Ghostly Images

by Peter Townsend

  “You heartless, selfish bitch. You deserve to die like the others,” he growled. “You failed my son. Have you any idea how upset he was when you cancelled the trip with him to Falling Foss waterfall? After all I’ve done for you...After I rescued you from the clutches of Drexel and helped get you a job and accommodation.”

  “I’m sorry…if you…think—”

  Frank lunged forward, grabbing her and pulling her into the shadows of a doorway. She screamed and he slammed his fist into her jaw before banging her head repeatedly against the doorframe.

  The last thing Laura heard was the sound of a policeman’s whistle as she drifted into unconsciousness.

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  Chapter 38

  Saturday 15th September 1894

  BEN UPDIKE HAD MADE A HURRIED EXIT from the amusement arcade cloakroom when the mob arrived and immediately began his journey, following the River Esk inland to Ruswarp. He decided it was safer to stick to the footpath alongside the river rather than risking trudging on the road.

  At Ruswarp’s coal merchants, he spotted an unattended horse and seized his chance. He clambered up and got the reins. The horse jolted forward the moment he sat in the saddle.

  He clung on tightly as he made his way steadily up the bank and into the woods. A sign on a wooden post said it was four miles to Littlebeck. The horse was making brisk strides, giving rise to his hope that he would find sanctuary in the vast open spaces of the North Yorkshire moors.

  The ground in the woods became uneven, and he struggled to remain in the saddle. The horse stumbled and fell. Ben hit the ground with a thud and rolled over several times. The horse cried out in pain as its body lay in the mud. Ben lifted his head and saw the horse slowly clamber to its feet. The animal looked at him, turned, and galloped away.

  Dazed, Ben got to his feet. He’d received a cut nose and a few bruises from the impact. He rubbed his hands against his knee and his hip to ease the pain and groaned but was thankful to have no broken bones.

  He had to get farther away. He spied a clump of trees and sped in that direction. After about half a mile, he stopped to catch his breath. He looked down at his clothes and became fearful that hounds would pick up his scent from his dirty clothes back at his tenement. He licked his lips. His throat was dry. He imagined the beautiful sight of a pint of ale and a large tumbler of malt whisky. Then he shook his head. Drink lay at the root of his problems. If he could have his old life back, he would be teetotal. He sighed. It was wishful thinking. Even his children refused to have anything to do with him.

  He placed a stone within his scarf and threw it towards some bushes, hoping this would send any hounds tracking him down in the wrong direction. A quarter of a mile later, he followed the same practice and threw his cap, which landed on a cluster of sharp-looking rocks.

  He came to a clearing, and to his right was a packhorse path that might lead him to Leaholm, if his bearings were correct, and to a friend who might be prepared to help him. To the left, there was a farmhouse.

  He tossed a coin to decide which direction to take, finally heading for the farmhouse. He hoped there would be no people but some food.

  In the distance came the noise of hounds. He sped to the farmhouse. As he approached, Ben saw that half the roof had gone. He doubted he’d find food but decided to go inside.

  Mud caked the floor and grey mould covered the walls. Only a couple of cracked and broken slabs remained on the floor. He advanced farther into the building and entered a second room. It had a heavy, musky smell. Two smashed-up stools lay on the floor. A blue-grey mushroom growth colonised their surface.

  The door opened, making a creaking sound. He held his breath, fearing the worst. His heart was fluttering, and he reached in his pocket for his penknife, but it wasn’t there. He must have lost it when the horse had stumbled.

  He remained quiet and knelt, picking up a piece of broken slab. He heard something, like that of tiny feet squishing in the mud. Were these the hounds? Why were they not yapping?

  His hand trembled and sweat now trickled down his neck and back as he made his way to the front room. He jumped out of the door.

  There stood a sheep, staring at him. Relieved, Ben tossed away the slab and the sound caused the sheep to dart away. Seconds passed as his heartbeat returned to normal. He left the farmhouse.

