City of Darkness (City of Mystery) (36 page)

Of course she wants money.  That is
all her kind can think to want.

He has written back, arranged to meet
her in this bar.  It is early and the place nearly empty, as he knew it would
be.  He notes her arrival by the mirror that hangs behind the whisky bottles. The
jagged crack down its center distorts the woman’s image, makes her look, if
possible, even larger and more malformed than she is.   Their paths have
crossed before in Whitechapel, many times, and after a quick scan of the room,
she walks toward him without hesitation.  Where he prides himself on
invisibility she is somewhat a legend in these parts.  Strange in appearance,
stranger still in behavior, and while she always seems to be present, hovering
on the periphery of the drunkenness and whoring, few have ever caught her in
the act of conversation.

Nor does she talk now.  Simply hefts
herself to the stool beside his.   They both stare straight ahead, as if
fascinated by the familiar sight of the stacked beer steins and rows of gummy
glasses.  He puts the knotted handkerchief on the bar and she places her broad
palm over it.  She has not asked for much, but he suspects she will ask again. 
And yet again and again and indeed this is a problem, something he must address
in the very near future.  He is amazed by her boldness, at the fact she would
attempt to blackmail a man she knows to be capable of murder.  Does she believe
that her size offers her protection?  Her reputation for violence?  Her own
reputed skill with a knife?

Most likely she had been startled to
see him leaving Mary Kelly’s house, to realize with the publication of the next
day paper’s precisely what it was she had witnessed.  Undoubtedly her plan of
blackmail is in its infancy, evolving just as his is.  She merely wants money
now, but she may want something more later.

He gulps his beer, ashamed that she
has rattled him.   Normally the Kelly girl would have been enough, would have
sated him for weeks.  Still plenty of juice left in that memory, still plenty
of souvenirs to fondle and consider.  The days after a kill were normally the
sweetest and most tranquil of his life.  But this new complication has agitated
him, has shattered his sense of well being.  He gives a quick, furtive glance
toward Maud.  His knife is small, designed more for precision than depth, and
this woman is well insulated, armored in muscle, swathed in layers of fat. 
Could he penetrate her, even if she wished?  A stab to the torso would fall
short of any vital organs and approaching her from the front could invoke
hand-to-hand combat, a fight he may not win.   Even a throat slice from behind
would be tricky.  She is taller than most men.  

She shoves the handkerchief into her
pocket.  Grunts.   Whether the sound was an attempt at communication or merely
an indication of how hard it was to move her bulky arse from the bar stool, he
cannot say.   He has paid her this first time because she startled him, came at
him before he could formulate a plan.   But he will not be threatened again and
again.  He will not walk the streets expecting to see her beady, pig-like eyes
at every turn.

Something will have to be done about
Maud Milford.    

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

5:10 PM

Even though he considered Trevor’s
accusations ludicrous, Tom still found himself running as he made his way back
to Mayfair.  He arrived to find the house not only in order, but almost a
parody of tranquil domesticity, with a fire crackling in the hearth, Emma’s
yellow roses on the table, and the smell of baking bread wafting in from the
kitchen.

No danger here.  Absolutely none. 
Trevor Welles was a fool and Tom had been just as much of one for letting
himself become swept up in the man’s wild theories.   Tom’s hands were shaking
as he made his way to Geraldine’s liquor cabinet and poured a large brandy.  It
had been cold and dank outside as only November in London can be and Tom had
not buttoned his coat or knotted his scarf in his hasty departure from Scotland
Yard.  He pulled an armchair near the fire, wrapping himself in a shawl Geraldine
had left on her footstool, and began to drink with a steady determination. 

He would send for his grandfather’s
old medical journals, yes he would.  He would find a way to gain access to the
type of knives John used in his surgical practice and he would assist Trevor in
his wound studies at Scotland Yard.  Because Tom had no doubt, absolutely none,
that any information brought to light there would exonerate John Harrowman.  He
personally would discover the sort of irrefutable scientific evidence that no
one could deny.  Tom drained his glass, poured another, and closed his eyes as
he thought of his grandfather.  Leonard had always said that science was his
religion, a statement he would follow with a soft little laugh, so that anyone
who chose not to believe such a radical statement could say “But of course he
was joking.”  Leonard knew the opinions held by his neighbors, and accepted that
they would consider his atheism a personal assault.  He didn’t fear their
censure, but neither did he wish to distress them.   He was gentlemanly enough
to couch even his deepest beliefs inside a chuckle.

But Tom had certainly known that his
grandfather wasn’t joking.  Science was not only his profession, but the basis
on which he lived his life.  Leonard had taught both of his younger
grandchildren to hold scientific truth in high esteem, even when that truth was
neither convenient nor reassuring.  Tom had been happy to hear that his sister
had fallen in love with a doctor, partly because he understood how much this
sort of match would have pleased their grandfather.  For the first time he was
also willing to concede that perhaps Cecil had a point when he said Tom’s
desire to flatter Leonard had driven him to attend medical school. 

Tom gulped again, then poured again. 
The brandy had at first burned him, then warmed him, and now once more was
burning.  He pushed off Geraldine’s shawl and reached down to unbuckle his boots. 
Not an easy task.  He groaned and leaned back in the chair, one boot off and
the other still on.  Wasn’t there a child’s nursery rhyme about a man in just
such a state?  God knows, that was what his older brothers had always said,
that Tom had known the route to Leonard’s heart ran through the medical schools
of Cambridge, that his studies were nothing more than a way to win their
grandfather’s approval, and ultimately his patronage.

