by Cross, Amy
“No,” she replies, “I...”
Her voice drifts off, and a moment later she looks past me, almost as if she expects to see Jack return at any moment. Almost as if she wants him to return.
“Come on,” Culpepper says, steering her out to the steps, “we shall take a brisk walk back to the house. I rather think some air would do you good.”
Hesitating for a moment, he turns back to me.
“You don't think it is a surgeon, do you?” he asks, lowering his voice so that his wife won't hear. “The killer, I mean. I just... I can't believe that a surgeon, an educated man of status, would be capable of committing such horrible acts. The whole idea just defies belief.”
“I have read barely anything about these events,” I reply, sidestepping the question. “I'm sorry, Thomas, but I cannot really offer a sensible opinion. Let us simply wait for the truth to come out. I'm sure the killer will explain himself at some point.”
“Explain himself?” He furrows his brow. “Well, now you're starting to sound like that strange manservant you've picked up. I can't imagine how a killer could possibly have anything to explain. Then again, fellows make up all sorts of odd excuses as they're marched to the gallows. That's what I've heard, anyway, and I'm quite certain that this killer shall hang once he has been caught. There's really nothing else to be done with him, is there?”
“Good day to you both,” I reply. “Please, take your wife home and mind that she experiences no more excitement for the rest of the day. Truly, it is for her own good.”
As the Culpepper's walk away, I cannot help but notice that Delilah seems somewhat overcome. I can't imagine why, but Jack's little story appears to have struck a chord with her, and she glances back this way several times. We briefly make eye contact, and I can see something rather curious in her expression. A kind of deep thoughtfulness, of a degree I have never before seen in her countenance. In truth, Delilah Culpepper has always struck me as a rather vapid and shallow woman, but now – as she and her husband disappear around the corner – I cannot help but wonder whether something has stirred in her soul.
Whether something has woken.
Still, never mind. It cannot be anything important. And anyway, I shall not see the Culpeppers again.
As I swing the door shut, sealing myself in the house once more, I hear footsteps coming up from the basement. I tense for a moment, my mind racing as I try to work out what I shall do about this unwelcome intruder, but in truth I am also relieved that the visit passed without any kind of incident. I felt sure that Jack meant to cause trouble, yet it seems almost as if he wanted merely to help. In this manner, he seems almost pathetic.
“I'm sorry about all that,” he says suddenly, and I turn to see him in the basement doorway, holding a wrench in his hands. “I know I shouldn't have said anything, but I couldn't help myself. They were maligning you, Doctor Grazier. Well, maligning the killer, which is the same thing really. I just had to come to your defense.”
“Thank you,” I mutter, although those words hardly seem appropriate.
“Was I wrong?” he asks.
“It scarcely matters,” I tell him. “I believe you certainly gave them a different perspective on these matters.”
“I was just fixing a pipe down there,” he adds, before setting the wrench down on the table near the window. “Thought I'd make myself useful, you know? Believe it or not, I've got some training in useful trades. Well, not training, but a great deal of experience. Living in the rougher parts of town, Sir, you kind of get used to learning as you go. I dare say I've picked up a few useful skills over the years.”
“Indeed.”
“I meant what I said,” he continues. “When I came upon you in the street last night, and I watched you work, I was awestruck. I knew immediately that I was witnessing something special. Why, just now it was all I can do to keep from grabbing that gentleman by the shoulders and shaking him, and telling him that he must recognize greatness when it is right in front of his eyes. Begging your pardon, Doctor Grazier, but it seems to me that you must be a magnificent surgeon if you can conduct those procedures in the street, in bad conditions with barely any light.”
“I have certainly had my days,” I reply.
“Better than that Culpepper fellow, I'm sure. He seemed rather wishy washy.”
“He's not too bad,” I explain, “but you're right, he's not quite at the top level. He has the training, but the best surgeons also possess a degree of innate talent that cannot be taught.”
“You have that talent,” he says.
“I would like to believe so, certainly.”
“And what you've got down there in the basement is nothing short of miraculous,” he continues. “I took the liberty of having a quick flick through your notebooks, and they were filled with the most wonderful ideas. Well, the parts I understood, anyway. You're a pioneer, Doctor Grazier, and you should be respected as such. I'm only glad that I've been able to meet you, and to tell you all these things to your face. I hope I didn't scare your guests.”
“Not at all,” I reply. “Culpepper and his wife can be a little tiresome.”
“His wife's a strange one, isn't she?”
“How so?”
“There's a lot going on in there. Sure, she acts all meek and timid on the surface, but something's churning deep inside.”
“I rather doubt it. Her problem is shallowness, not depth.”
“No, I'm serious,” he continues. “Didn't you see the look in her eyes when I was talking? I can't take credit for that. I reckon all these murders have woken something in the hearts and minds of women such as her. They're being forced to consider what really goes on in the streets of London, and as much as they're horrified, I reckon they're also a little drawn to it all. Women are strange beasts sometimes, in my experience, and you never know what might suddenly get them all hot and bothered. If I were Mr. Culpepper, I'd be keeping an eye on her.”
