‘We won’t be family after this week is done with.’
‘You don’t want to go believin’ everything your old man says,’ said Jack. ‘We’ve been through a lot together, me and him. Charlie and Jack, that was us. A right pair of lads. The best pair of thieves in Whitechapel. He never told you about them days, though, I guess.’
‘My father was never a thief,’ said Sam.
Jack’s lips curled upwards. ‘There’s a lot you don’t know about your old man,’ he said. ‘And a thief, he most definitely was. A good one too.’
‘He was a carpenter’s apprentice,’ said Sam.
‘Ah, the carpenter, yes. Your old man knew about takin’ opportunities too. When Old Man Chester caught him red-handed, your pa saw an opportunity to leave me high and dry. He duped the carpenter into takin’ ’im in, givin’ him some old sob story about his life as a poor little urchin. He left me to fend for myself. Imagine that, my big brother leavin’ me to the mercy of the streets when he’d tricked some old fella into an apprenticeship. Done him all right too, hasn’t it? His own business with the name Toop on the front. I never thought I’d see the day. Almost makes me proud.’ Jack was leering at Sam, his dark eyes fixed on Sam’s. ‘’Cept pride’s a sin, ain’t it?’
Sam grabbed a clean set of clothes and left the room.
‘Fetch me a cup of tea, will you, lad?’ Jack shouted after him.
23
Breakfasting Alone
Clara looked sadly at the chair in which she imagined Lady Aysgarth’s ghost to have sat. Breakfast felt emptier without her. In fact, Lady Aysgarth’s chair was the opposite end of the table from the one Clara picked out for her. It had been the chair as far as possible from the Tiltmans.
The appearance of the ghost had been as sudden and fleeting as it had been violent and traumatic. Watching through the keyhole, Clara had seen the priest destroy a human soul for the sake of dinner party entertainment. The look of horror in Lady Aysgarth’s eyes was contrasted with the wonder and delight worn by Clara’s parents and guests. The priest’s eyes, however, revealed a different kind of pleasure, like that of the hangman relishing his work.
A polite round of applause followed the vanquishing of Lady Aysgarth’s soul. Afterwards, back in her room, Clara had made copious notes about it all and spent a lot of time labouring over a comparison with Romans watching Christians being fed to lions for the sake of entertainment, an analogy which, in spite of her best endeavours, she was struggling to make work.
‘So was Hetty’s friend suitably entertaining?’ she asked, finally breaking the silence that had hung over the table since she had entered the dining room.
‘He was most intriguing, thank you,’ said her mother.
Her father, hidden behind a newspaper, said nothing.
‘I’d very much like to meet him,’ said Clara.
‘I don’t think that would be suitable,’ replied her mother, quickly.
Clara turned to her father and employed her most appealing voice. ‘Please could I meet him? It’s for my article.’
Mrs Tiltman frowned. ‘I expressly told you that you would be writing no such article.’
Mr Tiltman lowered his paper. ‘Perhaps she should meet him,’ he said. ‘Find out how it’s done.’
‘We saw how it was done,’ snapped Mrs Tiltman.
‘How it’s really done. What the trick is,’ said Mr Tiltman.
‘Honestly, it was in our own house. There were no mirrors or conjuring equipment. You saw her with your own eyes.’
‘Saw who?’ asked Clara. ‘What was he, this man of Hetty’s?’
‘His name was Reverend Fallowfield,’ said her father, ignoring the look his wife was casting across the table. ‘He is a priest who performs exorcisms.’
‘Exorcisms,’ said Clara, sounding convincingly surprised.
‘It was very well done,’ said Mr Tiltman.
‘Because it was real,’ added his wife.
‘Oh, please. London is full of conjurors, all performing miracles, and none of them able to conjure up enough money out of thin air to stop me calling them beggars. I tell you, it’s all a sham – a good sham, I grant you – but a sham nonetheless.’
‘Reverend Fallowfield didn’t charge for his services,’ said Mrs Tiltman.
‘Quite happily accepted donations, though, didn’t he? Did you see the cheque that Malcolm wrote? Such extraction of money is a cunning enough trick.’
