The Bell Rock Mystery - Chapter 13
Created | Updated Apr 30, 2007
The six-course meal had been excellent; the wine beyond reproach, the company though was not as scintillating as the fare. The glass of fifty-year-old brandy now held in Chief Superintendent Marson’s hand was a perfect end to the meal. Cigar smoke filled the air of the smoking room, so thick that faces at the other side of the room were difficult to make out. There must have been around forty men in the room he estimated, all dressed in dinner jackets. This is what the smoking room of the Titanic must have looked like the night it sank, he thought to himself.
Ten of the diners in the room had opted for the coffee after the meal while the rest had gone for the brandy, excellent as it was. The attendees of that night’s dinner came from varying areas of law enforcement, legal and Government departments, all with one thing in common. They all were in some way connected to the process of de-sizing the Met. Many of the faces Marson recognised from the previous day’s meeting in this very club. He wondered how his fellow senior officers from the Yard’s various departments and from the other smaller stations planned on cutting costs.
While he was lost in thought and planning a discrete exit from the proceedings, the Chief Constable approached the unaware Marson.
“Paul, did you enjoy the dinner?” he asked in a cheerful voice.
Excellent Sir, most enjoyable.” Marson agreed. He would not disagree, after all this was the Chief Constable’s own club.
“I understand you’ve already taken steps to reduce your inventory costs?”
Why did he have to talk shop? It was, he supposed, the reason they were all here.
“Yes Sir, it would be a sad day if I were to have to lose any of my officers when other forms of damage limitation could be utilised.”
“Good man, inventory control. Inventory costs money, or that’s what half of this lot tell me most days.”
“I totally agree Sir. That’s why I’ve put one of my finest brains on it. A real historian.” A note of pride was clearly visible in his voice.
“Oh yes, where’s he starting?” Kate would have not been surprised at the assumption that it must be a man.
“She Sir.”
“What? Oh, she, where has she started?”
“I’ve set her off in the bowels of the archives, in the blue room.” Both men chuckle together as though sharing a private joke.
“I thought the room was destroyed in the bombing raid during World War II?”
“The original blue room was, but the majority of the records survived and were relocated in the new blue room in the CID department. The records span from the early eighteen eighties to the nineteen seventies.”
Something struck a cord in the back of the chief’s head. If his memory served, then one or two sensitive documents were stored in that particular room. Information and case notes that were not in the public’s interest to come to light.
When he had been handed the top job he had been made aware of the sensitive information by the home secretary and given strict instructions they were never to be made public.
“I want a full report on what’s found, just out of interest of course.”
“I don’t see why not, I’ve told her to shred most of it.”
A grave tone entered his superior’s voice, “There are some things best left untouched, in the interest of security of course”
Marson couldn’t help but wonder what that comment referred to. So many crimes, notorious and otherwise, had passed through the archives in the long history of Scotland Yard. Many cases the Met. would rather be buried for ever. The Hammersmith murders for one, no one was ever caught, and the failing to capture Lord Lucan was another. All the files on how they blundered around letting the majority of the gangs in the sixties escape. Many other cases known or unknown to the public eye the yard would rather forget, given the chance, but which case was he so desperate to cover up?
Ten minutes tube ride away, Kate was pouring herself a glass of red wine. As she read the old yellowing sheets of paper so recently liberated from the archives, Kate became was engrossed in the story that was revealing itself. Making herself comfortable and ensuring the wine glass was in easy reach she continued to read.
The next page of the notebook was the last on the Ripper case. As far as the writer was concerned it put closure to it once and for all.
The trail for the Ripper had gone cold; no more murders had hit the East End for a month. The investigation had been scaled down and only a small core of detectives remained on the case. The general opinion was that whoever Jack the Ripper was he had left the area or the country, or alternatively died.
Kitchener returned to the humdrum affairs of Police work and thought little more of the Ripper case. Then on the 7th of November he was leaving the yard after his shift when a carriage drew up. Out of the rear door climbed two uniformed officers followed by the figure of a man, wrists bound together with handcuffs. The prisoner was bundled into the entrance of the cells under the watchful eye of Inspector Andrews.
“Kitchener.” Andrews greeted him.
“Andrews.” He returned the greeting. Before he had a chance to say another word his colleague was gone into the cell block.
Kitchener these days had little time for Inspector Andrews. Andrews had been given the task of heading the Ripper case and, as far as he could tell, he had made a right hash of it. After all, no arrest had been made, the bird had probably flown before the power of the law could fall on him.
He sat on the omnibus travelling home that evening, it was dark and cold now the winter had set in. The windows on the omnibus were misted over from the heat generating bodies crammed into the carriage.
The prisoner he had just seen looked familiar. Where had he seen him before? Andrews had been standing there, was that merely a coincidence or was it connected with the Ripper case? Andrews had, several days earlier, been sent to Liverpool on a case, who had he brought back?
That was it. It came to him like a flash lighting up a dark night. The man in the cab was the Ripper. The scruffy clothes had thrown him, but that man was the man from Hanbury Street. The same man he had followed down to the river then saw in the Masonic Lodge window.
