The open door was doing nothing to ease the smell. I closed my bag and picked it up. I was tired and I wanted to be alone with my thoughts, even though I knew that when I got the solitude I craved, I would immediately wish for company to ease my anxiety. Perhaps I had been foolish not to let the priest and Kosminski have their way; this waiting for Harrington to strike was leading us all into despair.
‘I should go and prepare my report. I believe I am expected tomorrow morning.’ I walked towards the door and Moore stepped aside to let me pass. ‘I also want to write to the Commissioner. It would be a terrible error to dismiss this woman as an isolated killing. I am sure Bagster will be back shortly – he is not a man to harbour ill-feeling for long. Rather like Charles Hebbert in that regard.’ I smiled. ‘They are good men, both.’
‘You do not want to stay and clear the air yourself?’ Moore asked. His nose wrinkled again. ‘Although I think more than fair words might be required to make this place smell sweet.’
I should have stayed, of course, but the room was feeling claustrophobic, and there was something about Inspector Moore’s earthy gravitas that made me feel uncomfortable – as if he could see some invisible guilt clinging to me. Not that I had done anything to feel guilty about – not yet, at least – but I had not shared my suspicions with him. I wondered how he might react if I did. I imagined he would question Harrington about his relationship with Elizabeth Jackson, and then let him go. I could hardly tell him the legend of the Upir, or that Harrington was possessed by it. But still, when Moore looked directly at me I felt as if my soul was exposed. That skill had served him well as a policeman, but I could do without his glances plucking at my frayed nerves.
‘I have spent enough time in here, Inspector – and despite what people might think, no one ever gets used to the smell.’
‘Are you sure you’re all right, Dr Bond?’
‘Of course,’ I said. ‘I am just getting long in the tooth, as you yourself have said. I may get tired, and occasionally under the weather, but I have seen worse than this, I am sorry to say.’
Moore nodded and his thoughts drifted, perhaps scrolling through the catalogue of his memory to all the awful cases of his past. London was not short of grim sights, after all. I doubted anyone who had been inside Mary Jane Kelly’s room would forget what they had seen any time soon – at least the inspector had been spared that.
‘True,’ Moore said, ‘but I think the secret of survival is knowing when you have had enough – your soul’s survival, I mean. All of this – I have seen it destroy good men in the past.’
‘It won’t destroy you, I’m sure of that.’ I edged to the rough wooden steps, wanting to get away.
‘No, I doubt it will. But it is good for a man to know that it can.’ He stared at me for a long moment as I searched for a glib remark with which to finish our conversation, but I found none. Instead, I smiled lamely and bade him farewell.
I was quite sure he was still watching me as I strode away, panting, as if I had been running.
*
The next two days passed in a flurry of work, liaising with the police and standing my ground with Philips on the nature of Alice McKenzie’s death. I found the days easier – there were whole hours when I was lost in the mêlée of people and life around me and forgot what I had seen across the dinner table less than a week before. This new murder, so soon after the Jackson case, had lit a new fire under the tired officers who had spent so much of the year before unsuccessfully hunting the killer. Old evidence was re-examined and lists of suspects were once again trawled through. I heard Kosminski’s name voiced here and there, and once again I gave my two-penn’orth on his personality versus my own analysis of Jack. I did not convince everyone I spoke to, but I was always pleased when I came out of a conversation without any eye of mistrust falling on me. I was sure someone would start to wonder why I was defending the dirty Polish hairdresser, or why my hands sometimes trembled when I mentioned his name, but it looked like my reputation had remained intact.
The nights were different: there was no respite for my fear then. The warm, damp air sat like treacle in my lungs, and my skin itched as if tiny bugs crawled over it. I refused to accept that my increasing dependence on drugs might have any part in that sensation. I stayed at home, in case there was any call for me in the night, in case any more poor women were attacked, and I tried to find comfort in the knowledge that the priest and Kosminksi were watching Harrington.
My heart rattled in my chest and as the hours slowly passed I focused on the tick of the clock. My breath was too loud and I could not concentrate on any of the books that lined my shelves, pulling them down one after the other and flicking aimlessly through the pages before tossing each to one side.
Mrs Parks’ dinners went mainly uneaten, save for the bread and potatoes. Kosminski had found water revolting after his dreams of the Upir; for my own part it was meat: the texture of it, the grease – the blood. I could no longer put meat in my mouth; even the very thought made me feel like the Upir itself, devouring the organs of all those dead women, feeding its endless hunger. Anything I tried to swallow would lodge itself in my throat and threaten to choke me until I hawked it back up and spat it out onto the plate.
I checked the locks on the doors and windows and drew all the curtains. The gas lamps flared all night until dawn, when the rising sun rescued me from my fear, allowing me to sleep for two or three hours in relative peace. Daylight might not offer much protection against the Upir, but I was sure like all things of wickedness, man or beast, it preferred to hunt in the dark, when the world handed itself over to superstitions and the hustle and bustle of the days vanished like fading dreams, leaving men with only their own thoughts to occupy them.
