"It is our melancholy duty to record another most woeful calamity, in which a whole family has been again most savagely butchered!" -The Star, 20th December 1811
“I fear it is my duty," Thorndike began, "to inform my fellow Pickmanites of the unfortunate passing of one George Mulgrave, reporter of The Star newspaper, delver into the outré and uncanny, and fellow member of The Pickman Club."
He reached for a steadying gulp of brandy and fidgeted nervously in his wing-back chair. "I had occasion to run into him not three nights since and have learned this very morning, through a mutual acquaintance, that he has been brutally shaken from his mortal coil."
A low murmur spread through the assembled members of the club. Thorndike raised a hand for silence. "I can report that he was in, shall we say, a disordered state of mind when last we spoke. A series of murders in Wapping, which you will have no doubt read about in the papers, had him in a state of severe agitation. You see, honoured guests, Mulgrave believed that he had hit upon the solution, not only to these crimes but several others. One of which is somewhat notorious, I'm given to understand. In an effort to quiet his agitated soul, I stayed with him throughout the evening of the seventeenth and listened to his monstrous tale unfold. He had me take voluminous notes in case any misfortune may beset him. In light of the morning's disquieting news, I can't help but wonder if the poor fellow had received a premonition or had otherwise gleaned some prior knowledge pertaining to his ultimate fate. As you will see, this is far from being out of the question… if the deceased is to be believed, that is. In any case, I have spent the morning ordering his somewhat fragmentary delivery into a cohesive narrative for your dubious delectation.
Before I begin, however, I have news of the inquest should any of you wish to accompany me. I took the liberty of paying a visit to the coroner, a passing acquaintance, being in a similar line of work to myself, and he informed me that it will take place three days hence at The Pear Tree public house in Wapping. An ironic decision, as I'm sure you will agree in due course. Very well, if everybody is ready, I will begin. Here is the terrible tale of George Mulgrave…"
Keeping out of sight, George peered through the filthy plate glass window at the rear of number eleven Ratcliff Highway, his square graphite pencil scratching out what he could see on his notepad. The chill December air cut through his threadbare overcoat, chilling him to the bone. It took a supreme effort of will just to stop his teeth from chattering and betraying his presence to those he spied upon. The room beyond was lit by the dim lambency of a guttering candle that cast looming shadows over the scene… and what a scene it was.
The window looked out over the squalid shop-front belonging to a purveyor of cats' meat. Various acquisitions from the nearby knackers yard hung on rusty hooks above a deeply-scarred chopping block and an assortment of boning knives and cleavers. The single glassy eye remaining in the rotting skull of a decapitated mare hanging inches from the window peered out at the observer sending waves of nausea through his slight frame. Towards the centre of the room, next to a wooden basket lined with newspaper and filled with festering horse meat, lay the body of a middle-aged man. Above him stood an older gentleman with a lustrous silver moustache and a nauseous-looking member of The Thames River Police.
As the dapper gentleman began to speak, George pressed his ear to a crack in the window frame. "Christ, what a mess," the man took a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed his lips, "what time were the bodies discovered?"
Bodies? Plural? George's mind raced and his pencil risked catching fire as his furious scribbling intensified.
The constable shuffled nervously, "I ain't sure, Mr Capper, about an hour ago, I reckon. The charwoman, Miss Lloyd, found them when she came to do for the family around six. I reckon it would 'ave taken her a few minutes to find the night watchman. He was in 'is cups again…"
Mr Capper, the magistrate for the borough of Wapping, cursed under his breath and produced a gleaming fob watch from his jacket. "Everything's how you found it?"
"Aye, I ain't touched nothing."
Wincing at the double negative, Capper crouched to get a better look at the victim. The crumpled ruin of humanity lay in an undignified heap. The man's face contorted in fear and his skull split. There was a laceration that had severed the carotid artery but it was oddly bloodless. Capper sighed and shook his head, it was all too familiar. "Are the others the same?"
"More or less."
"How many?"
"Seven in total, sir. This poor bugger, his wife and two sons, and a lodger by the name of Jessop, an artist, and his nude model, a local unfortunate by the name of Mary."
Seven! Good Lord above… George's pencil worked so quickly that it nearly shredded the paper. The situation had a ring of deja-vu about it that he couldn't yet discern.
Capper nodded curtly as if his suspicions had been confirmed and once again retrieved his handkerchief from his breast pocket. This time, he folded it into a square and pressed it to the deceased man's chest. As the policeman raised an eyebrow, he palmed the cloth, stood and turned his back before taking a look. Neither George nor the puzzled constable could see what was on the cloth, but the stream of invective that spilt from Capper's maw told them that it was what the magistrate had expected to find… and it wasn't good.
"What is it, what did you find?"
Capper turned sharply and snapped, "never you mind. Go and see if the coroner has arrived, and not a word of this to anyone, understand? If the papers get wind of this there will be pandemonium."
George couldn't help but smirk. The constable muttered assent and left via the street door, no doubt relieved to get some fresh air after the noisome odour of the squalid dwelling. Capper crouched again and gently lifted the victim's head. George couldn't see from his angle but the grimace of revulsion that passed over the magistrate's face told him all he needed to know. Raising and moving over to the counter, Capper examined the edge and nodded silently to himself. Moments later, the door opened and a portly gentleman with mighty mutton chops clad all in black entered. George recognised him instantly, it was the coroner, John Wright Unwin.
"Robert," Unwin nodded, removing his wide-brimmed hat, "We don't often see magistrates at crime scenes, scared of dirtying your finery, I'd wager, it must be bad. I'd say it was good to see you but under the circumstances… Are they the same as the others?"
Capper nodded. "Eight years to the day, and before that…"
"You need not remind me, I assure you, I remember well our first meeting. The scenes are etched into my mind. As I recall, it was but four doors down."
"The Marr family, yes," Capper led Unwin around the basket of meat towards the body. "The wounds are consistent, I'm sure you will agree. The back of his head is mush. I think the poor chap was knocked back as if pounced upon, and struck his head on the counter. As to the cause of death, I'll leave that to you."
