JUST A SONG AT TWILIGHT

‘Just a song at twilight, when the lights are low;
And the flickering shadows softly come and go.
Tho’ the heart be weary, sad the day and long,
Still to us at twilight comes love’s old, sweet song,
Comes love’s old, sweet song.’

From ‘Love’s Old Sweet Song’ – by James L. Molloy and J. Clifton Bingham

Part Five

Challenger was a good as his word and left as the morning grew lighter. The rain still fell steadily in heavy sheets but the sky seemed fractionally less oppressive. Grey mist shrouded the tree-tops and the jungle was eerily silent, the usual dawn chorus of insects and birdsong deafening in its absence.

Marguerite watched as he left through the gate and disappeared off into the distance, his mackintosh cape wrapped around his body to keep out the sodden cold. She shivered slightly, glad of her shawl and stood for a while longer. Even though the new day was dank and depressing, she was glad the night was over. The remaining hours before it grew light had been difficult for them all.

Roxton’s condition was definitely slipping and no-one had achieved any sleep. One particularly bad bout of coughing had turned into a choking fit and for a few panic-stricken moments, Marguerite had feared the worst. Eventually, Challenger had solved the problem with a smart slap between the shoulder-blades, dislodging the thick plug of mucus which had threatened to steal Roxton’s air.

Experience told them it was just the beginning. Challenger had vanished down to the lab in an attempt to alleviate the problem, reappearing just before five am with a rudimentary suction bellows. It was cold comfort for Marguerite, her fears now turned to positive terror. Thankfully, Roxton had lost consciousness soon afterwards, worn out by sheer exertion. It was left to her to watch over him whilst he lay in an uneasy stupor.

She drifted listlessly back in to the kitchen area and stared at the unlit range. Common sense told her she needed some breakfast, it had been hours since she’d eaten a thing. But the thought of food was an anathema, as unwelcome as ashes on her tongue. In the end, she re-heated a pot of old coffee, grimacing as she swallowed the bitter grounds. There was some honey in a bowl in the larder and she forced a few spoonfuls down with some stale bread, knowing she needed the energy.

With any luck, if the weather improved, Malone and Veronica might return to the tree house. She had never longed to see them as much as she did now. Just to have some company to take away her sense of isolation, some friendly support caring for Roxton in this desperate hour of need . . . she reached for her coffee absentmindedly.

“Hell!” Marguerite swore in annoyance as she knocked over the pot of salt. The lid came off the canister and it spilled all over the table.

‘Spill the salt and tempt the devil . . .’ the old saying came back to haunt her.

Bloody typical, she gave a short, bitter laugh. It seemed as though even karma was trying to tell her something. Sometimes, in another life, she had delighted in flaunting the gods, flying in the face of superstition as she tempted the vagaries of fate.

She picked up a pinch of the spilled salt between her right thumb and forefinger and cast it quickly over her left shoulder. For a moment, she had been tempted to leave it there, but a twinge of fear and conscience prevailed. She was the only one there to do it, and she didn’t need any more bad luck. The way life was going at present, things could hardly get worse. Well, they could . . . but her mind brushed over it. She would only face certain hurdles if and when they occurred.

The other person who cleaned up after her happened to be Roxton. Since their arrival on the Plateau, his Lordship had spent a good deal of time clearing-up her messes – metaphorical and otherwise – pulling her out of the various scrapes she tended to find herself in. Marguerite’s throat tightened, he was definitely in no position to do it his time. Sudden tears blurred in her eyes and she turned away to fetch a cloth.

She was gone from the table for less than thirty seconds, but something had changed when she returned. Two symbols had been inscribed in the salt. MK, her initials again. There was no mistaking the bold outlines of the letters - this was no chance or random accident.

“That’s it. I’ve had enough!” Marguerite swept the salt from the table and stared wildly around the room. “I’m not in the mood for any more of your riddles, bloody well tell me what you want?”

A freak gust of wind swept through the tree house and rattled the bamboo curtains. Marguerite ran across to the mirror and looked into the glass. “Where are you? Show yourself, I know you’re there!”

The strains of a song drifted over her head but she knew they didn’t come from the gramophone. The music was ghostly and slightly off-key, echoing down through the past.

‘Just a song at twilight, when the lights are low;
And the flickering shadows softly come and go . . .’

The face of the woman began to materialise, the same way it had done before. To Marguerite’s relief, it was smooth and intact, the skin free of mutilation. The apparition stretched out her pale arms in a plea and her right hand moved up to her neck. The crucifix lay hollowed against her breasts, a flashing gleam of silver. She lifted the cross and held it up, showing it off to Marguerite.