If only they had listened to him, the lives of those poor women could have been saved.
That night was a sleepless one for Kitchener as he eagerly awaited the morning sunrise. He left the house one hour earlier than normal and en route to Scotland Yard he checked every newspaper seller’s board. Not one mentioned anything regarding the Ripper investigation.
Strange, he thought to himself, the press showed such great interest in the case. Many rumours said that the press were planting false evidence to point suspicion at certain people or groups. Now a suspect had been taken in and nothing was being reported. Why wasn’t it all over London?
On arrival at the Yard he immediately sought out Inspector Andrews who was pleased to talk about his latest arrest.
“Of course…” he said with a cheery voice on being questioned, “Francis Tumblety. He was picked up for gross indecency in Liverpool; I brought him back here to face a string of similar charges. We only just got him. The following day he was due to sail for New York.”
“But, he was my suspect for the Ripper killings.” insisted Kitchener.
“Impossible I’m afraid Bert. He was in custody in Liverpool the night you reported that.”
Kitchener's protest went unheard. Andrews offered to show him the paper work relating to Tumblety and it did confirm what his colleague was saying.
Though the evidence pointed to Kitchener being wrong, he knew more than anything, he was right.
Francis Tumblety appeared in court charged with several acts of gross indecency on the sixteenth of November 1888. No mention of the Ripper murders was spoken of during the hearing. He was bailed by the court, then on the tenth of December acquitted by a judge at the Old Bailey.
The last that Kitchener heard of Francis Tumblety was that while he was away in Scotland his suspect boarded a steamer on the twenty fourth of December. The ship was bound for New York via Paris and hot on his heals was the Chief Inspector of the Ripper investigation, Inspector Andrews.
The crew of the lighthouse had always kept a quantity of miscellaneous materials in the storeroom. Pieces of wood, iron, barrels of tar, bits of rope and boxes of nails all came in useful. Preston, ever resourceful utilised many pieces of the spare material on the repair of the small sailing vessel.
The rudder had, as reported, taken a hit. Over half of the steering device was missing. Preston lashed and battened a piece of iron sheet to what remained. When the ship had hit the outcrop of sandstone to which the lighthouse clung, a hole had been punched in the stern. The engineer made short work of the repair. Several planks of wood nailed to the hull plugged the gap and a layer of tar painted over the external surface weather sealed the leek. An excellent temporary repair. He hated the smell of tar. Ever since he was a child even the smallest hint of that aroma and his chest would tighten, his breathing fail until he collapsed to his knees. A life at sea was a strange career choice for a person with such an affliction?
When he had been at school, a good friend of his had a similar respiratory effect with creosote. Having such an allergic reaction would, you would think, put a person off using it for life. It was strange then that Wesley (Preston could never remember his second name) chose a career in carpentry.
Was it that the body can adjust itself to the smell or does the reaction after many years become the norm?
The waves began to encroach the rock, one in eight lapping up. The high waves sprayed the resonantly repaired hull. Soon the rock would be covered once more and the vessel afloat.
Preston hurried to gather his tool kit and collection of spare pieces of gash material together, saving them from a watery grave. He was most determined not to become another of a long line of victims of the rock. Climbing the ladder was no easy task when carrying armfuls of wooden planks and a small tin of tar. The plank would insist on entangling itself in the rungs of the ladder. Each time he would stop and release the offending piece, as below the water lapped closer and closer to the base of the tower. It may have proved easier to leave part of his load at the foot of the ladder. He didn’t want to risk any of his precious repair materials being washed away be the encroaching tide.
Having returned all his repair kit to the storeroom Preston made haste climbing the stairs up to the living room. As he made his way up the last leg of the climb from the bedroom he was overcome by a strange feeling. Something felt wrong to him, but what was it. Then it came to him. It was an eerie silence.
There was no sound of activity coming from the living room. Maybe they were away up in the lamp room, he thought to himself. Of course that would be the simplest explanation, he assured himself. He would soon find out that there was a much more macabre reason awaiting him.
Looking around the room nothing looked out of place. The sailors’ whisky glasses sat on the table, the contents unfinished. Without a second thought he continued up the steps to the light control room.
As he neared the top of the steps the feeling came over him once more, a sudden chill. He froze to the spot, his feet heavy in his boots and his hands gripping the rungs of the ladder, knuckles white with fear. On his neck he could swear he felt the warm draft of someone or something breathing on him. Sweat started to form on his forehead, his mouth became dry and he found it impossible to swallow. The hairs on his neck stood on end tingling with excitement.
Slowly he turned around, shaking with fear. He half expected to see the face of Morris Tweedy, the spectral keeper from all those years ago.
No one was there, such a relief came over him, and then out of the corner of his eye he caught sight of something that wasn’t the norm. From his vantage point on the stairs he could see over the back of the sofa nearest the gallery. Two sets of boots pointed towards the ceiling. The feeling of fear swept over him once again. What had alerted him to them, was it the dead telling him to turn and look back down into the room? He had never had this feeling before in all his time at the lighthouse.