"I was told there were multiple victims?"
"Seven in total."
Unwin crossed himself. "So, we are due one more," he muttered darkly.
George frowned as his mind raced. One more?
"The others, have they been dispatched in the same manner?" Unwin asked.
"I have not as yet had time to examine them. I was on my way up there now. From what the River Policeman who discovered the slaughter said… yes, I'm afraid so."
"Then, it is as we feared."
"One more thing. I found this on the deceased man's clothes." Capper took out his hankie and showed it to Unwin. They turned and stepped towards the street-level window to get better light. George cursed silently. Again, he couldn't see what had been discovered. To make matters worse, the two men were whispering and he could no longer hear what was being said. He had been lip-reading to fill in the blanks. Clearly, what they discussed was of import due to the animated gesticulations.
George repositioned himself, moving his ear from the frame to the glass. Unfortunately, the pane was loose and rattled against the worm-eaten wood. Instantly, Capper snapped his head around and spat an oath. "Blast it! Someone's lurking in the yard," snatching up a meat mallet that had been sitting next to a pile of festering offal, he swept towards the rear door. Taking to his heels, George raced to the rear of the yard and hopped the fence.
Dashing over an expanse of waste ground separating the backs of the Highway dwellings from those of a parallel street, George ducked through an alley and onto a narrow lane. Turning left back onto Ratcliff Highway, he quickly crossed and took another alley leading to the churchyard of St Georges in the East. After checking that he hadn't been followed, though he was certain the ageing magistrate would have been instantly stymied by the fence, he found a quiet place to catch his breath.
As the low-lying fog that had rolled in off the river coiled around his ankles, George took out his, now crumpled, notebook and tried to process what he had overheard. Though colloquially known as a pea-souper, this close to the river the miasma lost its greenish tinge and more closely recalled his landlady's lukewarm porridge oats that he had forced down over breakfast. This memory, coupled with the grisly details in his notes, made his stomach churn.
Seven victims, he mulled over and over, seven victims and due one more? What did they mean, due one more? They mentioned two previous cases, one eight years ago and another. He mentioned a name, Marr, wasn't it? That rings a bell.
His internal monologue was silenced by the striking of the church bells. The hollow notes reverberated through his frigid bones. One thing was for certain, there was a story here, a big one. The sort of story that a chap could build a reputation upon. He needed more information. Details on this latest atrocity shouldn't be too hard to come by. He had a friend of a friend that worked at the mortuary, his information was always well worth a shilling and there was always a Runner or two with alcohol-loosened lips in the local alehouses if one knew where to look. What he really needed was information about these prior incidents. After a brief deliberation, he figured that his editor would be as good a place as any to start and he knew which pub he would be in at lunchtime. He had plenty of time to walk the two miles to The Tipperary on Fleet Street.
Taking the northern exit from the churchyard onto Cable Street, George started to amble in a Westerly direction. He had only gone a handful of yards when he heard a commotion followed by the clatter of a watchman's rattle. Quickening his pace towards the crossroads where Cannon and Cable Streets intersected, he squinted to see what was happening. Through the ever-increasing gloom, he could see four men engaged in a scuffle in the centre of the crossroads. Two shabbily-dressed men armed with shovels were standing off against two less-than-burly watchmen.
Coming to a halt next to the oyster shop on the corner, George was just in time to see one of the watchmen walloped over the head with a digging implement. As he dropped like a sack of potatoes, the two miscreants took flight and disappeared towards the docks. As the upright watchman tended to his fellow, George sidled up to a match-girl that was loitering on the corner.
"What in God's name was that all about?" he asked, dropping a farthing into her grubby paw.
Shrugging as she smiled through the grime, the young urchin passed him a box of Lucifers. "Bloody ghouls, sir."
"Pardon?"
"Ghouls. Grave-robbers."
"I'm afraid, I don't catch your meaning, Miss. This is far from being a graveyard."
"That's where yer wrong, mister. I've 'eard it said that there's a man buried at this 'ere crossroads. A right rotter. Murderer, or some such. I 'eard those two roughs sayin' that Williams was up to his old tricks down on the Ratcliff Highway and they wanted to make sure he was still down there. They stared trying to dig up the bones. Mad as March hares, if you ask me, sir."
"Thank you, miss," George passed her another coin before departing.
As he continued towards his destination, he took out his notebook once more and scribbled down the name, Williams…
After shovelling an oyster into his maw, Alfie Budnery, the portly editor of The Star newspaper, wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and took a gulp of porter to wash it down. "Sounds like a right old production you've discovered, George, my boy," he grinned after a mighty belch, "so it begs the question, why are you here bending my ear and not out there interviewing the players?"
George's nose wrinkled as the pungent aroma of masticated seafood and sour beer reached his nostrils. "I wanted to ask you some questions. Mr Capper mentioned something about a case on or near The Highway exactly eight years ago."
Alfie thought for a moment, scratching his mutton chops. "Eight years, let me see. Ah, yes, he was probably talking about the incident at Walpole and Son's."
"The shipping company down at the new dock?"
"Aye. Nasty business. There was some kind of accident. As I recall, a winch broke free from its mooring, eight men were mangled by a falling consignment of plough blades… messy. At least, that's the official version."
"Oh? You think there was more to it?"
"I know there was. One of my boys, a young lad like yourself, talked to the poor sod that stumbled across the carnage. He reckons that there was no sign of any fallen anything, just a bunch of men with their throats slit and heads bashed in. He wrote up the story but your man, Mr Capper, put his foot down. Sequestered the lot. Made him write up the accident story and threatened to lock him up on a charge of sheep molestation if he didn't keep mum. He left town shortly after. Said he felt like he was being followed."
"By the police?"
“Maybe, he didn't say. Personally, I reckon it was all in his head. The man was an arsenic eater, so take his testimony with a pinch of salt."
"Did he tell you anything else about it?"
