I watched from the upstairs window as the police gathered in front of the castle door. I had witnessed fox hunts when the
riders assemble in preparation for the pursuit of the fox and I must say the atmosphere was remarkably similar. Only this
time their quarry was John Varley.
It had been my testimony that had brought this about. I had spoken to the inspector in charge in confidence, claiming that
I never wished it to be known that I had been the betrayer because I was afraid of losing my position in the household. How
that inspector had drunk in everything I said, placing a fatherly hand on my sleeve as I feigned tears. I told him how I had
seen John leaving the house on the very nights the women had been brutally killed and mutilated. And I had told the inspector
that, like his father, John was obsessed with the rituals of the ancient Egyptian people, especially those regarding death
and funerals. And I told him how he had boasted to me that he held power over life and death and how he had frightened me
so that I feared for my safety.
Although Frederick was unaware of my part in his son’s discovery, he
did not speak to me. In fact he had rarely communicated with me since the night they took my precious child away from me.
When John was found dead, hanging in the woods, I hoped that Frederick might come to me for comfort and acknowledge the son
he had given up now that he had lost his eldest. But he still regarded me coldly.
Perhaps it had all been for nothing.
It wasn’t until Wesley had done some further digging that he discovered that Ben Kitchener had read Egyptology at Liverpool
University, one of the few institutions in the country to offer the course.
The real Andrew Beredace had been Ben’s fellow student but he had died tragically in a climbing accident at the age of twenty-one,
shortly after his graduation. Ben had known of his death and had decided to assume his identity so that, whenever anybody
checked, they’d found that Andrew Beredace had indeed been a bona fide student at the University of Liverpool. Also, by assuming
Andrew’s identity, Ben had increased his degree classification from a lower second to a first and on the strength of this
he’d completed a doctorate in London and obtained a job at the British Museum. And there he’d stayed, his terrible past dormant
like a preserved mummy in a tomb, until he’d made a trip to Tradmouth to see his mother and brother and had been spotted by
Isobel Grant.
Mary, grateful that her younger son was still alive, had kept his secret. She had shielded him from the consequences of his
crimes and protected his new identity, visiting him occasionally in the safe anonymity of London. Guy too had kept his secret
– he was his brother after all.
Mary Kitchener’s devoted love had caused the deaths of three women, two of whom had known nothing of Ben Kitchener’s crimes
and the reason why he judged that their lives had to end.
Now Ben was sitting opposite Wesley, his expression serene. The detective had hoped that he was establishing some kind of
rapport with the killer, maybe because of their mutual connection with Neil, and as they sat there in the interview room,
it almost seemed like a chat between old friends. Gerry sat beside him in silence, having sensed that nothing would be gained
from interruption.
‘Tell us what happened.’
‘From the beginning?’
‘Please.’
Ben smiled. His smile was charming. He had the sort of face you’d trust and even now Wesley was finding it hard to treat him
as a cold-blooded murderer. ‘It’s a long story, Wesley. Sure you’ve got the time?’
‘We’ve got all the time in the world,’ Gerry said.
Ben smiled again. ‘If you say so.’ He took a deep breath. ‘I’ll start at the beginning, shall I? I suppose I’ve always been
fascinated by the ancient Egyptians and their religion and I built up quite a library of books about them when I was a child.
Mum’s still got them in the attic – I was looking through them when you arrived, actually. She’d never throw anything of mine
away. I know mothers shouldn’t really have favourites but she’ll do anything for me. There were times
when I found her love a little … stifling but it’s certainly had its uses over the years. Anyway, I got into Liverpool
to study Egyptology – there was a lot of competition for places but I got there.’ His expression suddenly altered. ‘But that’s
not really the beginning. This all started in the early years of the twentieth century. Did you wonder why Mum keeps a picture
of Varley Castle above the fireplace?’
‘She said she was a distant cousin of the Varleys.’
Wesley found Ben’s knowing grin annoying. ‘Well, yes and no. We are related to the Varleys but on the wrong side of the blanket.
My great-grandfather was the illegitimate son of Sir Frederick Varley, the famous Egyptologist, and a governess called Eleanor
Porton. Maybe that’s where I got my passion for Egyptology from.’
The name triggered a memory in Wesley’s head. Eleanor Porton had been the name on the front of the journal Wesley had left
on his desk, intending to look at it when he had a spare moment. ‘Go on,’ he said.
