‘That’s why I cannot be distracted by Juliana,’ Harrington continued. ‘You know how it is: we men must concentrate on our work. Our work is
important
.’
‘It certainly is.’
‘I do not remember saying that at all. How strange.’ Harrington was staring into space, the frown still etched on his forehead and then suddenly his eyes snapped back to me. He smiled again. ‘But speaking of work …’ He gestured at the mass of untidiness that covered his desk. ‘I really must get on, or I shan’t be home before midnight. If I had known you were coming, I would have put some time aside to give you a tour, but …’
‘Of course,’ I said, ‘I understand perfectly. I am sorry to have disturbed you.’ I glanced again at the
disorganised papers on his desk. For someone who apparently worked such long hours, he did not seem to be on top of his affairs at all. ‘And I am quite sure Juliana will be fine when you get home.’
He did not get up to see me out. As I opened the door, his secretary almost tumbled in. He muttered his apologies for his clumsiness and started, ‘We need somewhere to store the tea that’s just come in. I was thinking warehouse three. That’s nearest the—’
‘No. That’s being used.’
‘Is it? I was sure that—’
I closed the door behind me and left them to figure out which was the cause of the confusion. I imagined it was Harrington. This was not the self-deprecating young businessman I had met last year.
I had no desire to go home and sit alone with my thoughts, so I decided to call on Juliana and the Hebberts instead. I was now almost part of the family; they would not object to my arriving unannounced. My concern was obviously for Juliana; the way Harrington had immediately jumped to the conclusion that I had come about her implied that he had done more than just politely ask her to leave. She must have been in quite a state for him to think I had come to berate him, when I had never spoken an ill word to him in all our acquaintance. I could not imagine any circumstance wherein anyone could be angry with Juliana, and the thought of it upset me. My feelings for her were stronger than they should
be, that I knew, but they did not lie about her nature: she was sweet and intelligent and warm – and she was also pregnant.
Summer having full reign, it was still light when I arrived, but as I stepped into Charles’ house, the temperature dropped and any brightness was shut outside with the closing of the door. The lamps were already lit, but their light was dull, and shadows clung to every surface. I joined Charles in his study, where I found him in a not-dissimilar position to Harrington: at his desk and surrounded by reports and folders.
‘I’m trying to put together a paper on the Jackson girl,’ he said, ‘but I just cannot concentrate. I think we need a thunderstorm, don’t you? Something to clear this air, anyway.’
Although the day was warm, I had not found it muggy, but inside the house, the air felt oppressive, and the book-lined walls started to close in on me, almost as if threatening to tumble and crush both me and my superstitions under the weight of science. My heart began the strange beat I dreaded, and my face tingled. What was it about being in this house that made my anxiety surge? I surely had enough laudanum in my body that it should not even have been possible. I took slow deep breaths, pretending to study the spines of the dusty volumes, until some semblance of calm had returned.
‘I have decided to take a holiday myself,’ Charles
announced abruptly. ‘I am taking Mary away, the day after tomorrow – somewhere by the sea. I think I shall sleep better by the sea.’ He was smiling, but his eyes were tired. ‘I think I shall sleep better out of London for a while.’
‘You have been working very hard,’ I said.
‘You should consider a holiday too, Thomas. If you do not mind me saying, you are a shadow of your former self – do not think I have not noticed. I am a doctor, after all.’ He smiled, and it was almost the cheery expression I always associated with him … but not quite. We had both become ghosts of ourselves, I feared, and the smile sat like it was drawn on tracing paper stretched over his face.
‘Did you know that Elizabeth Jackson used to work in a house on the street where James lives?’ I asked.
‘Really?’ Charles dropped his face to his papers. ‘No, I didn’t. Still, people have to live somewhere. Juliana is resting, by the way. I think she’s suffering slightly with this pregnancy. She won’t rest enough, that’s her problem. She was always so active, even as a child.’ He tossed his pen down and pushed away from the desk. ‘I think we should have a drink.’
