The Candle Man (33 page)

Later.

‘In you go,’ he said to Cath.

She shuffled across darkness and a moment later scratched a match and lit a paraffin lamp in the corner of the room. Orman entered behind him and closed the door on a suffocatingly small space.
A bed, a wardrobe, a tiny corner table with one wooden stool beside it, and barely room to walk between them.

‘Why don’t you sit down, Catherine?’ Warrington gestured at the end of her bed.

She did so.

‘Now . . . I’m going to need your full co-operation if we’re going to help your friend. Do you understand?’

She nodded, eager as a jackdaw.

‘Now, you were saying earlier, the tall woman you were with this morning—’

‘Liz Stride.’

‘You said she’s gone to warn your friend about the chap she’s sharing rooms with? Is that right?’

‘Yes.’

‘And the address of these rooms you say you don’t—’

‘It’s somewhere in ’olland Park is all I know. Liz got the proper address off of ’er.’

He nodded thoughtfully. ‘I see.’

He hoped Hain was still following the woman. If so, then they were going to have an address. But that wasn’t going to do them a lot of good if this Stride’s impromptu visit spooked
the gentleman in question. He wished he’d had Hain follow this one and he and Orman were with the other, then he could take charge of the situation over there. But this was what it was;
he’d have to rely on his man. Hain wasn’t stupid. He’d know to identify the address, then take the initiative and quickly pull the woman to one side before she could knock on the
door and alert the occupants.

The other matter was the hotel room back at The Grantham. He desperately wanted to go back there and take a look for himself, to be sure this
was
the suite the Candle Man had been
using.

So very slippery of him to be this patient. To actually be able to do that. To not panic and try and make a run for home. For the week following that night at the warehouse, Rawlinson had pulled
some favours in from amongst their Lodge members. They had pairs of eyes on the ports and the ship booking agents – just in case their unfortunate dead colleague, Smith, had been mistaken and
the blow he’d landed with his pickaxe had just been a glancing blow and not fatal.

‘Orman?’

‘Sir?’

He ought not to have used his man’s name in front of her. Except, of course, that wasn’t going to matter. This ugly bitch was already dead; she just didn’t realise it yet.
‘Go and get hold of our other chap, Robson. I want him guarding that room. And then I want you outside The Grantham in case Hain returns there with the other woman.’

‘Liz tol’ me she was goin’ to bring Mary back ’ere,’ Cath cut in. ‘To this place.’

Warrington smiled politely at her. ‘Which is why you and I shall be staying put here in this charming room of yours this afternoon.’

Orman nodded. ‘Right you are, sir.’ He turned to go.

‘And if Hain does turn up at the hotel with an address, call Henry at the club immediately and let him know what’s happened this morning. We may need some extra pairs of hands on
this.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Good man.’

Orman closed the door behind him, leaving the two of them alone with the creaking of floorboards coming from the room above and the skittering sound of rats behind the plasterboard walls.

‘I don’t suppose you have a kettle?’

She shrugged and offered him an apologetic smile. ‘I got nothin’ much in ’ere, sir.’ Then her shoulders lifted. ‘Oh, but I do got some tack biscuits an’ a bit
of cheese!’

‘Splendid. Shall we . . . ?’

F
ive steps up off Holland Park Avenue, flanked on either side by a knee-high wall, barely a lip of stone to prevent the unwary dropping down the
stairwell either side that led to basement rooms and coal cellars. Five steps leading up to a dark blue front door.

Liz checked the scribbled writing on her scrap of paper. Number 67.

To the left of the front door was a bay window: tall, wide windows filled with patterned lace that looked like they once held a rose hue. A hint of movement from behind there. She saw some of
the material swinging gently, as if something inside had moved swiftly, causing a draft.

She took the five steps up slowly, a part of her arguing on each step for her to turn and run as far and as fast as she could. She felt like Little Red Riding Hood approaching her
grandmother’s house. But unlike Red Riding Hood, actually knowing what lies behind the door. The difference was, though, that she wasn’t alone in the middle of some forest. There was
that.