With an almost super human effort of willpower he slowly descended the ladder, each step an almighty effort. With great caution he crossed the room. Composing himself, he looked over the back of the seat. A feeling of sickness rose from his stomach as he looked down the back of the chair.
The Captain and first mate were lying dead on the floor, “Oh my God.” Preston could hardly speak, whatever moisture had returned to his mouth dried instantly on seeing the bodies.
Heaven knows what had happened, they were dead though, no denying that, but how? As far as he could make out there were no signs of injury on their bodies and the expression on the two men’s faces were ones of absolute terror or at the very least great pain.
After the initial shock his thoughts turned to finding an explanation for this. Who had perpetrated this wicked deed?
It could have only been one person in his eyes, the mariner they had rescued from certain death only an hour or so before, “The sailor.” The sailor who had strangely enough never revealed his name to them, at least not in his presence. It was possible that the Captain and Mate had been privy to that information, but he would never know. So where was he now?
“Were there any signs of where this mysterious sailor had gone?” asked Kitchener listening carefully to Preston’s account.
“No, I could hear something moving though, it was coming from above me. Slowly and quietly I climbed the two flights of stairs to the lamp room. To my surprise no one was in the room or outside on the balcony.”
“So what was making this noise you heard?”
“The lamp was on and the lens was turning. I did not know why. This must have been the noise I heard. Suddenly I froze. I could hear someone coming up the stairs. Desperately I looked for somewhere to hide. I went outside onto the balcony and quietly closed the door.”
Strand’s heavy footsteps thumped down the stairs, his boots crashing down on every step. He was too big a man to act with stealth. He had been listening to the conversation, but for how long? “So where did ya’ hide man?” he asked on re-entering to the room.
The new voice came as a shock to Kitchener and Preston alike, the latter of the two looked up in horror before returning to a state of calm. He was obviously still in a state of shock over the events of earlier that day. Kitchener made a mental note to be easy on him. Strand however could never be so subtle.
“Well?” he asked.
The mysterious mariner stood prominently in the lamp room. His large frame filled the available space between lens and outer wall. The lamplight illuminated his mop of curly hair at each pass. Slowly he looked around. The lens turned slowly as he circumnavigated the room. He knew the engineer was here in the building somewhere. The lamp room was the last and only place he could be hiding having searched all the other rooms with no luck.
The large framed man opened the door and exited onto the balcony. The cold wind whipped his face, the long tangled hair and bushy beard waved in the air. After one lap of the balcony he stopped and looked out to sea.
He came to the conclusion that the engineer was no longer on the rock. Maybe he had thrown himself off the side at the horror of discovering the bodies of his crewmates. He may have made a swim for it, who knows. While fixing the boat a freak wave could have washed him out to sea. He really did not care, as long as he was gone.
“For two hours I swung under that balcony, suspended on the boatswain’s chair we used for repairs to the outer walls. Hanging on for dear life, my fingers were freezing as they held onto a bolt protruding from one of the bricks. If he had seen me hanging there it would have been the end for me.
The wind constantly battered me against the wall; my hands and face were red raw, sitting in the cold wind. Still I hung on. I’m not sure how long I was hanging there, but I saw him leave in the boat I had repaired for him. Quickly, I pulled myself up. Once inside I ran down the full length of the house, down to the entrance hatch and bolted the door.”
“So where have you been hiding yourself since Mr Strand and I arrived?”
“All over, in every room.” It was surprising how many places there were in a lighthouse to hide, he went on to tell them. All the rooms were indeed small, cramped and compact, but with a little bit of thought, effort and knowledge many nooks and crannies could be found. “I didn’t know who you were, you could have been him coming back to tidy up the job. I stayed as close to you as I dare. After listening to your conversation I soon realised that one of you talked like a lighthouse keeper and he had someone with him who wasn’t connected to the sea. The English voice though bore no similarity or connection to the murderous sailor. When I heard your tale of The Ripper, that’s when I revealed my presence to you. I must apologise about collapsing though, it was out of character.” Preston took another mouthful of whisky. It made him feel much better; the alcohol was starting to take effect.
Kitchener pondered on what he had been told. If this sailor had been someone connected to his presence here why had he not destroyed the lamp or at least rendered it inoperable? Why had he left and not finished his mission? Would he be back?
Maybe it had been a mere coincidence that this man had turned up at this point in time. A random chance.
Wait. What if he killed the crew and left, the lamp would remain off. No light would shine tonight. If that was the case then surely he would have finished the job and waited for the engineer to make an appearance. Maybe he had to be back ashore at a certain point, who knows?
“None of this follows any pattern. What’s going on here?” after hearing no comments from either of the other two men Kitchener withdrew into a deep thinking session.
Preston, now feeling quite pleased with himself turned his attention to Strand. “You are Mr. Strand, are you not? Tell me, where was your last station before the bell?”
Strand wasn’t prepared for the sudden interrogation session and was taken off guard by the question.
“Oh, er, my last tour of duty was a year at the Needles.” Spluttered Strand.
“The Needles, really. They tell me that they are on the Edison Electric Light now?”
“Yes.” Slowly came the answer from Strand who seemed to have other things on his mind.
