D_Whitby's Darkest Secret

by Chris Turnbull

  The streets of Whitby were alive this morning. Many people graced the streets as shop owners and workers happily went about their business. There was a certain rowdiness about the town today, as numerous wooden carts with deliveries hurtled up the cobbles, some small enough to be pushed by a man, others pulled by horses, their hooves clattering along echoing up the street. The array of people passing by speaking loudly to one and other all merged into one loud noise; the general atmosphere seemed good yet I felt as if there was a strangeness about it, as if people were slightly on edge and putting up a front. Perhaps it was me, I wondered, and decided to let it go from my mind.

  Young Tom opened the door to the carriage for us and wished us a good morning as we entered the large enclosed cab. A blanket had been laid out on the seat to cover our laps; I quickly took my seat and placed the soft woollen blanket firmly over my knee. Albert sat beside me jokingly grabbed the blanket from me to cover his own legs, smirking like a school boy. I playfully slapped his arm and retrieved the blanket, opening it to its full extent and carefully placing it over both our laps. It was a bitter cold morning, and the night frost was still lingering in the shaded areas of the street.

  As we set off down Church Street I leaned my head towards the window for a better view, I loved to watch the little houses and shops pass by. I admired Whitby town bursting with people, which now gave the town a new feel to it, like the sleepy town had re-awoken from its slumber. Watching the residents going about their everyday lives was extremely interesting to me; it could not have been any further from my life in London. On the corner of Church Street four elderly women were smoking and laughing as they continued their conversation, all wearing dirty aprons and two of them even had curlers still in their hair. I couldn’t help but smile at the scene as they stood cackling with laughter.

  As we came to the end of the street I was expecting us to turn right and cross the swing bridge over the River Esk, however instead we continued to bear left, and began leaving Whitby by another route.

  The road to Robin Hood’s Bay was quiet, and the midday sun made an occasional appearance behind the looming dense clouds above. We did not pass any other towns or villages on our travels, just fields upon fields of moorlands that seemed to roll into the distance as far as the eye could see, and to our left the sea would occasional make an appearance. The greyness of the water met the grey clouds in perfect unison; it was often difficult to tell where the sky ended and the sea begun.

  Tom was sitting out on front of the carriage steering the two large horses. He had barely said a single word the entire trip, and if it wasn’t for the occasional clicking sounds he made to the horses I would have almost believed he had fallen off the carriage. I found myself worried about him; I hoped he was wrapped up warm against the bitter chill that lingered in the air. It was as if he knew I was thinking about him, as he suddenly called back to us.

  ‘You should see it in summer Ma’am, Sir, them moors are filled with the most beautiful purple heather; that entire view is nothin’ but bright purple fields.’ After that he went back into silence and did not speak again until we reached the bay. As I looked out of the carriage window I imagined the beauty of the rolling moorland in its grandest colours, and wished I could have seen it bursting with purple bloom.

  The journey to Robin Hood’s Bay took longer than I had expected. I wouldn’t have even realised we had arrived were it not for a small sign attached to a stone mount, advertising that we were entering the village.

  We slowly pulled up outside a rather impressive looking building; I could not see the name from my side of the carriage, however Albert’s smile as he looked at me gave the sense that something was amusing him. My door was opened by Tom, and he gracefully offered to help me out, and as I exited the cab I gazed up at a large double fronted building. The large bay windows that dominated the ground floor were grand and alluring, on the first floor were another set of identical windows, and above these was a cladded section of the building that nestled smaller windows within. The centre of the building was more modest, with a rather small front doorway that seemed less impressive against the grandeur of the building. There was a further two floors of smaller windows directly above the door. The building looked to be perfectly symmetrical, and the top was finished with three pyramid style points above all three sets of windows, causing a W effect along the roof line. Nestled perfectly between the dipping roofline were two tall stone chimneys, a grand topper for such a magnificent looking structure. Above the ground floor bay windows read two signs, the one to the left window reading Public Bar, and the one above the right window reading Tea Room. Finally stretching the entire middle section of the building, was the building’s name, the Victoria Hotel. I looked at Albert and gave him an amused grin, he knew perfectly well this would entertain me.