  After about two miles of going through bracken and forest, he didn’t know where he was and suspected that he was going round in circles. Exhaustion was setting in. Again, he could hear the cries of hounds growing nearer. Taking a deep breath, he ran as fast as his tired legs and wounded body would carry him.

  Minutes later he reached the plateau of a hill. A donkey was grazing on a rough patch of land a few hundred yards away from a narrow stretch of road. On the other side of the road was a sheer vertical drop to the river. No one was around.

  He headed for the donkey. When he got nearer, the yapping sound of a hound scared the donkey, and it bolted. He cursed both creatures.

  Ben looked up at the sky, between the trees, and saw a flock of birds. He thought it weird that the sky contained the threatening horizon of red, glowing behind the clouds.

  The hard strike of hoofs on a track, followed by a piercing shout of one of the pursuers caught his attention. He guessed they might be only three hundred yards away. “This way!” one of the men shouted.

  Raindrops followed the moaning sound of thunder a few minutes later. Matters were critical now, as the noise of the hounds increased in volume; the pursuers had decided to change direction. Ben had to do something fast. He limped up the nearest hillside.

  He came to a waterfall. A dead end. He was about the turn back and search for a different route when an idea came into him. He went up and behind the waterfall and disappeared from view. There was a small ledge just big enough for one man to sit on. It was wet and cold, but it didn’t matter. Looking out, he saw a torrent of water a couple of feet from him, but even the loud noise of the water couldn’t disguise the muffled sound of the hounds. They were getting closer.

  The sound of gunshots told him to stay put despite the cold. The hounds would be able to pick up his scent if he made a run for it. Several minutes later, he came out from behind the waterfall and looked up at the stars. The rain had stopped.

  He then realised that the hounds were with a band of hunters and not the mob. Freezing and exhausted, Ben trudged on farther until he could make out a beam of light in the distance. At the front of a horse and wagon, there was a lamp. He wasn’t sure if seeing it was a lucky omen.

  Although it was dark, he could make out the shapes of the rugged mountains in the distance. It would have been an ideal place to hide, but the last thing he intended to do was climb a mountain. Pain and exhaustion made it impossible.

  A bolt of adrenalin shot through Ben’s veins, and he managed to scramble into the rear of the wagon. Fortunately for him, the wagon had paused while the man relit his pipe. It jolted as it continued its journey. Ben covered himself with the canvas sheeting and hoped that he hadn’t been seen stowing aboard his wagon.

  Looking out, all Ben could see was the dark shroud of the canvas flapping against his head, but he felt every bump on the uneven road. The hours passed, and he eventually drifted off to sleep.

  BEN AWOKE WHEN THE WAGON LURCHED BACKWARDS and then finally came to a stop. Shaken and exhausted, he climbed out from the back of the wagon and looked on in disbelief down the cobbled street and directly at the sign in front of him.

  Whitby Police Station.

  For a few seconds, he thought of going in the police station and seeking their protection but soon discounted that idea. The chief constable would arrest him for murder on the spot.

  This whole experience demonstrated to him that he could not run away from his problems. He must get things off his chest and make amends and apologise to his family for his shame. He would give up drink and stop making foolish comments about “outsiders.”

&nbs
p; Ben thought the best person to hear what he had to say would be a woman. Or, to be more specific, Lucy Shaw from The Whitby Herald.

  Chapter 39

  Sunday 16th September 1894

  JOHN HELD LAURA’S HAND as she lay in her bed. Bandages wrapped the upper part of her head. Nestling on the bed next to her was her daughter, Rebecca. In the bedroom waited a party of well-wishers.

  News of her attack had spread across town. It was now afternoon, and she remained unconscious. No one knew who was responsible for attacking her.

  “Mummy, wake up,” Rebecca begged.

  “She’ll wake up soon,” reassured John.

  “I can sit with her so you all can get some sleep,” offered Frank Hawk.

  “That’s kind of you, Frank. But I’m not leaving her side until she regains consciousness,” replied John.

  “Nor I am,” added Mrs Pugin.

  “What did the doctor say when he called?” asked Toby.

