“Oh Isaac, that is wonderful news.” She approached him and clasped him in an embrace.
“Sam will receive a generous yearly allowance, which will enable him and his family a degree of comfort in the future. The allowance will even increase should they decide to have more children. There is only one obstruction to Mrs. Holbrook’s wishes being carried out.”
“Oh.” Rebecca’s delighted face suddenly took on a concerned look.
“Yes, it is possible that the person inheriting the bulk of Mrs. Holbrook’s estate could contest the allowance being awarded to Sam.”
“Is that likely?”
“I have seen it happen… greed is rarely kind.”
“Poor Sam… it hardly seems fair.” To her surprise, Isaac was smiling.
“Mrs. Holbrook had no living family. I believe she has left her money to a person she both loved and respected.”
“Who Isaac? Perhaps I can go to them and plead Sam’s case.”
“Rebecca, you are going to be a very wealthy woman.”
“Me – but why? She has already done far too much.”
“Isn’t it obvious? You told me as we dined how Mrs. Holbrook liked to help those less fortunate. Especially those of a certain faith. I think she knew that you would continue to carry out her work.”
“I will do all she wished and more,” Rebecca said, a proud look in her eyes.
“I am so happy for you. In a few months, you will have the means to do as you wish. You could even leave the city if you were so inclined.”
“Is that what you want?”
He blushed. “The city would lose some of its beauty if you left; it would be a sad day indeed for London.”
“Just London?” She stared at him so intently that Isaac swore that she could see directly into his heart. He gathered his courage.
“I would be disheartened to see you go.”
She leant forward so there was barely a finger space between their two bodies. “I am not going anywhere, Isaac.” She closed the final gap and placed a tender kiss on his lips. “Now you must go. I have work to complete.”
Chapter 25
Isaac was in a daze. He could still feel the caress of Rebecca’s lips on his as stepped into the open air. The kiss was both exhilarating and a shock at the same time. As he walked through the delivery yard of Gamages the rain striking his face went some way to bringing him back to the real world. He called out for Tom, but no reply was forthcoming. He wondered if the young man had sought out a better shelter from the inclement weather. He spent some time searching behind the various crates of the courtyard.
The area seemed deserted… Then, he heard muffled voices and approached where he believed them to be coming from. As he got closer, he heard saw a pool of dark crimson growing out from behind a large crate. Isaac felt his blood run cold. As he crept surreptitiously around the corner of a large crate, he saw what he hoped he wouldn’t. Two men were hunched over a body that was outstretched on the ground. The figure was missing one boot, and one sock, confirming it to be young Tom.
“Move away!” shouted Isaac.
They turned their faces to look at him, and one of them stretched fat lips into a sickly grin.
“Oh look, we don’t have to run around London looking for him, the bloody fool has come to us,” he sneered. “Take the head, I can handle this dandy.”
The larger of the two men stood, and to Isaac’s horror, held the freshly severed head of Tom in his hand. Isaac fought the urge to vomit. Panic consumed his entire body. His brain cried out for him to run, but his legs refused the order. The man with the head walked away, holding it by the hair so it dangled in his hand. The bile rose in Isaac’s stomach as he watched the macabre swaying of Tom’s head.
Suddenly, Isaac felt a searing pain cut into his torso. Isaac looked down at his chest. The cut was not deep, but it burned like the fires of hell.
“You might want to know the boy pissed his britches and cried for his mother,” the villain taunted, waving the knife at him.
The taunt was the thing to bring Isaac out of his inert stupor. Isaac brought his cane around, removing the smile from his attacker’s face, as the cane struck him across the bridge of his nose. Isaac’s anger grew, consuming him, drowning his pain. He drew his blade from the cane’s casing and stepped forward. The killer backed away, uncertainty replacing the confidence.
“You look less sure of yourself, perhaps you should call for your mother?” Isaac growled. The killer lunged with his blade, but Isaac had the advantage of reach. He stuck the tip of his blade into the killer’s shoulder. He jumped backward screaming in pain. “I have sent many men to their deaths, but I have rarely felt the need to have blood on my hands. However, in your case, I shall take my time washing it from my skin.”
The killer looked at Isaac’s wound. “Best be quick, you are bleeding like a stuck pig.” The man was clearly making the effort to seem confident but Isaac could see the doubt in his eyes.
“Then I shall hurry along my enjoyment.”
Isaac danced forward and struck out with the sword, striking several times. Isaac retreated to a place of safety, surveying the damage he’d inflicted. A deep cut the killer’s right knee would prevent any attempt at escape. A second cut removed flesh from the man’s cheek - and for good measure, Isaac gave a smile of satisfaction, that he’d sliced the tip of his opponent’s ear. The killer was screaming, and venomous, pain fuelled fury blazed in his eyes. He tried his best to charge forward in an attempt to get close enough to use his short blade. Isaac knew the attack was coming, and at the very last moment, dropped to his knees and drove his blade upwards. The man’s own momentum, and the force of Isaac’s thrust, drove the blade up through the killer's chin. Flesh, jaw, tongue, and brain mater were smashed aside.