  We entered through the front door and were immediately greeted by a tall thin man dressed in a waistcoat and shirt, his hair, which was almost completely grey, was combed perfectly to one side in an attempt to hide his balding head, and his half-moon glasses were balanced mid-way along his nose. He barely spoke but showed us through to a table. As we made our way through the main reception I was astonished by the beauty of this grand little place; the wooden staircase circled us along the wall, and the perfectly tilled floor looked as though it had been freshly laid in a Roman temple. As we made our way across the small foyer my eye quickly caught the sparkle from the crystal chandelier that hung effortlessly in the centre of the high ceiling above the small reception desk.

  We were led towards the back of the building, and directed to a table in the centre of an enormous set of windows that overlooked the hotel garden, as well as the outstanding views beyond. The garden itself was in perfect condition; again I was disappointed not to have seen it in the summer, as the flowerbeds looked to be home to hundreds of roses, my mother’s favourite flower. The garden led directly towards the cliff edge, and came to an end in a V shape, beyond which I suspect a large drop lay down the cliffs to the water below.

  On the journey Albert had been telling me little pieces of information about the bay, how it was situated between two cliffs and that most of the houses and buildings lined a narrow road that lead down to the sea. From my window seat I could see numerous rooftops flowing down towards the sea below and into the distance out of sight. It looked exceedingly steep even from this angle.

  A girl served us, she must not have been any older than sixteen, she was very reserved and spoke in a delicate voice when taking our drinks order. Albert had already made the arrangements for a lovely lunch, so after our large pot of tea arrived at the table, we were soon served with a beautiful three tier bone china stand filled with various sandwiches of different flavours, we were also presented with a tray of scones accompanied with jam and cream; I was absolutely delighted. Never had we been out and eaten like this, in fact it was rare we went out to eat at all, and if we did it would normally involve being with colleagues of Albert’s. I had noticed a tray of pastries and cakes nestled in the corner of the room, and it didn’t take long for me to crave a little sweet treat. I would have to sample at least one; after all, we were on holiday.

  We spent the next couple of hours watching the world pass us by; I couldn’t take my eyes away from the window, watching out across the vast dark sea as it mirrored perfectly the dark clouds above. Looking out and being so high upon the clifftop, watching the ocean from above and seeing the gulls swoop over the cliff side without a care, you could almost mistake yourself for being at the edge of the world. The wind outside was beginning to rise and the sea below began to look stormy. The dramatic jagged coastline looked haunting yet somehow enticing. I could not tear myself away from the view.

  Chapter 11

  D.

  The town has again gone into panic over the latest murder, why do people get themselves into such hysteria over things that do not concern them? I decided to lay low for a while and hope the alarm raging through the town would calm soon. I wa
s in St Mary’s Church graveyard when the sun finally rose, lighting up the harbour and tearing away shadows that had once been. It wasn’t long before the sleepy town bustled into life before my eyes. I had already watched most of the fishing boats leave, their tiny lights shining up towards the river mouth as they left the harbour and ventured into open water, from where they all headed off in different directions in search for the best spot to catch their desired fish; some even returning before the sun had barely been up an hour.

  I did not mean to kill that girl, in fact I never mean to kill them. Why must they scream and cause such a fuss? I am not the monster they claim me to be, I do not wish them any harm. All I desire is the touch of a lady, the feeling of her warm skin and luscious lips. All I crave is for the feelings I have inside of me to be reciprocated.

  I sat in the churchyard for some time; it wasn’t a place that many people seemed to visit so I knew I would be perfectly at peace here from any strangers. I could see my breath in front of my face as I breathed; a warm mist that mocked me as it disappeared into nothingness.

