The Sin Eater (33 page)

The edges of the photograph were indented with parallel lines, as if it had been in a frame for many years and the frame or the glass had cut into the paper. Michael turned it over. On the back, in a different hand to the one on the group picture, it said, ‘
Colm and Romilly, taken at his eighteenth birthday
.'

Colm, thought Michael. Colm Rourke, Declan's closest friend, the boy who played that fatal game of chess with Nicholas Sheehan. And Romilly, the copper-haired waif, who sobbed out a tale of seduction or rape, but looked out of the corners of her eyes as she did so, to see what effect her story was having.

Benedict was not suffering from multiple personality disorder at all. Those people he had talked about so vividly had existed – which implied the events he had described had happened. Two Irish boys had come to London, to find Colm's cousin and seek their fortunes. They must have seen it as a fairy story – a romantic adventure. Two heroes travelling to the city whose streets were paved with gold, going to the aid of the beautiful Romilly.

And which version of Romilly's story was true? Had the enigmatic Nicholas Sheehan, being lonely – even perhaps influenced by the chessmen's malevolence – really seduced her that day? Or was Sheehan's own story the truth: that Romilly had demanded money to prevent her spreading a rape story? Had she been so desperate to leave Kilglenn she had done that? And had Sheehan, desperate to preserve the chessmen's solitude, yielded to her blackmail? Michael supposed he would never know the truth, but remembering portions of Benedict's story, thought he would not put blackmail past Romilly.

He tidied the photos back into their envelope. The fact that these people had existed was something good to tell Benedict – unless, of course, he had seen these photos for himself and folded them into his fantasies. But none of it got Michael any nearer to finding Nell.

He checked the desk again. Had he looked in all the pigeonholes and envelopes? No, there was one with yellowing newspaper cuttings. They were not likely to be relevant, but Michael was not ignoring anything.

The cuttings dated from the late 1890s, and described a series of murders committed in Canning Town by a killer the press of the day had dubbed the Mesmer Murderer. Benedict had not mentioned a murderer as being part of Declan's story, but this had been Declan's house and someone living here had wanted to preserve these articles. Michael began to read the top article. It described how the murderer had been caught, but how, on his way to face justice, had escaped. The hue and cry had been raised, and the hunt was still on. A photograph, apparently taken by an enterprising reporter with an early camera, was reproduced.

Michael unfolded the rest of the cutting and stared down at the photograph. It was smudgy but it was recognizable. Allowing for the few years' difference, the face of the Mesmer Murderer was the one in the photograph he had found earlier in this desk. Colm Rourke.

So the shining fairy-tale adventure of those two boys had turned to the poisoned fruit of so many fairy stories. The golden pavements had been dirty and unfriendly; the heroine had sold her purity for a mess of pottage and had died a sad squalid death in a slum. And one of the heroes had been branded as a multiple murderer.

There were a couple of earlier articles, which gave more details about the victims. Michael read them carefully. Four out of the five victims seemed to have had an appointment with the killer – an appointment they had written in their diaries, circling the dates elaborately in red. And the markings in each case resembled the outline of a chess piece.

A chess piece. Lights were exploding in Michael's mind and he dropped the article and half fell down the stairs, snatching up the Filofax from the kitchen table. Yes, it was a chess piece Nell had drawn on today's page, all right. But she had said she might get the single figure valued today if she had time, so probably the little silhouette was a kind of
aide memoire.
And the Mesmer Murders had been over a hundred years ago.

But there are times when logic flees, and something else drives the mind and dictates the actions. For Michael this was one of those times. He did not try to reason that those long-ago people and long-dead tragedies could not affect the present. He only knew that Nell was missing, that she had marked her diary in exactly the same way as those other murdered people, and that he had to find her as fast as possible.

The only clue he had was Canning Town, where four of the five victims had been found, near an old sewer outlet by the docks. Canning Town was where Romilly Rourke had had a room – Benedict had described how Declan and Colm had gone there to find her, but they had been too late because she had been dying from a botched abortion.

