The Candle Man (37 page)

W
arrington was getting twitchy with impatience. The afternoon had passed into early evening stuck in this small, squalid room with these two women.
He had a feeling he’d extracted every last nugget of useful information out of the pair of them without even having to lift a finger, no less. They both seemed utterly relieved to unburden
themselves of their story. Quite convinced they were talking to some senior, non-uniformed representative of Scotland Yard. The taller one, Liz, had been a little more wary than the other one, who
kept mentioning things that Liz could only then ruefully, reluctantly acknowledge.

Such was how he learned all about their mutual friend – Mary Kelly.

He marvelled at this young girl’s ingenuity. She’d come across their man in rather poor shape, then discovered he had money. Moreover, discovered he had no memories whatsoever of how
he came to be where she’d discovered him. ‘Amnesia’, Warrington believed the official medical term was. And this Mary had convinced him that the pair of them were sweethearts.

Absolutely ingenious.

Not for the first time this afternoon, he was learning how clever and conniving the gutter class could be. So easy to write them off as little more than freshly scrubbed and shaved primates in
clothes, as he’d been hitherto inclined to do. They might sound sub-normal with their swallowed half-words and incomprehensibly garbled sentences, but this girl, Kelly, sounded every bit as
divisive and sharp-witted as some of the more duplicitous barristers he crossed paths with from time to time.

Clever girl. Pity, though . . . Pity.

All of them heard the front door’s handle rattling as it was turned then a moment later the door clicking open, followed by the scrape and fall of footsteps outside in the hallway. They
heard that appalling creature Marge emerging from her rooms like a spider down one thread of her web, enquiring who was there. Warrington heard Robson’s voice as he bluntly shooed her
away.

A rap on the door. On opening it, Warrington was surprised to see Sir Henry Rawlinson standing outside in the dark hallway.

‘Good grief, Henry! I didn’t expect you to come down here!’

The old man removed his top hat. ‘George. What an eventful afternoon, eh?’

Robson stepped in behind him, his bowler hat respectfully grasped in both hands.

‘We missed him, George. The chap bolted before we could get there. He’s not alone, either. We think he has a lady friend with him.’

‘Yes, these two,’ Warrington gestured at Liz and Cath, ‘
ladies
. . . know of her. She’s an associate of theirs. A woman called Mary Kelly.’

Rawlinson raised a snow-white feathered brow. ‘A hostage to fortune, is she?’

‘Perhaps.’ Warrington explained quickly what the women had told him.

Rawlinson produced the letter. ‘The rascal left this behind. He must have guessed we were coming for him.’

Warrington read the note quickly. ‘I think I know exactly where he’ll be going.’

‘Where?’

‘Euston station. He’s leaving the country. He’ll try for a train up to Liverpool tonight. I’m certain of it. If we’re quick, we could catch up with him at the
station.’

Rawlinson considered that in silence.

‘Henry?’

‘Perhaps it might be better if we
don’t
try to catch him.’

Warrington looked around the room; too many damned ears listening for them to talk openly. He went to the door, pulled it open and stepped into the dark hallway. ‘Henry? A word,
sir?’

Rawlinson followed him and the pair of them walked down the hall, pulled the front door open and stepped outside. The sun was just above the slate roof opposite and the narrow street was a
little busier, with men returning home from work. They looked too conspicuous: a pair of very well-to-do gentlemen standing on the doorstep of a dilapidated lodging house, talking in whispers . . .
But needs must.

‘Henry, we have to at least
try
and follow him. We can’t let him completely disappear like he did last time!’

The old man pursed his lips for a moment. ‘All right, George. All right. But would you be able to properly identify him in a crowd?’

Warrington had met him twice now and on both occasions he had been unable to see his face; quite deliberate, of course. He had an idea of the man’s approximate build – tall and lean
– and an impression of the man’s agility. But that was all.

‘I could take one of those two women.’ He tipped his head at the door behind them. ‘They know Kelly. I could take the taller woman with me to the station. If she can point out
Kelly, then we’d have him.’

‘Hmm. That’s true.’

‘And if I take Robson and Hain with me, if they get on a train, we’ll get on it too. Once they’ve gone to ground and we know where they’re staying, I’ll put in a
call.’

Rawlinson nodded. ‘All right, but listen, George. We really can’t afford a big scene at the station, you understand?’ He lowered his voice. ‘We do not have infinite
resources to play around with. There are only so many favours I can pull in from our colleagues on the force. Just follow him, that’s all.’

‘Of course.’

‘You can take my hansom. It’s waiting at the end of Dorset Street.’

Warrington turned to go back inside, then stopped. ‘The other woman, Cath; what are we doing with her?’

Rawlinson’s long sigh carried a note of regret. ‘This Whitechapel murderer the newspapers seem to be wholly in love with . . . I have a feeling he may just strike again
tonight.’

‘Both of them?’

He turned his nose up, as if the decision had its own odour. ‘Once she manages to point out her friend, send her back here in a cab. You’re probably best promising her a reward.
I’ll have one of our chaps take care of things.’

‘What about the room at The Grantham Hotel?’

‘We stopped by there. Hain took care of those things. That confession and the piece of . . . organ are ashes now.’

‘In that case, we could have a go at killing him! We could produce evidence that frames him as the murderer. We could easily—’

‘George, no. We’re having to react to events far too quickly. There’ll be a dreadful mistake in there somewhere that will hang us!’ He stroked the tip of his long nose.
‘Two more missing tarts in Whitechapel is one thing, but a man shot dead right in the middle of Euston station is quite another.’

