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

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Part Nine

Whitechapel – November 1888 . . .

The room wasn’t much in the scheme of things – it barely tipped the scales on the right side of squalor. The flower-patterned wallpaper was faded and damp with patches of mould in the corners. A chest-of-drawers, an old, iron-framed bed and that was pretty much it. It wasn’t as if she needed a wardrobe; she owned hardly any clothes to put in it. At least there was a small fireplace where she could boil up a kettle. A good cup of tea was just what she needed to help her get over the fright.

She lit the gas-lamp with shaking hands, holding a spill to the meagre flame as she crouched at the side of the hearth. The yellowed newspaper lining the grate caught fire and the flames began to lick around the kindling. There were only a few lumps of coal left in the pail, she would have to go on the scrounge tomorrow. There were numerous coal-yards down by the river, or the rail-tracks which led to the docks, she could usually gather enough discarded coke from the steam trains to eke out a few days worth of fires.

But the paltry little flames didn’t help things much. The room felt as cold as the November night, permeated with an intractable air of dampness. Mary Kelly shivered and looked around her with a feeling of sudden distaste. Moving down to Portsmouth was becoming more attractive by the minute, winter in London could be proper bleedin’ harsh and perhaps she should just cut her losses and run.

The boarding house was uncommonly quiet, apart from the slight hiss of moisture from the reddening coals as they caught and began to glow. A stealthy creak from overhead made her jump out of her skin. She became very still and listened.

“Jist a bloody floorboard, Mary, pull yourself together, gel!” she was annoyed by her lingering fear.

She double- checked the lock on the flimsy door and made certain she’d turned the key. The frame on the one, tiny window was broken, but seeing as it opened out onto the alleyway, no-one would be foolish enough to try and force an entry without the fear of attracting attention from random passers-by. As much as she hated to admit it, the nebulous encounter out in the darkened courtyard had really put the wind right up her, and although she was safe in the dingy little room, the sensation of evil still lingered.

There was a drop of water left in the kettle, enough for a cup of tea. Thank heavens for small mercies. The thought of venturing from the safety of her room was not on the cards tonight. The water-pump was out in the yard and she had no desire to tempt fate. Of course, it hadn’t been the Ripper outside . . . she’d always had an over-active turn of thought . . . it may not have been the Ripper outside but the whole thing had given her a bit of a turn. The walls lurched sideways and she giggled slightly – too much of the old Mother’s Ruin.* She shouldn’t have spent all her coppers on the grog, but what the heck, a gel deserved some fun.

Mary Kelly drank her tea and lay down on the bed, trying to work a way out of her troubles. Things were going from bad to worse, she’d done it good and proper this time. Once the baby began to show, she had no chance of earning a decent living. They’d both end up in the bleedin’ workhouse unless she could afford a midwife to put an end to the poor little thing.

She thought back over her past with a frown, remembering another baby, another time. It hadn’t been her problem back then, in-fact, she hadn’t really been involved in any of that particular mess at all. She’d heard the story via a namesake who’d been terrified for her very life. That other Mary Kelly* had ended up dead and taken her secrets to the grave with her – or so the toffs trying to silence her had hoped, or those concerned with burying the scandal had believed. Perhaps the time had come at last to send out a couple of significant letters. There were one or two people in high-up places who would pay to keep their secrets well buried. A little knowledge or the revelation of such could truly be a dangerous thing, but when you knew some of the sordid details, you might as well turn them to your advantage. A gel had to do what she could to survive, it was a cold, hard world out there!

The tension left her gradually and her eye-lids started to droop. The tea helped relax her tired muscles and she pulled a blanket up around her neck, lulled off to sleep by the combination of sudden warmth and more gin than was good for her. At least another hour had passed when something jerked her awake, the fire had dwindled and died in the grate and the room had turned cold again.

It was then she heard it. A cautious scraping of metal on wood which made her hair stand on end. The wind outside seemed to hold its breath, but no further sound could be heard.

Mary Jane sat up on the bed and looked across to the window. She had a fleeting impression of a shadow outside, but it could have been a flutter of the curtains. Just when her heart-rate had started to slow, she heard another noise outside in the passageway, the feather-light brush of a stealthy footfall which stopped just outside her door.

