire rising with every jab.

  The cabin door opened behind him.

  ‘About time, blast your eyes. I’ve been calling for you this past hour, or more, I shall be reporting you to your supervisors, mark my words on that. Damned idleness,’ blustered Billington, not deigning to turn around as he berated the tardy steward. ‘And in future, knock before you enter.’

  ‘I do rather doubt that I shall be calling again, Sir William. I just came to bid you fare thee well.’

  The hairs on the back of Billington’s neck rose in abrupt dread and he could feel his bowels begin to quake. Gooseflesh rippled across his arms like an arctic wave breaking across an icy shore. It could not be. Yet there could be no mistaking that languid arrogant drawl. He spun around on his heels, spilling port in a crimson cascade across the tabletop and onto the cream carpet below. Edward Sinistrari leaned elegantly against the jamb of the doorway, smiling companionably at the stricken Billington.

  ‘You … you!’ Billington gasped, in his terror unable to form his words.

  ‘Oui, c’est moi,’ answered Sinistrari in perfectly accented French.

  ‘How did … how did you get in here? But you are … Get out! I … I I’m summoning the stewards now. Go, get out of here.’

  ‘As you yourself have remarked, Sir William, the stewards are unforgivably tardy. I suspect that they will be otherwise engaged for some time to come. This leaves us to say our fond farewells without interruption.’

  ‘What … what do you want, sir?’ Billington asked, trying to retain some shreds of dignity despite his terror, taking a large drink from his glass, emptying it without noticing.

  ‘As I recall, the last occasion upon which we spoke, you were threatening to have me flogged. After which you were to hang me. I rather wish to discuss that particular matter with you.’

  ‘I … The heat of the moment, what? The flogging I mean.’

  ‘And the hanging?

  ‘Justified many times over,’ retorted the ex-governor heatedly, suddenly finding courage in the face of his impending doom. He could see it in Sinistrari’s face. He was going to die, but he was damned if he was going to die as anything other than as a gentleman. ‘Do your worst, Sinistrari.’ he added, turning away to refill his glass, trying to hide the shakes in his hand as he lifted the cut glass crystal decanter to the edge of the glass. Despite his care, the neck of the decanter tinkled across the glass like fairy bells.

  ‘I commend your spirit Sir William, but I assure you, my worst is so far beyond the agonies of your worst nightmares, you cannot begin to imagine. Do not, sir, wish that upon yourself.’

  ‘You sir, are a fiend. I only wish your execution had been handled with due care, then the world would have been rid of you. As I say, sir, do your worst. If I am to die, so be it, but do me the courtesy of allowing me to finish this excellent port. Such a waste otherwise, don’t you know?’ and with that Billington contemptuously turned his back on Sinistrari, took another long-savoured drink of his port, smacking his lips to hide his fear as he did so. ‘Excellent. Truly excellent. A fine vintage, the ’76.’

  Sinistrari looked at Billington in some amazement. He had expected the swelled up pig of a governor to blubber and cry, to beg for mercy on his knees, to foul himself in his terror. Sinistrari had wanted to relish Billington’s fear, to taste it, for without fear what is there. The world of Satanachia is ruled by fear. This man before him was not the pompous bloated oaf of Newgate, Bilious Billy; it was if in his hour of extremity Billington had found the true core of himself, the man that had been buried beneath cantankerous ill temper and well-disguised self-loathing.

  Billington still ignored him. He faced the long mirror and adjusted his white silk bow tie once more, even though it had already been ruler straight. Although he could see Sinistrari’s reflection in the mirror, he disregarded it. He pulled up his braces and adjusted them comfortably over his shoulders. He then took the jacket from the hanger and handed to Sinistrari, who looked at him in amazement again.

  ‘If you would be so kind, Sinistrari, one must always dress for dinner, mustn’t one?’ He extended his arms for Sinistrari to put the jacket on, as if Sinistrari were his manservant.

  Sinistrari complied, a thin smile of admiration and respect playing across his face. He had intended slowly strangle Billington with his own innards, after first tearing out his tongue to stifle the screams, but this courage in the face of death, disconcerted him. For once unsure of himself, he decided to make the death quick.

