‘Stop!’
‘It’s not a gun, Jack.’
‘Bring your hand back into view … slowly,’ Turner yelled.
She pulled her hand from her pocket. It was clasping a hypodermic.
‘Put it down,’ Pendragon commanded.
She ignored him and took a step towards Dr Hickle. A shot rang out, booming in the restricted, echoing space. Gemma Locke screamed in surprise. The hypodermic flew through the air and landed a few feet away. Blood spurted from a wound in her hand and she stumbled back, crumpling into a heap.
Pendragon dashed forward, his gun levelled at her head. Gemma Locke lay on her side in a foetal position, cradling her wounded hand. A line of blood spilled away across the wooden floor.
‘Turner … call the paramedics,’ Pendragon ordered.
He bent forward, keeping the gun pointed at Gemma’s head, and pushed back her shoulder gently. She stared up at him, her smile sliding into a look of triumph.
‘How perfect, Inspector. They’ll have to add a new chapter to the textbooks, and it will be all about me.’
Chapter 54
Manhattan, December 1888
The man was known by many names. To some he had been William Sandler, to others Harry Tumbril, Cedric O’Brien, Norman Heathcote or Graham Harris. Although the name had never been used to his face, he had also acquired the epithet Jack the Ripper. Here, at the Broadway Central Hotel, he had registered as Francis Bettleman, a businessman from England, who was planning to invest in a road-surfacing company in Brooklyn.
He had been away from England for two months now and was itching to work again. On the voyage across the Atlantic he had spent many long hours in his cabin contemplating his next endeavour. But then, upon arriving in New York, he had been thrown temporarily off course. He had seen paintings of the city and some rare photographs, but the physical reality of the place was so overwhelming that, for a while, he had lost his sense of direction.
On the surface, the place reminded him of a very small London. It was grimy, dark, dirty, and filled with too many moronic humans. But in many other ways it was an alien city. It was not so claustrophobic as London; the sky was huge, and so were some of the buildings. Architects from across the world were flocking here to flex their design muscles and show off their expertise. It was a blank canvas for them. And so it was for him too, once he got his bearings. One had to be familiar with a killing ground. Escape routes needed to be mapped out, local customs understood. It would be so easy to make a fatal error if he were not thoroughly prepared. He could not contemplate such sloppiness. He was a professional, a great artist. The English might have calmed down now that their notorious murderer had apparently stopped his slaughter. But the New World was beginning to wake up to his presence and he was revelling in the delicious taste of fear and suspicion all around him.
His new work was to be another quartet. There was something about the symmetry of the number that pleased him. Two of the women had been dispatched during the course of the previous three nights. What had amazed him was that, although he was in the ‘New World’, the sheep here were little different from their English cousins. Everyone reacted in exactly the same way. The silly whores, the police, the public, the city bigwigs … and, of course, the press. It was rather a disappointment, but perhaps not entirely unexpected. After all, people were people. Sheep were sheep.
Now, at 7 p.m. on a frosty December evening, he was on his way to keep an appointment with Bessy Munroe, a ‘singer’ in the music hall, an aspiring theatre actress apparently, who had come to New York from some God-forsaken farming town in the American interior. Bessy was a little further up the hierarchy of prostitutes than the ones he had known in London. A week earlier, Francis Bettleman had met her at Harry’s Music Hall on Broadway, a short walk from his hotel. She had offered her services then, but the time was not right — he was busy planning murders one and two, Julie Grovenor and Helen Fritzle. Bessy was to be number three. And so he had waited until now.
Checking his watch, Francis stopped in the opulent foyer of the Broadway Central, nodded to the assistant manager behind his desk and headed towards the grand doors leading out on to Broadway. It was then that he experienced an odd sensation, a feeling that had come over him on several occasions during the past week. It was a tingling at the nape of his neck, the unmistakable sensation of being watched, being followed. He glanced round, but there was nothing to see. Either he was imagining things or the person watching him was very good at his job.
Outside the hotel stood a line of horse-drawn cabs. He jumped in the front vehicle, told the driver the address and sat back against the yielding leather of the seat as the cab bumped along the rough road. It took no more than a couple of minutes to reach his destination. Francis paid the driver, jumped down, and marched quickly into the music hall.
