The Bell Bock Mystery - Chapter 3
Created | Updated Mar 15, 2007
Chapter 3
Night had fallen, the land turned over to the nocturnal creatures. The fox, badger and hedgehog roamed freely with only the occasional poacher to be avoided. No animal could be found directly above the sanctum of the Hell Fire caves. Could the creatures of the night sense the brewing storm or could it be the smell of blood, long since spilt on the Altar. A train of thirteen nuns, heads bowed, entered the caves gothic frontage unnoticed.
Way below ground level in the Inner Temple thirteen masked bodies faced each other. None of them would know the identities of the other attendees at the gathering. These gentlemen, some of the most powerful in the Empire all had something in common. They could pass one another day to day without knowing that they were part of one of the most secret and ancient societies on the planet. Its heritage can be traced from ancient Egypt, through Persia, up to Italy and across Europe during the renaissance. The trail crossed northern Europe spending time in Napoleon’s France and now finally coming to rest at the centre of the British Empire. It would soon be moving on once again to the America’s to establish a new power base.
Along with its more well known sister society the Freemasons, it had a foothold in the corridors of power across the world. They were the Luminary.
“In the last year I have travelled as part of my remit as Minister for…”
“No names or references Sir.”
“I do apologise Sir, having travelled to the colonies in India and South
Africa it is clear to me that our Services are seriously under provisioned. The repercussions of the Crimea are still being felt, not to mention the Zulu Wars.
“This is all irrelevant, the lower classes in this country are getting above their station. They seem to think because they have done a days work it entitles them to certain rights. The ugly head of socialism and trade unions is starting to raise its head once more, even rumours of votes for all citizens has been heard. As far as I know she has said nothing?”
“The rabble in India will not stay silent for much longer.” Interjected another voice, the mask muffling his voice, “Unless action from the top is taken to quell the situation there will be an uprising. It happened before, the mutiny.”
The group fell silent, the chairman thought for a minute considering the options. “It would seem to me drastic action is required. If we do not act, our power base will be depleted. I am open to suggestions.
A deep voice boomed from behind one of the masks, “The Prime Minister is more at home with keeping the Lady happy than with the efficient running of the colonies. I suggest we move on him.”
“Why not go above him, replace the head and the body will move to a different set of commands.”
“Mr Chairman, Albert, he would be as easily manoeuvred as a mannequin."
A moment of silence followed. The group digested the information and plans revealed. “We must stay in the shadows. It is vital that if we replace the monarch with him, we cannot be seen to be pulling the strings of, as you so rightly said, the mannequin. The protection of the society must remain over all.”
“I have an idea Sir, of how to remove her and keep our hands clean and the society secret.”
The chairman turned to see the line of nuns enter the Inner Temple. As they entered one by one the habits draped over their shoulders fell to the floor. It was clear that these women were no sisters of mercy, more whores of Babylon.
“We shall discuss the details later. I see the entertainment has arrived.”
Home for the Kitcheners’ was a small two up, two down terraced house. It sat at the bottom of a passage leading off Jacobs Mews, Paddington Green. The oven was the focal point of the small kitchen. Here Muriel would cook all manor of delicious food for her husband to enjoy. The aroma of freshly baked bread would escape through the green, wooden framed windows out into the yard, welcoming Bert home after a busy night at the yard. “The best smell in the world.” He would say as he came through the back door.
The clean sea air of Brighton enjoyed only five days ago was a complete contrast to the smoggy air of London. As the passengers disembarked from the train the smell of soot and sewage seemed to Kitchener to be more pungent than normal. He made his way to Scotland Yard for his evening shift; he stopped for a second to view the river. The fog clung to it like bindweed around a plant. After a warm day the night felt cold, not many of the inhabitants of the city were about. A handful of men came and went from public house to public house, the odd staggering minister meandering across the green. The usual collection of prostitutes was dotted randomly around the street corners offering their usual services at the usual rates. Why did they all dress like music hall tarts? London had been like this for as long he’d been at the Yard, nothing really changed in the capital, like the Empress they would remain for ever.
That was one thing noticeably absent from his day out; women of ill repute were noticeably absent from Brighton. Were all the men folk of that seaside town content in that area? Thinking on, looking at the average age of the inhabitants they had little need for women of the night.
A young constable stood guard at the foreboding black iron gates at the entrance of Scotland Yard. A brief salute was offered by the youth. In the courtyard a four-wheeled carriage passed him on its way into the dark streets. Kitchener’s thoughts again returned to the present. Every night he would enter this famous old building. Telegrams would come in, be sorted and despatched to the relevant department, maybe one or two would come his way. If they ever did they were always the same, domestics, robbery, a body found in the river. What chance had the force of solving a murder when the body had been dumped in the River Thames several weeks earlier? The pathologist had given nothing away, only guessing at the nearest week to death. Age was a non-starter; at least he could have a fare stab at the sex of the cadaver. Even when a list of persons lost had been consulted it could have been one of fifty or sixty persons at least. Solving crime in this vast metropolis was not an easy task.