  “He said there was a chance she’d never regain consciousness. And even if she did that she might not remember what had happened or who had attacked her,” John answered. Rebecca began to sob, got off the bed, and climbed onto John’s knee. He held her close.

  Mrs Pugin came over and knelt beside her. “I’ll get you a nice glass of milk.”

  “I…don’t…want…milk,” mumbled Rebecca between bouts of sobbing.

  “I need to go now, but I’ll call back later to see how Laura is getting on,” said Frank. “Can you look after Mr Punch for me until I come back, Rebecca?”

  Rebecca sniffled and nodded. Frank gave her the puppet, and she clutched it to her chest as if it were a cherished doll.

  “I’ll walk part of the way with you, Frank,” said Toby. The two men left the bedroom.

  Rebecca stroked her hand on the puppets jutting chin. “Are we still going to York now?”

  “Yes, when your mummy gets better,” soothed Mrs Pugin. “Can I get you a glass of milk now?”

  Rebecca screwed up her face. “No.”

  David took out a bag of sweets from his pocket, placed one in his mouth and started chewing. Rebecca stared, wide eyed. “What are you eating?” she asked.

  David shook his head. “You wouldn’t like them, Rebecca. They’re hazelnuts covered in horrible, thick milk chocolate.”

  “I like chocolate,” said Rebecca. She licked her lips.

  David raised his eyebrows up and down theatrically. “This chocolate is terrible,” he said from the corner of his mouth. “I’ll give John a piece to show you how nasty it is.” David came over and put a piece in John’s mouth. Rebecca climbed farther up John’s lap to take a closer look.

  “I wouldn’t chew it, John,” David advised. “You won’t like it.”

  John’s cheeks bulged as he began slowly chewing the sweet. “Yum yum!” he said.

  Rebecca chuckled.

  David gave her the bag of sweets.

  She put one of the sweets in her mouth. “Yum yum yum!” she repeated.

  David checked his pocket watch. It was a quarter to four. “I’ll have to go now. I should have met Lucy fifteen minutes ago. She’s meeting Frank. She wants to write an article about his work as a children’s entertainer, but he’s reluctant. I’m going along to persuade him to agree.”

  “Don’t let him refuse, David,” said John, touching the puppet in Rebecca’s hand. “Who is the best entertainer in Whitby, Rebecca?”

  “Mr Hawk,” she stated without pausing to think.

  “Tell Frank what Rebecca said if he tries to refuse.”

  “I will,” said David as he made his way to the door.

  LEN RESTED HIS FEET ON HIS DESK at the police station. Joseph had handed him a photograph discovered down the side of Rachel Varley’s armchair. It had the stamp of the studio on the reverse side.

  There appeared to be a series of dark blemishes over the woman’s neck, chest, and stomach. He rotated the photograph in his hand, thinking that the lighting in the police station was poor, but the blemishes remained.

  There was nothing psychic about this in his opinion. David Taylor and John Evans had faked the image to terrorise the woman as they’d done with Thomas Loach. He banged the heel of his boot hard on the desk when he thought about the wicked actions of the two young photographers.

  Taylor claimed to have only met Varley in the library. This photograph was proof he’d lied—again. Len blamed himself for his carelessness in not discovering the photograph earlier when he’d searched her home. The pressure of this case and being understaffed had been unbearable. Fortunately, he had submitted his letter of resignation and would be leaving the force at the end of September. He regretted not submitting it a year earlier.

  David Taylor was now the prime suspect of being The Whitby Ripper. This new attack on Laura Wells also pointed to Taylor in an attempt to shift the blame to John Evans, his accomplice, because if she’s dead and Evans condemned, Taylor would be free.

  Taylor had taken photographs of all three victims. Taking a photograph of one of these women could be discounted as a coincidence but not all three. He’d been untruthful about all three women. Len recalled dragging the truth out of Mrs Jenkins that Taylor had taken the photograph of Betts. Taylor denied knowing Eleanor Matthews, but her letters to her mother proved that to be a lie. He’d also taken a photograph of Varley.

