‘I’m sure he will,’ he said dryly. ‘I know he’s very fond of you.’
She couldn’t meet his eyes, but her smile was wide, another new smile from a woman with a thousand of them. He thought perhaps this one tried too hard.
‘I’m looking forward to seeing him myself,’ he said, reaching for his hat and returning her smile. ‘He’s an interesting fellow.’
His words weren’t a lie; he was very much looking forward to seeing Thomas Bond again. He hoped that the surgeon had found time in his busy schedule to look through James Harrington’s letters. Although he was different in many ways to his late father, they shared a dogged determination, and the deeper in love with Juliana he fell – and although just the sound of her laughter could make him hard, he knew that this was something more than lust – the more he became curious about the torments Harrington had suffered at the end of his life. He wanted to lay him to rest. He wanted to allay his own guilt. He wanted them all to be able to move on.
*
It was a strange dinner. Charles Hebbert was in a fine mood and ordered far too much wine that they all made a valiant effort to consume, although Edward noticed that Bond wasn’t matching them glass for glass; he was sure that the doctor often raised his glass to his lips but didn’t swallow. It was entirely possible that he could not afford to start the next day with a hangover, or perhaps he didn’t have the head for wine that Kane himself had cultivated over the years, but by the time they had lit their cigars and relaxed with brandy, he was certain that Thomas Bond was not in the same convivial frame of mind as the rest of the party.
It hadn’t been noticeable at first. The conversation had flowed as they discussed Kane’s British business dealings, and then, satisfying Kane’s curiosity, the doctor had shared details about the death of the woman on the train that he had been investigating – perhaps more information than he should, but then, he was among friends – or maybe he had been speaking just to fill the space between them? He certainly had not mentioned Harrington’s letters, nor dropped any hints about their contents. Kane was itching to have a moment alone with him to ask, but thus far, however, that chance had not arisen.
Charles Hebbert waved away the conversation of Elizabeth Camp’s death, declaring that too much time had been spent digging into corpses and instead he started sharing anecdotes of Juliana and little James in the way that fond grandfathers – though not something Kane had ever experienced for himself – were wont to do.
‘I cannot believe we haven’t dined here before,’ Bond said as they leaned back in their fireside seats. ‘In all the years of our friendship I have never been to your club. Fancy that.’
‘It is very remiss of me, that is for certain. But’ – and Charles smiled, his eyes twinkling merrily – ‘you have often dined in my home and with my family, and surely that is preferable.’
‘Of course.’ Bond sipped his drink. ‘You must be happy that you had so many dinners here with young Harrington before his sad demise – some time away from your wives to just talk business …’
From behind a haze of cigar smoke, Kane watched Bond carefully. His head buzzed slightly with the alcohol but his misspent youth had served him well in that regard and he was far from intoxicated. Was Bond trying to discover something about Harrington? He scanned his recollection of the letters for any relevance but couldn’t recall anything useful. Most of what was burned in his mind were the gruesome revelations and madness, not the day-to-day details. He wished he’d made copies before handing them to the doctor so that he could reread them himself.
‘Yes, yes.’ Charles’ face darkened in the memory of grief. ‘A bittersweet pleasure, to have had those times. Although now, of course, I would far rather he had spent those hours with Juliana, given their time together turned out to be so short. He was a fine fellow, young Harrington. It is so sad to lose one so young who had such a bright future ahead. And such a terrible end.’
‘Did he become a member here? I don’t recall,’ Bond continued, ignoring the emotional content of Charles’ words.
‘Are you considering it yourself, Thomas, dear fellow?’ Charles said, not answering the question. ‘If so, I would be more than happy to make the recommendation. Every chap should have a club – a sanctuary. Are you a member of any club in New York, Edward?’
‘I most certainly am,’ Kane answered, ‘although the Union Club does not have quite the heritage you have here. Not yet, anyway. We’re a little behind you with our history.’ He laughed with Charles, whose face was glowing with the effect of the brandy on top of the wine, but his attention was still focused on Bond. He looked for some sort of signal from him, but none was forthcoming; instead, Bond stared into his glass for a moment and then excused himself. Kane was tempted to follow him, but Charles Hebbert leaned forward and slapped him on the thigh.
