The Reaper's Kiss

by Robert Southworth

  “You need a woman in your life,” Bakari announced.

  “What do I need a woman for? I can place my hands on Betsy any time I like. A little oil, a clean and she’s happy. Can you name me one woman like that, Bakari? Besides, a rifle is less dangerous to be around than a woman.”

  “On that, we are in agreement,” Bakari replied.

  “Gentlemen, the fairer sex are a blessing to this world,” Tallow interrupted.

  “That is because you lose the ability to think with your brain when a female is near,” Bakari teased.

  Tallow pretended to be in deep thought for a moment. “Alas, I fear that you may be correct.” The three men broke into laughter, and it was some time before Tallow tapped Bakari on the shoulder to signal that it was to time to leave, he then turned and offered his hand to Josh. “Be careful my friend. It is doubtful we shall return in time to join you on the voyage. We will see you in England.”

  “Aye, it will be nice to see the old country again. And don’t worry, I will deliver that bastard safe and sound.” Josh nodded towards the office of Finch.

  “Be aware that he is not the only threat. Sir Simeon insists that the men who will want Finch silenced, are extremely dangerous men.”

  “Are they ever anything other than dangerous?” Josh gave a rueful smile.

  “That is the truth. Good fortune my friend.”

  Chapter 2

  London November 1891

  Peter Simmons was a man of wealth. His family had acquired most of their fortune through the transportation of slaves along with a variety of other more reputable goods. When slavery was brought to a timely end, the Simmons family adapted and continued to prosper. Despite their wealth, however, the Simmons clan never rose to the top of British society. Unfortunately, for the men of the family bloodline, they inherited a character flaw. They were bullish and arrogant; neither traits were necessarily absent from the upper classes, but the Simmons men chose their enemies poorly. They never failed to have public disputes, with the sort of people that could give them a seat at the table of high society. As each generation came along, they stubbornly refused to look inward and learn from their historical failings. On the contrary, they blamed society for their many woes and exclusion.

  The latest Simmons was the sum of all the years of that festering resentment. He grasped the family flaw and took it to a new level. He was not only despised by the upper classes but by his employees, his customers, and society in general. His business still traded but the companies that had for so long used his services had begun to find others to carry their wares. The Simmons trading company after thriving for over a century was starting to groan beneath the weight of Peter Simmons’ cantankerousness. His private life reflected the woes of his business. At seventy years old he had little in terms of family. His wife, who had bore him no children had disappeared from the family home. The small village, in which the Simmons lived, was awash with speculation. Some of its populace claimed that Peter Simmons was a devil worshipper and his unfortunate wife was a victim of one of his ungodly sacrifices. Others say she ran away with a handsome traveller who filled her heart with love and her belly with the child she craved. The truth was less imaginative; Mrs Simmons simply packed her bag and walked calmly from the household, never to be seen in those parts again. If Peter Simmons was broken hearted, then it never showed. The disappearance of Mrs Simmons brought about only one change in her husband. He would rarely travel to the family home, preferring the makeshift sleeping quarters he erected at his largest warehouse. The building was also the oldest in his possession and in dire need of repair. Simmons however, railed against anyone that suggested that he move his office to another location. The building was the perfect fit for the man. Old and in need of repair but with nobody willing to show it tenderness.

  Peter pulled timidly at the blanket of his bed. Two nights previously he had been confronted with a large brown rat. The beast had been in no mood to retreat from its newly acquired comfort. The elderly Simmons had been forced to spend the night in his office chair. The following day the rat catcher was employed. All manner of traps were laid and the new employee’s dog, who he affectionately called ‘Crust’. Simmons did not inquire as to why the animal had such a strange name. Simmons was loathed to engage in making small talk. As night fell, the warehouse was declared free from vermin. The declaration only served to partly reassure Simmons. Nonetheless, having consistently refused to bend a knee to all in society, he was not likely to be routed by vermin.

