by kindels
"How can you be sure of that?" he asked. "You haven't heard what I have to tell you yet. When you have, you may just change your mind."
"Then, my dear chap, you must tell me your tale, and let me be the judge of whatever evidence you wish to place before me. Before you do, I have a question, however."
"Yes? What?" He appeared surprised that I should wish to ask him anything, rather than just listen to what he had to say.
"Why me? There are any number of psychologists out there. Why choose one who lives in such a remote and inaccessible place? We've never met before, and I'd simply like to know how you heard of me and why I became your choice in all of this, whatever this is."
"Dr. Hemswell, I needed someone who I could trust and who wouldn't dismiss my so-called rants, as I'm sure you think they are, out of hand. Andy Gould is an old friend of my family. We used to live in Leith, and that's where I first met him, years ago, when he was just an inspector. When these terrible things began to happen and I needed someone to confide in, I approached him and told him the whole story. He, too, thought I was crazy, I'm sure of it, but he at least heard me out and then called a friend of his at Scotland Yard. That friend suggested your name as he informed Andy that you had handled a number of similar cases in the past."
"In what way, similar?"
"Well, you apparently helped the police in the Tremain case some years ago and also in the case of the Halliwell family curse."
The cases he referred to were both instances where a hint of the supernatural or, at least, delusions of the supernatural, had influenced not only an individual, as in the Tremain case, but an entire family, as had occurred within the Halliwell family. Martin Tremain had killed two people, convinced that he'd fallen under the control of the spirit of Sweeney Todd, the so-called demon barber of Fleet Street. Both victims had their throats cut and Tremain then cut up the bodies in the cellar of his home. Before he could take his scheme any further, he'd found himself apprehended when a neighbour reported strange smells coming from the ventilator above the cellar, and the police were swift to arrest the perpetrator. Psychiatric examinations of the accused failed to agree on a diagnosis. He remained unshakeable in his belief that Sweeney Todd had visited him in a dream and had infiltrated his mind to the extent that he no longer had control of his actions. People in authority were actually beginning to believe that he had indeed been the subject of some kind of demonic possession and, at that point, the police asked me to meet with Tremain and talk to him, assess his story and his state of mind.
In the end, Martin Tremain admitted that his Sweeney Todd story had been nothing more than a blind. The two victims had both been victims of the killer's road rage. The first had simply cut him off at a road junction, the second had overtaken him on the road out of town and Tremain had felt aggrieved at being passed by a smaller, older car. He'd followed both of them to their ultimate destinations and rendered each man unconscious, taking them to his home in his car, before butchering and dismembering them. He'd come up with the Sweeney Todd defence after watching a movie about the demon barber on late-night TV.
The Halliwells had been different. The family owned a substantial home in the country and, on the death of seventy-year-old Timothy Halliwell, the estate passed to his eldest son, Mitchell. Mitchell announced to his two brothers and three sisters that he intended to renovate the crumbling old mansion and convert it into a thoroughly modern resort hotel, complete with nine-hole golf course and health spa. The younger brother of the family, Randolph, stood out as the only one who appeared upset by the decision and made a number of threats against Mitchell, saying that the home should remain a home and not become a tourist attraction. Mitchell argued that the sheer size of the house made it too large and cold to remain a family home in the current financial climate and, anyway, the decision was his alone to make. The other siblings had all been financially catered for in their father's will. The house, he reiterated, had now become his to dispose of as he saw fit.
As soon as work commenced on the conversion of the house, however, unfortunate things began to happen. One of Mitchell's sisters, Grace, died when the brakes failed on her car and she ran off the road into a river. The poor woman drowned, trapped in the car. Next, middle brother Simon burned to death in a mysterious fire at his home in the country. The fire brigade investigation revealed that the fire had started in the garage, attached to the house, and though the fire investigators suspected arson, the case couldn't be proved.
As rumours began of a curse that had afflicted the family, and that the conversion of the house to a hotel and spa had promoted the deathly visitations on the family, the police naturally suspected Randolph, due to his previous obstinacy and opposition to the new plans for the family home. That was when the police called me in and asked me to speak to the remaining family members, to see if I could ascertain whether Randolph's state of mind rendered him capable of the acts of murder.
Before I could speak to anyone, Marilyn, the youngest sister, died of food poisoning. Foul play was again suspected, but couldn't be proved, as she'd been alone at the time she ate the fatal meal that precipitated her death. That left only Mitchell, Randolph, and the middle sister, Chloe, to be interviewed.
Contrary to the police's suspicions, I found Randolph to be a level-headed, well-balanced individual, petulant as a younger brother might be at losing what he saw as the family's ancestral home, but I believed him no more capable of cold-blooded murder than I would be. Not so with sister Chloe, however. That lady would eventually be proved to be a calculating and evil woman who would stop at nothing, not to just gain control of the house, but of the entire family fortune. Mitchell and Randolph, she later admitted, were on her list to be eliminated in the near future by the so-called family curse. She, of course, would then return the house to its original purpose, thus escaping the curse and living happily ever after.
