Mayhem (17 page)

He walked up Church Street, licking at the snot that
dribbled from his running nose. Only when a woman crossed to the other side to avoid him did he realise that he was also muttering to himself. A fine sight he must be, he thought: a filthy, scrawny lunatic, twitching and stumbling through the streets.
A monster
. He was a monster seeking a monster. He almost laughed at that.

He stopped outside the church and stared up at the magnificent pillars, admiring the beauty of its Romanesque strength of shape. If only he could take comfort from it – but no place of human worship, no synagogue, mosque or church could help him. It took lost souls to fight the devil – for that was what the
Upir
was, he was sure of it: a devil by a different name, a tormentor of souls. How he wished for faith.

‘Stand back and let me through.’

The gruff voice coming from somewhere to the side of the building made him jump, and suddenly he was very much back in the real world of the dark morning. He sniffed to clear his nose, and rubbed his face with the back of his cold hand. From around the corner he could hear more voices, and suddenly in need of human company, he walked in their direction.

Metal rattled against metal: somewhere ahead, a man was unlocking the gates to the small cemetery attached to the church, but Aaron could not see whoever it was through the gathering of figures shuffling for places nearest the front. There must have been twenty or
thirty of them, all of a type: roughly dressed, with worn coats and threadbare gloves. They kept their heads down, and those who did glance at him looked at him with mild curiosity only, not disgust or disdain. Poverty and filth stripped them of their sex, and Aaron found it hard to distinguish men from women. As he stood there, the gates ahead finally swung open, and more figures emerged from the gloom behind him, seeking out the entrance. The weariness in their trudging walk echoed in Aaron’s soul.

Caught up with the tide, he moved into the graveyard, where those ahead were already claiming benches and places beneath trees, curling up with their knees tight under their chins, trying in vain to fend off the cold.

Sleep
, Aaron thought,
they’ve come here to sleep
. Exhaustion flooded through him. He found he felt safe here among the destitute, lost in their midst. Maybe, if there was a God, he was smiling a little on him after all. He sat down at the base of a stone mound topped by a crucifix and watched the shadows drift in. He would rest for a few minutes, he decided, just sit here and watch those who were as lost as himself for a while, maybe even let his troubled soul calm itself. The stones were rough on his spine, but he didn’t mind.
Just a few minutes
, he thought again, as his eyes drifted closed.
Just a few minutes
.

*

It was daylight when he opened his eyes, and his back screamed from where the hard stone had dug into
him as he’d slept. He was frozen, even though there were two other bodies huddled close to him and he’d somehow managed to pull his coat tightly round him and tucked his hands into his stinking armpits. One man had actually fallen into his lap, and another, with barely a tooth left in his foetid mouth, was leaning against his shoulder and snoring soundly. As Aaron pushed him away, the man fell backwards, revealing open sores on his face and neck. Aaron looked down. The elderly man who was either sleeping or dead on his lap was also covered in some kind of skin disease: his face and hands were flaking away, and sores oozed foul pus from the edges. He shivered in disgust and wriggled his aching body free.

The cemetery had filled considerably over the however many hours he’d slept, and now people were strewn across the grass and benches, but even where areas were crowded, none other than these two, the lowest of the low, had come close to him. It was as if an invisible circle had been drawn around the small monument he’d slept against, and no one with any soul left would come inside it.

A woman stared at him from a bench opposite. Her look was feral. Aaron dropped his gaze and hurried for the gates. He did not look back. Whatever comfort he had believed he had found had disappeared; he did not belong here. Most people saw him as a stinking man in ill-fitting clothing, a tramp, but perhaps these vagrants recognised him as something other than one
of their own. His teeth chattered violently as he headed home, weaving his way through the busy streets of Whitechapel, where Londoners were well into their day. Filth squelched through the gaps in his shoes where the stitching had frayed and he hadn’t yet repaired them. Matilda would not like that. He must remember to take them off when he got through the door.

*

‘There’s someone here to see you.’

He wasn’t expecting those to be his sister’s first words. Nor was he expecting the rather tight expression on her face.

‘Who?’