"Only that the bodies were covered in some sort of slime. As I say… pinch of salt."
Silence fell over the corner table of The Tipperary as Alfie continued eating and George jotted notes. His mind was mulling over the alleged slime. Is that what Capper found on the cat's meat vendor's clothes? Finally, George continued his questioning. "Capper mentioned another case, something about a house four doors down. Something to do with someone named Marr?"
Alfie nearly choked. "Bless my soul, Mulgrave, have you been living under a rock these past fifteen years?"
"Fifteen years ago, I'd have been but three years of age, Mr Budnery."
Alfie chuckled, "a mere whipper-snapper! Still, you must have heard about the Ratcliff Highway murders of 1811?"
"Vaguely. What can you tell me about them?"
"Well, fifteen years is a long time… but you don't need me to tell you about it. You can read all about them in Blackwood's Magazine. I assume you've heard of Thomas De Quincey?"
"The opium eater?"
"The very same. He recently had a satirical essay appear in that austere publication. On Murder Considered as one of the Fine Arts, I believe it was called. Caused quite a bit of a stink in polite society."
George beamed, "Marvellous. Do you know where I can lay my hands on a copy?"
"I can do better than that, dear boy. I happen to know that, right this minute, Mr De Quincey is over the road at The Olde Cheshire Cheese, smothering a parrot with Coleridge and Lamb. Freddy Fotheringhay has just finished interviewing Lamb about The Pawnbroker's Daughter. He mentioned that the other two were with him and that the absinthe was flowing like water. I think the poor chap was somewhat out of his depth. If he doesn't buck up his ideas sharpish, I'll put him back on agriculture where he belongs. If you get a move on, you'll be able to hear it from the horse's mouth before they end up insensible."
"I'll go over there this instant," George shot from his seat like he'd sat on a wasp and shook Alfie's hand, rather over-enthusiastically, "thank you!"
"Don't mention it, just get a good story out of it. I'm counting on you, George!" Alfie called out as George navigated the tables on the way to the door. As the door closed behind his exuberant employee, he shook his head in amusement and returned to his plate of steamed molluscs…
While The Tipperary had been calm and subdued, The Olde Cheshire Cheese was a bustling hive of revelry, despite the sun not being long over the yardarm. Its surprisingly large interior was a labyrinth of oak panels dividing dark rooms and shadowy booths that harboured all manner of citizens in varying degrees of intoxication and debauchery. George had been prepared to check each and every nook and cranny in search of his quarry, but, as it happened, Thomas De Quincey proved to be an easy chap to locate.
Holding court on a large central table in the main bar area, De Quincey and his two companions had been joined by several other poetic and literary types. He was in the process of ordering more wine for the table by bellowing from a standing position behind his chair at the harassed-looking landlord when George arrived. Though he had never seen so much as a picture of the man, he knew instantly that it was him that he sought. Skirting the table to avoid the more inebriated of the party, he hoved in on De Quincey before he could resume sitting.
"Mr De Quincey? I wonder if I could have a moment of your time?"
De Quincey waved a hand airily. "Make it quick, dear boy, and call me Thomas, only the worst kind of prig calls me Mr De Quincey. You're not a prig, are you, Mr..?
Thinking fast, George spotted the trap set out before him. "George," he answered with a smirk. "I don't consider myself a prig, no."
Thomas roared with laughter and clapped George firmly on the shoulder. "Bravo, young George. You would scarcely believe the number of slow-witted fellows I have ensnared with that one. I feel it my duty to keep the self-righteous, sober, and stupid away from intellectual gatherings such as this. Now, what can I assist you with?" He looked George up and down. "Newspaper man, eh? One of Budnery's Boys, I'd wager?"
George nodded.
"Well, keep it quick. I can't have gutter-sniffers such as yourself impeding my date with oblivion."
"Um," George shuffled nervously and cleared his throat before looking at the larger-than-life character in his bloodshot eyes. "It's about the essay you recently printed in Blackwood's magazine."
Thomas smirked and opened his mouth to deliver a sermon
on his narrow-minded critics, but George, wisely, cut him off.
"More specifically, I'm looking for information on one of the cases you mentioned.
"Go on…"
"Specifically, the Ratcliff Highway murders of 1811."
Thomas De Quincey's smirk twisted into something more unsettling. "Ah, a connoisseur, I see. Come," he steered George to a corner booth and thrust a glass of wine into his hand, "I do not wish to sour my companions' drinks with talk of John Williams and his alleged crimes."
George hadn't even had time to extract his pencil, and already things were getting interesting. "Alleged? You don't believe he was the culprit?"
Thomas shrugged, "he never stood trial, therefore is innocent in the eyes of the law."
"There's more to it than that, I can tell."
"You're a shrewd one, George, and no mistake. First, let me ask you this, what is your interest in such a macabre episode?"
George thought about lying, of spinning a yarn about an editorial, but decided against it. A man such as Thomas De Quincey would have seen through such an unsophisticated ruse.
"There have been similar murders, four doors along from The Marr residence."
"Ah, I see."
"I overheard the magistrate, Mr Capper, talking to a coroner by the name of Unwin. It appears they think there is some connection."
"Overheard?" De Quincey winked. "Capper and Unwin, eh? The dour duo reunited. Very interesting. Capper rarely comes down from his ivory tower, so there must be something in what you say," he took a draft of red wine and stretched, feigning tiredness. "So, what is it you want from me?"
"I wonder, could you give me a brief outline of the events of 1811? If I can compare them to what I know about the recent case, and another, I may be able to weave the threads together."
De Quincey's face darkened. "Another?" He stroked his whiskerless chin for a moment. George couldn't tell if he was trying to remember or weighing up whether to reveal his knowledge. "Ah, the warehouse…"
"You know about that?"
De Quincey held up his hand. "So many questions, so little time, I fear. Yes, I will tell you about those dark December nights, if you promise to keep your lips buttoned until I am done, do we have an agreement?"
