by Hall, Ian
“And where be you young beauties be goin’ so early in the morning?” he chimed in an exaggerated brogue.
His charm seemed to work well, as both stepped closer, determined that he be their next customer. “We’re just on the stroll,” Mary said, her rouged lips bright in the morning sun.
“Have you got something in mind, Mister…?” Janet coined. The pair were well-used to working together, despite their lack of years.
“Burke, William Burke. And as a matter of fact I have,” Burke smiled and offered an arm to each. “My brother Constantine’s house is just up the hill a bit, in Gibb’s Close. I happen to know he has a new flagon of whiskey for us to share.”
The trio set off up the cobbles like old friends.
Burke’s girlfriend, Helen MacDougal was already sat at the kitchen table with Constantine Burke, steaming mugs of thick tea in their hands, when Burke and his two newest friends strolled in.
“Look who I found!” he said dramatically, ushering the ladies to sit. “These are Mary and Janet.” He rummaged in a cupboard, producing a large gallon flagon, which he sat loudly on the table in front of them. The liquid inside sloshed around. “Glasses, Helen, where’s your manners?”
“William!” Constantine protested, “These ladies are hardly breakfast guest material.”
“Well, we plan to have a wee drink, and if you’ve got a problem with it, you’d better high tail it!”
“This is my house!” he protested.
“Aye, and just remember who’s shoes you’re wearing, my lad.”
Constantine looked at his brand new shoes, made by his brother, hardly a week old. He still had not paid for them.
“Why don’t you vanish for an hour or two?”
As Constantine slammed the door behind him, Helen was under no illusion of Burke’s intentions, but could not work out how they could dispatch two young, strong women. But she rose, and reluctantly got four small glasses from the kitchen cupboards.
“A toast!” Mary said with gusto, lifting her glass high. It became apparent to the Burke’s that she was still feeling the effects of the drink of the night before.
“A toast,” Burke echoed.
“To new friends!” Haldane grimaced at the whisky, but nevertheless supped it all back.
“So what can we do for you?” Janet asked as MacDougal re-filled the small glass. “Or for you both?”
“Oh, we have a pound or two to spend,” Burke tapped his jacket pocket, and Mary pulled her chair closer. “And we don’t mind paying for our entertainment.”
Three drinks later, the combined effect of the drink and lack of sleep had caught up with Mary Haldane, and her arms on the table now cradled her head, snoring hard.
“Now look what you’ve done!” Burke spat at MacDougal. “You’ve only gone and given her too much.”
Janet nudged her friend hard in the ribs, but she hardly stirred.
“I only gave her a couple!” Helen replied, but Burke was already in front of her, his back to Janet. He winked, smiled, then slapped MacDougal hard across the face.
“Ach, you sod!” Helen reeled from the blow, holding her face in her hands. “How can you treat me like this?”
Burke raised his hand again, poised above a crouching MacDougal.
“I’m not staying for this!” Janet Brown rose before he could deliver another blow. “Come on, Mary! We’re leaving.” She tried to rouse her companion but met staunch resistance, her head never rising from the table.
Then Burke moved to her side, guiding her towards the door. “Wait, I’m not a violent man,” he began, yet his demeanor attempted to prove otherwise. Clutching her skirts to her knees, Janet Brown raced to the door, and opened it quickly, looking outside for any assistance, but the close was quiet.
“I’ll be back in a wee while,” she said, her words slurring together. “You see that Mary is looked after, or there’ll be trouble.”
“Oh, I’ll look after her,” Burke gleamed, all trace of anger gone. “We’ll have a rare old time.”
Half an hour later, Mary Haldane lay in the bedroom, breath driven from her lungs, her body slowly stiffening.
“At least I won’t have to push her up the hill,” Burke looked down at the woman’s body. Mary was by far the youngest of his victims, and the prettiest. Even in death he considered her face held the most wonderful countenance.