  Occasionally I would walk around the cemetery, for no other reason than to stretch my legs. I had taken to admiring an old sundial mounted onto the side of the church, high above the peasant’s doorway. I don’t know why I liked it so much, it was easily forgettable and could easily be missed by passers-by. The stone face of the sundial was framed in what looked as though it should have been an old miniature window, it did not have any numbers and seemed weathered as it camouflaged perfectly with the rest of the church wall. The small dial that stood out was thin and rusted, and above this, carved into the stone were the words, “OUR DAYS PASS LIKE A SHADOW”.

  I continued around the edge of the church and found myself gazing in the direction of the 199 steps. How I longed for her to appear at the top, her face scanning the churchyard for me. But sadly I knew it was never going to happen; she did not even know I existed and I somehow needed to change that. Beside the top of the steps my eyes fell upon a large stone cross. I had walked past this many times and never once looked to see who this impressive monument was for. The cross itself had only been here for a couple of years, and as I drew closer to it I was amazed at the sheer height of it. It must have stood over 12 feet tall, and was carved into various patterns and designs, the most impressive being that of four portraits lining the front, the top one being Christ and the bottom being Cædmon himself holding onto a harp that looked like it was being handed to him by an angel. Below the four carved portraits were the words; “To the glory of God and in memory of Cædmon the father of the English Sacred Song. Fell asleep hard by - 680”. I had no idea why this cross became so interesting to me, like the sundial they both blended perfectly into their surroundings and could easily be over looked if one did not stop to take the time to admire them. Could the same be said for a person? For weeks I continue to walk the streets of Whitby and yet nobody seems to notice as I blend into the background.

  I returned to my bench and continued my watch over the harbour below. I took out a book that was buried deep within my coat, its yellow bound cover so bright it could have been seen even in the thickest of fogs.

  I looked down at it, stroking its spine gently as though it were a pet on my knee. I carry this book with me everywhere I go; like a bible it comforts me and keeps me company when I am alone. I must have read the book a hundred times or more; the pages were already becoming worn and the spine had a small crack emerging. Never have I felt so much admiration towards a piece of literature as this, never have I wanted to delve into the pages and meet the characters, be the characters. Often I daydreamed about it, envisioning myself as the handsome leading man, in search for my beautiful leading lady. I would do anything to be more like him, to have his presence, to dress like him and even mimic him to a certain degree. Yet for all my efforts I am still alone, sat in a graveyard watching as people go about their lives, unaware that I watch them from above.

  HE would not stand for it. HE would demand the attention and affection he deserves.

  I continued to stroke the book that remained tightly gripped in my hands, its slight abrasive texture felt warm against my cold finger tips, and as I looked down at it the red letters sprayed along the top stared back at me. Dracula, by Bram Stoker.

  Chapter 12

  Detective Matthews

  It was mid-afternoon by the time I left the station; the girl’s body had finally been identified as Miss Charlotte Rose, aged nineteen. I had spent nearly an hour listening to her father as he aggressively shouted at me across the police station desk.

  ‘If you were to do your bloody job properly this would never have happened!’ he yelled at me, throwing over a number of chairs in his mad outburst. Two officers had to restrain him and escorted him into an interrogation room until he had calmed down. His wife barely said two words; she continually sobbed throughout the entire incident, which said all I needed to know.

  Mr and Mrs Rose were eventually escorted home by a senior officer. My heart sunk into my stomach as I watched them leave arm in arm, comforting one and other for their loss.

  I was about to fetch my hat from the headstand next to the door when my name was called out from behind me.

  ‘Matthews. Can I see you in my office, please?’ It was the superintendent, and he did not look his normal cheery self. I guiltily followed him into his large round office; a large dark wooden desk dominated the grand room, and a large window overlooked the river behind it. I took the only wooden chair available opposite him and waited in silence for what I was expecting to be a lecture. I was not disappointed.