His words came out in a cheerful rush, almost as if to drown my words in their surge. He was not going to comment further? Surely there should be some discussion, even if only to decide it was simply a strange coincidence. I stared at my friend’s back. Or had he already known? It was hardly confidential
information; if I knew, then there was no reason that Charles would not. But why had not he mentioned it? Simply because he thought there was no reason to, or because he too was caught up in a whirl of suspicion? And if he did already know, then why not say so when I brought it up?
He turned and handed me a brandy glass.
‘This house is so
full
,’ he said. ‘It will be good to be alone with Mary. I asked Juliana if she would like to come, but she would rather stay here with James. That’s natural, I suppose.’
It had been only a few days since the young couple had moved in, and the last time I had been here they had all been full of mirth at the thought of a new arrival. How much had changed in so short a time: this house was not small – there was plenty of room for them all, and several more besides, before it would feel crowded. However, I would have to agree that there was definitely something oppressive in the place. I noticed that my breaths were shorter, as if the air itself was heavy and resisting inhalation, wanting to suffocate, rather than provide life. It was dark, too, despite the curtains being open and the early evening sun still shining outside. I sipped my brandy.
‘I imagine she would not want to be far from her own house,’ I suggested. ‘If James is always working, then she will have to oversee the labour there.’
‘True,’ Charles said, ‘but I am sorry she won’t come with us. The seaside would do her good.’
‘She’s just been to Bath. That will have refreshed her.’
Charles looked distinctly unhappy at the thought of leaving Juliana behind, and I wondered if he realised how much he sounded like he was running from something rather than simply taking a well-deserved break. The one person he was leaving behind was Harrington – was he running from his son-in-law? Was he even aware of it? The priest said the
Upir
brought mayhem with it; if it really was attached to Harrington, then perhaps it was no wonder that Charles felt so despondent while he was in the house; maybe that was why he was suddenly plagued by nightmares, when he had always been the most optimistic of men.
What had Kosminski said? That the
Upir
was stronger than the man now? Could Charles somehow feel the wickedness in his house? If I had been so plagued by thoughts of darkness in the streets of London that they had driven sleep further than ever from me and led me to the opium dens, was it so irrational to think Charles might be similarly affected too?
‘I can keep an eye on Juliana if you like,’ I said. ‘She and I are friends now, and I think she would not find my presence an imposition.’
‘Would you, Thomas?’ He looked at me with a strange mixture of relief and desperation. ‘I hate leaving her behind, but I have to … I have to get away, if I am to be of any use to my profession.’ He smiled again,
that strange expression that did not quite fit; like a reflection of sunshine on the filthy river.
He was terrified, I realised – terrified enough to leave his daughter behind in the city. ‘And I must finish this paper.’ He gestured at the pages behind him.
‘It would be my pleasure,’ I said. It would also give me a chance to study Harrington more closely, if I had been charged to watch over them both by Charles. The young man would not be so rude as to tell me to leave under such circumstances. Charles had returned to his desk and was shuffling his notes around.
‘Why the Jackson case?’ I said. ‘Why present a paper on her?’
‘Why not?’ Charles said. ‘We found all but her head, and she has a name. We know who she was.’ He drained his brandy.
‘A name to haunt us,’ I said softly.
‘This year has been filled with names to haunt us, Thomas,’ Charles said. ‘I see those women in my dreams. I see their blood. I could live without another summer like the last one quite happily.’
I nodded in agreement and swallowed the last of my own drink. It might be the Ripper victims he saw in his dreams, but he was fixating on the dead girl who’d known his son-in-law. Somewhere in his subconscious, Charles was wrestling with knowledge he did not want. I was not sure if I envied him or not. Was it better to be in my position or his? At least
he could leave London with no sense of abandoned responsibility. I was trapped in a world of madness and superstition, steeped in murders that I had a terrible feeling might lead to one more: one in which I would play a part, even if it was not my hand that committed the deed.
