Sidney took his stance and again the men circled. The crowd grew impatient. They couldn’t have known what Ainsley was about or that Sidney was the man which the entire city of London had been fearful of. All they knew was they wanted a fight, a bloody good one, and with Ainsley in the ring they were sure they would get one.
Giving away his next move, Sidney’s shoulder slouched back and Ainsley rushed him. With bare knuckles burning, Ainsley gave two quick jabs to Sidney’s face and sent his left fist into Sidney’s side, just below the ribs. Sidney staggered back, coughing.
“I think I just cracked your twelfth rib,” Ainsley explained. “That’s the pain you’re feeling.”
Sidney began to laugh despite the obvious pain he was in. He nodded and wiped his upper lip with his hands and shook his shoulders, readying himself for the next round of punches. “Another anatomy lesson?” he asked.
Suddenly, Ainsley began to feel the ale making its way through his bloodstream. He had fought drunk a number of times before, always with the expectation he would lose and always grateful for the drinks that dulled his pain. This day, however, he could not afford to lose. He shook his hands at his sides in an effort to retrieve feeling and readied himself for another bout. There were no rounds, no bells, no referee. In this club, you fought until someone couldn’t walk away.
Ainsley blocked a right hook with his elbow but felt a sharp pain sear up his arm. He threw a right-handed jab toward Sidney and caught him next to his eye. The skin turned red almost immediately and a small trickle of blood began to seep out of a cut before turning into a noticeable gash. Sidney raised a hand to his face, brushing the stream of blood from his cheek, and recollected himself.
He looked so smug, Ainsley noticed, somehow assured that he would triumph. He wondered if that’s why he targeted children, easily overthrown victims who could scarcely match his strength, given their size and age. As Ainsley circled him, his stomach turned until he found the man absolutely repugnant. No more games, Ainsley decided.
Rushing forward, Ainsley hit Sidney on the left then right, grazing his jaw, and then landed a near perfect blow to his already injured eye. Sidney staggered back and the room grew quiet.
Ainsley charged, hitting him multiple times in the ribs, ensuring he broke at least two before aiming a left hook to Sidney’s face. Sidney dodged the last blow and Ainsley lost his balance. Falling forward slightly, Sidney caught him in the ribs with his knee, hitting him in such a way Ainsley fell instantly to the floor. The pain nearly knocked Ainsley out of his senses and as he tried to get up he had to pause to catch his breath. Starting at the point of impact, the pain spread throughout his torso, preventing him from moving from his crouched position.
Sidney pushed Ainsley from the back with his foot, tossing him to the floor like a discarded animal.
Coughing on his side, Ainsley tried to get up and saw blood pooling on the ground. Either his nose was bleeding or he had punctured a lung. He raised his hand to his mouth and nose but still could not tell where the blood was coming from.
Ainsley rolled over and looked up to Sidney, who stood over him. Sidney had his fists at his side.
“Is this what the children saw?” Ainsley yelled up to Sidney. “The ones you butchered?” Ainsley coughed again and realized his lungs were filling with blood.
Sidney came toward him, reaching out a hand as if to grab Ainsley’s hair, but Ainsley wrapped his leg around Sidney’s and twisted his body, bringing the man down to the floor with him. At first, Ainsley was on top, hitting the man relentlessly, but somehow Sidney was able to push him off and they were scrambling for dominance.
And then Sidney had his hands on Ainsley’s throat, choking the life out of him.
Ainsley began jabbing Sidney in the ribs as hard as he could despite the struggle to get air. He could feel his windpipe instinctively wanting to cough but Sidney’s thumbs dug into his esophagus. The world around them fell into an indecipherable haze. Ainsley kept hitting and even tried reaching for Sidney’s eyes and face, but the man had the upper hand and was able to stay just out of reach.
He was going to die.
Chapter 32
Through eyelids shut.
There was a flash of black and then an explosion of white before Ainsley was able to open his eyes. The roar of the room returned, growing louder with each of Ainsley’s heartbeats. Suddenly, Ainsley rolled on his side, coughing up blood, gasping for air, and cursing the agonizing pain that pulled at his throat.
