He frantically lit some candles, using a taper from the fire, and handed one to his wife. “Stay here,” he commanded. Annie, ashen-faced and shaking, nodded her head and sat down on the edge of the plush sofa. Frederick left the room silently and walked purposefully into the hall, leaving the door slightly ajar. He held the candle firmly aloft.
An icy-chill took his breath away. He glanced apprehensively around the hall; there was nothing there. He froze. To his horror he physically could not move. It was as if he had been nailed to the floor. Two further bangs from the ceiling caused him to look up and, to his shock and disbelief, he saw the bodies of the two travellers – swaying slowly. He rubbed his eyes; he couldn’t take in what he was seeing. “How can this be? What is happening – am I dreaming?” he desperately asked. Suddenly, Hagatha flew at him like Concord – with perfect lines, her hands pointing directly at him, like an arrow. He fell to his knees. The parlour door slammed shut. Annie screamed.
“What’s happening?” cried Annie, as she jumped up from the sofa. Frederick shook his head, staggered to his feet, and ran back to the door. It was jammed. As he desperately tried to pull open the door, he heard whispers all around him and, to his horror, he saw menacing shadows as they emerged from the walls and floated up the stairs – towards the sleeping children.
“The children, the children,” said one voice.
“Hurry,” said another, “we must find the children.”
Frederick dashed towards the stairs, and ran up them two at a time. He reached the first floor landing, which led to the west wing’s long corridor where the children’s bedrooms were situated. The ghostly figure of Charder materialised in front of him, and knocked the candle out of Frederick’s trembling hand. A fire quickly started, and blocked the distressed father’s entry to the children’s rooms. He panicked.
“Bastards!” he screamed, as the fire quickly took hold. The traveller stood in front of him and smirked as he blocked the man’s path. Frederick ran as fast as he could back towards the east wing, darted into a bedroom and quickly snatched a heavy bed-covering and a poker. With the bed-cover over his head, and the poker in his right hand, he charged through the ghostly image towards William’s room.
Without warning the door flew open towards him. The desperate father collided with it at speed and the poker pierced his chest. He staggered backwards, and the bed-cover fell from his head. He could see that William’s bed was empty. He turned quickly to Violet’s room opposite, threw open the door, and saw that her bed, too, was empty. “William! Violet!” he bellowed fiercely, as he coughed up blood.
6
The Manor was a blazing inferno when Ellwood and Victoria returned, accompanied by the detectives, Lockhart and Dryden. The fire was eventually extinguished, with the help of the estate workers who used water from the lake. It wasn’t until the next morning that the burned remains of Annie and Frederick were found. Of the children there was no sign.
The only item to survive the blaze was Charles’s painting of young William. Somehow it had fallen behind a large, oak cabinet, which had protected it from the flames.
2: Tracking a painting
1
The dawn of a new century; March 1900. Four years had passed since the fire at the Manor, and Charles was sitting in his studio in Kensington, London, pencilling a young, attractive lady reclining on a sofa. Deep in concentration, his right hand quickly sketched her body onto canvas. There were many fine paintings in his studio, but the one of which he was particularly proud was that of young William.
The painting had only been hung that very morning. It had remained sealed in a wooden chest since the horrendous fire four years ago but Charles had had an urge to look at it once more. He decided it was time for it to be displayed again. Charles hadn’t given up hope of finding his niece and nephew during that time, but the loss of all his family had hit the man hard. Nothing in his life was the same anymore. Painting remained his passion, and was the only thing that kept him waking up every morning.
Detectives Lockhart and Dryden had headed the investigation, but the trail had gone cold. The children had simply vanished. The events of that night had affected everyone who worked for the Mather family. The housemaids tragically died from their infections, and Victoria and Ellwood were the only survivors. The butler joined Charles’s staff at his home, and Victoria moved into central London to work for a new family.
Charles’s property consisted of three floors; the ground floor was a gallery, displaying some of the artist’s work, the first floor was his studio – a spacious room filled with natural light, and the second floor had a small parlour, a bedroom, and a tiny cupboard room housing a tin bath. This floor was convenient if it was too late for Charles to travel to his home.