“Why not?” MacDougal asked.
“Surgeon’s Hall is downhill from here.” He gave a grin. “Maybe we should do all our business in Constantine’s house!”
“Liam?” No sooner than he had mentioned his name, his brother walked into the kitchen. “William?”
Helen dashed from the bedroom as Burke began to push Mary’s body under the bed. “He left,” she said, her skirts trailing round the door.
“Left?” Constantine asked, sitting at the table. He lifted one of the glasses, then wiped it clean with his handkerchief. “He won’t be needing this then.”
Burke sat quietly on the bed, listening to their conversation in the next room, his mind drifting to his evening’s short journey to Knox’s building. To his consternation, he heard a knock on the front door.
“Yes?” Constantine found Janet Brown on the step, pushing past him.
“Our landlady, Missus Lawrie, told me to bring Mary home.” She looked drunkenly around the kitchen, then to the door behind MacDougal.
“Well, she’s not here.” Constantine tried to pull her back to the street.
MacDougal roused herself, thinking on her feet. “She went off with my man, Burke.” She said, looking quite the perturbed spouse. “They went off to the Whisky Table… said my stuff wasn’t worth their time.”
Janet shook her arm loose from Constantine’s grasp, and sat down resolutely at the table. “Then I’ll wait for their return.”
“Why not go meet them there?”
But Janet’s bottom had hit the seat, and it seemed she was insisting on staying a while. Helen corked the whisky flagon, moving it back to the cupboard, and Janet paid her no heed. “I don’t believe you.”
By this time, Constantine was getting fairly miffed with the guests in his house taking over. “I don’t give a damn!” he roared, pulling again at Janet’s sleeve. After a few moments, however, he gave up the task, finding her dead weight more than he could manage. “Put the kettle on, Helen,” he said. “We need to sober her up. Maybe then she’ll take a telling.”
There are times when the fates collide to bring an instant conclusion to circumstance, and these are mostly always wondrous. But in reflection, this was not the case in the small house of Constantine Burke that day. No sooner had Janet Brown begun to ingest the strong tea, she also felt sick, rushing to the sink and holding herself over it.
There was another knock at the door.
“What on earth?” Constantine railed as he again answered the call. He opened the door to a quaint old woman, who looked at him in some distaste.
“Let me in, young man, let me in! I demand it, sir!” she blustered. And to his credit, Constantine stepped to the side, for it seemed she had tremendous determination to enter and pushed past him into the kitchen. “What are you drinking, child?” She snatched the cup from Janet’s hand with such ferocity that it spilled half its remaining contents.
“Tea, madam!” Helen snapped. “And what is it to you?”
“She is my charge, madam!” the woman barked with even more ferocity. “And she has been plied with whisky in this house, she has told me as much.”
Janet now looked in fear of her life, cowering from both women.
“Ladies,” Constantine tried to defuse the situation with soft words.
Do not deny it, sir!” the lady barracked. “You have soused my girls with drink, and where is Mary?” she looked at the door to the bedroom. “Is she in there?” And to Helen’s consternation and panic, she dashed for the door, opening it and looking around. The woman returned to the kitchen after just a moment. “Where is she?”
The woman stood her ground with her hands firmly on her wide hips, a stance in which she looked comfortable. “I will not move without my Mary!”
To the occupants of the house, help came from an unusual source. “Missus Lawrie?” Janet croaked. “I know the establishment; it’s just down the road.” She rose and gently lifted one of Missus Lawrie’s hands, cradling it gently. “We should go. Mary’s no’ here.”
And with the young leading the old, they walked slowly and silently from the house.
Only once the door was firmly closed did Constantine turn on Helen. “Where’s Liam?” he managed through gritted teeth.
“He’s out,” Helen said, appearing contrite. “He didn’t plan this, you know. Your brother is a good man.”
He approached, enfolding her with his arms. “Aye, he might be, but he now consorts with the lowest levels of Edinburgh.” He shook his head.