“Mr Naismith!” a voice called out. Isaac turned and rose, and as he did the killer’s body slumped to the floor.
“Sam, if you could fetch a blanket, please, they have killed young Tom.” It was at this point that Isaac realised that Rebecca had witnessed the killer’s death.
“Isaac, you are injured.” She reached out a hand towards him, but he stepped away.
“I’m sorry Rebecca,” he looked down at the killer’s blood on his hands. “I need to go.” His rage subsided, replaced by guilt. Rebecca’s presence somehow intensified the shame of taking another man’s life. He wanted to tell her that he was not that sort man, but he could hardly bring himself to look in her direction. He turned without another word. He felt weak and as he stumbled into the main street, he was grateful to see a waiting carriage nearby. He called out instruction to the driver before climbing aboard, with great pain and difficulty. Despite wanting nothing more than sleep he could not help thinking about the attack. He remembered the smaller man being happy at not having to run around London. The attack was not aimed at Rebecca, but at himself and Tom. He realised that those close to William Harkness were being targeted. The thought that Emily could be in danger swam into his mind. He called out to the driver, changing his destination from Slaughter Yard to the home of William Harkness.
∞∞∞
Frederick Abberline spent the last hour in conversation with the landlord. They had enjoyed a profitable relationship over the years. The landlord would pass on interesting information, which could prove useful to a copper needing to know the word on the street. Payment was either a few coins or a blind eye turned to certain illegal activities, which allowed the landlord to gain the trust of the criminal class within the city. The relationship was as close as possible considering their positions on opposite sides of the law. Both men enjoyed each other’s company, although neither would be inclined to admit the fact.
It had been the landlord who had drawn Abberline’s attention to the two men who’d been asking about the Inspector’s whereabouts. It was through the ruse of needing to answer a call of nature that Abberline was able to take his first look at the men. They sat quietly in the corner nursing a small ale; they were act
ively not drawing attention to themselves. He knew their sort; he had dealt with those types of men his entire career. Hired thugs, which took tin in exchange for breaking bones, bashing a skull, or even slitting a throat. Abberline was also aware that if the men had been asking about his whereabouts, then it was safe to assume that it was his throat they wished to cut. On returning to the bar, Abberline pretended to be under the influence of drink. He progressively got louder and even stumbled from his stool. Finally, he declared to all that were in earshot that he must retire to his bed. A drunken hug with the landlord gave him the opportunity to whisper that the landlord should send a runner for the nearest constable to bring reinforcements.
Once Abberline reached his room, he placed pillows beneath the blankets to give the impression he was fast asleep. He then pulled a bulldog pistol from one jacket pocket and a Billy club from the other. Placing a chair, hidden in the corner, he calmly took a seat. He checked the pistol was in good order, then he waited. His act of drunkenness would mean his would-be attackers would want to act with haste. They wouldn’t want to wait until their intended victim was sober; a drunk was always easier to overpower. Sure enough, Abberline’s reasoning was correct. Within twenty minutes, he heard the first footsteps in the hallway.
The door burst open. Two figures, blades drawn, rushed toward the bed, sweeping their weapons downwards. Again, and again, the blades were driven into the bedding with ferocious force. If a person had been occupying the bed, then it would have been nought but a bloodied lump of flesh; a fact which was not lost on Abberline as he watched the vicious assault on his sleeping area. Suddenly one of them stopped his attack and drew back the covers to reveal nothing but slaughtered pillows.
“Gentlemen, the wilful destruction of a man’s bedding is a criminal offence, and may I add, shows a complete lack of manners.”
The two men turned to see the now standing Abberline, his bulldog pistol pointing directly at them. They fingered the hilts of their blades and Abberline could tell they were wondering if they could close the gap before he could fire two shots from his pistol. It was the first flaw in Abberline’s plan. He had hoped that the weapon would be enough to subdue the men. It was obvious, however, that they had been offered a substantial reward for his murder.
Abberline cursed as the two men charged forward. The bulldog’s bark answered their growls and took one of them through the left eye. Abberline knew he needed one of the men alive; his years as a copper had still not taught him how to question a corpse. He dropped the pistol and snatched up his Billy club. If the attacker thought his task had just become easier, he was sorely mistaken. Decades in the force, had honed Abberline’s ability with a club. He simply caught the attacker’s weapon hand and drove the club into his exposed stomach. The air was knocked from the killer, and as he fought for breath, the club was brought round for a second time. It cracked against the man’s temple and sent him to darkness.
Ten minutes later, three constables rushed into the room. They found Abberline sitting in the chair with a glass of whiskey in his hand. “No need to rush lads; they aren’t going anywhere.” The constables looked down to see one man obviously dead and the other, unconscious, and bound.