“The crucifix, it’s something about the crucifix?” Marguerite’s tone was sharp. She mentally racked her jewel case but she had nothing which resembled the necklace. It was just an ordinary silver cross attached to what looked like a chain, a common enough piece of jewellery, nothing expensive or special.

Then, just as it had done the previous afternoon, everything distorted and changed. Marguerite watched in now-familiar horror as the bloody transformation took place. She could feel the other woman’s torment and sense every atom of her fear. It was as if she herself was victim to the knifeman’s frenzied attack.

Blood in her hair, in her mouth, in her eyes . . . blood running red down the glass. The wicked slash of the relentless blade, held by an unseen madman . . .

Marguerite staggered away from the mirror and collapsed onto the floor. She lay there shuddering with terror and shock, chest heaving with wild sobs. It must have been several minutes later before she regained some control and at least another thirty seconds before the room stopped lurching. Marguerite took a faltering breath and realised the music had faded. The only sound which broke the silence was the dreary patter of the rain.

She got unsteadily back to her feet and tottered across to the mirror. She hardly dared look into the glass, afraid of what she might see. There was nothing but her own reflection, white-faced and crazy-eyed. No blood, no sign of the woman. For now, she was alone.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

In-spite of all his promises, Challenger did not return by mid-day. Early afternoon came and went with no sign of the errant scientist. At first, Marguerite was not unduly worried. Challenger was notoriously unreliable when it came to observing punctuality - time was a relative concept as far as he was concerned. Four o’clock had come and gone before she began to feel on edge, uneasily waiting for the sound of the lift which would herald his return. Challenger was easily side-tracked but not when it came to Roxton’s health.

Roxton. Marguerite sensed him watching her and forced a reassuring smile. He’d been semi-conscious for most of the afternoon, drowsing in-between bouts of coughing. Rest had been elusive in-spite of the morphine, it was as if he instinctively sensed her worry and as a consequence, couldn’t relax. She’d been forced to tell him of Challenger’s quest when he’d asked why she wasn’t resting. The simple truth of the matter was that she was on her own, but seeing the vexed lines appear around his eyes had made her start to query her honesty.

Earlier, worried by his fever, she had given Roxton a dose of quinine and been encouraged by the results. His temperature was down a few notches and he was definitely more lucid again, but she didn’t know whether this was good or bad as the long afternoon wore on. He too, was getting fretful about Challenger as the scientist failed to appear. It probably wasn’t helping matters much that he’d noticed she’d strapped on her pistol, but after the horror of her last spectral encounter, Marguerite wasn’t taking any chances. So what, if the comfort it provided was purely psychological – it made her feel a damn sight better!

“He probably got diverted by some rare, disgusting insect.” Marguerite smiled nonchalantly as she helped Roxton drink his tea. “Any minute now, he’ll walk through the door completely unaware of the time.”

“Probably.” Roxton played the game.

“John . . .” she hesitated, unsure how to broach the subject. “When you and Veronica went looking for Gull, did either of you find any remains?”

“No,” he grimaced, slightly. “Plenty of blood and raptor tracks but there was nothing left of the doctor.”

“Nothing? No scraps of clothing, no trace of bone?”

“Nothing.” Roxton confirmed. “Why?”

She shrugged lightly. “No particular reason. It would just be reassuring to know for certain the bastard really was dead.”

Lord John Roxton might be sick but he was anything but stupid. He pushed himself up higher on his pillows and regarded Marguerite steadily. “And again, Marguerite, tell me why?”

“Careful,” she fussed with his chest drain and avoided meeting his eyes. “There’s nothing for you to worry about, I’m just being fanciful and foolish.”

“You, foolish?” There was a trace of wry humour in his tone. “You maybe many things, Marguerite, but I would never describe you as foolish. What’s wrong?”

“I hardly know how to put it into words, it all seems so improbable.” She put down the teacup with a troubled sigh and stared over the top of his head. “Damn it, I may as well come straight out with it – it can’t sound any less foolish. There’s someone, a ghost, haunting the tree house.” She saw the flare of alarm in his eyes but had prepared herself for it. “No, John, I don’t think she means us any harm. I think she’s been trying to warn me.”

“She?” Roxton did not sound mollified.

“A woman, one of the Ripper’s victims. She’s been appearing to me since you became ill.”

Roxton frowned and closed his eyes, laying his head back on the pillow. Marguerite watched anxiously, she immediately regretted telling him. The last thing she wanted was to worry him, but he always seemed to know when she was disturbed. If she’d lied, it would only have made things worse and she couldn’t countenance that. To her relief and surprise, he didn’t query her statement, but perhaps the Saros incident had taught him better. The Plateau was enough to sway the firmest disbeliever and after the recent experience with Malone, they both knew for certain that a spirit world existed.