Mary managed a glance at the open bedroom door. “Let’s get out of here and look for William,” she smiled her best. “Fresh air will do us both some good.”
Using wit and the bribe of whisky and a good meal, Helen kept Constantine from his house until midnight, when he insisted on bed. As the pair parted, Helen heard a hiss from Fishmarket Close nearby. “Helen!” Burke emerged from the darkness.
Helen’s heart raced. “Did you get rid of her?” she snapped. “Your brother’s on his way home!”
To her relief, he smiled and put an arm round her shoulder. “She’s in a safe place until later.”
“Safe?”
To keep Constantine away from home, Helen had partaken in some whisky herself. “How did you manage to hide?”
Burke stifled a laugh with the flat of his palm. “Under the bed!”
“What?” Helen joined in Burke’s mirth despite the murky thoughts. “With the body?”
“Aye, the two of us, her naked, me shaking like a kettle on the boil.”
Later that night, a small cart got pushed down the cobbles of the Royal Mile, turning right at the Tron Kirk for Surgeon’s Square. The Tron clock displayed the hour as twenty three minutes past two. Burke met no one, but as he arrived at the back door to the college, he had to rest in the shadows for a while to avoid a courting couple.
Mary Haldane was exchanged for a worn leather purse of coin.
Guilt weighs heavy on the shoulders of even the most evil of men. Burke took an alternate route home that night, wary of being followed. When he arrived home, Helen slept fitfully, twitching and mumbling incoherently.
But the rest of Edinburgh slept soundly.
~ ~ ~
I sent Reggie to George’s door to fetch his manuscript while I delivered my Varney and Burke and Hare chapters to the publishers. Again I received good news regarding sales, and Lloyd confirmed Varney as his best investment. “We have now passed fifteen thousand sales for the first issue.” He said with a grin, and we both toasted Varney’s success with the obligatory sherry. I sipped it, then accepted a leather pouch heavy with sovereigns.
I instantly thought of my story, and wondered if I were any better than Burke. He had killed for his purse of money, I had merely reported on it.
With the cash firmly in my coat pocket, I set off home, where I sat at the desk for an hour or so reading the new Mysteries of London chapter. I had done so much writing over the last few days, I barely had the strength to even consider putting pen to paper.
Then the partners arrived, talking loud, animating wildly. I assumed them drunk, but they did not smell of alcohol. “You two are in good spirits.” I ventured, hoping they would divulge their plans.
“Oh, just happy, Alexander,” Uncle said, slapping my shoulder. “Just happy.”
“I have new accounts from Edward Lloyd,” I handed him the detailed list which he studied for a moment. Prest looked past his shoulder. It was actually an agreeable atmosphere, seeing the men not under the influence of something or other.
“These are good numbers,” Prest said, looking up at me. “This is the most I’ve ever sold, by some considerable margin.”
“The figures at the bottom,” Uncle also addressed me as if I were the benefactor. “Do they include monies already paid to us?”
I looked at the paper for a moment, feeling quite the equal partner. “The figures seem to tally with the monies I have.” I picked up the leather pouch, tossing it in my hand. “There are forty guineas here.”
The men lit up with joy, and linking arms danced round the room as much as the furniture would allow. To my utter confoundedness, I was dragged into the fray, spinning and being passed from one man to the other.
“A toast!” Prest called at last, out of breath, bending over, his hands on his knees. Rymer swiftly brought a bottle from his collection, and with a fine claret we toasted Varney’s success. Coins were pressed into my hand, and my back slapped. I almost forgot about vampyres. Soon the bottle was empty, and Rymer produced another. I tried to slow down but the partners were adamant on my joining them.
“I will buy a new hat for the weekend!” Prest announced, and in an instant, I was on my guard.
“New hat, new woman!” I toasted, attempting to open the can of worms further.
“New hat, same good woman!” Prest countered.