Michael went down the stairs at top speed, and out into the street to flag down a taxi.

T
he afternoon was darkening when Michael reached Canning Town.

‘Bit off my regular beat,' said the taxi driver when Michael asked for Bidder Lane or Clock Street. ‘We can ask when we get there, though.'

But there was no Bidder Lane to be found, at least not in this part of London, and no Clock Street.

‘You sure you got the address right?' said the taxi driver.

‘No, I'm not,' said Michael. ‘And I've never been to this part of London, either. They're just two places I've been told about. Thanks for trying, though. I think I'll be better on foot from here. I can ask local people if they know those streets, or go into a shop or a pub.'

The area, generally, was a piecemeal industrial estate, with pubs at intervals and scatterings of shops. There were gasworks and gasometers as well, and modern tower blocks jutting up into the skyline. And yet, here and there were glimpses of that older London – the London that Declan and Colm must have known. Michael could not see the river, but a dank wet smell hung everywhere, and he could hear the muffled hoots of barges. Surely Nell was not out here. But this was where that long-ago murderer had killed his victims, and Nell's diary had been marked with the same curious symbol as those victims.

I've got to find her
, thought Michael, still in the grip of the inexplicable compulsion.

Grey mist clung to the buildings, turning them into ghost outlines. Mist of any kind played tricks with your eyes, so that you began to imagine silent figures watching you from its depths. It played tricks with your hearing as well, creating curious resonances. Several times Michael thought he heard the clatter of wheels as if someone was pushing a barrow or a large cart along, and when he paused at the intersection of two streets music reached him – jangling piano music that seemed to have no relation to today's thudding car stereos.

He had lost all sense of direction, but this appeared to be one of the older – and certainly poorer – parts of the area. There were no longer any industrial units or steel-fronted shops; instead was a street of small terraced houses with grimy facades. There was no traffic, but a few people were around, although when Michael tried to approach a woman to ask for directions she ducked her head away and scurried away from him. Two men, shabbily dressed and smelling of alcohol, came down the street, but they were walking so erratically and laughing so raucously that Michael gave them a wide berth.

A church clock, somewhere on his left, chimed three o'clock, although the mist was so thick it felt more like the middle of the night. There was a pub on the corner though, and light streamed from the windows. Probably it had been where the music had come from. He would go in and ask for directions to Bidder Lane.

As he neared the pub he saw a gap between the houses – a kind of natural alley that looked as if it led down to the quay. Michael hesitated, wondering whether to investigate and, as he did so, he saw darkly silhouetted against the river fog the shape of a man half carrying what looked like a female figure.

For the second time that day he did not stop to reason. He went after the figures at once. The man was too far away for him to see any details, except that he was wearing a long dark coat, but there was something familiar about the way the woman's hair fell to one side. Was it Nell? Michael followed, trying to decide what to do, chary of putting Nell (if it was she) into danger. Ought he to call the police? But what if it was not Nell, and there was some perfectly innocent explanation?

Ahead was a flight of stone steps; in this light they looked slimy and coils of rope and scatterings of debris lay on them. The man went down these steps and Michael, following at a cautious distance, saw they led down to the quay.

The mist was thicker here, so much so that this was almost turning into the classic walk through fog, beloved of film makers and writers of horror. He and Nell would laugh about it later; they would conjure up old black and white films and gothic novels: Fu Manchu spreading his sinister spider webs through Limehouse; Dr Jekyll metamorphosing into Mr Hyde . . . Assorted murderers stalking the shadows . . . Assorted murderers. Including a real one who had mesmerized his victims into meeting him out here?