“An omen?” he eventually asked.

The question was not one she particularly wanted to answer. It was her unspoken fear that the woman might be trying to prepare her for the worst case scenario. To hear Roxton put it into words was more than she could bear.

“No, John. I don’t think it’s that . . .” her voice tailed off in distress.

If the truth be told, Marguerite wasn’t sure at all. The timing of the haunting seemed a touch too coincidental, the woman first appearing just as Roxton’s health collapsed. Unwilling as she was to face up to it, the solution was glaringly obvious. Why go looking for other reasons when the answer lay before her on his sick-bed?

Except that she wasn’t convinced the explanation lay entirely in Roxton’s illness. A sense of impending evil still hovered around them everywhere.

Roxton reached across the counterpane and gave her hand a small squeeze. She attempted to rally but failed abysmally, appalled to find her eyes had filled with tears.

“There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you.” Roxton said carefully. “If the worst should happen . . .” He held her hand tighter as she tried to pull away. “If the worst happens, there’s a sealed letter in the hidden compartment at the bottom of my trunk.” He gave her a perceptive smile. “And don’t pretend you don’t know where that is.”

“John . . .” she didn’t even try to deny it. “Stop. Please don’t.”

“Take it to my lawyers back in London – the address is written on the envelope.” He acted as though she hadn’t spoken. “Everything will be taken care of according to my instructions. To all intents and purposes, they’ll treat you as Lady Roxton.”

“I won’t do it.”

“Why not?” Roxton caressed the back of her hand. “Don’t tell me you’re still married to somebody else?”

Marguerite shook her head helplessly. “You fool – you bloody, sweet fool.”

“I’ve no one else,” he was serious. “My mother’s been well taken care of and there’s only a distant cousin. A thoroughly disagreeable fellow, if I do say so myself. The thought of him inheriting the Roxton fortune is totally beyond the pale, he’d let the estates go to rack and ruin and squander all the money at the tables. So you see, you’d be doing me a favour . . .”

“As tempting as that offer is,” Marguerite interrupted him quickly as she pulled herself together and pretended to consider. “While we’re still stuck in this infernal place, you’re far more useful to me alive. But if we ever get back to England, now that’s a whole different matter!”

Roxton shook his head at her and then they were both quiet for a moment. The possibility of either one of them returning to the real world seemed more remote than ever, but it was easier to maintain a façade than confront the grim reality.

“What are you going to do about our phantom visitor?” Roxton asked after a while. “Challenger should be told about this, he’ll come up with some sort of idea.”

“No.” Marguerite shook her head, decisively. “Challenger needs to concentrate solely on you at the moment. Once he’s developed his precious drug and you’re safely on the mend, then I’ll be more than happy to tell him about the ghost.”

Roxton frowned. “You should tell him when he returns, I don’t like the thought of you in danger. Did . . . did you really think I wouldn’t notice you’ve been carrying your gun?”

He caught his breath with a hitch of pain and started hacking again, his head falling forward exhaustedly as he struggled and fought for air. Marguerite supported him in silence, rubbing soothing circles across his back as the coughing ravaged his body. There was no question of telling Challenger the truth whilst Roxton remained so ill, she would deal with her ghostly stalker alone until the situation improved.

And as for the reason she carried the gun? She knew that logically, it made no sense. As far as she was aware of, ghosts were immune to bullets, but the weapon still gave her some comfort and the illusion of control. Until she was sure there was no tangible threat, the revolver stayed right by her side.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Roxton slept again after that, his face in stark repose against the pillows. Marguerite glanced at her wrist-watch, it was almost six o’clock. Just as she was wondering what the hell to do, she heard the familiar sound of the lift pulley.

She ran up the stairs with a swell of relief. It had been an impossible situation - if Challenger had stumbled into trouble, she would have been powerless to help him. She was effectively a prisoner in the tree house; there was no way she could have left Roxton.

“Where the hell have you been, George . . .” the question died on her lips.

“You’d better give me a hand here, Marguerite.” Challenger struggled out of the lift, supporting a total stranger.

Marguerite stopped dead in her tracks and reached automatically for her pistol. The new arrival was staggering drunkenly, almost out on his feet. He didn’t even look up at her as Challenger helped him into the room. She could see he was a white man, dressed in ragged safari clothes. The sleeve of his jacket was ripped to shreds and spattered with streaks of blood. It didn’t look as though he posed any threat, but Marguerite had gone far beyond taking anything at face value.

