Can it be some form of brain disease causing the changes? he wondered as he enjoyed the cold, crisp night air. Or was Bond overdosing on laudanum?
It was no good, whatever it was, and it left Moore with a bitter taste in his mouth. He was still angry at Andrews’ unexpected suicide. He hated that he had left without so much as a letter of explanation, leaving only another unsolved mystery behind him. Andrews was gone and he knew – because he was a man who could not avoid hard facts when placed in front of him – that Bond would be the next of their little group to fall under the scythe.
For his own part, he did not feel old – he was a man who lived in the moment; he did not dwell on the number of years left to him, as so many men did as they aged. He had seen enough dead bodies to know that a lifespan could not be measured that way. To be alive and healthy on this day, to make it through to the comfort of your bed and the hope of waking the next morning, that was all any man should wish for. And in his new career Moore was feeling more alive than he had for a long time – but his renewed enthusiasm for life had been at painful odds with his old friend’s strange shambling towards the end of his. It was clear that Bond no longer wanted his friendship, that he had come to meet him only out of some sense of obligation, but that did not mean that Moore would abandon him. Bond was not himself, and if whatever life he had left to him was to be spent in some kind of comfort, he would need those who cared about him around him.
He had walked briskly, as was his style, but even so, by the time he reached his front door the tips of his fingers were numb and his nose was running and he was happy to get inside. His mind was still on Thomas Bond, however, and he poured himself a drink and settled down at his desk. Perhaps Andrews’ death had been the straw that broke him. Moore was no fool. He had known how the doctor felt about Hebbert’s daughter, and if anyone could help him now, it would be her. He also wondered if Bond had ever written to tell them about the Chard Williams’ case; he had expected her to have returned for the verdict and execution. Once again he cursed his driven mind; he was so focused on his work that he excluded so much else. He had taken Bond at his word that he would write to the Kanes, but had then forgotten all about it.
He was tired, but he knew that if he went to bed without having taken some action on the matter, he would not sleep. Instead of finding himself back at his desk at some ungodly hour he would rather get it done now and be able to sink into oblivion with his day’s work completed. He would write a letter and send it in the morning.
His mind made up, he pulled a sheet of fine paper from the top drawer and laid it on the blotting pad. This would not take long. He was a plain-speaking man in all forms of communication. He picked up his pen.
Dear Mr Kane,
I hope you will not consider this letter an imposition as we are not well acquainted, but I feel I should write to you on two matters, that of the recent case of the Chard Williams woman, found guilty of the murder of a child pulled from the river, and of the more personal matter of Dr Thomas Bond’s health, both physical and emotional. I shall lay out the details below, but I wish you to know that I am simply passing the information on and not expecting any action from you other than to impart it to your wife as you best see fit and allow her to decide whether to contact Thomas Bond or not …
57
New York. January, 1901
Edward Kane
Edward had waited until the Christmas festivities were done before sharing the contents of Henry Moore’s letter with Juliana. It had been a glorious holiday, filled with feasting, new friends and laughter, and for the first time in a long time Juliana had glowed like she used to in the first flush of their love. She had shared the reason with him on Christmas Eve, as they had placed their gifts for each other under the trimmed tree.
‘I have something else for you,’ she had said, unable to keep her smile from dancing in her eyes, ‘but it is too well-wrapped for you to see at present.’
‘Too well-wrapped?’ He had looked around the room, confused, until she had taken his hand and pressed it to her stomach.
He had stared at her quizzically for a moment before her meaning sank in. His heart had leapt.
‘You mean, you’re – we’re—?’
‘Yes. We’re having a baby.’
He had whooped with delight, right there on the rug, and she had laughed at his childlike joy, and then they had laughed together and kissed each other and laughed some more. Happiness was returning to their family. They would never forget James, that wasn’t possible, but this was a new life, a new child to love and nurture and have as their own. There was a purpose to life again, and he could see Juliana’s vitality returning in every passing moment. They made plans and talked of all the toys and books they would fill the nursery with. Christmas was wonderful.
He had thought about just burning the letter and pretending he had never received it. London was a lifetime ago, a place now filled with unhappy memories. New York was their home now. Charles Hebbert had never quite been himself since leaving England and after a brief visit to New York had returned to Australia to make some kind of life there; to all intents and purposes he was dead to them. What was the point of sharing more bad news from her home country?
But he could not unsee the words, and he could not bring such a secret into their marriage. Some men would, no doubt, but then, some men weren’t married to Juliana. Once the world had settled into the new year and February’s winter had gripped the city, he had finally sat her down and gently broken the contents of Moore’s letter to her, hating the horror on her face as she learned of Ada Chard Williams’ awful crimes – and the realisation of the meaning of little James’ nightmares and delirious words – and then, once she had taken that in, he told her about Moore’s concerns for Thomas Bond.
‘He doesn’t think he has much time left,’ he said. ‘He thought you should know.’