Preston was not enjoying the disjointed conversation so he too followed Kitchener’s lead and allowed himself to fall into the abyss of thought. Strand felt as though he’d been left out of something as he watched both men sitting silently.
With a sigh, Preston took out of his pocket a silver watch and checked the time. “It will soon be getting dark Mr. Strand, would you be so kind as to check the oil tanks and the generators.”
“Ey, ey Sir.” At last a chance to get back to a normal lighthouse keeper’s routine. Without hesitation Strand climbed down the stairs en-route to the engine room. In the quiet living room his heavy boots could be heard thumping down the wooden steps.
Kitchener's thought process was complete. Nothing new had come to light. The case was as much of a mystery to him now as it was on his arrival. More information was required before he could make an accurate summary. Where would new evidence come from? “Do you have any idea what the motive for the attack was?” not exactly a searching question in his probing for the truth. It was more of a shot in the dark. The reply to the question was not what he expected, but much more than he had bargained for.
“Never mind that, what about Strand.” Preston whispered to Kitchener. This was something Preston wanted to keep between the two of them.
“What about him?” asked Kitchener in a hushed tone.
“I have the greatest fear that he is not who he is making himself out to be.” Kitchener hung on to every whispered word. If what Preston was about to say turned out to be correct, it would turn the case on its head. He must be sure he understood correctly.
“What are you trying to say exactly?”
Before answering Preston checked over his shoulder to make sure Strand was not in earshot. “The Captain of the Needles Lighthouse is a good friend of mine. They are on oil still, Edison light won’t be fitted until next summer and not once has he mentioned the name of Strand in any of his letters.”
Sitting listening to the conversation on the floor below sat Strand. His boots in his hand so as not to make a noise, he slid off back down the stairs to the engine room.
It was a jaw dropping moment for the Chief Inspector. The man he had entrusted his life to, was he a psychopathic murderer? Did he kill the crew, and what was he plotting now? Could he be the assassin Kitchener had come here to find?
Too many questions, he needed more data. Strand needed to be restrained and questioned before he could do anymore damage.
“One more thing…” Preston added, “The sailor who came here had long hair and a beard, but in a certain light I could swear he resembled Strand.”
It could be true. Strand murders the crew, returns to the shore and pays a visit to the barbers’ shop before calling on the Police. Was getting the Police involved a bluff to clear his own name from any suspicion? Surely suspicion would fall on him if he was an impostor, but who knows how a psychopath’s mind really works?
Preston got to his feet, “I must make ready the lamp, its close to lighting up time.”
Preston climbed up to the lamp room as Kitchener descended into the bowels of the tower.
Dusk had fallen on the Bell Rock Lighthouse. The moonlight shone down through the intermittently cloudy sky. The lunar light lit up the south facing side of the tower with a pale eerie light.
At the very zenith of the tower the twin white and red beams of light shone into the darkness offering a safe route to all seafaring vessels and the men who pilot them.
The door separating the lamp room from the outside world swung on its hinges, the gentle breeze banging it into Preston’s legs. Preston lay belly down on the walkway balcony. His legs lay in the lamp room while his head and shoulders hung over the ledge, looking down at the crashing waves below.
With his right hand he swung a boat hook under the balcony, searching for something. The metal hook at the end of the pole scraped along the stone wall of the tower.
On the fifth sweep of the hook he felt resistance. Preston smiled; he found what he was looking for. Lifting the pole upwards he seized the rope snared by the hook. Slowly and carefully he gradually pulled it up, hand over hand his breathing increasing until he saw something hanging on the end. At the end of the rope was a wooden crate.
The box was approximately a two-foot cube. Preston handled it with extreme care. Lifting it over the edge of the balcony he took it inside and carefully placed it on the floor.
A sinister smile came across his face. Soon it would be over.
The gentle hum of the generators reverberated around the room. All was still. The flickering of the flame visible through the observation window was the only sign of movement. The fourth member of the crew, Felix the cat was nowhere to be seen. After his rude awakening earlier that day he was no doubt residing in a new warm, dry refuge.
Kitchener descended the stairs with the utmost of caution. Each of the rooms between the living room and the lower engine room had been entered with stealth. Strand had not been in attendance on any of the floors. Kitchener could not help but remember the words Preston had spoken to him regarding the many hiding places that could be found in such a small place. Was Strand now in hiding, no probably not? He wouldn’t be aware that his identity was in question.
Standing on the floor of the lower engine room, Kitchener crept around to the right hand side of the generator.
Deja vu.
The last time he took this route the events that followed had almost given him a cardiac arrest. This time however he was hoping for an arrest of a different kind.
Slowly he looked around the rear of the piece of machinery, nothing was there. A sense of relief came over him, though it was replaced quickly by a feeling of fear. A shuffling sound was clearly audible to his rear. Paralysed with fear he hesitated to turn. That would cost him dearly.
The iron bar Kitchener himself had used as a weapon earlier that afternoon was brought down with a great force, hitting him across the back of his shoulders.
He hit the floor with a thud. A crimson trickle of blood ran across the floor spurting from a wound in the nape of his neck.
