THE SAFEST MAN IN LONDON
“The Southwark Slasher struck again last night,” whispered Jasper Thomas. “A prostitute. Drained every drop of blood from her body, so I’ve heard.”
“I can’t imagine why he’s called the Slasher,” sniffed Arnold Penny.
“Why do you say that?” asked Jasper.
“Well, there’s no blood for one thing,” observed Arnold. “And, apart from a single cut across the throat the body is untouched.”
Jasper sniggered.
“Well, the papers can hardly call him the Southwark Drainer, now, can they? It just doesn’t have the same ring to it.”
Benjamin Good looked up from his ledger and frowned.
“Quiet!” he hissed. “If you two don’t stop cackling like hens, old Cruikshank will have everyone working late again.”
The three clerks looked over to where Mr Cruikshank, the chief accountant, sat perched on his stool. A Christmas Carol had been published the previous year and Jasper had remarked on the similarity between the old miser Scrooge and Cruikshank. “I’ll bet you a pint Mr Dickens has met the old so and so someplace or other. How else could he have described his likeness so well?” But Benjamin preferred to think of the old man as a large shabby black crow, meticulously scrutinising the rows of figures in his ledger like a carrion bird picking through the remains of some dead animal.
“There, there, Goody,” said Jasper. “We all know you’re hoping for a promotion, but don’t tell me you haven’t been thinking about this killer just as much as the rest of us. Twelve bodies in the last 3 months and the bloody Bobbiesare none the wiser.”
“You would be wiser keeping your head down and getting on with work,” retorted Benjamin.
“What say we all discuss this over a pot or two at the Crown and Anchor after work?” suggested Arnold. He sensed an argument brewing and was in no mood to have their bickering attract the unwanted attention of old Cruikshank.
“I’ll not say no to a good ale,” winked Jasper. “What say you, Good? Will you join us, or are you one of those types who prefers to keep his own company?”
Benjamin shot Jasper a sour glance. A sharp retort about the man’s fondness for drink hovered on the tip of his tongue but then he thought better of it. Jasper Thomas had a friend working on the Slasher case and Benjamin desperately needed to understand what the authorities knew. This was not due to any morbid curiosity but because Benjamin hid a terrible secret. He shared a bed with the demon known as the Southwark Slasher.
“On the contrary, Mr Thomas,” said Benjamin. “I enjoy conversation as much as the next man and shall be joining you.”
Sub-letting his small room to make extra money on the side had occurred to Benjamin Good just over three months ago. He was annoyed at himself for not having thought of it sooner. To his mind, having to pay for a room which stood vacant and unused during the day seemed absurd, especially considering how much the rent was in the first place.Aware that the landlord did not allow the practicehad restricted where he’d advertisedyet despite this, he’d been surprised to receive an application the next day. There’d been a knock at the door at around ten o’clock thatevening. He’d opened it to find a large, hooded figure standing before him. The mysterious figure had not spoken but had instead handed the bemused Good a letter indicating that it should be read immediately. This he had done. The letter was from a Reverend Blackwell from the parish of Eastbourne in Kent. It explained that the man standing before him was a Mr Sydney Stroud, a member of his parish. The letter went on to say Mr Stroud had suffered severe burns in an unfortunate fire a year ago. Owing to his terrible disfigurement he could no longer speak, nor could he afford to expose his skin to daylight. Accordingly, if the room was available, Mr Stroud would require its exclusive use from a half hour before sunrise to a half hour after sunset. Mr Stroud was willing to offer an extra two shillings a week for the inconvenience this might present. Looking back now Benjamin could only wonder why he had accepted the terms. No doubt greed had played no small part, but if he were honest with himself, it was that the extra moneyallowed him the opportunity to be extravagant in front of his work colleagues.
The Southwark Slasher had commenced his reign of terror a week later. The connection to his new tenant had not been obvious at first, not even when Jasper had started discussing the more gruesome details his police friend had revealed to him. But then Benjamin remembered a story published some years previously in the New Monthly Magazine. The story recounted the tale ofLord Ruthven, a vampire who preyed upon young women, drinking their blood to extend his life. Granted, Stroud was nothing like the character of Ruthven, but Benjamin could not help considering the possibility.And then there was the smell. Faint at first, it had become stronger as the weeks had passed. It seemed to permeate everything in the room, but it was strongest in the bed linen. It reminded him of death.
