Kerry Tombs
The Malvern Murders
PROLOGUE — LONDON 1887
Ravenscroft looked down at the bundle of rags that lay at his feet, hoping there would still be some signs of life from within. The only light came from the end of the alleyway and was of little help to him.
He lowered one knee onto the rough cobbles and turned back the clothes, knowing what he would find there. He had seen many dead bodies before, in this area of Whitechapel, over the previous few years, but the realization still came as a shock to him. The victim was a young girl, probably no older than twelve years of age. There were red marks round her throat where she had been strangled. A small trickle of blood was already staining her clothes, from a wound at the back of her head caused when she had hit the ground. He placed his hand on her face; the body was still warm. A few minutes earlier she would have been making her way along the alleyways, that criss-crossed this part of London, perhaps on her way home after visiting some friends or returning from her work in one of the nearby factories. She had been someone’s daughter, sister, friend, helper- and now the people that had been known her would be anxiously awaiting her arrival, and would soon begin to wonder what was keeping her, and why she had not returned.
Ravenscroft searched in the pocket of her apron, placing the contents on the ground. A broken comb, two farthings, and the remains of a half-eaten sweet were all that she had left behind — not much to show for a life of such few years. In a few minutes he would summon his colleagues and she would be taken away; notices would be posted in the vicinity and within a day or so someone would reclaim the body — and after the inquest she would be buried in an unmarked grave, mourned for a while by those that had known her, but ignored by all those who would come after her. Life in Whitechapel would continue, as it had done before, and whoever had committed such an awful deed would fade back into the shadows, until perhaps someone who knew him would give him away — or worse still until he struck again.
He covered over the face of the young girl with her shawl, and as he did so, he suddenly became aware of another’s presence further down the darkened alleyway. His first impulse was to cry out and request the other’s assistance, but then the possibility that it might be the perpetrator of this terrible outrage who now stood silent in the shadows, began to take root in his mind. Ravenscroft realised that he must have arrived on the scene only seconds after the girl had been killed, and her attacker faced with a blocked exit at the end of the walkway had in all probability retreated into the darkness, and was now waiting his opportunity to make good his escape.
Slowly Ravenscroft rose to his feet and turned in the direction where he sensed the killer was waiting.
‘Now then sir. Step forward and show yourself!’ He tried to make his voice confident and full of authority, but he could feel a cold sweat forming on the inside of his collar.
He waited for a few seconds, and receiving no reply took a step forwards.
‘It’s no good you know. My colleagues will be here in a minute. You cannot escape’ — but before he could finish, he found himself being suddenly thrown up against the wall by a force which emerged from the darkness. Instinctively he reached for his whistle from his coat pocket as his attacker ran down the narrow passage way.
Ravenscroft sprang to his feet, gave a quick blast on his whistle and set off in quick pursuit. As he reached the end of the alleyway, he saw a tall figure running down the street, his black cloak flapping behind him. Ravenscroft knew that he stood little chance of keeping up with his attacker, even less of apprehending him, but he also knew that he would be expected to at least make the effort, and there always remained the possibility that the other would fall, or be caught by either one of his colleagues or by a passer-by.
He blew his whistle again and shouted ‘Stop’ in a strange voice that seemed unlike his own, before resuming the chase.
The cloak turned left at the end of the thoroughfare. By the time Ravenscroft reached the corner he could feel his breath coming in short gasps, and his face wet with perspiration. He blew on his whistle again, but although the street was full of men returning home from work, old ladies and small children trading their wares, and young women offering their services, no one seemed to be at all interested in either the gentleman in the black cloak or in his pursuer.
He could still see his quarry in the distance and redoubled his efforts. If only the other would turn, perhaps he would be able to catch a glimpse of his features under one of the flickering lights. There was always the chance that Ravenscroft could have encountered him in the past, and that such a simple recognition would provide him with a later opportunity for apprehension, but it seemed that even that hope was to be denied him.
Ravenscroft could feel his chest tightening, as his lungs began to cloud over with the old affliction. Surely one of his colleagues must have heard the blast from his whistle and come to his aid?
Turning round yet another corner, he briefly lost sight of the black cloak for a moment or so, as he pushed his way through the throng of people who seemed intent on blocking his way. He could now feel his heart beating loudly, and his head throbbing with pain, as he drew his sleeve across his spectacles in a futile attempt to clear the sweat that was clouding his vision.
As the ever decreasing black figure disappeared finally from view, Ravenscroft knew that the chase was almost at its end. As he fought for every breath in his body, he felt that his world was becoming increasingly darker. The buildings on either side began to crowd in on him, as the voices of the street receded into the distance.
‘Here look out mate!’ shouted a voice, as he stumbled into one of the passers-by.
Ravenscroft could feel his decent towards the ground, and flung out one of his arms in a forlorn attempt to help steady his fall. A sharp pain vibrated through his body, as he came into contact with the hard surface.
As he looked up at the strange faces who stared down at him, he knew that he had again failed to carry out his duty — and felt the darkness of despair closing in upon him.
Then he heard the sound of grinding glass, as someone stamped on his spectacles.
‘Come!’
Ravenscroft opened the door of the office and stepped inside, coughing as he did so.
‘Ah, Ravenscroft, take a seat. Be with you in a minute.’
He inched forwards into the centre of the room, and seated himself on the carefully placed chair. He hated this inner sanctum of the Yard, with its dusty carpet, its drab furniture and its rows of ancient ledgers. The familiar smells of damp, decaying wallpaper, and yesterday’s stale tobacco smoke, hung together in the air. The solitary, hissing gas lamp on the far wall barely penetrated the gloom, and the fire that had been lit earlier in the day gave out its last dying glow.
Ravenscroft sighed and recalled the other times when he had been summoned to this room, when the interview had always been depressing, and when the outcome had always been bad — and he knew that after the events of the previous evening he could expect little difference this time. The old clock in the corner ticked out its relentless pattern of sound, as the Commissioner continued his writing.
Ravenscroft attempted to stifle his cough, but without success.
‘Won’t keep you long,’ said his superior, busily engaged in writing on a sheet of paper.
Ravenscroft gazed out of the tiny window, at the grey streets, and the enveloping fog beyond, and wished he was elsewhere.
‘Now then Ravenscroft, this won’t do,’ said the Commissioner suddenly looking up from his work, ‘It will not do at all!’
‘I’m sorry. I did my best. He was just too quick for me,’ he offered in his own defence, but knowing that his argument would fall on unresponsive ears.