She watched with horrid fascination as the handle started to turn. The flimsy lock clicked open easily as the key fell onto the floor. A sudden gust of wind blew the curtains aside and she realised the window was open. In-spite of her earlier belief to the contrary, someone had forced the broken catch and reached inside to unlock the door.*

“You!”

The person framed in the dying fire-glow was not at all whom she had expected. Her initial burst of terror began to rescind behind the speculative light in her eye, perhaps there wouldn’t be any need to write those letters after all. Her unlooked for visitor removed his top-hat and stepped into the room; in the shadows over his shoulder she could see there was someone else behind him. It was only when they’d closed and re-locked the door, she realised something was wrong. Doctor Gull moved forward with a unpitying smile, his right hand reaching for her throat. She tried to scream but her air was cut-off and more alarmingly, she could no longer move. Mary Kelly watched in terror and helpless realisation as the Coachman put a hand into the deep recesses of his coat and withdrew a wicked-looking knife . . .

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Marguerite awoke with a jerk of horror. She’d been having those dreams again. There was a sense of something dark, something threatening her, and yet . . . and yet it wasn’t her at all. She swore and sat up hurriedly in the bedside chair, her eyes searching out the clock. It must have been nearly an hour since Challenger had enticed Netley down to the lab and even though sleep had been the last of her intentions, it was as though something – or perhaps someone else was directing her actions so she would experience the visions.

As usual, the dream had been strangely vivid. She could remember every detail of Kelly’s room with exceptional clarity, from the faded floral wallpaper to the old paisley shawl on the bed - the hiss of the coals in the tiny grate and the slight scent of damp spores on the air. She shivered but not with cold. The night felt sultry with unaccustomed heat and the temperature was warming up again.

She looked quickly down at Roxton, to reassure herself he was all right. To her surprise, he was awake and watching her through hazy, sleep-clouded eyes.

“You were dreaming,” his voice was husky. He wasn’t asking a question.

“Yes,” she confirmed with a whispered nod. “It was Mary Kelly, again. Netley and Gull broke into her room . . . I saw Netley take out the knife.”

Roxton regarded her rather grimly. “They lifted the catch on her broken window and reached in to unlock the door. I know, I saw it too.”

They stared at each other without surprise but with more than a degree of discomfort. It was clear this was not a coincidence but yet another manifestation of the haunting. And one, for whatever reason, they were both meant to witness this time.

“Challenger’s still down in the lab, I take it?” Ghost or no ghost, they had more pressing concerns and trust Roxton not to beat about the bush.

She got awkwardly to her feet but the hobble-bindings wouldn’t allow her to move more than a pace or two from his bedside, let alone listen at the door. “Damn it, I can’t hear a thing!”

“I don’t like this,” muttered Roxton. “They’ve been gone too long. If I could only get rid of this bloody thing, then at least we might stand a chance.” He gave her look of determination and gestured down at the tubing. “Marguerite, you have to take it out.”

Of course it made sense, it made perfect sense. They needed a wild card. Even though Challenger had bought them some time, Netley would not wait much longer. But at that particular moment, she was not afraid of Netley. As illogical as it was in the scheme of things, she was more afraid of losing John.

Pale, he still looked too damn pale. He was normally so robust and strong. From the moment she had realised how ill he was, she had been filled with a sense of foreboding. Everything that had happened since then, Netley, the haunting, the knife . . . it was all inexorably bound up with her terror of losing the man she loved. Could it be that Roxton’s illness was being used against them? Was Mary Kelly holding him hostage to ensure their cooperation?

As fanciful as the concept seemed, it suddenly felt right – a form of supernatural blackmail where Roxton’s life was at stake. Marguerite’s terror grew stronger and she fought for control of her feelings. At last, she was forced to admit a truth she had known deep down for some time. Lord John Roxton, his health and well-being, was beyond doubt her Achilles’ heel. The desolation of a world without him was more than she could bear to imagine. She sighed with impatient frustration. It would help if she knew what Kelly wanted from her. She had a hunch it was not going to be nice.

Netley’s map seemed to mock her; it weighed down both her conscience and her soul. Marguerite was beginning to wish she’d never heard of the damned thing. Life would be so much simpler if the map did not exist, but as it was, she was stuck on the horns of a dilemma. She could sense something evil, something dark and threatening, enfolded like wings around the tree house. It seemed to be making straight for Roxton, hanging over his head like a shadow.