‘Well, Eleanor shared Sir Frederick’s obsession with Egypt and they became close. The inevitable happened, of course, but
instead of marrying her – he was a widower so it would have been possible – he rejected her and forced her to give up her
child who was my great-grandfather. He was brought up by a childless couple on the estate and it wasn’t until he was in his
teens that Eleanor made herself known to him and told him the truth. He went to live with her and they moved to the Neston
area so the story ended happily, I suppose. But …’
‘But what?’
‘When my great-grandfather was about six months old four women were murdered. Sir Frederick’s oldest son, John, got the blame
and he hanged himself. He was known to be mentally unstable and he’d been particularly obnoxious to
Eleanor.’ He smiled. ‘I take it you know the details of those four murders?’
‘Yes.’
‘I used to read and re-read all the details in Eleanor’s journal. How the women were strangled with a cord from behind, then
their internal organs were removed with an obsidian blade from Sir Frederick’s collection and the bodies wrapped in linen
sheets from the castle and amulets left to aid their journey into the afterlife. It had all been done properly – or as properly
as one can do in the circumstances when there’s no access to embalming resins and spices.’
He spoke with the detached interest of a scholar, Wesley noticed. As if there had been no brutal death, no blood, no suffering.
‘So you decided to emulate them?’
‘Why not? Those murders stuck in my mind. I wondered what it would be like to do that to a human body.’ He smiled again. ‘Isobel
had to be silenced so I thought I would muddy the waters. Even if you did find out about the little incident back in my student
days, I thought you wouldn’t be bright enough to separate Isobel’s murder from the others. You’d be looking for a common thread.
But there wasn’t one.’
Wesley was tempted to point out that if they hadn’t been bright enough to discover his secrets, he wouldn’t be sitting there
under arrest, but he stayed silent and let the man talk.
‘Tell us about Isobel.’
‘We shared a house in my third year.’
‘With a dental student called Dominic?’
‘That’s right … but he had his own circle of friends and didn’t have much to do with me and Izzy. Dominic and I had nothing
in common.’ He paused. ‘But me and Izzy were close for a while. If it hadn’t been for her it wouldn’t have
happened, I’m sure of that. We brought out the worst in each other.’ There was a small smile on his face as though he was
reliving pleasant, or possibly erotic, memories.
‘Go on,’ said Wesley.
‘It was one of those long drunken conversations that go on long into the night. I was telling her all about the Egyptian belief
in the afterlife and their customs and she said she wondered what it would be like to kill some body … to actually watch
them die and see the soul leave the body.’
He swallowed hard and Wesley could see that the memories were no longer pleasant. This was something that disturbed him.
‘Anyway, she said why didn’t we kill somebody … just to see what it was like. I said it was a stupid idea but she wouldn’t
give up. She said she’d always wanted to see someone die and it would be easy. We’d just pick on someone who wouldn’t be missed.
We’d be doing them a favour, she said. Izzy could be very persuasive.’
‘So you killed someone?’
‘She was with me but there was no way she was getting her hands dirty. She took one of the knives from the kitchen drawer
and we went out. I’d had a bit to drink and I’d smoked some dope so the old inhibitions were pretty low. We saw this homeless
bloke in a doorway and Isobel got talking to him. She told him we knew where there was a crate full of booze that someone
had nicked and abandoned at an old dock.’ He looked up at Wesley. ‘You wouldn’t believe how convincing she sounded. Then when
we got to the dock … I stuck the knife in him and …’
‘What did Isobel do?’
‘She laughed. I’d never heard laughter like that.’
‘What about you?’
‘I felt elated. Powerful. I can’t explain. I’ve done it again but it’s never been like that first time.’
‘What happened next?’
‘Isobel was a greedy bitch. She began to make life hard for me. She said if I didn’t pay her to keep quiet she’d go to the
police. That’s when I confided in Guy. Guy had always had an over-developed sense of responsibility. I think Mum must have
instilled it into him at an early age that I was the precious little brother so it was up to him to look after me. He’s a
psychologist so he’d be able to explain it better than I can. Anyway, one day an unidentified body was found in the Albert
Dock – lad about my age and approximate description. No ID and nobody came forward to claim him. That’s when Guy had the idea
of me starting again. He reported me missing and when he identified the lad as me, I took the identity of this student on
my course who’d died a couple of weeks after graduating. It seemed to work out fine. I went to London and, as far as Izzy
was concerned, I was dead so she couldn’t cause me any trouble. I thought she’d gone to work up north. I hadn’t realised her
mother had moved down here and she’d come down to live with her.’
‘So she saw you?’
