48
London. 27th August 1899
Henry Moore
‘I can’t believe it,’ Bond said. He looked up at Moore, his eyes wide, and the policeman saw the doctor’s hand trembling as he sipped his brandy. It was still early but they were both drinking; the situation demanded it. ‘But why?’ Bond continued. ‘He was younger than me – there was no sign of any illness.’
‘He was younger than both of us,’ Moore said. ‘He didn’t leave a note or letter, not one that’s been found anyway.’ Outside the sky was overcast and heavy with rain, and only a little light crept into Bond’s study from the world outside, adding to the oppressive gloom that filled the room. ‘Who knows? I haven’t seen so much of him recently. Maybe he had suspicions of an illness that he didn’t share with us. I wondered if perhaps he had mentioned something to you?’
‘No, nothing.’ Bond shook his head. ‘But then I have seen him less of late too. The dinner the three of us shared was the first time I had seen him in weeks. I wish that was not the case now …’ His voice tailed off.
‘As do I,’ Moore added. Wearily, he took the opposite seat by the unlit fire and leaned back into the creaking leather. ‘He was a religious man, did you know that? He kept it to himself, but he was a pious one was Andrews. Saw it a few times when we worked together. Something must have been really plaguing him for him to take his own life.’
‘We have let him down,’ Bond said, ‘and I more than you. We were close friends for a long time.’
‘You can’t see into another man’s soul, Thomas. If we could, then my job would be a damned sight easier.’
‘True,’ Bond said. There was a long pause. ‘I have not been much help to you with that of late either. But at least London is full of skilled surgeons. How are things?’
It was good to change the subject from Andrews’ death, and normally talking about cases invigorated him, but recently he had begun to tire of the awful mundanity of death in London.
‘Another dead baby pulled out of the water, trussed up like a fowl. When men and women want to get drunk and kill each other I can see a reason, but baby-killing …’ He paused for a moment. He was not a sentimental man, but as he grew older he found he was questioning more. ‘Baby-killing is the most barbaric thing to me. Maybe even more barbaric than our Jack was.’
‘Another?’
Bond sounded vague; his mind was no doubt still reeling with shock after the terrible news Moore had brought him. He pitied the man. Bond had suffered real bad luck of late, with first Charles Hebbert leaving, then little James dying, and then Juliana marrying and being carried off to New York, and his back injury, and now this – there was a real sense of tragedy hanging over him now. Moore had to admit to himself that it had kept him away, rather: he was a pragmatic, down-to-earth sort of man, didn’t dwell on the past as others might. Perhaps that was why, despite the obvious signs of age in his physical appearance, for the most part he was still as invigorated by life as he had been when a younger man.
He turned his mind back to the subject at hand. ‘Yes, pulled out of the Thames at Barnes, a month or so ago. She had been dead for a while. Tied in the same complicated fashion.’ He heaved a sigh. ‘No one claimed the first and I doubt anyone will this one either.’ He sipped his brandy. ‘It’s hard to investigate something like that. You know what I mean.’
‘You sound tired, Henry,’ Bond said. ‘Not yourself.’
‘You might be right, Thomas, you might well be right.’ He met Bond’s gaze. ‘Perhaps it’s time for a change for me.’
‘Retirement?’
‘A change, Thomas.’ He smiled. ‘No life of card games and reminiscing for me! A man needs to work to stay young. But I have started to look around me for opportunities for a man of my experience.’
‘We all get old,’ Bond said.
‘I don’t feel old yet, but you’re right: I am tired. I’m becoming too cynical. I want to work somewhere I can sink my teeth into a case rather than able to do nothing more than hope clues turn up.’
‘I would be happy just to rid myself of this wretched back pain.’
Moore studied his old colleague. There were dark rings around his eyes, and his pupils looked large, eating the colour in his eyes. Perhaps it was just the lack of light in the room, but maybe laudanum too? He wouldn’t blame him for that. He was a doctor, after all, and quite capable of self-medicating with whatever he wished to make himself feel better.
They talked a while longer, some small talk, some talk of Andrews and what a good man he had been, and after twenty minutes or so Moore took his leave. It was clear that Bond needed some time alone. Moore knew he wasn’t the right man to help with grief; he himself dealt with anything emotional by applying himself practically to things. Right now, he would deal with his sorrow over Walter Andrews’ death by burying himself in work.
He was glad to get back out on the street and into the throng of life. The storm had not yet broken and it smelled like every foul and great scent of London was hanging in the air. He sucked in a deep lungful, thinking here was life in all its torrid glory. He was not yet ready to give up on it as Andrews had, or fade away from it as it looked like Bond was doing.
He didn’t take a cab back to the division but strode through the streets, enjoying the time to think in the midst of the city he loved. It might be time to retire from the police, but not from thrill of the investigation. Every since the Elizabeth Camp case he had been drawn to the railways. There were cases to crack there: each month the trains were getting busier, and each month saw more and more crimes. Me: an inspector on the railways? he thought as he began to hum to himself. Perhaps that was where his future lay.