The iron bar clanked with a cold, hollow metallic sound as it was dropped onto the floor beside the motionless body of Kitchener.
Two boot-clad feet walked past the lifeless mass on the floor then up the stairs.
His body lay there sublime, left for dead.
Ohh...
Ten of the diners in the room had opted for the coffee after the meal while the rest had gone for the brandy, excellent as it was. The attendees of that night’s dinner came from varying areas of law enforcement, legal and Government departments, all with one thing in common. They all were in some way connected to the process of de-sizing the Met. Many of the faces Marson recognised from the previous day’s meeting in this very club. He wondered how his fellow senior officers from the Yard’s various departments and from the other smaller stations planned on cutting costs.
While he was lost in thought and planning a discrete exit from the proceedings, the Chief Constable approached the unaware Marson.
“Paul, did you enjoy the dinner?” he asked in a cheerful voice.
Excellent Sir, most enjoyable.” Marson agreed. He would not disagree, after all this was the Chief Constable’s own club.
“I understand you’ve already taken steps to reduce your inventory costs?”
Why did he have to talk shop? It was, he supposed, the reason they were all here.
“Yes Sir, it would be a sad day if I were to have to lose any of my officers when other forms of damage limitation could be utilised.”
“Good man, inventory control. Inventory costs money, or that’s what half of this lot tell me most days.”
“I totally agree Sir. That’s why I’ve put one of my finest brains on it. A real historian.” A note of pride was clearly visible in his voice.
“Oh yes, where’s he starting?” Kate would have not been surprised at the assumption that it must be a man.
“She Sir.”
“What? Oh, she, where has she started?”
“I’ve set her off in the bowels of the archives, in the blue room.” Both men chuckle together as though sharing a private joke.
“I thought the room was destroyed in the bombing raid during World War II?”
“The original blue room was, but the majority of the records survived and were relocated in the new blue room in the CID department. The records span from the early eighteen eighties to the nineteen seventies.”
Something struck a cord in the back of the chief’s head. If his memory served, then one or two sensitive documents were stored in that particular room. Information and case notes that were not in the public’s interest to come to light.
When he had been handed the top job he had been made aware of the sensitive information by the home secretary and given strict instructions they were never to be made public.
“I want a full report on what’s found, just out of interest of course.”
“I don’t see why not, I’ve told her to shred most of it.”
A grave tone entered his superior’s voice, “There are some things best left untouched, in the interest of security of course”
Marson couldn’t help but wonder what that comment referred to. So many crimes, notorious and otherwise, had passed through the archives in the long history of Scotland Yard. Many cases the Met. would rather be buried for ever. The Hammersmith murders for one, no one was ever caught, and the failing to capture Lord Lucan was another. All the files on how they blundered around letting the majority of the gangs in the sixties escape. Many other cases known or unknown to the public eye the yard would rather forget, given the chance, but which case was he so desperate to cover up?
Ten minutes tube ride away, Kate was pouring herself a glass of red wine. As she read the old yellowing sheets of paper so recently liberated from the archives, Kate became was engrossed in the story that was revealing itself. Making herself comfortable and ensuring the wine glass was in easy reach she continued to read.
The next page of the notebook was the last on the Ripper case. As far as the writer was concerned it put closure to it once and for all.
The trail for the Ripper had gone cold; no more murders had hit the East End for a month. The investigation had been scaled down and only a small core of detectives remained on the case. The general opinion was that whoever Jack the Ripper was he had left the area or the country, or alternatively died.
Kitchener returned to the humdrum affairs of Police work and thought little more of the Ripper case. Then on the 7th of November he was leaving the yard after his shift when a carriage drew up. Out of the rear door climbed two uniformed officers followed by the figure of a man, wrists bound together with handcuffs. The prisoner was bundled into the entrance of the cells under the watchful eye of Inspector Andrews.
“Kitchener.” Andrews greeted him.
“Andrews.” He returned the greeting. Before he had a chance to say another word his colleague was gone into the cell block.
Kitchener these days had little time for Inspector Andrews. Andrews had been given the task of heading the Ripper case and, as far as he could tell, he had made a right hash of it. After all, no arrest had been made, the bird had probably flown before the power of the law could fall on him.
He sat on the omnibus travelling home that evening, it was dark and cold now the winter had set in. The windows on the omnibus were misted over from the heat generating bodies crammed into the carriage.
The prisoner he had just seen looked familiar. Where had he seen him before? Andrews had been standing there, was that merely a coincidence or was it connected with the Ripper case? Andrews had, several days earlier, been sent to Liverpool on a case, who had he brought back?
That was it. It came to him like a flash lighting up a dark night. The man in the cab was the Ripper. The scruffy clothes had thrown him, but that man was the man from Hanbury Street. The same man he had followed down to the river then saw in the Masonic Lodge window.
If only they had listened to him, the lives of those poor women could have been saved.
That night was a sleepless one for Kitchener as he eagerly awaited the morning sunrise. He left the house one hour earlier than normal and en route to Scotland Yard he checked every newspaper seller’s board. Not one mentioned anything regarding the Ripper investigation.