For a while she had said nothing, but he had passed the letter over to her, knowing she would want to read it for herself. At last she came and found him in his offices.
‘He cannot die alone,’ she said. Her chin was high and defiant, and her voice was strong. He knew this Juliana well; this was not a woman who could be persuaded from whatever she had decided. ‘Perhaps, if he has friends around him he will not die at all. We must go to London.’
‘But in your condition?’ Edward said. Her belly had started to show the signs of new life. ‘Maybe we should wait until after the baby comes?’
‘I’ve thought about that,’ she said.
‘Have you now?’ Edward leaned back in his chair and smiled. Of course she had. Juliana hadn’t come here to ask his permission for anything, she had come here to tell him their plans. God, he loved this woman. He thanked the good Lord every day just for bringing her into his life, even in such dark circumstances. She was his Juliana – she had been, even before they had ever met, no matter how much Harrington might have loved her – and he would stand by her side and do everything he could to make her and their child happy. Even if it meant a trip back to London, and the past.
‘I could have the baby there,’ she said. ‘I would like that.’ Her eyes softened and sadness darkened them. ‘I would like to show James his little brother or sister. I think it would …’ She struggled for the right words. ‘I think it would make things better,’ she said at last.
‘Then that is what we shall do,’ he said, getting up from the desk and wrapping his arms around her. ‘We’ll go to London and look after Thomas Bond and we’ll have our baby there. But you must see a doctor first, and I think we go nowhere for a month or so. Let’s make sure our baby is happy to travel first.’
She smiled at that and cried a bit and then they kissed and the heat between them that had never faded grew urgent and he locked the door and closed the blinds and they loved each other slowly and gently right there on his desk. Life was good. They would go to London and say farewell to the past. It was time to focus on the future.
58
&n
bsp; London. 29th May, 1901
Dr Bond
Things were changing. I could feel it. The Upir, so strong now it gorged regularly on the products of my crimes, was becoming restless. I could feel its impatience, its longing for freshness. I knew why: I was broken, after all. I shuffled through my existence, a puppet to the thing on my back, with no fight left in me. I had begun to realise that the Upir gained as much joy from the destruction of its host as it did from the deaths of others. There was no fun left to be had from me. I also knew that when it moved on it would not end well for me, but I found I cared little for that. I was tired; I wanted it done. I wished for my whole sorry existence to be over. I had started to go out during the day, trying to engage with people, in the hope that the creature would select one and move on, but it did not. Instead I suffered its increasing rage and frustration as none seemed to fit whatever strange requirements it had.
On those days the killings were more brutal. They barely touched me.
The first human emotion I had felt in a long time came this morning when I received a letter from Juliana: she and Edward Kane were in London and they wished to call on me, for they had heard I was unwell and this made her unhappy. She wanted to nurse me back to good health and then perhaps persuade me to return to New York with them until I was myself again. I stared at the delicate sheet of paper, my eyes running over her words again and again. Juliana. In London. Here. I was filled with a sudden terror. She could not come here! She was the only goodness left in my world, even after I had destroyed so much of hers, and although I longed to see her, I knew I could not. As my heart raced and my hands trembled, I felt the cold excitement of the creature on my back and dread overwhelmed me, for it was clear it had found a new pleasure, a new way to taunt me. My love for Juliana was all I had left of my former self and I knew without doubt that if Juliana came here, the Upir would force me to take her to the cellar. But I would not do that. I would not.
I went to my study and sat, shaking, at my desk. Henry Moore must have told her I was unwell – it was the only explanation. My loathing of him burned bright and I fought to control it. I needed to master my feelings – so many of which I was sure were not my feelings at all but the wickedness of the Upir running through my veins. I needed to call up the last of my energy, the last dregs of the man who had once been Dr Thomas Bond, respected Police surgeon. I needed to focus.
For the first time in a long time I did not reach for the brandy bottle or the laudanum, even though I itched for both. I had to think. This was no longer about my survival; this was about Juliana’s. I needed clarity – and I also needed to free myself of my secrets, to face the growing list of deadly sins that I hid from in drug and alcohol use.
Juliana was in London and the Upir wanted her. That could not happen. I needed to separate myself from the demon, if only in my own mind, if I was to protect her. I thought of the priest and the way he had wrestled the creature from Harrington’s back. I needed to see the beast that clung to me if I was to fight it. Later, I would go to the dens, not to partake, even though my stomach was already clenching in sharp need, but to hunt down that special opium we had used so long ago. I withdrew into a cool corner of my mind, away from the heat and emotions that the Upir drew on, and hid within myself.
There were long hours ahead before I could venture east, and I knew how I needed to fill them. I needed to get the wickedness out, whether as a warning or a confession, maybe both. I had to write it all down so there would be a record when I was gone. And I would leave it for the attention of Henry Moore, the strongest, most rational man I knew, to do with what he would. I knew exactly where to begin: on that grim day in October, 1888, when, plagued by insomnia and anxiety, I was called to Whitehall.