  It was not hard to believe that women would find David Taylor highly attractive. They’d be like moths to a light. Wild game hunters would shoot their prey and bring it back home and mount it in a case. Taylor shot his prey with a camera but could hardly bring his prey home to stuff and mount. He did the next best thing. He kept a record of his prey in the form of a photograph. The thought of it chilled Len to the bone.

  Game hunters had more dignity than Taylor. They would simply shoot their target, not mercilessly torment them prior to execution. Taylor had exploited the reputation of the Tate camera and deliberately placed the blemishes, charmed his victims, and when he was ready, would go in for the kill.

  Len was informed earlier that the Foster Museum treasures had been recovered yesterday in Scarborough and the culprits caught. This ruled out any falling out between thieves when attempting to bury the treasures, but it reinforced his working theory that Taylor also murdered Hood. Taylor had motive; he hated working for Hood.

  He would never know what Hood was up to digging in the churchyard, but he guessed Taylor could have attacked Hood with a shovel and then released Hood’s only dangerous snake to finish him off.

  With Hood’s reputation for not letting people go, killing Hood would have been the only way for Taylor to escape the malevolent clutches of that rogue. Taylor would have been frightened of Hood but achieved the ultimate revenge in the end.

  David Taylor was a wicked and vindictive man.

  Len removed his feet from his desk. He now had what he needed. He would take two officers with him and arrest David Taylor on sight.

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  Chapter 41

  Monday 17th September 1894

  THAT AFTERNOON, David was walking with Lucy after collecting her from the newspaper offices. He was taking her to see Mrs Jenkins.

  The sign on the newspaper stand outside the newspaper offices read: DEATH OF FRANK HAWK – THE WHITBY RIPPER.

  “My first front-page article.” Lucy stood and gazed wide-eyed at the sign. “The editor congratulated me. He said I showed astute insight into the mind of a madman.” She turned away. “But I’m no different from every other person in Whitby. How could a respectable figure, loved by all, especially the children, be a murderer? I don’t understand it and never will.” She took a deep breath, not once but twice.

  David placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “Frank would have been the last person anyone would have suspected. But was he mad or bad?”

  “Grief over the death of his son poisoned his mind. He lost his grip on reality.”

  “At least Laura is making a good reco
very and gave the police details of Frank’s attack on her when she regained consciousness.”

  “People in Whitby are going to miss Frank a great deal,” said Lucy softly.

  “But he committed evil crimes.”

  “The children really loved Frank. His Punch and Judy performances will be missed.”

  David placed his fingers lightly around his throat and yanked them up to his chin in an expression of a mock hanging. “Tanner admitted he was going to arrest me for being The Whitby Ripper. I should have followed my instinct and trusted the police despite Mr and Mrs Jenkins contempt of them and of Tanner, in particular.”

  Lucy stroked David’s arm. “You are safe now. Ben Updike came to see me an hour ago. He’s given up drinking and has made a pledge with the Whitby Temperance Society.”

  “Did he say anything about his family?”

  “He said he hoped he could rebuild their trust in time.”

  They resumed walking and only stopped when they reached the outside of Mrs Jenkin’s home. Lucy frowned and nervously ran her fingers through her hair. “Are you sure she will accept me? I’m not wearing a hat.”

  David gave Lucy’s hand a squeeze. “Don’t worry.”

  “She might not like me, David.”

  The front door opened, and Mrs Jenkins beckoned them inside. Soon, they were sipping tea.

  “Thank goodness Whitby can get back to normal,” said Mrs Jenkins. She smiled faintly. “And I’ve heard a rumour that Mr Tanner will be leaving. Excuse me, I’m sorry. I should have my mind on Laura.”

  “Laura will be well enough to leave the house on Tuesday,” reassured David. “Laura and John will see you in a day or two.”

  “I look forward to meeting Laura.”

  David couldn’t put off what needed saying any longer. “I won’t be taking any further photographs with the Tate camera, Mrs Jenkins. There are persistent demands for it. I lost patience with a Spiritualist today. Instead of keeping it quiet, I said on Wednesday afternoon I would be taking the camera to the abbey with Toby…where I would…set fire to it.”