At the top step, she turned to look over her shoulder. Holland Park Avenue was busy with both wheel and hoof traffic and pedestrians on either side. As long as she stayed on the top step in full
view of all these passing strangers, she was going to be safe, she assured herself. Safe.

A steadying deep breath to calm her jangling nerves. She cleared her throat, lifted the knocker on the front door and rapped several times.

Her mind rehearsed what she was going to say to Mary. She needed her friend to step outside, she needed her to feel at ease enough to do that so they could move further away from the door, to
talk without being overheard. He could be in there, behind the door, standing in the hallway, trying to earwig what they were saying. She needed Mary to step over the threshold and be standing
outside.

Oh, Jesus.

She was so nervous, she wanted to pee.

‘Hullo, Mary. Nice place, love! Yer fancy takin’ a bit if a walk?’
she practised with a muted whisper.
‘I got one or two things me an’ you need to talk to
about, love.’

She heard the rattle of a door chain and quickly put on a friendly smile as the door creaked inwards.

‘Hullo, Mary—’ she started.

A man stared out of the gloom of the hallway at her. ‘Yes?’

Her mouth flapped uselessly as the words she’d had lined up and ready to use completely abandoned her. A sudden spasm of fear released a trickle of urine down one thigh.

Jack the Ripper.

His craggy, gaunt face gradually loosened into a smile. Eyes, dark beneath the hood of his thick brow, seemed to glint with moisture. ‘A friend of Mary’s, are you?’

‘I . . . uh . . . yes. I’m a friend. C-can I speak to her, p-please?’

‘Oh, I’m afraid that won’t be possible,’ he said slowly, the smile never leaving his lips, showing a tidy row of small white teeth.

All the better for eating you with, my dear.

‘Why n-not? Why c-can’t I s-speak with her?’ Liz tried to steady her voice. Fear,
mortal terror
, was giving her away.

The man, Babbitt – she remembered his signed name – cocked his head curiously. ‘Are you all right? Hmmm? You look . . . unwell.’

‘Where is she?’

‘Mary? Oh, I told you, didn’t I? It’s not possible. She’s out right now.’

He’s lying
. Her mind filled with a vision of her restrained in this house somewhere. Whimpering through a gagged mouth at the sound of her friend’s voice at the front
door.

‘Mary!’ she called out. ‘MARY!! You in there?!’

The cordial expression vanished from his face. ‘I told you she’s not here!’ His polite smile became a snarl. For a fleeting second, she thought she saw the amber glint of
Hell’s fires in his dark eyes; thought she heard the deep growl of a big bad wolf underscoring his voice.

I’m safe outside. I’m safe outside. Mary’s inside. Help her!

‘Mary! It’s Liz! Come out here! Do you hear me? Get out—’

She felt a gust of air against her cheek and instinctively clenched her eyes shut. Her lips mashed hard against her teeth. She felt herself being lifted off her feet, and a moment later the
painfully hard smack of wooden floorboards against her side that left her dazed and winded. She heard the door slam with the sudden realisation that she was now on the inside of it.
Inside
.
Her bladder emptied in the darkness. All she could hear was the sound of his laboured breathing, the ticking of a clock and the muted clatter of cartwheels outside; the world passing by, oblivious
to what had just happened in the blink of an eye.

Argyll stared at the woman at his feet. She was stunned by the impact with the hall’s floor. In shock, still. He’d just wanted her to stop shouting for Mary like that . . . but . . .
his arms seemed to flex with a mind of their own and now here the pair of them were in this calm and quiet space. He realised the poor woman was terrified. He wanted to apologise.

No. She needs to be afraid. Don’t you know why?

Argyll didn’t.

She lifted herself and squatted against the base of the wall, trembling. ‘Please . . . please . . . don’t ’urt me . . .’