Several nights had passed since the dinner at the Hebberts’ and I was just starting to relax slightly and believe that the creature had not seen me when Mrs Parks came to my study to announce a visitor. I had been so close to sleep I had not heard the door, and I looked up, expecting Juliana.
It was Harrington. My blood froze in my veins.
‘I’m sorry, Thomas, is this a bad time?’ He looked young and awkward, and he clutched his hat between his hands, picking at its edges.
I got to my feet, trying to ignore the trembling that settled in my legs.
‘Not at all – I was just … I was working.’ I forced a smile to stretch across my face, but it felt more like a deathly grimace. What was he doing here – why would he come? ‘Is everything all right?’
‘Yes – well, no.’ He started to pace up and down a little, and each time he turned his back to me I shivered, even though I could see nothing but the fabric of his coat. There was no monster clinging to him – yet I could sense it; I could almost smell it.
‘I wanted to ask a favour of you.’
‘Of course – what can I do for you?’
He looked almost as tired as I felt. Was he sickening again? So soon? Was the Upir starting to devour him?
‘We have been having problems at the docks,’ he started. ‘The workers are restless, making demands – it’s part of why I was rather rude to you when you visited the other day. I have been under a lot of stress.’ His eyes dropped and he flushed with embarrassment. ‘But it means I am having to spend more time at work, having meetings with the other companies, trying to sort it all out.’
‘I understand – but it is important that you do not make yourself ill again, James.’ I was glad I sounded so normal; inside, every nerve was tingling as if preparing for sudden flight. My pupils had no doubt dilated with fear and the air was watery between us. I was talking to an illusion; everything that was important – everything that threatened me – was invisible.
‘It is not my own sickness that concerns me. Juliana has been rather unwell since her parents left, and even though some days she can barely get out of bed, she won’t let me call them back.’
‘Would you like me to call on her? If so, that really is no inconvenience. I shall fetch
my medical bag and come immediately. Pregnancy can have—’
He shook his head, raising his hands to stop me. ‘I was hoping for rather more than that.’ His blue eyes, so earnest and honest, met my own. ‘I was wondering if you could possibly move in with us – just until her mother returns. I hate leaving her alone for such long hours with just the housekeeper, and Charles and Mary are away for another two weeks.’
‘Move in?’ I repeated the words in an attempt to buy myself some time to settle down, for my head had gone into a whirl and fear sat like a melting block of ice in the pit of my stomach, sending cold rivers of terror tumbling through my guts. The idea of being in the same house as that thing was too much to bear. The priest would be delighted – I could watch Harrington from within while they watched from without – but to spend my sleepless nights there? My hand twitched for the laudanum bottle, my automatic response now to any moment of stress.
‘I understand if it’s too much of an imposition – I know how busy you are with your work at the hospital and for the police – it’s just, I have no one else to ask. Not that Juliana would tolerate.’ He smiled, and all the love in the world was there. Were there days when he was simply an ordinary young man? Did his mind block out the awfulness of his deeds? Did the thing on his back sleep, was that it?
‘You know what she’s like,’ Harrington continued, unaware of my internal dialogue. ‘She can be quite – well, opinionated, really – even when she’s ill.’
It was the thought of Juliana that finally persuaded me: she was alone in the house with him, and unwell; I had to make sure it was simply her pregnancy taking its toll rather than anything Harrington might have done. Charles had run out on her and left her behind; I could not abandon her too.
‘Of course I can,’ I said warmly. ‘I shall come this very afternoon.’
He smiled, as if hugely relieved, and shook my hand vigorously before bidding me farewell.
When he had gone, I sat down heavily in my chair. I was about to go into the belly of the beast.
40
London. August, 1889
Aaron Kosminski
It was harder to watch James Harrington now that the unrest at the docks was spreading and more and more workers were joining the strike. Before that, Harrington had spent most of his time in his offices by the wharves, where he was easy to keep track of – like most men, he was essentially a creature of habit, using the same way in and out each day. Now his days were far less regimented; he was often at meetings with other importers, and they scurried around in groups, moving from pub to club to offices, no doubt discussing the best ways to get the growing group of dissatisfied dockworkers back to work without giving in to their demands. There were times Aaron simply could not keep up.
There were practical problems too. Dr Bond had given him some money, but his unkempt appearance made it hard for him to get a hansom cab. It looked like he had stolen the money and was looking for a quick getaway. He knew he stank – most of London did in this heat, but his was a stench that had grown in layers, old sweat and new mingling to create a noisome odour that surrounded him. Matilda was at the end of her tether about it – perhaps that was why she no longer chastised him for spending long days outside. He had told her that he was looking for work, and she had chosen to accept the lie. It got him out from under her feet, and that was enough. He would wash, he had promised her, and himself, but he knew he could not do it until this was over.