‘That’s right. I was with Guy in Tradmouth one weekend in January. He was helping Mum deliver something for a charity craft
fair and I went with him. Izzy was in the street outside and she spotted me … and she recognised Guy. She followed us
back to Hugford and then sent a letter to my mother’s house addressed to me. She said she needed money. She was desperate
to get a place of her own and she reckoned I owed her.’
‘When did you hit on the idea of copying the jackal murders?’
‘I knew all about Eleanor’s journal, of course. Then I saw the jackal mask when I was poking about in the church hall during
the craft fair – it had been used in a play, I think. There was some art teacher selling figures he’d made of Anubis so I
nicked a few from a box behind the stall when he went off for a cup of tea. I couldn’t risk buying them in case he remembered.
I thought my idea was foolproof. And when you’ve killed once, it’s easier second time around. By the time I got to Izzy –
to my real target – I was quite an expert.’
‘Your first attempt to kill Clare Mayers failed. Neil assumed you were in London when he rang you the day after but you’d
given Caroline your mobile number – you were down in Devon all the time. We checked with the British Museum. You were on leave.’
‘So it wouldn’t be much use denying it, would it?’
‘What about Analise Sonquist?’
‘I saw her in the pub and when I saw that she was leaving on her own I followed her. Easy.’
‘And you were disturbed when you killed Naomi Hart in Neston?’
He looked at Wesley, suddenly alert. ‘Was that her name?’
‘Yes,’ Gerry said in a quiet growl. ‘She had a name. And a family and friends – people who loved her.’
Ben Kitchener’s eyes widened for a second before they began to fill with tears. Wesley’s first instinct was to feel pity for
him but then he told himself that it was all an elaborate act – that Kitchener’s tears were tears of self-pity. He’d evaded
justice for a while and three women had died. But now time had run out.
He listened as Gerry Heffernan read out the words of the formal charge. There’d be no escape for him now. Ever.
How good it was to know that every time I ventured forth in search of a hapless victim, I was a step closer to avenging myself
on the man who took my child from me. Whenever I thought of my beautiful son calling another woman Mother, I felt a stab of
utter despair, as though my very flesh had been cut and my heart torn from my body. So I set upon my path of fitting vengeance.
I would deprive Frederick of his son as I had been deprived of mine.
The first woman I killed was called Jenny Pride and that name suited her well. She was proud and, like many from the village,
regarded me with contempt. I had thought news of my troubles had stayed within the confines of the castle walls but servants
always talk and Jenny’s sister was a kitchen maid. I was walking one evening and I had the cord in my pocket, in case an opportunity
should present itself. I had taken the obsidian blade and the amulets from Frederick’s collection and I had secreted a number
of linen sheets for the purpose as well as some plates from the kitchen to hold the organs. It was my intention that the
method would focus suspicion on John and all was planned. Now all I needed was a victim.
I enjoyed killing – I shall make no secret of it. For the powerless to feel suddenly powerful is intoxicating. Yet, for all
the pleasure it gave me, the murder of Jenny Pride was difficult and as I cut into the warm flesh I looked away. I had enveloped
myself in the sheet to protect my clothes – although as she was already dead when I cut into her there was no great flow of
blood – and when it was finished I placed the organs on the dishes and wrapped her corpse in the bloodstained linen, not forgetting
to leave the amulet amongst its folds.
The second time was easier and the third easier still. By the time I killed that sly little Peggy Carr – who I once heard
calling me a common whore in lady’s clothing – I was an adept executioner. I almost wished that I could have continued killing
but after Peggy’s demise the police were bent on their pursuit of John and they regarded his suicide as a confession of his
guilt.
I knew then I had to do nothing which would make them doubt their assumptions so I lived out my life in quiet anticipation.
Frederick, humbled and shaken by the death of his son, eventually made me an allowance, his conscience seemingly having been
awakened by his loss.
So now I existed in some comfort, biding my time, in a comfortable cottage situated near to my son, watching him grow into
a fine young man. With John dead and Edward away at school, Frederick began to take an interest in Charles – for that is what
his foster parents called him – and paid for him to be educated. When Charles was sixteen Frederick died and I was able to
make myself known to my son at last. My own flesh and blood. He was wary of me at first for he’d always known another woman
as his mother. But soon I won him and I tried not to let the suffocating intensity of my love to become so overwhelming that
it drove him away.
I often wondered whether I would ever be tempted to kill again to rid
myself of people who were disagreeable or who stood in the way of my desires, but I had left all that behind me. However,
I would certainly have killed again if any danger or difficulty threatened Charles. Perhaps it is a good thing that the need
never arose.