City of Darkness (City of Mystery) (7 page)

“Oh God,” Trevor said.  “Look at all
these people.  That man has a red scarf, and that one too, a red collar on his
jacket.  Don’t you laugh at me, Abrams, but look.  They’re all wearing red. 
Every person on this street.”

“Not all of them, Welles, and believe
me, I’m not laughing.  Come on.  We both could use that drink.”

CHAPTER FIVE

September 10

7:40  AM

The train lurched away from one more
small station and Leanna settled back into her window seat.  It had been over
two hours since she’d waved goodbye to Tom but she’d been unable to nap.  Her
mind was swirling with thoughts of everything that had happened - the loss of
her grandfather, the sudden inheritance, the jealousy and anger of her family. 
Any of these events by themselves would have been a shock, but it was nearly
incapacitating to face so many changes so rapidly.  Not to mention she was now on
a train by herself, entirely free and unescorted.  Her only previous trips to
London had been with her governess or her grandfather, for purposes of
education, but she had glimpsed enough from carriage windows to know there was
life beyond the museums.  The shops, theatres, and carriages, the streets teeming
with people from all over the world, the cafes where ladies sipped
brightly-colored cordials and whispered their secrets.   

As the train gained speed and the car
began to gently rock to and fro, Leanna’s eye fell on a newspaper that someone
had left on the seat across from her, with the headline shrieking KILLER STILL
AT LARGE!   It was crumpled but readable, and, glancing around, Leanna grabbed
it.   Everyone in the countryside was avidly following the story of the East
End slayings and, in fact, just a few days ago her brothers had been discussing
it over the breakfast table.  The description in that morning’s article had
been confusing to everyone but Tom, so he’d asked her to help illustrate. 

Tom had Leanna stand up and he’d
crept behind her, slipped an arm around her waist, and used his butter knife to
indicate where the cuts must have been made.  William and Cecil, their
attention fully fixed on their younger siblings for once in their lives, had
sat rapt by the reenactment, complete with dramatic sound simulations by Tom
and a bit of squeals and thrashing by Leanna.  Cecil had asked how Tom knew the
killer had attacked his victims from behind. 

“It’s all that makes sense
considering where the wounds are,” Tom had said, reaching for Leanna and
tracing the pattern all over again.  “One, two, three, just so.  But the
angle’s awkward.”

“Perhaps he’s left-handed,” Leanna
had said.  “Try it with the knife in your other hand.”  But just then their mother
had swept into the room and interrupted what was probably the most stimulating
breakfast conversation the family had enjoyed for years.   Cecil and William
had returned to their eggs and Tom, frowning thoughtfully, replaced the butter
knife on its tray.  Gwynette had glanced at the paper and then quite pointedly
launched into a discussion of what Leanna might have worn had they only been
invited to Wentworth family’s latest tea. 

She made them stop talking because of
me, Leanna thought.   Boys can hear about all sorts of interesting and bloody
things, while girls talk about tea parties.  But there was no one to stop her
from reading now.  She pulled out one of the cheese buns that Tillie had packed
in her valise, burrowed deeper into the seat, and squinted down at the blurry
print.

The knife, which must have been a
large and sharp one, was jabbed into the lower part of the abdomen and then
drawn upwards, not once but twice.  The first cut veered to the right, slitting
up the groin, and passing over the left hip, but the second cut went straight
upward, along the center of the body, and reaching to the breastbone.  Such
horrible work could only be the deed of a maniac!

Suddenly a dark reflection in the
window cast a shadow on the paper and Leanna jerked upright to find someone
standing in the aisle.  Startled, she asked “May I help you?”

Looking down on her was a dark-suited
man with a flat-topped hat. “Are you comfortable, Miss?” he asked.

“Very much so,” she replied, easing a
bit.

He remained standing and staring at
her until she said “Is there something you want?”

“Your fare, please.”

“Oh, yes, yes of course.  I beg your
pardon,” she stammered, searching her satchel for the money Galloway had given
her. “One moment please, I have it here somewhere.”

But the blue silk purse where she’d
put the money must have sank to the bottom of the satchel as it seems
whatever’s needed always does, because she couldn’t manage to lay her hand on
it.   The conductor gave a gentle cough and shifted his weight with a sigh.  It
was clear he perceived her as a country bumpkin, or at least had correctly
concluded he was dealing with a woman who had never been alone on a train
before. 

As she began nervously pulling things
from her cloth bag, Leanna felt the presence of someone else, someone taller,
standing beside the conductor.  “Might I be of some assistance?” a voice asked.

Leanna’s cheeks flushed as she looked
up at the face of a strikingly handsome man whose dark hair and mustache stood
out boldly from his pale skin. “I appreciate your kindness, but my fare is in
this bag somewhere,” she mumbled, pulling at the side pocket of her valise.  Finally
her fingers found the silk of the purse, but when she looked up the conductor
had already turned his attention to the lady behind her.

“Excuse me Sir,” she said, “I have
the money.”

The conductor glanced in her
direction. “The gentleman took care of it, miss.”

“Oh….oh yes.  Yes, thank you,” Leanna
said, turning to where the man had stood but all she caught was a glimpse of
his cape flowing behind him as he exited the car.  Leanna knelt to the dusty
train floor to replace the items which had rolled from her bag and her eyes
suddenly fell on the worn patches of her skirt.  She’d been wearing the same
ill-fitting black dress since her grandfather’s funeral.  He probably mistook
me for a beggar, she thought, irritated at the idea that such an elegant man
had been drawn to her out of charity.  Not much of a way to begin her great adventure.

But her restless night back at
Rosemoral was finally beginning to catch up with her, and Leanna tilted her
head against the window. Not to worry that he’s gone, she thought, as the
rolling of the car took her into the first shallows of sleep.  London would be
full of men like that.

