Murder

by Sarah Pinborough

  I know what you would say – and I still hope to get replies from you even though my writing is becoming a cathartic process of its own. You would say, ‘See a doctor.’ I would, Edward. But I cannot.

  I came out of one such fugue several weeks ago and found myself in Westminster, near the site of the new Scotland Yard building site. I had no idea what I was doing there, but my arms and back ached and I was filled with exhaustion – and yet at the same time the weakening fever was gone and my face was suddenly clear of the hot red blotches that are the mark of my recurring illness. I was afraid, as any man would be suddenly finding himself so far from home and with no recollection of how he got there.

  Yesterday, they found something inside the new building: part of a dead woman’s body. It was headless and brutally dismembered, and had been wrapped in the pages of a newspaper that I myself have delivered. I know these things because Juliana’s father is working with the police. I can almost hear you laugh, dismissing the two events as unconnected, but there is yet more strangeness here. When I hear them talk of this poor dead woman, I see her in my mind’s eye: a tall girl, full-bodied. I see her walking in the sunshine, and then I see her in the dark, staring at me in such fear. I know that she is foreign and I know that something terrible happened to her.

  There are other memories too: memories of feelings: power, hunger, and a lust such as I have never known.

  I am afraid for Juliana. I am afraid for Elizabeth, the girl who was the cause of my travels abroad. I am afraid for myself.

  I feel as if I am two men, and the one whose deeds I cannot fully remember is the stronger.

  And always, always, there is this terrible weight on my back, of something just out of sight – something that I cannot shake free. Something that is driving me mad.

  I know I need to look in that locked warehouse – the one apparently only I have the key for. The one I protect so much from Barker and the other workers. The answers lie in the warehouse, and that is what gives me pause. What will I find in there? Nothing? Therefore proving that I am suffering some madness?

  I fear that I will find something worse: that I am not mad.

  That I am a monster …

  6

  London. January, 1897

  Edward Kane

  James had been right about London: it was, like New York, a vibrant and exciting city, and like his own home, had many areas of filth and excessive poverty. But London was actually more like Paris: the air was thick with history and its streets filled with secrets so old that even the worn stone had begun to forget them. But the more he saw, the more he realised that neither was it entirely like Paris. The French capital’s recent history might be bloodier, but it was nonetheless a city that oozed seduction. London was all grime and grit and labour. There was no romance here. In London even the river worked. In fact, London was like all the great cities of the world, Edward Kane concluded, entirely unique.

  He checked his watch as the waiter poured him some more coffee, then drank it black as his eyes scanned the newspaper without really reading it. He left the delicate sandwiches and cakes on the fine porcelain stands untouched. Fresh tea would arrive when his guest did; he would eat then. She was due at any moment – if she came, of course. He was surprisingly nervous. He glanced out of the sparkling windows into the darkening busy afternoon, following the hubbub and imagining the hundreds of tiny stories wrapped up in each warm body as they hurried past. He’d been at the Dorchester for almost a week now. In between the meetings with bankers and railwaymen, he had gone to the address on James Harrington’s letters, hoping to find him recovered and well, and perhaps a little embarrassed at everything he had poured out onto so many pages all those years ago – but instead, he had discovered his friend’s death, pulled out of the Thames as a bloated corpse with a slashed throat, and how his poor young widow had nearly died in childbirth shortly afterwards.

  He had decided it might be best not to go to the new house, but instead to send a message, leaving it up to her to decide if she wanted to see a man who had known her husband only briefly, and in their youth.

  ‘Mr Kane?’

  She stood a little way back from his table, a vision in rich blue, her hat fashionably tilted on top of her carefully styled curls. Beside her, a small boy standing a little too close to his mother’s skirt looked at him nervously.

  ‘Mrs Harrington.’ He got to his feet and smiled. ‘It is truly a pleasure to meet you.’

  ‘You’re American,’ the boy said, his eyes widening slightly.

