Tales from the Vatican Vaults: 28 extraordinary stories by Kristine Kathryn Rusch, Garry Kilworth, Mary Gentle, KJ Parker, Storm Constantine and many more

by David V. Barrett

  A hand clapped down on my shoulder from behind and I whirled around to see Father Paul standing behind me in the street.

  ‘You ran out of there in a tremendous hurry,’ he began – then he saw my face and said, ‘Good gracious, what on earth is the matter?’

  ‘He was just here.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘That lunatic. That lunatic they’re calling the Whitechapel Murderer. He was just here in the confessional booth with me. He said—’

  But Father Paul interrupted me. ‘Not another word. Come into the vestry with me at once.’

  I followed him back into the church, thankful that at least a senior priest would soon know of what had occurred and would be better placed than me to know what ought to be done about it.

  But as soon as the door closed behind us, Father Paul turned on me with the first real anger I had ever seen him show to anyone. ‘What on earth were you thinking of?’ he said. ‘You were about to divulge the details of a private confessional to me! Right there in the street!’

  I stared at him. My robes felt damp with sweat and even the inside of my head felt hot. ‘Didn’t you . . .’ I began, unsticking my tongue from my bone-dry mouth, ‘. . . didn’t you hear what I said? I know who the Whitechapel Murderer is!’

  ‘And what do you intend to do about it?’ Father Paul demanded.

  ‘Well . . .’ I faltered, unsure of myself. Every fibre of my being screamed that we must go directly to the police but I knew well enough that the confidentiality of the confessional was sacrosanct. ‘Is there not some exception?’ I began. ‘When a person’s life is at risk? If we were to ask Scotland Yard to—’

  ‘The sacramental seal is inviolable,’ Father Paul interrupted. ‘Utterly inviolable. Frankly, I am shocked to hear you talking in this manner. To even suggest breaking the seal is—’

  ‘But you didn’t hear what he said!’

  ‘It doesn’t matter in the least what he said. A Catholic priest may not reveal the details of a private confession to anyone, under any circumstances. I can see this has been distressing for you – you are new to this, and young besides, and I am sorry for that – but this is what you committed yourself to when you were ordained. When you have been in the East End a little longer, you will no longer be quite so shocked by some of the things you hear in the confessional. This is a troubled area of London. There has been a lot of sensationalist press nonsense over these murders and, quite frankly, I shouldn’t be at all surprised if this person you spoke with wasn’t just some youth playing a prank on you. You must have seen the children on every street corner, playing at being the Ripper with those crude wooden knives? Besides, everyone knows that the Whitechapel Murderer is likely a depraved immigrant or itinerant gypsy who probably can’t even speak English. No Englishman would ever behave in such a manner.’

  ‘But he was English. In fact, he was a gentleman—’

  ‘I really must insist,’ Father Paul cut me off, looking quite furious, ‘that you do not utter another word about it. I cannot know any more about him than I already do.’

  ‘But you do know – all of London knows – that this man isn’t merely killing women, he is butchering them, and mutilating them as well, in the most violent manner, and it gets increasingly violent each time. He did not seem to expect, or even want, absolution, and I am convinced that he will kill again. Surely I have a duty to protect those innocent souls who will be his next victims?’

  ‘Innocent souls is takings things a bit far, I think,’ Father Paul replied with the ghost of a smile. ‘From what I understand, the killer’s victims have all been fallen women.’

  I stared at him for a moment, shocked by the heartlessness of his remark. A drop of sweat fell into my eye and I wiped it away with the back of my hand. ‘I think – I believe – that most people fall into sin without meaning to, or wanting to.’

  ‘One does not simply fall into sin,’ Father Paul said sternly. ‘What a thing to suggest! We have free will and the ability to choose what we do with it.’

  ‘But surely,’ I said, picking my words with care as I tried to think through that confounded headache that would not stop beating and beating against the side of my head like a devil trying to dig its way out. ‘Surely, if someone’s life is at stake—’

  ‘It is an inviolable seal,’ Father Paul said again. ‘You may not break it, even to save a life – even to save your own life. Really, Father, I begin to think you must be quite unwell to even speak in such a way as this. And you look ghastly, besides.’

