by Mike Ashley
Kingsley listened to these facts with chill horror, though his master remained hard and unemotional.
“Only a devil would do something like this,” exclaimed the servant. “Only a devil could.”
Urmston mused. “If it is a devil, it’s a devil in human guise . . . for it needs to move easily in this district without some mob coming in pursuit of it.”
“The thing that confuses me most, my lord,” the serjeant interrupted, “is what has the villain to gain? These women are penniless strumpets, scarcely worth robbing let alone tormenting to death.”
“That is certainly a mystery.”
“What, with there being no reason,” the watchman added, “. . . well, I think that’s what’s got the people up in arms.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Granted, it seems quiet now, but when the evening comes down and they get some drink inside ’em . . . be a different story then.”
Urmston nodded, then pulled on a pair of leather gauntlets. “Despite that, we must proceed from this point alone.”
The other watchmen looked round in astonishment. Their officer clearly thought he hadn’t heard correctly. “My lord?”
“Serjeant, our duty is to catch this murderer,” Urmston explained. “Yours is to catch all those other murderers who infest the borough of Southwark. Please, don’t let us delay you any more.”
The chief watchman remonstrated with them for several minutes over this, assuring them that any man, no matter whose warrant he carried, would be in danger if he ventured through this district unprotected. Urmston would only point to he and his servant’s swords, saying that they already were protected. The fellow then advised them that there was more documentation, lists of suspects and such, which they might wish to peruse. Urmston replied that he would send for it all anon, but that in the meantime, he had questions of his own to ask. Still the serjeant argued, but the only reply he received was a command to secure any further murder scenes he came across, without touching a thing, and in that event, to send for the spy-catcher forthwith.
Shaking their heads in bewilderment, the serjeant and his company strode away into the murk.
Moments later, Urmston and his servant were backtracking, reviewing the murder scenes again, this time for several minutes in each case. Every foot of the way, Kingsley sensed eyes upon them, sensed ragged scarecrow-figures in dark recesses, sensed thin, hungry faces glowering from the high casements. His gloved hand stayed firmly on his sword-hilt.
“I understand your reasons for this, my lord, but forgive me if I question your judgment,” he muttered.
Urmston was barely listening. “All these victims,” he said thoughtfully, “with the exception of the last one, were slain quickly. They must have been. They were lured away from the main thoroughfares, but never very far . . . and in a district where their screams would easily be heard. What . . . oh, forgive me, yes. Why else did I tell you to wear your dullest clothes today?”
Kingsley acknowledged this. Both men wore heavy black cloaks over dark, functional garments, though the sense of threat was still tangible.
“When we start asking questions, people will know us for what we are,” Kingsley warned.
“They’ll also know that interfering with officers of the Queen risks a flogging at the cart-arse.”
The servant snorted. “Would that was all we risked.”
Ten minutes later, they spoke to their first potential witness, though it wasn’t a satisfactory interview. Close to the scene of the third murder, opposite the door to a noisy tavern called The Black Prince, they encountered a beggar. The laws of vagrancy prohibited beggars from travelling outside their home parish, lest they be deemed vagabonds and be put in the stocks, so it was the norm for such paupers to find a pitch and stick to it. Thanks to the awful ravages of St Anthony’s fire, this particular fellow was limbless and thus immobile, which made it doubly possible he had been in this very spot on the evening of Lucy Gibbon’s death. However, it was difficult to get any sort of answer from him. Little more than a twisted trunk swathed in tattered bandaging, his face shrivelled and wrinkled like a walnut, he was more a puppet than a real man. He even gave meaningless puppet-like answers, squawks and sniggers, and wild shakes of the head, which served to rattle the metal cup hung round his neck. Urmston put a coin in the cup, but it did no good.
“Flib-a gib . . . flib-a gib,” the beggar chuckled.
“Did you see anything at all unusual that night?”
“Flib-a gib . . .”
Urmston glanced at Kingsley, irritated. Then, a harsh voice cut across them.
“You there!”
The investigators turned, to see that a ruffian had emerged from the entry to the tavern. Starkly cast on the red firelight inside, the ruffian seemed to have the build of a bear. His repeatedly scarred face was buried under a dense black beard. His eyes were small but incredibly wicked.
“Are you trying to rob my father?” he demanded. The two men also now saw that he was carrying a heavy, nobbled club. “And him suffering all the curses of hell!”
Kingsley stepped forward, barring the brute’s path to his master. “You’re mistaken. My lord has just given him money.”
The ruffian’s face broke into a mocking grin. His teeth were yellowed shovel-blades. “Oh . . . your lord, is it? Your lord! Am I supposed to be frightened by that?”
As always, Urmston remained icily calm. “Tell me, man, can your father not speak? I’ve questioned him, but I get no answers.”
The ruffian hefted the club to his shoulder. “And who are you to question folk?”
“You oaf!” said Kingsley. “This is Lord Urmston. Squire to Her Majesty’s Royal Body.”
“He thinks that title will shield him, does he?”
“I need no shield,” Urmston replied coolly.