  ‘Yes, I am. And you’re a fine-looking little fellow – just like your father.’

  ‘I don’t know my father,’ the boy said. ‘He’s dead.’

  ‘James, sit quietly please.’ She smiled as the waiter held her chair, but Edward had noticed the flash of pain in her eyes at the mention of her dead husband. The years might have passed, but she obviously still grieved for him. ‘I hope you don’t mind that I brought my son with me,’ she added. ‘I – well, I don’t have a governess for him. I prefer to school him myself.’

  ‘The more the merrier,’ he said, and winked at the thin little boy who was continuing to stare at him with some kind of awe. ‘Isn’t that right, James? Also’ – he reached down to the bag at his side – ‘I brought you this. It’s a little late for Christmas, but I thought you might like it.’

  He handed over the box and James’ mouth dropped open wide at the sight of the model railway, with an engine and several carriages, all made from cast iron and painted in his company’s colours.

  ‘From America?’ the child breathed, and both his mother and Edward laughed aloud at his reaction.

  ‘Yes, indeed. All the way from New York.’

  ‘You really shouldn’t have, Mr Kane. That’s very kind.’

  ‘Edward, please. And it was no trouble. My business – one of my businesses – is the railroads.’

  The tea arrived and he waited until it was poured before continuing, ‘I’m very sorry for your loss. James was a good man.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, and once again he saw something cut across her face: a shadow of memory, perhaps. ‘Yes, he was. He wrote to you, I believe, when he was sick.’

  ‘Yes, he did.’ Edward smiled. ‘That’s how I knew you were expecting a child.’ Her eyes studied him, dark pools of wary intelligence beneath the warmth, and he knew then that she was still recovering, and that he would not share the contents of her late husband’s letters with her. He feared that seeing what James had written in his last months would break her.

  ‘Uncle Thomas gave me a train for Christmas,’ James exclaimed as he pulled the engine free from the box, ‘but it was not like this one!’ His shyness was clearly overcome by his excitement. ‘Thank you!’

  ‘Make sure you say no such thing to Uncle Thomas,’ Juliana chided him. ‘That would be rude, and it would upset him.’

  ‘Your brother?’ Edward asked.

  ‘Oh no.’ She smiled and sipped her tea. ‘Dr Thomas Bond – a colleague of my father’s. He’s become a very good friend to us since James died. He is quite part of the family.’ Her eyes darted away and Edward realised that perhaps that relationship was more complex than simply friends. He didn’t push, although he found that he was curious. She was more beautiful than he’d been expecting, despite being too thin, and sadness and illness leaving lines on her face – or perhaps because of those things.

  Her eyes caught his and she was suddenly self-conscious. ‘Is there something the matter?’ she asked, dabbing at her mouth as if perhaps there were crumbs around it, even though she hadn’t touched the collation that sat between them.

  ‘No,’ he said, and it was his turn to flush slightly. ‘It was just … well, I was just thinking how much I would like to paint you. Which probably sounds odd coming from a businessman and one who is a stranger to boot.’

  Her laugh came in a burst that he thought surprised her as much as it surprised him; he had not expected such sweet richness, the hints of earthl
y pleasure. He thought perhaps here was a woman bound up so tightly by life she’d almost forgotten how to breathe.

  ‘I’m most flattered,’ she said. ‘James did tell me that you dreamed of spending your days in an artist’s loft, painting – although he said that your preference was for women without their clothes on.’

  It was Edward who laughed loudly then, and heads at the table next to them turned to smile at what must have looked like a happy family enjoying each other’s company over afternoon tea. ‘He told you that, did he?’ Suddenly that Christmas in Venice seemed like yesterday, as if time had folded and now held that day so close to this one that they rubbed together slightly. ‘Yes, I suppose I did dream of a different life – but the one I have has not been altogether unkind to me.’

  ‘It does not always work out as we planned, does it?’ Juliana said, her smile soft.

