Murder (16 page)

I smiled again, more naturally this time. ‘I am glad to see that along with Mr Barker here, Juliana has another expert advisor on hand.’

‘I feel I owe you an apology, sir,’ the American started. ‘You were right in what you said, and I should never have—’

‘It is forgotten.’ I waved the rest of the sentence away. ‘And I was perhaps a little sharp myself.’

Beside us, I could almost feel Juliana relaxing, and I was glad. Her happiness was more important to me than my petty jealousies of the younger man, surely just paranoia on my part, for after all, it was me she had all but agreed to marry,
and surely she would not have done that if she did not love me.

With harmony restored, Juliana took me on a tour of her new empire. I was pleased to see that the workers already treated her with the correct deference, no sly looks as she walked away, and for her part, she was gracious and courteous to all. I felt immensely proud to have her arm linked in mine as we walked through the noisy heat. My back ached, but the pleasure of her company far outweighed my discomfort. I was also immensely relieved when we bypassed the warehouse where James Harrington had committed his terrible deeds, and where I had put an end to his tragic life.

By the time we returned to her office, I could not have been more pleased with how the visit had gone.

‘I shall come down with you,’ Edward Kane said, as I left to find a hansom cab, and although I was quite capable of finding one myself, I did not wish to appear rude, especially in light of Juliana’s forgiveness.

We strolled out from the hubbub and then he said, ‘I fear I have another favour to ask of you, Thomas. I have to return to New York for two months or so – I’m leaving next week.’

My heart leapt with this news and my shoulders straightened. My jealousy might have been misplaced and foolish, but that did not stop it existing, and the idea that the younger, richer and more handsome man would no longer be around Juliana for a while filled me with joy.

‘I hope to be back in time for Christmas,’ he continued, ‘but in the meanwhile, I hoped you might keep an eye on Charles Hebbert? I might be talking out of turn here – in fact, I probably am – but he seems not entirely himself. His moods
are erratic, and he has been visiting Juliana and James less, perhaps drinking at his club a little too often.’

‘Well, Charles does enjoy company,’ I said.

‘I know,’ Kane said, ‘but the past two weeks or so he’s been – well, different. Juliana hasn’t said anything, but I think she’s worried about him too.’

My hackles rose slightly with his mention of Juliana, and once again I cursed my ill-health for keeping me from her for so long.

‘Would you look out for him?’ he asked again, and there was such earnest good intention in his expression once again I felt guilt for my bad feeling towards him. Edward Kane was a good man and he cared about the friends he had made in London – myself included, I had no doubt.

I shook his hand firmly. ‘Thank you for telling me, and have no fear, I shall make sure I get to the bottom of whatever is troubling my old friend.’

‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘I have to say, I’m sad to be going home, but let us hope we can all celebrate a good Christmas together.’

‘I’m sure we shall,’ I said, climbing into the waiting cab. ‘I’m sure we shall.’

I waved my farewell and then sank, contented, back into my seat. I did not think much about his concerns over Charles, for I was too busy being overjoyed at the thought of a few months without Edward Kane’s presence making me feel old and foolish for loving Juliana.

*

‘I’ve been through the kitchen and I cannot find what’s causing it,’ Mrs Parks said, two days later. We had thrown open the windows to ventilate the house, but still the vaguely sweet-rotten smell permeated the rooms. Mrs Parks, with her
sharp eye for cleanliness, was being driven to distraction by it.

‘You go home,’ I told her. ‘These past few days have been exceptionally warm and humid – no doubt whatever the stench is, it will fade as the temperature cools down.’

She did not look convinced. I had spent most of the day in bed reading, exhausted after overdoing it because of my keenness to be back on my feet, and although I too could smell the tang of something odd in the air, it was not plaguing me as it did her. ‘I can take care of my own supper – I think you have earned an afternoon off after your care of me this past month.’

On days like this I could see how much Mrs Parks had aged. She had been in service with me for many years and where she had once been matronly, now she was becoming an old woman and, though I hated to admit it, she had started to fuss like one too. Not that I would ever say such a thing to her. She would be appalled.

