Murder (31 page)

I would kill a woman that night, and this time I would not study her for her crimes. What did it matter any more? Behind my eyes, the blood was already endless.

All the way back to London, James sat, silent and still, on the seat opposite me. I did not look at him.

At the Central Criminal Court on Saturday sentence of death was passed on Ada Chard Williams, twenty-four, for the murder of a nurse child, whose body was found in the Thames off Battersea. William Chard Williams, the woman’s husband, was acquitted
.

The
Times
Wednesday, March 7, 1900

EXECUTION AT NEWGATE – Ada Chard Williams, 24 years of age, who was convicted at the Central Criminal Court of the wilful murder of Selina Ellen Jones, a child which had been placed in her care, was executed at Newgate yesterday morning. There were present at the execution Lieutenant-Colonel Milman, Governor of Newgate and Holloway Prisons, Mr. Under-Sheriff Metcalfe, representing the High Sheriff of the county of London, Dr. Scott, medical officer of Newgate and Holloway, and other officials. Billington was the executioner. An inquest was subsequently held in the Sessions-house, Old Bailey, before Mr. Langham, Coroner for the City. Lieutenant-Colonel Milman gave evidence, stating that the execution was carried out satisfactorily. Death was instantaneous. The prisoner made no confession. The jury returned the usual verdict.

I lived most of the year in the dark, succumbing to that I could no longer even pretend to fight. The night had become my world; I could no longer bear the daylight and those who carried on their normal lives within it too. It was too loud and noisy, and in my rare moments of sober clarity it was too painful a reminder of everything I had lost.

I employed a woman – no Mrs Parks, but an earthy creature who needed the money – to fetch whatever shopping I required from that alien world outside. Visitors, mainly ex-colleagues from Westminster Hospital, still attempted to call on me, but I rarely answered the door, and when I did I pleaded back pain and illness to get rid of them quickly. Even with the hospital so close by the stream eventually became a trickle as the world moved on without me. Only Henry Moore remained persistent in his attempts to secure my company, and on the rare occasions I agreed to meet him I could see that he was concerned for me. No matter how hard I tried to achieve the veneer of the honest and respectable man I had once been, it was always just out of my reach. I was a poor imitation of myself, and Henry Moore was too clever a man not to notice it. Our dinners were short and I escaped them gladly. In some way I loathed Moore now, not for what he had done but for who he was: he was everything I so desperately wished to be: sane, clear of conscience and invigorated by life.

I took too much opium and laudanum, and drank anything else that might drown the last tiny shred of decency inside me that screamed and railed at the horror of my existence and haunted me with visions of James. I was no longer afraid of the dark spot in the corner of my eye. I had accepted that the
Upir
and I had become one being, but every sighting of the dead boy filled me with awful dread. I would find him in the most unusual places, on the landing as I turned the stairs, or his shoes and legs visible in my closet as if he was hiding behind my clothes, and a thousand other places, and always when I least expected it. I did not grow used to the sight, even though I knew the boy could not be real.

I rarely slept, not even when I was exhausted and the drugs had taken their toll on my body. Perhaps by accepting the
Upir
I had relinquished that small mercy and hell had come for me early? There were times when I wondered if I was indeed dead, for my craven existence, so flooded with blood, was hell indeed; I could scarcely imagine a worse one. The days and weeks blurred into one and the only true gauge I had of time was the changing weather and the longer days as I waited for night to fall, when I could hide in the darkness.

I had become depraved. There was no other word for it. I could no longer deny that the
Upir’s
lusts had become my own. Where once my deeds had reviled me, now I was beginning to revel in the moment of the kill and the sweet delights that came after it. I did not limit myself to Whitechapel in my search for my prey; I would not risk the notoriety Hebbert had drawn, working only in those unhallowed streets. The
Upir
most enjoyed the homeless and the wandering immigrants from the east of Europe, relishing in the taste of their soft organs as I squeezed them into my mouth.

Not all my victims went into the river. The woman Hebbert had killed was no longer lonely in her grave at the bottom of my garden. I knew George was becoming suspicious of my activities, having witnessed the feral energy I exuded after such a kill, and with each trip he demanded more money from me. I was beginning to think I would have to deal with George himself before long. Whatever fear I might have had of him was long gone; now it was he who looked at me warily, his survival instincts honed from a life in the alleys of the East End.

Sometimes I wondered if I now killed as much for myself as for the devil on my back. It was so very hard to tell when my hands were tight around a throat and I could feel the surge of excitement running through me. The beast’s transferred energy was a drug in itself.

It was perhaps good that I no longer slept, for the cellar always needed scrubbing these days. My fingers were raw from the bleach and carbolic soap.

If only I could clean my soul so easily.

In many ways, he blamed himself. He had thrown himself into his new job with such vigour that there had been little time for checking up on his old friend, even though he knew Thomas Bond had not been himself for some time.

Tonight the doctor’s appearance and behaviour had shocked him. His words were slurred and his clothing and hair unkempt, to the point that even in the more basic restaurants that Moore preferred, the waiter’s displeasure had been obvious. Bond had barely touched his food, but he drank too much wine and brandy before complaining of illness and stumbling outside.

Moore had followed and helped him into a hansom, then watched as it disappeared towards Westminster before lighting a cigarette and strolling, still sober, towards his own part of the city. He was not a man predisposed to fanciful thoughts, but there was an air of death around Bond, almost seeping from his very pores. Moore thought he might even go so far as to say there was a sense of both mania and resignation to his coming end – for his end was coming, he had no doubt about that. Thomas had grown almost skeletally thin and he stooped badly, perhaps to relieve the incessant back pain which had plagued him this last year or so. He had a permanent phlegmy cough that he appeared not even to notice. He was a far cry from the man who had written his
report on Jack the Ripper a decade before, the man he had chosen as his police surgeon whenever possible. That man had been serious, sober and sharp of mind. This ‘new’ Thomas Bond was anything but.