Knowing De Quincey's penchant for tricks and traps, George didn't speak. Instead, he simply nodded his head.
"Very well… The horrors began just after midnight on the seventh of December 1811. 29 Ratcliff Highway was home to a draper by the name of Thomas Marr, his wife, Celia, and their infant son, also named Thomas. Also present was Marr's young apprentice, James Gowan. As they were finishing for the day, Marr sent his maid, Margaret, out to buy some oysters for supper and to drop a payment in at the nearby baker's. This she did with all haste, but became delayed by around twenty minutes at the bakers and missed the oyster shop closing. Fearing a scolding, she returned to the Marr residence with lead feet and a heavy heart.
"Upon arriving, she instantly felt a prickle of unease. The door was bolted and the light extinguished. Fearing she had become locked out, she set about hammering on the door. This, in something of a minor miracle, aroused the night watchman from his drunken slumber. He came and joined Margaret and noticed that, while closed in haste, the shutters hadn't been bolted. Sharing the maid's unease, he joined in trying to rouse the family.
"All this commotion roused a neighbour who hopped the fence and discovered the back door ajar. Cautiously entering the eerily silent abode, he discovered sights that will, I have no doubt, give him nightmares for the rest of his life. Marr, Celia, and James had all been brutally dispatched. Throats were torn and craniums smashed. The very walls were plastered with fragments of skull and brain. This, it turns out, paled in comparison to what lay above…
"This neighbour, Mr Murray was his name, let the watchman in and together they went to check the upper floor. I won't linger on the grisly details. Let's just say that the baby's crib was covered in blood… or so Mr Capper's statement at the inquest states. Poor Thomas, a mere babe a few weeks old, had been exterminated in the same manner as his parents."
"Good Lord, how abominable."
"Quite. You see now, George, why the case is so well remembered."
George nodded, all the colour drained from his pinched cheeks.
"The horrors didn't end there, however. Twelve days later, on the eleventh of December, another property was targeted and its occupants dispatched. This time, it occurred at a public house just off The Highway on New Gravel Lane, The King's Head, you know it?"
"I do. I passed it this very morning."
"Then you know it isn't far from the Marr residence. The two crimes were so similar and their proximity meant that the collective force of magistrates, parish constables, river police and Bow Street Runners, who had until that point been capering all over Wapping like headless chickens, had no choice but to connect them. As you will see, the similarities are striking.
“A parish constable doing his rounds heard a cry of 'Murder' as he turned into the street and was nearly struck dumb by the sight of a near naked man descending from the upper floor of the hostelry using a rope hastily fashioned from knotted bed sheets. As he dropped to the street, the constable approached and asked him what in God's name he was doing. The man, John Turner, explained that he was a lodger at the establishment and had heard a struggle followed by the anguished cries of his landlord. Fearing for his life, he had fled via his only escape route, the window.
“By now, a crowd had formed and forced their way into the pub in an attempt to nab the miscreant responsible. Their attempt proved fruitless. All they found were the lifeless bodies of the landlord, John Williamson, his wife, Elizabeth, and their servant, Bridget. As luck would have it, their granddaughter was asleep in one of the rooms on the top floor of the two-storey building. Her distance from the bar, no doubt, saved her life. It appears that the attacker was unaware of her presence. As you would imagine, there was uproar. The public demanded action.
"As it so happens, earlier that day, Capper and his merry band had hit upon what they considered a breakthrough. At the scene of the Marr atrocity, they had discovered a ship's maul that the maid didn't recognise. Being a heavy implement, the investigators put two and two together to make five and declared that this was what had been used to bludgeon the unfortunate draper and his fellow departed. The fact that there was grey matter on the edges of the counters and walls seems to have slipped their notice. In any case, the suspected murder weapon provided them with a clue. The handle had the owner's initials carved into it.
"Faced with a fresh slew of bodies to clutter up the mortuary, Capper set out to find the owner of the maul. Unfortunately, the tool's owner, a sailor by the name of John Peterson, was away at sea that very moment and had been since before the Marr attack. Undaunted, they traced Peterson to his lodgings at The Pear Tree public house and found his sea chest. According to a friend of Peterson's, the chest was missing said maul.
"Again leaping to the most convenient solution, they quickly focused their suspicions upon another lodger, John Williams. The case was slim, to say the least, and hung on access to the postulated murder weapon, the fact that he had money after the Marr killings but not before, that his shirt was bloodied, and that he was a friend of Thomas Marr. Despite the paucity of evidence, the fair-haired fellow was duly arrested and taken to Clerkenwell Gaol."
As De Quincey paused to wet his lips with a full-bodied red, George frowned at his notes. "That's seven, Capper said eight. Where's the final victim."
"Ah," De Quincey reclined in his seat, tapping his nose with his forefinger. "That's the big question, isn't it? You see, Mr Williams allegedly hanged himself on the twenty-eighth. It was the fact that Capper considers Williams to be another victim of the true killer that first sent me on my own investigation."
"Then, you also believe he was innocent?"
"Alas, I cannot say with certainty, I lacked the courage to take the final leap, but I would have to say… Yes."
George frowned, De Quincey's strange aside had caught him off-guard. He opened his mouth to question but was silenced by a raised hand.
"First, allow me to refute the so-called evidence. The maul, one could reason, if one were inclined, could have been lent to Marr by Williams for some household task. The fact that the maid didn't recognise it is neither here nor there. The fact that Williams had borrowed it, can be explained away by this supposition. Perhaps Marr had asked his friend if he had a suitable tool for effecting repairs? The money and the bloodied shirt? Williams claimed to have won the money in a game of cards which then turned violent. As the man was a notorious gambler, this is also likely. That doesn't leave them with much now, does it?"
"Slim pickings, I have to agree."
"Well put, George, I fear your talents are wasted on a rag such as The Star."
George shrugged off this praise for fear of blushing. "You made your own investigations?"
