by Laird Barron
Arthur, realizing he was being offered a far better life than he could ever have hoped for, he readily consented to the plan. Ornin’s ready kindness and generosity quickly won the boy’s loyalty and affection as well.
It came as no surprise to Ornin when his wife took to little Arthur instantly. At last she had a child to love and nurture, the single missing element in her otherwise happy life. Arthur initially reacted with guarded caution, but he soon found in her the motherly love for which he had always longed. She and her husband were a decade older than his actual parents had been, but that meant nothing to him if he even noticed the fact. They loved him, and that was more than enough. For the first time since his real father had vanished from his life, Arthur was truly happy. This gave him the strength to repress much of the pain and trauma he had experienced, although the memories would continue to haunt him for the rest of his life. He and Ornin avoided referencing the night they had met, apart from those infrequent moments when Mrs. Ornin gently probed for more information. She stopped her prodding after a while, fearing her curiosity, if carried too far, might somehow ruin the happiness of her newly established family.
As the months and years went by, Ornin let it be known that he hoped Arthur would eventually take his place as the owner of his successful business enterprise. He did not force the issue, even after he and his wife made Arthur their legal heir. He knew it would be best for his new son to choose his own path once his interests and abilities should blossom. And that path, it seemed, might as easily lead him into medicine as into business. His “grandfather,” Damon Ornin, M.D., had taught anatomy and physiology for many years at a local medical college after retiring from private practice. He grew so fond of his clever “grandson” that he encouraged the youth to follow in his footsteps. In private sessions, Dr. Ornin taught young Arthur much about the human body and the surgical methods required should he choose to pursue medicine. When the boy reached the age of sixteen, old Dr. Ornin invited him to assist him in performing a series of autopsies for the benefit of his students. Much to his disappointment, however, Arthur, though an able apprentice, evinced only a passing interest in medicine. Nonetheless, some years later, the knowledge he gleaned from the anatomical demonstrations would prove quite invaluable once his true path finally became clear.
The dark memories buried deep in his subconscious did not prevent Arthur from enjoying his new life to the fullest. Yet, having no one with whom he could share his inner turmoil, he kept to himself much of the time. He made friends easily, but inwardly he brooded over the past. He never doubted that someone must do something to prevent other innocent children from enduring such abuse as he had suffered, but he failed to contrive a remedy. It was a dark period in England’s history, when the poor, both young and old, became mere fuel to fire the engines of the country’s booming industries. But amid that smoke-choked darkness some small sparks appeared, as prominent men like the popular writer Charles Dickens used their influence to bring attention to the plight of the destitute. Arthur wished he had some influence to bring to bear, but he had none.
Only after both Ornin and his wife passed away did a daring plan begin to clearly formulate in his mind. Having reached maturity as the thirty-year-old owner of Ornin’s company, he finally felt truly free to set the initial elements of this plan into motion. Before long he had brutally murdered four of his mother’s old friends without arousing the least suspicion of either Scotland Yard or the detectives of the Metropolitan Police. It wasn’t that his crimes went without notice; on the contrary, the outcry was at once very great. The greater the popular panic, the greater the urgency of the authorities to find the culprit. But none ever glanced in Arthur Belmont’s direction.
He found it amusing when an upstart author by the name of Arthur Conan Doyle offered Scotland Yard his services and expertise as an amateur detective. The man’s credentials amounted to little more than having published a fairly popular mystery novel the previous year. When Doyle announced the identity of the killer, Arthur watched with interest as, after arresting and questioning the accused, Scotland Yard released the suspect after the most cursory interrogation; Doyle had accused an innocent man. Embarrassed, the “great detective” returned to writing. It seemed he was a brilliant sleuth only on paper.
