The Reaper’s Touch
The Ripper Legacies
Book Two
By
Robert Southworth
Copyright Robert Southworth 2017
All rights reserved. This book may not be reproduced,
in part or in full without the written permission
from the author.
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Dedication
To my loyal readers and friends that have given
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Introduction
London 1888 - September 30th
The funeral was relatively light on mourners. The lack of those standing at the graveside had nothing to do with the popularity or qualities of the deceased. Edward Holbrook was a kind and generous man. Many more would have stood to show their respects had they known the time and place of the funeral. Mrs. Holbrook, who matched her husband in his finer attributes, was not one for grand gestures. In truth, she would have preferred to be the only person present. However, she recognised that there were others that truly loved her husband. She could not in good faith, remove the opportunity for them to say good-bye.
She purposely arranged for the ceremony to take place late in the day. When the words were spoken and the tears shed, a small gathering was held at the deceased’s home. Mrs Holbrook moved through the mourners engaging in pleasant conversation, all the while wearing her mask of fortitude.
As the last visitors said their farewell, the elderly Mrs. Holbrook was struck with a yearning. She called for the only man, other than her husband, in which she had complete faith.
“Sam, do you still have access to the Brougham.”
“Yes, Jim owes me a favour or two. I am sure he wouldn’t begrudge me taking it out for an hour or two.”
“Would you mind if we were to take a ride this evening? I know you would rather get home to your Mary.”
“She doesn’t expect me tonight. I will fetch the Brougham.” He made to leave and then added, “I won’t be long.” She smiled, recognising Sam’s concern.
Within the hour, the Brougham stuttered to a stop outside the Holbrook residence. Before Sam could descend his carriage seat, Mrs. Holbrook had left the house and was heading in his direction. He rushed to dismount and opened the carriage door. As she climbed aboard, he placed a heavy blanket across her lap. She nodded her thanks, and then gave him the first of the addresses she wished to visit. Moments later, the single horse pressed its weight against the harness, and the carriage lurched forwards.
∞∞∞
A short, square-framed woman in her mid-forties walked along Bernier Street. Elizabeth Stride was feeling the effects of alcohol consumed throughout the day. Visits to the Queen’s Head and Bricklayer’s Arms had quenched her thirst but also emptied her purse. The money she had earned for cleaning rooms at her lodgings, in Flower and Dean Street, had not survived the drinking spree. She needed tin, but it was already passed midnight, and Elizabeth could feel the tiredness stabbing at the soles of her feet.
Her mood was raised as a black carriage stopped twenty paces to her front. She adjusted her bodice; pushing her breasts higher in the garment. It was an obvious attempt to entice a potential customer. As she neared, however, the joyful mood disappeared as an elderly lady stepped from the carriage. Liz Stride decided to press on in the hope of obtaining a customer outside the International Workers Club. It was an impressive, two-storey wooden building, standing no more than fifty paces beyond the carriage. Her bosom physically dropped, and she brushed the curly brown hair from her face. She had always felt dirty; ashamed of her trade when face to face with those that were touched by the hand of God. Her pace quickened, but the sudden increase in speed combined with her intake of alcohol, caused her to trip and fall.
Mrs. Holbrook crouched low and then grasped Elizabeth’s Stride’s elbow. “Are you hurt?” she asked.
“No, err...thank you,” Stride replied.
“Can I take you home? The hour is late.”
“I have work to do.”
“Sam, have you any money? In my rush to leave home, I have forgotten to bring my purse.”
“Not with me, Mrs. Holbrook.”
“Are you sure I cannot afford you the use of my carriage? It is raining so hard, and I am loath to leave you out here in such awful weather. Elizabeth Stride shook her head, but her eye was drawn to the rose and fern attached to the elderly woman’s coat. “Do you like it?” Without waiting for a reply, she unpinned the rose and then attached it to Elizabeth’s cheaper fur-lined coat.
“Thank you.” Stride smiled. The sign of happiness displayed that the bottom row of teeth were conspicuous by their absence. She continued her journey; the act of kindness was both welcome and unsettling. Her life since arriving in England from her small farmstead in Sweden, was not graced with copious amounts of compassion.
Mrs. Holbrook remained near the carriage and looked toward the International Workers Club. It was after all, the reason she had travelled at such a late hour. It was at that building on a wintery night, she had first met Edward Holbrook. It had been a chance meeting that would change her life forever. Her thoughts of her love were interrupted as a figure passed the carriage. At first, she paid no attention, but she could not deny the feeling of dread that grasped at her soul. She turned to observe the figure, but he had already passed and all she could bear witness to was his silhouette moving at pace. Her mouth was suddenly dry and gloved hands started to tremble.
“Sam, I think we should go now.”
“Very well.” Sam’s reply was not enthusiastic.