Inside the gas lit offices where he resided professionally, the night watch were already at their work. Piles of paper had collected all over the desks as the officers and constables alike sifted, sorted, filed and destroyed the sheets. Telegrams came and went, collated at the front desk. Once read by the desk sergeant he would distribute them around the relevant chief inspectors to discharge among the ranks. On Kitchener’s desk lay a mountain of unsorted work to be dealt with. That was the trouble with having a couple of days leave, the work didn’t stop arriving and with the shortage of personnel it was left up to the whole workforce to clear the backlog of cases, regardless of attendance. Passing an eye over his over burdened desk he picked a piece of paper at random.
The note was written in the desk sergeant’s hand. The style was very much like his manner, large and unwieldy. Mrs Fortesque of Romford Gardens has filed a report accusing a neighbour, a Mrs April of having a garden fire in the hours of daylight.
“My God.” He said to no one in particular. Is this the best the whole city can offer in the annals of crime? A glass of whisky beside him, Kitchener sifted through the reports. He became aware that at the far end of the office a small commotion had ensued. He presumed that a shipment of opium must have been intercepted at the docks. This sort of excitement normally followed such an event. Not that any of the drug had ever made its way into his possession, unlike some of his fellow officers, or so it was rumoured.
He ignored it. The perpetual pile of paper sitting awaiting his attention hadn’t decreased in size at all. He was too busy with his lot to be worried about another case.
The woman at the centre of the chaos was Edith Higgins. Edith was one of the many prostitutes to be found in and around the East End. This particular woman though was not like the others.
Edith was an attractive woman and well educated. She knew and could converse on wide range of topics and at any level. Literature was a particular passion of hers, Shakespeare being high on her list of most read authors.
Miss Higgins was from good stock; her family was a respectable middle class one. The head of the brood, Arthur, made his money in the tea trade. His company had owned three tea clippers until last year. The first tea leaves harvested would arrive in London at the start of the picking season. Now his fleet had been expanded, for last year the company had at great expense purchased a steam going iron ship. The journey from the far-east plantations had been cut in half. His tea was the first to hit the London market and fetch the highest price.
Edith had been taken under the wing of the family business as a clerk in the shipping offices on Pall Mall. With her excellent education she soon found her niche and became head clerk. Somewhat of a grand job for a woman, a still young woman. The gentlemen working under her after a month or so of bitterness soon realised that the best person had the job and besides who was going to complain to her father?
Then why was Edith Street walking at night? She had become bored with office life and the family firm. She wanted more. Not more money, she always had money in abundance, she wanted more excitement in her life.
On mentioning to her father the prospect of going ‘in company’ to oversee the tea harvest she thought this may give her the adventure she sought.
He did not agree.
“No daughter of mine is going to foreign parts with its disease, pirates, cut throats and brigands. Its no place for a young lady” At that moment Edith made the decision that she would make her own way in life, so she left the family firm.
As far as she could see the empire was ruled by men. Only one woman had a say and she was at the very top. If Edith couldn’t command power and authority in the official world then she could move in those circles unofficially and manipulate the men of power for her own needs, and make a fortune doing it.
Edith put her good looks, intelligence and excellent education to good use. She was only a prostitute, but she was at the head of her trade. Her clientele were all high-ranking members of the government and civil service, not quite the premier and his close circle of ministers, but still a handful of the cabinet were on her client list.
Tonight she had been on her way to a rendezvous with a high-ranking civil servant when she had come across a dead body. Her thoughts had been elsewhere. The last two nights had been quiet, all her usual's for some reason had been out of the capital. Her eyes had almost missed the body lying there. Eyes focused, brain re-acted, the body froze. She tried to scream. Eventually it came out. Passers by began to gather round then the constabulary arrived. Minutes later she had entered the gates of Scotland Yard.
The noise continued. Kitchener reluctantly swung his legs off the desk and craned his neck over in the direction of the front desk. All the attention seemed to be centred on a woman of about thirty years.
“What the hells going on?” another rhetorical question. As a senior officer and because he was bored of the hum-drum cases assigned to him he would make it his business to find out what was going on. There was no need for him to trouble himself with finding out as she was destined to be escorted to him.
The woman it seemed had brought something into the station that was out of the ordinary. This he thought as he walked along between the rows of desks would need the personal touch. Chief Inspector Kitchener with his wide stride arrived at the front desk before any of the lower ranked officers could get a word of sense out of the women. As he arrived at the gathering the crowd miraculously parted like Moses parting the Red Sea allowing Kitchener access to Edith.
His first impression was that this was a well-to-do woman in a state of distress. On these points he was correct though he was wrong on another. Kitchener would never have considered her being in the trade she pedalled. As he engaged her she was out of breath and trying to talk.
Kitchener gave the order, “You two there, help her to my desk and get her a cup of tea or something.” Two burly constables each with an arm under her own helped her across the office and set her down in Kitchener’s chair. “Thank you men. You can get back to work now.” A nod of recognition came from the two men who returned to their duties.
“Now my dear…” Kitchener asks offering her the whiskey glass, which she takes off him and drains in one slug. “What can we do for you?”
