Kerry Tombs - The Worcester Whisperers

‘You do not count the coins?’ she asked presently, wondering why he had not taken it.

‘I have no cause to doubt your word. I trust our arrangement. There is only one thing that concerns me.’

‘Ask.’

‘You addressed me as Monk. That is not my name.’

‘I would not expect you to go by your real name,’ she said.

‘It is a name of convenience,’ he laughed.

‘I know what it is like to assume another identity, to slip unnoticed into the shadows, to observe, and yet not be seen.’

‘You must never ask who I am, or ask to see my face, if our work is to continue.’

‘That is agreed,’ she replied, observing the determination and threat within his voice.

‘I prefer the dark. You need have no fear that anyone will ever see me. The police are stupid; they will never catch me. I have a number of disguises — and I know the alleyways and backstreets better than any of them. I will always be long away, before they even discover my handiwork. I am well aware of your inner desires, my dear lady. I know your secret and true purpose. There will be no betrayal on my part.’

She found something both frightening and reassuring about the coldness and precision of his voice.

‘But should you ever attempt to see my features, discover my true identity, or even try to follow me, you will know that our arrangement will end, and that I will take all available steps to protect myself. It will be as though you had never lived. No one will have known of your existence. I trust I make myself clear on this point?’

‘Of course, your identity is of little concern to me,’ she replied, growing concerned by the increasing anger in his voice.

‘Then we are two of a kind. You seek to conceal your identity beneath your veil, whilst I prefer the darkness of the shadows. You and I are in great need of each other.’ He paused for a moment. ‘You said there would be others?’

‘I have the name of your next victim.’

‘She is of the same tendency?’ he asked.

‘Yes, she is a common prostitute. Her name is Chapman. Annie Chapman.’

‘And where is this Chapman to be found?’

‘She usually resides at Crossinghams — when she has earned enough from her casual encounters, to pay for her bed for the night. It is a cheap lodging house. You will find it situated in Dorset Street.’

‘I know of the place. I must congratulate you upon your research,’ he replied, a note of sarcasm creeping into his voice.

‘I do not need your words of false encouragement,’ she said.

‘The sum will increase this time,’ he said suddenly, ignoring her last remark.

‘Of course, I will pay you forty sovereigns when you have carried out the deed. I trust that is a satisfactory arrangement?’

‘It will suffice.’

‘This time I will pay you an extra ten sovereigns, if you can carry out an additional service,’ she said, slowly sensing his greed, and drawing closer to the candle, so that she could almost feel the warmth of its solitary flame.

‘Go on.’

‘I would have her rings. Bring me her rings, as a keepsake, and I will reward you with the extra money.’ She was beginning to find the room and the darkness oppressive, and wished the interview would end.

‘It will be done.’

‘We will need to meet afterwards. I will be away from London for the next ten days. I have business to attend to,’ she said, rising quickly from her chair.

‘That is understood. We will meet here at the same time exactly, in two weeks.’

‘That will give you enough time?’ she enquired.

‘More than enough. No doubt the newspapers will keep you informed of my success.’

‘Then I wish you good night.’ She turned and made her way towards the door.

‘Enjoy your stay in the countryside. They say that Worcester is pleasant at this time of the year.’

She opened the door, and quietly left the room, betraying nothing.

The solitary light, swinging in the evening breeze, guided her way down the steps and across the courtyard. Her desire now was to leave the area as soon as possible, now that the arrangements had been made, and to return once more to her other world.

But why had he mentioned Worcester? How could he have known? She had been so careful to give nothing away — and yet….

WORCESTER

Ravenscroft alighted from the cab at the end of the drive, and gazed up at the house before him.

‘Shall I wait for you, sir?’ enquired the cabman.

‘No. Thank you. I will make my own way back,’ replied Ravenscroft, paying his fare.

‘Right you are, sir.’

He watched as the cab turned and began its return journey down the London road towards the centre of Worcester, before making his way up the drive. The house certainly looked imposing with its long, fine, wrought-iron veranda and matching white balconies, and its sweeping views across its lawns. He drew back the large knocker and struck the door, hearing the echoes from inside the building.

‘Yes?’ enquired a tall, well-built man with a swarthy complexion.

‘I would like to speak with Dr Silas Renfrew.’

‘And who are a you?’ replied the speaker, in what Ravenscroft judged to be an Italian accent.

‘I am Inspector Samuel Ravenscroft. If you would be so kind my man, I would be obliged if you would present my card to your master.’

The man glared at Ravenscroft, then took the card and stared down at it, as if trying to make out the letters there. Ravenscroft coughed, and shuffled his feet impatiently.

‘You, a’wait here,’ replied the servant eventually, before closing the door abruptly in Ravenscroft’s face.

A sudden noise made him turn. A large peacock was making its way across the lawn, its fine plumage displayed behind him.

The door reopened. ‘My master will a’see you, now,’ said the Italian, indicating that Ravenscroft should enter the building.

He stepped inside and found himself in a large hall. As he stood on the black and white tiled floor, he looked across at the large marble statue of a naked man which stood on a plinth at the bottom of a winding staircase.

‘David. Very fine, I think you will agree. Florentine; fifteenth century. One of only two known examples of the artist’s work concerning this subject,’ said a voice emerging from one of the rooms.

‘It is certainly impressive,’ said Ravenscroft.

‘Oh, Inspector, it is far more than that. But let me introduce myself. Doctor Silas Renfrew, a refugee from your late forlorn colony,’ said the American owner of the voice, smiling and extending a hand.

‘I am pleased to make your acquaintance, sir,’ said Ravenscroft, feeling his hand being shaken vigorously in a tight, encompassing grip. He had expected the antiquary to have been much older, perhaps reserved and eccentric in manner, whereas the man who now addressed him appeared to be not much older than himself, was of a well-kept appearance and possessed an outgoing personality.

‘Would you care to follow me into the library, Inspector? Can I offer you a whisky — or of course, you English prefer tea.’

‘Nothing for me, sir, thank you.’

‘That will be all, Georgio,’ said Renfrew opening the double doors of a room at the rear of the hall.

The manservant gave a slight bow, before giving Ravenscroft a suspicious glance as he left the room.

‘Do come in, Inspector.’

Ravenscroft found himself in what was evidently the library, for three sides of the room were entirely covered from floor to ceiling with rows of books. He also observed a large oak desk covered with yet more books and piles of papers. A number of glass cabinets were situated at various intervals on what appeared to be an ornate, eastern, hand-woven carpet. Doctor Silas Renfrew was obviously a man who placed a high value on the accumulation of knowledge.