Chapter 26
The man found slipping past the gatehouse easy, its inhabitant, too concerned with avoiding the rain, which showed no signs of abating. The would-be killer was confident in his abilities. The fact his target was a doctor, and a female, only served to enhance that self-belief. He knew her location; a little tin dropped into the right hand could buy all the information you needed. It could even supply you with the uniform of an orderly, however, despite him wearing the attire of an orderly, he still moved with stealth. There was no need to draw questions from the inquisitive, and in doing so, risk failure. He knew that other murders were taking place that night. Failure would see his reputation fall and those that who succeeded would rise high up in the world of shadows. A world that he inhabited and delighted in being a part of.
Dr Fitzgerald could not stop staring at the elderly Mrs. Holbrook. The room was silent, and the doctor was immersed in the pale, withdrawn features of the kindly old lady. There was something in that face that reminded Fitzgerald of her own mother. Despite being focused on the dead woman, she did not miss hearing the movement in the adjoining room. This struck her as odd; the two rooms which had been knocked into one were strictly off limits to the staff of the workhouse. If the rooms were visited, then staff would knock at the door, and wait to be admitted. She was about to call out but something deep within her soul issued a warning. She carefully peered beyond a cloth screen, which provided her with the privacy to work. At the far end of the adjoining room, she spied an orderly but one that she did not recognise. The blade within his hand told her that caring for the patients was not the reason for his presence. She did not run and hide or scream out in a blind panic. She gave a strangely confident smile and then ducked back behind the screen.
*
As the ‘orderly’ peered into the room, he saw that it was much larger than he’d thought. Annoyed at this revelation, he crept in, quietly; it would be difficult to remain undetected for long in such a large room. He looked from table to table, each of which held a shrouded figure. An involuntary shudder raced up his spine. He admitted to himself that such a room, full of death, made him feel unsettled; he needed to complete his task with all haste. He was about to give up, believing the doctor to be elsewhere, when he spied the shape of a figure beyond a white cloth screen. He approached the cloth, cursing any slight noise his boots made on the workhouse timbered flooring. His blade was in his right hand, at the ready. With his free hand, he reached out and grasped the cloth screen. In one movement, he ripped the cloth aside and moved forward at a pace, plunging the blade into the figure of his intended victim. But the doctor did not fall as he had expected. The killer stopped and stared in disbelief at what he’d thought to be the doctor. The skeleton stood unmoving, a coat hung about its shoulders. His confusion dulled his other senses; he did not see or hear Fitzgerald silently emerge from beneath a table to his rear. Or sense danger, as the large wooden tool swung towards is head. His world turned black.
Within the hour, the killer opened his eyes. As his sight became clear so did his desperate situation. A gag in his mouth prevented anything more than grunting. His limbs were fixed to the table with leather straps, his torso, held tightly by a much larger strap, serving to prevent even the slightest of movement. His eyes widened as the face of Dr Fitzgerald loomed into view.
“These tables hold many unfortunate souls that were ripped from their world by an act of violence. For instance, Mrs. Holbrook over there, an elderly woman who apparently only ever did acts of kindness for her fellow man, were you the one that extinguished her light?” He tried in vain to shake his head. “I guess that you would not tell the truth, after all, you are a killer and how could I trust you? A killer is a dealer in deceit, I should know.” She raised his own knife before his eyes. “This is a fine knife, a brutish, manly blade. I fear my own,” she raised a far slimmer blade, “is not that sort of beast, but it is I assure you, wickedly sharp.” She drew the thin blade across his forehead causing his flesh to split apart. He moaned, groaning with pain, tears welling in his eyes. “Come now that was no more than a scratch. My mother endured far worse at the hands of my father. Years of violence that ended in murder. I was witness to the slaughter and to my father facing no punishment for his crime…” she gave a brief chuckle, “until I had grown and perfected my skills to wield a blade.” A knock sounded at the door. “Oh, what a shame, don’t worry I won’t be long. She placed the blade on the table and pulled the cloth screen into place. She strolled without a care in the world to the far side of the room. He heard her open the door and then heard the distant, but audible sounds of her voice and that of two men.
“Yes.”
“Forgive me Dr Fitzgerald, Inspector Faraday has sent us to ensure your safety.”
“Really? That
is most kind of the Inspector. Alas. I have many duties to attend too.”
“Inspector Faraday believed you would say that. He said we were to ensure you were not disturbed.”
“How very kind!” He heard her say as the door closed.
Moments later, she was once again standing over him. “I do apologise but the constables will ensure we are not disturbed again. “Oh, I was telling you about my father. He was my first,” she sighed, “in truth, it was not a thing of beauty. In my defence, I was excited and hadn’t learnt to control my emotions. The four that followed were a much better showing. My blade spoke for the innocent, justice for the mistreated. I feel you will be a triumph… it will be slow and torturous. Although, I realise you cannot share in the delight. I am grateful to you for allowing me the opportunity.” He saw her blade descend towards him. His intended scream was no more than a muffled grunt, and one that refused to leave the interior of the room.
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