“Ah . . . a braggart too.” The ruffian swung his club down. “You’d better listen, Mister Lord Protector of the Royal Tits, or whatever you are! We don’t like strangers who go round bragging . . . or asking questions!”
“Even strangers charged with capturing the murderer of these unfortunate women?” Urmston wondered.
The ruffian seemed momentarily surprised. Then his scornful grin returned. “You two . . . catch the Flibbertigibbet?” He chortled.
“What did you call it?” Urmston demanded.
“By the looks of you, you couldn’t catch the pox in a brothel.”
“You said Flibbertigibbet,” the spy-catcher replied.
“And if I did?”
“Your father said the same thing.”
“Like as not.”
“What is it?”
The ruffian gave a sly grin. “Oh . . . a demon. An evil ghost. It comes and goes as it pleases . . . no one can stop it.”
“You claim a demon is responsible for these murders?” Kingsley wondered, unnerved.
“Not just any demon. The Flibbertigibbet.”
“That’s the name you people know it by?”
But now the ruffian was weary with the interview. “Enough questions!” He raised his cudgel again. “Clear out of this district now, if you know what’s good for you.”
“We have money,” Urmston replied.
Abruptly, the man’s expression changed. His eyes were suddenly alight with interest.
“We’ll pay for information,” the spy-catcher added.
“How much?”
“That depends on the information.”
The ruffian considered for a moment. All at once, the conversation was more to his liking. “Well . . . my father reckons he’s seen it.”
“And can you get him to speak?” Urmston asked.
Again, the ruffian considered. He glanced over his shoulder. “Not here . . . you don’t go showing your purse round here. Not if you’ve got any sense.”
“Where then?”
“Come with me,” the man said. He strode forward, picked his parent up like a sack of meal, and tramped away towards the mouth of the nearest alley. “I know somewhere w
e won’t be disturbed.”
The investigators hesitated before following. “Is it far?” Kingsley asked.
“Not far.”
Realizing they had no option, they went after him, and a moment later the odd foursome were moving in procession through the drear back-streets, skipping around broken barrels and clutters of rubbish, stepping over pools of slime hardened now to gleaming black ice. It seemed as if they’d passed from the world of men into a world of shadow. The chill there had a knife-like edge to it, yet the air was ripe with the stench of putrefaction. Aside from themselves, nothing moved in the frozen, fathomless gloom.
“I’m not sure I like this, my lord,” Kingsley whispered.
Urmston was about to agree, when they emerged from a crooked passage on to a stretch of open ground bisected by a single ditch, along which foul waters trickled. Instantly, it struck the investigators that they weren’t alone any more. Several figures lounged against a nearby wall. Another stood on the far side of the ditch, as if waiting for them to cross.
All at once, their guide took himself ahead with hurried strides, laid down the leprous bundle that was his father, and turned sharply. Once again, the hefty cudgel was in his fist.
He laughed harshly. “At ’em, lads! They’ve more gold than brains, this lot!”
He raised his club and, lunging forward, swiped wildly at Urmston’s head. The spy-catcher ducked it smartly, then slammed a punch into the codpiece of the ruffian’s hose. With a choking gasp, the brute went down on his haunches. Urmston leaped up and drove a knee into his face, knocking him cold. But the other footpads were now gambolling forward. The first leaped apelike on to Kingsley’s back. The servant was in the process of drawing his blade, but was borne down by the bandit’s weight. Urmston had his own rapier out in a trice, however, and moved swiftly against the remaining three. As household man to the Queen, it was necessary that he be one of England’s finest swordsmen. The first cutpurse had drawn his own blade . . . a tarnished poniard, but in two quick passes, the spy-catcher had disarmed him and run him through at the shoulder. With howls of pain, blood bursting through his clutching fingers, the robber staggered away.
The remaining two, warier now, circled their opponent for a moment. One was armed with a length of chain, the other with a sledge-hammer. The hammer-man was the smaller of the two, but the eyes in his dirt-smudged face were ablaze with madness. Clearly, he was the more dangerous. A second passed before he attacked, swinging the hammer up and over his head, then down with a force that would have shattered an ox’s skull. Urmston stepped nimbly to one side, then rushed in, slashing his assailant three times across the ribs, laying open not only the fellow’s leather doublet and hessian shirt, but also the flesh beneath, so that white rib-bones glinted in the gory wounds. The man reeled back over the ditch, screaming like a child. Urmston turned quickly to the fellow with the chain. This one had less stomach for the fight. He glanced once at the crimson rapier, and then he was off, scrambling after his wounded compatriots, shouting for them to wait.
Urmston watched them go, breathing hard. Then he heard the smacking impacts of blows. He whirled around, but was relieved to see that Kingsley had finally got on top of his opponent, and though both were now caked in mud, the doughty servant was holding the other down and pounding him body and head with his right fist. It lasted only a moment or two, before the battered footpad lapsed into unconsciousness.
Urmston helped his servant to his feet. “You still throw a solid punch, my friend,” he said.
“Surprised myself, my lord,” Kingsley panted. “I haven’t struck a man since the battle of Solway.”
“A timely occasion then, a timely occasion now.”