At least while Harrington was on the move, it meant that Aaron did not have to spend so much time too close to the river, which made him want to sob. The blood of all those women had fed it, making it a home for the Upir, and it terrified him almost as much as looking directly at Harrington did. His fear made him a good spy, though; he would never get too close, nor would he risk being seen. He wished the priest would give him more of the calming drug, not just when the visions or his panic overwhelmed him, but perhaps it was for the best: when he was terrified, at least he knew he was alert.
Using the strike as excuse, the dockworkers had been spending a lot of their time and money in the public houses of East London. Now he pressed himself against the wall of the pub beside the window, his small frame hidden by the burly, raucous men around him. He peered through the glass and checked Harrington was still there. The five men he had arrived with had obviously concluded their important business, because they had beckoned over two women, who were laughing gaily – or more likely drunkenly – at whatever the besuited men were saying. Their dresses were cut low and they leaned forward to display their assets, but Aaron ignored them. Fear and desire were not good bedfellows, and it had been a very long time since he had last entertained any thought of encounters with the opposite sex. Anyway, how could he look elsewhere when Harrington was there, along with the Upir which had haunted his visions for so long? He had felt it coming across Europe – and now it took all his strength not to turn and run.
The other two did not understand; perhaps they were too absorbed in their own roles. The priest had withdrawn into himself even more as he continued with his preparations, whatever they were – although he would not share what he was preparing for. Aaron presumed he was readying himself to kill Harrington. He himself had never taken the priest for a moral man, for all he was a man of the cloth.
Aaron himself wished Harrington dead: he wished it every morning he awoke, sweating and screaming in fear, with the stink of the river filling him. He was just too scared to do anything about it himself.
Dr Bond had changed too. They met every few days near Dr Hebbert’s house. Once Harrington had arrived home, the doctor would go out to take the evening air, strolling to the corner where he and the priest would be waiting in the shadows. The changes were obvious; even at his most fevered Aaron could see it. Did Bond realise he had developed a nervous tic in his left eyelid? There was often a familiar sweet scent on him too, and not from laudanum. The dark circles around Bond’s eyes were now hollow caverns. If he was sleeping, it was not often.
Inside, a thick-waisted man with a huge silver moustache was ordering more drinks, and the women were laughing more loudly. Harrington was joining in, but his back was stiff, and he was clearly uncomfortable. Aaron had never really considered the man before he had started this almost constant watching. Until then, plagued by his own visions, he had seen only the Upir, not the host. He had discovered James Harrington to be a measured man, serious, slightly reserved – but even so, it was hard to separate the man from the monster, and knowing the parasite attached to him made him weep, especially if his dreams had been particularly bad. He could not start thinking of Harrington as a victim, not if they were to succeed in their hunt.
He was thirsty, and the heat was making his head spin a little, so he rested it against the cool bricks. He needed to drink more, but he could not bear the touch of water. He would deal with it after this was all over – is that what Dr Bond thought about the laudanum, too, he wondered, that he would stop when this was all over? In the middle of the night, Aaron could not help wondering who was really the hunted, who was the hunter? Were they three all part of the Upir’s game, or was everything exactly as it should be? His grandmother used to talk of destinies. Perhaps she had been speaking directly to him.
He glanced back in the window – and his idle thoughts vanished. Harrington and another man were getting up to leave, and one of the women was standing between them. Aaron noticed how pale Harrington’s skin was – and that two small purple patches were starting to bloom on his neck.
He turned to race round to the front entrance on the main road and instead collided with a woman standing behind him, sending her tumbling backwards to the filthy ground.
‘Oi!’ she called out, ‘watch yerself!’
Aaron muttered an apology and started to push through the gaggle of drinkers, but a burly arm pulled him back. ‘You stinking bastard,’ the man growled. The hand was a dockworker’s hand, thick and muscular, and his arm felt as brittle as a stick in the man�
�s strong grip. His face twitched nervously and he spat a little as he spoke, spluttering out more apologies in a string of words, some English and some Polish, needing desperately to get away, to see where Harrington was. He turned his head helplessly, trying to see behind him.
‘Oh, let ’im go. He’s clearly touched.’ The woman had picked herself up and now she stood over Aaron. ‘Blimey, does ’e stink – you can wash your ’and before you touch me after touching ’im.’ She laughed, and suddenly Aaron was free. He did not wait to hear what else the docker might say to him but darted to the front – just in time to see a flash of a red dress climbing inside before the hansom cab took off, following another a few feet ahead.
He stared after the carriages, his chest pounding. Which man had the woman left with? Harrington, or his companion?
His thin shoulders slumped. He would have to tell the priest. He stared for a moment longer, and then realised, with no small amount of relief, that there was nothing more for him to do than go home.
41
London. August, 1889
Dr Bond
‘When do you think he will be home?’
I took the dinner tray from Juliana’s lap and placed it on the table by the window. It was dark outside, and the street was empty. I glanced to the corner where the priest and Kosminski and I would meet, but the shadows held no waiting figures.
‘I imagine he is very busy.’ I closed the curtains and turned back to her, forcing a smile as I turned up the gas lamp on the wall. Juliana did not object, even though she was settling down to sleep for the night.
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