Gideon Smith and the Mask of the Ripper (46 page)

“No doubt our paymasters will have some other mission for us soon,” said Gideon.

Bent sat back in the easy chair in the parlor, watching him. “Collier really got to you, didn’t he? And it wasn’t just the effects of Mesmer’s hypnosis.”

Gideon sighed. “I don’t know, Aloysius. All my life I wanted to be a hero. I don’t suppose I was anticipating that the fight between good and evil was going to be so lacking in defined black and white.”

“Lots of gray.” Bent nodded, smiling as Maria came into the room. She twirled around to show off her latest suit, an olive-green number, perfectly tailored for her. “You like your men’s clothes, don’t you, love?”

She shrugged. “Perhaps we place too much weight on what belongs to a man and what to a woman. Invariably, the men get the better deal.”

The doorbell rang, and shortly Mrs. Cadwallader tapped on the parlor door. “Mr. Walsingham for you.”

They all stood as Walsingham strode in, taking off his top hat. Bent raised his glass. “Come to keep the season with us, Walsingham?”

“A glass of sherry, perhaps.” He laid his hat on the ottoman. “But it is not merely a social visit.”

“It never is, thank God,” said Bent.

Walsingham accepted the glass from Mrs. Cadwallader and said, “I have news. Word has reached me from Munich, where reside Hermann Einstein’s wife, Pauline, and their son, Albert. The apple has evidently not fallen far from the tree; the boy is something of a genius in most fields, perhaps displaying even at the early age of eleven yet more eccentricities than his father.”

“They haven’t been targeted by Bourbon agents?” said Gideon, sitting down again. “Mesmer and his crew managed to flee London after Garcia was apprehended.”

“The boy is missing,” said Walsingham. “Frau Einstein is beside herself with worry. It appears young Albert has taken himself off on a mission to find his father.”

Bent said, “Not to bloody America?”

“Quite so, Mr. Bent. An eleven-year-old boy appears to be attempting to walk into the court of the Witch-King of New Orleans. This adds yet more urgency to our mission to find the professor. I humbly suggest you prepare to leave for America within the next few days.”

“A pity Rowena isn’t here to take us,” said Maria.

Walsingham smiled. “The Crown has many agents at its disposal, Miss Maria. I will be in touch. In the meantime, enjoy what’s left of Christmas.”

When he’d gone, Bent belched and held up his glass. “And God bless us, every effing one.”

*   *   *

Doctor Augustus returned to his laboratory at Rough Tor early after the Christmas holiday, to enjoy a day or two of solitude to study the data taken from his experiments with the automaton. There was only so far they could go with tests; he wondered whether Walsingham had been serious when he suggested there might have to be more
invasive
procedures. Even as a man of science, he felt a pang at the thought of decapitating Maria to get at the Atlantic Artifact. Despite himself, he had grown fond of her during their time together.

On his desk was a package wrapped in brown paper and string, addressed to him. He pulled it open to reveal a small, square box, and a note written in Walsingham’s spidery hand.

Doctor Augustus, a belated Christmas present for you. It seems that Maria might keep her head, after all. For a while, at least. W.

Doctor Augustus opened the box. Inside was the glassy-eyed, severed black-and-white head of what appeared to be a colobus monkey.

*   *   *

Spain had been on his mind. The memory of that childhood visit to Madrid had stayed with him all week, then the unmasking of Don Sergio de la Garcia, and the half-Spanish Bourbon plot. So when he ventured into the warren of Whitechapel streets, selected his victim, and set to her with the surgical instruments, he sat by her and cradled her head in his lap, singing “
Farewell and adieu, you fair Spanish ladies
” in a soft, crooning voice, even though neither she, nor of course he, were Spanish. She stared into the darkness, shuddering and growing colder as he sang, her entrails spread out on the snow as though for divining. In a way, he supposed, they were. And the future they told was red, like the blood staining the snow, and black, like his soul. When she had finally died he carefully extracted her kidney, wrapped it in newspaper, and set off for home.

It had been necessary for Garcia to be taken care of, certainly once his links to a much wider plot became apparent. Besides, the man was a half-hearted amateur, with no stomach for killing. He barely deserved the appellation of Jack the Ripper that the newspapers had given him.

There was a much more suitable candidate for that role.

He had been shadowing Garcia for some time, or at least, the masked man. He hadn’t known who was beneath the black mask, hadn’t thought to care while he was in the intermedio. He had observed Garcia’s hesitant approaches to the women, the swordplay, the quick stroke across the forehead.