Clara enjoyed it when her parents argued like this. There was a spark between them. She had friends who claimed their mothers never contradicted their husbands, but the Tiltmans’ family life was enlivened by the tos and fros of debate.
Mrs Tiltman, who was never comfortable with her daughter being exposed to such arguments, said, ‘You shouldn’t disagree with me over breakfast. You’ll give yourself indigestion.’
Mr Hopkins the butler refilled her teacup.
‘Thank you,’ she said.
‘I could find out for you whether he’s a trickster or not,’ said Clara.
‘Clara Tiltman,’ scolded her mother. ‘Reverend Fallowfield is ordained. He is a man of God. No one is calling him a trickster.’
‘I am,’ said Mr Tiltman.
‘Let me contact Aunt Hetty and meet this man,’ said Clara. ‘I’ll find out what he is.’
‘I do not think this hobby of yours at all suitable for a young lady,’ said her mother.
‘I feel a wager coming on,’ said Mr Tiltman. ‘I think it a splendid idea that Clara attempts to reveal the truth behind this Fallowfield. I’ll bet you ten pounds she can discover his method.’
‘I do not accept your wager and I will not encourage any of this,’ frowned Mrs Tiltman.
Mr Tiltman smiled at his wife. He reached across the table and took her hand, lifting it towards his lips as though to kiss it then, at the last minute, shaking it instead. ‘Ten pounds it is,’ he said. ‘Clara will meet Reverend Fallowfield and expose the truth behind his show.’
24
The Vault
The Enforcer who arrived to take Lapsewood away was a huge-boned bear of a man. He wore a navy-blue suit and a badge with his name on it: Sergeant Brinks. Broad shoulders, bulging arms – Lapsewood wouldn’t have been surprised to find that he had more than five fingers on his huge hands. The cuffs he slapped over his wrists were moulded into the shape of a pair of metal hands connected by a chain.
‘Just try turning to Ether Dust with these on,’ grunted Sergeant Brinks.
‘Please, General Colt,’ Lapsewood protested as the Enforcer led him out of the office. ‘Send someone to find Doris McNally. She’ll explain. She’s at the school in Whitechapel.’
‘Get him out of here,’ barked General Colt.
The door closed behind them and Sergeant Brinks dragged Lapsewood along the corridor and down the staircase. ‘You keep on struggling like that and I’ll be forced to use my Ether Beater,’ he said.
‘There’s been a mistake,’ said Lapsewood.
‘That’s good,’ replied Sergeant Brinks.
‘It’s not good. It means you’re arresting an innocent man.’
‘I’m not arresting you.’
‘You’re not?’
‘Oh no, your actual arrest requires a lot more paperwork. This is a simple detention prior to the application of an arrest. You’ll be held in the Vault until your hearing, when you will either be formally arrested or released, once a full acquittal application has been filled in and verified.’
‘How long will that take?’
‘Oh, not long. What’ve you done, then?’
‘That’s what I’m saying. I haven’t done anything.’
‘The General mentioned something about consorting with Rogue ghosts.’
‘Yes, but only because I needed help.’
Sergeant Brinks took a sharp intake of breath. ‘The chief don’t look too kindly on that sort of thing. My cousin Dawlish is an Enforcer – he says the chief wants all the Rogues locked up, but they�
�re tricky to catch, see.’ At the bottom of the stairs there was a huge wooden door with metal bolts adorning its edges. ‘Hand over your papers,’ said Sergeant Brinks.
‘I can’t,’ replied Lapsewood.
‘You have no choice. Vault prisoners have to hand over their papers,’ said Sergeant Brinks.
‘I mean, I can’t because I’m still wearing these cuffs.’
Sergeant Brinks laughed. ‘Oh yes. Let’s get them off, shall we?’ From his belt, he pulled out a large silver ring with hundreds of keys on it. He unlocked Lapsewood’s handcuffs and the metallic fingers sprang open. Lapsewood reached into his inside pocket and handed over his papers. Sergeant Brinks took them and then pulled a large key from the keyring.
He pushed to one side the cover which hung in front of the keyhole and quickly inserted the key. ‘The Vault is all made of non-passable materials,’ he said. ‘So a keyhole would be one of the few ways out.’ He gripped the door handle and drew his Beater. ‘Now, you’ll see how this works,’ he said.