Oh, God!

She moved back over to the side of the bed and the fear must have shown in her eyes. His hand reached for hers across the counterpane and tightened with a gesture of reassurance.

“I seem to remember you promised me a prize?” there was a humorous edge to his voice. “One should never renege on a promise, Marguerite. It simply isn’t done.”

“Maybe not in the circles you move in,” she murmured. “It’s been known once or twice in mine.”

“Quickly, there’s no time to waste.”

He pushed back the bedclothes with determination and she realised he meant what he said. His Lordship was unwavering, too stubborn for his own damned good. Marguerite ran her hand along his rib-cage and felt him shiver slightly at her touch. The texture of his skin was silky soft and did something very strange to her insides. Despite the fact they were in mortal danger, she indulged herself for a moment and allowed her fingers to linger, whisper-gentle on his flesh. He was solid and reassuring and Marguerite felt her spirits hearten.

His eyes met hers for a poignant moment, softened with lambent tenderness. They held onto one another’s glance, each reluctant to pull away. “Marguerite,” Roxton was a little hoarse. “You are far too distracting. As nice as this is, can we save it for later? Or else, Netley might get more than he bargained for!”

“Are you quite sure you’re up to this?” Marguerite was deliberately provocative, sliding effortlessly back into her usual persona in an attempt to ease the tumult inside her - except that his touch sparked another form of turmoil, one which was far more familiar. Her pulse-rate was beating abnormally loud and her errant hand loitered deliberately against the warmth of his naked chest.

“Oh, I’m up for it, I’m always up for it where you’re concerned.” Roxton paid her back in kind, but his voice was remarkably firm. “And if you remove this bloody tube, then God-willing, I can show you just how much!”

Marguerite took her hand away, there was to be no more prevarication. Roxton had already rolled onto his side to give her better access to the chest drain. There had been a tray of surgical instruments on the nightstand next to the bed, but Netley had tipped them out of the window so she couldn’t saw through her bindings. Marguerite doubled-up the tubing to prevent any suction on Roxton’s lung, picking at the end of the black silk suture which had anchored the drain in place. Her nails worked it loose eventually.

“Breathe in, breath out . . .” She pulled on the tubing gently and watched it slide out of his chest.

He started to cough immediately, clutching an arm around his rib-cage as he tried to muffle the sound. The last thing they wanted was Netley to hear and realise that Roxton was awake. He was clearly in some discomfort, but he pressed his lips firmly together and didn’t utter a word. Marguerite ignored him as best she could and set about bandaging the wound. She did a good job of hiding her emotions, but her anxiety remained undiminished.

Bloody man.

She tied off the ends of the bandage and passed him a glass of water. He gulped it down quickly with gratitude; it seemed to ease the coughing bout. She helped him swing his legs to the edge of the bed and watched as he placed his feet down on the floor. He was clearly an awful lot weaker than he’d expected but she deliberately held her tongue, waiting as he pushed himself up by the bed-head to test out his rubbery legs.

“Not bad,” he said, with a touch of chagrin. “I suppose it could be worse.”

“Do you mind telling me how?”

She couldn’t help being sarcastic but to her surprise, Roxton grinned.

“What’s so bloody funny?” she asked him acerbically. They were trapped in the tree house with a homicidal maniac and Roxton was smirking like a loon.

“Now, there’s the Marguerite I know and love.” His words were laced with a hint of tenderness. “It’s always a sign that I’m getting better when you start being mean to me again.” He moved shakily across to the cast iron washstand where he kept all his shaving gear, opening up the sharkskin case which held his selection of razors. “Here, this should do the trick.” He handed her a wicked looking blade and gestured down at her ankles.

She took it from him eagerly and began to saw through the rope. The razor went straight into her pocket when the job was done. Once she was free, she got to her feet and waited for Roxton to pull on his trousers and boots. It seemed to take an agony of seconds as his fingers slipped and fumbled with the buttons. Marguerite began to get impatient and stepped up to lend him a hand. It felt strange to be standing so close to him again, to look up into his eyes. He had been bed-ridden for too many days . . . she had forgotten how tall he was.