  ‘No,’ he agreed, ‘it does not, but we have to make the best of what we are given. I’m sorry if meeting me has reminded you of your loss. That was not my intention.’

  ‘It has been several years now, and time does heal, no matter how deep the grief. I am glad of your visit. James was very fond of you, even though you did not know each other for long. I would love to hear your stories of him – I think he aspired to be a little more like you. He always described you as “carefree”.’

  ‘Well, he would probably be very disappointed to find that I did indeed follow my father’s wishes and go into his business – and now it is my business. Thankfully, I am a better businessman than I was a painter, hence my visit to England.’

  ‘I’m glad you found time to look for James. He would have been glad too.’

  She smiled again, and as he watched her lips part slightly nervously over her perfect teeth, he thought that she was the kind of woman who never smiled in the same way twice. He might have changed somewhat from the rebellious young man who had been so keen on a life of freedom, but his love of women had not faded, and her sad beauty touched him. He wondered how she would look with that red hair free over her shoulders, and her body released from the confines of her tight corsetry. How would she smile in the moments after her lust was sated? How would she smile first thing after waking?

  Suddenly the formal atmosphere in the hotel tea room was stifling. ‘I have an idea,’ he said, and leaned in towards James. ‘If you are both free for an hour or so, why don’t we go to the museum? I would particularly like to see the Egyptian Room – what do you say, young sir? Shall we go exploring?’

  The little boy’s eyes lit up and any protest Juliana might have been about to make was lost in his reaction.

  ‘That’s settled then.’ Edward smiled across the table.

  *

  By the time they had explored a section of the exhibits in the vast building, the atmosphere between them had relaxed. As James called their attention to first this artefact and then that, Edward made up bold stories to explain them that left the boy almost breathless with excitement and rosy-cheeked, dispelling his normally pallid hue, and even Juliana fell under the spell of Edward’s exaggerated tales of pirates and grave-robbers as they took new and increasingly outlandish turns.

  She was still laughing when they emerged into the evening hubbub of London, and she touched his arm as a hansom pulled up for them. ‘You must come for dinner – tomorrow,’ she said. ‘As a thank-you for this lovely afternoon.’

  ‘That I would like,’ he answered and tipped his hat to her before ruffling James’ hair and picking him up to put him in the cab. ‘He’ll sleep well tonight.’

  ‘Yes,’ Juliana said, ‘and so shall I.’ She smiled at him again, and then took his hand to step up herself.

  Through her elegant gloves her fingers were slim and strong and he wondered how they would feel on his body. James Harrington had done well getting this woman to marry him. She was intelligent and warm and witty and he was sure that if she ever let her guard down she would be sensuous and sexual. He was still intrigued to find out more about James’ fate – especially after the terrible things he had written in his letters – but that interest faded in comparison with his new need: the wooing of his widow. There had been a lot of women in Edward Kane’s life, but none before had intrigued him as much as the very English Juliana Harrington.

  He walked back to the hotel, enjoying the sound of the city’s streets, and then had an early dinner before retiring to his suite and examining Harrington’s letters again. He wondered how Juliana could have lived with someone going through what must have been fits of madness – what had her life been like then?

  When he finally extinguished the lights for the night he imagined his shy, reserved English friend and his wife in their marriage bed. Could James truly have satisfied her? As his mind wandered, his own body replaced Harrington’s, moving over the lovely Juliana and hearing her gasp as his mouth explored every inch of her pale perfection before sliding inside her. It was not long before he brought himself to a shuddering climax beneath the crisp sheets.

  He lay in the darkness for a while before sleep claimed him, and as he revisited the events of the day, he realised how much he was looking forward to seeing her again for dinner the next day. He thought of his dead friend, shy, sweet James Harrington, so clearly a troubled soul, and said a quiet prayer to him for forgiveness. However, he didn’t wait for an answer: Harrington had been dead a long time and life was for the living. As, indeed, was love.