He opened the door and a cloud of swirling Ether Dust gushed from the gap. Sergeant Brinks brought his Beater down hard on it, causing it to re-form and a man wearing a white wig, a ruffled shirt and a finely made velvet jacket to fall to the ground.
‘Nice try, Marquis,’ said Sergeant Brinks.
‘One day, Sergeant Brinks.’ The man got to his feet and brushed down his jacket.
‘Not on my watch. Now, I’ll leave you two fellas to get acquainted.’
Brinks shoved both Lapsewood and the Marquis inside and slammed the door shut. The Marquis dived to his knees and put his eye to the keyhole but the cover was back in place. He stood up and offered his hand.
‘Delighted to meet you,’ he said. ‘What brings you here?’
‘Nothing. You see, I’m—’
‘Innocent?’ interrupted the Marquis.
‘Yes, you see it was just a—’
‘Misunderstanding?’ he interrupted again.
‘Exactly, but . . . How did you know?’
‘We’re all innocent, my boy.’ He placed his hand on Lapsewood’s arm. ‘We’re all victims of misunderstandings.’
‘Ah, yes, but you see, I haven’t even been—’
‘Arrested?’
‘Yes, I’m awaiting my—’
‘Your hearing, yes. Once again, ditto. And ditto on behalf of every poor soul locked in this damnable place.’
‘But he said I wouldn’t be here long.’
‘If he had said you would spend the rest of eternity awaiting a hearing that would, according to all evidence, never materialise – if he had said that would you have walked so quietly and placidly into this cell?’
‘Well, I . . . I’m not sure.’
‘Of course you wouldn’t, dear boy. You’d have to be insane. And insanity is something I do have a little experience of. Now, why don’t you tell me all about it?’
25
The Exorcism of St Winifred’s School
Aunt Hetty had offered to bring Reverend Fallowfield to Aysgarth House, but Clara had said that since he had already exorcised their house, it would be better if they were to meet elsewhere. Mrs Tiltman emphatically refused to allow her daughter to attend one of the dinner parties at which Reverend Fallowfield was proving so popular all over London but happily Hetty told her that the Reverend had an engagement in a school in the east end of London on Sunday.
‘Mr Fallowfield is an extraordinary man,’ said Aunt Hetty as the taxi rattled along Commercial Road.
‘Where did you find him?’ asked Clara.
‘He was recommended by a friend whose house he exorcised and, knowing what I’m like for collecting interesting people, she put me on to him.’
‘Father thinks it’s a trick.’
Aunt Hetty laughed. ‘Your father was scared out of his wits when the reverend revealed the ghost that had been living in your house.’
‘What do you think happens to the ghosts once he’s exorcised them?’
Aunt Hetty shrugged indifferently. ‘I suppose they go to hell. Or some such place.’
St Winifred’s School was an imposing red-brick building. It being Sunday, there were no children or teachers. Reverend Fallowfield was standing outside the front door. Seen in daylight and without the encumbrance of a keyhole, he was even more striking in appearance. The three-pointed birthmark on his head, his bulging eyes and hook nose made him look like a heavily made-up actor Clara had once seen playing Shakespeare’s Richard III. But there was no make-up and his shifting eyes were not part of an act.
‘Ah, Hetty, my child,’ he said, taking her hand and kissing her on the cheek.
His eyes fell upon Clara.
‘And you must be the niece.’
‘I’m Clara.’
‘What are you, then?’ he asked.
Clara was unsure how to respond. ‘I’d like to be a journalist one day.’
‘I mean, are you cynic or believer?’
‘I believe in ghosts, if that’s what you mean.’
‘Ghosts,’ hissed Reverend Fallowfield. ‘Such a tame word for these lingering demons. You should understand that I perform God’s work. I send these evil spirits down into the underworld where they belong.’
‘Why do you call them evil?’
‘They are lost souls, rejected by heaven, fearful of hell. They wander God’s earth like beggars.’
‘Are beggars not unfortunate creatures who deserve our charity and sympathy?’ asked Clara.