"Of course! I kept my findings out of my essay, you understand? Though the essay was satire, I deemed it prudent to stick to the official version for fear of ridicule. It doesn't do for one such as I to stray from so-called established facts. The critics are lean and hungry, constantly sharpening their knives. You get so much as the colour of a lady's bloomers wrong and they pounce!
"What prompted me to investigate was a conversation with Mr Capper. I had approached him for information on the case as research for my essay, as the details released to the public had been scant, to say the least. I was immediately struck by his reluctance to even mention the case. When he did, it was a mere parroting of what had been printed. It felt rehearsed, a well-remembered yarn to be trotted out over dinner. In short, the fellow was shifty. I picked up on it instantly, he was hiding something. I left his office no more enlightened than when I had arrived.
"Deciding to change tack, I recalled that the coroner assigned to the Marr family, Mr Unwin, was a chap, not unlike myself, who was partial to the odd libation and that I knew his favoured hostelry. I ambled along with due haste and proceeded to ply him with drink. He was reluctant to talk, at first, but I am well-versed in the arts of loosening tongues with in-toxicants. After the third bottle, he was spilling secrets like a gossip-starved washerwoman. What he told me, sent me down a path that I am lucky to have returned from. Had I not faltered at the final gate, well…
"Mr Unwin disclosed that he never seriously considered the maul to be the murder weapon, not the crowbar found at the King's Head. He was almost certain that the skulls of the victims had been shattered upon contact with a hard surface. As though the victims had been pounced upon with such force that their craniums had split and the contents pulverised. It was a startling revelation. I asked him if it was possible, realistically. His answer will go to my grave, not by human hands…
"By now, I was determined to ferret out the truth behind the Ratcliff Highway murders and continued to press Mr Unwin. It was now that he divulged information about the accident at Walpole and Son's. I assume your Mr Budnery has told you about that one?"
George nodded.
"I assumed he would. One of his boys nearly landed in hot water over that one. Well, Mr Unwin said that the wounds were the same. Their heads bashed in and their throats slit. It was here that his tongue slipped and he mentioned that, while the artery had been severed, there was no blood. In fact, all the victims, little Thomas included, had been almost completely drained of blood. Sucked dry! Can you credit it?"
George shook his head, he was completely dumbfounded by De Quincey's narrative.
"I instantly leapt upon the fact that the papers had reported that the crib had been soaked in blood. Unwin replied darkly that it had been soaked but not with blood…"
"What did he mean by that?"
"Alas, he wouldn't say. His hands became tremulous and his face drained of colour just at the thought of whatever he had discovered. Fearing that the interview was on the verge of reaching an abrupt conclusion, I asked him who he thought was responsible. He muttered that it wasn't so much a case of who but what. As he began to rise, I asked him if he could tell me anything more. All he was able to tell me was that the answers I sought could be found at The Pear Tree. As a parting gift for filling him so masterfully with wine, he gave me a name… William Ablass."
"I take it you went to The Pear Tree?"
"I did indeed. Ablass' name was known to me from the newspaper reports. He was an-other lodger at The Pear Tree and lives there to this very day. He wasn't a hard man to find. Long Billy, as he was known, had also been a suspect in the murders and was a known companion of Williams, therefore, known to Mr Marr. Ablass was a known brawler and had once participated in a mutiny aboard a ship he was serving upon. With this knowledge in my mind, I approached him with care for fear of provoking him.
"In the end, I needn't have worried. Despite being a cutthroat and a villain, Ablass proved to be a garrulous sort that was only too happy to tell his tale in exchange for a few tankards of ale. As countrymen, both were Irish, he and Williams had become fast friends when they sailed together aboard the Roxburgh Castle. Another of their crewmates, you will be interested to learn, was none other than Thomas Marr. The trio remained close after departing the vessel and often drank in The King's Head.
"I asked him whether Williams was guilty, to which he replied in the negative, though he did say something rather queer. Guilty, no, but not completely without blame. I asked him to elaborate but his lips became uncharacteristically tight. After a few moments of painful silence, he informed me that Williams' alibi of the card game was indeed true and that it was none other than he who had bloodied his friend's nose. Apparently, Williams had a touch too much to drink and became insufferable. I asked him who committed the crimes but he merely shrugged. I feared my investigation had come to an end.
"It was here that things took a turn for the outré. Completely out of the blue, Ablass asked me if I had ever heard of a drug called Liao?"
"I can't say that I have."
"This may come as some surprise considering my, ahem… reputation, but nor had I. Ablass told me that he first encountered it while employed by The East India Company. Several men from China were aboard the same vessel and introduced him to it with the promise of seeing the past and future. I must have rolled my eyes or produced some other facial tic that betrayed my scepticism as he suddenly leaned in close, grabbing my lapels. His eyes were wild and his breath stung my retinas as he hissed, It's true, I tell you. It works. It really works!
"Brushing his grubby paws from my garments, I asked him the point of this little diversion. He replied that if I wanted to know what happened on those fateful nights, all I needed to do was take the drug and see for myself. Naturally, given my penchant for such enlighten-ing substances, I was intrigued. So much so, that when he produced an old snuff tin contain-ing a fair amount of sticky blue grains, I quickly handed over the remuneration he desired. Ablass gave me the vaguest of instructions. I was to dissolve a grain or two in a libation of my choosing and sit in a circle composed of exactly eight candles. I asked him why the specificity but he merely shrugged and reiterated that it must be a circle. On no account must there be any right angles. His words committed to memory, we parted company with Ablass issuing a warning as a parting gift. He told me not to go too deep and to avoid linger-ing in those places where the corners are dark and filled with shadow…"
George was sitting forward in his seat, so rapt was he by De Quincey's tale. "Did you take it?"
"I did," his companion sighed, "a terrible experience, all told. First, though, I did a little digging around the local public houses about our friend, Mr Ablass. It turned out that he, Williams, and Marr were known for peddling this drug around Wapping. They had a con-tact, an old shipmate, who had recently settled in the Limehouse area. It was from him that they got their supply. They had a small exclusive clientele that included the now-deceased landlord of The King's Head, Mr Williamson and Marr's young apprentice.
