William nodded his agreement once more.
After leaving the premises, he headed to Parliament Street, shivering as he crossed the threshold of Scotland Yard. He felt as though all eyes were upon him. Only a few months earlier, he had still been a police officer himself. Entering, he displayed the letter he had received that morning from Frederick Abberline.
— One moment, please. I’ll tell Mr Abberline you are here.
William sat down on a wooden chair and a few moments later, Abberline came into the room.
— Hello, William, he greeted him warmly. Come this way. I’m glad you’ve come, despite having lost your position. I was afraid you might hold that against me.
— I don’t blame you for that, replied William. I know it was none of your doing. But I am surprised that Warren authorized me to come here.
— Actually, William, Sir Charles Warren doesn’t work with the Police any more. He left some months ago.
— I didn’t know that, said William. Why did you ask me to come here, Sir?
— We have caught him, replied Abberline, in a very
satisfied voice. I thought it right to tell you, since you were so closely involved in this affair and lost so much through it.
William’s heart thumped.
— His name is Francis Tumblety,’ Abberline went on, sitting down at his desk. He picked up a dossier and began reading from it. ‘Irish but spent most of his life in the United States. In the medical profession and is even suspected of involvement in the assassination of President Abraham Lincoln, no less.
— Did he give any reason for the killings? asked William.
— Organ trafficking. He sold the organs to hospitals and universities. A flourishing trade.
— Is he here?
— No. He’s locked up in the Tower of London, awaiting trial, replied Abberline.
— Can I talk to him?
— No, answered Abberline, I’m sorry but that’s quite impossible.
— Does anyone else know you’ve caught him?
— Hardly anyone, said Abberline. ‘We don’t want a repeat of what happened with Montague John Druitt. (Montague John Druitt was wrongly accused of being Jack the Ripper and was later found, drowned, in the Thames.)
— Well, thanks for letting me know, Sir.
— You’re welcome, said Abberline. It’s the least I could do. I’m counting on you to keep this business under wraps.
— You can depend on that, replied William.
As he opened the office door, Abberline called after him.
— Good luck in your new job, William.
— Thank you, Sir, replied William, closing the door.
He had always felt a sincere respect for Abberline. He thought of him as a mentor and felt sure he had had nothing to do with the decision on his own dismissal.
William bought a bunch of flowers in Parliament Street before heading to Saint Patrick’s Cemetery. He picked his way amongst the graves until he found himself standing before a wooden cross, surrounded by floral offerings. The name ‘Mary Jeanette Kelly’ was engraved on the cross, which also bore a small, metal plate on which the words: ‘Murdered, 09 November 1888’ had been inscribed.
He bent down and laid his bouquet at the foot of the cross.
— I am so sorry, Mary.
After taking a carriage from the cemetery gates to Bedford Square, William sat down on a bench in the park. He watched the workmen, busy repairing the façade of the building where he had rented premises.
A major clean-up was underway. William had decided to open an office for his private detective agency here. The front of the building was presently completely black, just like the other buildings in the square, due to the coal smoke that had poured forth for many years from the chimneys and factories nearby.
William pondered how best to begin his investigation. He had very little information, just the London-Brighton route map. So, he would need to buy tickets and make the journey himself, examining every detail of the route, including all the villages through which the coaches travelled, in order to solve the mystery behind these strange disappearances. What could lie behind this crime and who could benefit from it. What had happened to the passengers and the mail?
After all, it could be no easy task to make a mail coach vanish. All sorts of questions ran through his head. At that moment, a passer-by greeted him.
— Hello, William, said the man.
— Hello, Johnston, William replied.
The man was a neighbour from number 22, Johnston Forbes Robertson; he was quite a well-known actor as well as being a friend of William.
—You look worried, my friend, commented Johnston.
— I’ve got a new case and I’m hoping I won’t mess it up like the last one.
— Put that whole business behind you, that miserable business of the Ripper wasn’t your fault.
— I was a police officer, it was my duty to stop that butcher, replied William, despondently.
Johnston sat down beside William.
— Come on, my friend, don’t fret about it. Save your energy for this new investigation of yours.
— You’re right, said William, pulling himself together, thank you, Johnston, you’ve cheered me up.
— What are friends for? So, tell me about this new case that has you so puzzled.
— It has to be kept quiet, replied William, lowering his voice and moving nearer to Johnston. ‘I’m looking into the disappearance of Royal Mail coaches and staff between London and Brighton,’ he added, in a whisper.
— Do you already have any leads? Johnston asked.
— Not yet, but I’m planning to begin by buying a ticket for the Brighton coach.
— Good idea, said Johnston. Well, I wish you the best of luck with this new investigation,
He added, getting to his feet. William also rose and thanked him, shaking his hand.
The following morning, William was awoken by numbness in his arms. He found he had fallen asleep at his desk, his head on his arms. He checked his pocket watch and instantly leapt to his feet.