  On this night he felt slightly more confident in the rat catcher’s promise. Nonetheless, he raised a cane and gave his dressing gown, which hung on the wall, a hefty whack. Satisfied that no beast lay in wait, he removed his clothing. He picked up a freshly laundered nightshirt, raised it high, and then allowed the fabric to cascade down over his frail body. As the garment cleared his head, he became aware that he was not alone in his room.

  “What are you doing here?” He called out to them, but the only reply he received was each of them pulling a blade from within their jackets. “No! That’s not right. I’m not supposed to die.”

  ***

  William Harkness stepped into the warehouse belonging to the Simmons Trading Company. As he did so, he wiped the sleep from his eyes and aimed a silent curse at his friend Frederick Abberline. Despite his annoyance at being summoned at such an ungodly hour, he could not help wondering if the Ripper or one of his followers had struck again. A mixture of dread and fear washed over him in equal measure.

  “William,” a familiar voice sounded. Frederick Abberline had appeared in a doorway and was motioning for William to join him.

  William shook the tiredness from his muscles; he regretted the previous night’s drinking with Jack and Gossup. Nonetheless, he strode purposely across to the Inspector.

  “What have we got, Fred?”

  “I thought this one would interest you.” He disappeared from view without another word. William felt another surge of excitement. He followed Abberline, eager to see if the hunt for the Ripper had resumed. Moments later, he found himself in a substantial office space. He thought it a little strange that it played home to a bed. There wasn’t much sign of a struggle apart from the copious amount of staining to the floor and bedding. His mind was momentarily taken to the crime scene photographs of Mary Kelly. Her once beautiful light extinguished from the world by a crazed and violent attacker. He forced himself back to the present murder scene, not wanting to dwell on memories of a woman that was once his lover.

  “Has the body been removed?” he asked.

  “This is our murder scene. The body is elsewhere. I thought you would appreciate seeing where the deed was done. The victim’s name was Peter Simmons. These are his premises. I have encountered the man on more than one occasion,” Abberline replied.

  “Was he a crook?” William asked.

  “No just a loathsome human being with countless enemies. He received numerous death threats or actual assaults on his person. He was possibly the most hated man in the city. To be honest William, I am surprised that he lived so long.”

  “So why call me, are you short of manpower?” William was beginning to think he had been raised from his comfortable bed for no good reason.

  “I am always short of men, but I think the body will interest you. Come with me,” Abberline replied. He gave a mischievous grin and then strode from the office.

  William followed Abberline out of the office and back into the warehouse. Once through the door way they turned right and then moved deeper into the building’s interior. The warehouse was virtually empty with just a few crates scattered here and there. Only one place seemed organised, and that was a number of crates laid neatly next to one another. Abberline, who had been striding purposefully, suddenly came to an abrupt halt next to those crates.

  “I can’t see a body, Fred. Is he in one of those?” William motioned toward the crates.

  “Ten crates, William, one large and nine smaller ones. Each c
rate contains Peter Simmons or at least a part of the man formerly known as Peter Simmons.”

  “No.” William was taken aback.

  “If you were to climb onto that gantry,” Abberline pointed to the metal walkway in the rafters, “you would see that the crates have been laid out in the position of a body. The head, a torso, two arms, two hands, two legs and two feet, each part has its own crate. The body has not been hidden, it has been displayed. I see I finally have your attention.” Frederick Abberline smiled.

  “That you have,” William replied as he studied the crates. “But it could still be one of his many enemies, or maybe Simmons upset one of the local gangs,” William said, not really believing his own theory.

  “A possibility...but I haven’t finished yet. Constable Barwick!” Abberline barked. A moment later a constable was hurrying forward with a package gripped tightly in his hands. “Pass it here lad and go about your business.” The package was an item wrapped in black fabric. Abberline carefully began to peel the layers of cloth away. Eventually, he revealed a knife that William recognised.

  “It’s Joseph Locke’s blade.” William had encountered the weapon before. He had felt its sharp edge as it sliced through his torso. He could not stop the involuntary shiver that ran down his body.”