‘Nothing’s quite right,’ she said, her brow furrowing. ‘Are you sure you haven’t had any visitors in the evenings? I’m sure things have been moved – and that awful smell …’

I sighed, suddenly feeling like a frustrated boy in conversation with my own grandmother, many, many years before.

‘No, Mrs Parks – perhaps it is just the heat affecting you. Or maybe you have a touch of my fever coming? Although I sincerely hope not.’

She sniffed at that and straightened her back, clearly not pleased with my tone. ‘Well, there is plenty of food in the pantry, and some of that chicken broth on the stove.’ She peered at me over her spectacles. ‘Are you sure you’ll manage? Is Dr Hebbert calling on you later?’

‘I shall manage perfectly well, for I am feeling much better,’ I said, with a smile. ‘I have no visitors coming so when I have finished my book I promise I will eat, and then I shall retire early. So please’ – and I tried hard to keep the exasperation from my voice – ‘go, enjoy your afternoon. I shall see you tomorrow.’

She bustled out and I was sure I could hear disapproval in the rustle of her dress, but a few minutes later I heard the front door firmly closing and I settled back against my pillows, happy to have some peace and be alone with my book.

An hour or so later my stomach rumbled and I realised that I was suddenly famished. I ventured downstairs in search of food and as I reached the ground floor I suddenly understood why Mrs Parks had been so disturbed by the smell. In my bedroom it had been a vaguely unpleasant tang in the air, but by the time I reached the hallway it was so thick I could almost taste it.

My appetite temporarily suppressed, I wandered from room to room trying to find the source and eventually I stopped outside the door to the small cellar under the stairs and pressed my nose against the gap around the hinges. I pulled back quickly as the scent overwhelmed me. I frowned, looking down at the small mahogany occasional table that partially covered the doorway. I was sure it had been further along the wall than here. Had I moved it? Or perhaps Mrs Parks had done so in order to polish the floor … ?

The lightweight piece slid easily along the floorboards and I stared at the door. The cellar was a forgotten place. I did not collect clutter, and nor did I keep a selection of fine wines in the house, so it had long been unused. Perhaps some rats had found their way in and died?

I sighed. I wanted something to eat, for I was, for the first time in many months, truly starving, and I wanted to sit outside my back door and eat, away from the smell, but I knew that I would not be able to relax until the cause had been investigated and dealt with. It was not fair on Mrs Parks to make her work in such an environment, and I would certainly be no gentleman if I expected her to take care of it for me.

It took me a while to find the key – in truth, I could not remember the last time this door had been opened – and then I fetched a candle from the kitchen and once it was lit, unlocked the sliding latch from the wooden door and pulled it open.

I immediately started gagging at the stench that erupted from the blackness, and though I swiftly pulled a handkerchief from my dressing gown pocket and pressed it against my face it did little to keep out the noisome smell.

As I began my cautious descent I could not help but remember the vault at New Scotland Yard, where a poor carpenter had discovered a rotting torso wrapped in newspaper all those years ago. This darkness had the same sense of oppression and the smell was far too similar. I felt as if time was folding in on itself – except this time I had to go into the bowels of the earth and make that awful discovery alone.

I had expected the air to cool as I edged my way down the stone steps but the heat from the nearby kitchen combined with the summer outside instead made it humid, almost stagnant. I tried not to think of how it reminded me of the river; I forced my imagination to still and concentrated instead on reaching the bottom without tumbling. I put one hand on the rough cool wall to steady myself and I was not
sure if the damp I felt came from my sweating palm or from the bricks themselves.

Finally, my feet found solid ground and I turned to look into the main part of the room, wishing I had thought to bring a shovel and sack with me so I would not have to come down again. The stench here was overwhelming, and I was gripped by a sense of dread the like of which I had not felt in years. I wanted badly to turn and flee, to lock the cellar door forever and let whatever was there remain unknown – but this was a child’s response, and I would not allow myself to succumb to it.

Upstairs was daylight, I reminded myself. The city was alive with noise only feet away from the silence I was wrapped in. As I fought the awful scent, taking shallow breaths whilst trying to calm down, I cursed myself for the lack of a gas lamp, for the light from the candle illuminated little, barely more than a few inches from where I held it.