‘Glad to have you alone for a moment, young man – wanted to thank you for the efforts you have made with young James,’ he said as Dr Bond disappeared out to the foyer, no doubt seeking the bathroom. Kane was trapped where he was. His conversation with the good doctor would have to wait.
‘It’s not a chore. I like him – and Juliana.’ He sipped his brandy. ‘I think Jim was a lucky man to marry her.’
Hebbert chuckled. ‘I did wonder why you hadn’t yet returned to New York.’
‘I meant nothing untoward,’ he said quickly. The last thing he wanted to do was talk about Juliana with her father. If the growing attraction between them became the subject of discussion with her parent, she would withdraw from him; of that he was certain. Her defences were too great, her grief still too raw and she was still nervous of him, and probably of what might happen between them. He would work his way through her barriers, but he had not yet done so, and he would not risk losing her for the sake of a precipitate conversation with a doting father.
‘Thomas is very fond of her too,’ Hebbert added. His eyes drifted towards the door through which Bond had gone and for a moment they were thoughtful. ‘Although I fear he is not very fond of my grandson.’
‘Why would you say that?’ Kane asked, although he had also noticed Thomas Bond’s coolness around the child. ‘He’s probably just not used to children.’
‘Yes, perhaps that is it,’ Hebbert conceded. ‘He has always been a more reserved man than I. And I cannot deny that he has been a fine friend, and he has looked after Juliana well over the past few years. She was very ill for a long time after James was born. We nearly lost her too.’
‘Maybe that’s why he struggles with the boy,’ Kane said. ‘Because of her sickness?’
‘Such resentment isn’t in his nature. He’s a good man.’ This time the intent gaze was on Edward. ‘He really is good for her.’
‘I’m sure he has been.’ Edward wasn’t sure if his own shift in tense had been intentional or not.
They sipped their brandy and the fire crackled between them, punctuating the background hubbub of male voices.
‘But I do wonder,’ Hebbert said, ‘if a younger man might not be better for her. I fear were she to marry Thomas, as fond as I am of him and knowing how deeply he does love her, that she would be achieving the wrong type of security.’
‘She would feel safe with him,’ Kane said, ‘that is for sure.’ If he could not derail the conversation, at least he would not stoop to trying to discredit Thomas Bond’s credentials as a suitor. For a start, he liked and respected the man. And it was becoming clear that Hebbert already had doubts about that possible match, if Bond ever got up the nerve to ask her to marry him, so there was nothing to be gained by sticking the knife in here. If he was going to win Juliana, then it would be through his own efforts, not by trying to malign his rival. It was hard to consider Bond a rival – how old was he? Late-fifties? Not that much younger than Kane’s father had been when he’d died.
‘Yes, yes,’ Hebbert agreed. ‘Thomas is a fine man. But he is nearing retirement and she is still a young woman. London can be a hard city to live in – I often see
the very worst of its actions – and no doubt worse as a widow of means.’
He left the rest unsaid but the message was clear. If Edward Kane were to win Juliana’s affections and take her to New York to live a wealthy and privileged life, he would find no argument from her father. He felt a moment of guilt for Bond. He had taken the doctor into his confidence about James Harrington’s letters, and if he were a true gentleman he would back away from his growing relationship with Juliana. Where affairs of the heart were concerned, however, gentleman or not, he’d learned that people invariably did what they wanted to. Fighting it only delayed the inevitable. Even for those less carnally driven than himself.
‘She’s a strong woman,’ he said. ‘Whatever she chooses for her future, I’m sure she’ll do just fine.’ He was careful to say what and not who. He’d seen his father tell a thousand faux truths in boardroom meetings to know the power of choosing the right words.
‘We should play cards,’ Hebbert announced suddenly, changing the tack of the conversation. ‘There is normally a game or two going on, and I don’t feel quite ready to retire yet. What do you say?’