Strange, he thought to himself, the press showed such great interest in the case. Many rumours said that the press were planting false evidence to point suspicion at certain people or groups. Now a suspect had been taken in and nothing was being reported. Why wasn’t it all over London?
On arrival at the Yard he immediately sought out Inspector Andrews who was pleased to talk about his latest arrest.
“Of course…” he said with a cheery voice on being questioned, “Francis Tumblety. He was picked up for gross indecency in Liverpool; I brought him back here to face a string of similar charges. We only just got him. The following day he was due to sail for New York.”
“But, he was my suspect for the Ripper killings.” insisted Kitchener.
“Impossible I’m afraid Bert. He was in custody in Liverpool the night you reported that.”
Kitchener's protest went unheard. Andrews offered to show him the paper work relating to Tumblety and it did confirm what his colleague was saying.
Though the evidence pointed to Kitchener being wrong, he knew more than anything, he was right.
Francis Tumblety appeared in court charged with several acts of gross indecency on the sixteenth of November 1888. No mention of the Ripper murders was spoken of during the hearing. He was bailed by the court, then on the tenth of December acquitted by a judge at the Old Bailey.
The last that Kitchener heard of Francis Tumblety was that while he was away in Scotland his suspect boarded a steamer on the twenty fourth of December. The ship was bound for New York via Paris and hot on his heals was the Chief Inspector of the Ripper investigation, Inspector Andrews.
The crew of the lighthouse had always kept a quantity of miscellaneous materials in the storeroom. Pieces of wood, iron, barrels of tar, bits of rope and boxes of nails all came in useful. Preston, ever resourceful utilised many pieces of the spare material on the repair of the small sailing vessel.
The rudder had, as reported, taken a hit. Over half of the steering device was missing. Preston lashed and battened a piece of iron sheet to what remained. When the ship had hit the outcrop of sandstone to which the lighthouse clung, a hole had been punched in the stern. The engineer made short work of the repair. Several planks of wood nailed to the hull plugged the gap and a layer of tar painted over the external surface weather sealed the leek. An excellent temporary repair. He hated the smell of tar. Ever since he was a child even the smallest hint of that aroma and his chest would tighten, his breathing fail until he collapsed to his knees. A life at sea was a strange career choice for a person with such an affliction?
When he had been at school, a good friend of his had a similar respiratory effect with creosote. Having such an allergic reaction would, you would think, put a person off using it for life. It was strange then that Wesley (Preston could never remember his second name) chose a career in carpentry.
Was it that the body can adjust itself to the smell or does the reaction after many years become the norm?
The waves began to encroach the rock, one in eight lapping up. The high waves sprayed the resonantly repaired hull. Soon the rock would be covered once more and the vessel afloat.
Preston hurried to gather his tool kit and collection of spare pieces of gash material together, saving them from a watery grave. He was most determined not to become another of a long line of victims of the rock. Climbing the ladder was no easy task when carrying armfuls of wooden planks and a small tin of tar. The plank would insist on entangling itself in the rungs of the ladder. Each time he would stop and release the offending piece, as below the water lapped closer and closer to the base of the tower. It may have proved easier to leave part of his load at the foot of the ladder. He didn’t want to risk any of his precious repair materials being washed away be the encroaching tide.
Having returned all his repair kit to the storeroom Preston made haste climbing the stairs up to the living room. As he made his way up the last leg of the climb from the bedroom he was overcome by a strange feeling. Something felt wrong to him, but what was it. Then it came to him. It was an eerie silence.
There was no sound of activity coming from the living room. Maybe they were away up in the lamp room, he thought to himself. Of course that would be the simplest explanation, he assured himself. He would soon find out that there was a much more macabre reason awaiting him.
Looking around the room nothing looked out of place. The sailors’ whisky glasses sat on the table, the contents unfinished. Without a second thought he continued up the steps to the light control room.
As he neared the top of the steps the feeling came over him once more, a sudden chill. He froze to the spot, his feet heavy in his boots and his hands gripping the rungs of the ladder, knuckles white with fear. On his neck he could swear he felt the warm draft of someone or something breathing on him. Sweat started to form on his forehead, his mouth became dry and he found it impossible to swallow. The hairs on his neck stood on end tingling with excitement.
Slowly he turned around, shaking with fear. He half expected to see the face of Morris Tweedy, the spectral keeper from all those years ago.
No one was there, such a relief came over him, and then out of the corner of his eye he caught sight of something that wasn’t the norm. From his vantage point on the stairs he could see over the back of the sofa nearest the gallery. Two sets of boots pointed towards the ceiling. The feeling of fear swept over him once again. What had alerted him to them, was it the dead telling him to turn and look back down into the room? He had never had this feeling before in all his time at the lighthouse.
With an almost super human effort of willpower he slowly descended the ladder, each step an almighty effort. With great caution he crossed the room. Composing himself, he looked over the back of the seat. A feeling of sickness rose from his stomach as he looked down the back of the chair.
The Captain and first mate were lying dead on the floor, “Oh my God.” Preston could hardly speak, whatever moisture had returned to his mouth dried instantly on seeing the bodies.