Sometimes the women Garcia had left behind were not even dead. Sometimes they were barely injured. He had seen to that. He had dispatched those Garcia hadn’t the stomach to kill, creeping in the shadows as Garcia fled the scene, then finishing the job. And he’d added his own little flourishes, stabbing them in the gut to see how it felt when the knife went in, slashing their throats to see how much blood gouted out. He remembered the names of the ones he had killed, whom Garcia had left alive: Mary Ann Nichols, Annie Chapman, Elizabeth Stride, Catherine Eddowes, Mary Jane Kelly. Garcia was apparently so insane by the end, he barely knew how many he had killed.

He made his way home. Garcia was dead, and Jack the Ripper should die with him. Should. But he knew that the legend could not die as easily as the man. Not as long as he continued to slip into the intermedio, not as long as his black soul thirsted for blood.

He remembered the first time, watching Dr. Gull mutilating the body of Annie Crook on Cleveland Street, two and a half years ago now. The sight of Gull’s clinical detachment as he set to work on the shopgirl had awakened something deep inside him.

In Mr. Walsingham. He shuddered at the thought, how he had stood over Gull while he worked on the girl, clasping his gloved hands behind his back and peering intently at every cut and slash, his soul slowly filling up with darkness.

He hadn’t really known what to do about the hunger that consumed him, not until Jack the Ripper began to attack women in London. Then he knew what he had to do, to feed his shrieking soul, to ease the pressure in his brain.

Because it was pressure, being Mr. Walsingham. The safety and security of the British Empire—threatened sometimes by forces of which the populace could have scant understanding—weighed upon his shoulders most heavily. He needed an outlet. He needed his intermedio.

Walsingham let himself into his rooms and lit all the candles, one by one. He eschewed gas lamps and electricity for the guttering, dancing flames of the tallow; it comforted him somehow, kept the modern world and all its horrors and marvels at bay. He washed his hands thoroughly in the sink, though, like Lady Macbeth, he knew he would never wash the stain from them or, ultimately, his soul. He would have to be careful, of course.… Aloysius Bent had already scented that there was some other reason behind Walsingham’s uncharacteristic candor in his desire to see Garcia off the streets. Perhaps, Mr. Walsingham considered, being so free with his secrets and mysteries to guide Bent and his associates toward Garcia had aroused the journalist’s suspicions. He would have to watch Mr. Bent.… He was shrewder than his foolish exterior would suggest.

Walsingham extracted the soggy newspaper package from his bag and laid it on the work surface. The girl’s kidney. Perhaps he would fry it up with some onions and eat it later. For now, while the intermedio was still upon him, he had the urge to write. He sat at his desk and dipped his quill into the well, which he had filled with red ink. He looked at it dripping from the tip. Red ink, or blood, he didn’t truly know. He would write a letter to the constabulary. Inspector Lestrade had rather sensationally left his position, but there was apparently a new inspector at the Commercial Road station now, a man by the name of Abberline. Mr. Walsingham would write to him. He began to scribble in a blocky, clumsy hand quite distinct from his usual script. The writing of the intermedio. The hand of Jack the Ripper.

Dear Boss,

I keep on hearing the police have caught me but they won’t fix me just yet. I have laughed when they look so clever and talk about being on the right track. That joke about Leather Apron gave me real fits. I am down on whores and I shan’t quit ripping them till I do get buckled. Grand work the last job was. I gave the lady no time to squeal. How can they catch me now? I love my work and want to start again. You will soon hear of me with my funny little games. I saved some of the proper red stuff in a ginger beer bottle over the last job to write with but it went thick like glue and I can’t use it. Red ink is fit enough I hope ha, ha. The next job I do I shall clip the lady’s ears off and send to the police officers just for jolly. My knife’s so nice and sharp I want to get to work right away if I get a chance. Good Luck. Yours truly,

Jack the Ripper

Mr. Walsingham, or at least the thing he became when he surrendered to the intermedio, when he allowed his black soul to swell and consume him, sat back to admire the letter. He gave a thin smile, dipped his quill into the red ink, and with a flourish added at the top right, where the postmark would normally go, two words.

From Hell

Yes, he was so very far from home.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

David Barnett
is an award-winning journalist, currently multimedia content manager of the
Telegraph & Argus,
cultural reviewer for
The Guardian
and the
Independent on Sunday,
and he has done features for
The Independent
and
Wired
. He is the author of
Angelglass
(described by
The Guardian
as “stunning”),
Hinterland,
and
popCULT!
His website can be found at
davidbarnett.wordpress.com
. Or sign up for email updates
here
.

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DAVID BARNETT

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