At the bar, he had a cup of coffee and waited. He was a little early, but all was going to plan so far. He looked around at the brass and marble of the bar and felt that familiar impervious self-confidence flow through his veins, energising him.
On cue, Bessy arrived and strode towards him. She was a very average-looking young woman, Francis thought, but with an air of self-belief about her that was almost attractive. It was a confidence he had found to be shared by many of the Americans he had met. It was as though they all considered themselves a part of something fresh and new and growing and purposeful. It gave them a sense of direction, a feeling they participated in something bigger than themselves. He found it at once laughable and piquant.
‘Let’s go somewhere else,’ he said, draining his cup and turning towards the young woman as she made to sit beside him at the bar.
She merely smiled and let him lead her towards the door.
‘So where do’ya fancy, Mr Bettleman?’ Bessy said, taking his arm.
He removed her hand from him gently and ignored her puzzled expression. ‘I have rooms close by.’
‘Oh, do you now? I knew yous was a sophisticated man, Mr Bettleman.’
As they walked along the street, he suddenly realised Bessy was tipsy. That would make everything easier. ‘Just down there,’ he said, pointing to a narrow alleyway a few yards away on their right. She looked up at him and gave him a crooked smile, then hiccuped.
Bettleman stopped suddenly. It was that strange feeling again. He turned round. There were people walking close behind them along the edge of the busy street. He tried to blot out the sounds all around. Should he stop? Should he simply return to the hotel and change his plans? Come out another night? Then he felt a sudden surge of anger. No. He would not be controlled by anyone. He, and he alone, was master of his own destiny. He had proved that on so many previous occasions. He would not let this place, these people, intimidate him. He was better than any of them, infinitely better.
‘What’s wrong?’ the prostitute asked, and then, seeing his deliberations started to giggle.
Francis looked down at her and felt a wave of nausea rise in him. He swallowed hard and drew in a gulp of cold air. ‘Nothing,’ he said after a moment. ‘Nothing at all, Bessy. Come on.’
He took her arm now and guided her into the mouth of the narrow alleyway, beyond the hubbub. The noise of the busy street faded fast behind them. If it had not been for a full moon directly overhead, it would have been impossible to see anything in the alleyway. The moon cast a steely glow over everything.
‘Where we going?’ Bessy said, her voice edged with sudden anxiety.
‘The door is just ahead,’ Francis replied reassuringly. He put his hand into his jacket pocket to jangle a set of keys. It calmed the woman and she giggled again.
Twenty yards into the alleyway, Francis guided the prostitute towards the left then suddenly spun her round.
‘Oh, Mr Bettleman,’ she exclaimed. ‘Can’t you wait, sweetie?’
Francis plunged his right hand into the lining of his coat and felt for the handle of the eight-inch knife sewn into the fabric. The handle had been left to protrude
from the lining. He grasped it and pulled it out, shielding it from view behind his coat. It caught the moonlight as he swung it free.
‘Don’t move!’
The voice that had spoken behind them was male, American. Bettleman froze. The prostitute looked up at him and screamed as she took in the scene: the knife still poised in his hand, the outline of a figure behind her customer, the new arrival’s shadowed face, the pistol just visible in his hand.
‘Drop the knife. Now!’
Bettleman stood rigid.
‘Last warning, Mr Bettleman. Drop the knife.’
The weapon made a metallic sound as it hit the ground.
‘You, young woman,’ said the man with gun, and jerked his head back. ‘Get.’ She needed no further persuasion, scurrying away pressed to the wall. The man with the gun grabbed her arm as she passed him. The prostitute caught a glimpse of a pair of dark eyes over a scarf covering his mouth and nose. He was wearing a bowler hat pulled down low over his brow. ‘Say one word and I will find you,’ the man hissed, then let the woman go. ‘Turn,’ he snapped at Bettleman.
The Englishman started to and the man hit him across the left temple with the butt of the gun. Bettleman collapsed in a heap.