  I felt ghastly. My collar was too tight around my throat, my tongue felt too large for my mouth and I was hot, so very, very hot. ‘I just . . . I think I ate something last night that has not agreed with me.’

  I could still hear that velvety voice, whispering in my ear.

  A wet, squeaking, slobbering cry . . .

  Engorged purple worms . . .

  More like the hide of a pig than the skin of a woman . . .

  Too late, I realised that I really did need to sit down. At once.

  I turned, trying to remember where the chair was, but the room tilted and unbalanced me. I stumbled and would have fallen if Father Paul hadn’t grabbed hold of my arm.

  ‘Good God, James, you really are ill. Why on earth didn’t you say something? I wouldn’t have had you sitting in the confessional all that time if I’d known.’

  He helped me to the chair and the next moment pressed a glass of water into my hands, but they were trembling so badly I could barely hold the glass.

  I couldn’t get them out of my mind – those poor women – not only murdered, but sliced up and mutilated as well, left like slaughtered animals spilling out their guts upon the filthy cobbles.

  ‘I can see this has been a bad shock for you,’ Father Paul said in a kindlier tone. ‘We’ll forgive your earlier outburst. I’ve no doubt that you heard some terrible things in the booth today – but you will hear plenty more, I can assure you. This isn’t the country; this is the East End of London. This is what happens here. The press might be making a great song and dance about it, but this is nothing shocking or new. People die here, Father – whether people make a fuss about it or not.’

  *

  Five weeks passed and there were no further murders. People were saying that the Whitechapel Killer – or Jack the Ripper, as everyone seemed intent on calling him now – must have died or been institutionalised or gone back to whatever country he’d originally come from. And yet I could not believe it, could not feel easier in my mind about it. There would be another murder – I was quite certain – and their blood would be on my hands, as much as on his.

  I was feeling quite low when I went to visit my brother at the Langham. Charles had wired me to say that he was in London on business – by which he meant inveterate gambling – and that he’d like to see me while he was in the city.

  I tried not to resent Charles for inheriting our father’s estates and vast fortune while I, as the unfortunate second son, had had to find respectable employment elsewhere. It wasn’t always easy. And meeting at the most luxurious hotel in London only made it worse. Like peering back through the mists of time at another life – another world – that I was no longer a part of and never would be again. I found myself quite startled by the sight of the shining silver teapot on the crisp white tablecloth between us. Truly, it could not have seemed more strange to me than if it had been an ancient relic from a lost civilisation.

  As for the triple-tiered cake stand – with its candied fruit spotted with molten sugar, and lemon cakes piped with white flowers – it was quite the prettiest thing I had seen in weeks.

  ‘For God’s sake, James, don’t they feed you at that place?’ Charles said. ‘You’re far too thin. You should have sent some warning. I might have brought Mother with me and she would have been most put out.’

  ‘Does Mother normally accompany you to the gambling dens you insist on frequenting here in London?’ I enquired.

  Charles set his j
aw in that obstinate way of his, but didn’t respond to the accusation, or acknowledge it. ‘Why do you look like that?’ he said instead. ‘Has something happened?’

  ‘I was unwell for a while,’ I replied. ‘But I’m all right now.’

  My eyes were drawn again to the teapot. It had exquisite floral repoussé work engraved all around it, each petal and leaf its own little triumph of miniature perfection. I couldn’t resist reaching out to brush my fingers against the polished shaped handle and delicately formed floral finial.

  ‘And the work suits you?’ Charles went on. ‘You’re happy here?’

  I drew my hand away from the teapot. ‘Charles,’ I said, ‘what would you do if you knew a secret you felt a moral obligation – an absolute moral obligation – to share with someone, but knew there would be dire consequences as a result?’

  Charles raised his eyebrows, paused with the cake half way to his mouth. ‘Is this about Mary?’

  ‘Of course this isn’t about Mary!’

  ‘What are you talking about then?’