As the room came into focus once more, Ainsley could not tell where the boxing ring ended and the crowd began. Spectators had stormed the ring and he could hear the heart of the ruckus behind him.
“Peter!” Jonas was at his side. “Peter, get up!”
With a strange heat burning at his eye, Ainsley looked to his friend, who held his coat over the crook of his arm. He pushed himself from the floor, each muscle in his arms and chest screaming against the pain of it, and crawled to his feet.
A few men from the crowd held Sidney back on the other side of the ring, pinning him against the abrasive rope, looking to Ainsley as if waiting further instruction.
“He’s The Surgeon!” someone yelled to Jerry as he tried to keep the spectators at bay. “He tried to kill Peter! You saw what he did!”
The mob was growing impatient but it was clear Jerry wasn’t sure what to do. Summoning the police would put his entire operation in jeopardy. But, clearly, no one was willing to let the man just walk out of there.
Ainsley saw a bloody smile crawl to the corners of Sidney’s face as he took in the confusion. Their eyes met and for the first time Ainsley saw the darkness that existed within Sidney’s soul. What Ainsley first saw as hardened anger in the man morphed into lunacy.
“It’s me,” Sidney said suddenly through clenched teeth. “I’m The Surgeon.”
Jonas slipped through the ropes and began guiding Ainsley away, perhaps hoping he would get out of the ring entirely but Ainsley stood his ground against Jonas’s strong guidance and even began pushing toward Sidney, ready to spar again.
“It’s me!” Sidney called again, almost laughing at the ruckus his confession stirred. His smile taunted Ainsley from the opposite side of the ring.
“Shut him up!” Jonas yelled over his shoulder. “Peter, let’s go. Let the crowd take care of him. He won’t make it to the gallows.”
Ainsley pushed at his friend’s arm, digging his feet into the floor. “He killed them,” Ainsley said through gritted teeth. “He killed them all.”
“I know,” Jonas said calmly. “I know.”
Propelled forward by rage alone, Ainsley grabbed the jacket in Jonas’s arms and after three steps he crossed the ring, the G. & J. Deane pistol pulled from the pocket and now pointed at Sidney.
A single shot rent the air and the room slipped into a haze as Sidney’s body fell over with a pronounced thud. Blood poured uninhibited from the fresh wound in The Surgeon’s skull, spilling out over the grey pad that made up the flooring of the ring.
Suddenly the pistol was taken from Ainsley’s hand. He turned, taking in the scene, the people, the shouts, the chaos, but the room spun wickedly. Held on his feet by Jonas, who had rushed to his side, Ainsley swayed as the shock of what he had just done rushed over him. The noise grew into a roar and anarchy ensued as the smoke from the powder dissipated over their heads.
“Peter, we have to go,” Jonas whispered into his ear. “Peter!”
Ainsley raised his hands to his hair, disbelieving the final outcome that he had orchestrated. He felt a shove from Jonas, who forced Ainsley to look at him.
“Think of Margaret. We have to run. Let’s go!”
Ainsley nodded and found himself guided by Jerry through the ropes and toward the back of the hall. Jonas remained close at their heels. An easy path through the crowd, which parted as they approached, led them to a long hallway with a slanted floor. Finally, after being dragged along, stumbling against the screaming pain of his body, Jerry p
unched open a door to the back alley. A torrential rain pounded on them as they exited the building.
“Jerry, I—” Ainsley stammered as he turned to his coach.
The man shook off Ainsley’s attempt to speak. “Just go,” he said harshly. “The boys and I will take care of it.” He pushed Ainsley further into the rain. Jonas followed, tossing Ainsley his coat. “Go you two!”
Grateful, Ainsley nodded his thanks and turned. Together, they limped down the alley into the welcoming darkness.
The morning sun crept up over the city and eventually the windows in the morgue began to show its light. Ainsley had not dared head home that night, knowing if Simms came for him his arrest wouldn’t be in front of Margaret or Julia. Jonas saw to his wounds in the basement of the hospital, stitching up his knuckles and a gash on his cheek. They sat around the vacant examination table, a bottle of whiskey between them.
