Mayhem (12 page)

‘Dr Bond?’ Juliana’s smooth brow furrowed slightly. ‘Are you unwell?’

I blinked rapidly, and to my great relief found that the strange moment had passed. The shadows were as they had always been, tired dark spaces clinging to the corners of the room, and the left side of the young woman’s face was perfectly visible, despite being more shaded than the other. No colours danced around her head, and my own was throbbing again. It was surely the remnant of that strange drug taking its toll.

‘I’m sorry.’ I smiled and headed over to where the tray was laid out in order to pour us both coffee. ‘I think perhaps I might be slightly unwell – or perhaps I am just tired. Please, do sit down.’

There was a chair on either side of the fire and she took the furthest one, smoothing down the blue fabric of her dress as she sat. The seal fur trim around the border of her matching jacket and cuffs enhanced the soft hazel brown of her eyes, and the bright blue felt hat accentuated her soft brown curls. Juliana Hebbert was a beauty, there was no doubt about that; though nearly twenty years my junior I was by no means immune to her natural charms.

‘I’m very sorry to have disturbed you,’ she started. ‘I didn’t think – you have been so very busy, and I’m sure you need all the rest you can get.’

‘Not at all. Visitors are always refreshing.’ I willed the pulsating headache to fade. ‘And you are welcome to call at any time.’ It was only when I handed her
the cup and saucer that I noticed she was clutching a slim volume in her gloved hand. As she placed the drink beside her, I noted there was the slightest shake in her hand. I looked at her more closely. There were shadows under her eyes, and not the sort that would fade in the presence of direct sunlight. I wondered what concerns this bright, vivacious young woman might have?

‘I presume, however, that there is a purpose to this unexpected pleasure? All is well with your family, I hope?’

‘Yes, yes,’ she said, a smile fluttering across her face like a nervous butterfly. ‘It’s nothing like that. I just – well, I—’ She half-raised the book. ‘While we were in Bath – James likes to take the waters there; he has a weak chest, you know, from a terrible infection he had a while ago, and sometimes it can still make him quite ill …’ Her words were coming out in a flurry and as my curiosity became more engaged, my nausea and headache finally subsided. I had seen Juliana animated before, but never with this slightly anxious edge. I took the seat opposite her and sipped my own coffee as I waited for her to finish speaking.

‘Anyway, while we were there – and it is very relaxing, and you should probably take a visit there yourself, if you haven’t already – I thought of you and your sleeping problems, and I remembered seeing a book on my father’s shelves on that very subject. It contains sixty remedies that are “tried and tested”,
according to the author, so I thought I would bring it to you.’

She held the volume out and I leaned forward and took it. ‘How very kind of you.’ I was, indeed, truly surprised – first, that she had been thinking of me at all, for I was, after all, quite middle-aged and dull from the perspective of one so young and vibrant – and secondly, that she had gone to the effort of visiting me with such a helpful gift on so gloomy a day.

I flicked through the pages before looking up. ‘I shall try a different one every night until I find the winner.’

She smiled at me, evidently relieved. I had no desire to tell her that all these ‘tried and trusted’ remedies were old wives’ tales, or that I had tried each already – she was trying to help, in her innocent way. I doubt she had missed more than one or two nights’ sleep in her entire life.

If there were a remedy for my sleeplessness, it would not be found in this book – and it dawned on me that maybe I did not want it found just yet after all, for my insomnia had become a tool in my investigation into the stranger in the black coat. If my body suddenly reverted back and I regained my normal sleep patterns, then my night-time adventures in the dens would have to stop – and I had begun to realise that no matter how awful I had felt on awaking this morning, I had every intention of returning tonight and tracking the fellow
down – I would even take that pernicious drug again, if I had to.

‘Good.’ She smiled, looking genuinely pleased, but I was still convinced I could see the hint of something troubling her in the slight twitch at the corner of her mouth. She leaned forward a little and looked as if she was about to say something more, but then she stopped herself, instead rising to her feet.

‘I fear I have kept you from your day for long enough, but you must come for dinner more often now I am back – in fact, I shall insist upon it. We all enjoy your company, and dining alone can be such a sorrowful affair.’

