Michael Jecks - The Butcher of St Peter's

‘It must be terrible. You have no sisters at home to look after her, do you?’

‘No. I was the only surviving daughter. My brother left home too, so Mother’s all alone, you see.’

‘Yes. Mick explained that to me,’ Jordan said. His voice was still soothing and soft, as though he was an uncle listening to a child speak of falling and hurting her knees. ‘He told me all about you and how your mother was unwell. Didn’t you, Mick?’ Now a little harshness entered his voice. ‘Didn’t you?’

Mick was a powerful-looking fellow, all brawn, with a large, square face that was too pale from sitting indoors for too many hours in gambling dens and brothels. He glanced at Anne as though to give her a little encouragement. ‘Yes, I told you.’

‘And you thought I’d take your word?’

Mick’s face grew faintly troubled. He was surprised, yes, but also aware that the discussion was not going the way he had expected. ‘I’ve never lied to you.’

‘Haven’t you? Not even when you’ve been taking my girls’ money and putting it in your own purse?’

‘I wouldn’t do a thing like that! You know you can trust me,’ Mick said, and now there was anxiety in his tone.

Reg watched as Jordan moved towards the lad. ‘You came to me when you were hard up, didn’t you? I remember it was a friend of yours brought you to me. He said you’d be a good fellow with your fists, and he said you’d be bold. Well, he was right, wasn’t he? You are bold, certainly. You even dare to rob me, as though I was some gull from the street.’

‘I wouldn’t-’

‘ Don’t lie to me! I know you! ’

Mick’s face stiffened. He knew what Jordan could do when he lost his temper completely, and although he stood his ground he lowered his head, as though understanding that he must suffer pain for what he had done.

‘You were happy enough to take my money while you thought you could get away with it, weren’t you?’

‘I didn’t-’

Jordan’s hand moved so quickly Reg didn’t see it. All at once there were a pair of loud slaps, and Mick’s face was slammed first left then right as Jordan hit his cheeks, one after the other. ‘Don’t lie to me again.’

Behind them both, Anne’s face was a crumpled mess. She wiped her running nose on her sleeve and her gaze moved from Jordan to Reg, filled with terror. She had a better idea even than Mick what her master was like. All the whores knew about Jordan.

Jordan turned to her now. ‘You know what I did when Mick told me your mother in Barnstaple was unwell, Anne? I sent a boy to ride there and find out whether you had a mother. Because whores don’t have them normally, do they? And even if they do, they’re better off enjoying their trade than worrying themselves about their parents. Anyway, you’re all right. There’s no need for you to go home. Your mother is already dead. But then you knew that, didn’t you?’

He was standing before her now, and he bent his head to peer into her face. ‘You did, didn’t you? Since you were an orphan when you left home five years ago, I suppose you guessed your mother was dead?’

She was blubbing, and she picked up her apron to cover her face. He wrenched it from her hands, then held both her wrists and stared into her eyes. ‘I hate people who lie to me, wench. I hate them more than anything, because once trust is gone between a master and his servants, there’s nothing left. Nothing except an example.’

He moved her two wrists to his left hand and gripped them tightly, so tightly, and then, as Anne’s breath came in rapid pants, he pulled out his knife. ‘You know this knife? It’s seen to many girls. Girls like you, Anne. And now I’m going to leave an example for other girls to remember. Mick, come here. Hold her.’

‘I can’t, Jordan, I-’

‘You were going to take her away from here and use her yourself. You might even have married her, mightn’t you? But you won’t want to, Mick. Not when I’ve finished with her tonight.’

He was matter-of-fact about it. While she thrashed about, he made Mick grip her wrists, and then he lashed her legs together, neatly, like a man hobbling a calf before cutting its throat. He sat abreast her thighs while she gave a high, keening squeal, and then gripped her chin and began to saw slowly at her nose. When he had removed that, he took off her ear lobes too, and then carefully cut a cross into each cheek, before opening her bodice and starting on her breasts.

There was nothing brutal in his manner as he did so, torturing an attractive young girl into a figure of disgust. He did not treat this as a diversion, but saw it as a task he must perform. This girl would never dare to accuse him, she would be too scared. And yet all the other girls who plied their trade on Jordan’s behalf would hear of this retribution and beware.

There was an intensity about him as he worked. Later, he told Reg that he could hear something, a sort of high whistling sound that echoed in his ears. It was exciting and thrilling to hear, and it seemed almost to drive him on as he stabbed and cut.

For Reg, it was a scene from hell. A demon had taken the woman and subjected her to unendurable agony, and the demon’s weeping helper was the woman’s own lover. Perhaps Mick’s true crime had been to fall in love — as Reg should have with his own wife, but couldn’t. And now this crying fellow was aiding his lover’s torturer, purely because, although he looked a large, brawny, strong lad, in reality he was only good for bullying those who were weaker than him. So Jordan could cow him, force him to help destroy the woman he adored, and then still remain there to do Jordan’s bidding.

That was the way of things: a weak man would always obey a stronger, no matter what the hideous fear that the man provoked. In a land that had suffered so much death and horror, famine and war in the past ten years, any stability was to be desired, even if it came at the expense of a man’s soul.

When he was finished, Jordan was sweating lightly. The girl had fainted away some while before, and he stepped away from the bloodied mess that had been Anne and surveyed his work, smiling a moment before he beckoned Mick.

‘Come here and look upon her, boy. That’s right. What has happened to her is your fault. Your fault. You wanted to take her away from me and use her money yourself, didn’t you? You told her you wanted her for herself, that you’d marry her, but all you wanted was the income she’d bring. And when that was all gone, what then? I suppose you’d have discarded her in favour of another, wouldn’t you?’ He had his hand on Mick’s shoulder, gripping the lad firmly so that he could not avert his gaze from the quivering lump of ruined flesh on the ground. He pushed Mick towards a pail of water and Mick reluctantly fetched it. Jordan took it and threw it over Anne. She screamed, once, and then lay squirming in pain, as though unable to decide which wound hurt the most.

‘You see, Anne, I can’t afford to have my girls running away. If you escaped with this one, you’d become an example later, when you came back without a protector and told the other girls that he’d thrown you over, but in the meantime, how many other girls would have left my business? So this way is better. Look on your lover, girl!’

And he moved his grip from Mick’s shoulder up to his forehead, fingers finding the eye-sockets and dragging the man’s head back, making the tendons stretch, exposing the windpipe and veins beneath the leathery flesh. ‘Pretty throat, eh?’ he said, chuckling, and drew the blade across in a fast, vicious action.

Dean Alfred was furious. He had known what would happen as soon as he heard of the assault, and now, as his servant announced the visitors, he was hard put to it not to swear aloud. If he had been in any other room, he might well have done. Damn that fool!