  ‘Oh, never mind. Forget I—’

  I broke off mid-sentence, felt all the breath rush out of me as if I’d just been kicked in the chest by a carriage horse.

  He was there. Right outside the plate-glass windows, in broad daylight, standing in the middle of all the hustle and bustle of Regent Street, staring through the glass directly at me. And he was covered in blood.

  It dripped from the ends of his fingers, ran in slow trails down his left cheek, congealed in the ends of his hair. His lips parted in a slow smile but, instead of exposing his teeth, they exposed muscle and tissue – the pink, bloodied mass of whatever unidentifiable human organ he’d stuffed into his mouth. The next second he’d swallowed it whole and was still looking at me as he licked the blood from his bone-white teeth.

  I leapt to my feet so fast that I upset the table. Crockery spilled to the floor in a deafening series of silver chimes. ‘He’s done it again!’

  ‘What? Who?’ Charles stared around stupidly.

  The Whitechapel Murderer was still looking right at me when, slowly and deliberately, he silently mouthed two words through the glass.

  ‘What’s the matter with you?’ Charles said.

  I glanced back at him. ‘He’s there.’ I pointed. ‘On the other side of the—’ But when I looked back, he had gone. Completely vanished.

  ‘Someone must have seen him. Someone must have seen him out there, covered in blood like that.’

  I didn’t realise I’d spoken the words aloud until Charles said, ‘Covered in blood? What are you talking about?’

  I ignored him and pushed my way outside – I could have been no more than a few moments behind him – and yet he was gone. Vanished. Like smoke.

  Black magician . . .

  The words came unbidden to my mind and I desperately tried to shut them out, to deny the possibility. But no one had seen him. A man dripping with blood in the middle of the afternoon would create a stir even in the East End, let alone in the upper-class echelons of Regent Street. But no one had reacted to him. It was as if he’d never even been there.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Charles was there all of a sudden, blundering out beside me onto the pavement. ‘Has some fellow got himself knocked down by a carriage?’

  ‘It was the Whitechapel Murderer,’ I said. ‘He was here.’

  Charles stared at me. ‘But . . . nobody knows who he is.’

  ‘I know who he is. He came into the confessional a few weeks ago.’

  ‘Well, who is he then?’

  ‘I don’t know his name. But I know him. He was there. When Mary died.’

  My brother went suddenly absolutely still, and I started to think he wasn’t going to speak at all when he finally said, ‘There was no one else there when Mary died, James.’

  ‘There was, I tell you. He was there. He—’ I bit my tongue, unable to say it – to put it into words. ‘Look, none of that matters now anyway. The point is that I know who the Ripper is – he told me everything in the confessional – and he was just here, right here, and he told me the name of the person he’s going to kill next.’

  Charles didn’t say anything so I turned to look at him, quite irritated that he couldn’t even summon enough interest in the matter to ask her name. But, to my surprise, he was staring at me with an ashen expression on his face so perhaps he did care after all.

  ‘Mary Kelly,’ I said. ‘She lives at 13 Miller’s Court.’

  ‘How do you know that?’ Charles asked, breaking his silence at last.

  He sounded odd. An odd tone altogether – almost as if . . . almost as if he were accusing me of something.

  ‘How do I know what?’ I asked.

  Charles licked his lips. ‘Where the girl lives, James.’

  I stared at him. ‘Well, she . . .’ I blinked, trying to remember. ‘She must have told me. She’s a Catholic girl, she . . . she comes to my church. I’ve heard her confession many times. Yes, I’m sure she mentioned her address at some point.’ I looked at him. ‘What do you think I should do?’

  But Charles just stared back at me with that imbecile expression that was so typical of him. ‘About?’

  ‘About the fact that I know who the Whitechapel Murderer is going to kill next, of course! Do you think I should warn her?’

  I don’t know why I ever expected any sensible assistance from Charles of all people. He just shook his head, pinched the bridge of his nose as if suddenly exhausted, and said, ‘I don’t know, James. I just don’t know.’