“Challenger?” Her voice was filled with questions.

Challenger looked up at her properly and frowned at the gun in her hand. “I found this poor fellow wandering about the jungle barely conscious. Apparently, he met up with Anderson and Gull several months ago in Caracas; they paid him to guide them as far as the Plateau and then they turned on him. He was lucky to escape with his life.” Challenger steered the man to a nearby chair. “Fetch me a drop of that brandy, I think he’s just exhausted and a trifle weak from loss of blood.”

Marguerite did as she was told in silence, the gun clutched tightly in her hand. She was filled with dismay at Challenger’s words; the Ripper saga still wasn’t over. But then, deep down, she had known it wasn’t. The haunting was testimony to that.

“Here,” her tone was curt.

“Thank you.”

For the first time, the stranger looked up at her and Marguerite recoiled. His face was deformed by a hideous scar which had gouged out his right eye socket. A sardonic flicker tightened his mouth as he noticed her reaction, and then it vanished so quickly, she couldn’t be sure it had ever been there. The facial scarring clearly wasn’t recent but the ragged wound on his shoulder was swollen and did seem fairly fresh. It validated his story of being attacked, but Marguerite still felt suspicious.

She turned back to Challenger with some urgency. Roxton remained her main concern. “Did you get everything you needed?”

“I did.” Challenger recollected his thoughts. “Mister Blanchard* here, needs a place to rest and someone to take a look at his shoulder. Would you mind, Marguerite?”

She nodded, annoyed by this unwanted digression. “I’ll see to it as soon as I can, but I do have other priorities.”

It was a not so subtle dig at Challenger for wasting time on a stranger when Roxton’s needs were acute. How many bloody hours had he squandered helping this Blanchard back to the tree house?

“How’s Roxton?” Challenger responded to her acid note. “No worse, I trust?”

“No better, either.”

“I’ll get to work at once. It should only take me an hour or two to finish and test the formula, I’m confident I have the basic principle de-coded, the levels of extra-cellular sodium have to be reduced. Now that I have what I need to synthesise the sulphur, I can produce a safe diuretic.”

“Soon would be good.” Marguerite was still disgruntled.

“I’m sorry to be so much trouble.” Blanchard spoke-up once Challenger had escaped downstairs to the lab. “Forgive my unwarranted intrusion. The last thing you need is at the moment is another sick man on your hands.”

“Can you remove your jacket?” Marguerite was in no mood for small-talk. She tried to avoid looking into his face, the terrible scarring was un-nerving. Despite the fact he must be well in his fifties, it was legacy of the war, perhaps? A tragic number of soldiers had survived the conflict with devastatingly visible injuries, some of them even forced to resort to wearing concealing painted masks.

He struggled obligingly out of his jacket and took another swallow of brandy. The wound wasn’t deep but it had bleed a lot and looked far gorier than it was serious. It didn’t take Marguerite long to gather up the first aid kit and a bowl of diluted carbolic. She kept the gun within easy reach of her hand the entire time.

“They shot you, you say?” She began to clean him up, ignoring his flinch of pain. There was no sign of a bullet wound and her scepticism must have shown.

“I didn’t, actually.” He watched the pistol out of the corner of his eye. It was as if he knew she was trying to catch him out. “Doctor Gull attacked me with a knife. Luckily, I managed to deflect the blow and barely escaped with my life. I’ve been walking in circles ever since, trying to make my way back to the caverns and escape from this hideous plateau . . . running and hiding from vicious beasts . . . like monsters out a nightmare!”

“The caverns?” Marguerite’s hand trembled slightly as she realised the implications of his words.

“I say, is there some more of that brandy?” Blanchard sank back against the chair and closed his one good eye. “I’m afraid I feel rather faint.”

He may have indeed lost consciousness, although something told her he could have been faking, but there was clearly no more conversation to be had from their uninvited guest. Marguerite’s mind was in turmoil as she finished binding his shoulder. Whether or not she wanted him here, Blanchard knew a way off the Plateau.

END OF PART FIVE

Lisa Paris - 2006

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Part Six

Whitechapel – November 1888 . . .

She shivered as she tripped down the alleyways and drew her red shawl tight around her shoulders. Swathes of mist floated up from the Thames, there was a definite nip in the air. November – now the nights were drawing in, the customers would drop off a little. The Portsmouth idea was looking better by the minute, it would get her out of a wee spot of bother . . .