Heaven knows what had happened, they were dead though, no denying that, but how? As far as he could make out there were no signs of injury on their bodies and the expression on the two men’s faces were ones of absolute terror or at the very least great pain.
After the initial shock his thoughts turned to finding an explanation for this. Who had perpetrated this wicked deed?
It could have only been one person in his eyes, the mariner they had rescued from certain death only an hour or so before, “The sailor.” The sailor who had strangely enough never revealed his name to them, at least not in his presence. It was possible that the Captain and Mate had been privy to that information, but he would never know. So where was he now?
“Were there any signs of where this mysterious sailor had gone?” asked Kitchener listening carefully to Preston’s account.
“No, I could hear something moving though, it was coming from above me. Slowly and quietly I climbed the two flights of stairs to the lamp room. To my surprise no one was in the room or outside on the balcony.”
“So what was making this noise you heard?”
“The lamp was on and the lens was turning. I did not know why. This must have been the noise I heard. Suddenly I froze. I could hear someone coming up the stairs. Desperately I looked for somewhere to hide. I went outside onto the balcony and quietly closed the door.”
Strand’s heavy footsteps thumped down the stairs, his boots crashing down on every step. He was too big a man to act with stealth. He had been listening to the conversation, but for how long? “So where did ya’ hide man?” he asked on re-entering to the room.
The new voice came as a shock to Kitchener and Preston alike, the latter of the two looked up in horror before returning to a state of calm. He was obviously still in a state of shock over the events of earlier that day. Kitchener made a mental note to be easy on him. Strand however could never be so subtle.
“Well?” he asked.
The mysterious mariner stood prominently in the lamp room. His large frame filled the available space between lens and outer wall. The lamplight illuminated his mop of curly hair at each pass. Slowly he looked around. The lens turned slowly as he circumnavigated the room. He knew the engineer was here in the building somewhere. The lamp room was the last and only place he could be hiding having searched all the other rooms with no luck.
The large framed man opened the door and exited onto the balcony. The cold wind whipped his face, the long tangled hair and bushy beard waved in the air. After one lap of the balcony he stopped and looked out to sea.
He came to the conclusion that the engineer was no longer on the rock. Maybe he had thrown himself off the side at the horror of discovering the bodies of his crewmates. He may have made a swim for it, who knows. While fixing the boat a freak wave could have washed him out to sea. He really did not care, as long as he was gone.
“For two hours I swung under that balcony, suspended on the boatswain’s chair we used for repairs to the outer walls. Hanging on for dear life, my fingers were freezing as they held onto a bolt protruding from one of the bricks. If he had seen me hanging there it would have been the end for me.
The wind constantly battered me against the wall; my hands and face were red raw, sitting in the cold wind. Still I hung on. I’m not sure how long I was hanging there, but I saw him leave in the boat I had repaired for him. Quickly, I pulled myself up. Once inside I ran down the full length of the house, down to the entrance hatch and bolted the door.”
“So where have you been hiding yourself since Mr Strand and I arrived?”
“All over, in every room.” It was surprising how many places there were in a lighthouse to hide, he went on to tell them. All the rooms were indeed small, cramped and compact, but with a little bit of thought, effort and knowledge many nooks and crannies could be found. “I didn’t know who you were, you could have been him coming back to tidy up the job. I stayed as close to you as I dare. After listening to your conversation I soon realised that one of you talked like a lighthouse keeper and he had someone with him who wasn’t connected to the sea. The English voice though bore no similarity or connection to the murderous sailor. When I heard your tale of The Ripper, that’s when I revealed my presence to you. I must apologise about collapsing though, it was out of character.” Preston took another mouthful of whisky. It made him feel much better; the alcohol was starting to take effect.
Kitchener pondered on what he had been told. If this sailor had been someone connected to his presence here why had he not destroyed the lamp or at least rendered it inoperable? Why had he left and not finished his mission? Would he be back?
Maybe it had been a mere coincidence that this man had turned up at this point in time. A random chance.
Wait. What if he killed the crew and left, the lamp would remain off. No light would shine tonight. If that was the case then surely he would have finished the job and waited for the engineer to make an appearance. Maybe he had to be back ashore at a certain point, who knows?
“None of this follows any pattern. What’s going on here?” after hearing no comments from either of the other two men Kitchener withdrew into a deep thinking session.
Preston, now feeling quite pleased with himself turned his attention to Strand. “You are Mr. Strand, are you not? Tell me, where was your last station before the bell?”
Strand wasn’t prepared for the sudden interrogation session and was taken off guard by the question.
“Oh, er, my last tour of duty was a year at the Needles.” Spluttered Strand.
“The Needles, really. They tell me that they are on the Edison Electric Light now?”
“Yes.” Slowly came the answer from Strand who seemed to have other things on his mind.
Preston was not enjoying the disjointed conversation so he too followed Kitchener’s lead and allowed himself to fall into the abyss of thought. Strand felt as though he’d been left out of something as he watched both men sitting silently.