“Sam; I want to go home.” Mrs. Holbrook climbed into the carriage. As the horse flesh strained against the reigns, a scream was heard in the distance. Sam called the carriage to a halt, but Mrs. Holbrook hammered on the carriage's roof. “Sam, take me home!”
Chapter 1
London 1890
Charles Coldridge stepped from his London abode. He had planned to attend pressing business matters at his solicitors, but the black carriage, which stood a few paces away, suggested otherwise. He gave a resigned sigh, and then moved quietly and without fuss to the awaiting transport. He placed a hand on the thick, dark as night ironmongery, and subsequently gave the handle a sharp turn. His effort was not rewarded with the rasping of a bolt or creaking of the carriage’s wooden timbers. Not a single sound was made, as the door moved silently to allow him admittance. The absence of sound unsettled Coldridge, and just for a moment, he thought to turn upon his heels. However, he knew that without his newly acquired acquaintance, he could not regain his wealth, influence, and revenge upon William Harkness. He yearned for the day he would stand over his enemy’s body, destroyed, and broken by his own hands. He stepped inside, placing his rear on the cold black leather upholstery. His eyes only had a moment to observe the carriage’s interior before the door silently closed. Coldridge was engulfed by unwanted obscurity; not one ray of light from the early morning sun was permitted entrance into the carriage’s inner sanctum. It was cold and unfeeling like the grave. Coldridge felt the iced fingers of fear creeping down his spine.
Secrecy needed the gloom in which to operate; the carriage served as a mobile shadow. The closed door removed the carriage interior from London, as skilfully as a surgeon taking a scalpel to an infected limb. Coldridge became detached from the City. The carriage lurched forward, and then began to traverse the streets. Any sound from the exterior was muffled to the point of incomprehension. Coldridge removed his pocket watch from his inside jacket pocket, flicked it open and closed it again. Th
e instrument was useless to him in this darkness. He would only be able to estimate how quickly, or slowly, time within his morbid transport was spent. He could, however, determine that the carriage had moved beyond the city limits, the uneven surface of the roads betrayed the fact. However, that information was useless without any clue to which direction the carriage had taken.
Then, quite abruptly, the journey was at an end. The smallest amount of light suddenly cut through the interior of the carriage. A small hatch silently slid open, which allowed the driver to transfer something to Coldridge.
“Put them on,” the driver growled. It was not a request and even someone of Coldridge’s breeding knew that he must obey; compliance was natural and immediate. The hatch was left open to enable Coldridge to apply his new garments. The robe went on easily, but he could not help feeling apprehensive as he slipped a hood over his head. Uneasily, he called out that he was ready. He felt the breeze of the day flow over the skin of his right hand. Coldridge knew that the door had been opened, but he jumped as the hand of an unseen stranger touched upon his shoulder. He was manoeuvred from the carriage and led no more than twenty paces across a shingled area, his right foot nearly losing its grip on the loose stones. The stranger at his side then whispered that they were about to climb some steps and Coldridge timidly allowed his unknown carer to guide him. Moments later, the breeze was gone, and his boots made a familiar sound as they made contact with a wooden floor. Coldridge did not know whether to be relieved or not, seeing that his journey seemed to be coming to an end. He surmised that he had been walking down a long corridor and had made two left turns, initiated by his guide. He was brought to a complete halt and could hear the unmistakable sound of a chair sliding across the floor timbers. The hand pressed down on his shoulder, and he was made to sit. The full hood was removed and the hood which was attached to the robe, was pulled across his head. The stranger walked away without Coldridge seeing his face. Coldridge was seated at a table that he remembered well, and the room’s décor had not altered since he had awoken there a few months earlier. Whether or not the figures seated at the table were the same he could not tell, for only glimpses of the flesh beneath the hoods could be observed.
A cold, deliberate voice spoke. “Now that Theta has arrived, we may begin.” Coldridge was in no doubt that this was the man who had offered him a place at the table on his previous visit.
“Why the secrecy, am I not trusted?” he asked. His confidence began to return as he slowly felt reassured his life was not at risk. However, his words fell elicited no response.
“For the time being, we live in the world of shadow. We walk in the footsteps of the powerful. However, the golden age approaches, soon all will know our deeds, and we shall bathe in their adoration.” The figure at the head of the table paused and then lifted a goblet as if in salute to his words. Those seated around the table responded in similar fashion as if given an unspoken order to take refreshment. “But time presses, we have important tasks to undertake.”
“Surely the task is to kill William Harkness?” Coldridge pressed.
“William will perish, as will all that oppose us. However, he is nothing more than an irritation. No more than a flea biting the back of the great hound, Cerberus. We have far more pressing matters.”