Suddenly I wanted out of this house, even if it meant a return to pacing my own and staring out at the night. At least the air was
clean
there; it lacked the stagnant tang that filled my nostrils suddenly.
‘I shall leave you to your preparations,’ I said, ‘and hope the sea air does you good.’
We shook hands, and both our palms were clammy with cool sweat that held more honesty than any of the words we had spoken to each other.
*
I did not go home until much later. For the first time in a long time I took a hansom to Bluegate Fields. My nerves were surprisingly calm but I sought oblivion – some peace, if not rest. I knew, whether I wished to admit it or not, that this would be my last opportunity until this miserable business was done, one way or another.
The priest was right of course: the
Upir
– or the monster within the man, both demons regardless of which was driving the actions – would kill again, and I needed to reach my conclusions before then. I hoped beyond all things that we were wrong; that I had found Harrington a suspect simply to satisfy the mad desires
of we fellow hunters. The next time I saw him, I would take the drug the priest had given me; I would fulfil that obligation – but I would not trust my eyes. After all, the sea creatures I had seen around the heads of the sailors in the dens had been so realistic, but my rational mind had known that they did not truly exist, so it would surely be the same with anything I saw around Harrington. Despite Charles’ strange behaviour, and the undeniable atmosphere in that house, I had to prove Harrington guilty or innocent on
physical
evidence.
My decision to start the following day left me with a feeling of vague, doomed calm; what would be, would be. If I had attained any kind of tranquillity, it was that of the condemned man.
I let the sweet smoke caress me, and this time no monsters came to plague my visions as I lay back on the filthy cot. I had missed the simplicity of this place, back when I was plagued only by insomnia and unease, when the priest was simply a curious stranger in a long black coat. Tension eased from my limbs as I saw the ocean and swam in its depths, drifting in and out of oblivion, calling for the Chinaman to refill the pipe every time my conscious mind came too close to the surface. I do not remember leaving the den, but I must have, for I wandered through the streets to Whitechapel, where I weaved my way between the drunks and other unfortunates who tumbled loud and toothless from the public houses and brothels that filled those streets.
Strange street theatres acted out gruesome scenes, my drugged mind seeing only tortured people behind the actors’ made-up faces. Everywhere around me I saw life and death battling for control of each filthy, hacking body. Women walked past me, leering and laughing, their faces so close to mine, for all they were several feet away, that I could smell their rancid breath. Through my revulsion I wanted to kiss them: this was humanity in all its brutal beauty, with mankind’s matchless ability to laugh, even while trapped in such a pitiless existence. I had seen men and women like these at Westminster Hospital, their miserable lives plotted out for them by the accident of their birth, their lives doomed to failure and sickness even as they clawed their way through each day. These lives might have been better off snuffed out at birth, and yet they were all so determined to cling on, to hope for some happiness, however elusive or improbable that might be.
I wanted to suck in their warmth; I wanted to take their raw grit away and arm myself with it. Was this how Jack felt when he walked these streets? Was that why he butchered these women? Did he want to rip this hungry energy from them for himself?
I walked until I was exhausted, and slowly the world slipped back into some kind of normalcy. My eyes stung as dawn creaked into life, the early birdsong soon drowned out by the throb of the city. It was gone eight in the morning by the time I returned to my
house. I scribbled a note for my housekeeper, claiming to be unwell and asking her not to disturb me, and then crawled into my bed, where I slept like the dead.
When I awoke it was past four and the day was lost. I was still tired, and although I had slept for eight hours – something of a miracle for me – I felt disoriented and bleary.
‘You’re up then, sir,’ Mrs Parks said, appearing silently in the doorway in that way that only a housekeeper could manage. ‘I shall get you some coffee if you’re feeling better. I shall take the tray to your study.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Miss Hebbert called earlier to see if you’d care to join them for dinner tonight. I told her you were unwell, but that if I saw you I would certainly tell you. She said there would be a place for you if wanted it.’ She raised an eyebrow. ‘I presume you will not be requiring me to prepare you any supper?’