So, those were the cases that had brought me into the frame for William Forbes' current dilemma. He obviously felt that his own predicament had some supernatural or other-worldly connection and, my assistance to the police, in the past had thrust me into the limelight, as far as he was concerned. I made a mental note to have a word with Chief Inspector Gould of the Strathclyde Police at some point in the future. Thank-you wouldn't be one of the words I'd use. Somehow, I had the distinct feeling that working with Mr. William Forbes would be one of the most difficult cases I'd embarked upon in many a year.
For the time being, I'd decided that the time had come for my guest to be a little more forthcoming. The time had arrived for him to tell me a lot more than he'd so far confided.
"Okay, William. I've helped the police in one or two cases in the past, but that doesn't make me an expert in the paranormal or in the supernatural. Just how do you think I can help you? You really need to tell me much more than you have so far. You've mentioned Jack Reid, and Jack the Ripper, who, for some reason, you think has reached out across the years to persecute you, sorry, to want to kill you, but you've given me no hint as to why you believe this to be true."
"Look, I'm sorry. I know I've been reticent, and even economical, with what I've told you so far, but I'm sure you'll realise why when I tell you the full story."
"Let's hope so shall we?" I asked, and, without waiting for an answer, I continued, "I'm going to put the kettle on, make us both a cup of good, strong tea; you like tea don't you?"
He nodded.
"Good, then when we're settled down in here once more, you can tell me your story. I warn you now, William, I can be quite sceptical, so you may have to do a lot to convince me that what you tell me has any credibility."
"That's fine with me," Forbes replied. "I came for your help, and for your guidance. I'm prepared to answer any questions you may have, after, of course, you hear me out first."
"Sounds fair enough to me, William. Now, let's get that tea, shall we?"
Ten minutes later, the pair of us were back in my sitting room, armed with freshly brewed tea and
a plate of digestive biscuits. Forbes appeared to have lost much of the fear and trepidation that had marked his arrival at my home, and I thought that, perhaps, the mere act of being isolated, away from the throng of civilisation, here on Skerries Rock, might be working its therapeutic effect on him, much as it had always done so for me. Outside, the storm had abated, the wind had dropped to nothing more than a stiff sea breeze, and a light drizzle bounced gently off the window panes.
Seeing my guest in a more relaxed mood, I smiled at him and found myself surprised when Forbes actually smiled back at me. It was the first time I'd seen him smile and, in doing so, the years fell away from his face. I suddenly realised that, far from being an aging and possible retired solicitor, William Forbes was probably far younger than he looked, younger than me for a start.
"How old are you, William, if you don't mind me asking?"
"I'm forty-four," he replied. "I know, I know, I look older, but then, when you hear what I have to tell you, you'll perhaps understand why."
"I'm sorry for asking. But you looked so much younger when you smiled just now, nearer your real age I might add."
"I haven't always looked this old," he went on. "Up until a few months ago, I had a good head of hair and was part of a thriving firm in London. That all changed, thanks to that devil incarnate, Jack Thomas Reid."
"Then, my friend, I think you'd better begin your tale"
William Forbes looked me in the eye, hesitating for a moment before speaking.
"What I have to tell you is so extraordinary, so terrifying in the reality of what's happened to me, that I implore you not to say anything during my narrative, at least, not unless you feel you really have to. I don't want to lose my train of thought and leave anything out."
"Very well, William. I shan't interrupt, unless I need you to clarify something or I have an important question, agreed?"
"Good enough," he said, and the man leaned back in his chair.
"Can I ask you one question, also, before I begin?" he suddenly asked.
"Of course."
"David, Doctor Hemswell, please tell me if you think it's possible for the soul of a man, an evil man, to live on beyond his death, carried through the years in the words scrawled upon a decrepit piece of aged, yellowed paper?"
I stared at the man in incredulous disbelief. Could he really believe in what he'd just asked me?
"I know it sounds preposterous," he went on, "but wait until I show you this."Forbes quickly twizzled the combination locks on his briefcase, reached inside the opened lid, and then withdrew a plastic sleeve which contained a yellowed sheet of paper, nothing more.
With that, and as he reached out to pass me the plastic sleeve, his strange and compelling narrative began ...
Chapter Five
The Story Begins
"Whatever you do, please don't take the paper out of the sleeve, at least, not yet," Forbes pleaded as I looked at the single sheet of certainly elderly-looking and well-yellowed paper that lay under the protective wrapping of the plastic sleeve.
"Do you want me to read it?"
"Yes, but not right away. Keep it with you until you think the time is appropriate."
"Sounds a bit melodramatic to me," I ventured.
"I know, but please, humour me, Doctor, just for now. Let me start at the beginning and, when the moment arrives, I'll tell you to read the page. It probably won't really make much sense in the context of what I'm about to tell you if you read it too soon."
"So, why give it to me now?"
"To be honest, I just feel a lot better knowing it's in your possession rather than mine," said Forbes, deadly serious.
"Okay, then, perhaps you'd better begin," I urged.
"Right. Here goes then, and please, don't judge what you're hearing until I reach the end of my rather strange tale."
"Don't worry William. I agreed not to interrupt unless it's to ask a question or for clarification of something. I'll stick to that."