So far, Arthur had outsmarted them all. The officials and even the torch-wielding vigilante groups were seeking a vicious, sex-driven madman, a slavering, inhuman monster, thereby launching their own investigations in the wrong direction. There were many who were convinced the killer was a Jew, because of what some thought might be a message from the killer, scrawled in chalk on a wall near where one of the earlier victims had been found; it contained an obscure reference to Jews, though none to the murders. Arthur knew nothing of the confused graffiti, but the public was in such an uproar that the police felt obliged to obliterate the message lest it become a pretext for violence against London’s Jews. No one knew how many suspects had been hauled in and questioned at length, but there had been many. There had even been rumors that the killer might be a woman or a member of the Royal family. The greater the furor his efforts created, the more Arthur was delighted. He most assuredly did not want anyone else to receive either the credit or the blame for his deeds.
It had proven a challenge for Arthur to avoid detection for so many months, to be sure, but he felt confident he could accomplish his purpose before getting caught. After all, his plan demanded he kill only once more, albeit using methods even more dramatic and vile than those he had applied to any of his previous victims. If his luck held, Mary would present him with that opportunity before morning.
During his investigations, he had learned that, like his own mother of ill memory, Mary had permitted, even encouraged, some of her clients to misuse her two children. Oh, there was no doubt she deserved the end Arthur had in mind for her. Her children, unlike so many others, had been fortunate enough to escape further torture when Mary’s elder sister heard of the abuse. She had become so enraged that she had taken both children, against Mary’s will, to live with her in the country. The sister later convinced Mary to give her custody of both children by pointing out how her life would be easier with two fewer mouths to feed. On her own, Mary’s drinking had increased but, by working the streets, she had managed to support herself despite frequently falling behind in her rent. Currently, she was twenty-plus shillings in arrears, with but a single day remaining before she and her ratty belongings would together be thrown into the street. She certainly had not earned enough from the single client with whom Arthur had earlier observed her in the alley, so he felt quite sure he should see her on the prowl again at any moment. How pleased he felt at how very nicely all the pieces of his plan were coming together!
The sound of a woman’s voice, singing “Sweet Violets,” prevented Arthur from continuing his musings, snapping his attention back to the present. Glancing toward the source of the song, he saw Mary stumble out the front door of the Ten Bells. She had plainly had too much to drink. Immediately behind her, two other drunken Megs emerged from the smoke-filled pub, clutching each other in an effort to remain upright. They bade Mary a good night before turning to toddle away in the opposite direction.
After allowing Mary a few moments to regain some semblance of sobriety, Arthur began walking toward her slowly, pretending he was headed away from the direction of her home in Miller’s Court. He dared not want to approach from behind as that would certainly frighten her. He stopped a short distance away from her and softly whispered, “Are you all right, Miss?”
Surprised at the sudden emergence of a stranger out of the darkness, she angrily snapped, “Who wants to know?”
“Oh, I do beg your pardon,” he said. “I was just passing by, on my way home, when I noticed you. It struck me that you might be in some sort of distress. My mistake. Please forgive the intrusion.” With a benevolent smile and tip of the hat, he wished her a good night and made to depart.
Disarmed by his demeanor, Mary
’s thoughts returned to the important matter of her unpaid rent. “Cor…” she said, waving her hand to demonstrate that she had overreacted. “You was just bein’ a gentleman. I shouldn’t be so gruff. It’s me that should apologize, sir.”
He relaxed. It was going to be simple to convince her to take him back to her room. He would pretend to be a novice at this sort of thing, ignorant enough to agree to an extravagant amount in return for the intimacy her residence would provide them. As this was a method he had not previously used, he had nearly hesitated to try it, unsure if the act would fool this woman. Obviously, his luck still held.
She immediately began flirting with him, subtly and with respect. He played the naive foil well, allowing her to suggest he accompany her home as all the talk of a killer on the loose made a “poor girl” like her nervous. And he had expected this game to be difficult!
He leaned down to retrieve a valise approximately the size of a doctor’s bag before offering her his arm. They made small talk along the way until she once again spontaneously burst into song, prompted, no doubt, by her lack of sobriety. She had a rather charming voice, he noted, encouraging her to continue but not so loud as to attract unwanted attention.