‘I’m always in for the tables,’ Kane replied.
‘Excellent!’ Hebbert was back to his jovial self. ‘Then we shall – Ah, Thomas! There you are. Cards?’
‘Sadly not.’ Bond finally returned to join them, but didn’t sit. ‘I have only just realised the time,’ he said. ‘I fear I must go home. Otherwise I shall be no use to the police in the morning. Nor to my patients at Westminster.’
He appeared slightly flustered, his smile tight.
‘Damn shame,’ Hebbert said. ‘It’s been a most pleasant evening. No doubt we shall meet again soon enough though.’
Bond nodded and shook both their hands. His fingers felt cold in Edward Kane’s grip. What was Bond hiding? Anything? Maybe it was just his own imagination at work, looking for signs that weren’t there. Always possible, he concluded, as he picked up his brandy and followed Charles Hebbert towards the cards room. Possible, but unlikely. He’d learned to trust his instincts and they were telling him that Dr Thomas Bond was onto something.
12
London. February, 1897
Dr Bond
I did not sleep well that night. At first I had thought my investigations would be easy. On arrival at the club, Hebbert had signed us all into the Members’ ledger before we handed in our coats and hats. It was as I had hoped: a record of each visit was made, and I imagined that the club was quite prestigious enough for the expensive leather-bound books to be kept for posterity.
I ate a good dinner, and entertained Edward Kane with stories of the inquest, glad to be able to avoid the subject of Harrington’s letters, and when we’d retired for brandy and both of my companions were pleasantly merry from wine, I excused myself and hurried to the entrance. With the list of dates of Jack’s murders in my pocket I had hoped to be able to quickly scan the right pages and confirm whether Charles Hebbert had been there that night – even if I only had time to check the date of the Alice McKenzie killing, the one date he’d claimed beyond doubt to be dining at the club.
I was not in luck: despite my entirely plausible excuse of wanting to check some personal dates of attendance to clear up a matter with a friend – banking on the fact that the man in charge would not know whether I had visited there before or not – he could not provide me with the books, for they were stored elsewhere, and in any case, members’ records were a private matter. I could, however, leave a note with my name and the date in question on it, and someone would check on my behalf and send a message to me. All of this was explained on the presumption that I was a member and not simply a guest, and so I smiled and told him I might well do that if I could not find the details in my own papers; that I wouldn’t put anyone to such trouble until I was certain it was necessary.
After that, I made my excuses to my companions and left. I could not risk the gentleman at the desk changing his mind and coming to find me, for there was no story I could conceive that would explain to Charles my needing to see the club’s records. As I was quite sure he was innocent of the suspicions I needed to allay in my mind, it would make me look a fool, and it would also damage our relationship – and thus my relationship with Juliana.
My sleep was fitful as my mind dragged images and memories I thought had long since faded to the fore of my nightmares and then twisted them with images of Hebbert and Juliana and of course James Harrington until I woke, sweating and terrified, a little after four. There was no laudanum in the house and I was glad of that, for I am sure I would have swallowed half the bottle to calm myself.
I needed to check those records. It was the only way I would find peace for myself again. The kernel of suspicion I held about Hebbert was like a gateway to all the horrors of the past I had worked so hard to put behind me.
After Mrs Parks’ breakfast, which, though I was in no mood to eat, I managed anyway, I took a cab to Walter Andrews’ offices and asked if I could engage his private investigation services to get the records for me. To his credit he did not press when I told him I would rather not share why I wanted them at this stage, but I did say it had something to do with young Harrington. I was simply trying to clear up a small matter, nothing important.
When he arrived that evening with the Members’ Ledgers for 1888 and 1889 in his hands, he was more curious. Although I was desperate to check the entries, I put the books on a side-table and offered him a drink, which he accepted.
‘I must have them back early tomorrow morning,’ he said. He hadn’t taken his coat off and the heavy raindrops caught in its folds dripped on the rug, marking out the seconds. ‘And there is a small sum to be paid to the employee who provided them – no fee on my part though, Thomas. Consider it a favour to a friend.’