"On my wanderings, I encountered an artist acquaintance who lived on The Highway and was, it turned out, a devotee of the drug. He extolled its potency and he jotted down for me a series of chants and meditations to employ in order to achieve the maximum effect. On his blasé assurance that there was no danger, I returned to my rooms in Holborn and pre-pared myself. First, I lit candles, cleared a space on the floor, and arranged them in a circle as instructed. It was a chill night, so I donned a heavy overcoat for fear of catching my death. Once prepared, I mixed two grains of Liao with a glass of brandy and sat in the candlelight ring.
"I had, per the artist's instructions, set up a carriage clock in the circle with me along with the newspaper reports of the Marr killings. I was to focus on the date and location while counting down the number of years I wished to travel, in this case, sixteen. Once prepared, I sat cross-legged in the centre of the circle, drained the glass, and waited for the drug to take effect. It didn't take long to enter my blood, in no time at all the shadows cast by the flickering candlelight lengthened and the confines of the circle became indistinct. I commenced counting."
"Did it work?"
"Oh, yes, it worked. I experienced sensations such as I have never felt before as the winds of time surged around me. I felt like a marker buoy on the high seas, cast adrift from its mooring and taken by the current, swept away to uncharted lands. Colours and patterns rushed and whirled as the very substance of reality dissolved to allow my consciousness passage to the past. I felt at once a mixture of awe and panic. As if I knew, in my heart of hearts, that what I attempted went against all natural laws and that if I wasn't careful I would be crossing the Rubicon, so to speak.
“It was the oddest thing, I seemed to experience those sixteen fleeting years simultaneously as I tumbled through abyssal depths of time. I saw life happen around me as I, a detached observer, lurked on the threshold, unable to interact, barely able to comprehend. It was almost too much. The artist, and Mr Ablass, had given me a way of escaping the trance. I needed only to reverse the count and think of home. A simple escape route that, I confess, I nearly took at that moment. I persevered, however, and found myself standing in the cold December air outside Thomas Marr's shop.
“It was a dismal night, one fitting for a tragedy such as I had gone to witness. As I huddled in my heavy flushing coat, the door opened and a young woman emerged, herself huddled up against the frigid mist that hung low over the street. I recognised her at once from descriptions in the reports. It was Margaret Jewell, the Marr's maid. As I stood and watched, she turned and appraised me with a suspicious eye. I panicked, buried my face in my collar and hurried off in an Easterly direction. I hadn't expected to be visible. It was something of a shock to know that I was there in a corporeal sense.
“After a minute or so, I stopped and checked behind me. Jewell had continued on her er-rand. I turned tail and returned towards the Marr residence. Keeping to the shadows, I approached the frontage in time to see Thomas Marr closing the shutters. I knew that he never bolted them… it was almost time. I was about to see the truth of the murders. I felt a thrill of anticipation as the moment dawned. Then… something strange started to occur.
“From nowhere, an oppressive shadow settled over the drapers like a funeral pall. I hate to be over-dramatic, but I can describe it in no other way. An odd tingling sensation coursed through my extremities and my hair began to stand on end. There was a foul odour too, one that I can only compare to the charnel stench of a freshly opened grave. It was so over-whelming that I found myself trembling, though I knew no tangible reason why. It's hard to put into words, but I felt as though I was being observed, as though something lean and hungry was poised in the dark corners of the street, ready to pounce. Every darkened door-way and gloom-enshrouded alley exuded a menace the like I have never experienced before or since. It is a wonder I didn't cry out and run for my life.
“Nevertheless, I strived to maintain control. In a desperate attempt to quiet the unease that screamed in my ears, I focused once again on the details of the case. Facts could keep me anchored when the tides of hysteria threatened to sweep me away. Thinking back over the reports, I recalled that Margaret Jewell had reported seeing someone loitering in front of the shop, though I had seen not a single soul.
“It was with some horror that I realised that the suspicious character she had spotted was none other than myself. My panic returned tenfold. I was a recognisable figure, all it would take is one person to recognise me and I'd be joining Mr Williams at the crossroads. I had horrible thoughts about winking out of existence like a dying star. If one could interact with the past, could one also come to harm? If I was identified and executed in 1811, I couldn't yet live in 1826, could I? The idea was chilling, so I fled along the highway, counting myself back to the present as I did."
George's face crumpled into a dark frown. "So… you didn't see what happened?"
"Alas, not. My nerves got the better of me, but it wasn't so much the fear of being recognised, but something altogether more intangible. Something was drawing near."
"The assassin?"
"Perhaps… Perhaps, not. I hate to talk in such Biblical terms, but there was a presence abroad that night that was evil, Satanic, almost… I don't expect you to understand."
De Quincey's whole demeanour had changed. He had gone from being the life and soul to a frightened child. In a second it passed and was replaced by something equally alien in someone of his character, embarrassment. Instantly, he rose from his seat, flustered and visibly sweat-ing. "I trust that was enough for your article? Now, if you will excuse…"
"Thank you, Thomas," George rose with him, "one more question if I may?"
"Go on."
"This drug, Liao, what did you do with the rest of it?"
"It's locked away in a drawer back at my rooming house, I meant to return it to Mr Ablass with a firm rebuke but never got around to it, why do you ask?" His eyebrow raised as he figured out the answer to his own question. "You don't mean to take it?"
"Well, if you don't want it?"
"It's sheer folly, dear boy!"
George rummaged in his pockets for some coins and deposited them on the table. "I can pay."
"Out of the question."
Realising that De Quincey wasn't to be that easily swayed, George changed his approach. "You know that I'll just go and get it from Ablass if I don't get it from you."
De Quincey stopped in his tracks, his shoulders sagged and a sigh of resignation escaped his lips. "Very well, if you want to charge off down the path of oblivion, who am I to stop you? I'd rather you stayed clear of that miscreant, just don't say you haven't been warned!"
"Thank You, Thomas."