“I don't know where you're getting that from,” I reply, “but I have known the Culpeppers for quite some time, and I can assure you that they are very mundane people. Very unexcitable.”
“Even the lady?”
“Especially the lady. She is nothing, she is merely her husband's shadow.”
“But it's human nature, isn't it? To be drawn to the macabre, I mean.”
“Perhaps for baser people, but not for the upper classes. You're not in some Whitechapel hovel now. You're in a better part of the city.”
“Ah, we'll see,” he mutters, heading over to the stairs. “You're probably right, Sir. After all, you're the educated one here, and I'm just struggling to keep up.”
“Where are you going?” I ask.
“Your late wife is still in the bedroom, is she not?” he replies, already making his way up toward the landing. He glances back at me, and now there's a faint glint in his eye. “So really, Doctor Grazier, where do you think I'm going?”
“No, stop!” I shout, hurrying to the foot of the stairs just in time to see him disappear from view. “I demand that you come back down here at once! Do you hear me? This is my house and I refuse to let you have the run of the place! Now leave my wife in peace and get back down here!”
I wait, but all I hear is the sound of his footsteps and then – a moment later – the creak of a floorboard in the master bedroom.
“Get down here!” I yell, shaking with fury, but it is evident that this uncouth ruffian cares nothing for my demands. Indeed, he seems to think that he can go wherever he wants and do whatever he wants, and I cannot help but fear that he intends to somehow disrespect Catherine's body.
I have to stop this.
I take a step forward, intending to go up there and drag the man back down if necessary, but then I hesitate with my hand on the banister. I have spent the best part of an entire morning running around after this buffoon, and it is clear that he enjoys toying with me. I should be with Catherine by now, yet here I am still in our house, still being treated like a fool
in my own home.
Slowly, I turn and look back across the hallway, toward the wrench that Jack laid on the table just a few minutes ago.
Walking over, I pick the wrench up and immediately feel its great weight. It is a blunt and brutal weapon, but I am sure that it would – if well swung – finish a man's life in a matter of seconds. I have always prided myself on being a man of honor and virtue, and I killed the whores as quickly and as painlessly as I could manage. Their deaths were always for Catherine, always to make her better. And yet now, standing here with the wrench in my hands, I realize that I shall have to kill one more time.
Not for Catherine, but for myself.
To tidy things before I go. And if that means that I shall have to add an addendum to my letter, then so be it.
Turning, I make my way across the hallway and up the stairs, carrying the wrench in my right hand. It is time for me to deal with this Jack fellow once and for all.
Chapter Sixteen
Maddie
Today
The rain has finally eased, but a few spots are still falling on the windshield. Still, at least I can finally see a little better now, and there's no sign of anybody loitering outside the police car. Then again, he might be hiding, so I continue to look out one window and then the next, terrified in case I spot the silhouetted figure again.
All I see is the empty, unlit street, and some buildings in the distance. When I look out the window next to me, I can just about make out the river and, beyond that, the lights of the city skyscrapers. My heart's still pounding and I can't relax just yet, but I'm starting to consider the possibility that I might actually get out of here alive. All I have to do is wait until morning, and then I can run.
I look out the rear window, then out the side, then out toward the buildings.
Suddenly I see him.
The silhouetted figure is back, but this time he's much further away. He's standing at the corner of one building, and he's so far away now that I can't even tell for certain that he's looking this way. In fact, I can't even be sure that it's the same guy. I wait for a moment, before turning to the police radio and wondering whether I should try calling for help. I mean, sure, I'd have to run once the other police officers arrived, but at least they might scare the silhouette guy away. And the longer I leave this, the more worried I become about Officer Wallace. What if he's hurt? What if he needs urgent help, and he ends up dying because I wait too long?
I reach out and pick up the radio, and then I look out the window again.
The figure is gone.
I glance around, but there's no sign of him. Leaning closer to the glass, with the radio still in my hand, I watch in case -
Suddenly I hear footsteps nearby, and I turn just in time to see a figure stepping toward the driver's door. I hear the handle being tried several times, but fortunately I locked the door as soon as Matt left earlier. I stare in horror as the figure tries again and again to get into the car, and then I reach over to activate the radio.
“Hey!”
I let out a startled gasp as somebody knocks on the window, and then I see Officer Wallace leaning down and staring in at me through the rain-streaked glass.
A moment later I hear a key in the door, and finally he climbs back into the car.
“The stupid flashlight died on me,” he mutters as he switches on the light inside the car and takes off his waterproof jacket. “I was wandering about out there in the dark for a while. I don't get why they don't have street-lights around here. I mean, they have them, but the bulbs are all out and -”
“I thought you were dead!” I stammer, reaching over and hugging him.
“Uh, you did?”
“Well, I mean...”
Pulling back, I realize that the hug might have been something of an overreaction.
“Well,” I continue, “I considered the possibility.”