The woman of ill repute composes herself before excitedly blurting out the words, “She’s dead, there’s been…” her voice trails off as she points towards the door she had recently entered. Now using all her composure to make herself understood, “Murder, in Whitechapel.
On the hills above Edinburgh a cold wind blew in off the North Sea, The day had been warm, but now the mood of the weather had changed for the worse. The night had cut its way across the cobbled streets, which were now dark and empty. The only life to be seen was the occasional vagrant ambling along. The gaslights illuminated their faces, which were red from the effect of the cold wind.
There was another man around the streets that night and he wasn’t a homeless traveller. He could quite easily have been mistaken for a vagrant, skulking around the shadows a green whiskey bottle in his hand, but looks can be deceiving.
John Cooper kept in the doorways and alleys out of sight, turmoil running through his head. What was he doing. He knew he’d get caught, just like last time.
Did he care?
No.
He was only doing this for the honour of his ancestral line. Crossing the street he could feel the cobbles under his feet, feet that he must be in agony with, cracked, split and red raw.
He didn’t feel the pain.
Another dark alley to hide in. A lamp lighter passed the entrance to the alley. No work for his trade here, all the gas lamps were illuminated.
Cooper’s paranoia frightened him into a freeze, was the lighter spying on him? Was he being followed? “I must be careful” he heard himself say. Who was he speaking to? It must have been himself.
Summoning up all his courage he took a tentative look around the right hand corner of the alleys entrance. The lamp lighter was making his way down the street, into the distance and into the gloom of the night. He became aware of a presence to his left; slowly he turned to see a policeman approaching. The cape hung over his shoulders as his lamp flitted from one side of the road to the other. Panic overcame Cooper.
His breathing increased rapidly, faster and faster. What should he do? What should he do? Almost passing out with fear his back hits the cold wall, sliding down his body descends onto the cold hard ground. The silence is deafening, the heavy footsteps of the constable’s boots came closer and closer until at the entrance to the alley he stops.
Cooper can almost touch the backs of his trouser legs. What should he do? Hit him and run or stay silent and still. After what seemed to be an eternity the Policeman flexed his legs and moved off down the road.
A sigh of relief escaped him. Bracing himself, he ran out of the alley and away down the street, away from danger, away from the Police.
Twenty minutes later, after crossing half of Edinburgh, it came into view. There it was, the house he sought. Cooper looked around him, his brain was racing so franticly that, as he looked he did not see, his senses told him no one was around, the road was deserted.
He must act quickly if he’s not to be seen, do the job and get out. The phrase circled his mind, do the job and get out. His poor head; would the voice of his grandfather ever go away? Oh to be free of it. Once he had done this perhaps…
The voices had started two weeks after the death of his maternal grandfather, a man who had been so proud of his grandson because of his aspirations.
“He could be working on a piece of history.” The old man would tell people, “Something his own hands had worked on.”
One week ago on a warm summer’s morning the letter had arrived falling onto the front kitchen doormat. The contents of the envelope were taken out and disclosed to his assembled family. The pain filled his heart as he read the short memorandum. His dream had been shattered. The job he had always longed for was now out of his reach. No words of comfort from either his mother or father could console him, the damage was done.
So that was that, not only had it destroyed his grandfather, now it had betrayed him. No, not it, it couldn’t be blamed. The true betrayer was Stevenson.
As though an outside force had wiped clear his mind he was thinking clearly now. Looking down at his hands he saw them ramming a rag into the neck of the whiskey bottle. The colourless liquid inside sloshed around. Checking the outlook again, still clear.
Matches? Coat pocket. Clank the bottle rested on the flagstones while John rifled through the pockets of his overcoat. As each pocket is found to be empty his frustration mounts. As he battles with the lining of one of the pockets a stray coat tail makes contact with the grounded bottle. A heart stopping moment as the bottle sways from side to side, finally falling onto its side and slowly rolling into the gutter. Like a cat at a bird Cooper pounces on it. Holding it up to one of the gas lamps he inspects the damage. Enough is left in the bottle to carry out the task. The rag put there only moments before had acted as a sponge absorbed most of the liquid before it had a chance to escape.
Panic hits, stepping back into the shadows he strikes a match and lights the rag. The cloth burns with a blue, orange flame. Cooper watches the flame dance in his hand the heat warming his face. The liquid absorbed by the rag in the fall accelerated the burn, launch was required immediately.
He ran across the cobbled street, his right arm coming over in a circular motion, its away. The projectile smashed through a downstairs window. He heard and felt the heat from the explosion and watched the house burn.
Neighbours were starting to emerge from their dwellings up and down the road. Run, his mind told him, run, but his legs did not move. John Cooper remained standing watching the house burn.
Shortly after the blaze took hold of the second story, the fire brigade arrived. A large crowd had started to gather. The water rained down on the flames and a Police Constable circled the crowd asking if anyone had been seen acting suspiciously in the vicinity before the fire had started?
A neighbour pointed an accusing finger of suspicion at Cooper who was standing mesmerised by the fire. The policeman went over to Cooper and asked him if he was responsible for the fire. John Cooper offered no explanation or resistance as he was lead away and locked in the rear of a four-wheeled cell.