It was after six when Cruikshank finally allowed the clerks to leave. Twenty minutes and a brisk walk later found the trio imbibing a pint at the Crown and Anchor. The talk meandered amiably between the politics of the day, family matters and whether old Cruikshank was indeed related to Ebenezer Scrooge. It was another hour before Benjamin felt Jasper sufficiently lubricated to steer the conversation to the case of the Slasher. He cleared his throat.
“Mr Thomas,” he began. “Earlier today, you mentioned the latest attack by the Slasher. I take it your police source has more to tell than that which we read in the papers?”
“Perhaps,” replied Jasper. “But I’m afraid I cannot say much. It was told to me in the strictest confidence.”
Arnold chuckled.
“What he means to say, is he cannot tell you any more than what everyone has already read in the newspapers!”
“On the contrary, there are a number of details the papers have not been made aware of.”
“Such as?”
“You know I cannot say.”
“Oh, go on,” pressed Arnold. “You can tell us. We’ll not repeat a word, isn’t that so, Mr Good?”
Benjamin nodded in agreement.
“I shouldn’t really,” said Jasper.
“Not even one detail?”
Jasper looked about furtively then leant forward. Arnold and Benjamin responded in kind.
“The cut across the neckof each victim was not made by a blade,” he said in a hushed tone.
“Not by a blade?” repeated Benjamin. “How could they conclude that?”
“Well, a cut from a sharp blade would leave a neat edge, I’d expect,” observed Arnold.
“Correct,” said Jasper. “In each case the edges of the wound have been ragged, similar to what one would expect from the claw of some large animal.”
Arnold snorted derisively.
“Oh, come now, Jasper, that hardly appears likely. Surely the police don’t expect us to believe that some sort of giant beast is creeping about London hunting people?”
“I cannot say. But my source said there were also puncture wounds on the neck of each corpse, as though the fiend were latching onto their victim.”
“Like a vampire,” blurted Benjamin.
Jasper frowned quizzically.
“A what?”
“I think Mr Good is referring to a kind of fiend who feeds on human blood,” remarked Arnold. “You know, like in the story by that chap, Polidoris.”
“You mean the one in the New Monthly?” asked Jasper.
“The very same.”
“I thought Byron had written that.”
“Does it matter?” countered Benjamin. “You cannot deny these murders appear remarkably similar to what happened to the victims in that story.”
“Oh, come now!” scoffed Jasper. “How can that fantastical story bebased on fact?”
“If I may quote Mr Shakespeare,” began Arnold. “There are more things in the heaven and earth, than are dreamt of in our philosophy.”
“Quote all you like, Mr Penny, but I cannot believe there is a vampire stalking London,” countered Jasper.
“On the contrary, my dear man. The story by Polidoris is based on fact.”
“Oh, go on!”
“Five years ago, I travelled to the continent. Greece mostly but I also visited Varna, a harbour city on the Black Sea. It was there that I...”
“Was this when you were an assistant to Lord Chalmers?” interrupted Benjamin.
Arnold nodded. He took a swig of his ale before continuing.
“His lordship fancied himself a bit of an antiquarian, you know. He’d been told about this set of ancient Persian manuscripts and had decided to purchase them.”
“Hence the trip to Varna?”
“Correct. There we met with a Mr Dascalu, a dealer in ancient artifacts, manuscripts and so on. Turned out to be quite a character I can tell you. He attempted to sell Lord Chalmers a 15th century dagger said to belong to an infamous Wallachian prince named Vlad Dracula. Besides impaling his enemies, he also drank their blood. According to Dascalu, the dagger was the very same the prince had used to slit the throats of the young Ottoman virgins he chose as his victims. Drinking their blood, it was believed, would make him immortal.”
“And did it?” enquired Benjamin.
“He was murdered by a rival. But Dascalu maintained the prince had in fact returned from the dead and was alive somewhere deep in the Carpathian Mountains. The prince, so he informed us, was not actually human but had descended from an ancient race called vampires.”