"Don't thank me. It is not a good turn that I do this day, and make no mistake about it." De Quincey snatched George's notebook and his pencil and scribbled an address across one of the half-filled pages. "Call on me here after breakfast on the morrow. Now, my own sweet oblivion awaits in an earthy green liquid… good day to you."
As Thomas De Quincey rejoined his companions, George Mulgrave smiled to himself. If Thomas was telling the truth, he would have two good stories by the end of the week. The identity of the Ratcliff Highway murderer past and present, and a new wonder drug that could allow men to see into the distant and veiled past. He left the pub and returned to his lodgings for an early night. He would need all of his mental strength for the day to come…
Returning home with the four candles he had purchased from a local trader named Arkwright, he supplemented the four he had already snaffled from his landlady and placed them in a wide circle on the floor. After once again imploring that he abandon the reckless idea, Thomas De Quincey had given him the artist's notes along with the drug. After that, it was a simple matter of heading to his newspaper's offices and digging out the edition for the eighth of December 1811. Once spread out in the centre of the circle, he lit the candles and positioned himself cross-legged and took out his dented pocket watch.
"Christ," George gasped as he opened the tin and caught a whiff of its malodorous contents, "I don't even want to think about where this stuff comes from." It was a good point, he knew next to nothing about the mysterious blue substance. Still, that wasn't going to stop him from ingesting it.
Using a pair of tweezers, he extracted two viscid grains and dropped them into a glass of the rough Scotch he kept by the bedside to combat the winter nights. They fizzed, danced, and capered on the surface before dissolving into the peaty amber.
Focusing on the yellowing newspapers spread out before him, George gripped the glass in his right hand while clutching his watch in his left. With one well-practised motion, he threw his head back and poured the whiskey down his gullet. Grimacing as it burned a trail down to his guts, he read the report and muttered the odd chant that the artist had written down for Thomas De Quincey. In no time at all, the shadows lengthened and his surroundings started to dissipate, revealing the vertiginous abyss of time beyond.
Tumbling out of his body, George's spiritual form was sucked into the time eddy and dragged down towards an ever-increasing pool of blue light. As it closed in around him, he felt a jolt as the membrane pierced and he found himself on the streets of London, specifically The Ratcliff Highway. It was just as De Quincey had described, he stood motionless and impotent as time wound back around him. From the previous morning when he had skulked at the rear of number eleven, he watched day become night over and over in a dizzying montage as the lives of the denizens of one of London's busiest thoroughfares reversed before his eyes. Men became boys and boys became infants. It was terrifying to see all the horror and drama of daily life condensed into just a few heartbeats. So overwhelmed was he that George screwed his eyes up tightly and prayed for it to end. Eventually, it did.
As time stabilised and his head cleared, George found himself a few doors down from the Marr's drapery shop. The last line in the newspaper he had read mentioned St George in the East so that's where he was. Staring up at the sixteenth-century Hawksmoor church as a gibbous moon, framed neatly by the twin pepperpot towers, glowered through the fog, George huddled in his coat against the night air. Recalling De Quincey's similar experiences, he turned and stared in the direction of his ultimate destination. With a sudden shock, he watched as Thomas materialised and staggered around in bewilderment. George panicked. He couldn't be seen by De Quincey and vice versa. To escape this awkward situation, he ducked down a side street and, remembering the open back door from the report, hurried around to the rear of number twenty-nine.
The wood of the rear fence was slimy with moisture as George clambered over and dropped silently into the yard. It was an almost complete replica of the rear of number eleven down to the tangled weeds that sprouted from around the doorstep. Pausing halfway down the path, he was struck by an anomaly, the door was firmly closed. Scratching his head, he moved to the rear window nearest the door and pressed his ear against the frame. Mr Marr was closing the shutters and telling his wife that Margaret shouldn't be long with their supper. Everything seemed normal… until he heard counting and chanting.
The noise came from the cellar window that sat at his right ankle. The chant was wholly familiar and filled him with dread. He knew what was happening but he had to make sure. Crouching down, he used the cuff of his coat to clear away the grime and saw the apprentice, James Gowan, sitting in a ring of candles clutching a pocket watch and a sketch of an old woman in a bonnet. As George watched on in confusion, the corner of the cellar started to blur and smoke. James went rigid as panic seized his soul. George himself let out a stifled cry of alarm as something started to appear from the fabric of reality.
James Gowan screamed and rushed for the stairs as an angular snout protruded from the smoking corner. Composed of a strange protoplasmic substance with a dripping proboscis protruding from the end, the unearthly creature tasted the air. Letting out a hungry howl as it caught the scent of James' fear, the abomination flew from the corner in a liquid motion and chased the fleeing youngster.
George, unable to fully comprehend what he had just seen, stood and stared through the ground-floor window. He was just in time to see James race from the cellar door with the creature hot on his heels. Grabbing the maul off the kitchen table, James spun and prepared to stand his ground. It was no good, he never stood a chance. The hunter sprung upon him with such force that he was thrown backwards and the back of his skull was shattered against the wall. Quick as lightning, the creature plunged its proboscis, dripping in blue slime, into James' neck and sucked him dry in a second.
Alerted by the hideous cries and slurping sound coming from their kitchen, Thomas and Celia Marr appeared on the threshold of the doorway. Catching the scent of their fear-borne adrenaline, the creature discarded its first meal and pounced upon poor Celia. She too had her head smashed against the wall and her blood drained. George covered his mouth with his hands and backed away from the window. That was when he heard the baby…
Something about the infant's plaintive wails awoke a paternal instinct in the young reporter. Without thinking, he flung open the back door and prepared to attempt a rescue. Considerations about altering history didn't enter into it, he was going to try and save the baby and hang the consequences. All his good intent evaporated, however, as soon as he put a foot on the kitchen tiles. By now, Thomas Marr had joined his wife in eternity and the creature was looking for a fresh meal. As its dripping snout loomed around the doorway, George screamed and backed into the yard.