I forced myself forward, moving slowly and carefully, with the rough sound of my breath in my ears and my slippers shuffling on the uneven floor my only company. Suddenly something caught the candlelight and glinted in the darkness: a glassy eye that stared accusingly at me. My heart almost stopped and I yelped, a high-pitched sound more worthy of a young girl than a man approaching his sixtieth year.

With a trembling hand I raised the candle higher, for the dead eye that stared into mine was not at my feet, and nor was it small enough to be that of a rat. It was a long moment before I could even begin to comprehend the horror laid out before me. The candle shook as I moved it closer and I could only imagine the mask of terror that must be my face.

The cat – what was left of it – lay on a wooden bench. Its
head was quite separate from its body, which had been cut open and the skin pulled back, clearly in order to facilitate the removal of the internal organs. Two of its legs were missing. I saw the colour of the fur in the patches that were not matted with blood – black and white; the cheeky little chap I had fed the most meat to only a few night before – and once again I found myself gagging into my handkerchief.

But he was not alone on the bench; there were others around him, all in similar states of dismemberment, and all of whom I recognised from my relaxing evenings by the kitchen door. I staggered backwards, desperate to return upstairs, to the daylight. My mind was reeling and as I clambered up the steps I was shaking so much I nearly dropped the candle. And now, finally, flashes of what could only be memory started to come to me: my hands, picking up the black and white tom and feeling the
thrum
of his purr against my hands as I stroked his soft fur; me, turning away from the back door and murmuring to him as his paws kneaded my chest – and the sudden, overwhelming
hunger
.

I gasped and stumbled into the gloriously bright hallway with such relief. The dark cellar felt like an ocean in which I was drowning. I leaned against the wall, sucking in deep breaths of air that was no doubt still rancid, but I no longer cared. My head swam and I sobbed and shook uncontrollably, willing the unwelcome images away: a knife in my hands. Blood. A cat’s desperate hiss and squeal as hands –
my
hands – wringing its neck.
What had I done?
And
why
? Was I truly going mad?

When I could trust my legs to move safely, I fetched a glass of water and sipped it slowly, trying to calm myself, but when I looked into the liquid, all I could see was the river. I
could hide from the truth no longer. That strange weight on my back that I had dismissed as strained muscles from my coughing, or part of my fever, now felt like lead between my shoulders, and from the corner of my eye I was sure I could see something dark, a shadowy shape, just out of my sight. I sobbed some more at that and then climbed the stairs to my bedroom where I lay, curled up on my side, like a frightened child.

I have given you the
Upir.

That was what Kosminski had said to me, and despite everything that we had been through together all those years before, I had arrogantly dismissed it as madness. There had been madness at work, I now knew: my own madness of reason and science, my arrant refusal to believe in everything that had been right before my eyes. I dismissed the priest as a lunatic, blamed all memory of the
Upir
on drug-addled imagination. What a fool I had been – and now it was I who was cursed, just as James Harrington had been. The evidence sat in the bowels of my own home and in the dark corners of my memory. Why had I gone to see Kosminski? Why had I not just left all alone, let it lie? What good could the truth ever have served?

The skin on my back crawled, and I knew that if I could have flayed myself to be rid of what clung there, invisible and insidious, I would have. I shivered at the thought of it, and once or twice I lifted a hand and almost reached round to touch my skin, but I could not quite bring myself to do that. I would not feel it, that I knew, but all the same, it would be there.

The afternoon darkened into evening and eventually into night as I lay on my bed and stared into space, all hope lost. I
was not sure what I was most afraid of – the
thing
on my back, or the fact that I had done such deeds without
knowing
. My skin cooled until my trembling was overtaken by shivers.

Eventually I got up.

I was afraid, but abject terror could be sustained for only so long before exhaustion calmed the body. I needed to think; to consider how I was to manage my new condition. This time I would not hide from the truth. Harrington and the priest had both been tricked by the
Upir
, but I had the advantage of understanding something of the beast; perhaps this would allow me some control. It was attached to me, but that did not mean I had to hand myself over to it – indeed, I had no intention of doing so. I had a good life and I was not about to give that up.