“Ah, are you keeping her name secret?” I nudged his elbow.
“Why, the Lady Clara of course…” he said, then looked immediately at Rymer, his grin somewhat stymied.
“How does your own story fare, young MacNeill?” Uncle asked, changing the subject rapidly, holding Prest’s repentant gaze for a second. “Are you nearing our sales?”
I shook my head. “Not even close Uncle,” I admitted. “And I am limited by the number of murders Burke and Hare actually committed. Varney could go on forever.”
“And how many murders have you wrote of so far?” Rymer asked me. Prest sipped his claret keeping his gaze in the glass.
I did a quick count. “I have written six,” I said, doing the arithmetic. “There are ten left.”
“Then you can recount the trial!” Uncle roared, touching my glass gently with his. “A toast! To my wonderful nephew, who works harder than any of us!”
We all drank some more.
“Yet you do not seem to enjoy the fruits of your labours.” Prest said, circling his glass around the room.
I almost went for my cane, but my hand felt diverted to the briefcase on the desk. “I have been in town only a few weeks, Thomas, and I have a fine briefcase, many more clothes than I arrived with, and… my watch, of course!” I produced it from my waistcoat pocket, and the partners inspected it thoroughly, making the appropriate appreciative noises.
With their attention elsewhere, I realized I had missed my opportunity to investigate Prest further, but now knew that another weekend in the country was planned.
As our meeting broke up and the partners shifted into the office, I did not follow, but sat at my desk.
I heard a tap at the door, and looked up to see Reggie’s head sticking round the corner. “Beg pardon, sir, Mister Reynold’s ain’t got a script for you this week, his wife says he’s bad with the cold. He said you’d understand.”
To be honest, I’d almost wished for such an occurrence, and shooed Reggie outside.
With nothing else in my way, I needed a list of readiness, which I began to draw up, but I also needed more. I needed a letter to Kitty for if I were to be discovered in a bad situation, I would have the letter as my savior. After all, who would think evil of the love-struck boy from a foreign land?
My dearest Katherine
I hope this letter finds you both in good spirits and good health.
I send this let
ter to hope for an invitation to your uncle’s house. I work during the week, but am free at weekends. I hope this is not too forward of me.
We could walk in the gardens, or perhaps take a ride in the country.
Your humble servant,
Alexander C. MacNeill, 12th June, 1845
It took many attempts, but at last the letter was completed.
I had but one more aid to my subterfuge; a map. And I knew where to get one. Near the sword shop on Ludgate Hill, I had spied a small, drab shop front, a cartographer, and marked it in my mind for future use. I went there now, with my lad in tow. It seemed we were now developing into a team, although I had no idea what I’d do without him in the country, south of London.
The map-maker was a rotund fellow with a fat face and small glasses, who greeted me with a jovial smile. “A map, you say,” he seemed to digest my request physically. “Chessington, Surrey?”
He continued a verbal diatribe as he searched through tubes of paper on the wall, all looking exactly the same as the other. Then he fixed on one, drew it out, and spread it on the table between us.
“Surry, see.” He indicated that I should hold the map open, then proceeded to point out the salient details. “Basically you take the Portsmouth Road from Elephant and Castle, you can’t really miss it.”
“Eh, which bridge would be the best to use?” I asked.
“Depends where you’re starting from.”
“Oh, here, central London.”
“Then London Bridge; that’s your route, sir.”
“I’ll take it,” I said, having already spied a guinea price as he had unrolled it.
“Excellent, do you have a map-case, sir?” I had no problem looking slightly puzzled. “A wax-cloth covering, sir; it keeps it dry.”
“How much?”
“Ten shillings, sir. It’s well worth the money. One shower of rain will destroy the paper, sir, even one like this.”
I decided to take the cover, and watched him enclose the map securely inside. With my map wrapped up in my convenient tube, we set off for home, ready for the weekend’s adventure.