It was a short walk to Dorset Street, then Miller’s Court, where they encountered a man who knew Mary. He insisted on asking her if all was well, while simultaneously doing his best to get a better look at her unfamiliar companion. Despite his efforts to see Arthur’s face, it was too dark and Arthur’s hat made it impossible for the man to get a clear look at him. In addition, his large handlebar mustache served to obscure more of Arthur’s features. Mary thwarted her friend’s curiosity by emphatically bidding him good evening as she guided Arthur away from the street and into the court. Resuming her singing, she did not even find it odd when her companion redirected her stumbling gait away from the stairs leading to the second-floor landing. Had she been sober, she surely would have thought it quite peculiar that he apparently knew the way to her room as well or better than she did.
Upon reaching the door, she giggled mischievously and turned away. She mumbled as she explained that she had recently misplaced the key, although a female friend who had been staying with her for a few days might have possession of it. Walking to a window, she carefully reached inside through a broken pane. Moving a flimsy curtain aside, she easily unlatched the lock from within.
Bitter memories flooded Arthur’s mind as he followed her into the small, sparsely furnished room that he remembered only too well. Mary lit a candle, perching it on a large table opposite the bed. It seemed little had changed since he had lived here as a child; the same old headboard stood at the top of a single bed wedged into a corner by the window. He took care to avoid knocking over the piles of old newspapers and of stray clothes carelessly stacked near the fireplace. A bedpan and jug near the unmade bed completed the depressing setting. Difficult as it was for him to revisit his past this way, it was vital that he steel himself for what he was about to do. He placed his bag upon the table and stood, unmoving, in the dim candlelight.
Feigning awkward shyness, a few moments later he mumbled, “Well, my dear, now that you’re safely home, I should probably be on my way.”
“Oh, no, please don’t leave,” she begged. “I don’t feel like being alone just now.” She fumbled with his coat, eagerly trying to convince him he should stay. There had, as yet, been no mention of sex or payment, so she carried on about the kindness she saw in his eyes and how lonely she was, confident he would soon warm to her advances.
In time, he agreed to remain, pretending to find her pandering all but irresistible. Encouraged by indications of progress, she displayed her delight by dancing wistfully around the room. She apologized for having nothing to offer him beyond a bit of left-over whiskey mixed with water from a common spigot just outside her room, but he refused the drink, telling her there was no need to fuss over him.
She snatched the hat from his head, humming the same tune she had been singing earlier. She then ran her hand affectionately across his cheek. His attitude, though she finally persuaded him to remove his coat, remained stoic. She could see this man was somehow different from the ones she usually met, and thus she decided to bide her time before cautiously broaching the subject of payment. If she acted too hastily, he might decide to leave. She urged him to sit on the edge of the bed, then sat next to him, resting her shoulders against his arm with her back to him. When he raised his arms, she awaited his embrace.
She felt very confident of success until he lowered his arms and slipped his woolen scarf around her neck. She felt the unexpected bite of the scarf tighten about her throat, depriving her lungs of air. She thrashed about desperately but, as she faced away from him, she could barely reach him, let alone overpower him or escape his grasp. The pain of being strangled was instantly preempted by her desperate need for air.
Arthur held the woolen noose taut for a full five minutes, long after her struggle had ceased. The last thing he needed or wanted was for her to wake up during that which was to come. Suffocation was definitely unpleasant, but it was the kindest means to an end as far as he was concerned. When the heart stopped beating, blood stopped circulating through the body, a vital factor to be considered before cutting anyone’s throat. This way, the blood did not gush from a dead body. If he were to cut her throat while she lived, it would splatter wildly onto everything in close proximity. He had carefully worked out this portion of his plan in his head long before approaching his first victim on the street. Once his victim was dead, he could easily move to avoid the slow-moving blood draining from the body. He wondered if the police had yet realized this was the reason no one had reported seeing anyone covered with blood fleeing the murder scenes.