‘That is most charming of you,’ I said, meaning every word, ‘but I would hate to become an imposition. I know your father works as hard as I, and I’m sure your fiancé does too. They would surely prefer to dine alone with their loved ones, without the effort of constant visitors.’

‘Yes, they do work hard.’ Her smile wavered again. ‘But they are also out a lot in the evenings, at Father’s club.’ She was trying very hard to cover it, but her face was suddenly awash with sadness, and like all old fools in the presence of beauty, my heart melted.

‘Then I shall be delighted to join you,’ I said, a small flush creeping up under my collar. I was under no illusion that she would ever love me – and even I could see how ridiculous such a situation would be, should that ever occur – but surrounded by death and
darkness as I was, it made me happy enough to know she considered me a friend.

‘Good,’ she said, and turned to leave.

‘Juliana.’ I could not ignore the sorrow she had been trying to disguise. ‘Is there something worrying you? You know that you can talk to me, if there is …’

‘It’s nothing.’ She smiled, more brightly this time. ‘Nothing that good company at dinner won’t cure.’

‘Then I shall do my best to provide it,’ I said.

*

The rest of the day passed without incident, and after Juliana’s visit even my walk through the damp fog to spend a few hours at Westminster Hospital did not manage to dispel my sudden good mood. I had been certain, after waking up so out of sorts, that I was about to suffer one of the anxiety attacks I had come to fear, but as yet there had been no sign, and I put that down to the distraction brought about by her company. Although she had not wanted to talk, it was clear to me that something was troubling her – but if it was simply loneliness, then I could happily help ease that. I wondered whether I should talk to Charles, but decided that for now at least I would leave it be. I had my own unorthodox ways of dealing with the stresses of our work, and I could hardly begrudge Charles his – at least he did not spend his nights wandering unsavoury places such as Bluegate Fields in search of oblivion.

Once the headache and nausea from my brandy
consumption finally eased, I discharged my various duties at the hospital with no real effort. I had been a Surgeon at the Westminster for so many years that my routine – unless something completely unusual presented itself – was no longer taxing, and I was permitted the free rein that came with the position. I lectured the students and presented papers, and had gained enough respect that none would query my behaviour if they found it somewhat erratic – and if it were noticed, it would no doubt be put down to the forensic work I did on behalf of the Metropolitan Police.

By the time I returned home, just after five, Mrs Parks had almost forgiven me for the previous night, and when I told her that I was indeed hungry – not the answer she normally had from me – she hurried about cooking me a fine early dinner of roast pork, the sort of meal I used to eat before this most recent and most affecting bout of insomnia and anxiety had gripped me.

Once the plates were cleared away, she left for the night and I sat by the fire in the drawing room and waited for the clock to finish its crawl round to night. As I gazed into the crackling flames, I thought of Jack and the second killer who intrigued both the mysterious priest and I – the man I was coming to think of as ‘the Thames Killer’. It was a less dramatic moniker than the one ‘the Ripper’ had coined for himself, but I found it more chilling – colder. What were those two
doing tonight, I wondered, planning more mayhem on the London streets? Or perhaps staring into a fire somewhere else in the city and wondering what men such as Inspector Moore and I were thinking?

Moore and Andrews were no doubt assisting Abberline; I could picture the three inspectors trawling through all the interviews conducted during the search of Whitechapel, looking for something,
anything
, that could lead them to find Jack and restore some calm to the streets. I didn’t envy them their jobs, damned as they were by both sides if they failed.

Jack the Ripper and the Thames Killer: they were shadows in the dark corners of my mind, unformed but threatening, both monsters, and yet so different in their approaches. How anyone could think they were one and the same man beggared belief, but that was the easy way of thinking, and for many, that would always be preferable to hard truth.

