The Reaper's Touch

by Robert Southworth

  ∞∞∞

  As the carriage neared its destination, the last of the day’s light was beginning to falter. So too had the grime and filth of Whitechapel. Now the buildings spoke of success and housed a social class far removed from the impoverished of Whitechapel. Some of the inhabitants were ignorant of their fellow Londoners’ plight, but most chose not to acknowledge the unfortunate.

  “Sam, you’d best get home,” She suggested as she stepped from the carriage.

  “Are you sure?” the big man replied.

  Mrs Holbrook knew that he was loathed to see her safety in the hands of Alfred. She had been able to tell that the two men disliked each other for some time now, despite the cordial manner in which they behaved toward one another for her benefit. “Of course, Alfred is here should I require assistance. Your Mary needs you, and it’s time that baby made an appearance. You had better take a few days.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Holbrook,” Sam gave the briefest of nods to Alfred and then took his leave.

  Mrs. Holbrook entered her residence, and the borrowed monies were returned to her employee. Alfred retired to his room and Mrs. Holbrook, the day finally taking its toll, moved to her private sitting room. For two hours, she busied herself with a number of legal documents. She then took a seat by the fire and indulged in a glass of her favourite tipple. Her eyes fell upon the portrait which hung over the mantle. Her eyes welled with tears as she looked upon her late husband’s features. Despite focusing on the portrait, she was not ignorant of the sound of movement within the house. She gave a long-protracted sigh.

  “It will not be long until I’m in your arms once again my love.” Without diverting her gaze, she stretched out a hand and retrieved her late husband’s old duelling pistol. The mere thought of him owning a pistol was laughable; he was the gentlest of men. However, he had maintained the piece with dedication, and she had no doubt that it would fire. “There’s no reason to make it easy for the bastards.” She smiled and tucked the weapon from view, taking advantage of the folds in her dress. The concealed weapon was only capable of a single shot; she knew it would not be enough, but also knew that the fight was sometimes as important as victory. Besides, her mind drifted back to the night of her husband’s death. She remembered a meeting with a woman for whom she should have done more. A woman who deserved a better fate; she was savagely ripped from the world. The elderly woman felt shame because she knew that on that dreadful night, she had run away when she should have helped. She raised a glass to her husband and then drank, “We can’t run from our sins, Edward.” As the glass dropped from her lips, she heard the unmistakable sound of her drawing room door click as the handle was turned.

  Three figures filed into the room. Two wore hoods, concealing the majority of their features. The third was known to the elderly Mrs. Holbrook, and he made no attempt to hide his pleasure.

  “The moment I heard of Vladimire’s passing, I knew you would come. Her eyes lingered on the smiling figure. “Oh, Alfred, you really are the most unpleasant little worm.”

  “Did you think you could hide what you were?” Alfred snarled as he posed the question.

  “My husband Edward accepted my love and faith, and you Alfred, are not fit to walk in the shadow of a man like my husband. I am not sure you can even claim to be a man at all.”

  “Jew bitch!” The words were spat out. Alfred made to move forward making it clear to her that he would like nothing better than to strike her.

  “Calm yourself,” one of the figures spoke, placing a hand on Alfred’s shoulder. He then turned his attention to Mrs. Holbrook. “We will make it as painless as possible, we are not here to be cruel.”

  “Come, get it over with – but not you, Alfred.” The pistol was suddenly raised with a speed few would have thought possible from a woman of advancing years. “You traitorous little worm – you will not lay a hand on me.” Alfred’s eyes widened as he became aware of the weapon. The pistol’s barrel belched smoke, and Alfred’s head was jarred backwards. Blood and brain matter splashed against the drawing room door as the lifeless body of Alfred slumped to the floor. Mrs. Holbrook slumped down into her chair and drained the last of the liquid from her glass.

  “Well, what are you waiting for? Any more delay and I shall be dead from old age before you can complete the task.”

  The two figures approached their intended victim. As they did so, they pulled long, cruel blades from their cloaks. Within a moment, there was a flash of steel as metal met flesh. The followers of Cronos went to work. Mrs. Holbrook did not scream or attempt any defence. Her time had come to an end, and she wished only to be with her husband.

  ***

  Isaac Naismith was sat in the late Kostya’s study. He raised a hand to his face and rubbed his eyes chase the tiredness away. As he lowered his hand, his willing and able assistant, Tom, shoved a hot beverage in it. Naismith took a gulp of the foul liquid and tried his best not to allow the grimace on his face to be too pronounced. Tom’s skills at making decent refreshment left a lot to be desired.

  “Shall we give it some bite?” Naismith stretched out a hand to pluck his jacket from the edge of the desk. After a brief search, he retrieved a solid silver flask. “Do you know that many people believe the best brandy hails from France or even Spain? They are incorrect, the finest brandy comes from one particular village in the region of Veneto, Northern Italy.” Naismith added some of the precious liquid to Tom’s tankard.