Matilda’s eyes glanced down at his boots and he crouched to remove them and his soaking socks. His fingers shook as he worked at the laces. Who would come and see him? He had no friends; those acquaintances from his hairdressing days no longer spoke to him, Matilda and Morris’ friends left him well alone and even the Rabbis ignored him.

From behind a closed door came the chatter of children. Matilda must have shut them away. His heart thumped. Was it someone from the asylum? Had she finally decided that enough was enough?

‘He says he’s a friend of a friend of yours. He wants to ask you some questions. He talks like a gentleman, but his clothes are poor.’ She frowned angrily, a sure sign she was worried. ‘What have you
done
, Aaron?’ she whispered. ‘Where have you been?’

‘I haven’t done anything.’ He took his coat off and tried to smooth down his shirt below. Black lines of dirt ran under his fingernails. He should wash his hands, he knew that, but he couldn’t bring himself to, not now. A gentleman? A friend of a friend … He didn’t move. If it wasn’t someone from the asylum, could it be—? He couldn’t bring himself to think it, but he must: could the
Upir
have found him?

‘Well, come on,’ Matilda snapped at him. ‘I’ve already lost an hour to him. I have washing to do!’

Aaron shuffled forward. On some level he was still as scared of his big sister as he was of the monsters who tormented his dreams. In the small room that served as the family’s living space a man was standing at the window and looking out. He could see what Matilda meant: although the jacket he wore was of cheap fabric, even with his back turned Aaron could see that his hair was well-cut. When he turned, his skin was clean and his moustache shaped and trimmed.

The man didn’t flinch at Aaron’s unkempt appearance but looked him straight in the eye.

‘I’m sorry to disturb your day, Mr Kosminksi, but I wanted to ask you something,’ he began.

Matilda was right: he wasn’t from this part of London. Aaron had his own heavy accent, and he could recognise the different tones in others’ voices.

‘Who are you?’ Aaron stayed where he was in the doorway until, from behind, Matilda shuffled him forwards and then closed the door, sealing them in.
Although his bones were still freezing and their rooms were never entirely warm, fresh sweat prickled his itching scalp.

‘I mean you no harm.’ The man looked awkward. ‘It has taken me a few days to track you down. I saw you outside the Police Station the other night—’

‘I’ve done nothing wrong!’ Aaron started, the words coming out in Polish as he panicked, and the man raised his hands in supplication until Aaron quietened.

‘I am not a policeman, and truly, I was not suggesting you had. It was something you said as you came out – a word I have heard before, from a priest. I wondered if you knew him?’

There was a long moment of silence and Aaron fought to think clearly. What was it that he had said? He knew no priests, so what was this, some kind of trick?

‘I don’t understand,’ he said at last.

‘Neither do I,’ the man said, ‘and I am hoping you can help me.’ He came closer and sat down in the worn chair next to the unlit fire. ‘You see – I thought he was mad. And now I’m not so sure.’

For the first time, Aaron noticed the dark rings that rimmed the man’s eyes. He had placed him at perhaps fifty, but now saw he was probably several years younger. Aaron Kosminksi wasn’t the only one having difficulty sleeping.

‘Who are you?’ he asked again, more softly this time
as his fear abated. This man was almost as troubled as he was; he could sense it.

‘I was on the steps,’ the man said, ignoring his question, ‘and I heard what you said. You talked of not needing to find the man, but what was behind the man. “In his shadow”, you said. You mentioned the river.’ His eyes searched Aaron’s. ‘You said “
Upir
”. I need to know what it means.’

Aaron flinched at the word and one dirty hand started rising to tear nervously at the dry skin of his lips. His head twitched and he stared down at the carpet. It was a trick. It had to be.

‘The priest told me of these things and I thought him mad. I want to know if he spoke to you too.’

‘Who are you?’ Aaron muttered again. ‘Who
are
you? It sent you – it is trying to trick me. I don’t know any priest. Who are you?’ His anxiety was rising and his head twitched. The river tasted strong in his mouth and he wanted to spit it out. He wanted to get all the liquid in his body out. It was contaminated – that must have drawn him here. His breath came in sharp pants—And then suddenly the man leaned forward and gripped his knee and the shock of such voluntary human contact stopped his panic in its tracks and he looked up, his eyes wide.