Jonas and Ainsley, who fought and loved like brothers, waited for dawn quietly, neither one certain what the day would bring. “What do you suppose Jerry meant when he said he and the boys would take care of it?” Jonas asked.
Ainsley gave a half-smile. “I don’t know.” Ainsley could only guess to what the club owner would do with the mess Ainsley had left for him. Ainsley mentally prepared himself for the confession he would have to make, feeling no remorse except that which his actions would have on his family.
“I’ve decided something about you and Margaret,” Ainsley said suddenly. He swallowed and avoided his friend’s gaze.
“I know you disapprove,” Jonas interjected.
Ainsley winced at the sadness that laced his friend’s words. “I do not,” Ainsley corrected him. “Not anymore.” Ainsley slipped from his stool, hissing against the tightness in his joints. “You will have a time of it convincing my father, but you will not hear another peep from me.”
“Do you mean that?” Jonas asked as Ainsley shuffled toward the trough sink.
Ainsley nodded. “Margaret will need you now that I—” Ainsley choked on his own words, regretting his previous night’s actions for the first time. “There’s someone else,” Ainsley added suddenly, “someone I care for deeply—” But Ainsley was denied the opportunity to finish.
The far door to the morgue opened and Simms walked in, a lanky, bald man trailing behind him, and Frisker following further behind. “Dr. Ainsley.”
Ainsley closed his eyes. The time had come. The young doctor waited at the trough sink, his back turned to the detective and his eyes closed, resigned to what was to follow. He wished he could say he had done it for the children but, in truth, he had done it to free himself. He could not live in a world where men such as Sidney roamed free.
“We caught our man,” Simms said, forgoing any excitement.
Jonas and Ainsley remained silent. Ainsley turned, crossing his hands over his chest and leaning back into the sink. If the detective noticed Ainsley’s injuries, and there was little doubt he did, he made no mention of them.
“Our Surgeon,” Simms explained as he stood next to the examination table. “There was a ruckus last night at an illegal boxing match. Someone dispatched our man upon hearing a drunken confession.” The detective’s face was stern and unforgiving. He eyed Ainsley from across the table. “Don’t you want to know who it was?” Simms turned to the lanky bald man behind him and then back to Ainsley.
Ainsley studied Simms intensely while the detective spoke, his mind unable to comprehend the tale he was hearing.
Ainsley nodded, suddenly unable to form syllables.
“Lionel Sidney.”
Ainsley swallowed, unsure what would come next. Jonas raised his gaze from the table, his eyes exhibiting a certain degree of hope. Perhaps Jerry and the boys had pulled off the unimaginable.
“This may be a shock to you, Dr. Ainsley,” the detective continued, “being as you worked so closely with him.”
“Yes,” Ainsley said with a forced nod, “definitely a shock.”
For a moment, Simms and Ainsley stood looking at each other, saying nothing until Simms finally spoke again. “We found a pair of boots in Mr. Sidney’s room,” he said. “We believe they match the ones Jonathon would have been wearing.”
“Was there a washtub?” Ainsley asked, remembering his theory that Alice had been bathed.
Simms nodded. “And we found this.” Simms held up a long string of red rosary beads, a crucifix charm fixed to the end of the chain. The detective handed it to Ainsley, who fingered the beads as they dangled from his hand. Made of an unremarkable metal with the beads clearly glass, the trinket held little worth in the wider market.
“This was Jonathon’s,” Ainsley said suddenly. “This was what he thought the carpenter stole.”
Simms nodded. “We can put their bodies to rest now,” Simms said. “Mr. Dell here has come to take them.” Simms turned to the man behind him and gestured to the bodies. Frisker followed the man into the adjoining room.
“Where are they going?” Ainsley asked. “I can send a note to Vicar Thompson ahead of the carriage. He’s done me many favours in the past.”
The detective stood to the side as Frisker and the gravedigger pulled one of the stretchers from the room. It was Jonathon’s body. Ainsley brushed passed Simms and went to the body. Pulling back the sheet from Jonathon’s face Ainsley placed the string of rosary beads over Jonathon’s head, careful to lay the crucifix charm over the boy’s chest.