“Are you all right, sir?”
“I’ll live . . .”
Then, a protracted groan caught their attention. They looked. Beside the stunted shape of the beggar, the first robber was slowly recovering. Urmston strode over to him, and just as the fellow’s dull eyes flickered open, placed the sword-tip at his throat. The robber stiffened in alarm. “Wait . . . please!” he gasped.
Urmston put pressure on the weapon, drawing a drop of blood.
The villain’s eyes bulged. “Please . . . no!”
“You know why I’m here in Southwark?” the spy-catcher wondered.
“Yes, sir.”
“And still you try to waylay me!” He pressed the blade further.
“Please, my lord!” the robber begged. “Please, that hurts . . .”
“Hurts?” Urmston scoffed. “It’s only because I’ve a mind for it, that you’re still alive at all!”
“Anything . . . I’ll do anything.”
“Start by talking. The murders . . . what do you know?”
The robber held up helpless hands. “What does any man know?”
“Perhaps you know more than any man?”
“Me?”
Urmston nodded. “You discover I’m here to stop the crimes, and the next thing you attack me!”
“For God’s sake, my lord,” the man pleaded, “it was thievery. I attacked you to steal . . . you said you had money.”
Kingsley appeared by his master’s side, dabbing with a cloth at his bloodied mouth. “That’s a risky thing to admit to an officer of the crown,” he remarked.
“My life clearly depends on it,” the man blabbered.
“Yes it does,” Urmston said.
“It’s easy for the likes of you to judge,” the footpad replied. “You’ve seen my father . . . his wits are scattered, his limbs wasted. How can I provide for him and my family? I look for work, but where can I find anything that pays well enough?”
Urmston curled his lip contemptuously. “You weren’t looking for work when you found us.”
“I was. The Black Prince is my work. I turn out louts and rioters. It’s the only thing I know.”
“Who are you?” Kingsley asked.
“Cutter, sir . . . Jack Cutter.”
“Tell us about the Flibbertigibbet, Cutter,” Urmston said. “Tell us everything you know.”
“It’s only a story . . . a legend.”
“Its handiwork is real enough.”
Cutter shrugged. “That’s true. But those who’ve seen it have never seen its face. People say there are screams in the night, then a shape running . . . next, a body is found.”
“This shape!” Urmston insisted. “Tell me about it!”
“Some say it’s tall, others short,” the ruffian replied. “One thing we all know . . . it’s killed more than these Southwark whores.”
Urmston and Kingsley glanced at each other.
“What do you mean?” the servant eventually asked.
“It’s been among us for years . . . because Man has been sinning for years.”
“But there haven’t been any other murders of this sort,” Urmston said.
Cutter almost laughed. “How do you know that? You been to other parishes . . . you been north of the river?”
Again, the master and servant glanced at each other, now uneasily. “Have you been north of the river?” Urmston asked the ruffian.
“Not lately . . . but word spreads. They say its savagery grows as Man’s infamy grows.”
A moment passed, then the spy-catcher withdrew his sword. “And what of you, Cutter? Do you believe this thing is a monster, or just a man who behaves like one?”
Cutter sat up and mopped the sweat from his brow. “I don’t know. But I do know it’s a curse on us.” His once-threatening eyes now betrayed haunting fear. “It’s a curse on us all.”
That evening, bathed and scrubbed and seated by candlelight in the solar, Urmston pondered the events of the day. The responsibility of his office had never daunted him; to the spy-catcher’s mind, the unmasking of felons was an analytical business, which mainly required common sense and clear, practical thought. If assessed properly, the facts would always speak for themselves . . . the who, the when, the where, the how. The “why”, of course, didn’t come into it. It c
ouldn’t be allowed to, it mustn’t . . . even in this case, when the villainy was so harrowing, when the object of it was so elusive, so beyond the investigator’s extensive experience.
Urmston yanked the bell-cord. Instantly, Kingsley – also now cleansed and refreshed – appeared. “My lord?”
“You’re a travelled man, John,” Urmston said. “Tell me, have you ever heard of anything like this before?”
The servant paused to think, then shook his head. “I know of criminals who’ve killed repeatedly for a purpose . . . to silence witnesses, or through torture to find out where valuables were hoarded. But never where the killing itself was the purpose.” He thought about this for a moment. “A rather frightening concept, is it not?”
“Yes,” his master agreed. “It is.”
“Can I bring you your supper now, my lord?”
Urmston shook his head. “No thank you, John. Bring me paper and some quills. I’ve several-dozen letters to write.”
He met a maiden in a place,
He knelt down afore her face,
He said: “Hail Mary, full of grace!”
Nova! Nova!
Urmston spent the remainder of that week writing to the various bailiffs of London’s parishes, and to the JPs and sheriffs of the shires and counties surrounding the city. In all cases, he stated his office, authenticating it with his seal, then explained his business. He was seeking, he said, any information at all regarding the mysterious deaths of women and girls, in the cases of which no persons had thus far been brought to justice. Even so simple a request, he knew, would be beyond the limited abilities of some of those worthy gentlemen, but his hopes were high that at least some records would be made available to him.