“And I suppose vampires feed on the blood of humans, just like inPolidoris’ story,” enquired Jasper.
Arnold nodded again.
“Polidoris must have heard similar stories on his travels to the continent.”
“So, did Lord Chalmers end up purchasing the dagger?” enquired Benjamin.
“He was not interested, especially after finding out he’d been misinformed about the manuscripts.”
“Misinformed?”
“Yes, these turned out to be 16th century copies of an older text. Lord Chalmers suspected that the manuscripts were in fact forgeries.”
“And the dagger, was it also a forgery?”
“That we’ll never know. Lord Chalmers was so angry he stormed out of the place. And so, we ended up returning to Athens with nothing to show for our trip.”
Jasper shook his head and chuckled. He lifted his ale, drank deep and replaced his tankard on the table.
“Does this mean you actually believe Benjamin’s vampire theory then?”
“I did not say it was a vampire,” objected Benjamin. “I merely noted the similarity to the story.”
“Actually, besides the bodies drained of blood, Polidoris doesn’t give much of a description in his story,” noted Arnold. “So, one cannot say for certain what the police are dealing with.”
The men sat staring at their tankards in silent contemplation.
“I wonder if vampires are afraid of the daylight?” thought Benjamin out loud suddenly.
“What on earth made you think that?” asked Arnold.
“Nothing really,” replied Benjamin quickly. “It was just a thought, that is all.”
“Methinks Mr Good is in possession of knowledge the rest of us are not!” observed Jasper with a sly wink. “Why is that I wonder?”
“I most certainly am not! I was merely wondering out loud, that is all.”
He turned to Arnold.
“Arnold, that Dascalu chap, did he ever say anything else about the vampire legend?”
“As it turns out, an aversion to the daylight is a mark of a vampire. According to Dascalu that is,” replied Arnold looking at Benjamin suspiciously.“How did you come to think of it?”
“I’m not sure really. With our talk having turned to vampires and the murders having occurred at night, there just seemed to be a logical connection.”
“Perhaps Benjamin should write to Mr Peel and tell him of his theory,” suggested Jasper with a smirk. “Or better still, volunteer his services as an expert. A detective, I believe it is called. Yes, that’s it. Mr Good, the expert detective.”
“There are times, Mr Thomas, when I cannot fathom whether you mean to be taken in jest or not,” said Benjamin stiffly.
“Perhaps not an expert detective then,” observed Jasper dryly.
“Gentleman, the hour is late,” said Arnold noting Benjamin’s scowl. “I think it is time we were off.”
“What? So soon, Arnold?” quipped Jasper. “And just when our conversation was getting interesting.”
“Considering we have a murderer prowling the streets, I think it wise. May I also suggest we walk together? At least part of the way,” said Arnold.
Benjamin wanted to say he would rather walk alone but decided against it. This was not because he was afraid. On the contrary, he felt quite safe.He shared a room with a vampire. It would not, he reasoned to himself, be in the creature’s interests tomurder the very person offering it secure lodgings. This, he thought, probably made him the safest man in London. In the end the reason he agreed to Arnold’s suggestion was to allay any suspicion his work colleagues might have that he could be connected to the killer.There should have been no reason to think this, but then rationality and guilt make poor companions withinthe human conscience.
The trio set off together through the dark London streets. It did not take long for the comfortably intoxicated Jasper to annoy Benjamin and despite Arnold’s protestations he took his leave of them heading down a side street which he claimed was a short cut to his lodgings.
The wan light of the gas streetlamps cast an eerie glow against the thick fog which hung in the dank night air. Benjamin strode along purposefully, passing strangers which seemed to emerge from the oppressive gloom only to disappear as suddenly. Soon he found himself alone, the old brick buildings of the warehouse district looming high along each side of the narrow street. His footsteps rang dully on the cobblestones as he walked, emphasizing the unsettling quiet. He sensed rather than saw the sudden movement to his left. He stopped and looked about quickly. Had he imagined it? He cocked his head and listened intently. There! The scrape of a boot. Or was it? He stood awhile. Nothing. Benjamin looked about again. The row of black windows in the building opposite him stared back mutely. He shook his head irritably.