The fire crackled and the remnants of my earlier good mood disappeared into the smoke as my thoughts drifted. I had left the curtains open and now the night crawled in around me. I thought once again of the wickedness that appeared to come alive in the city at dusk, and how most decent people were happy to shut it out with the pull of a cord, as if something as simple as brocaded fabric could hold it out. What had Charles said to me in his study that night? He didn’t look out of the windows because of the darkness.
I feel like everything wicked is looking into my house. Into me
. His words rang crystal-clear in my memory, and I understood them.

I had never been a superstitious man, but yet again I found myself wondering about the evil that had gripped so many men’s souls of late. London was never a city without crime, but this year there had been so much mindless violence that even without the two leading performers, I would have been disturbed. Something was reaching into men’s souls and dragging out their hidden darkness, leaving them dumbfounded by their actions as they were led away to the gallows.

I was glad I had already emptied the brandy decanter so thoroughly, for I would have doubtless have poured myself a very large measure to aid my courage for my outing into that shrouded night. I was determined to find the priest, but I would be a liar if I said my heart did not tremble slightly as I stepped out into the cold.

The chimes of ten o’clock were ringing out as I stepped through the increasingly familiar streets of Bluegate Fields, my coat wrapped closely around me. I carefully selected an alleyway which sat between two of the dens I had seen the priest in during the past weeks, and I waited in the shadows, invisible in the darkness. My skin itched in the cold, and I knew the cause was the proximity of the opium. My willpower was strong, and I knew I would not give in to the cravings tonight, but I could no longer deny that my body had developed an over-fondness for the poppy.

It wasn’t an icy night, but the air was invasively chilly and as the hours ticked by, my feet became numb in my boots, and despite my hat, gloves, scarf and coat, I was frozen to the core. Standing there in the darkness I began to feel as if I had become truly invisible to the world beyond the small, forgotten doorway that hid me. Every now and then I would hear uneven footsteps and laughter as drunken men and women wandered back to whatever dreadful slum they called home, if only for that night, but not even those who passed directly before me turned their heads to glance my way.

Was this how it was for Jack and the Thames Killer? Did no one’s hair prickle at the back of the neck when they passed by the hiding places of those dangerous men? Did no one feel their murderous eyes upon them, evaluating their potential as a victim before making their decision whether to let them continue to breathe or not? So much for instinct, I thought as another pair of cheaply shod feet stumbled by, their owner mumbling incoherently to himself.

For the first time in my association with this vilest of London’s villages, I felt like hunter rather than prey. There was a power in being hidden,
unseen
. The streets once again fell into silence and I pressed myself against the rough wall and fought the chattering of my teeth, which I was sure must be loud enough to draw all manner of ruffians to where I stood. I might have had illusions of power from my place in the darkness,
but illusion was all it was; I had no weapon – I was no Jack with a blade ready to tear apart some unfortunate woman; I was simply a tired, middle-aged, middleclass man whose curiosity had got the better of him, and who hoped that some answers would help him to sleep.

I sniffed and waited, unsure exactly how long I had been there, but not wanting to strike a match to check the time on my pocket-watch. Those who frequented the opium dens must already be in a stupor in their cots, or perhaps they preferred to use the busier roads to pass from one establishment to another. I doubted this would be the case for the priest, though: he might have a crippled arm, but he did not appear to me to be the kind of man to fear anyone – or anything – that might be lurking in an alley, most certainly not me. That had been quite clear the previous evening. I remembered how fast he had moved to lose me, and hoped I would not have to burst into a run tonight. It had been a long while since I had been forced to physically exert myself, and with the icy chill already gripping my limbs, I wasn’t entirely sure I was capable of walking, let alone running anywhere.

As it happened, I did not have to wait long to find out. I recognised his step before he passed by in front of me – there was a confidence in the fall of his feet lacking in those drunks and edgy villains who had thus far passed my way. My heart thumped so loudly in my chest that I was sure he would sense me here – that he
would turn into the shadows and with a roar, drag me from my hiding place and throw me into the river, or maybe beat me unconscious in this God-forsaken place. Why I felt that so much violence could lurk inside a man of the cloth, I did not know, but somehow, over the weeks of my growing obsession with the priest, he had become something more than human, and the previous night’s strange encounter had solidified that fantasy in my overheated imagination.