High above the city streets of Edinburgh the old majestic building looked down onto the Firth. The doctors and staff of the Royal Scotland Secure Sanatorium considered the view of the metropolis to be the only benefit to working in this establishment. The old building was cold, drafts blew along the corridors; corridors firmly believed to be haunted by the tortured souls of who had ended their days in that desperate place.
In ten years time Harry Price the famous parapsychologist would proclaim that this place “is one of the most haunted locations in Scotland.”
Half hospital, half prison the Royal Scottish Sanatorium stood as a beacon of fear to anyone planning a plea of insanity in the local courts or assizes. To the guards, doctors and inmates alike this was one of the most desperate places in the country.
As with all houses of detention such as this, visitors seldom came. It would only be on the warm summer days when the more trusted patients would be allowed out into the grounds to receive their visiting nearest and dearest.
In the early hours of the morning the grounds surrounding the sanatorium were as quiet as the grave. Dawn was showing the first signs of venturing over the horizon. The sky was still inky black and the stars shone in the heavens. In the shaded entrance to the building the glare of the one street light cast a gloomy pool on the ground. Into the light drew a four-wheeled Police carriage. It came to rest adjacent to the four stone steps leading up to the entrance hall of the building. There would be no dawn for the eyes of John Cooper.
The rear doors of the carriage opened and with a gesture from one of the officer’s truncheons, Cooper climbs out the back of the van.
Handcuffs around his wrists his eyes follow the stone pillars up to the over hanging roof. The building could have almost been mistaken for the Parthenon or some other Greek temple.
A short handing over ceremony ensued, “Prisoner 42 to be transferred into your charge.” Out of the shadows of the doorway emerged two white-coated men, one of which relieved the constable of a sheet of paper. The man studied the sheet in his hand before speaking.
“Thank you constable, we’ll take care of him now.”
Cooper is escorted up the steps and into the darkness of the interior.
Even in his detached state of mind John was aware of the feeling of oppression. The building felt cold and damp and had the bare minimum of decoration. The walls were of a dirty cream colour, the bottoms of which were black with mould and mildew.
“John Cooper, arson attack. He showed signs of a mental problem when the police took him in.” explained the guard. A guard, the white-coated man who had welcomed him in was only a guard! Cooper had presumed that the man held a medical post in the hospital.
An acknowledgement came in the form of a nod of the head from the duty doctor sitting behind the desk. After looking down his nose at the note handed to him, he spoke, “Put him in examination room number two.”
Instantly the patient was marched off down one of the many gloomy corridors which stretched out through the building like the labyrinth. The only Minotaurs that lurked here were not mythical beasts but where in the minds of the guests and no Thesius to slay them.
Lining the walls on either side were heavy iron doors, large domed rivet heads protrude out from the cold metal. He had no idea how far he had proceeded along the corridor when they arrived at door number 2. The guard in custody of his right arm relinquished his grip to retrieve a large bunch of keys from his white coat pocket. He inserted one into the keyhole of door number two and turned it, the lock clicked. The sound echoed around the building. A scream came out of the darkness; such were the acoustics of the building no sound ever could be placed to its point of origin.
John heard the squeak behind him then the bang of the door closing. He took a look around his new abode. A dim shaft of moonlight protruding through the bars served as his only source of illumination. He could see his breath rise through the light. Outside the night was warm now so why was it so cold in here? The floor was damp under his feet so he sat on the low hard bed. Was this it? Had he come to this? A cell in a mental hospital when he should have been given the job that was his by right. It dwelt on his mind; he had failed to kill that man, would he get another chance? Maybe he could reap his revenge and it didn’t have to be on the man?
It wasn’t until twenty minutes later that two white-coated doctors walked down the corridor to room number two. On the wall next to the door the name John Cooper had been scribed in white chalk on a black-framed board.
“Here we are then, John Cooper.” Doctor Montrose didn’t look up from his notes as he spoke. All the staff had hoped for an early night, it wasn’t to be. The second man, Doctor Jacobs released the observation flap on the door and peered through. On the bed sat a man, knees tucked under his chin in a foetal position. Could it be the man silently cried for the comfort of his mother’s womb or was it more likely that he was just trying to keep warm.
“We’ll keep an eye on this one, at least for a couple of days.”
“Is he a danger to anyone?” asked Doctor Jacobs, studying the patient.
“Only if your names Stevenson”
“Stevenson?”
“All the Police Doctor managed to get out of him was that his grandfather had worked for Robert Stevenson some years ago. He is convinced that Stevenson ‘Did him wrong’ in some way.”
“Did they find out how, or who his Grandfather is?”
“We don’t know who he his yet. What ever it is though the hatred must run deep. When he was picked up he had just thrown a home made explosive into Stevenson’s town house, then waited around for the Police to arrive.”
“He waited for the Police to arrive?” he had never heard of such an instance as this before. “Do you think he was content having carried out his task, not caring for the consequences to be faced?”
“Could be.” Doctor Montrose replied with a shrug of his shoulders as he looked through the observation hatch, then snaps it shut.
more soon...