  “Err- it’s wonderful.” Tom replied after taking a drink. “Have you found anything?”

  “Nothing, which, in itself, is strange. Up until two years ago, Vladimir Kostya did not seem to exist. All his business dealings did not pre-date December 1887. The resourceful Inspector Abberline has been unable to find any record of the man before the same date. My contacts within the Russian populace of this city have been unable to confirm that he was from there or even a Russian.”

  “No clues at all?” Tom looked around the room as he spoke. “What’s in the cupboard?”

  “I am yet to find the key. I have sent word to Fitzgerald to see if he had it on his person.”

  “I have a key.” Tom pulled a knife from his belt and pointed it towards the secretive piece of furniture.

  “Well I suppose Kostya is in no position to complain about the damage, go to it.” Isaac did like the enthusiasm and simplicity of youth.

  Tom eagerly went to work on the cupboard. The thin blade of his knife slid down between the doors until it reached the lock. He worked the blade from side to side, trying to force the fastening device to yield. After a few minutes, he stepped back and cursed. “That knife belonged to my father.” Naismith looked at the blade which had snapped, but before he could suggest another course of action, Tom had aimed a fury filled boot at the doors. The wood splintered apart and hinges surrendered to the onslaught. Naismith rose from his chair and walked to Tom’s side.

  “Crude, but effective, young Tom.” Then he leaned in to examine the contents of the cupboard. “Now that is interesting.”

  “What?”

  “It seems our Mr. Kostya was a son of Abraham.”

  “Uh?”

  “He was a Jew, who was also keen to hide his faith from the world. He placed his religion in the most secure room in the house, in the most secure part of the room.” As he spoke, he sifted through the contents of the cupboard. He picked up a necklace with a Star of David pendant. “Regularly cleaned, cherished item indeed.”

  “I don’t understand; London is full of Jews, why hide the fact?”

  “You are correct, the Jewish community has truly flourished in recent years. Many have obtained wealth and influence in the halls of power. Indeed, it’s hard to imagine anyone ignoring the political prowess of Disraeli. However, that does not mean that they are free from enemies. Some in this city, indeed the Empire, believe that the Jews are overstepping the mark. They are outgrowing their proper place, becoming more than was ever intended. The more fervent of these people would have the
Jews banished from holding influence, or even have them removed from our lands. You will not hear these mutterings spoken in polite society. However, it’s there - whispered into cupped hands, or spoken quietly within the shadows. Kostya kept his faith secret for a reason, if we find that reason, we may well find those responsible for his demise”

  Isaac moved toward the window. As he stared at the passing populace, he fingered Kostya’s pendant. His mind drifted from the investigation to more personal matters. Those committing the murder had, more than likely, helped turn his brother’s mental fragility into a weapon. For the first time, he felt grief. His brother was the last bond to a world long since passed. He had, for the sake of social mobility, kept his family history secure from London’s prying gossips. Now that bond had been forever broken, he felt a great chasm within his chest. No family, no loved one to share his considerable wealth. His employment and need for secrecy had always been the excuse not to seek out someone to share his life. However, he thought to himself, the employment was no more, and his ties with the past were at an end.

  Chapter 9

  William trudged the last few paces to his and Emily’s home. His limbs ached, a suffering made all the worse for a thick coating of dried mud, which clung to every surface of his being. It was with no little relief that he finally grasped the handle of the door which led to the tradesman’s entrance. He had decided to enter through the back door because despite Emily’s pleasant nature, even she would be tested by the trudging of mud through her household.

  The hour was late, and he tried to enter the property as quietly as possible. He squeezed through the doorway and then stopped abruptly as he heard the familiar sound of a pistol being cocked.

  “Declare yourself before I blow your bloody foolish head off.” The gravelled voice came from the shadows, but William was in no doubt to whom it belonged.

  “It’s me, Obadiah,” William replied wearily.

  “Since when does a Harkness enter through the tradesman’s entrance?” As Obadiah spoke he stepped from the shadows.

  “Since I am filthy and have no wish to be scolded by Emily.” William heard the hammer of the pistol being gently lowered.

  “Good grief man, look at the state of you.”

  “The day has been rather testing. How is our house guest finding her new home?”

  “Bessie? Bloody girl never stops crying. She’s sitting with Emily in the drawing room. Go get cleaned up and I shall announce that you are home. Best drop your clothes where you stand. I shall arrange their cleaning.”

  “Thank you, Obadiah.”

  “No need for gratitude; I’m not offering to clean them myself.” The old man turned and moments later William was once again alone.