Argyll hunkered down beside her. He felt some of the fear himself, wondering what she was seeing as she looked at him. Wondering why she looked like the Devil himself was hovering just in front
of her face. He reached out a calming hand towards her. He wanted to tell her that it was all right, that he didn’t mean to hurt her. He wanted to explain that what just happened came as a
surprise to him too.

Above all else, he just wanted to make her a cup of tea and say sorry.

She recoiled from his hand, whimpering as tears rolled down her cheeks and mixed with blood on her lips. ‘Please . . . Mr . . .’ she babbled through snot. ‘Please . . . Mr
B-Babbitt, d-don’t d-do me up l-like the others. P-please . . . I . . . I . . .’

His hand froze in the space between them. Somewhere he heard the shuffling of pig’s trotters, excited and playful, the snort of the animal and that awful, scraping voice . . .

Babbitt?

Argyll knew the name.
Goddammit
. He knew that name from somewhere.

Yes, of course we know that name. Do you see yet?

He frowned. His mind seemed to be stirring, doors opening all along the dusty, dark hallways of his memory, spilling daylight across them. A dozen different noises and voices stirring to life,
like a ward of comatose patients emerging into wakefulness together, eyes once stuck fast with sleep now cracking open.

Mr Babbitt. That’s who we are.

But I’m John. John Argyll.

You are Mr Babbitt. Remember? Chop, chop. Work, work. Busy, busy.

Argyll suddenly remembered so much more; not just disjointed moments, dreams and images from someone else’s life. The doors in his mind creaked wide open in unison. All of a sudden, he
knew his childhood was a privileged one, lived in a household full of maids and cleaners. He remembered a severe-looking bearded man whom he knew was his father, even if the finer details, like his
father’s name, were still yet to come to him. No . . . there it was: Gordon. His father – Gordon – a businessman. A businessman who saw opportunities in abundance on the far side
of the continent . . . in a place called Oregon.

He remembered a period of worry, upset, disquiet. Their home being sold, packing cases in every room, saying farewell to favourite toys. He remembered an older brother, Lawrence, who was closer
to their father than him. And a much older sister; not a girl but a young woman. Olivia. Almost like a mother to him. A mother to replace the one he never knew. He remembered a long journey across
a wilderness of wide open skies and infinite landscapes of rolling hills covered in wild grass, living and sleeping in the wooden trap of their long wagon. Mornings of waking up beneath a canopy of
linen stretched over bows of willow. Evenings spent around camp fires with Olivia and Lawrence and his father and other families who had joined together to comprise their train of wagons.

So close to Olivia. He felt an aching in his heart; a deep wound poked and prodded to open and weep once more. He had always been closest to her. Olivia: memories of a young woman’s face,
which always seemed to be just a few moments away from laughing brightly at something or other. A tanned and freckled face surrounded by a cloud of auburn hair. And lips that parted wide,
constantly amused at all the silly things he said to her, bemused at his fanciful notions and endless questions.

But also growing a little closer to his normally distant father during ‘the crossing’. A man whom had always appeared to be far too busy for his young son, now around the campfire in
the evenings, able to tell him stories and listen to his questions. A father who finally actually noticed his youngest child and could see he had something special about him. A keen mind. A talent
for planning. Far-sightedness, even.

And then the day it all came to a sudden end. The day of screaming.

He shook his head. Too many memories; too much of his life coming at him at once. And his childhood name . . . he knew what it was now. It certainly wasn’t ‘Mr Babbitt’.

Nor is it ‘John Argyll’
, the dry pig-voice chuckled.
She named you like a child names a pet.

‘NO!!!!!’ he screamed. His shrill voice filled the small hallway. Liz flinched and whimpered on the floor. ‘MY NAME IS JOHN!!’

He saw the young boy he once was as another person. Another person, yet so alike, with so much in common. Another boy uncertain and lost in an alien world, a wilderness. Another boy cared for
by, utterly reliant on, the love of a young woman.