  I shook myself, came to my senses. This was nothing to do with Charles. I shouldn’t even be speaking of it to him in the first place. ‘Look, let’s finish our tea. Forget I said anything. I’ll consult with Father Paul when I get back to St Michael’s.’

  ‘Father Paul?’ Charles asked with what seemed an unusual keenness. ‘Is that your mentor at the church?’

  ‘He’s the senior priest,’ I replied. Of course, I had no intention of speaking to Father Paul about it. Not after how badly it had gone the last time. But I had to give Charles an excuse not to involve himself.

  We returned to the dining room of the Langham but it was a stilted affair and I was relieved when it was over – as, I am sure, was Charles. We seemed a long way away from the closeness we had once shared as boys. He seemed drawn and distracted throughout, hardly paying attention to the small talk I attempted to make, and I couldn’t tell if he was troubling himself with what I’d said earlier or was just uninterested. Probably the latter. As adults he’d never much concerned himself with my affairs and I didn’t expect, or want, him to start now. He cared more for the horses he kept in his stables than he did for me.

  We would have parted from each other amicably enough, though, if he hadn’t said what he’d said in the lobby.

  We were just in the process of parting – I to return to St Michael’s and Charles to return to his suite upstairs – when he looked at me, right at me, and said, ‘You know, I always thought you’d make a fine priest. You sound like one. I never knew anyone with such a velvet tone as you.’

  That roar – the sudden roar of blood thumping and screaming in my ears – was so loud that I couldn’t hear myself think, couldn’t remember how to breathe or behave or be normal. I don’t even know how it happened. Only that my fingers were suddenly around Charles’s throat, my thumbs pressing into the precise spot I knew would cut off the air supply, and his eyes – those chocolate brown eyes of his – were bulging back at me, and we had crossed over together into a place we would not be returning from.

  ‘I do not!’ The words hissed from between my teeth. ‘I do not sound like that! That’s him, it isn’t me, it is not me, God damn you!’

  Someone – I don’t know who, a bellhop or a passerby or someone – grabbed the back of my coat and dragged me away.

  ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Someone’s been attacked!’

  ‘Should we call the police?’

  ‘No!
No, do not involve the police!’

  That last voice was Charles. My eyes focused on him, and I was surprised to see him slumped on the floor, a worried-looking bellhop crouched by his side. I knew I’d pressed harder than I’d meant to. His voice was a hoarse whisper, throaty and raw, and he winced with each word, but he spoke them firmly enough. ‘I’m fine,’ he said. ‘Do not call the police.’

  I took a step backwards, unsettled by the sight of him crumpled on the floor like that, and not entirely sure what had just happened. The vast lobby suddenly felt like it was closing in on me.

  ‘James, please,’ Charles said – one hand clasped to his throat, the other stretched out towards me, palm outspread, ‘please don’t go. Not like this.’

  But I couldn’t help it. I turned and fled.

  *

  I did not return to St Michael’s. Instead I wandered for a while around Mayfair before finally ending up in Regent’s Park where I sat on a bench and tried to think it all out. I realised now that I had been wrong to think that either Father Paul or Charles might be able to counsel me. It was God I must look to for guidance, God who would show me the way. It had been Him all along. So I sat on the bench and prayed until long after the sun had gone down.

  Eventually, I left Regent’s Park and returned to the East End, but not to the church. Instead I went to Dorset Street in Spitalfields. I’d heard it called the worst street in London and, by Heaven, it was certainly deserving of the title. A wretched, forsaken place where the shout of ‘murder’ was so commonplace that no one even reacted to it anymore.

  On the corner connecting Dorset Street with Commercial Street, the Britannia Public House spilled its usual iniquitous mob of cut-throats and drunkards out onto the street, and I passed through them hurriedly, feeling quite anxious for my safety. Father Paul had been right in one respect: murders, muggings and mutilations were commonplace here and I knew I must be mad to have come alone to this part of London after nightfall. But I had to at least try to warn Mary of the danger. Perhaps she could go and stay with a friend for a day or two. Perhaps she could even leave London altogether. Sacramental seal or not, I had a duty to at least give her that chance.