He awoke, moved his head, and a sharp pain shot across his forehead. He lay spreadeagled, tied by ropes at his ankles and wrists. He could just see that he was on some sort of platform or oblong table. The room was large, with a high ceiling. It was lit by tall candles on stands positioned at the corners of the room. He could just see in the far wall a massive window, and a glimpse beyond of slender, tall buildings beneath a sky lit by the bright orb of the moon.
‘You must find it strange to be in the submissive position, Mr Bettleman.’ The voice was coming from behind him, but he could not turn far enough to see who was speaking. Yet, there was something about that voice he recognised.
‘You don’t mind my calling you Mr Bettleman, do you? To me you were William Sandler. I know that with others you have used different pseudonyms.’ The man took a step closer and Bettleman suddenly knew who this was.
‘Oglebee! What the hell are you doing?’
‘Very good, Francis. In Oxford, I affected an accent to disguise the American vowels of my youth. Being back here, in the place of my birth, I seem to have slipped into old ways.’
‘Untie me, man,’ Bettleman protested, trying to turn and identify Magnus Oglebee, the mysterious figure from the soiree at Boars Hill.
‘Now why would I do that?’ he replied, and walked slowly into view. He was wearing an immaculate dark suit with a gold watch chain hanging over his waistcoat. His shirt was wing-collared, slightly old-fashioned, and he had donned a grey cravat adorned with a large sapphire pin. His head looked disproportionately small above the starched collar, almost as though his head had shrunk. His tiny black eyes revealed a dark amusement with the situation.
‘What is this all about?’ Francis Bettleman said. He could not disguise the acid tinge in his voice. ‘Is it one of your entertainments, Oglebee?’
‘Yes, in a way, it is,’ the man replied, perching himself on the edge of the table. ‘But there’s also a less frivolous side to it.’
‘Would you care to explain? Only I’m beginning to grow a little irritated.’
‘Oh, are you now, my friend?’ Oglebee mocked.
‘I’m not your friend,’ Bettleman spat, unable to contain his anger any longer. ‘I don’t take kindly to being hit over the head and then bound like an animal.’
‘No, I can empathise with that,’ Oglebee responded. Then he gave a small shrug, pushed himself off the table and walked towards Bettleman’s splayed feet. ‘I’ve closely followed your exploits in London,’ he went on. ‘I have to say “Bravo”. It was quite a performance. And …’ he produced a vague smile ‘… I feel proud that you took my advice. That I was perhaps a source of inspiration to you. I always knew you had talent.’
Bettleman took several deep breaths to calm himself. ‘Oglebee, can you untie me, please? I’m happy to chat, but this is not exactly …’
‘No. I can’t do that.’
Bettleman started to struggle but only succeeded in making the cords cut into his flesh. ‘Oglebee!’ he shouted. ‘Let me go! Or I swear …’
Magnus Oglebee appeared at his side again. ‘I take no pleasure in hurting you,’ he said. ‘But you of all people should understand that it is sometimes necessary. This is not some silly revenge I’m exacting. Far from it. I think your work has been fine. It’s just that … well, time marches on, and what you’ve been doing is a little … how should I put it? … old-fashioned.’
Bettleman stopped struggling and fixed Oglebee with consternation in his eyes. ‘What?’
‘Let me explain, Jack. May I call you that? I think it’s a good name for you — you chose it in good humour.’
Bettleman glared at the man, his fury almost palpable.
‘When I met you in Oxford — goodness, it feels like ancient history, but it was only six months ago … you told me you were searching for meaning, and then you found it in your creations. First you thought, naively, that you had to paint the murders you committed. Only later did you realise that a far higher art form would be to envision the collective acts of murder as, in themselves, the creation. It was a bold and intelligent step forward.’ He paused for a second and drew close to Bettleman’s face. ‘I have to admit, I was a little jealous of your fecundity. I have never had any artistic talent and, as I explained to you in Oxford, had given up trying to express myself through murder. But then I made a most profound discovery.’
Bettleman was staring straight into Oglebee’s tiny face, a strange feeling of dread growing in the pit of his stomach. ‘Look, old boy,’ he said, his voice surprisingly calm, almost melodious. ‘Can we not discuss this sensibly? Man to man, over a brandy, perhaps?’