49
Leavesden. August, 1899
Aaron Kosminski
Assessment
The patient has become more agitated over the past few days. In his waking hours he has become obsessed that Dr Thomas Bond might return to visit him and is adamant to the point of near hysteria that we prevent such a visit from happening. His speech often veers back into his native tongue at these times, but he repeats the phrases, ‘He wants to give it back. He tried to pass it on. He can’t give it back.’
Records show that the patient gave Dr Bond nothing by way of a gift on his one visit, but the patient is prone to hallucination. In an attempt to return him to a calm state in which to discuss this current delusion I recommend no visitors at all for the present.
His aversion to water has also grown stronger again, and he reacts strongly to any physical contact. I would not suggest that anything in his behaviour makes him a danger to others however. His delusions and nightmares clearly terrify him but his fear does not translate to overt aggression.
50
London. August, 1899
Dr Bond
The flames were mesmerising, and I took some small comfort in the steady crackle that came from the fire, and the way each screwed-up ball of paper shrivelled first to black and then to grey ash. I watched them as they burned, eliminating each of Harrington’s desperate messages one by one, until it was as if they had never existed. I should have done it sooner, rather than simply wishing them away and avoiding that drawer in my desk at the hospital. Now Edward Kane was the only other person who knew of them, and he was far away. Only Andrews would have made the link between my reading the letters and then becoming suspicious of Hebbert. And now Andrews was gone.
My heart was heavy and my throat tightened in grief as I fought to evict memories of the previous night from my mind. My head ached from the fall I had taken, and the large lump that had grown on the back of my skull throbbed continually, despite the laudanum and brandy I had consumed. It had been hard to concentrate when Henry Moore had called with the news I had been expecting, but it had not been hard to feign my shock, as I was still in denial of the whole event. I kept hearing him calling my name on that dark road, seeing him there and realising that everything was unravelling, no matter how hard I had fought to keep things
under control. I should have employed a different private investigator when I first became suspicious of Hebbert – I had been foolish to go to a friend, let alone one as sharp-eyed and intelligent as Walter Andrews. I had grossly underestimated him, of that I was most certainly guilty.
My friend. Walter Andrews had been my friend, I could not deny that: a good friend. And no doubt we would have been firm friends into our old age, if Fate had not worked against me. Why had he followed that night? Why had he let his curiosity get the better of him? Why could he not have left well alone?
I screwed up the last of Harrington’s letters and tossed it onto the flames, followed by the envelope with his careful writing. These were questions I could just as easily apply to myself as well. Andrews and I had always been similar; neither of us could let something go when our curiosity had been aroused. The Upir had taken its toll on us all: first James Harrington, then Charles Hebbert, poor little James, me, and now Walter Andrews. London was awash with the wickedness that had seeped into its streets so silently that none had noticed. We were tainted. I was tainted.
I could not stop thinking about the previous night. As I had poured out the whole story to Andrews I had seen him look at me as if I were quite mad. At first I had wanted only to show him proof – and then, when I felt the weight shift on my back, a thought came to me, a plan that might allow me the freedom to live normally again.
And now I felt ashamed twice over: for having thought to try and pass this cursed existence on to a dear friend, and for the regret I had felt when I had to admit that I had not succeeded. I hated what I had done, but I felt such deep relief that I had not killed him – as much as I loathed the deeds I had committed with the wicked women who fed the river, I was still no murderer. I was not.
I stared into the flames, and with no warning, I began to weep.
51
Leavesden. August, 1899
Aaron Kosminski
The sheets were soaked with sweat as the dreams came for him again. This time he saw a man, swinging from the tree, muttering a prayer as he threw the rope over the branch and tied it around his neck.
He saw the long talk, the man’s disbelieving face; he waited for the drugged wine to take effect on Bond and saw the sudden feral look in the doctor’s eye. He could not look away from the fight that followed, and saw the Upir scrabbling up Bond’s back, its tongue stretching long around his neck, and Bond trying to hold the man close and make the beast leave him as he fought to hold on to his consciousness.
He shuddered and moaned as he felt the creature’s pleasure in the man’s horror. He hissed in his sleep as the Upir had hissed when the man had thrown Bond off him and stumbled backwards on unsteady legs to crash into the dresser. Bond’s head had hit the corner of the heavy piece of furniture and he had crumpled to the floor, knocked senseless.
He heard the creaking branch and the desperate prayers, and he heard the hissing of the Upir, over and over, and inhaled the stench of evil. The red eyes were sharp and wicked; the beast was so much stronger than it had been before.
It broke the man and sent him to his death.
He moaned and cried and muttered in the old tongue. He loathed the closeness of the filthy demon, filled with every sin that had visited the earth. He felt it in every pore of his body. It was so much worse than it had been before, and it had almost broken him then. It had been weak on Harrington, just out of the river, but it had got stronger as it fed, and it would grow stronger still. He felt Bond’s madness growing too, even if the man himself didn’t. He wanted to weep for him. He wanted to weep for them all.
