The Strings of Murder (2 page)

Clouston knew that he had not yet faced the worst horror of the night. He followed George upstairs, where the sun, rising but still gloomy, lit a long corridor through a cracked window. All the rooms were shut, but the last door had a key stuck in the lock.

‘How did you manage to get her in there?’

‘Och, sir, we didn’t! ’Twas two gardeners, the constable an’ me, and we couldn’t pin her down! Nae, she ran into
her room herself. All we could do was lock her in once she got in there. Nobody could control her; ye saw what the lass did!’

Clouston shuddered merely from thinking of the bloody bandages Betsy was changing right then. Everything was as bad as George had painted it in his telegram after all.

As soon as Clouston stretched a hand to turn the key, George leaped to seize his arm.

‘Will ye just go in? Just like that? Ah’m tellin’ ye, sir, the lass is –’

Had it been any other man, Clouston would have simply pushed him aside, but instead he patted George’s back and gently pulled his own hand away.

‘Good George, I have dealt with very sad things in my career. Believe me, I can handle this.’

For a moment George would not move, until Clouston slowly began to turn the key. The old butler instantly backed off.

Clouston opened the door just enough to pass through, and a sudden gush of icy wind hit his face. Once inside, he closed the door behind him. As soon as he heard the click of the latch, he felt strangely vulnerable. The bedroom was so silent that the buzzing in his own ears became a persistent clamour.

The east-facing window was wide open, and the dreary, dawning sky was the first thing Clouston saw. Amidst the shadows, he found the slender figure of Amy McGray.

She was sitting on the bed, hunched and slowly rocking
backwards and forwards. Her white summer dress seemed to glow in the dim sunlight, and a glance at it was enough to tell him that the poor sixteen-year-old was beyond redemption. The soft, bright fabric was stained with blood, all over Amy’s chest, belly and thighs.

Clouston gasped and stepped forward, thinking her injured, but halted at once when he saw that she was holding a knife, the blade glinting in the sun.

Clouston thought it must be the cleaver that Betsy used in the kitchen to cut through bones. The girl’s thin, pale finger slowly caressed the blade. Her hands were smeared with dry blood that had begun to flake off.

Clouston felt like dropping to his knees to cry. This was the girl who had played the most beautiful carols last Christmas; the girl who still smiled excitedly at whisky fudge; the girl who could snatch a smile even from her grumpy father –
God rest his soul
– with only a playful hug. Her parents and brother called her Pansy because her wide, almost black eyes, framed by thick lashes, made her slightly resemble her mother’s favourite flowers.

Right then, though, she looked more like a spectre than a blossom. She was looking intently at the cleaver with a sharp yet somehow absent stare. Clouston could not help thinking of an eerie porcelain doll, and had to summon the strength that more than twenty years of practice had given him. Again he inhaled deeply and walked closer. He extended his palm and only then did he notice how much he was trembling.

‘Amy …’ he said in his kindest manner, ‘give me the knife …’ She did not reply. ‘Please, will you –’

Pansy moved, but only to turn her back to him. Her glassy eyes reflected the sun and Clouston noticed that she was dehydrated; she must not have eaten or drunk at all for almost two days. She kept caressing the blade slowly … so gently that she did not cut her tender skin.

Clouston walked a step closer, his heart pounding. He had to gulp twice before his voice came out.

‘Pansy …’ he whispered, resorting to the family nickname. ‘Give me that, please. Betsy needs it in the kitchen.’

The rocking stopped. Pansy turned around and rose up on the bed, facing Clouston. The stare was not absent any more; the eyes, dark like wells, were burning with inexplicable rage.

‘You think I’m mad …’ she hissed, and then, slowly, lifted her arm, wielding the cleaver. Her pupils trembled, frenzy taking over.

Clouston did not retreat, not even when he saw the girl tensing her calves, ready to leap forward.

‘Give me that,’ he insisted, kindly but firmly. No patient had ever gotten their way with him yet. ‘Betsy will clean you up … and we’ll get you something to eat …’

‘I’m not mad!’ she muttered, her chest heaving, ‘What’s happened to me is much worse …’

There was a deep silence, just the rustle of the curtains moved by the morning breeze … and then she laughed. It was the most poisonous noise Clouston had ever heard from a human being; an otherworldly cackle that grew louder, stabbing his ears.

‘What is it?’ Clouston asked, standing his ground. ‘I can help you!’

Pansy inhaled deeply and uttered the last words the world would ever hear from her:

‘ ’Tis the Devil …’

Then Pansy let out an anguished, piercing howl, and hurled herself onto the startled doctor.

1

Perhaps the best moment to begin my telling is the evening of 9 November 1888, the day when it all started to tumble down.

I had just received an urgent message from Commissioner Sir Charles Warren, the head of Scotland Yard, asking me to meet him in the first row of pews of St Paul’s Cathedral.

The message was not that surprising, for we were living through days of upheaval. London was getting ready to celebrate the investiture of a new mayor, but the festive mood would soon be tarnished: I’d heard that, on that very morning, yet another murder had been perpetrated by Jack the Ripper, or at least the latest reports suggested so. I assumed that Warren’s unusual summons must be related to that – I would be only partly wrong.

My carriage took me from the Scotland Yard headquarters to St Paul’s in what seemed an unduly long time; it had been a rainy day, so the streets were covered in mud and the drivers had to move at a sluggish pace.

Through the windows I saw that the roads were bustling despite the hour and the relentless rain. Countless soaked umbrellas marched up and down the road, looking like black seashells gleaming under the yellow lights of the gas lamps.

I thought bitterly that this was no longer the town
where I had loved to spend wintertime in my childhood years. I now lived in a London crowded by ill-treated workers and seamen and scavengers, blackened by the smoke from the coal-devouring factories … and haunted by the Ripper and a thousand lesser rascals.