  “Of course not,” William smiled. He proceeded to strip the mud-laden clothing from his body. Each muscle cried out its protest with every movement. When finally he stood without a single piece of fabric touching his skin, he felt the relief of such a burdensome weight lifted. It was also good to be home among friends and family; away from the misery on the streets. William bathed, taking his time, allowing the warmth from the water to soak into his aching muscles. He eventually forced himself to get dressed and tentatively descended the staircase. As he approached the drawing room, he slowed his pace as he heard the sound of a woman sobbing. As he neared the door, he could also hear the gentle soothing tones of Emily. He pulled back his outstretched hand that had been primed to open the door. He suddenly thought that maybe Bessie may let something slip to Emily, which could prove useful to his investigation. He couldn’t help feeling guilty about eavesdropping on Emily’s conversation, but if it led to the killer; then it would be worth the small sin.

  ***

  “Bessie, you cannot blame yourself for the loss of your friend.”

  “It’s not that,” the young maid replied as she struggled to be coherent while sobbing.

  “What is it then?”

  “I know it should be. I know my heart should be breaking because of Miss Doyle. But I just can’t help being afraid. You are very kind, but you must know by now that I am no good at my duties. I cannot do my work, I haven’t any money to leave the city and so those that killed Miss Doyle,” she paused trying to compose herself, “will come for me.”

  “Bessie, have I said that I was unhappy with your work? You have only been here a day. Besides, bringing you to our home was no more than a precaution. It is doubtful that a killer seeks you out.”

  “But I know – I know am not made for this kind of work. Am I to end up on the street? Lifting my skirt to any passing stranger.” Her sobbing intensified.

  “Bessie, you will neither meet your death nor work the streets.”

  “I’m sorry, but how can you know?”

  “I know because William Harkness has chosen to be your protector. He will not allow harm to befall you. Furthermore, if William has chosen to place his protective arms around you, that means, so have I. If you cannot be a maid, then I shall think of a new position.” Emily smiled at Bessie, and the young maid’s sobs began to ease. “Bessie, do you know why there are so few employed in this household?”

  “No,” she replied, sounding confused.

  “Because this is our second home in London. My family residence is in the most wondrous part of London. It is a place where the rich delight in rubbing shoulders with others of the same ilk. Where the men talk of business and the women pour scorn on any that are not behaving as society demands. You see Bessie, I am a bad woman.” The maid looked up to see Emily was smiling. “William is my lover, not my husband. My husband was a bully and scoundrel. William came to my rescue, just as he has come to yours. Now, we must put your fears to rest once and for all. I want you to gather your things from the servant quarters.” Bessie looked shocked and about to succumb to tears once more. Emily guessed she feared that she would be cast out into the streets. In a gentler tone, Emily continued. “Take your belongings upstairs, we have plenty of spare rooms, pick whichever room you most desire. Tomorrow we shall go into the city and purchase you some clothes.”

  “But I have no money Mrs..."

  “From this point, you will call me Emily. You are correct, you really are an awful maid,” she laughed. “I have an idea.” Emily stopped talking for the briefest of moments believing she had heard something in the hallway, “but it will wait until the morning. Now get to your bed and have no concerns for the days ahead.”

  Bessie muttered her gratitude and did as she was instructed. Emily sat patiently, her eyes fixed on the doorway. It wasn’t long before William entered a little too casually.

  “Forgive me the lateness of my arrival. How is the girl?”

  “You know perfectly well?”

  “Sorry?” William feigned confusion.

  “You are no better a liar than an eavesdropper, lurking beyond doors like the very worst of domestic servants.”

  “I merely thought she may be more open with you.”

  “William, if she knew anything about the killer, she would already be dead. You know that, so I’m guessing that you are playing games. You are using that poor girl as bait, trying to convince anyone who cares to know, that she is under your protection.”

  “Is it so obvious?”

  “It’s obvious to me. I’d like to think I know more about William Harkness than some crazed killer. I will keep her close, but keeping her as a maid will not suffice. She is a free spirit, emotional but nonetheless, too restless to be caged like a bird. I shall have to be creative.”

  “It seems that I am not the only devious person in this household.”

  Emily smiled and without replying crossed the room to place a kiss on William’s cheek. She then moved to the cabinet and poured them both a drink. “Naismith sent word, he has news and will visit us in the morning. Now come to bed,” she raised a hand and stroked his face, “you look tired, my love. Is it really starting again?”

  “I cannot be sure. The Russian was, to say the least, a mysterious chara
cter. Who knows what enemies lurk in his past? He seems to have been the sort of man would easily foster anger in other men.”

  “But what do you feel?”

  “Yes, I believe it’s starting again. The murder was symbolic; it was designed to shock those that found the body. It was far more than the taking of a life.”

  Emily stared at the man she loved and for a time did not venture to speak. She allowed William to come to terms with the impact of his own words.