2
Ellwood met the young lady as she left the studio. “Good afternoon,” he said, “how is he today?”
“Oh,” she replied, solemnly, “he is his normal, quiet self.”
The butler locked the front door behind her, and went up to the studio where Charles was finishing off the groundwork for his latest masterpiece. He immediately saw the portrait of young William – and a cold shiver ran down his spine as he gazed at it. “I see you have decided to hang it,” he said, as he turned towards Charles. The artist briefly stopped mixing his oils to look at Ellwood. “It can’t remain in the chest forever,” he said, sadly. He glanced at the painting, “I will see him again one day.”
Ellwood felt strange – he did not know why, but came to the conclusion that it had something to do with the painting. No one could understand, or explain, how it ever survived the Manor’s fire, but Charles felt it was lucky and that God wanted him to have it. Ellwood, on the other hand, quietly disagreed. He associated it with bad luck and death; after all their entire worlds had fallen apart as soon as the portrait was hung on the landing.
“Don’t you think it will bring back bad memories?”
“No,” responded Charles, “and I think it will look grand hanging at the house.”
Charles, like his fellow artists and many famous writers, lived in Chelsea, in a luxurious residence in Foulis Terrace, Kensington. He said to Ellwood as he started to apply colour to the canvas, “I’d like you to take it home with you tonight when you leave. I shall be going straight to the Station.” Charles was going to Bristol on a painting holiday for three weeks. Due to the advancement in Britain’s rail network, steam trains were now capable of speeds of sixty miles per hour. He would be there in a matter of hours.
3
A few hours had passed. Charles had left for the Station, and Ellwood was alone, tidying up the studio. A loud bang was heard from the rooms upstairs. “Who is it this time?” he said, making his way towards the stairs. Charles had a habit of letting any of his friends, or sometimes a mistress, or a model he’d taken a fancy to, use the flat. Ellwood reached the landing. The top floor was, unusually, freezing cold; every breath was visible. He rubbed his shoulders before he slowly approached the parlour’s door. Ellwood could hear someone moving about inside. “Hello? Catherine, is that you? I didn’t hear you come in.” Catherine was a model Charles had recently befriended.
He entered the pleasantly decorated room. It was empty. He then heard someone pacing around the bedroom. “Catherine!” he shouted, “answer me!” The smouldering logs on the fire unexpectedly burst into flames, startling him somewhat. “What is going on? Catherine?” Silence. He braced himself, quietly approached the bedroom door and, slowly, opened it. The footsteps stopped as soon as he entered the room. Inside were a double bed and some antique furniture. Ellwood once again rubbed his shoulders as he walked thoughtfully around the room.
“What is happening?” As he spoke, he felt razor-sharp fingernails digging into his back, piecing the skin through his jacket. Then he was pushed violently from behind, forcing him to fall face-down on the bed. “Bloody Norah,” he exclaimed, angrily. As he turned, his attacker came into view. To his amazement, Hagatha stood unnervingly in the
doorway. She stared at him, eerily, her lifeless, black eyes seeming to bore into him. She glowered at the former Mather family butler for a few seconds before she turned and slid effortlessly into the parlour.
Ellwood, in disbelief, quickly got up and followed her. The ghostly figure lunged towards the fire and extinguished it – and disappeared. He stood there, and stared at the charred logs. This was the first time he’d seen the apparition for himself. He had only one thought: Victoria. May God be with you.
4
The butler knew he had to get rid of that damned painting; he believed it was cursed by Hagatha. He ran downstairs, as fast as he could, into the studio. The room was quiet and still. He quickly picked up a small, wooden crate from the floor and placed it on a nearby table. He hastily removed the portrait of the child from the wall, wrapped it carefully and securely in sacking, and placed it in the crate. He put on his hat and coat, picked up the crate, and made his way to the front door, which he unlocked.
As he went out into the busy street, a hand gently touched his shoulder; he was so nervous he almost jumped out of his skin. “Sorry, Sydney, it’s only me,” said Catherine, Charles’s young, blonde, model friend – a real piece of eye candy. Ellwood turned towards her, apologising as he did so. “That’s alright, my dear. If you’ll excuse me I’m in a bit of a hurry, but I shall be back shortly.”