  7

  London. January, 1897

  Dr Bond

  Edward Kane was a charismatic man, I had to give him that, if a touch uncouth in that open way Americans could be. Young James had certainly taken to him, and before he went to bed there were piggyback rides and tales of cowboys and Indians and I could not help but envy how easy Kane found being around the boy.

  ‘Your turn, Uncle Thomas!’ James cried, breathless from his games. ‘Be my horse!’

  ‘I’m too old for that, young man,’ I said. ‘I fear my back is not what it once was.’

  ‘I don’t think mine is either!’ Edward got up and stretched. ‘I’m sure you’re heavier than you were yesterday, Sheriff.’

  James giggled at that and ran to Juliana who was wearing a fine wine-coloured dress I had not seen before. Her face, like her son’s, was brighter today, and when she smiled there was definitely the visible echo of the life that used to dance in it.

  ‘Your visit seems to be having a positive effect on Juliana,’ I said to Kane before we went in to dine. ‘Thank you for that.’ The last words sounded more proprietary than I had intended, but I could not shake my own dismay at the American’s presence. I had done a good job of burying the past, and now here was an old travelling companion of Harrington’s, disturbing the graves as he told us stories of their time together in Venice.

  ‘She’s a charming woman, and I’m glad my arrival has not caused her too much pain. I hope I can only add to the good memories of her husband – from the short time I knew him.’ The sparkle that came so naturally to his hazel eyes faded and I noticed his jaw tighten slightly before he grinned again. ‘She seems very fond of you,’ he added.

  ‘We are very fond of each other,’ I answered a little mechanically, wondering what had caused that reaction. Did he know something of Harrington that he had not shared?

  ‘So I can see,’ he said.

  ‘Do come and sit down,’ Juliana called through to us, her voice merry. ‘The food will be getting cold.’

  I was pleased that although she was charmed by Edward Kane, it was my hand she touched occasionally throughout the meal, squeezing my fingers affectionately as she told Edward about our times hunting, and spoke of her father, and our experiences working on the infamous ‘Jack the Ripper’ case.

  ‘The police call on Thomas often, you know,’ she said proudly, ‘and not just for his medical skills. He has an eye for analysing the minds of men from their terrible deeds. He’s worked on many celebrated cases, not just that awful one.’

  ‘Oh, Juliana,’ I said,
attempting modesty while feeling inordinately pleased that she felt the need to press my importance on this handsome, wealthy younger man. ‘I am not that different to others.’

  ‘Yes, you are – even Father says so. He says you have a gift.’

  The word almost made me shudder – it was so close to what the priest had said of me and my abilities. He had been talking of more supernatural leanings, however, and I was a little embarrassed to remember it.

  ‘It must have been a terrible time,’ Edward said. ‘Even in New York the newspapers were full of it.’

  A terrible time. Edward Kane would never know the half of it.

  ‘I just wish the police had caught him. The killings may have stopped, but there are good men who still feel frustrated that he got away.’ I was thinking of course of Andrews, for the case was etched in every line of his face. ‘I share in Henry Moore’s hope that he is dead or incarcerated – perhaps in one of your own cities.’

  ‘There’s a thought,’ Edward said, sipping his wine. ‘The world is certainly growing smaller.’

  ‘Enough of this gloomy talk,’ I said after a moment. ‘The past is done – the present is where we should reside. Tell me more about your business in the railways, and life in New York. I travelled as a young man, but mainly in Europe. I am ashamed to say I have yet to visit America.’

  The evening passed more pleasantly after that, and although I felt a little reserve towards Edward Kane – probably, if I am honest, as much only jealousy of a charming and handsome man in his prime whom Juliana obviously found engaging company – I could see that he was a clever and thoughtful individual who had no doubt contributed considerably to the success of his late father’s business. He was confident but not arrogant, and there was more than a little grit at his core.