And perhaps they were right, at least
about what his motives might have been at the start.  A boy doesn’t know what
he wants to be, so he follows in the steps of the man he most admires.  Nothing
criminal in that, is there?  But during his time at Cambridge Tom had gradually
developed, if not Leonard’s all-consuming passion, at least a deeper respect
for science and the character of the men who worshipped at this particular
shrine.  John Harrowman was a man who had devoted his life to helping the
wretches of the earth and it seemed that in accusing John, Trevor had been
accusing Tom himself, and Leonard, and the brotherhood of doctors.  Tom
splashed the last of the brandy into his tilted glass.  Damn the man.  A shudder
ran through him and Tom pulled the shawl more tightly.  Cold, then hot, then
cold again. 

I’ll send for grandfather’s notebooks
this very day, Tom thought.  But first I’ll take a nap.      

The clock was striking five as Leanna
entered the sitting room, and with one glance she knew Tom was drunk.  Not the
giggly, early-drinking type of intoxication either, but rather the cold-limbed
still-bodied type of stupor that is the result of a relentless, almost medicinal
type of drinking.  She had seen first her father and then her brother Cecil in
this same position many times and now she looked down on Tom with
poorly-concealed exasperation.  He had been called on to act as man of the
house and a mere twelve hours after his arrival he was incapable of defending
them from a gnat.  Leanna pulled the pillow from behind his head, and waited
for his eyes to flutter open.

“Do you want tea?”

Tom shuddered.

“You should have food.”

“Brandy.  I’m chilled to the bone,”
he said thickly.

“Brandy is the last thing you need,”
Leanna said irritably.  “What will Aunt Gerry say when she sees you like this?”

“Doubt she’ll care.”

He was probably right on that one,
but Leanna was not prepared to concede the point.  “I thought you were going to
see Trevor Welles.”

“I did.”

“And then came home and finished a
bottle.”

Tom threw back the shawl as he was
hit with a heat wave which produced small prickles of perspiration all along
his flushed face.  “Damn it, Leanna, this has all been a bit much to take in.”

“So sorry you’ve suffered.  Emma
hasn’t left her room all day, not that you asked.” Leanna exhaled slowly,
suddenly aware of how much she sounded like her mother when her tongue grew
sharp.  For the first time in her life she was beginning to understand how hard
it must have been for Gwynette to put her husband to bed night after night,
year after year.  “Aunt Gerry and I are going out,” she said, her tone more
civil.  “A friend of hers has just become a grandmother and we’re going to see
the babies.”  She shook her head before Tom could object.  “Gage is coming with
us,” she said.  “And we’ll be back early.  The better question is whether or
not you’re fit to stand guard over Emma. She’s had something to eat and will
probably sleep away the evening, but I hate the thought of her calling for
something and you being too drunk to answer.”

“I’m fine,” Tom said, standing up to
illustrate his point.  “I’ll have a bit of tea and toast and be even more completely
fine by the time you leave. But isn’t Emma sleeping a lot?   I have the impression
she’s been sedated for three days in a row and that may not be prudent.”

“John seems to feel it’s best.”

“But she has to confront what’s
happened at some point, doesn’t she?  What did he give her, do you know?”

“Morphine.”

Three days on morphine?  That seemed
excessive, and Tom felt a return of the same nameless unease that had stuck him
while walking home from Scotland Yard.  “Morphine is serious business, Leanna,”
he said.  “The longer the drugs are in her system the harder it will be for her
to shake off the effects.”

“Of course, John said as much, but he
was also afraid she was a danger to herself.  He said he’d never seen grief
that violent on anyone.”

“What was she doing?”

Leanna looked at him.  “Crying, of
course.”

“Seems a natural enough reaction
under the circumstances.  Why would he think that made her a danger to
herself?”

“I’m sure I don’t know,” Leanna said
in exasperation.  “You can discuss it with John tomorrow.  Until then just promise
me you’ll stay alert.”

“I’m fine,” Tom said, starting his
wobbly progress toward the kitchen.  “A bit of toast and tea and I’ll be the
best sentry in London.”

6:10 PM

With Gerry, Leanna, and Gage gone and
food in his stomach, Tom pulled his anatomy book from his satchel and returned to
the fire.  Thanks to his nap, he had never gotten his wire off to Galloway, but
he could do that tomorrow and in the meantime, perhaps he could find some
useful information about scalpels in the chapter on surgery.   He balanced the
heavy book in his lap and hunched over it like an invalid.

Despite his brave talk in front of
Leanna, Tom was still somewhat under the effects of the brandy and after only a
page or two he found himself drowsy again.  He sat very still and listened, but
there was not a sound from upstairs and he finally decided that a small splash
of brandy might ease the pressure in his head.  The first bottle was gone but
Geraldine was an excellent hostess, always prepared for an unexpected guest,
and Tom suspected she kept a well-stocked bar.  He pushed himself to his feet
and headed back toward the liquor cabinet. 

7:25 PM

Tom awoke with a start and struggled
to sit up, his head throbbing and his eyes painfully slow to adjust to the
murky darkness.  How much time had passed?  An hour?  Two?  He was dimly aware
of a presence in the room and turned to look behind his chair.  No one there,
and no one in the far corner.  Just as he was willing to concede the drink had
made his imagination take over his senses, he saw Emma at the writing desk,
dressed in a white flowing robe with her hair down.  She looked like a ghostly
bride and Tom nearly let loose an involuntary cry.

Emma sat still, gazing at him with a
serious and unblinking expression.  She had apparently begun to roam the house
as the drugs gradually loosened their grip on her nervous system; Tom had observed
the same effect on patients and he knew it was imperative he get her back
upstairs before she stumbled and managed to really hurt herself.  The only
trouble was, he was none too steady on his own feet and now that his eyes could
make out the mantle clock he could see it was nearly seven-thirty.  The rest of
the household would be back soon and would see how utterly he’d shirked his
duty.  He couldn’t bear another lecture from Leanna.