Night had fallen, the land turned over to the nocturnal creatures. The fox, badger and hedgehog roamed freely with only the occasional poacher to be avoided. No animal could be found directly above the sanctum of the Hell Fire caves. Could the creatures of the night sense the brewing storm or could it be the smell of blood, long since spilt on the Altar. A train of thirteen nuns, heads bowed, entered the caves gothic frontage unnoticed.
Way below ground level in the Inner Temple thirteen masked bodies faced each other. None of them would know the identities of the other attendees at the gathering. These gentlemen, some of the most powerful in the Empire all had something in common. They could pass one another day to day without knowing that they were part of one of the most secret and ancient societies on the planet. Its heritage can be traced from ancient Egypt, through Persia, up to Italy and across Europe during the renaissance. The trail crossed northern Europe spending time in Napoleon’s France and now finally coming to rest at the centre of the British Empire. It would soon be moving on once again to the America’s to establish a new power base.
Along with its more well known sister society the Freemasons, it had a foothold in the corridors of power across the world. They were the Luminary.
“In the last year I have travelled as part of my remit as Minister for…”
“No names or references Sir.”
“I do apologise Sir, having travelled to the colonies in India and South
Africa it is clear to me that our Services are seriously under provisioned. The repercussions of the Crimea are still being felt, not to mention the Zulu Wars.
“This is all irrelevant, the lower classes in this country are getting above their station. They seem to think because they have done a days work it entitles them to certain rights. The ugly head of socialism and trade unions is starting to raise its head once more, even rumours of votes for all citizens has been heard. As far as I know she has said nothing?”
“The rabble in India will not stay silent for much longer.” Interjected another voice, the mask muffling his voice, “Unless action from the top is taken to quell the situation there will be an uprising. It happened before, the mutiny.”
The group fell silent, the chairman thought for a minute considering the options. “It would seem to me drastic action is required. If we do not act, our power base will be depleted. I am open to suggestions.
A deep voice boomed from behind one of the masks, “The Prime Minister is more at home with keeping the Lady happy than with the efficient running of the colonies. I suggest we move on him.”
“Why not go above him, replace the head and the body will move to a different set of commands.”
“Mr Chairman, Albert, he would be as easily manoeuvred as a mannequin."
A moment of silence followed. The group digested the information and plans revealed. “We must stay in the shadows. It is vital that if we replace the monarch with him, we cannot be seen to be pulling the strings of, as you so rightly said, the mannequin. The protection of the society must remain over all.”
“I have an idea Sir, of how to remove her and keep our hands clean and the society secret.”
The chairman turned to see the line of nuns enter the Inner Temple. As they entered one by one the habits draped over their shoulders fell to the floor. It was clear that these women were no sisters of mercy, more whores of Babylon.
“We shall discuss the details later. I see the entertainment has arrived.”
Home for the Kitcheners’ was a small two up, two down terraced house. It sat at the bottom of a passage leading off Jacobs Mews, Paddington Green. The oven was the focal point of the small kitchen. Here Muriel would cook all manor of delicious food for her husband to enjoy. The aroma of freshly baked bread would escape through the green, wooden framed windows out into the yard, welcoming Bert home after a busy night at the yard. “The best smell in the world.” He would say as he came through the back door.
The clean sea air of Brighton enjoyed only five days ago was a complete contrast to the smoggy air of London. As the passengers disembarked from the train the smell of soot and sewage seemed to Kitchener to be more pungent than normal. He made his way to Scotland Yard for his evening shift; he stopped for a second to view the river. The fog clung to it like bindweed around a plant. After a warm day the night felt cold, not many of the inhabitants of the city were about. A handful of men came and went from public house to public house, the odd staggering minister meandering across the green. The usual collection of prostitutes was dotted randomly around the street corners offering their usual services at the usual rates. Why did they all dress like music hall tarts? London had been like this for as long he’d been at the Yard, nothing really changed in the capital, like the Empress they would remain for ever.
That was one thing noticeably absent from his day out; women of ill repute were noticeably absent from Brighton. Were all the men folk of that seaside town content in that area? Thinking on, looking at the average age of the inhabitants they had little need for women of the night.
A young constable stood guard at the foreboding black iron gates at the entrance of Scotland Yard. A brief salute was offered by the youth. In the courtyard a four-wheeled carriage passed him on its way into the dark streets. Kitchener’s thoughts again returned to the present. Every night he would enter this famous old building. Telegrams would come in, be sorted and despatched to the relevant department, maybe one or two would come his way. If they ever did they were always the same, domestics, robbery, a body found in the river. What chance had the force of solving a murder when the body had been dumped in the River Thames several weeks earlier? The pathologist had given nothing away, only guessing at the nearest week to death. Age was a non-starter; at least he could have a fare stab at the sex of the cadaver. Even when a list of persons lost had been consulted it could have been one of fifty or sixty persons at least. Solving crime in this vast metropolis was not an easy task.
