The Candle Man (41 page)

Now though . . . now she got a ‘ma’am’. And not said with a sarcastic tone or the sceptical cocking of an eyebrow, either. Up here in Liverpool, it seemed she actually really
could pass as a lady. The occasional slipped vowel and omitted consonant – and to be fair she was getting so much better at not doing those things – were nuances that were so easily
lost and less noticeable compared to the regional differences in the sound of their vowels. Indeed, simply not having a broad northern accent seemed to mark her out as somebody to offer that little
extra gesture of courtesy to.

John sometimes chastised her gently for worrying so much about her airs and graces. His attitude was so typically American: that a person is judged on what it is they have to say, not on what
sounds their words make. On the other side of that ocean, she was going to find a very different world, he kept telling her; not like this stultifying one where every child was doomed to follow the
profession of their parents; where waitresses, footmen, market porters, coal men, were simply born several sizes too small to fit their uniforms of servitude.

Anyway, he’d told her many times over that it was her
soul
that so bewitched him. Her soul, her spirit, her zest. Not whether she could say ‘how’ instead of
‘’ow’, or ‘butter’ instead of ‘bu’er’. Mary smiled as she sipped her tea and watched the dock workers through the window.

So American. So refreshingly not English.

Thinking about it, Mary was rather glad they weren’t booking to go on one of those posh White Star or Cunard liners. Partly because those same elegantly-dressed lady passengers she longed
to see more closely were most likely to be the sort of pursed-lipped stuck-up cows who would spot what she was in an instant and derive a fortnight’s worth of sport out of trying to trip a
social gaff out of her common mouth. But also, not to forget, the money they would save taking passage on a freight ship.

John said their ship was due in soon. There would be several days’ turnaround as the ship was emptied of sacks of tea, coffee, sugar, and loaded up with a consignment of engineering tools
due to be delivered and offloaded in New York. And, of course, enough room aboard for a small number of passengers paying a fraction of the fare that they would aboard a liner like the SS Celtic,
as long as they didn’t mind eating alongside the ship’s crew.

Just another few days now, according to him. He was expecting their ship any day. If she didn’t trust him –
completely
trust him as she had in the four weeks since they left
London – she might have begun to wonder whether there really
was
a ship booked for America. But the question never even crossed her mind. She knew her very own Mr Argyll wouldn’t
be untruthful with her. She knew he couldn’t be deceitful, even if he tried. Even harmless white lies tripped him up. The other day, for example, he’d bought her a beautiful little
cameo carved exquisitely into pink shell and had intended to give it to her over dinner, but had been so worked up and impatient about the surprise that he’d caved in during the afternoon and
given it to her over tea. John was as honest a man as she could hope for. Far more honest than she deserved, given the duplicitous genesis of their love. If he said ‘soon’, then it was
to be soon and she had no reason at all in the world to doubt that.

Soon would be good, though. Whilst sipping tea and pretending to be a lady was a pleasant enough fiction, she couldn’t wait for their new life together to begin in earnest.

The other day, John had entranced her with the possibilities that their bag of money could offer them. He had built a dream in his mind already: a hardware merchants in a place called Fort
Casey, Colorado. He told her the recently constructed railways were bringing hordes of people from the east, travelling not all the way to the west now but stopping along the way to take advantage
of the cheap prairie land on offer to turn into farms. People who had sold everything and were looking to start anew. A hardware store right beside the railway station. It would be one of the first
places a new farmer would want to visit.

But they’d be travel-weary. Mary suddenly had a marvellous idea that she could add to his. What about a lodging house? A small hotel, small enough for the pair of them to run? Just a few
bedrooms and perhaps a tearoom like this one? John could run the store and she the hotel. Mary pressed her lips together, trying hard to give her tired mouth a rest from smiling.

It sounded wonderful.

He should be back soon. John said he had some business to attend to with the shipping merchant this morning. She couldn’t wait for him to return so she could tell him about the idea.

‘That’s fifty-one words in your message, sir,’ said the clerk. In his head he totalled the sum that was due for payment. ‘That’ll be two and a
farthing, please, sir.’

‘And this will make tomorrow’s issue?’

‘If I wire it through to London now, sir, yes, it should be in for tomorrow. They don’t roll the printing presses until three in the afternoon normally.’

‘Fine.’ Argyll fumbled in his pocket for some coins, paid the clerk and then stepped out of the telegram office and onto the street. The air was damp with rain as fine as spray;
‘drizzle’ they called it over here. He turned the collar of his Mackintosh up beneath the broad brim of his slouch hat and began to make his way south towards the docks.

You know there’s no other way.

Absently, he thumbed the rubber stopper of the small glass bottle of chloral hydrate in his pocket. The pharmacist had tried to sell him half a dozen other miracle cures for insomnia, but Argyll
had used the stuff before as a sedative; given in the right dose, it worked quickly, without any unsettling side-effects.

You’re doing the right thing, the pig whispered approvingly.

‘Be quiet,’ he muttered under his breath.

Argyll tried to avoid listening to that scratchy, hectoring voice. It was right, yes, he could see that now; this was the way he had to do things. But he didn’t need to hear this wretched,
deformed freak telling him that.

‘Freak?’ You should show me a little more gratitude. Hmmm? I saw them first. Not you.

George and his fellows must have decided to take this business to the police, because he was certain he’d spotted them several times up here in Liverpool, at the Prince’s Landing
Stage. Pairs of them watching discreetly, so they thought, as passengers boarded the liners. In pairs. So unmistakably coppers. Argyll was also quite certain every passenger liner booking agent was
being carefully watched. The moment that he and Mary attempted to buy tickets, the moment they attempted to climb the steps for a ship to America, they were taking an enormous gamble.

You know it makes sense . . .