— My God, I’m going to be late! he cried.
Grabbing his coat and hat, he hurried out, slamming the door behind him, and set off at a rundown Bloomsbury Street before taking the first turning to the left towards Great Russel Street.
He came to a halt in the middle of the road, winded. Waiting to get his breath back, William gazed at the imposing façade of the British Museum.
Since moving to Bedford Square, he had yet to find the time to visit the museum.
— William, William! came a voice from a pub opposite the museum.
William crossed the road towards the man who was calling his name. He was quite small, but his voice was loud. His name was Robert Debroeck. He was a Belgian exile, living in London. He was the eyes and ears of London. He seemed to know everyone and was very well-connected. One summer’s day in 1885, just after William had joined the London police force, he had saved Robert from drowning after he had been thrown into the Thames by a group of thugs dressed in black. He had also tracked down the men and dismantled a black-marketing gang in London’s port.
From that day forth, William and Robert had become firm friends. William regularly asked Robert for advice and received valuable information relating to his investigations.
— I thought you must have forgotten our appointment, said Robert.
— No, replied William, I just overslept a little this morning.
— I get it. You mean it was a long night and you had company, said Robert, smiling meaningfully.
— Not at all. William coloured slightly. I have a new case to work on and I fell asleep at my desk.
— And I suppose that’s what you wanted to talk to me about this morning?’
— Yes, amongst other things. Amongst all your contacts, have you heard anything about mail coach disappearances? asked William.
— Yes, from a man called Charles Treford,’ answered Robert, taking off his glas
ses to wipe them. Just a boy, but he seemed to think there’s a curse on the London-Brighton leg, he was trembling as he told me about it.
— Nothing else? asked William.
— Well, that’s already something, replied Robert.
—Sorry, said William, I was hoping you might give me some leads.
—Not yet, answered Robert, sipping his beer, but give me a little time to look into it and I’ll find something for you. Meantime, I’ll check out this guy, Treford. Do you want a beer?
— Why not? replied William.
Chapter 2: Lost in the Woods.
— Here, said William, pulling a ticket from his coat pocket.
— So, Mr Carson, you’re off to Brighton again?
— That’s right, George.
For the past month, William had been travelling this route in the hope of finding some clue. So far, Robert had not been back in touch with him.
— Still no news about our missing coaches? asked the coachman.
— Nothing at all, replied William, as George checked his ticket.
— Alright, Sir, climb aboard.
William got into the coach. They were parked in Trafalgar Square, right in front of Nelson’s column. As usual, the square was crowded and noisy, with coaches and people going in all directions. Two years earlier, on this very spot, the events known as Bloody Sunday had taken place, on 13 November 1887, leaving two people dead and more than fifty injured. Workers demanding improved conditions had been violently repressed.
Since then, a feeling of austerity hung over the place. William was not alone in the coach. There were three other people already seated there.
One of them, a man, was engrossed in his newspaper. He was dressed in black and his eyes were dark. His austere appearance was complemented by a top hat, concealing his thinning hair.
Seated opposite him, a rather portly man was gazing out of the carriage window. He wore a long, brown coat and had round spectacles on a chubby and kindly-looking face.
The last passenger, meanwhile, was snoozing peacefully, his hat pulled over his face. A sudden jolt gave them all to understand that the carriage was underway. They made their way across London, passing in front of Big Ben, then took one of the numerous cobbled roads that led out of the city. Two hours went by, during which William had the opportunity to view the green fields and experience the winding and muddy roads of the English countryside. The carriage jolted once more and the back of William’s head bumped against the bench.
— This coachman will be the death of me! remarked William, rubbing his head ruefully.
The man in the top hat lowered his newspaper.
— Indeed, I’m afraid he may be slightly drunk, and he picked up an empty absinthe bottle from the carriage floor. William smiled at the sight of the bottle.
— Forgive me, I have not introduced myself. I am David Spencer, Inspector with the Metropolitan police.
— William Carson, private detective, replied William, shaking the other’s hand.
— May I inquire why a police inspector and a private detective are taking an interest in a banal affair like disappearing coaches?’ asked the portly gentleman.
— What makes you think we are looking into any such thing? responded Spencer, frostily.
— That air you have of waiting for something to happen. You’ve been on edge ever since we set off, scanning the countryside, jumping at the slightest sound, answered the man.
— And you are...? inquired William.
— Edward Levy, journalist with the London Enquirer. I, too, am looking into these disappearances.
— Whatever next? Now the newspapers are conducting their own inquiries, commented Spencer in a sarcastic voice.
Whilst the passengers chatted, it began to get dark. Spencer admitted that he was making inquiries on behalf of the police.
The conversation soon turned to speculation about the possible fate of the missing coaches. Each of the men put forward their own theory, except for the fourth passenger, who continued sleeping the whole time.