It wasn’t exactly her fault she’d fallen so behind with the rent – she fingered the remnants of a blackened eye and scowled. Customers what didn’t pay were sadly two a penny, they’d take what they wanted and renege on the deal with no more than a slap if she was lucky. Just lately, it seemed as though she had attracted more than her fair share of the bastards. And then there was her other little problem. Mary Jane placed her hand on her belly, curving over the tiny swelling. Luckily, there were ways and means around it, but they all required some brass.*

A footstep echoed behind her, the soft sound of leather on cobblestones. She glanced nervously over her shoulder, but there was no-one to be seen through the fog. Most likely some punters on the way back to their lodgings or some trawlermen up from the river. Not much chance of any rich pickings on a filthy night like this.

She turned the corner into Miller’s Court* and lingered under the gaslight. If anyone was on the look-out for some late-night company, then she was more than happy to oblige. A fog-horn wailed mournfully up from the Thames, unaccountably making her shiver. It was lost in the night like the souls of the dead, in-search of a way back home.

‘Too much gin and ‘ot, my gel!’ She shook her head at her fancies. It was no good getting the wind-up, not a practical moll like her.

She cocked her head and listened hard. There it was again, another footfall. There was something stealthy about it, treading furtively between the narrow alleyways. A wave of doubt washed over her and she stepped out of the bright pool of gaslight, edging back into the shadows where she could bide her time without being seen. Suddenly the allure of a few extra coppers didn’t seem quite so attractive.

She clutched at the ragged fringe of the shawl and found she was holding her breath. The feeling that ‘He’ was watching her too, grew stronger with each passing second. It couldn’t be the Ripper. There’d been no attacks for several weeks. There was talk in the pubs it was over – that the brief reign of terror had ended. What with that eagle-eyed Inspector Anderson of the Yard and his coves swarming all over the East End . . . it was a wonder folks could go about their business trying to earn a decent living.

Her fingertips brushed the chain around her neck and she reached automatically for the crucifix. The small, symbolic piece of silver seemed to give her the courage she needed. Picking- up her skirts in both hands, she ran as fast as she could, across the cobbled courtyard to the front door of her lodgings. She fumbled for the key for a panic-stricken moment, wasting precious time. There was a footstep some distance behind her and she knew without turning, he was there. Her terror grew stronger but she found the key and forced it into the lock.

She fell forwards into the dingy hallway and slammed the door shut behind her, her bosom heaving with effort and fear as she leant against the wall in relief. She knew in her heart she had come very close to a nameless, creeping evil, and even though she was safe inside, the terror refused to go away.

She put her ear to the flimsy door and listened hard for any sound. Nothing was discernable out in the darkness, but the heavy silence was unnerving in itself. Something told her he was still out there – maybe even listening on the other side of the door. Mary Jane took several steps backwards, indecision and dread in her heart. There was no-one else in the dingy house but the land-lady, asleep in her bedroom upstairs. Waking her was out of the question – there was the awkward little matter of the rent.

Mary Jane stumbled up the passageway, a heady combination of gin and adrenalin making her movements clumsy. She would be safe in here from whatever was lurking in the swathes of fog outside. As long as she stayed locked in her room, she was protected from the evil which stalked her . . .

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Marguerite woke-up suddenly as Roxton called out in his sleep. She placed her hand on his forehead and waited, but he quietened and didn’t stir. Cooler – was it her imagination, or did Roxton feel distinctly cooler?

After the trials of the last few days, she hardly dared to hope. She bent her ear closer to his chest and listened, his breathing still sounded raspy but perhaps not quite as stressed. Challenger had given him the first dose of diuretic medicine just before nine o’clock this evening. He had promised results within the next twelve hours, but Marguerite wasn’t counting any chickens. In-spite of the scientist’s undoubted genius, she still felt strangely despondent. A cloud hovered over the tree house, an air of something as yet unresolved.

Her dreams had been verging on nightmarish. More like memory than imagination. So real, she felt vaguely out of time, displaced and otherworldly. Marguerite was certain she knew the identity of the woman who haunted her. MK stood for Mary Kelly and not for Marguerite Krux. The appearances augured danger, she was absolutely sure of that. The phantom was trying to warn her that the peril wasn’t over.

A floorboard creaked above her head, the unmistakeable tread of a foot. Someone was on the move in the room upstairs, but trying to be stealthy about it. Blanchard - Marguerite scowled as she thought about their unwelcome guest. She didn’t like him, didn’t trust him. He was the last thing they needed right now. His story was just about feasible, she supposed. It was highly unlikely Anderson and Gull could have navigated their way along the Amazon alone, the two Englishmen would have needed a seasoned guide conversant with the dangerous country. The battered remnants of their campsite had been large and filled with equipment, far too much gear for two middle-aged men to have managed by themselves. Roxton was of the opinion the two men had murdered their bearers. In-light of the sequence of subsequent events, she had been inclined to agree with his theory.