‘Who would say such a thing?’
‘I believe it is the teaching of the Bible.’
He smiled, revealing his coffee-stained teeth. ‘Then they’re like thieves,’ he stated.
‘What do they steal?’
‘Their time here is stolen.’
‘Well, listen to us with our intellectual musings,’ said Aunt Hetty, trying to lighten the mood.
Clara scribbled down as much as she could in her notebook, grateful to her aunt for diverting Reverend Fallowfield’s intense stare.
A caretaker met them outside. An elderly man with a limp and a lazy eye, he led them into the school hall.
‘What kind of school is this?’ asked Clara.
‘A ragged school, miss,’ he replied. ‘Set up to teach them without the means to pay.’
Ragged was the right word, thought Clara. There was a marked difference to the school she had attended. The hall bore a closer resemblance to a factory than to a place of education.
‘Here we are, then,’ said the caretaker.
‘May I ask why you have no service on a Sunday, Reverend Fallowfield?’ asked Clara.
‘The world is my parish,’ he replied.
‘So these exorcisms are your only source of income?’ she asked.
‘Now, Clara, I don’t think Reverend Fallowfield wishes to discuss his finances with you,’ scolded Aunt Hetty.
Reverend Fallowfield smiled. ‘I can see you have a journalist’s instinct. But no, I do not charge for my services. As I said before, this is God’s work.’
‘But you accept donations,’ said Clara.
‘As I have no other income at present, yes, I do accept donations. Eating is not a sin, Miss Tiltman. Now, I must ask for your silence.’
Reverend Fallowfield walked around the hall with his eyes shut and his fingers outstretched.
‘How did you hear about him?’ Clara whispered to the caretaker.
‘He came once before,’ the caretaker replied. ‘There was a ghost of a little girl then.’
‘You saw her?’
‘Not me, but some of the teachers used to say she would hide the chalk or write words on the board at night.’
‘That’s why you wanted her exorcised?’
‘I never did, miss . . . want her exorcised, that is. He turned up one day and got rid of her. No one asked him to. Just did it.’
‘And now you have a new ghost?’
‘So he says.’
‘I must have silence,’ cried Reverend Fallo
wfield.
‘Sorry,’ said the caretaker.
‘Oh, cursed spirit,’ the reverend began.
‘Oh, I love this bit,’ whispered Hetty.
Reverend Fallowfield reached out his hands like claws and made a great show of pulling towards him as though there was a great strain on his arms. ‘Draw close, come out, reveal yourself. Resist not my command.’ He muttered strange incantations in a tongue Clara did not recognise, but knew to be neither Greek nor Latin.
A moment, then another voice spoke. ‘No, leave me alone,’ said a Scottish female voice.
Clara gripped her aunt’s hand. She looked to see where the voice had come from, but there was no one else in the hall.
‘Oh, cursed spirit,’ wailed Reverend Fallowfield. ‘Do my bidding and recognise the higher authority of the living over the dead.’
More incantations followed in the mysterious tongue. Then slowly, grey smoke drifted down from the cracks in the ceiling and formed a human shape. The shape gained definition and colour. Still transparent but now clearly that of a woman. She had untidy hair, a green dress and a blood-stained apron.
‘You have no right to do this,’ she said, addressing Reverend Fallowfield.
‘I have every right,’ he replied. ‘This is our realm. You are the trespasser here.’
‘I did’nae want to get stuck in this wretched school,’ she replied.
‘Silence!’ cried Reverend Fallowfield. ‘You shall be silent forever more. For now your kingdom will come, let His will be done. You shall be vanquished, no more to roam. Forces of the afterworld, open now and draw unto you this spirit.’
‘You’re a barrel of laughs, you are,’ the woman began to say but suddenly something unseen gripped her throat and she began to struggle, writhe and scream. She staggered backwards. Clara moved closer to watch. The woman turned to her in horror. She dropped to her knees. The grey smoke that formed her was ebbing away, removing her form, her shape.
‘Help me,’ she uttered in a strangulated whisper.
‘Stop it,’ yelled Clara. ‘You’re hurting her.’
‘Demons feel no pain,’ replied Reverend Fallowfield.
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