With that, William Forbes began his narrative. I admit to having no real clue as to what he was about to reveal to me and, as the wind outside the house continued to whistle gently around my island home, and the log fire crackled in the grate, my visitor at last appeared to relax as he spoke. Perhaps the opportunity to relate his story to someone had already begun having a therapeutic effect on him.
"Perhaps I should give you some background to the case before I dive right into what I have to tell you," he said. I remained silent, aware that he would probably tell me much of what I already knew from my own research into the Jack Reid case. William Forbes, however, intended to go back in time much further, back to the nineteenth century, to the reign of Queen Victoria, and the terrible crimes of Jack the Ripper himself.
"I first met Jack Reid during his second period of incarceration at the Ravenswood Special Hospital.
As with the first time, the doctor assigned to his case turned out to be Doctor Ruth Truman, the respected, superbly competent and highly qualified psychiatrist who, of course, had held out against the release of Reid following his first trial and imprisonment. She believed that, although there existed sufficient evidence to clear Reid of the Brighton murders, he remained a potential threat to society, due to his extremely disturbed state of mind. The Appeal Court judges chose to ignore her advice, of course, and released Reid into the community, with the subsequent tragic and bloody series of murders in London resulting from their decision.
I've often wondered if those judges ever lost any sleep after learning of Reid's horrendous killing spree, in Whitechapel, which, of course, they could have prevented by allowing him to remain under treatment at Ravenswood, as Doctor Truman had begged.
Anyway, it transpired, during that second spell in Ravenswood, that Jack Reid decided he wanted to appoint a new solicitor to act for him. I wasn't hired to try and secure his release, you must understand, or act for him in any way at all with regard to his conviction. Oh no, Jack Reid wanted someone to whom he could tell his story, and to then have it notarised and recorded for posterity.
You see, Doctor Hemswell, er, sorry, I mean David, Jack Reid could be, on the surface at least, a personable and charming man. There was no hint of the monster that lurked behind the surface, not when one met and spoke with him under relatively normal circumstances.
Being held in a top-security mental institution might not be most people's idea of a normal environment, but, by the time I met him, Reid had been there long enough for him to refer to the place as home. He apparently felt that the old Cavendish family firm of solicitors, in Guildford, were too close to the case for him to be able to make a clean breast of things, so he'd picked the firm I worked for from the Yellow Pages. I say worked for, in the past tense, because the strain of all that's happened recently led me to resign my position with Randall and Merryweather some weeks ago.
Anyway, you must forgive me for digressing. Now, where was I? Ah, yes, Reid contacted the firm through the hospital authorities. They have a patient's advocate who handles such things, as I later discovered. I'd worked for Randall and Merryweather for over ten years and was one of the senior solicitors at the firm, so when they received the call from such a potentially high profile client, Charles Randall asked me to take on the case, a task I accepted immediately. After all, it appeared to be nothing more than a routine matter of listening to the client and compiling a dossier of notes to be transcribed into a format acceptable to Mr. Reid, and then storing them in a place of his choice until we were instructed further as to what to do with them.
Had I known then what I know now, I would have turned Mr. Randall down, there and then, when he offered me the case. As things turned out, however, some three days after accepting, I drove down to Ravenswood on a bright, rather warm, sunny morning, with no hint in my mind of the horrors that lay in wait for me.
Doctor Truman met me at the reception desk, after I'd managed to make my way through the various security checks that exist at Ravenswood. It's a damn hard place to get in
to, I can testify to that. I can understand why no one's ever escaped from the place.
She took me into her office and told me, in no uncertain terms, that I would be dealing with an extremely dangerous man, and that under no circumstances should I be taken in by his mild and cooperative demeanour. Jack Reid was a convicted, cold-blooded killer, she reminded me, and even though his compulsion to kill came as a result of a psychological illness, it didn't take away the fact that he remained a risk to anyone who came into contact with him. When I made the point that all of his victims had been women, each one an East End prostitute, Ruth Truman answered me with a slightly chilling, 'So far, Mr. Forbes, so far.'
So, suitably warned, I found myself being led along a corridor to a consulting room where Jack Reid would, apparently, be waiting for me. Ruth Truman opened a door, two-thirds of the way along the brightly lit corridor, and ushered me into a room that took me by surprise.
It appeared, not so much a traditional doctor's consulting room, but, rather, it resembled a comfortable sitting room, with large armchairs, strewn with big, plumped up cushions, and an extra-wide sofa that could easily accommodate four people. Positioned in front of a barred window, that admitted the bright rays of the morning sun, was the only item of furniture that gave away the purpose of the room; a desk, on which stood a computer keyboard and monitor, and a push-button alarm on the comer of the desk, should the physician require assistance in a hurry.
'Jack, your new solicitor, Mr. Forbes, is here to see you, as you requested,' Ruth Truman spoke as we entered the room.
On hearing her voice, a figure rose from one of the high-backed chairs that stood with its back facing the door, thus having made it impossible for me to see that the chair contained an occupant. The slight, yet somehow imposing figure of Jack Reid rose from the chair, soundlessly, turning as he did so to allow me my first look at the infamous Ripper copycat and, of course, affording him his initial view of his new legal representative.