He tipped his hat, courteously, and continued on his way, hoping that there would not be any nasty surprises for Catherine as she entered the building.
5
Ellwood had to get rid of the painting. He couldn’t bring himself to burn it, but it had to go. He was on his way to the Strand, Westminster. He walked past the hugely impressive, six pillared Lyceum Theatre, where Shakespeare’s Hamlet was being performed, and walked into 13 Wellington Street, which housed Sotheby, Wilkinson & Hodge, the auction house. He felt that the only way he could get rid of the curse was to remove the painting from the family’s ownership. If he could break the connection between them and the portrait, surely it would be over.
A reassured man soon left the auction house and headed back towards Charles’s studio.
6
On the day that Charles had unpacked William’s painting, things were happening to the former cook. The location was Whitechapel. The streets were busy, and horse-drawn carriages were travelling noisily over the cobbles. Victoria was running, breathlessly, down the street, as fast as she could manage; her heart felt as if it was about to break the skin. She collided with a gentleman, paused, stuttered an apology, and then ran on again, into the path of some carriages, startling the horses. “Get out the way!” yelled a driver. As she ran and ran, she periodically glanced backwards, evermore distressed. With fear visible in her eyes, bright red cheeks, and lungs working overtime, one thing was certain – she was running for her life.
Victoria turned into a dark alleyway, disturbing a couple of prostitutes and their clientele. She ran on, round a corner, tripped over a chamber pot left outside a doorway, and fell, breaking her leg and arm as she did so. Smashed bones pierced her skin, and blood filled the gaps between the cobbles. Victoria’s eyes twitched as her attacker finally caught up. It was Hagatha. She tried to scramble away, but, with one stare from Hagatha’s black eerie eyes, Victoria was paralysed.
The ghostly figure came closer and closer. This was the end and Victoria knew it.
7
Two young boys discovered Victoria’s body the next morning, and the police were quickly summoned. Detectives Lockhart and Dryden arrived in a police-carriage. They stepped out and pushed their way through the crowds mingling around the entrance to the alleyway. “He’s back! Jack’s back!” shouted a man in the crowd, but the detectives ignored his cries as they walked to where the body lay. “Could it be? It’s been nine years – do you think The Ripper has started again?” whispered Lockhart. “We will find out soon enough,” replied Dryden. The locals looked on in enthusiasm and morbid anticipation. Some watched from the upper windows, and others crowded into the alleyway. “You there, move out of the way!” shouted a woman from an overhanging window, as the policemen tried to cover Victoria’s remains with sheets. “We want to see!”
Dryden approached the victim’s body. The clothes were blood-stained, throat slashed, and both eyes gouged out. “This is not Jack’s work,” he said, as he knelt over the body. Lockhart saw the crushed limbs and the blood, and he looked, thoughtfully, down the alley. “I agree,” he said, “and, given the broken bones, she must’ve been running from her attacker and fell.”
“Maybe it’s the work of the Manor Murderer?” Lockhart turned to the policemen. “Get the body photographed and remove it.”
3: ‘Manor Murderer’ strikes again!
1
Tuesday 24th April; three weeks had passed without a further incident. Charles was due back from his painting holiday within a matter of hours. Ellwood was walking towards the studio; the street was packed with Londoners going about their daily lives. He was about to enter the building when he heard, “Read all about it! Family murdered! Manor Murderer strikes again!” coming from a young boy working on a news-stand. No doubt this shabby looking, flat-cap wearing boy, not a day older than 13, had been told the headline – rather than read it himself.
The young boy’s sales pitch claimed Ellwood’s attention. He calmly walked over to the boy, who was selling the very first issue of the Daily Express newspaper. Ellwood kindly nodded before handing him a halfpenny to purchase a copy. The intrigued man scanned the paper for the murderous story. Leaning against a shop window, he started to read the article; his right index finger followed every word.