His survival instinct kicked in, and he started to count himself back to the present, all the while attempting to focus on his rooms. The creature sniffed the air and, tasting George's terror, started to flow and undulate towards him. Again unable to fathom the creature, George shut his eyes and continued to count. He could hear the odd mewling and slavering that the creature produced as it closed in for the kill.
As George reached zero, it pounced on him with all its might. He was knocked off his feet as he tumbled forward through time. Awaking on the floor of his room covered in blue slime, George screamed himself hoarse for the better part of a minute…
Thorndike finished packing his pipe, struck a match and lit it. The assembled members of The Pickman Club waited in silence while he took a few puffs and sank back into his chair.
"Finally coming to his senses, George removed his soiled garments, bundled them up in the newspaper articles, took them downstairs and tossed them onto the fire that raged in his landlady's grate. The old woman was deaf as a post and hadn't heard his cries. He explained his singular actions away to the bemused spinster by spinning a yarn that his clothes had become covered in blue paint while visiting a painter friend. She smiled and nodded, whether she had heard a word of his imagined narrative is another matter altogether.
"It was while he was concocting his falsehood that the near-gibbering Mr Mulgrave was struck by a terrible realisation. De Quincey had mentioned an artist on Ratcliff Highway that experimented with Liao and one of the victims of the latest atrocity, the lodger, had been a painter. It didn't take an extraordinary mental leap to deduce that these two were one and the same. Finally, all the pieces fell into place. The Marr household, the landlord of the King's Head, the artist… all had taken or were around those who had taken, Liao. He would also have put a hefty bet on one or more of the warehouse workers had taken it. In short, Liao was not only the key to the mystery but its potential cause. More than that, he realised with horror that the creature he had so narrowly escaped was also linked to it in some way.
“Upon leaving the landlady's abode, George saw a wisp of smoke beginning to appear in the corner of the room and he detected a distant mewling cry. The creature had his scent and was in the process of hunting him through time! Fleeing into the night, he knew he was now a hunted man and if he stood any chance of survival, he would have to get some answers. First, he needed to know exactly what it was that hunted him so relentlessly. If he was to find a way to evade death, he would first need to know what he was dealing with. As it turned out, he knew exactly who to ask… the despicable Mr William Ablass. A hound Ablass called it," Thorndike took a puff on his pipe and blew bluish smoke into the air above the assembled members, "though it bore little resemblance to Man's best friend. George had, as expected, found the perfidious peddler of Liao drinking himself silly in the back room of The Pear Tree. When approached directly, Ablass feigned ignorance. Infuriating George with a knowing sneer and a mocking laugh. This was the straw that broke the camel's back. George, it pains me to say, lost all reason and resorted to drastic actions.
“Leaving The Pear Tree incandescent with rage, he sloped around the back to the waste ground and searched the undergrowth for a weapon which he found in the form of a half-brick. Returning to the public house, he lay in wait by the outhouse and waited for nature to take its course. As mentioned, Mr Ablass had imbibed enough liquid to float a boat so he didn't have to wait long. As the lumbering Irishman concluded his business and backed out of the foul-smelling structure, George leapt from the shadows like the creature that hounded him, clubbed him insensible, dragged him onto the waste ground and pinioned his arms with his belt. Kneeling on the man's chest, George slapped him back to the land of the living.
“Despite being at another's mercy, Ablass still refused to talk… at first. He quickly changed his mind, however, when George embraced his inner Torquemada and got, let us just say, creative with his pencil."
Thorndike paused to wet his lips with a sip of brandy. "Let this be a lesson to you all, never anger a writer, they will get their revenge in the most inventive of ways! I will spare you the details, but Ablass was soon singing like a lark. He, Marr, and Williams had first en-countered the creatures that he referred to as hounds when aboard the Roxburgh Castle. The reported mutiny was nothing of the sort. Despite the warnings of the Chinese chap that had introduced them to Liao, they had ventured too deep into the past and been detected by these predators that stalk the angles of time.
“Neither I nor Mulgrave fully understood what he meant by this peculiar phrase other than that Ablass said that time was made up of a jumble of curves and angles. We live on a curve… they live in the angles. I am a man of medicine, not mathematics but I think I get the gist of his meaning. Needless to say, venture into one of their hunting grounds at your own peril. If they get your scent, you are forever marked. A total of eight men were killed aboard the ship before the hunter was satiated. The three thought that the sacrifice of their fellows was enough to save them but they were sorely mistaken.
“The creatures returned eight months later demanding more. From that moment on, the trio unwittingly entered an un-spoken agreement with the beast. As long as they provided it with a sacrifice whenever its angle intersected with our curve, they would be spared. Marr was unfortunate to have been around one of the sacrifices and Ablass chose to give up Williams for fear he would spill his guts to the magistrate. How he got the Liao into the man's water will have to remain a mystery.
“Unsurprisingly, Mulgrave saw red at this callous revelation and battered the murdering swine to death in a fit of rage. Filled with hopelessness and shock at his actions, he fled the scene and called on a trusted friend to seek advice. To say that I was shocked by his bloodied garments and wild aspect would be a monumental understatement. Before he had rid the world of William Ablass, he had asked him what was significant about the number eight. He had wondered if it had some numerological meaning. Ablass had attempted to shrug before saying that curves were anathema to the hounds… and what has more curves than a figure eight?
“So ends the tragic tale of George Mulgrave. I have little more to add other than to say that after he had concluded his story, he fled into the night screaming after seeing a phantom puff of smoke in the corner of my room. I tried to tell him it was from one of the candles, but I am far from certain. I wasn't sure whether to believe his fantastical ravings or label them as a product of a disordered mind. I suppose the inquest will be the final judge of that.
“Maybe he fell foul of a cut-throat or some accident? Loathed as I am to admit it, I fully expect him to have had a shattered skull and a laceration in his neck. I will speak to the mortuary attendant after the official verdict. If he confirms that his clothes were soaked with blue slime then we will know to stay away from Liao at all costs…"