“I might catch pneumonia,” he replies, “but apart from that, I think I'm okay.”
“Who was he?” I ask, looking outside but no longer seeing any sign of the silhouetted man. “Where did he go?”
“The guy you thought was the murderer?” He sighs. “He was just a concerned local who said he thought he'd spotted someone loitering over by those buildings. He said it was probably nothing, but he thought someone should check it out, so that's what I did. We've been getting a lot of reports like that lately. Some people are taking their civic responsibilities very seriously and reporting every bump or bang they hear. I guess it's good, but it leads to a lot of wild goose chases.”
“How do you know he wasn't trying to distract you?”
“Why would he do that?”
“So he could get to me!”
“And did he try to get to you while I was gone?”
I pause for a moment, fully aware that I must be sounding paranoid and narcissistic. “No...”
“And did you have the doors locked the whole time?”
“Yes, but -”
“And did he actually try to get into the car?”
“No.”
“Did he come closer?”
“He went further away.”
“So I think we can chalk this up as a perfectly normal encounter with a concerned citizen. It's okay to be jumpy. Everyone's jumpy, especially with the way things are going right now.”
I look out toward the river, and to my surprise I realize I can see the sky starting to brighten just a little in the distance. Morning has finally arrived, which means I made it through the night, and now the rain seems to have stopped completely. The city is waking up from its curfew, and soon the streets will be packed again.
“Did anything come over on the radio?” Wallace asks.
I turn to him. “No, there was nothing.”
“I guess they still haven't caught him, then,” he replies. “Then again, I guess it also means there were no more murders during the night, so that's a good thing.” He pauses to straighten the front of his uniform, and then he rubs his eyes as if he's on the verge of falling asleep. “We'll find him today, I'm sure of it. I've got a good feeling. There's no way he'll slip through the net again. By now, they'll have some new leads. I wouldn't be surprised if somewhere in London right now, a door's getting battered down.”
“I should go,” I mutter, turning and unlocking the door next to me. Pushing the door open, I step out into cold air, and I feel my feet almost slipping on the wet grass. At the same time I feel a flicker of hungry nausea in my belly, but that's not a new sensation. I feel that way most mornings.
I look around, but there's no sign of the figure now.
“Where are you going to go to?” Wallace asks.
“I'll be fine.”
“You know, I could use force to take you to a shelter,” he continues. “We've been told we're allowed to do that. Special circumstances and all.”
“You could try,” I reply, turning and looking back into the car. “I'd run and you know it.”
“I do know it.” He pauses, as if he's all out of ideas. “You don't have to go just yet. It's only just getting light. You can wait until it's properly morning, if you prefer.”
“I should get going.”
“So can you at least tell me your name?”
“Why?”
“Why not?”
“My name's not important.”
“I'm not going to do anything with it,” he explains, before reaching into the car's glove compartment and taking out a notebook. Grabbing a pen, he scribbles something down, and then he tears out a page and holds it out for me. “Take this.”
“What is it?”
“Take it.”
I take the piece of paper and see that he's written his name and phone number. His handwriting's pretty bad, but I can just about decipher the note.
“Matthew,” I mutter.
Huh. That's the second person with that name I've met in the past twenty-four hours. The asshole with the camera in Trafalgar Square was called Matt too. Another coincidence.
“People call me Matt,” he replies. “Well, no, actually at work they all call me Wally, but I don't like that very much. But I'd appreciate it if you could at least let me know that you're okay. Just a call would do, in a day or two. Let me know that you're okay, and that you've left London while this killer's around. I'm not being weird, but I'd like to know that you're looking after yourself while all of this is still going on. And if you need anything else at any point, even after this killer's been caught, don't hesitate to give me a call.”
“I really won't need to,” I tell him.
“Hang onto it anyway. Just in case. You never know when it might come in handy.”
“Maybe,” I reply, although – as I fold the piece of paper and slip it into my pocket – I know deep down that I won't call him. What would be the point? Besides, I doubt he really means it. He'll have forgotten about me by tonight. “Thanks for letting me sit in your car. Sorry I made the seat a bit wet, I hope it dries out soon. I hope the rest of your shift goes okay.”
He checks his watch. “Actually my shift ended two hours ago,” he says with a tired sigh, “and I'm back on duty in another five. I should probably get home and try to sleep. I won't be any use to anyone if I'm like a zombie. Then again, everyone's exhausted at the moment. There's probably going to be a run on coffee soon.”
I take a step back.
I should turn and walk away right now, but – as Wallace rubs his eyes again – I feel like maybe I could at least stop acting like such a cold bitch.
After all, without him, I might not have made it through the night.
“Maddie,” I say finally.
Damn. Why did I do that?
He turns to me. “Huh?”
Too late now.
“That's my name,” I reply. “You asked, and I'm telling you. I'm Maddie.”
“Are you really Maddie,” he asks, “or is that a cool fake name?”
“Cool?” I can't help smiling. “Are you kidding me? There's nothing cool about Maddie.”