If Blanchard’s account of his escape was true, it was nothing short of miraculous. And then to survive on the hostile Plateau, injured and alone, the man had been lucky to say the least. The floorboards shifted and groaned again as he walked about over her head. For someone, whom a short while ago, was barely able to stay awake, he sounded amazingly active as he moved around the tree house above her.

Marguerite glanced at Roxton but he was sleeping soundly now. She made up her mind and pushed the hangings aside, moving soundlessly up the stairs. For the first time since the onset of the storm, a sliver of moon could be seen in the sky. It was a curious shade of yellow, jaundiced and on the wane, scudded across with remnants of cloud, still heavy and dense with rain. Monochrome fragments of pale light brought life to the shapes in the night, the tree house was alive in the darkness as though it was holding its breath. Marguerite strained her eyes in the gloom and paused at the top of the staircase, grateful for the dimness at the rear of the room which allowed her to fade into the shadows.

One of the paraffin lamps had been lit but the wick was turned down as far as it would go. Blanchard was standing next to the desk, the ghastly scars on the side of his face thrown into grotesque relief by the muted amber light. Marguerite’s eyes hardened. The drawers in front of the guide had been opened, their contents spilled out and rifled.

“Damnation, where is it?” The man was clearly agitated, running his uninjured hand through his hair and staring wildly around the room. “They must have taken it with them - it has to be here somewhere!”

Marguerite shrank back into her place of concealment, her fingers tightening on the gun. As her vision adjusted to the subdued lighting, it became obvious Blanchard had spent both time and energy in searching through the whole room. Books had been pulled out of the bookcases and cupboard doors swung open. Some of the lids to the trunks stood open, their contents stacked hap-hazardly on the floor.

Well, whatever ‘it’ was, he hadn’t found it. Marguerite’s mind worked swiftly as she tried to figure out what Blanchard was after. It didn’t take much imagination to come to a valid conclusion. Anderson and Gull must have financed their ill-fated expedition across the globe somehow, but when she and Roxton had searched through the remains of the campsite, they hadn’t found much money. Just a small amount of Venezuelan currency hardly worth anything at all. According to Challenger, William Gull had been a very wealthy man indeed, an eminent Victorian surgeon with connections to the royal family.

Marguerite smiled to herself in the gloom. She had a shrewd idea what had brought Blanchard to the tree house. The man had returned to the camp-site in search of valuables and cash. Perhaps he had intended to steal from them and make his way back to the caverns. It would have been one hell of shock to return to the campsite and find everything packed up and gone.

Blanchard must have been spying on them the whole time. He’d either seen or guessed what had happened to Anderson and Gull, and later-on, had watched as she and Roxton had gone through their possessions. He must have assumed they’d found whatever it was he’d been searching for. A banker’s draft or letter, most likely, with access to either man’s funds.

Her thoughts raced. The caverns – what would Blanchard be prepared to accept in return for divulging their whereabouts? The fact she didn’t actually have anything to bargain with was a minor fly in the ointment. A wealth of tempting possibilities was opening up in front of her. Once she knew the location of a way off the Plateau, she could search for the ouroborous in her own time. And then, if and when she found it, she would not have to leave her friends behind when she returned to the real world. More importantly, so much more importantly, she would not have to leave Roxton behind.

“Lose something?” Marguerite stepped out of the shadows, the pistol ready in her hand.

Blanchard spun around wildly, an ugly look on his face. He stopped when he saw the gun levelled at him, clearly unsure what to say.

Marguerite saved him the bother. “It’s not here. The item you’re searching for, it’s hidden in a safe place.”

“How do you know what I’m after?” he took one or two steps closer.

“That’s far enough!” Marguerite aimed the gun at his head. “Don’t make the mistake of underestimating me, I won’t hesitate to pull the trigger.”

A muscle worked at the side of his jaw as he considered the actuality of her words. Something about her must have convinced him and he put up a conciliatory hand. “I take your point, Miss Krux. There’s no need for any unpleasantness.”

“I agree,” a small, hard smile crossed her features. “We both have something to bargain with, shall we discuss terms?”

“What do you want?”

“I want you to draw me a map.” Marguerite gestured towards the desk. “You’ll find a pencil and plenty of paper - now draw me a map to the caverns.”

Blanchard nodded in crafty comprehension. “But how do I know I can trust you? How do I know you’ll keep your word and uphold your end of the deal?”