“But-“
“I have spoken on the matter.” There was no sign of annoyance in the stranger’s voice, but Coldridge still felt scolded to the core. “Epsilon, Digamma - you have been chosen. The executions must be brutal and inventive; those that stand against us must know what awaits their folly.” He held aloft two scrolls, and a previously unseen person stepped forward out of the shadows. The newcomer clasped the scrolls and almost as if on ceremony walked slowly around the substantial table. A scroll was passed to each of the chosen. Coldridge noticed that neither attempted to spy at what task lay within. Compliance it seemed, was absolute; any order would be acted on without question. “Theta your first duty lies within my hand.” Coldridge took a moment to recognise his new name.
Coldridge spied another scroll within the stranger’s hand and wondered which member of London’s populace would have to die. Taking another man’s life held no fear for Coldridge, though in truth, he would rather pay to see such a chore carried out. Murder was a dirty business, best suited to those from the gutter.
“Duty?” he asked.
“You require skills that you do not possess. A heart filled with rage leads its owner to a pitiful downfall, placing those about you in danger. However, your failing, Theta, can be remedied.” He held the scroll aloft and once more the figure appeared from the shadows. As the scroll was placed in front of Coldridge, it took all of his willpower to resist seizing the document. Coldridge may well have been arrogant, but he was no fool. Imitating those who’d received their scrolls previously he simply nodded his acceptance of the task, guessing that to refuse would mean he would not live to see another day.
The meeting was concluded moments after Coldridge received his scroll. No negotiations were entered into in regard to any task or future ambitions. Each person rose in turn and left the room. It was not long before Coldridge and the stranger, the latter had clearly orchestrated the meeting, were left alone within the room. At least, that is what Coldridge thought, until a figure approached from behind, and pulled the full hood down over his head. The hand grasped him by the shoulder, and he knew it was time, once again, to put his faith in a stranger. He must allow himself to be guided back to the ominous carriage. His boots thudded against the wooden flooring, but before he felt the unevenness of the exterior gravel, a cough sounded to his rear. Both he, and his guide stopped.
“You have a unique opportunity, Charles.” He recognised the voice of the man who had held the attention of all at the table. “Rarely do men have the gift of change, so late in life.”
“I’m sorry,” replied Coldridge, confused by the statement.
“The Spartans were renowned warriors,” the stranger continued, ignoring his guest’s confusion. “Their skill and bravery have been heralded through the ages; generation after generation have heard of the heroic exploits of Leonidas and his brave three hundred warriors. Give a man the training with a sword and he is still flesh wielding a weapon; train the mind, Charles, and he becomes the weapon. His flesh becomes as unyielding and deadly, as the finest blade. The Spartans knew this. As boys, they were robbed of their immaturity. Prince or citizen was of no consequence. Their bodies became an empty vessel into which was poured the wine of Spartan belief. They became of one thought and so, on the battlefield, they were not warrior or king; they were Spartan. This is your task Charles; you must empty yourself of greed and the cravings for revenge. Today is the beginning, the instigation of your rebirth.”
Coldridge opened his mouth in preparation to reply, but the blow to the back of his head caught him completely by surprise. For the second time that day the world turned to darkness; this time the carriage was surplus to requirements.
Chapter 2
The crackle of pistol fire was followed by yells and screams. Hiding in a doorway, William and Abberline, burst onto Commercial Street, and ran without hesitation towards the chaos. Despite the late hour, the panicked public streamed passed the two men, eager to escape the gunfire. William could not help but wonder if the man they sought was hidden in the fleeing crowd. Another shot sounded to dispel his thoughts. Obviously, one of his men had the suspect in his sights. As they reached the corner of Commercial Street, the great Christ Church dominated the skyline. It was not, however, what drew William’s attention. Across the street, two figures lay on the ground, a third was trying to administer aid with one hand whilst at the same time pointing his pistol at the church with his other. As William and Abberline neared, William saw that both men on the ground were constables, one was clearly dead.
“What the hell happened, Jack?” William asked.
“I have no idea. I was watching from down in Fournier Street. These two were passing Ten Bells,
” he nodded to the public house to their rear, “a man came out. Next thing I knew he had hit this one with what looked like a hammer.”
“It’s Constable Griggs, he’s only been in the uniform a few months.” Abberline knelt and closed the eyes of the young constable. He then turned his attention to the other constable who was deathly pale and holding a rag against the thigh. The cloth was struggling to hold the tide of blood back. “Hold on Peterson, we will have you on the mend soon enough.”
“Sorry Sir, we were just doing our patrol like you told us. He was so quick, smashed Griggs’ head in before I could blink,” he paused for a moment, a look of shame mixing with his alabaster complexion. “He took my issue, he was too damn strong.”
Abberline placed a comforting hand upon the Constable’s shoulder. “Don’t worry lad, we will soon have it back.”
“Jack, you’re bleeding,” William announced, as he noticed the blood dripping from Jack’s hair.
“Just a scratch,” Jack replied, wiping the blood from his head. However, as went to rise, he lost his balance, and fell back onto the hard surface of the street. “Bugger!”
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