  Billington smoothed down the satin lapels of his jacket, still facing into the mirror, only his heightened breathing betraying bubbling suppressed fear. He recited the 23rd Psalm to himself and then once more he twitched at his tie. Only then did he turn to face his own executioner.

  ‘Whenever you are ready sir, I am prepared to face the Lord. I doubt if your own soul can say the same.’

  Sinistrari stepped up to Billington with a swift fluid movement. Billington straightened up and breathed in deeply through his nose, the only sign he gave of apprehension. Sinistrari reached out and seized the pendulous flesh of Billington’s breast, just above the heart. Billington stiffened, a sharp hiss of devastating pain and his heart seized solid. Slowly he sunk to his knees and then slumped heavily back against the mirror, cracking it with the weight of his fall. As he fell, a flailing arm disturbed his tie. Sinistrari reached down, straightened it for him once more, and then made his exit, locking the door behind.

  Sir William’s body was not discovered until the following morning, by which time the ‘Peveril Castle’ had slipped her lines, and under pilot command, was well down Southampton Water, grey black smoke from her stacks curling back across her wake to be lost in the haze of the distant shoreline. The ship’s surgeon confirmed the death as natural, from a massive heart seizure and the decision was taken not to return to Southampton and so delay the voyage unnecessarily. Billington was buried at sea.

  His death was reported some two months later in despatches sent back to England from Cape Town on an incoming P&O vessel.

  It was said that Lady Billington was not too unduly distressed.

  THE REVEREND JOHN THRIFT was not so fortunate. His beheaded body, laid out as though crucified, was found in the rectory of St Thomas Church, where he was sorting out his papers prior to his posting to the Gold Coast. He had been looking forward to the challenge.

  His head was never found. Except for his eyes!

  His wife Elspeth was found unconscious beside the mutilated body. She too had been laid out in a crucifix manner, the top of her head touching the bleeding gashed flesh where her husband’s head had been torn from his shoulders. John Thrift’s eyes, with all their bloody membranes, had been carefully placed over her own.

  She was so traumatised by her experience that she lapsed into catatonic depression and was eventually committed to a Church managed asylum from which she was never released. The secret of what she had seen died with her.

  Chapter 16

  METROPOLITAN POLICE, SCOTLAND YARD, 4, WHITEHALL PLACE, LONDON

  CENTRAL OFFICE: CRIMINAL INVESTIGATION DEPARTMENT

  WEDNESDAY JULY 28th, 1888

  DETECTIVE CHIEF INSPECTOR CHARLES COLLINGWOOD laid down the file on Katherine Pellew, also known as Katie Cornfields. He flexed the fingers and wrist of his right
hand, only just realising how copious were the notes he had made on all the cases. He had worked systematically through all the files relative to each victim, his anger rising as the details of each atrocity was laid out before him in the cold black print of police and pathology reports.

  He stretched again to ease knotted shoulder muscles and then laboriously performed the ancient ritual of carving, shredding, filling, tamping, and igniting tobacco in the charred bowl of his briar. Then he scanned his notes again, as if to found something he had previously overlooked but he knew there was nothing he had missed. Nowhere in the mountain of documents was there the slightest clue as to where Edward James Sinistrari might have gone to ground.

  With a sigh he laid the notes aside and passed the Katherine Pellew file to PC Miggs, who quickly checked the contents against the list of attachments clipped to the inside of the front cover. Satisfied that the file was complete Miggs laid it aside and continued to assemble the other file he was working on, quickly rummaging through a neat stack of papers, found the sheet he was looking for and added it to the file in the correct location. As on many occasions Collingwood was impressed with the efficiency of Miggs; quick, ordered and precise. A born clerk.

  Miggs finished the filing and left to return to his own desk, there to type up some other notes that Collingwood had prepared. Collingwood watched him leave, mindful of the Commissioner’s instructions on limiting the knowledge of Sinistrari’s escape. Miggs had been told only that the case papers had to be updated prior to archiving; to be locked away, never to be retrieved unless authorised by the highest authority so as to avoid ‘prurient interest’ by those not involved in the case.

  Collingwood leaned back in his chair once more to try and the ache in his back, hooking his fingers together and stretching his arms above his head. Across the room, Gimlet sat at his desk with another batch of case files he was also re-reading.