Oglebee ignored him. Straightening up, he began to walk back towards Bettleman’s trussed feet. ‘And, you know, although there is nothing new about the practical nuts and bolts aspects of what I’m doing, the principles, the concept … Well!’ And he tapped his head with a flourish. ‘These principles, these concepts, are so perfectly attuned to this …’ He swept his arms towards the view of Manhattan in all its nascent glory beyond the window. ‘The artistic drive I have discovered is so new, so modern …’
‘What are you talking about?’ Bettleman screamed.
‘The best form of explanation is action,’ Oglebee said, and clapped his hands.
He disappeared for a moment. Bettleman tried craning his neck, but was pinned down on the table too tightly. Then the other man reappeared a few feet behind his head. Bettleman could not see him properly, but could just make out a dark boxy shape on spindly legs. It took him a few seconds to realise it was a camera being positioned on a wooden tripod.
Then he felt a current of air move close to his body. Twisting his head, he saw white shapes. Four women appeared around the table. They looked similar to the girls he had seen at the house in Oxford — willowy, tall and blonde. Their hair hung to waist-level and each of them wore a slender coronet of white flowers. At a signal from Oglebee the women took a step forward, so that they were all ranged close to Bettleman, two of them to each side of him.
Oglebee stood to the left of the camera, making a small adjustment to the contraption. Then he picked up a flash on a wooden pole. ‘You see, Jack, I could never paint. But thanks to the technology of photography, I can capture moments, just like you do. And with this technology, I, like you, can express myself. I thought I would add a little humour to the piece. Four girls, one for each of your subjects in London. A nice symmetry, don’t you think?’ Then he walked round to the rear of the camera, made a final modification to one of the legs of the tripod, straightened up, and with the flash held out at arm’s length, parallel with his head, took a deep breath. ‘Ladies,’ he said.
The girls turned slightly to look at Bettleman. He tried to focus on them, terror and confusion ripping throug
h him, his stomach churning. He felt vomit rise up in his throat. He did not see the girls’ hands move, did not see the blades until they were raised over his body. He made to scream, but nothing emerged, his muscles had seized in shock.
‘On three,’ Oglebee announced. ‘One, two, three …’
And the flash burst, casting a white radiance across the room.
Chapter 55
Stepney, Sunday 1 February
Jack Pendragon felt more relaxed than he had been in a long time. If he had, during the previous week, found the time to imagine the end of the investigation into what the tabloids were calling the Modern Art Murders, he might have pictured things calming down pretty quickly. But that would have been far from the truth. In the three days since Gemma Locke had been apprehended, Pendragon had been the subject of media adulation. Much to Jack’s satisfaction, Fred Taylor from the local rag had been the lone dissenting voice. And when the hack had refused to soften his line after the arrest, his editor had insisted he take a long-overdue vacation.
Gemma Locke was now in custody and undergoing extensive psychological testing. Geoff Hickle was on the mend. His ear had been reattached and was taking, but it would be a while before his glorious teeth would be back to their former state. A thorough search of Gemma Locke’s flat had turned up the original collection of letters she had claimed were written by Jack the Ripper. Pendragon had held them between his gloved hands before bagging them for forensic analysis. After Dr Newman had finished with them, he had contacted Professor Stokes, an eminent archaeologist and expert in the history of London at Queen Mary College. Six months earlier, Stokes had been instrumental in helping Pendragon solve the mystery of how a ring once owned by the Borgia family had ended up on an ancient skeleton found on a building site off Mile End Road. Pendragon knew that if anyone could authenticate the letters, Stokes could.
Jack looked up from the pages lying on his kitchen table, past piles of other books and papers, to survey the living-room of his flat. The walls were still multi-coloured, the grubby pale blue only partially covered by fresh paint; half the skirting boards were still to be sanded. Heaps of unironed washing lay on the sofa, and the sink was piled high with unwashed dishes. He had let the place go during the past fortnight, but did not feel bad about it. He had had more pressing matters to attend to. He would get back to the decorating and smarten the place up when he could.
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