“Hmm . . .” she shrugged her shoulders. “You don’t. But seeing as I hold all the cards, you’ll just have to take the gamble.” She looked pointedly at the gun. “And of course, it goes without saying this stays between the two of us. If Challenger asks about the caverns, your wound has left you muddled and disorientated. You don’t remember your way back there, it was Anderson and Gull who had the map.”

For a moment, he tensed with anger. “You’re playing a dangerous game, Miss Krux. I could draw you a worthless map. By the time you realise, I’ll be long gone, and you’ll be stuck here for the rest of eternity.”

“Wrong.” Marguerite’s eyes glittered. “You see, I’m not going to keep my side of the bargain until I’ve seen the way out for myself. You’re going to stay here and recuperate until the storm is over. Once my friends have returned from their trip, you will show me the way to the caverns. Then and only then, will I tell you where to find what you’re looking for. After that, you can take it and go to the devil.”

“You bitch!” The insult hissed out of him. For a moment, it seemed as though he would rush her in-spite of the threat of the gun.

“Don’t even think about it!” She retained her nerve and regarded him coolly. “I’ve been called worse in the past. Oh, and don’t bother searching the tree house again, you’d only be wasting your time.”

Blanchard stared at her with hatred but the moment of danger came and went. He turned to the desk in search of a pencil whilst she stepped up into the lantern’s pool of light, watching as he sketched out a few swift strokes and began to draw a rudimentary map.

“I’ll need a compass.” He sat down in the chair.

“Help yourself,” she smiled, sarcastically, and indicated the second drawer down. “Oh, but you’ve been doing that already, haven’t you? You’ll find one in there.” She was playing a hazardous game and she knew it, but the risk was more than worth taking. When it came to handing over the fictional money, she would have to play it by ear. Marguerite gave a mental shrug – it was a game she’d played so many times before. She would cross that bridge when she came to it – by then, the way off the plateau would be hers!

The lantern flickered for a moment and Marguerite felt her hackles rise. Blanchard continued to work on the map, apparently he hadn’t even noticed.

‘Not now . . .’ Marguerite whispered a silent prayer. ‘Not now, of all bloody times!’

Some of the scattered papers rustled, lifted-up by the cool night breeze. The air around her seemed to spring into life as the veil between the worlds shimmied aside. Marguerite took a step backwards, her reluctant gaze drawn to the mirror, she was mesmerised by the silvery glass, dragged towards it in-spite of her fears. She heard Blanchard move behind her and was aware he was up on his feet. The peril was twofold and fraught with menace but Marguerite was helpless in its snare.

She saw him over her shoulder, disfigured and twisted by shadows. The scarring appeared more pronounced than ever as the mirror reflected his face. Whether or not he intended to harm her, Marguerite was powerless to stop him. It was almost as though she was paralysed, unable to move or call out.

The surface of the mirror seemed to ripple and shift and inevitably, the woman appeared. She was standing beside them, her face gaunt with hollows and a strange little smile on her lips.

Blanchard’s expression changed to one of horror, his jaw falling open in a silent scream. Marguerite watched as he struggled to escape and she knew then, he saw the ghost too. The woman’s eyes were fixated on him and Marguerite felt like an observer. For once, she was not the focus of attention and it made her both curious and relieved.

“No . . .”

The word of denial was wrenched from his lips as Blanchard moaned in terror. He reached for his neck and began to choke, coughing and tearing at his collar. Behind him, the woman had raised her hands to compress his exposed windpipe. Marguerite stared into the mirror, hypnotised with horrid fascination. The reflection clearly showed the ghost strangling him, but there were no flesh and blood hands on his throat. Blanchard’s knees began to sag as he fought uselessly against his tormentor. His remaining eye rolled back in his head and he collapsed in a heap on the floor.

Marguerite watched with growing dread as the woman turned back to her. It was her turn now, within seconds her throat would start to tighten as the phantom cut off her air. There was another sound in the background, the by-now familiar refrain. It seemed as though the hateful lyrics were the last words she’d ever hear.

‘Just a song at twilight, when the lights are low . . .’

Hands encircled the woman’s throat, disembodied and not her own, constricting the flow of blood to her brain as her dark eyes widened in fear.* Marguerite felt some life return to her limbs as she witnessed the ghastly tableau. She was watching an invisible killer at work as the scene played out before her in the mirror.

There was no doubt the hands belonged to a man, they were large, the fingers long and coarse. Marguerite tasted bile on her tongue; she knew what she was being forced to observe. These were the hands of Jack the Ripper. But which one - was it Anderson or Gull? Who had actually killed Mary Kelly, or had they both been involved?