Can it be some form of brain disease causing the changes?
he wondered as he enjoyed the cold, crisp night air. Or was Bond overdosing on laudanum?

It was no good, whatever it was, and it left Moore with a bitter taste in his mouth. He was still angry at Andrews’ unexpected suicide. He hated that he had left without so much as a letter of explanation, leaving only another unsolved mystery behind him. Andrews was gone and he knew – because he was a man who could not avoid hard facts when placed in front of him – that Bond would be the next of their little group to fall under the scythe.

For his own part, he did not feel old – he was a man who lived in the moment; he did not dwell on the number of years left to him, as so many men did as they aged. He had seen enough dead bodies to know that a lifespan could not be measured that way. To be alive and healthy on this day, to make it through to the comfort of your bed and the hope of waking the next morning, that was all any man should wish for. And in his new career Moore was feeling more alive than he had for a long time – but his renewed enthusiasm for life had been at painful odds with his old friend’s strange shambling towards the end of his. It was clear that Bond no longer wanted his friendship, that he had come to meet him only out of some sense of obligation, but that did not mean that Moore would abandon him. Bond was not himself, and if whatever life he had left to him was to be spent in some kind of comfort, he would need those who cared about him around him.

He had walked briskly, as was his style, but even so, by the time he reached his front door the tips of his fingers were numb and his nose was running and he was happy to get inside. His mind was still on Thomas Bond, however, and he poured himself a drink and settled down at his desk. Perhaps Andrews’ death had been the straw that broke him. Moore was no fool. He had known how the doctor felt about Hebbert’s daughter, and if anyone could help him now, it would be her. He also wondered if Bond had ever written to tell them about the Chard Williams’ case; he had expected her to have returned for the verdict and execution. Once again he cursed his driven mind; he was so focused on his work that he excluded so much else. He had taken Bond at his word that he would write to the Kanes, but had then forgotten all about it.

He was tired, but he knew that if he went to bed without having taken some action on the matter, he would not sleep. Instead of finding himself back at his desk at some ungodly hour he would rather get it done now and be able to sink into oblivion with his day’s work completed. He would write a letter and send it in the morning.

His mind made up, he pulled a sheet of fine paper from the top drawer and laid it on the blotting pad. This would not take long. He was a plain-speaking man in all forms of communication. He picked up his pen.

Edward had waited until the Christmas festivities were done before sharing the contents of Henry Moore’s letter with Juliana. It had been a glorious holiday, filled with feasting, new friends and laughter, and for the first time in a long time Juliana had glowed like she used to in the first flush of their love. She had shared the reason with him on Christmas Eve, as they had placed their gifts for each other under the trimmed tree.

‘I have something else for you,’ she had said, unable to keep her smile from dancing in her eyes, ‘but it is too well-wrapped for you to see at present.’

‘Too well-wrapped?’ He had looked around the room, confused, until she had taken his hand and pressed it to her stomach.

He had stared at her quizzically for a moment before her meaning sank in. His heart had leapt.

‘You mean, you’re –
we’re
—?’

‘Yes. We’re having a baby.’

He had whooped with delight, right there on the rug, and she had laughed at his childlike joy, and then they had laughed together and kissed each other and laughed some more. Happiness was returning to their family. They would never forget James, that wasn’t possible, but this was a new life, a new child to love and nurture and have as their own. There was a purpose to life again, and he could see Juliana’s
vitality returning in every passing moment. They made plans and talked of all the toys and books they would fill the nursery with. Christmas was wonderful.

He had thought about just burning the letter and pretending he had never received it. London was a lifetime ago, a place now filled with unhappy memories. New York was their home now. Charles Hebbert had never quite been himself since leaving England and after a brief visit to New York had returned to Australia to make some kind of life there; to all intents and purposes he was dead to them. What was the point of sharing more bad news from her home country?

But he could not unsee the words, and he could not bring such a secret into their marriage. Some men would, no doubt, but then, some men weren’t married to Juliana. Once the world had settled into the new year and February’s winter had gripped the city, he had finally sat her down and gently broken the contents of Moore’s letter to her, hating the horror on her face as she learned of Ada Chard Williams’ awful crimes – and the realisation of the meaning of little James’ nightmares and delirious words – and then, once she had taken that in, he told her about Moore’s concerns for Thomas Bond.

‘He doesn’t think he has much time left,’ he said. ‘He thought you should know.’

For a while she had said nothing, but he had passed the letter over to her, knowing she would want to read it for herself. At last she came and found him in his offices.

‘He cannot die alone,’ she said. Her chin was high and defiant, and her voice was strong. He knew this Juliana well; this was not a woman who could be persuaded from whatever she had decided. ‘Perhaps, if he has friends around him he will not die at all. We must go to London.’

‘But in your condition?’ Edward said. Her belly had started to show the signs of new life. ‘Maybe we should wait until after the baby comes?’

‘I’ve thought about that,’ she said.

‘Have you now?’ Edward leaned back in his chair and smiled. Of course she had. Juliana hadn’t come here to ask his permission for anything, she had come here to tell him their plans. God, he loved this woman. He thanked the good Lord every day just for bringing her into his life, even in such dark circumstances. She was
his
Juliana – she had been, even before they had ever met, no matter how much Harrington might have loved her – and he would stand by her side and do everything he could to make her and their child happy. Even if it meant a trip back to London, and the past.