‘I do not mean to upset you,’ the man said. ‘My name is Doctor Thomas Bond. I have been examining the remains of the women found in Rainham and Whitehall – the body parts pulled from the river. I am
not here about Jack, and I do not believe you are Jack. I just want to know if you have been to the opium dens or spoken to this Italian priest.’

This was all too much to absorb. What opium dens? And someone else knew of the darkness roaming the city? Could it be a trick? He rocked forward and back for a moment, but the doctor kept his hand on Aaron’s leg. There was kindness in his touch, and it was calming.

‘I don’t know the priest,’ he said, eventually. ‘An Italian priest?’

Dr Bond nodded. ‘I didn’t recognise the clothes of his order, but he was a priest, I don’t doubt that. He said he was a Jesuit. From a special order.’

Aaron looked up, cool relief spreading through him like balm. He was not alone. If Fate was at work, then Fate had found him and this man and the priest. They would stand together.

‘We must find this priest,’ he said, simply. It was all there was to say.

22

London. May, 1887

Elizabeth Jackson

She had just about reached the third floor with the two pails of fresh water when Mrs Hastings appeared on the landing below and called up to her, ‘You’re needed. In the drawing room. Straight away.’ Her eyes were suspicious; maids did not get summoned to the drawing room.

Elizabeth’s stomach plummeted. What had she done wrong?

‘But I was changing the basins,’ she said. ‘Should I finish? I can’t just—’

‘
Immediately
, girl,’ Mrs Hastings said.

Her muscles aching from having carried them this far – she didn’t think she would
ever
get used to that! – Elizabeth placed the buckets against the wall and kept her head down as she scurried past the housekeeper and made her way back to the ground floor. She could feel Mrs Hastings’ eyes burning into her back. What had happened? She’d been distracted and she wasn’t sleeping well, but she didn’t think it had affected her work. She’d always taken pride in her job, no matter how back-breaking and thankless it was. She’d been at
this Chelsea house for a long time now, and aside from
that
time, she’d never been in any trouble – and even then, her mistress hadn’t known about it – so what could it be?

She paused outside the door and smoothed her uniform down over her full figure, checked her goldenred hair was tucked neatly into her hat, as it should be, took a deep breath and knocked.

‘Come in.’

For a moment she stood in the doorway and stared, before collecting herself and bobbing a curtsey, her head lowered. Her heart was racing. Was she about to lose her position? Was that why
his
mother was here? He was back now, so perhaps she had decided she wasn’t going to risk a scandal of any sort and had told their secret first?

‘Mrs Harrington wants to speak to you.’ Mrs Blythe stood by the fire, and whilst her tone was not unpleasant, it echoed the look that Elizabeth had seen in Mrs Hastings’ eyes: suspicion; wariness. ‘She assures me that it is nothing of concern to me, so I shall leave you to it.’

‘Yes, ma’am,’ Elizabeth said, bobbing again.

‘Thank you.’ Mrs Harrington stayed where she was, sitting next to an untouched cup of tea.

Fabric rustled as the stout, middle-aged woman exited, and it was only when she had gone that Elizabeth looked up. Mrs Harrington’s silk dress was a deep maroon, and the tapered sleeve and small bustle were elegantly fashionable. How Elizabeth ached to
wear a dress like that one day. Her own ‘best’ dress was well-worn; it had been her sister’s before her … But Mrs Harrington belonged in a different world, and so did James.

‘Sit down, child,’ Mrs Harrington said, waving her towards the chair opposite. ‘And don’t look so afraid. I haven’t told her about your unfortunate affair.’

Elizabeth blushed slightly and took the seat, perching awkwardly on the edge. It wasn’t right to be seated in this room, and she couldn’t help but wonder if there’d be punishment for it later.

‘You know James is back, of course. And that he has been ill?’

‘Yes, ma’am, I had heard it.’

‘Has he attempted to see you?’ Her voice was soft, and Elizabeth noticed how tired she looked. There were shadows around her eyes and lines on her face that had not been there before. She hesitated over her answer. Should she lie? Would she be getting James in trouble? She didn’t know what to say, because in truth she didn’t know what to think. She had been so excited when she’d heard of his return, but her feelings had changed, and she couldn’t explain it. There was something different about him.