52
Extract of David Voice’s testimony at the Old Bailey, December, 1899
On the morning of September 27th Stokes called my attention to a brown paper parcel in the Thames—I looked at it, and saw a baby’s foot sticking out—I took it from the edge of the water to the mortuary at Battersea, where I took from the outside of it the paper in which the whole thing was wrapped up—then I came upon a kind of pink-coloured flannelette sewed round the body from the shoulders down to the haunches, with double white thread, and between the legs and around the haunches was a white napkin—the head was covered up with a white cotton bag, tied round the neck with a piece of cotton stuff, the same as the bag was—it was a piece of selvedge torn off—on removing the flannelette from the body I found it was tied up with a kind of sash-cord or blind-cord, the heels being drawn up over the chest, on each side of the head, under the ears; the left arm was thrust under the left leg, between it and the body; the right arm was squeezed between the body and the leg in a straight attitude and secured by the cord or line—I sent for Dr. Kempster, who cut and removed the cord—I cut nothing myself except the outside string and the paper—I took the pink flannelette off; but left on the head covering and the string on the body—this (Produced) is the bag which was over the head; this is the napkin which was round the bottom part of the body, and this is the flannelette which was sewn round the body, from the shoulders down to the haunches—this string was outside the brown paper; this sash-line was tied next to the flesh round the arms and neck—I am familiar with knots and the making of them—I was in Her Majesty’s Navy for just over 12 years, and there we learned to tie all knots which are required in the Navy—in the blind cord there are knots which are well known to those familiar with knots—there are three knots here known as the fisherman’s bend, and here is another known as the half-hitch—there are 11 of those in the string round the brown paper; there were six half-hitches in the blind cord—a reef knot is well known to me, it is used for reefing sails—I find one in the cord round the body, and only one of that kind—“overhand” knots are known to me—seven of them were to be found in the cord round the brown paper, and one in the cord which tied up the body—I took particular notice of the position of the child’s limbs at the time it was found, as well as the position of the strings and cords which bound it up—I have prepared a doll about the size of the child, with just the same presentment as I found the child when I took it to the mortuary—(The model was produced)—this shows exactly the position of the child’s limbs and the way in which it was tied after the flannelette had been removed, and also it shows the cord and the position of the knots—I have placed similar knots in the same places as near as I could get them—I was not present when the string was found in the house, but these pieces of cord were afterwards shown to me (Produced)—there is a piece of sash-line, a good bit thicker than the other—[described the piece which was about the child’s body as blind-cord or sash-line]—in this piece found in the house there is one overhand knot and one half-hitch—in this other piece there are three fisherman’s bends, thirteen half-hitches, and eight overhand knots—the sash-line has one half-hitch and one overhand knot—they are broken pieces tied together—this piece is a bit thinner than the piece found round the child’s body—it is the same kind of stuff, but not quite so thick—the sash-cord and the blind-cord are all the same kind.
The Lloyds Weekly Newspaper
December 10, 1899
LONDON BABY MURDERS
ARREST OF THE HEWETSONS
Late on Friday night Detective-Inspector Scott of the V division, Metropolitan Police, succeeded in effecting the arrest of the “Hewetsons” against whom a coroner’s jury delivered a verdict of “Wilful murder” a fortnight since. The accused, who were apprehended in the neighbourhood of South Hackney, admitted their identity. The woman, who gave her age as 24 years, stated that her name was Ada Hewetson and her companion gave the name of Chard Williams, and his age as 41. They had quite recently parted with their household effects, and at the time of their arrest were, it is said, on their way to Liverpool.
The Standard
December 11, 1899
THE BATTERSEA CHILD MURDER CASE
At the South-Western Police-court on Saturday, William Chard Williams (alias Hewetson), aged 41, described as a clerk, living at 26, Gainsborough-road, Hackney Wick, and Ada Chard Williams, aged 24,
his wife, were brought before Mr. Garrett charged with the wilful murder of Selina Ellen Jones, aged 21 months, the daughter of Florence Jones, a single woman, living at 73, Gee-street, St. Luke’s, whose body was found in the Thames off Church Dock, Battersea, on September 27. It will be remembered that the evidence at the inquest tended to show that the woman Williams, or Hewetson, accepted the care of the child for £5, and took it to a house in Hammersmith. She and her husband suddenly disappeared, and nothing more was heard of the child till its body was found in the river. The medical testimony of Dr. F. C. Kempster, police surgeon for Battersea, was that death was caused by injuries inflicted on the child before the body was thrown into the water, the skull having been battered in, and the head enveloped in a sack. The jury returned a verdict of Wilful Murder against the couple and for some days Detective Inspector Scott, Detective Sergeant Winzan and Detective Joseph Gough have been searching for them.
The Morning Post
Saturday, December 30, 1899
THE BATTERSEA CHILD MURDER
William Chard Williams, aged 41, a clerk and his wife Ada Williams, aged 24, having recovered from their attack of influenza, which prevented them from being brought before the court a week ago, were yesterday placed in the dock at the South-Western Police court to further answer the charge of being concerned in the murder of Selina Ellen Jones, aged 21 months, the daughter of Florence Jones …
Murder Page 23