William listened attentively to what David Spencer and Edward Levy had to say. Nevertheless, after a while he began to feel sleepy. But no sooner had he allowed his eyes to close than a rough jolting awoke him. The coach skidded and ended up jammed against a tree. William climbed down to check the damage. One of the four wheels was broken, the horses had bolted, the harness snapped and one side of the coach was badly dented.
— Can you fix it? William asked George.
— I don’t think so, replied the coachman. The wheel is broken, and the horses have run off.
— What happened, exactly? asked William.
— We ran over something on the road, back there. It was too dark for me to see what it was, replied George.
— Well, I’ll just go and check that nobody was hurt, said William.
He left George and returned to Spencer, who was talking to Levy. At their feet, the fourth passenger lay, whimpering.
— His leg is broken, Edward pronounced, after inspecting it.
— We hit a fallen tree, George called to them from further back down the road.
— We need to get help, William, said Edward.
— That could be difficult, stuck out here in the middle of the woods, commented Spencer.
— Spencer and I..., began William, but he was cut short by the sound of splintering wood. Everyone fell silent.
George came back towards them.
— Did you hear that? he asked, with a tremor in his voice.
— It came from behind the coach.
The three men crept around the coach, taking care to make no sound. They reached the back of the coach but there was nothing to be seen.
— Whatever made that noise, it’s not there now, said Edward.
— Over there! shouted Spencer, pointing to a dark shape in the woods.
Spencer, William, Edward and George began running towards it but, before they had gone more than a few yards, it had vanished.
— It was too quick for us, said Edward, gasping for breath.
— It was probably a wild boar, remarked William.
A penetrating cry resounded in their ears. They stared at one another, then George shouted,
— The injured passenger!
They retraced their steps, guided by the lights from the coach, and found a large pool of blood exactly where the injured man had lain a few minutes before. Spencer knelt down and put a finger on the stain. He then sniffed at his finger and cautiously put it in his mouth before spitting on the ground.
— I recognize the taste of human blood, said Spencer, and I can assure you that this is blood from a human.
A terrible shriek rent the night air. Edward froze in terror whilst Spencer, for his part, continued staring at the pool of blood and William gazed at the woods around them. Suddenly, his attention was caught by what seemed to be a pair of red eyes, staring back at him from amongst the trees. William strained his eyes, trying to determine whether he was having some kind of hallucination.
— Spencer! he called out, looking away for a moment. But when William looked back at the trees, the red eyes were no longer to be seen.
— What it is? asked Spencer.
— No, nothing, replied William. I thought I saw something move but I must have been imagining it.
— Look at this, said Spencer. There are footsteps here and it looks as though something has been dragged away.
— It’s too dark to see properly, said William, the coach lamp doesn’t reach this far.
— Perhaps we could detach it. Given the state of the coach, it won’t matter, said Edward.
William and Spencer agreed so William unhooked the lamp from the coach and brought it over to light up the marks in the mud.
— We should follow these marks to try and recover our injured friend, said William with a decided tone and the group began to head into the forest.
— Whatever it was that has taken our friend, it must certainly be very
strong, said Edward. Even stronger than me, he added jokingly, in an attempt to ease the tension.
They continued pushing their way through the trees for a good fifteen minutes. The woods became thicker and the trees around them now were much older than those near the road. Quite a lot of them were dead.
— There’s a clearing over there! cried Edward, pointing to one side. They clambered over a low bank and found themselves on a little road, whose paving was in a very poor state.
— The traces stop here, said Spencer. He knelt down and examined the road. Whoever or whatever took our friend dragged him this far and then continued down this road.
— But in which direction? asked William, looking first one way and then the other.
— Given the state of this road, I don’t suppose it is very much used, remarked Edward.
— Am I the only one to have noticed that this is a paved
road, asked Spencer, haughtily. The three other men looked blankly at him, trying to understand what he was getting at.
— How often to you find a paved road in a forest, my friends? Even the main road we were travelling on wasn’t paved. It means that there must be a house, or houses, not very far from here.
— Yes, I think you are probably right, said William. But which way should we go?
George, the coachman, cleared his throat.
— If I may make a suggestion, I think we ought to go left. This road would have been used to transport stone from the local quarries to London. Our coach was travelling southwards, and I believe we can’t be very far from the town of Godstone.
— Let’s go, then, said William, Let’s find our friend or, at least, get some help.
They set off down the road. By now, more than two hours had passed since the accident. Our friends were beginning to tire after all their nocturnal ramblings.
— Look! shouted Edward, suddenly. Over there, a castle!
In the moonlight, they could see a large, dark shape looming in the distance.
— It must be at least a mile away, said William, wiping away the sweat from his brow. From where they stood, all they could make out was the shape of a high tower and the light from a few windows.
Arboria Page 17