Inside the gas lit offices where he resided professionally, the night watch were already at their work. Piles of paper had collected all over the desks as the officers and constables alike sifted, sorted, filed and destroyed the sheets. Telegrams came and went, collated at the front desk. Once read by the desk sergeant he would distribute them around the relevant chief inspectors to discharge among the ranks. On Kitchener’s desk lay a mountain of unsorted work to be dealt with. That was the trouble with having a couple of days leave, the work didn’t stop arriving and with the shortage of personnel it was left up to the whole workforce to clear the backlog of cases, regardless of attendance. Passing an eye over his over burdened desk he picked a piece of paper at random.
The note was written in the desk sergeant’s hand. The style was very much like his manner, large and unwieldy. Mrs Fortesque of Romford Gardens has filed a report accusing a neighbour, a Mrs April of having a garden fire in the hours of daylight.
“My God.” He said to no one in particular. Is this the best the whole city can offer in the annals of crime? A glass of whisky beside him, Kitchener sifted through the reports. He became aware that at the far end of the office a small commotion had ensued. He presumed that a shipment of opium must have been intercepted at the docks. This sort of excitement normally followed such an event. Not that any of the drug had ever made its way into his possession, unlike some of his fellow officers, or so it was rumoured.
He ignored it. The perpetual pile of paper sitting awaiting his attention hadn’t decreased in size at all. He was too busy with his lot to be worried about another case.
The woman at the centre of the chaos was Edith Higgins. Edith was one of the many prostitutes to be found in and around the East End. This particular woman though was not like the others.
Edith was an attractive woman and well educated. She knew and could converse on wide range of topics and at any level. Literature was a particular passion of hers, Shakespeare being high on her list of most read authors.
Miss Higgins was from good stock; her family was a respectable middle class one. The head of the brood, Arthur, made his money in the tea trade. His company had owned three tea clippers until last year. The first tea leaves harvested would arrive in London at the start of the picking season. Now his fleet had been expanded, for last year the company had at great expense purchased a steam going iron ship. The journey from the far-east plantations had been cut in half. His tea was the first to hit the London market and fetch the highest price.
Edith had been taken under the wing of the family business as a clerk in the shipping offices on Pall Mall. With her excellent education she soon found her niche and became head clerk. Somewhat of a grand job for a woman, a still young woman. The gentlemen working under her after a month or so of bitterness soon realised that the best person had the job and besides who was going to complain to her father?
Then why was Edith Street walking at night? She had become bored with office life and the family firm. She wanted more. Not more money, she always had money in abundance, she wanted more excitement in her life.
On mentioning to her father the prospect of going ‘in company’ to oversee the tea harvest she thought this may give her the adventure she sought.
He did not agree.
“No daughter of mine is going to foreign parts with its disease, pirates, cut throats and brigands. Its no place for a young lady” At that moment Edith made the decision that she would make her own way in life, so she left the family firm.
As far as she could see the empire was ruled by men. Only one woman had a say and she was at the very top. If Edith couldn’t command power and authority in the official world then she could move in those circles unofficially and manipulate the men of power for her own needs, and make a fortune doing it.
Edith put her good looks, intelligence and excellent education to good use. She was only a prostitute, but she was at the head of her trade. Her clientele were all high-ranking members of the government and civil service, not quite the premier and his close circle of ministers, but still a handful of the cabinet were on her client list.
Tonight she had been on her way to a rendezvous with a high-ranking civil servant when she had come across a dead body. Her thoughts had been elsewhere. The last two nights had been quiet, all her usual's for some reason had been out of the capital. Her eyes had almost missed the body lying there. Eyes focused, brain re-acted, the body froze. She tried to scream. Eventually it came out. Passers by began to gather round then the constabulary arrived. Minutes later she had entered the gates of Scotland Yard.
The noise continued. Kitchener reluctantly swung his legs off the desk and craned his neck over in the direction of the front desk. All the attention seemed to be centred on a woman of about thirty years.
“What the hells going on?” another rhetorical question. As a senior officer and because he was bored of the hum-drum cases assigned to him he would make it his business to find out what was going on. There was no need for him to trouble himself with finding out as she was destined to be escorted to him.
The woman it seemed had brought something into the station that was out of the ordinary. This he thought as he walked along between the rows of desks would need the personal touch. Chief Inspector Kitchener with his wide stride arrived at the front desk before any of the lower ranked officers could get a word of sense out of the women. As he arrived at the gathering the crowd miraculously parted like Moses parting the Red Sea allowing Kitchener access to Edith.
His first impression was that this was a well-to-do woman in a state of distress. On these points he was correct though he was wrong on another. Kitchener would never have considered her being in the trade she pedalled. As he engaged her she was out of breath and trying to talk.
Kitchener gave the order, “You two there, help her to my desk and get her a cup of tea or something.” Two burly constables each with an arm under her own helped her across the office and set her down in Kitchener’s chair. “Thank you men. You can get back to work now.” A nod of recognition came from the two men who returned to their duties.
“Now my dear…” Kitchener asks offering her the whiskey glass, which she takes off him and drains in one slug. “What can we do for you?”