Warrington drew a breath. The old man was right.

‘Follow him until he goes to ground, then we’ll discuss what needs to happen next.’

‘Right.’

Rawlinson gestured with his hand. ‘Go on then, George; you’d better get a move on to Euston station.’

E
uston was busier than Mary imagined it would be; the main hall before the departure and arrival platforms was thick with porters and passengers,
knots of people waiting for arrivals or saying farewells.

Argyll led Mary by the hand through the bustling crowd, the main hall echoing with the sounds of trains readying for departure or rolling in to clunk gently against the buffer-stops and bellow
geysers of steam to announce their arrival.

Mary had only ever been on a train once before and that was several years ago: her journey to London, away from the stultifying valleys of Carmarthenshire. She’d felt like this then,
trembling uncontrollably with excitement at the prospect of stepping over the threshold into a new world, a brand new life. But this time, for this far bigger journey, she had John Argyll holding
her hand.

Liverpool. Liverpool!
And after that, as soon as he could organise things, a ship to America!

She wished she could contain the foolish gape on her face. She imagined she must look very much like some sort of village idiot being led by the hand along the concourse.

Argyll found space on a wooden bench. ‘Take a seat, Mary. I shall go and get us some tickets.’

She nodded obediently, sat down and watched him go. He was a whole head taller than most of the bustling crowd. She eventually lost sight of him, only to spot him a moment later scooting
athletically up the sweeping marble staircase at the end of the hall, taking three steps at a time and causing a couple of elderly women to shake their heads disapprovingly and a porter to bark out
something in his wake. He walked along the gallery and into the booking office.

She was excited, yes, but also nervous. John was suddenly so very different. Almost another person to the one she’d clumsily poured tea over at breakfast this morning. He still looked the
same, he still spoke the same; that soft, exotic accent that hinted at exciting frontiers of untamed wilderness. He still treated her with a gentle formality, treated her like a lady. And yet one
thing was gone from him – that childlike vulnerability, the wide-eyed man lost at sea, holding onto her like a life vest.

He didn’t
need
her anymore.
He
was the carer now, the grown-up, and she the child. Which made her wonder how long it would be before he tired of her. How long this part of the
fairytale would last. Yesterday, he would have been entirely lost without her. Today, she was just a young working-class woman –
oh, be honest, a common tart
– who somehow had
managed to catch the eye of this wholly mysterious man. How long before he let go of that needful devotion to her, now he seemed so different, so in control. So awake.

She chastised herself.
Don’t think that way! He loves you
. . .
He does!

Then, not forgotten, there was the matter of that word ‘danger’. John had used that word just the once and had not offered another word of explanation as to why. Mary was no fool;
there must be people who were after John, for whatever reason. There was a reason why they’d left in such a dreadful hurry. Just like there was a reason why he had all that money on him. Just
like there was a reason why she’d found him weeks ago, his skull stove in, and covered in so much blood.

She wasn’t stupid. This much she could guess at: whomever he was running from had done that to him, tried to kill him once before. And when she’d
claimed
him like lost
property from St Bartholomew’s hospital, perhaps she’d unwittingly saved him, whisked him away from his pursuers. But now, whoever they were, they had somehow managed to find him
again.

That could only mean she was in some sort of danger too.

She looked around at the swirling waltz of people: gentlemen in bowlers and billycock hats, hurrying to catch trains home; flustered women in bustles and feathers; and bewildered children
holding hands so tightly in fear of becoming lost and separated in the crowd. So many bustling, busy people; surely nothing was going to happen to her or John? Not here, not in front of all these
people?

Ten minutes passed before she caught sight of him returning, pressing through and offering his polite pardon-me’s as he made his way across the concourse.

‘The next available train to Liverpool is at nine o’clock.’ He turned to look at the large clock face overlooking the concourse. ‘We have a couple of hours.’

There was a space beside her on the bench; she beckoned him to sit down with her. With a quick glance around the milling faces, he did.

‘John,’ she said quietly, ‘what’s happening? What’s this all about? Leavin’ the house like that, so sudden?’

Argyll’s jaw set, his eyes narrowed. ‘Please. I can’t explain right now.’

‘You said there was danger . . .’ A thought suddenly occurred to her. ‘Is it the police?’ she asked. ‘Is that who we’re runnin’ from: the
police?’

He glanced at her with dark, deep-set eyes that, for a moment, probed her, tried to read her face. ‘No, it’s not the police.’

‘Them ones who attacked you, John . . . Do you remember? Is it them?’

He nodded.

‘For your money? Was that it?’

‘No . . . It wasn’t for the money.’

‘Then what? Please . . . Tell me what this is all about!’

‘It’s a matter that’s behind me. Done. All done, and it’s something I wish not to return to.’ He reached out for her hand and squeezed it affectionately; his arm he
put around her narrow shoulders and pulled her gently towards him until his lips were tickled by the curls of hair beside her ear.

A whisper. ‘The less you know . . . the better.’

He was going to say ‘the less you know about my past’, but it would have invited more questions from her right now. Questions he wouldn’t want to answer even if they were
completely alone in this station. Even if they were the last two people in this world. His mind was a quiet place for the moment, not troubled with the vicious snarl of that voice he truly hated.
His mind was settled on a purpose; silenced by a very simple goal. Just to escape those foolish men, escape his past, escape a duty that he no longer wanted to be his.

If this world was really so bad, so irredeemable, populated only by the souls God Himself couldn’t stomach to let through, then where did this young lady sitting beside him fit in to all
of that?

Let someone else snuff out damned candles if that’s what needs to be done.