Kerry Tombs - The Worcester Whisperers

WHITECHAPEL, LONDON

She could hear the distant sound of a church clock striking the night hour of two as she arrived outside the drinking house in Commercial Street. Despite the lateness of the hour, the voices of people singing and shouting drifted out into the cold night air. One or two ladies of the night waited for clients further down the road, and an old blind beggar lay slumped in an adjoining doorway, his empty cap before him on the cobbled stones.

She had drawn the veil over her face, not wishing her features to be seen by anyone, as she had made her way to this final encounter. The instructions had been short and to the point, giving her the time and place, and warning her to ensure that she had not been followed on her journey.

As she moved away from the lamp, seeking the shadows, coughing as she did so, she wondered whether he was there already, watching her every move, awaiting his opportunity, his moment, when he would make himself known to her, and lead her to Kelly’s rooms. She looked down at her shaking hands, anxious that the final act should begin, and straining to see whether he was there in the swirling damp fog.

The doors of the inn suddenly flew open.

‘Get out, you drunken sod!’ came an angry voice from within.

The ejected drinker, a rough-looking unshaven man, wearing mud-splattered trousers and a torn coat, picked himself up from the floor, uttering loud curses as he did so, and waving his fist in the direction of the drinking house.

She withdrew further into the shadows as the man, noticing her presence, staggered towards her, waving his arms in the air. ‘Hello, my little fine doxy,’ he said, in a slurred voice. ‘Like to come back to my place, and I’ll give you a good time?’

She recoiled. Surely this drunken man could not be Monk?

‘Come on, my little Polly. Don’t be shy. We all know what you are here for,’ said the man lunging towards her and attempting to seize her by the shoulders.

‘Go away!’ she protested, seeking to distance herself from this new intrusion.

‘Are you all right, miss?’

The voice was that of the beggar.

‘What’s it to you?’ growled the man turning his attention towards the speaker.

‘Are you all right, miss? Has he hurt you?’ called out the beggar again.

Trembling, and coughing, she retreated into a nearby doorway, as she heard the sound of a creaking cart approaching somewhere in the distance.

‘Shut up, you old piece of horse meat!’ shouted the drunken man, lashing out with his foot at the blind beggar.

‘Please don’t hurt me!’ cried out the other, covering his face with his hands.

She turned in the direction of the cart, as it made its noisy way towards the buildings, an old bearded man pushing the vehicle before him.

‘I told you to shut your mouth!’ The drunken man landed his boot in the chest of the old beggar, making him cry out in pain. Instinctively she began to move forward, seeking to help the unfortunate victim.

‘Follow me!’ instructed the man with the cart, in a voice barely audible as he passed by.

‘Now shut your mouth, you old tramp!’ shouted the drunken man, lashing out once more at the beggar, but missing his aim and collapsing on the cobbles.

She stood still and watched the old man and the cart turn the corner.

So he had kept his word.

He had come for her.

Quickly she walked away from the inn, leaving the drunkard and the blind beggar still in dispute. Turning the corner, she was relieved to see the cart and its owner making their slow way down one of the narrow alleyways.

She knew now, that he would take her to where their final victim would be waiting — to where she would be able to confront the woman who had been the main cause of the downfall of her family, and to where she would at last be avenged.

The cart and the old man continued on their way. She wondered why he did not turn round to see whether she had followed his instructions, but then she realized that such a man as Monk would have been aware of her every movement.

Suddenly Monk stopped. He abandoned the cart at the side of the alleyway, glanced briefly in her direction, before quickening his pace and turning the corner, disappearing from view.

She hurried after him, fearful that the night fog would encompass the figure before she regained sight of him.

As she turned the corner, she felt herself being grabbed and thrust violently up against the brickwork.

‘You made sure that no one followed you?’ he whispered.

‘Yes. Yes, I am alone,’ she replied, trying to recover her breathing as she attempted to free herself from his grasp.

‘We must be quiet. She is asleep in her room,’ he whispered again as he relaxed his grip upon her, his face hidden by the darkness.

She nodded, her face wet with perspiration as she attempted to stifle her coughing with her trembling hands.

‘You are sure?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ she replied, the words being uttered in no more than a faint whisper, and in a voice that seemed not like her own.

‘Then come!’

Taking her hand, he pulled her into a small courtyard and on towards the window of a room, where she saw the faint flicker of a candle from within.

At last, the final page could be written.

She would be fulfilled.

He pushed open the door and almost dragged her into the small room.

‘There is no one here!’ she protested, but before she could continue, she felt herself being thrown on to the bed that lay in the centre of the room.

‘You waited for me to come out of the church!’ he sneered, his breath coming in short gasps as he looked down at her.

She tried to climb off the bed, but before she could do so, she felt his strong hands forcing her back on to the sheet, as his body came down on top of her.

‘I told you, I work alone. You should have left me alone, but your curiosity got the better of you. You had to see who I was!’ he snarled again, tearing at her clothes.

She tried to cry out, but instead felt his hand clasping her throat, forcing her head back on to the bed.

She knew then, that he had betrayed her and that she was to be his final victim.

‘It is no use! All you can do is die!’ he hissed.

As she struggled to break free, she could feel his grip tightening around her throat. She looked up at his face and saw the hatred and frenzy there.

She had failed her husband and son!

As the blackness came over her, the last thing she saw was the blade, as it prepared to make its downward thrust.

DINARD, NORTHERN FRANCE, NOVEMBER 1888

On 12 November, a well-dressed, middle-aged gentleman could be found sipping coffee on the terrace of the Gandolphi Hotel in the fashionable French resort of Dinard. The late autumn sunshine felt warm against the side of his face, as he looked out across the bay to where he could just see the outline of the ancient walls of the imposing fortress of St Malo in the distance. Closer to the shore, the ferry boat was making its slow progress across the waters. On the beach, below the terrace, a small group of children played happily on the sands under the watchful eye of their guardian. A number of sea birds circled overhead in the blue sky. On either side of him, fine stately villas adorned the edges of the cliffs.

Somewhere in the distance a church clock struck the hour of eleven. To this man, the peaceful, tranquil setting seemed a million miles away from the narrow, congested streets of Whitechapel and the ancient stones of Worcester that he had known. As he lay back in his chair, he closed his eyes, knowing that he had at last achieved the inner peace which he had so long desired.

‘ Monsieur would like the newspaper?’ inquired a French voice breaking the tranquillity of the scene.