The woman of ill repute composes herself before excitedly blurting out the words, “She’s dead, there’s been…” her voice trails off as she points towards the door she had recently entered. Now using all her composure to make herself understood, “Murder, in Whitechapel.
On the hills above Edinburgh a cold wind blew in off the North Sea, The day had been warm, but now the mood of the weather had changed for the worse. The night had cut its way across the cobbled streets, which were now dark and empty. The only life to be seen was the occasional vagrant ambling along. The gaslights illuminated their faces, which were red from the effect of the cold wind.
There was another man around the streets that night and he wasn’t a homeless traveller. He could quite easily have been mistaken for a vagrant, skulking around the shadows a green whiskey bottle in his hand, but looks can be deceiving.
John Cooper kept in the doorways and alleys out of sight, turmoil running through his head. What was he doing. He knew he’d get caught, just like last time.
Did he care?
No.
He was only doing this for the honour of his ancestral line. Crossing the street he could feel the cobbles under his feet, feet that he must be in agony with, cracked, split and red raw.
He didn’t feel the pain.
Another dark alley to hide in. A lamp lighter passed the entrance to the alley. No work for his trade here, all the gas lamps were illuminated.
Cooper’s paranoia frightened him into a freeze, was the lighter spying on him? Was he being followed? “I must be careful” he heard himself say. Who was he speaking to? It must have been himself.
Summoning up all his courage he took a tentative look around the right hand corner of the alleys entrance. The lamp lighter was making his way down the street, into the distance and into the gloom of the night. He became aware of a presence to his left; slowly he turned to see a policeman approaching. The cape hung over his shoulders as his lamp flitted from one side of the road to the other. Panic overcame Cooper.
His breathing increased rapidly, faster and faster. What should he do? What should he do? Almost passing out with fear his back hits the cold wall, sliding down his body descends onto the cold hard ground. The silence is deafening, the heavy footsteps of the constable’s boots came closer and closer until at the entrance to the alley he stops.
Cooper can almost touch the backs of his trouser legs. What should he do? Hit him and run or stay silent and still. After what seemed to be an eternity the Policeman flexed his legs and moved off down the road.
A sigh of relief escaped him. Bracing himself, he ran out of the alley and away down the street, away from danger, away from the Police.
Twenty minutes later, after crossing half of Edinburgh, it came into view. There it was, the house he sought. Cooper looked around him, his brain was racing so franticly that, as he looked he did not see, his senses told him no one was around, the road was deserted.
He must act quickly if he’s not to be seen, do the job and get out. The phrase circled his mind, do the job and get out. His poor head; would the voice of his grandfather ever go away? Oh to be free of it. Once he had done this perhaps…
The voices had started two weeks after the death of his maternal grandfather, a man who had been so proud of his grandson because of his aspirations.
“He could be working on a piece of history.” The old man would tell people, “Something his own hands had worked on.”
One week ago on a warm summer’s morning the letter had arrived falling onto the front kitchen doormat. The contents of the envelope were taken out and disclosed to his assembled family. The pain filled his heart as he read the short memorandum. His dream had been shattered. The job he had always longed for was now out of his reach. No words of comfort from either his mother or father could console him, the damage was done.
So that was that, not only had it destroyed his grandfather, now it had betrayed him. No, not it, it couldn’t be blamed. The true betrayer was Stevenson.
As though an outside force had wiped clear his mind he was thinking clearly now. Looking down at his hands he saw them ramming a rag into the neck of the whiskey bottle. The colourless liquid inside sloshed around. Checking the outlook again, still clear.
Matches? Coat pocket. Clank the bottle rested on the flagstones while John rifled through the pockets of his overcoat. As each pocket is found to be empty his frustration mounts. As he battles with the lining of one of the pockets a stray coat tail makes contact with the grounded bottle. A heart stopping moment as the bottle sways from side to side, finally falling onto its side and slowly rolling into the gutter. Like a cat at a bird Cooper pounces on it. Holding it up to one of the gas lamps he inspects the damage. Enough is left in the bottle to carry out the task. The rag put there only moments before had acted as a sponge absorbed most of the liquid before it had a chance to escape.
Panic hits, stepping back into the shadows he strikes a match and lights the rag. The cloth burns with a blue, orange flame. Cooper watches the flame dance in his hand the heat warming his face. The liquid absorbed by the rag in the fall accelerated the burn, launch was required immediately.
He ran across the cobbled street, his right arm coming over in a circular motion, its away. The projectile smashed through a downstairs window. He heard and felt the heat from the explosion and watched the house burn.
Neighbours were starting to emerge from their dwellings up and down the road. Run, his mind told him, run, but his legs did not move. John Cooper remained standing watching the house burn.
Shortly after the blaze took hold of the second story, the fire brigade arrived. A large crowd had started to gather. The water rained down on the flames and a Police Constable circled the crowd asking if anyone had been seen acting suspiciously in the vicinity before the fire had started?
A neighbour pointed an accusing finger of suspicion at Cooper who was standing mesmerised by the fire. The policeman went over to Cooper and asked him if he was responsible for the fire. John Cooper offered no explanation or resistance as he was lead away and locked in the rear of a four-wheeled cell.