Over the course of the next three hours, Arthur Belmont forced himself to remain as aloof and objective as possible. His was a task so gruesome that, without distancing his thoughts from his actions, he would not have the fortitude to complete it. The training he had received from his “grandfather” alone provided him the ability to work while remaining so totally detached from that which his eyes could not avoid.
He placed the once desirable body on the bed before proceeding to clumsily remove her clothing, then much, but not all, of his own. Fetching his bag from the table, he pulled out several large, very sharp knives that he had carefully wrapped in the change of clothing he had stuffed inside the bag earlier. In order to see what he was doing, he required more light, so he quickly gathered together all of the newspapers and loose clothing in the room; he would burn them in the grate as needed. Although this provided the necessary illumination, the resultant heat caused sweat to pour freely from his body, quickly soaking his clothes. He could only ignore this inconvenience and return to his main objective, the creation of a masterpiece of unbelievable horror.
Slowly and with great care, he began to cut and peel the unmoving form. Pulling the table closer to the bed, he placed her viscera neatly on the flat wooden surface. He deftly sliced off her breasts before arranging them neatly on the table next to her intestines, meaning to lay them back onto the body once he was finished. One by one, other organs were removed and carefully deposited next to each other. It was as if he were emptying her torso, piece by piece. He went on to mutilate her arms and peel the skin from much of her face, transforming her beyond all recognition. Her blood saturated the bedclothes before flowing down to form a large pool on the floorboards beneath the bed. It was a very nasty business, but he forced himself to continue. Having attacked the vaginal area, he concluded his task by denuding the front of her right thigh all the way to the bone and carving flaps from the skin of her torso and posterior.
Exhaustion set in as he transformed an attractive woman into a hideous mass of blood and guts. At last he was convinced he had done enough. He placed one of her arms across her chest, resting the hand on the opposite shoulder in imitation of the royal Egyptian mummies his fellow countrymen delighted in unwrapping at parties for the entertainme
nt of their posh friends.
He finally stood up and crossed the room to fetch water from the spigot in the hall. It took several more trips to the spigot and trough before he was satisfied that he had rinsed as much of the blood as possible from his body and tools. He removed what he had been wearing and tossed the garments into the fire, exchanging the wet clothing for fresh, dry garments from the bag. Wiping the perspiration from his brow, he prepared to leave, extinguishing the candle while allowing the slowly dying fire to continue burning. The experience had all been very matter-of-fact for him. He had displayed none of the sexual frenzy, depravity or insanity the police were so sure were the driving forces behind his heinous crimes. Now all he sought was an undetected departure and a good night’s rest, free of dreams forcing him to relive what he had done.
No one had yet guessed his clever means of eluding capture, though it was actually quite simple. As the owner and head officer of a demolition company he was required by the City to inspect the sewage tunnels in all of the areas where destruction was planned. He had been officially entrusted with the keys to the great metal entrances that led to the brick labyrinth of tunnels beneath the streets. In addition, those same oh-so-considerate fools had given him a map to ensure he would not become lost within the arcane sewer system.
London, East End, late night November 9, 1888
Having been accepted into the London Metropolitan Police only a year earlier, twenty-year-old Edmund Setlock retained the low rank of a simple Constable. He was just another Bobby on the beat, despite being the nephew of Chief Commissioner Sir Charles Warren. His uncle had insisted the familial ties be kept secret from the rest of the force and warned his sister’s eldest son that no special preferences would be accorded him. Setlock had readily agreed to those conditions before going on to prove himself a most excellent recruit. In truth, PC Setlock harbored no real desire for high position; he was satisfied to perform public service while enjoying a very real sense of freedom as he patrolled the streets each night. The only disadvantage was having to witness the deplorable poverty, pitiful desperation, and appalling rate of crime not only in his assigned district of Whitechapel, but in the adjacent district of Spitalfields as well. He did not much mind the feelings of isolation he frequently experienced while walking the night, especially since the number of PCs assigned to the “murder area” had been increased from twenty-seven to eighty-nine in recent weeks, each constable’s beat having been carefully formulated to ensure that at least one man patrolled each block once every fifteen minutes.