Just as before, the woman raised her crucifix, holding it up like a talisman as the fatal slashing began. Marguerite couldn’t bear the thought of watching the whole bloody sequence all over again. It took every ounce of effort she possessed, but at last, she managed to close her eyes and break the terrifying cycle.

At once, the life surged back to her limbs with a rush of pins and needles. She gripped the edge of the mantle in relief, too drained to move or think. After at least a minute had passed, Marguerite re-opened her eyes. The woman had vanished from the mirror and there was no trace of any supernatural presence. Other than a trail of scattered papers on the floor, the tree house had returned to normal.

Or near as damn it. Marguerite knelt at Blanchard’s side and carefully felt for a pulse. The man’s heart was still beating slowly and she didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed. She made no effort to move him, rising quickly to her feet and heading across to the desk. The map he had drawn seemed more or less complete as she held it close to the lamp. It was an area she barely recognised, a rugged limestone escarpment beyond the Inland Sea. Ironically, she had tried dragging Roxton out there once, a year or two ago, in search of minerals and gems. For some reason, they hadn’t made it and she had forgotten about it since then.

The paper trembled in her hand. If it truly was a way off the Plateau, its significance was mighty. It presented her with a potential dilemma, the ramifications of which would have serious and far-reaching consequences. Marguerite was under no illusions, if she told the others she had a cast iron way off the Plateau, they would all, except for Veronica, want to leave for home at once. Her mission to find the ouroborous would be brought to an end and all her hopes would be dashed. The alternative was obvious, but was she capable of doing it?

She was already weighted down with lies, by deceit and by omission. Untruths she had deliberately allowed them to believe, things she had left unsaid. A wave of guilt rolled over her. Not one of her fellow travellers deserved to be lied to, they were decent without exception. People to whom she owed her life – people whom, however reluctantly, she now thought of as her surrogate family. Besides, rationale told Marguerite she might already be too late. As distracted as Challenger was at the minute, he would still have realised Blanchard held the key to a possible way home.

And then, of course, there was Roxton. All this was assuming he would recover, regain his strength and get well. If she with-held the map and he ever found out . . . it just didn’t bear thinking about. The alternatives were hardly any better. Marguerite felt caught in a trap. Damned if you do, and damned if you don’t. At least this way, she had some options. If and when she found the ouroborous, they could all go home together. Otherwise, if the talisman truly was as powerful as she believed, it seemed likely she would be travelling alone.

Marguerite took a resolute breath and stepped out onto the balcony. Even though there was still a nip in the air, the worst of the storm seemed to have passed.

An omen?

Life had been full of portents lately and not one of them had brought good news. It was about time fate dealt her some decent cards and the ace would be Roxton’s recovery. In the mean-time, she would have to watch her back and be very wary of Blanchard indeed. She folded the map into her pocket and headed back towards the stairs.

END OF PART SIX

Lisa Paris - 2006

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Notes

1. Blanchard – Author’s poetic licence here. Blanchard was the name of a documented Ripper suspect, Alfred Napier Blanchard. Blanchard confessed to the murders whilst drinking in a pub, but later denied everything, saying he was suffering from the effects of alcohol and nervousness. He was never taken seriously at the time, but there are some interesting points about his confession, including his description of subduing a woman by compressing her windpipe and therefore preventing her from crying out (see Note 4) a technique the Ripper is presumed to have used.

2. Was Mary Jane Kelly pregnant? - according to the Scotland Yard Coroner’s report, Kelly was approximately three months pregnant when she was killed. This led to a well-publicised but little-evidenced theory that ‘Jack’ might be a ‘Jill.’ A demented midwife with some knowledge of anatomy, who could walk the streets unchallenged, and covered in blood, without raising any questions.

3. Miller’s Court - Scene of the last authenticated Ripper murder. Mary Jane Kelly rented a ground floor room in lodgings here. The Ripper let him/herself in through the door with no sign of forced entry.

4. The Ripper Killings – the archives and autopsy’s which detail the deaths of the Ripper victims describe a particular curiosity. It appears the killer knew how to silence and immobilise his prey by using a neck-pinch technique – a little like the ubiquitous Vulcan nerve-grip made famous by Mister Spock on Star Trek. It is thought he used it on at least two of the victims, Polly Nichols and Annie Chapman, and possibly Catherine Eddowes as well, before cutting their throats and beginning the grisly mutilations. The SAS (UK Elite Special Forces) are also taught this technique as part of their basic training. It was an unusual piece of knowledge in those days and bolsters the popular theory the Ripper may have had some sort of specialist medical knowledge or background.

Lisa Paris

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