Ainsley directed a pointed finger at the gravedigger. “Anyone touches that and I will personally see to it they never touch anything again.”
The man nodded vehemently with wide eyes, no doubt believing any man who looked as mangled as Ainsley imagined he did deserved to be taken seriously.
One by one, the bodies of the children were removed, taken to a waiting police carriage. It was assured they would be buried by the end of the day. Once alone, Simms turned to Ainsley, who still couldn’t look the detective directly in the eyes.
“Dr. Ainsley, the pistol, the G. & J. Deane, you still have it, haven’t you?” Up until that point the exchange had been cold and impersonal, marking the new reality of the detective’s and surgeon’s relationship.
Ainsley shook his head steadily. “I threw it in the Thames,” he lied, “days ago.”
The detective regarded Ainsley sternly, his expression unforgiving and his gaze unrelenting. Suddenly, the detective lurched and pushed Ainsley into the wall. A debilitating pain cascaded down Ainsley’s back, causing him to cry out.
“I know what you did,” Simms snarled, as he held Ainsley by the collar. From over the detective’s shoulder Ainsley could see Jonas stepping forward, intending to break them apart, but an outstretched hand from Simms kept Jonas back. “You may think you fooled everyone but you haven’t fooled me, you arrogant arse.” Simms eased his grip before pushing Ainsley back into the wall once again. “People like you make me sick.”
Attempting to loosen the detective’s grip at his throat, Ainsley swallowed. There was a fury in Simms’s eyes that Ainsley had never seen before. “Don’t you ever stop by my office again, do you understand me?” The detective’s scowl depended when Ainsley didn’t respond straight away. “Do you?”
Ainsley nodded. “Yes, sir,” he answered calmly.
Simms gave a huff before releasing his grip from Ainsley’s throat. He adjusted his jacket, pulling the fabric squarely on his shoulders, as he stepped away. The detective glanced to Jonas and then back to Ainsley before softening his tone. “You should take care of yourself better, Peter,” Simms said, gesturing to his own face. “You look a fright.”
Ainsley watched as the detective walked down the aisle between the other bodies, his gait determined and slow, as if laden with a heavy burden. Clearly, Simms had been torn between two possibilities: prosecuting Ainsley as the law prescribed or congratulating him for doing what the police force could not do. As he watched the man leave, Ainsley decided he was deeply indebted to Simms and the detective’s decision not to enquire f
urther. However, Ainsley’s actions the night prior had come at a price. Scotland Yard would not be contacting the young surgeon in the future.
Jonas appeared just as surprised as Ainsley. Both had been certain Simms had come to arrest him.
Ainsley took a drink straight from the bottle of whiskey on the table, emptying it completely, and savoured the feeling of the alcohol burning his throat as it went down. He inched across the room, feeling every step through his swollen limbs and joints.
“Will you be all right?” Jonas asked as he watched Ainsley lean over the examination table.
Ainsley nodded contemplatively. He would be all right, eventually. But the case had made an undeniable mark on him. It cost him an injury to his soul that would never fully heal. The ghosts of the children would never leave him, he knew this already, just as the memory of his own mother’s murder haunted him still. The alcohol, once reliable and foolproof, did little to quench his thirst for freedom.
“I will be,” Ainsley answered solemnly. “I just need another drink.”
Chorus of Eden Spirits
By Elizabeth Barrett Browning (1806-1861)
HEARKEN, oh hearken! let your souls behind you
Turn, gently moved!
Our voices feel along the Dread to find you,
O lost, beloved!
Through the thick-shielded and strong-marshalled angels,
They press and pierce:
Our requiems follow fast on our evangels,—
Voice throbs in verse.
We are but orphaned spirits left in Eden
A time ago:
God gave us golden cups, and we were bidden
To feed you so.
But now our right hand hath no cup remaining,
No work to do
The mystic hydromel is spilt, and staining
The whole earth through.
Most ineradicable stains, for showing
(Not interfused!)
That brighter colours were the world’s foregoing,
The Dead Among Us Page 24