The cathedral’s dome rose like an unyielding guard, its once white surface now blackened by the fumes of industry, and as gloomy as the darkened sky. Soon my driver halted in front of the long atrium. I walked past the white columns and went into the temple to find it utterly silent; my swift steps on the marble floor echoed throughout the nave.

St Paul’s was usually bright and airy, its imposing arches extending in perfect symmetry under the light streaming through the stained glass. That day, however, the miserable November evening made the place look dim, even sinister.

There were only two people in the cathedral: a young sacristan lighting the candlesticks, and a dark figure seated right in front of the altar – the latter was, of course, Sir Charles Warren, crouching and clenching his hat with shaky hands. Anyone who’d seen him would have thought that he was a lonely mourner.

His white, thin hair and bushy moustache contrasted with his raven black suit. I recognized the old-fashioned cut of his jacket, as conservative as the chap himself. It was no secret that Sir Charles Warren was a quaint gentleman, strongly set in his ways, and thus highly criticized. His greatest fault was exerting full control over the police force, refusing any autonomy to the assistant commissioner or the superintendents. To make matters worse, he
was also unable to delegate any duty he considered vital; no wonder he wanted to see me in person.

‘I never knew you were a religious man,’ I said, startling him though I spoke softly.

He looked up at me and straightened his back at once, casting me a cold stare.

‘You are late, Frey.’

‘The roads are impossible. I do apologize.’ I had to reply with the same formality, even though Sir Charles and I had been close acquaintances for the past seven years.

There was an ominous air around him, an almost tangible wall that even our old friendship could not breach.

I sat at a prudent distance. ‘What can I do for you, sir?’

Warren cleared his throat. ‘Two terrible murders have taken place, Frey. The first, I am sure, you have heard of …’

‘Indeed. Mary Jane Kelly, a Whitechapel woman again.’

Sir Charles shook his head. ‘This last one was different, Frey. It was brutal – I mean shockingly so. The preliminary report from Dr Bond made me sick: her entrails were strewn all about. The scene was so terrible that one of our officers vomited on the spot, and a blasted correspondent from
The Times
saw it all. As we speak, I have some agents trying to – persuade him not to publish the story.’

I nodded briefly, as I knew the persuasion methods preferred by the CID. ‘Is that the reason you called me? Do you want me to lend a helping hand on the Ripper’s case?’

‘Why, no …’ Warren’s expression became sombre. He kneaded his eyelids as he went on. ‘This has happened at
the worst possible time. I knew it would happen at some point, but not so soon …’

‘What is it?’

Warren sighed deeply. ‘I told you that there have been two killings. One was that Kelly woman … the other was an old chap, a musician, I hear. Apparently he was murdered most viciously … I think in Scotland.’

I frowned. ‘Excuse me, sir, but why do you say you “think”? Is the report not trustworthy?’

‘I have received no report, Frey. Hearsay is all I have had access to.’

I frowned harder. ‘How can that be? You are the head of the police –’

And then it struck me.

Warren gulped and shook his creased cheeks. ‘I am no longer, Frey. I have been forced to submit my resignation.’

‘By whom?’

Warren exhaled wearily. ‘By Lord Salisbury himself.’

The Prime Minister of Great Britain. The matter must be serious indeed, and within the next few seconds of silence a torrent of images came to my head.

The mayhem caused by Jack the Ripper had reached its peak and the state of fear had lasted for an unbearably long time. The press had become so obsessed with him that everything he did was exaggerated a thousand times, and the poor Londoners could talk of nothing else – only recently the headlines had referred to a forged letter written in fake blood.

I could picture the marquess storming into Warren’s office, sick of the circumstances and demanding answers, only to discover that Scotland Yard was not even close to
finding the murderer. Only a handful of suspects had been traced, each one as unlikely to be the perpetrator as the others.

Then I thought of this mysterious new murderer in Scotland. If even Sir Charles Warren had no access to the reports …

‘From the fragments of information I can gather,’ Warren said, ‘I believe the government is afraid of an imitator of the Ripper emerging in Scotland … or even many imitators, anywhere in the land …’

‘What do you think he is planning to –’

‘That is not the most pressing matter, Frey. I called you to warn you.’

‘Warn me?’

‘Yes. Once I am ousted, they will transform Scotland Yard in a snap.’

‘Is Monro taking charge?’ I pronounced the name with acrimony, for I already knew the answer.

‘Most certainly.’

James Monro was Scotland Yard’s assistant commissioner, outranked only by Warren himself. Lately, the two men had found it almost impossible to work together, and it soon became evident that one of them would ultimately have to leave.

‘Not only will the organization of the CID change, Frey. Heads will roll soon, and yours could be among them.’

For a moment I simply nodded in silence, pondering Warren’s words. His long friendship with my late mother had played a vital part in my enrolment, and his connections with my family were well known to everyone. It was
only natural that if he fell, all his peers and protégés would fall as well. The papers were still talking about my success in the case of Good Mary Brown, a tiny seamstress who’d poisoned her five husbands with arsenic after buying life assurance policies in their names; however, my dedication and talents would mean nothing when politics took over.

‘Do you think I should fight them?’ I asked, rather daringly.

‘I would strongly advise you – not to.’

I blinked in confusion. I was expecting any other reply; any except that.

‘Do I hear you aright? If they decide I serve no purpose, I am to step aside like a pusillanimous imbecile? After more than seven years of service?’

He looked hard at me. ‘Yes, and you must, if you know what is best for you!’ Warren had raised his voice and his echo lingered. ‘The situation will bring out the worst of these people, Ian …’ he whispered. ‘You will be well advised not to cross them.’