The memories came flooding back and I could see the events of that day as if it were yesterday. I pulled a blank journal from the shelf and once I had steadied my hands, I began to write.
‘How much further?’ The shafts of bright sunlight filling the building site above were finally petering out and leaving us in a cool, grey darkness that felt clammy against my skin.
‘A little way, Dr Bond,’ Hawkins said. The detective was grim. ‘It’s in the vault.’ He held his lamp up higher. ‘We’re lucky it was found at all.’
Huddled over like the rest of the small group of men, I made my way under the dark arches and down stairways from one sub-level to the next. We fell into a silence that was marked only by the clatter of heels moving urgently downwards. I’m sure it wasn’t just I who found the gloom to be claustrophobic – especially given what we knew to be waiting for us in the bowels of this building – and I’m sure part of our haste was simply so we could face what we must and get back to the fresh air as quickly as possible.
The workmen above had downed their tools, adding to the eerie quiet. We were a long way down, and with the walls damp and rough beside me, I could not shake the feeling that I was in a tomb rather than the unfinished basement of what was to be the new Police Headquarters. But perhaps I was – an unintentional tomb, of course, but a resting place of the dead all the same. I shivered. There had been enough death of late, even for someone like me, who was trained in all its ways. Recently I had begun to think that soon this city would be forever stained in cold, dead blood.
Finally, we made our way down the last few steps and arrived at the vault. It was time to work.
‘They moved it over here before they opened it,’ Hawkins said, standing over a lumpen object nearby, ‘where there was better light to see it.’ The foreman and the poor carpenter who had found and unwrapped the parcel were keeping their distance, shuffling their feet as they stayed well clear of what lay at the detective’s feet. As I looked down, I found I did not blame them.
‘Dear Lord,’ I muttered. After the slayings of recent weeks I had thought we must all be immune to sudden shock, but this proved that was not the case. My stomach twisted greasily and I fought a slight tremble in my hands. More gruesome murder in London. Had we not seen enough? The parcel the workmen had found was approximately two and a half feet long. It had been wrapped in newspaper and tied with cheap twine, the ends now hanging loose where they had been cut open to reveal the horrific secret inside.
‘We’ve not touched it since,’ the foreman, a Mr Brown, said nervously. ‘Fetched the constable straight away, we did, an’ he stayed with it while we fetched the detective. We ’aven’t touched it.’
He didn’t need to repeat himself to convince me. Regardless of the sickly stench of rot that now filled the air, who would choose to touch this? The woman’s torso was lacking arms, legs and a head, and across its surface and tumbling from the severed edges was a sea of maggots that writhed and squirmed over each other as they dug into the dead flesh. In the quiet of the vault we could hear the slick, wet sound made by the seething maggots. Here and there they dropped free to the black ground below.
I fought a shiver of repulsion. Whoever this woman was – and despite the physical trauma it was clear this was the torso of a woman – her death was no recent event.
I crouched lower to examine the damaged body more closely, and held the light close as I bent down to the floor in order to peer into the largest cavity. What was left of her insides was a mess: whoever had done this had not been content with just amputating her limbs. Much of her bowel and her female internal organs had also been removed. This killer had taken his time.
I did not notice the hours passing and the day darkening as I scribbled, my hand struggling to keep up with the terrible story unfolding on the pages. I relived every step of the doomed journey I had taken, flinching from nothing. At points in my tale I wept, loud, racking sobs that blurred my vision and spilled salty drops that made the ink run words into each other, but I did not stop until my shame had been laid bare for anyone who opened the book to see. When I had finished, I leaned back in my chair, my hand and spine cramping from the task I had undertaken, but my heart felt lifted. I had faced my slow downfall and I felt better for i
t.
I sealed the journal in an envelope and marked it for the attention of Henry Moore in the event of my death. There would be no more killings. The cellar would remain clean. One way or another, the Upir and I were done. Little Kosminski had managed to starve it and I would do that too. I had to protect Juliana. I had to keep her safe.
When night had enveloped the city, I ventured out. The beast squirmed on my back as if it could sense my rebellion but I kept myself resolute, even as I passed the women who called at me from doorways, seeking out business and completely unaware that they were toying with their own deaths. I had a large purse of money with me, but it was not for them. The Chi-Chi who had first sold me the strange drug had long since vanished or died, but there would be others, I was sure of it. The Eastern men had different knowledge to us, and if one Chi-Chi knew of the drug that enhanced men’s ability to see, then I could not believe that he was alone.
59
London. 5th June, 1901
Edward Kane
‘We have called on him several times for days now,’ Edward said, pacing around the sitting room of their hotel apartments, ‘and never an answer. His neighbours say they haven’t seen him for weeks, although they hear coming and goings at night.’
Henry Moore smoked and listened, his brow furrowed into a frown. ‘He’s not a well man. He hasn’t answered my notes either.’
Murder Page 25