Argyll balled his fist and would happily have smacked his temple to shut the fucking thing up; would happily have shoved the long tip of a stiletto blade deep into his temple if he could be sure
it would skewer that little bastard in there.

. . . to give them what they want.

And the little pig-voice being right just made it worse. It was the only way, wasn’t it? If George and his colleagues had roped in the police, as it appeared they had, then he was well and
truly cornered.

She’s just a dirty tart. Dirty. How many stinking old men do you think she’s had? How many shit-covered fingernails grabbing and poking inside her for the price of a bed or a
meal? How many of them, before she found foolish you? How many—

‘Shut up!’ he barked.

He turned onto a busier street, avoiding a puddle that spread across the pavement. Mary was in her favourite tea shop just up ahead. No doubt right by the window, her favourite table in there,
watching the dockers load and unload the ships. He hated the voice being anywhere near her. He hated the thought it could even be in the same room as her.

‘I’m doing what you said!’ he snapped beneath the dripping brim of his hat. ‘Now go away! Please. Just give me tonight
alone
with her. Please!’

His aching head was quiet for a few steps. Babbitt-the-pig’s scraping hoof and his self-satisfied snort was all the answer Argyll got for a while. Then, as he passed the curtained window
and saw her small oval face light up at seeing him through the rain-spattered window, it rasped once again.

I’ll go . . . for now.

‘G
ood god, this is a dammed relief! said Rowlinson. ‘I thought he’d slipped through our fingers!’

Warrington nodded slowly. ‘Indeed.’

He was tired. Bone-weary tired, with the constant gnawing stress of this damnable situation. The number of restful nights in the last month that had begun and ended with a kiss from his wife he
could count on the fingers of one hand. The rest had been nights of tossing and turning and imagining scenarios in which this slippery bastard and the girl he had with him were far, far away. Far
enough away to feel quite happy sharing their fascinating tale entitled ‘
A Prince, His Whore, Her Bastard and the Ripper of London
’ with some New York newspaper.

What easy headlines a story like that was going to make.

His sleepless nights were mixed with those worries and the very unwelcome flashing zoetrope images of dark crimson spattering across cotton white. Of eyes round with shock, surprise, a complete
lack of comprehension in them.

Good grief, he’d even tried to calmly explain to the taller one, Liz, why it was that they both had to die. Warrington wondered what he’d hoped to gain by rationalising it to the
whore; as if she was going to calmly listen to what he had to say, nod agreeably that it was perhaps the most sensible course of action for queen and country, and present her bare throat for his
man to slit?

Orman had done his best with both of them to make it appear to be the work of the Candle Man. The first one, Liz Stride, he managed to do little more than nearly sever her head. He would have
done more with her body but they’d been disturbed, nearly spotted by a man on his way to work in the early hours. The other one, an hour later, they’d been better prepared for. Orman,
bless the man’s strong stomach, had needed no help from him. What he’d left of Catherine Eddowes more accurately resembled the earlier victims. A regrettable business. And now the
London press were excitedly screaming that ‘The Leather Apron’ – or his more headline-friendly moniker, ‘Jack the Ripper’ – had claimed two more victims . . . in
one night, no less!

‘Tomorrow it is, then,’ said Rawlinson to the others gathered in the reading room. He turned to Warrington. ‘George, you’ll meet him again, if you’re feeling up to
it?’

He nodded. It wasn’t really a question, was it? This was his responsibility. His task. His mess.

The newspaper rustled as Rawlinson carefully inspected the column of personal messages once again. ‘By the way he’s worded this, it certainly does seem that he’s prepared to
settle this matter the way we’d prefer it to be settled.’

‘Quite so,’ said Warrington. ‘It appears we have him trapped.’

‘I’m surprised,’ said Oscar. ‘There are a lot of ships a man could catch up there in Liverpool. Surely he could find at least one to escape on?’

‘Yes, of course,’ said Warrington. ‘But we have quite a few policemen up there.’

They’d pulled in a lot of favours for this. Debts that their little ‘Steering Committee’ would end up in hock to for many years to come. Pairs of boots from the Lancashire
constabulary all over the docks; plain-clothes boots, but probably obvious enough that they might as well have been wearing uniforms. But that was the point. They wanted the Candle Man to know the
docksides were being watched.

‘He must probably think that every ship and agent is being watched.’ Rawlinson fumbled with a ginger biscuit that he had little appetite for. ‘He’s cautious. Boarding a
ship represents too much of a danger, I fancy. That’s why he’s agreed to meet us.’

‘And do we try and kill him again?’ asked Geoffrey. ‘Even if he is prepared to hand us the girl?’

Warrington looked to Rawlinson. That would be his decision.

Rawlinson ran a tongue over dry lips, picking up several biscuit crumbs. ‘I’m afraid this horrible mess is too important for us to have this man wandering around, knowing all he
knows. I accept he is a . . .
professional
,’ he said, with a hint of distaste for the word. ‘I accept our colleagues in New York are more than happy to vouch for his indefinite
discretion, but . . .’ He sighed. ‘These wretched newspapers making so damned much of this story, turning what could easily have been – should have been – a few unfortunate,
unlinked murders.’ He glanced pointedly at Warrington. ‘That really was stupid, George, making it look like the same man’s work.’

Warrington nodded, looked down at his feet. The pair of them had already had this conversation in private.

‘Point is,’ continued Rawlinson, ‘now we have the press believing their theatrically-named villain has killed
four
women now. That’s exactly what those awful
bloody parasites want. It’s selling their papers for them.’ Rawlinson sat back in his armchair. ‘The whole thing has become quite ridiculous. We need a satisfactory conclusion to
this quickly, now, before this preposterous “Ripper” character takes a firm hold of the public’s imagination.’