‘Thank you.’ I handed him a small glass of brandy – an ungenerous measure, but I didn’t want him to linger. ‘I shall return them first thing.’
‘You could of course check what you need while I wait,’ he said. ‘And then I could return them tonight.’ I did not miss the curious look in his eyes. I knew Andrews well, and his eye for detail was as acute as mine. We also trusted each other, and I had no doubt he was wondering why I was being so reticent about this.
‘I need to look at these in conjunction with some other documents that aren’t in the house, I’m afraid,’ I extemporised. ‘But have no fear: I shall have them back to you by breakfast time, I assure you.’
‘That’s fine.’ He drained his brandy. ‘Then I shall leave you to it.’
‘Thank you once again,’ I said, trying not to look over-eager as I edged him towards the drawing-room door. ‘I really do appreciate your help.’
He paused in the hallway and studied me in the dimmed light. ‘I could not help but notice the years of the ledgers: eighty-eight and eighty-nine. Jack’s time.’
I forced a laugh. ‘Sadly, this in not related to our missing killer but a far more mundane matter of spending. Something I would rather keep quiet for others’ sake.’
‘Well, if you need any more help, then just ask. And you know you can talk to me about anything that might be concerning you.’
‘And I would, Walter, I would.’ I shook his hand firmly, hoping my palm wasn’t sweating in his. ‘Now I’m sure you have supper waiting for you at home. I’ve kept you out long enough.’
Finally, he left and I heaved a sigh of relief as the door closed behind him. I gave it a few minutes until I was sure he was truly gone and then I grabbed the ledgers and ran up the stairs to my study. I had already drawn up a list of the dates of the Ripper killings and I placed it next to the books. I’d start with Alice McKenzie. If Hebbert had been in the club as he’d said, then the rest was of no consequence and I could sleep easy in my bed once again, all the while laughing at my own foolishness.
July sixteenth. I scanned through the months until I found the date and then ran my finger down the inked names. I reached the last entry and paused. With a sick
ly knot forming in my guts I went back to the top and started again. Three more times I searched, my eyes moving faster and faster over the names as dread crept into my limbs.
Charles Hebbert’s name was not there. I looked to my list and reached for the 1888 books. Martha Tabram, Polly Nicholls, Annie Chapman, Elizabeth Stride, Catherine Eddowes and lastly poor Mary Jane Kelly, the wreck of whose body I had studied in her room. Hebbert had not been at his club on the nights of any of their murders.
I sat back in my chair, a boulder settling on my chest. Could I really be suspecting Charles Hebbert of such crimes? And if it was Hebbert, why had the killings stopped so suddenly?
Because Harrington had died. My mind’s whisper was like a worm burrowing deep into my head. And Harrington was the Upir and the Upir had brought the mayhem. Without the Upir close by, Hebbert was saved from the dark urges and fantasies that had lived inside him.
It was preposterous – it had to be. I poured myself a brandy and drank it quickly, hoping to stop the trembling in my hands. Then I flicked through the pages of the books once more. Even where Hebbert was present, I could find only two occasions when he had taken Harrington with him – and yet Juliana had complained to me at the time that Harrington and her father were always at his club. Why would Hebbert lie about that? Surely one or the other would have revealed the truth at some point – so was this lie complicit? Had they known of each others’ awful secret deeds?
I needed to look at Harrington’s letters. The thought filled me with a terrible fear, but I knew my curiosity would drive me to madness otherwise. I would not read them all, I vowed, as I went downstairs and pulled on my coat and hat. I would simply scan them, looking for references to Hebbert’s club, no more than that. I would not be pulled into the insanity of the supernatural again. I had to go to my office at the Westminster and see what the letters held.
As I stepped outside, the freezing night gathered round me like a shroud and in my wake I could feel the ghosts of dead women reaching out to cling to me. They needed answers. And, God help me, so did I.
Murder Page 6
