Kerry Tombs - The Worcester Whisperers

LONDON

Dusk was falling, and the old lamplighter was about to commence his duties outside the old, decayed church, as she made her way up the path to the main entrance and gently pushed open the door.

The church was dimly lit — a few candles burned on the offertory table — and seemed unoccupied, and for a moment she hesitated thinking that perhaps she had arrived at the wrong place, or had ventured out upon the wrong day, but the note had given clear instructions and she realized that she had no alternative but to carry them out if she wanted to bring her plan to its climactic conclusion.

She made her way across to the confessional box, and entered the confined space. The compartment smelt of damp and decay, and she sat there for a few moments adjusting her eyes to the near darkness, her breathing coming in short gasps betraying her anxiety.

Eventually she spoke, not knowing whether he was there or not. ‘Bless me Father, for I have sinned.’

‘We will both suffer in Hell for our deeds,’ replied a voice that she recognized, from behind the partition.

‘You have carried out your work?’ she asked, ignoring his remark. ‘Two in one night, as you said.’

‘Stride was difficult. I had so little time before I could bring matters to a satisfactory conclusion. You received the ear-ring I sent you?’

The same calculating, methodical voice, that she remembered from their previous encounters.

‘Yes, but the kidney-’ she began.

‘Eddowes. You said you would leave the choice to me!’ snapped the voice suddenly.

‘Yes, but not that!’ she protested.

‘If you do not have the stomach to continue, I am satisfied that our agreement should be at an end,’ he said, a note of determination in his voice.

‘No, I am sorry. I realize that I should not question your methods,’ she replied seeking to calm his anger.

‘You have the money?’ he asked abruptly.

‘Yes. One hundred and fifty sovereigns as we agreed.’

‘Good. When you depart, leave the purse containing the money on your seat. I will collect it after you have gone,’ said the voice resuming its earlier, formal composure.

‘As you wish.’

‘You spoke of a final victim?’

‘Yes. She is the one I hate the most.’ She paused for a moment. ‘The one who brought the most harm to my family. I have left her to the last.’

‘I understand. What is her name?’

‘Her name is Mary Jane Kelly, although she sometimes likes to call herself Marie Jeanette Kelly, giving herself French airs and graces. She lives at 13 Miller’s Court, Dorset Street. A small, filthy hovel of a place. She lives with a man called Barnett. That might prove difficult. You will have to wait until he is out of the way.’

‘Why?’ asked Monk.

‘Because I would have you kill her in her room, after I have spoken to her.’

‘That is impossible. I work alone — or not at all,’ he said, a note of finality in his voice.

‘I will pay you well,’ she pleaded, afraid that her final desire might not be fulfilled, that her last victim would go unpunished.

‘It is too dangerous. Why would you need to speak to her?’

‘I would have her atone for the evil she has wrought on my family, before her death. It is important to me. I have so little time left. Afterwards our work will be finished. We will have no further need of one another.’

‘I will not permit you to accompany me. The police are closing in. I cannot afford a mistake. You have already been too careless.’

‘How?’ she asked. ‘No one has ever followed me to our meetings, I can assure you. I have always taken precautions.’

‘You allowed yourself to speak to that man Ravenscroft — when you dropped Chapman’s rings,’ he sneered.

‘How do you know that?’ she asked, a cold shiver running down her spine. Was he aware of her every move? Had he been following her?

‘I was there in the waiting-room. You did not notice me. That is why I am never discovered. People never realize that I am there.’

‘They fell from my pocket-’ she began.

‘-And he picked them up and returned them to you. The foolish man! He will never know that London’s most notorious criminal was sitting within feet of him, and that he had touched one of the victim’s rings! What a lost opportunity. He will never again be so close,’ he said, in a mocking voice.

‘I told him nothing,’ she protested.

‘I know.’

‘I will give you two hundred sovereigns for this last killing. I will give them to you when you have taken me to her room.’

He did not reply, and she grew anxious, fearing that her insistence on this had alienated him.

‘If I agree to your terms, you must do exactly as I tell you. There can be no deviation.’

‘Of course, I understand that.’

‘We must do nothing for the next few weeks. The police will be redoubling their efforts, ever seeking to entrap me, thinking that I am some imbecile whose lust must be satisfied at all costs, and that I will strike again soon. In that they will be disappointed. Let them think that I have gone away, that all has returned to what it was before. Then, when they are least expecting it, we will act. I will send you a letter. There will be a time and a place. That is all. You will meet me there. My face will be covered, but you will know when I am there. You will follow me to her room. After you have confronted her, you will give me the money and leave. I will kill her after you have gone. We will never see each other again. You understand all this?’

‘I do,’ she said, relieved that he had agreed to this one last proposition.

‘Then go. There is nothing else left to say.’

She rose, and after depositing the purse of coins on the seat, left the confessional and walked quickly out of the church.

Crossing over the road, she paused for a moment and, after looking around her and seeing that she was unobserved, she stepped back into the darkness of one of the doorways and watched and waited for the door of the church to open again. Realizing that her hands were shaking in the cold autumn air, she drew her coat closer to her.

The minutes seemed to her to inch forward, as the early evening fog began to drift across the square. Surely he would be leaving soon, she told herself? There would be little point in his remaining inside the building, but perhaps there had been another exit.

The church clock struck eight, as the door of the church slowly opened. She drew back even further into the darkened doorway, lest she should be seen. An old man, with a long white beard, dressed shabbily in a black coat, head bent, features hidden under a large hat, shuffled his slow way down the path that led from the church entrance to the road.

Surely this old, insignificant man, bore no resemblance to the man she knew as Monk? She had imagined someone younger, more agile, more — but then she remembered his words: ‘You did not notice me. That is why I am never discovered. People never realize that I am there.’

Reaching the edge of the church precincts, the old man looked around him briefly, before shuffling his way down the road. Then he turned the corner and disappeared from view.

She waited for some minutes, alone in the dark and cold, fearing that he would return and see her leaving if she left her hiding place too soon.

The church clock struck the quarter hour. Stepping out into the street, she walked quickly away from the square, not wanting to look behind her, trusting that the thickening fog would conceal her very existence.

She knew now that her work would be completed. Soon all would be set in motion; the final act would be played out. She would meet the woman whom she hated above all others; the woman who had caused the death of her husband and son. It was ironic that they should both share the same surname — Kelly — one the destroyer of families, the other the victim of another’s lust. Only with the woman’s death could she hope to feel cleansed and released — and could perhaps be purified before her final reconciliation.