10:20 AM

Not remembering exactly what Aunt
Geraldine looked like and unsure where she was to meet her, Leanna stepped down
from the railway car and began to study the women in the station.  No one
seemed to be looking for anyone, so Leanna walked over to a bench and dropped
her satchel.  People were always commenting on how much she resembled Tom, so
perhaps if she stood here long enough her aunt would recognize her.

The activity of the station was
all-consuming.  The babble of voices formed a non-language and a faintly acrid
smell filled the waiting area, some combination of cinnamon, coal dust, human
sweat, and rotting apples.  Men pushing carts, women pushing prams, boys
selling papers, girls selling fruit.  A group of people with yellow skin and
doll-like slanted eyes walked by Leanna, swathed in garish yellow and green
silks.  She tried to keep from staring until she realized that in the easy
familiarity of the crowded station, staring was acceptable.

Suddenly, a loud noise, a woman’s
scream, came echoing through the hall, and this universal sound of fury seemed
to catch the attention of almost everyone.  Leanna could not see what had
caused the commotion, and she wondered desperately if Aunt Geraldine could be
waiting outside in a coach.  Groaning as she lifted the satchel, Leanna began
shuffling slowly toward the front of the building, and as she walked, the voice
became clearer.

“Who is responsible for this
outrage?  Who is in charge here?” demanded the woman. “Stop right there!” she
said, as a single file line of a dozen dark-skinned men wearing white turbans
came abruptly to a halt.  Leanna strained to look over the gathered heads to
see whose voice was so unrelenting, but the only thing in her line of vision
was another dark-skinned man, this one in a red turban, who was standing with
an air of offended dignity and an oversized umbrella pointed at his nose. 

“My lady, we are in the employ of Sir
Randolph Walterbury,” replied the porter in a sing-song voice.

“And where might I find this coward?”

“I am Sir Randolph, Madame,” answered
a bald gentleman breaking through the crowd.  “Rahaj, why aren’t these men
loading the transports outside?”

As the people had made way for Sir
Randolph, Leanna had been able to slip close enough to catch a glimpse of a
tall, broad-chested woman dressed in lavender with a matching hat and an
umbrella she used with skill.  The umbrella was no longer at the nose of the
porter, but was now pointed at the face of Sir Randolph himself.  The man in
the red turban signaled to the others to continue with the cargo.

“You stop right there!” shrieked the
lady, moving to block the progress of the workers with surprising agility,
considering her age and her size. “I have counted eighteen elephant tusks, four
tiger pelts, two water buffalo heads, and heaven knows what else.  What could
possess a person of your stature in society to butcher these innocent animals? 
They were put on this earth for all of mankind to study and appreciate, not
just for the wealthy to destroy and display in their drawing rooms.  Well, what
do you have to say for yourself?”

“These beasts are trophies of sport,
taken on a hunting trip to East India,” answered the man, glaring down.  “So if
you’ll let us pass, Madame-“

“Why is it every time an Englishman
goes out to prove his manhood, it involves killing? A hunting trip indeed! You
take every creature comfort you can from London with you, to be carried by
these men for miles in the hot sun, trampling the jungle as you go.  No doubt you
paid them peanuts for their labor.  And sport!  You call it sport to hire a
hundred porters to chase a poor, defenseless animal in front of your rifle
sites to be slaughtered?  Perhaps if the tigers had been given guns too it
would count as fair contest, but were they?   I think not!” By now the crowd
was murmuring and, at least among a few of the listeners, sympathy seemed to be
switching to the side of the woman.

“What I think Madame, is that this is
all none of your business!  I’ll not delay another minute listening to this
nonsense.”  Sir Randolph turned and barked to his men, who were scrambling to
carry the rest of the crates onto the transport.

“If you wish to prove your strength,
Sir Randolph, then why don’t you do something that will improve England?  Start
a factory and create more jobs!  Help the poor!” the woman shouted at his
retreating back.  A smattering of applause broke from the crowd.

Suddenly the woman glanced back
toward her audience and her eyes fell directly upon Leanna. “Darling!” she
cried, as the heads of the onlookers turned. “I’d recognize that Bainbridge
profile anywhere.” Leanna drew back, startled by the shift in the crowd’s
attention, as the woman bustled toward her, both arms outstretched.  “I am your
Aunt Gerry! Welcome to London!”

CHAPTER SIX

Autumn, 1872

His father had taught him to hunt.

The man had taken the boy, when he
was no more than nine, into the oak woods outside their home.  Had given him a
gun, one of the sandwiches they had wrapped the night before, and had taught
him how to find a place to hide.  Not deep in the brambles, as one might imagine. 
If the hunter sought too much coverage or buried too deep, his father
explained, then the slightest move would give his position away. 

The father illustrated.  He climbed
into a nest of broken branches and covered himself entirely.  Then he made a
great, loud sneeze and the entire pile had shaken, puffing stray leaves into
the air. 

The boy had laughed. 

Far better, the man explained,
crawling out and brushing the debris from his jacket, to hide in an open area. 
Perhaps “hide” was not even the proper word.  It was more a matter of blending
in, of being unobtrusive, of becoming so much a part of the landscape that the
birds knew you were there, but did not register your presence as alarming.  
Ducks, pheasants, and quail were dumb creatures, dumb and plentiful, and if one
sat still long enough they would come of their own accord into your line of
vision.   The victim would choose himself, would practically step before your
rifle and beg to be shot.

The boy nodded.  He’d always had the
gift of grasping concepts quickly, of understanding certain things before his
childhood vocabulary gave him the ability to explain them, even to himself.  He
may not have known the word “contradiction” but he understood his father’s
message well enough.  The key to survival was to be special, smarter than the
other creatures around you, yet still to blend in.