  “William, the blade may look the same. It is the same size, and it has the sickle carved into the hilt, but this blade was found in this very building.”

  “The killer left his weapon behind? That doesn’t seem likely.” William knew enough of the followers of Cronos to know they would never leave such a prized weapon behind.

  “It wasn’t left behind. I found this blade hidden beneath the floorboards in the office. It is free of blood. I can only assume that this blade belonged to Peter Simmons.”

  “Shit,” William replied. He knew things had just got complicated.

  “My thoughts exactly. Either the followers of the Ripper have gone so blood crazy they have decided to kill each other or...”

  “Or someone is hunting the Ripper’s men again.” William finished Abberline’s sentence. “It’s never bloody simple.”

  Abberline laughed. “Where would be the fun in that?” As the laughter died away, both men stood in silence. William’s mind was considering the consequence of Abberline’s findings. He and his men had stood against the Ripper and the followers of Cronos, but they had paid a heavy price. Footsteps to his rear partly brought his mind back to the real world, but it wasn’t until he heard Abberline’s voice that he raised his sight from that of the crates.

  “Detective Constable Dew, to what do we owe this honour?”

  “Walter Dew, how are you?” William asked, not waiting for the young detective to answer Abberline. He noticed that Dew was no longer the fresh-faced constable he had first met three years previous. He had the look of a young man that had witnessed too many horrors. The eyes had lost their sparkle, and the aura of youthful enthusiasm had dwindled.

  “I’m good William. I was sorry to hear about Obadiah.”

  “Thank you, Walter.”

  Dew turned to Abberline. “I am sorry Inspector, but I was hoping for your help in an investigation. It is somewhat unusual.”

  “Ah, want my expertise lad,” Abberline jested.

  “It’s not that...I think that both you and William would find the circumstances of interest.”

  ***

  One hour later, Abberline had left instruction that the original crime scene should be left for William’s men to investigate and Dr Fitzgerald had been called to examine the body. The three men once again found themselves walking along a rail track. Walter Dew had remained tight-lipped as to the method of the murder. He had learned early to trust to instinct and also to call on the experience of seasoned coppers. He wanted the unbiased opinion of men he respected; Abberline and William fulfilled the criteria. As they proceeded along the track Dew gave an insight into his investigation.

  “I was informed of the murder early and arrived at the location at 6 am. I immediately closed down a section of the track so as not to have evidence lost to passing trains. My superiors won’t be happy, but that is not my concern.”

  “You have been a bad influence on this lad, Fred,” William teased.

  “Good, he will make for a better copper.”

  “There is no doubt it is murder. If it had been suicide, then I would allow the trains to run, but foul play dictates that we owe the victim at the very least our attention.”

  “Do we know who the victim is?” Abberline asked.

  “Not as yet. In truth, I have delayed the investigation. I wanted you both to take a look before proceeding.”

  ***

  The three men continued along the track as it curved around the natural lay of the land. For the first time, William became aware of a heavy police presence. Most of the officers were gathered in front or on top of the railway bridge. William naturally focussed his attention on the underside of the bridge. Murder loves the shadows, and the bridge provided the darkness a killer needed to do his work.

  “Look at the bridge not beneath it,” Dew suggested as if he knew where William’s attention would be focussed.

  All three men now stood perfectly still.

  “In all the years I have served, I have never been witness to such a sight.” Abberline shook his head. William remained silent but allowed his eyes to roam over every inch of the horrific scene. Attached to the brickwork of the bridge were five chains. At the end of each chain was a body part. It was clear that the victim had been spread-eagled across the entrance of the bridge. His body had been left for a passing train to tear apart. The upper chain held the head; two chains clung to the arms that seemed to have been ripped from the shoulder joints. The lower chain on the left held a leg including most of the thigh, but the right chain played host to little more than a foot.