2
Friday 20th April; it was the middle of the afternoon and Harry Clifford, an overweight man, emerged from Sotheby, Wilkinson & Hodge, carrying a wooden crate containing five paintings. Harry had made his money from family-owned sugar plantations in Jamaica. He smiled, revealing black teeth, as he approached his waiting horse-driven carriage where James, a smartly-dressed young man, wearing a top hat, held open the door. The Clifford family didn’t have perfect white healthy teeth; their love of sugar meant their nashers were as black as coal.
“Home, James,” said Harry, cheerfully, settling himself comfortably on the red, leather seat. Harry opened the crate and examined the paintings, one of which was St Claire’s portrait of William, tagged The Rattler. He could not stop smiling as the carriage travelled through the London streets, stopping eventually outside a large house in Embankment Gardens, near to Chelsea Embankment. The red-brick house had five floors and a basement. There were white stoned windows and two white pillars at the top of five stone steps leading to the front door.
Harry got out from the carriage and went into his large house, stopping for a moment to look around the spacious entrance hall. He was quickly welcomed by a young, dark-haired house-maid, wearing a black dress and a white bonnet.
“Afternoon tea, sir?” she enquired, politely.
“Yes,” replied Harry, nodding his head, “I shall be in the morning room shortly.”
As the maid went off to the kitchen, the master of the house sought out Jonathan, the butler. Within a short space of time, the butler and the handyman had hung four of the newly acquired paintings in the well-stocked library. The Rattler hung proudly on the wall of the children’s nursery.
Harry and his wife, Kathy, had two young boys – Blake, aged seven, and Dexter who was five – and Kathy was expecting their third child within the next few months. The nursery was beautifully decorated, and had a wooden cradle and many toys which had been handed down through the generations. As Kathy came into the nursery, Harry smiled at her and pointed at the portrait. “It’s a Charles St Claire. What do you think?”
“It’s beautiful, dear,” she replied, smiling back at her husband. The painting had been well positioned directly in front of the large windows, and the sun’s rays lit up the portrait of young William.
3
What happened next wasn’t for
the faint hearted. Ghostly figures and black shadows began to materialise, and weird noises were heard at all times during the day and night. Tragically Harry and Kathy were murdered – strangled, battered, and their faces badly mutilated. Their staff met the same fate. A fire soon erupted that would hide the true cause of their deaths. However, the two children, as had happened in the Mather family tragedy, were missing. The painting had moved to new owners but they, too, faced the same ending – death to all.
4
Ellwood had finished reading the newspaper’s horrific article, and was now walking purposefully along Embankment Gardens towards what remained of the Clifford’s family home. He stood outside, staring with sheer disbelief that the same treatment had been dished-out to another family, one not connected at all to the Mather’s. He was now convinced that it was not the Mather family that the travellers haunted, it was the painting.
As Detectives Lockhart and Dryden came out of the burned-out shell of a building, they noticed a familiar figure walking away. “Isn’t that the Mather family’s former butler?” asked Lockhart, “what’s he doing here?”
“Admiring his handiwork,” responded Dryden, drily.
5
Ellwood had seen the destruction of two families, and it was about to get worse. It was approximately an hour since Lockhart and Dryden had seen him at the Clifford’s residence, and he was now making his way along Foulis Terrace to Charles’s home. The four-storey houses here were built from white stone, and had pillared entrances, with small iron railings surrounding the balconies on the first floor as well as around the tops of the entrance porches.
He climbed the three steps leading to the front door and entered the building. He walked into the hallway and saw, at the foot of the stairs, The Rattler. Charles heard the front door opening, and came hurriedly out of a side room. “I don’t believe you had the audacity to sell my painting!” he railed furiously at Ellwood, “and it was almost destroyed again.” The butler was shocked. “How did you...” he started to say, before Charles interrupted him angrily. “An acquaintance brought it back. Now, collect your things and leave my residence immediately. Your services are no longer required.” The butler’s heart sank and a feeling of nausea overcame him. He could not believe that he had lost his home and his livelihood – and all because he wanted to protect Charles from the curse of the travellers.
The Rattler (Rattler Trilogy Book 1) Page 2