High above the city streets of Edinburgh the old majestic building looked down onto the Firth. The doctors and staff of the Royal Scotland Secure Sanatorium considered the view of the metropolis to be the only benefit to working in this establishment. The old building was cold, drafts blew along the corridors; corridors firmly believed to be haunted by the tortured souls of who had ended their days in that desperate place.
In ten years time Harry Price the famous parapsychologist would proclaim that this place “is one of the most haunted locations in Scotland.”
Half hospital, half prison the Royal Scottish Sanatorium stood as a beacon of fear to anyone planning a plea of insanity in the local courts or assizes. To the guards, doctors and inmates alike this was one of the most desperate places in the country.
As with all houses of detention such as this, visitors seldom came. It would only be on the warm summer days when the more trusted patients would be allowed out into the grounds to receive their visiting nearest and dearest.
In the early hours of the morning the grounds surrounding the sanatorium were as quiet as the grave. Dawn was showing the first signs of venturing over the horizon. The sky was still inky black and the stars shone in the heavens. In the shaded entrance to the building the glare of the one street light cast a gloomy pool on the ground. Into the light drew a four-wheeled Police carriage. It came to rest adjacent to the four stone steps leading up to the entrance hall of the building. There would be no dawn for the eyes of John Cooper.
The rear doors of the carriage opened and with a gesture from one of the officer’s truncheons, Cooper climbs out the back of the van.
Handcuffs around his wrists his eyes follow the stone pillars up to the over hanging roof. The building could have almost been mistaken for the Parthenon or some other Greek temple.
A short handing over ceremony ensued, “Prisoner 42 to be transferred into your charge.” Out of the shadows of the doorway emerged two white-coated men, one of which relieved the constable of a sheet of paper. The man studied the sheet in his hand before speaking.
“Thank you constable, we’ll take care of him now.”
Cooper is escorted up the steps and into the darkness of the interior.
Even in his detached state of mind John was aware of the feeling of oppression. The building felt cold and damp and had the bare minimum of decoration. The walls were of a dirty cream colour, the bottoms of which were black with mould and mildew.
“John Cooper, arson attack. He showed signs of a mental problem when the police took him in.” explained the guard. A guard, the white-coated man who had welcomed him in was only a guard! Cooper had presumed that the man held a medical post in the hospital.
An acknowledgement came in the form of a nod of the head from the duty doctor sitting behind the desk. After looking down his nose at the note handed to him, he spoke, “Put him in examination room number two.”
Instantly the patient was marched off down one of the many gloomy corridors which stretched out through the building like the labyrinth. The only Minotaurs that lurked here were not mythical beasts but where in the minds of the guests and no Thesius to slay them.
Lining the walls on either side were heavy iron doors, large domed rivet heads protrude out from the cold metal. He had no idea how far he had proceeded along the corridor when they arrived at door number 2. The guard in custody of his right arm relinquished his grip to retrieve a large bunch of keys from his white coat pocket. He inserted one into the keyhole of door number two and turned it, the lock clicked. The sound echoed around the building. A scream came out of the darkness; such were the acoustics of the building no sound ever could be placed to its point of origin.
John heard the squeak behind him then the bang of the door closing. He took a look around his new abode. A dim shaft of moonlight protruding through the bars served as his only source of illumination. He could see his breath rise through the light. Outside the night was warm now so why was it so cold in here? The floor was damp under his feet so he sat on the low hard bed. Was this it? Had he come to this? A cell in a mental hospital when he should have been given the job that was his by right. It dwelt on his mind; he had failed to kill that man, would he get another chance? Maybe he could reap his revenge and it didn’t have to be on the man?
It wasn’t until twenty minutes later that two white-coated doctors walked down the corridor to room number two. On the wall next to the door the name John Cooper had been scribed in white chalk on a black-framed board.
“Here we are then, John Cooper.” Doctor Montrose didn’t look up from his notes as he spoke. All the staff had hoped for an early night, it wasn’t to be. The second man, Doctor Jacobs released the observation flap on the door and peered through. On the bed sat a man, knees tucked under his chin in a foetal position. Could it be the man silently cried for the comfort of his mother’s womb or was it more likely that he was just trying to keep warm.
“We’ll keep an eye on this one, at least for a couple of days.”
“Is he a danger to anyone?” asked Doctor Jacobs, studying the patient.
“Only if your names Stevenson”
“Stevenson?”
“All the Police Doctor managed to get out of him was that his grandfather had worked for Robert Stevenson some years ago. He is convinced that Stevenson ‘Did him wrong’ in some way.”
“Did they find out how, or who his Grandfather is?”
“We don’t know who he his yet. What ever it is though the hatred must run deep. When he was picked up he had just thrown a home made explosive into Stevenson’s town house, then waited around for the Police to arrive.”
“He waited for the Police to arrive?” he had never heard of such an instance as this before. “Do you think he was content having carried out his task, not caring for the consequences to be faced?”
“Could be.” Doctor Montrose replied with a shrug of his shoulders as he looked through the observation hatch, then snaps it shut.
more soon...