With a sigh, Preston took out of his pocket a silver watch and checked the time. “It will soon be getting dark Mr. Strand, would you be so kind as to check the oil tanks and the generators.”
“Ey, ey Sir.” At last a chance to get back to a normal lighthouse keeper’s routine. Without hesitation Strand climbed down the stairs en-route to the engine room. In the quiet living room his heavy boots could be heard thumping down the wooden steps.
Kitchener's thought process was complete. Nothing new had come to light. The case was as much of a mystery to him now as it was on his arrival. More information was required before he could make an accurate summary. Where would new evidence come from? “Do you have any idea what the motive for the attack was?” not exactly a searching question in his probing for the truth. It was more of a shot in the dark. The reply to the question was not what he expected, but much more than he had bargained for.
“Never mind that, what about Strand.” Preston whispered to Kitchener. This was something Preston wanted to keep between the two of them.
“What about him?” asked Kitchener in a hushed tone.
“I have the greatest fear that he is not who he is making himself out to be.” Kitchener hung on to every whispered word. If what Preston was about to say turned out to be correct, it would turn the case on its head. He must be sure he understood correctly.
“What are you trying to say exactly?”
Before answering Preston checked over his shoulder to make sure Strand was not in earshot. “The Captain of the Needles Lighthouse is a good friend of mine. They are on oil still, Edison light won’t be fitted until next summer and not once has he mentioned the name of Strand in any of his letters.”
Sitting listening to the conversation on the floor below sat Strand. His boots in his hand so as not to make a noise, he slid off back down the stairs to the engine room.
It was a jaw dropping moment for the Chief Inspector. The man he had entrusted his life to, was he a psychopathic murderer? Did he kill the crew, and what was he plotting now? Could he be the assassin Kitchener had come here to find?
Too many questions, he needed more data. Strand needed to be restrained and questioned before he could do anymore damage.
“One more thing…” Preston added, “The sailor who came here had long hair and a beard, but in a certain light I could swear he resembled Strand.”
It could be true. Strand murders the crew, returns to the shore and pays a visit to the barbers’ shop before calling on the Police. Was getting the Police involved a bluff to clear his own name from any suspicion? Surely suspicion would fall on him if he was an impostor, but who knows how a psychopath’s mind really works?
Preston got to his feet, “I must make ready the lamp, its close to lighting up time.”
Preston climbed up to the lamp room as Kitchener descended into the bowels of the tower.
Dusk had fallen on the Bell Rock Lighthouse. The moonlight shone down through the intermittently cloudy sky. The lunar light lit up the south facing side of the tower with a pale eerie light.
At the very zenith of the tower the twin white and red beams of light shone into the darkness offering a safe route to all seafaring vessels and the men who pilot them.
The door separating the lamp room from the outside world swung on its hinges, the gentle breeze banging it into Preston’s legs. Preston lay belly down on the walkway balcony. His legs lay in the lamp room while his head and shoulders hung over the ledge, looking down at the crashing waves below.
With his right hand he swung a boat hook under the balcony, searching for something. The metal hook at the end of the pole scraped along the stone wall of the tower.
On the fifth sweep of the hook he felt resistance. Preston smiled; he found what he was looking for. Lifting the pole upwards he seized the rope snared by the hook. Slowly and carefully he gradually pulled it up, hand over hand his breathing increasing until he saw something hanging on the end. At the end of the rope was a wooden crate.
The box was approximately a two-foot cube. Preston handled it with extreme care. Lifting it over the edge of the balcony he took it inside and carefully placed it on the floor.
A sinister smile came across his face. Soon it would be over.
The gentle hum of the generators reverberated around the room. All was still. The flickering of the flame visible through the observation window was the only sign of movement. The fourth member of the crew, Felix the cat was nowhere to be seen. After his rude awakening earlier that day he was no doubt residing in a new warm, dry refuge.
Kitchener descended the stairs with the utmost of caution. Each of the rooms between the living room and the lower engine room had been entered with stealth. Strand had not been in attendance on any of the floors. Kitchener could not help but remember the words Preston had spoken to him regarding the many hiding places that could be found in such a small place. Was Strand now in hiding, no probably not? He wouldn’t be aware that his identity was in question.
Standing on the floor of the lower engine room, Kitchener crept around to the right hand side of the generator.
Deja vu.
The last time he took this route the events that followed had almost given him a cardiac arrest. This time however he was hoping for an arrest of a different kind.
Slowly he looked around the rear of the piece of machinery, nothing was there. A sense of relief came over him, though it was replaced quickly by a feeling of fear. A shuffling sound was clearly audible to his rear. Paralysed with fear he hesitated to turn. That would cost him dearly.
The iron bar Kitchener himself had used as a weapon earlier that afternoon was brought down with a great force, hitting him across the back of his shoulders.
He hit the floor with a thud. A crimson trickle of blood ran across the floor spurting from a wound in the nape of his neck.
The iron bar clanked with a cold, hollow metallic sound as it was dropped onto the floor beside the motionless body of Kitchener.
Two boot-clad feet walked past the lifeless mass on the floor then up the stairs.
His body lay there sublime, left for dead.
Ohh...