Someone had recently sprinkled what looked like sand on the steps – perhaps to make the descent less treacherous. When Michael reached the bottom there was no sign of his quarry, and he paused, looking round. The river was still some way below him but he could make out the shapes of barges, and see lights from the bridges. He was standing on a walkway with an iron railing, and further along the walkway was an opening cut into the wall. ‘
The bodies were found near the old Bidder Lane sewer
,' the newspaper had said. Could that be the sewer? He looked around for the figure he had followed, and it was then that he saw the walkway bore sandy footprints, leading towards the outlet.

Michael began to walk stealthily towards the tunnel, thinking he would try to see inside, and if there was anything in the least suspicious he would call the police at once. He was within about ten feet of it when he realized that there were other footsteps walking down this fog-shrouded path.

Someone was coming stealthily along the walkway towards him.

After Cerise left the bedroom Colm walked round the room twice, and paused at the window, staring down into the gloomy gardens. Then in a completely normal voice, he said, ‘What a bitch. And what a lot of nonsense she talked. I've never been in an opium den in my life and neither have you. Let's ignore her altogether. We'll go downstairs to see if there's any food to be had. I don't know about you, but I'm ravenous.'

It's all right, thought Declan, following him down the stairs. Of course he didn't kill Flossie and of course he isn't planning to kill Cerise.

Two of the girls were in the scullery, eating pies which they had brought in from a stall. There was plenty to spare, they said, slicing up the pies with careless generosity. There was bread and cheese in the larder as well.

They were discussing what they were going to do, because this house would be broken up, that was for sure. The dark-haired girl, who was called Zelda, said Flossie had no family, and the other one, who was fluffily fair and whose name was Ruby, confirmed this. But whatever happened, you could depend on it that Ruby and Zelda and the others would be told to pack their bags.

‘Where will you go?' asked Colm.

‘Dunno yet. Me and Zelda had an idea we might set up in rooms off Charing Cross Road. You get a good few toffs wandering down Charing Cross Road of a night.'

Zelda gave this her endorsement. A girl might do very well in that part of London. They might even end up with a posh flat, all pink satin and plush, very smart it would be.

Colm entered into the plan with gusto, saying they should have a French maid to answer the door to their gentlemen, and Ruby giggled and said go on with you, French maids, who did he take them for, Lady Muck?

As St Stephen's clock chimed two, Colm got up from the table, as casually as if he had all the time in the world, and said he would be off out for a while. ‘Just round and about,' he said. ‘I'll be back soon.'

As he went out, Declan saw with cold fear that his eyes were filling up with the terrible blackness again. He gave it five minutes, then collected his coat and went after Colm. It was not really a surprise to see Colm get on an omnibus with Canning Town written on its front.
He's going out to the old river steps
, Declan thought.
That's where he met Harold Bullfinch and he knows it's deserted and he won't be interrupted. He must have told Cerise to meet him there. Surely Cerise would not be so foolhardy as to meet a man she believed to be a murderer in such a lonely spot?
But Declan remembered those remarks about opium. Cerise thought Colm had acted out of an opium nightmare – that he had not been aware of what he was doing, or even remembered doing it.

I've got to make sure
, thought Declan, and waited for another omnibus.

Bidder Lane was as dismal and dispiriting as he remembered. Grime clung to the fronts of the houses and a dirty yellow fog hung everywhere. Declan went purposefully along the street, pausing at the intersection with Clock Street, and looking wistfully towards the pub. Someone was playing the jangly piano again and a few voices were raised in somewhat beery song. He wished, as he had last time, that he could go inside and become part of a noisy, ordinary group of people, but he had to reach Colm and save Cerise. He went determinedly between the houses, and down the steps to the quay. Someone had sprinkled sand or sawdust on the steps – Declan tried not to think it would be to mop up Harold Bullfinch's blood.

But there was no sign of Colm. Then had Colm been going off on some entirely innocent task? Or was he meeting Cerise somewhere else? Declan looked about him. The mist hung over the river, and the lights of the barges were blurred discs of colour. Anyone with half a grain of sense would be indoors on an afternoon like this. No wonder this stretch of the quayside was so deserted . . .