  William moved closer but could see no sign of the torso. “Have you found the body?” He wondered how far a train could drag the unseen remains.

  “I have men searching the track, and we are trying to locate the trains which have passed this way. It is not a main line, so hopefully, there won’t be too many.”

  William examined the chain attached to the foot. “The chains are new. No sign of wear or rust, and the manacle holding the foot is the same.” He stood and raised his gaze to the victim’s head. “He was alive when the train hit.”

  “How do you know?” Dew asked.

  “Look at the mouth. There is some kind of bridle preventing him from making a sound. They wanted him to see the train as it approached, but didn’t want him calling out and being discovered.”

  “Well, we will learn no more looking to the skies. Best have the men cut him down, Dew,” Abberline said, and stopped to fill his pipe. William had noticed the experienced copper do this on more than one occasion. William assumed that it served two purposes. Firstly, the act of carefully filling his pipe helped him calm his emotion and bring order to his thoughts and then on a more practical matter, the burning tobacco would help drive the stench of death from his nostrils. “We are going to be stretched pretty thin, William. If you would investigate the warehouse murder. Dew, you take this unfortunate soul, and I will liaise between the two of you.”

  “Do you think the two murders are connected?” Dew asked.

  “I am of an open mind. I would not rule out the possibility?” Abberline replied.

  “William?” Dew wanted another opinion.

  “Two bodies dismembered on the same day. Differing methods I grant you, but the result is similar. Yes, I think they are connected. I will tell you something else...I’d wager Cloveney Hall that this is just the beginning.”

  “Then we have work to do. Dew make sure Fitzgerald gets the remains, and you had better find the remainder of the body before the papers get a sniff of what has taken place.” Abberline had slipped into his leader role.

  If Dew had felt annoyed at Abberline assuming the lead in the investigation he did not let it
show. In truth, William thought he seemed relieved. Dew walked towards his men. With no more to be said, William and Abberline began to make their way back along the track.

  As they continued their journey, a figure suddenly appeared from the woodland on the right side of the track.

  “Come here!” Abberline barked. Most people would have been startled by the authoritative tone but the stranger just smiled and ambled towards them.

  “Can I help?” the stranger asked.

  William remained silent preferring to observe the newcomer. The man was powerfully built, and despite the fine suit he wore, it was obvious that the clothing hid a muscular frame. The long dark hair was not fashionable, but it seemed to suit its owner. His skin was tanned suggesting that the man had spent time in distant lands.

  “Who are you?” Abberline asked.

  “May I ask who wants to know?”

  “Inspector Abberline of Scotland Yard. Now answer the bloody question.”

  “Oh, an officer of the law, I am always happy to assist...”

  “Your name,” Abberline interrupted, obviously becoming irritated.

  “Tallow – Richard Tallow.”

  “And what is your business here, Tallow.”

  “Simply taking the morning air. I have been away for many years and have missed the early morning chill of London.” Tallow’s tone was friendly and confident.

  “A strange place to take a walk,” William suggested.

  “In truth, I haven’t a clue where I am. I was lost in my thoughts and well...here I am.” Tallow smiled.

  “Well, this is a crime scene, so you had best get lost somewhere else, bugger off.” Abberline snapped. Tallow smiled once more and gave a nod, turned and strolled away without haste.

  “Cocky bastard,” Abberline announced as Tallow moved out of earshot.

  “Yes, but his clothes showed no sign that he had hoisted a body onto a bridge, Besides, being a cocky bastard is not a reason to arrest a man.”

  “It should be,” grumbled Abberline.

  The two men moved along the tracks. As they did, William thought on the two murders. He knew that London was a dangerous place and that not all the vicious killings could be placed at the Ripper’s door. Deep down in his soul, however, he felt his adversary was in some way connected to the recent butchery. The discovery of the blade at the Simmons warehouse gave an undeniable link to the cult of Cronos. William doubted that a murder would take place without the Ripper being aware of the fact. Inwardly, he decided that there was no doubt - the Ripper was back.