Pull yourself together, man! You have nothing to fear. You are the safest man in London.
He set off again but now every shadow appeared more ominous, filling him with an unsettling dread. There! That noise again. He stopped and listened. Nothing. He started to walk again. The end of the street appeared in the distance, promising sanctuary. Benjaminincreased the length of his strides. A large man suddenly stepped out from the shadows, a long blade glinting wickedly in his right hand.
“Not very often we get a fine gentleman such as yourself in these parts,” the brute growled.
“Now look here, I want no trouble,” stammered Benjamin and raised his hands.
“And there won’t be any trouble, as long as you hand over your valuables!”
The brute gave a satisfied grunt as Benjamin reached nervously into his coat pocket. He retrieved his wallet and handed it to the man. It was at this moment the vampire chose to strike, swooping onto the man from above. Benjamin stumbled back in horror as the creaturepulleditshapless victim to the ground. He knew he should turn and run but could not summon the will to. The demon drew its scythe-like claw across the man’s throat, choking off his desperate cries as it sliced through his carotid artery. Benjamin watched transfixed with fear as the vampire latched onto the man’s neck and began to feed, drinking deep to the last drop. Once it was done it looked up at Benjamin and smiled, it’s mouth and fangs red with the blood of its victim. The vampire’s black eyes bored into Benjamin’s soul. It raised a gnarled, deathly pale hand, pointed at him, and hissed in some ancient tongue. Then it spread its giant leathery wings and took off into the black night. Benjamin turned and ran then. He did not stop even though his legs ached, and his lungs burned with fire. He did not stop until at last he reached the safety of his little room.
At first Benjamin wanted to report what he’d witnessed to the authorities. But once he’d considered the possible repercussions he might face as the man who’d provided lodgings to a killer, he decided against it. Besides, who would be mad enough to believe his fantastic demon tale? This is not to say he was not wracked with guilt at knowing what he did. Quite the contrary, and if Arnold or Jasper noticed his quiet anguish over the next few weeks, they made no mention of it. But the prism of time has a way ofdistorting the past and it was not long before Benjamin decided that fate had placed him in a rather fortunate position. While the creature stalked the streets of London and terrorized its citizens he could go about his business without concern. He truly was the safest man in London.
The weeks turned to months and still the killings continued. Supposed experts were called in to investigate. Foot patrols were redoubled. There was even talk of bringing in the army. All to no avail. Soon few people chose to venture out at night, especially on those moonless nights when the fog hung thick in the streets. But the night held no fear for Benjamin. He walked the city’s deserted streets without concern. He’d even begun to consider other possible benefits of knowing the demon. Perhaps a note left on the bed requesting the removal of the irksome Jasper? Or maybe old Cruikshank? He might even be up for promotion should the old curmudgeon disappear. Yes, the possibilities appeared limitless for the safest man in London.
It was a particularly dark and foggy night when the vampire took Benjamin. There was a bemused look on his face as he felt his life-blood drain from his body. It was as though he still couldn’t quite understand why the vampire would do such a thing.
The next morning a half hour before sunrise Sydney Stroud unlocked the door to the room he shared with Benjamin Good. He closed the door behind him and let out a weary sigh. His job as nightwatchman at the city abattoir was arduous, especially on those occasions when the men worked late. He found the terrified squealing of the pigs being slaughtered especially hard to take. They made an almost human sound. He removed his long black hooded cloak and caught a glimpse of his horrifically disfigured face in the mirror and turned away. The memory of that night was still too much for him to bear. His family was gone, burned to death in the fire that destroyed their home, and his negligence the cause of it all. If only he could go back and undo the past. If only, but he could not, his terrible scars a constant reminder of that bitter fact. None in the village had pitied him but for the good Reverend Blackwell. He had seen to his recovery and arranged for his relocation. Sydney often wondered whether the reverend’s kindness to him wasin fact a curse and there were times he would contemplate ending it all but then he would think on the good reverend and determine to endure.
Sydney turned and looked about the room. ‘Strange,” he thought. ‘The bed’s not been slept in. Mr Good made no mention of going away. I wonder where he spent the night?’
THE END