  He sat staring at me for a moment before he spoke, clearly unsure where to start. His grey hair and blue eyes were striking, and the subtle lines around his eyes did not reveal his true age, a matter of weeks away from retiring yet he barely looked older than 45.

  ‘Matthews, how long has it been now since the first murder?’ His voice was stern, with a tone that told me that he was in a foul mood. I could also tell by his expression that he knew exactly how long it had been and merely wanted to emphasise it to me. I gulped hard and avoided his deep stare before finally finding my answer.

  ‘Six weeks, sir,’ I replied sheepishly. My superior began to rub his forehead as though soothing an impending headache. Another awkward silence arose as he clearly tried to find the exact words he wanted to say.

  ‘As you are aware Matthews, we are under immense pressure to find this man. As the days go by, and obviously as new victims are discovered, the reputation of this force is under question. Please tell me that you are getting closer to finding this man.’ He looked at me through thinned eyes, almost bracing himself for the worst of replies. I placed my head in my hand, covering my eyes which suddenly felt heavy, as though filling with tears, my emotions still high after seeing Mrs Rose sobbing over her daughter’s death, and my own guilt twisting at my stomach.

  ‘This leaves me with only one alternative detective.’ I raised my head and looked him straight in the eye, bracing myself.

  ‘I am giving you until the end of the week. If you do not bring me either that blasted man in handcuffs, or evidence so substantial that will move the case on faster, I am afraid I will have to replace you on this case.’ My heart skipped a beat, my stomach sank and suddenly I felt physically sick. Never in my twenty years in the police force had I ever been replaced or removed from a case. My expression must have been obvious as the chief’s voice suddenly softened slightly.

  ‘Matthews, you are a good detective, but this is no longer about you or me anymore, this is about finding this monster and stopping him before more deaths occur. I do not want to retire knowing this is how things are left behind; now get out and do the damn job and get me some results now.’ I did not reply, but shook my head in acceptance of what he had said.

  ‘Go home detective. Get some rest and see tomorrow as a new start, see it with different eyes and above all get yourself seen out there.’ He did not wait for me to say anything an
d waved me out of his office. I did not need to be told a second time and immediately left.

  The walk home seemed to take longer than normal, my mind racing with the events of the day. Once home I lit a fire; the house had grown very cold and the evening was drawing in. Sitting in my kitchen my mind was fixated on the blood stained card which I found in Charlotte’s hand, the letter D vivid in my mind. I now had a deadline, an end point that would either see me removed from the case, or the killer brought to justice. In six weeks I had shamefully come up with nothing; I wasn’t counting my chances of success in just four more days.

  Chapter 13

  Victoria

  By the time we returned to Whitby it was already late afternoon. I was again looking out of the carriage window taking in the delights of the town as it got closer into view. Coming over the moors the town looked charming in the valley below; it appeared small yet tightly packed together. It was so beautiful and unique; I wanted to make sure I never forgot this place.

  Entering the centre of town there were still a lot of people going about their daily business; however now the strange atmosphere I thought I had felt earlier was more abundant than ever. People were barely speaking or looking at each other and kept themselves to themselves. Had something happened, or was it just that the people I saw now did not know one and other?

  ‘There is a rather strange feeling in town this afternoon.’ Albert broke the silence, his words mimicking my own train of thoughts. I looked at him to acknowledge his comment, nodding in agreement before turning to look back out the carriage window.

  We pulled up outside the White Horse and Griffin and as always young Tom was there to open my door, his adorable little face smiling up at me. He took hold of my hand and escorted me out of the carriage; he seemed to enjoy doing this for me. I handed him some small coins which I had already taken from Albert’s wallet. Seeing his face light up with pleasure over such a small gesture nearly made me cry. This boy had nothing and I knew that even the smallest of tip would have been a fortune to him. If God were to ever bless me with a son I hoped he would be as charming, polite and handsome as young Tom. I watched him for a second as he returned to his horses, patting them proudly and talking to them before leading them away.