“Marguerite!”

His voice was almost a groan and she realised, in her abstraction, her hand lingered over his belt buckle. She let it stay for a second longer and heard his intake of breath.

“You’ve never complained before . . .” she allowed the sentence to trail away.

“I’ll never complain again,” he murmured. “What man in his right mind would?”

They both heard the creak of the floorboards above at exactly the same time. Roxton looked down at her urgently. “Hold that thought, Marguerite.”

He indicated the doorway and stepped through into the passageway. She followed right behind him and they both ascended the stairs. Roxton halted at the top and listened hard, before turning quietly to her.

“I’ve got a spare gun hidden in the larder for contingencies such as this. I’ll make for that and take care of our friend whilst you go down in the lift.” He paused. “If you don’t hear from either George or I, head straight for the Zanga village. With any luck, you’ll meet up with Malone and Veronica now that the weather’s improved.”

“Why, Lord Roxton, go out into the jungle at night – I’d be breaking your cardinal rule.” She gave him an old-fashioned look. “Oh, no you don’t, buster. I’ve got no intention of leaving you alone. And besides, I have my own score to settle.”

“One day, you’ll surprise me and do as you’re told,” he regarded her with exasperation.

“I wouldn’t bet on it!” Marguerite shot him a foxy smile and waved him on ahead. Whatever fate had in store for them, they would face it together for now.

END OF PART NINE

Lisa Paris - 2006

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Part Ten

Judging by the state of the living-area, it was clear Netley had recommenced his search for the knife on the off-chance they might have lied to him. Marguerite looked around her in disgust at the chaos and devastation. Veronica was going to be very upset when she and Ned got home.

“Quickly!”

Roxton headed straight for the larder, but it was already too late. There were voices approaching from the direction of lab, Netley’s loud and risen in anger along with Challenger’s more reasoned protests.

“Get into the lift,” Roxton was curt. “No more arguments, Marguerite, just do it!” There was no further time to go for the gun as footsteps sounded on the stairs.

For once in her life, she surprised him. It was the first time he would have won that bet. Marguerite gave him a stricken look and obediently, did just as she was told. She grabbed a heavy candlestick on her way past the table and got into the lift compartment, but even though she had stepped inside, it didn’t mean she intended to stay there.

She watched, sick at heart, as Roxton concealed himself in the blind spot at the top of the stairs. He had armed himself with a poker and under any normal set of circumstances, the man was such a good fighter, she would have backed him to win against all odds. Under any normal set of circumstances – those were the salient words. However much the bloody idiot tried to disguise it, he was weak and still in far too much pain to stand much of a chance against Netley.

“Be careful!” She cried out the words in the silence of her thoughts, as the nameless fear swept over her again. The familiar premonition returned to haunt her, creeping in through the edges of her mind. The black wings were folding around them, blocking out any hope of the light.

“This had better work, Professor, my patience is wearing very thin.” Netley’s voice sounded high-pitched and ragged, trembling on the verge of psychosis.

“You must realise how sick Lord Roxton is,” Challenger couched his words carefully. “Unfortunately, there are no guarantees, but I’m hopeful it will restore consciousness long enough for him to tell you where he’s hidden that damned knife.”

“You’d better pray he does. If not, I’ll try my own way of waking him – I don’t need you around for that!”

Challenger reached the top of the stairs and stepped around the corner into the room. Roxton didn’t waste any time. He leapt out of hiding in one swift movement and unceremoniously shoved the scientist sprawling, the stand of glass vials Challenger was holding crunching to bits on the floor. Before Netley even had time to blink, Roxton pushed him backwards down the stairs.

“The lift . . . quickly!” Roxton fell forwards onto one knee, clutching hold of his heaving chest. “Get Marguerite out of here!”
He pulled himself up on the banister and staggered back to his feet, hefting the heavy poker as he followed Netley down the stairs.

“John, wait!” Challenger recovered quickly and stared after him in dismay, turning his head from the broken vials and covering his nose and mouth. “The vials . . .”

“No chance of that!” Marguerite sped out of hiding still clutching the candlestick, barely pausing to glance in his direction as she ran to the head of the staircase. After everything they’d been through together, she was not leaving Roxton now.

“Marguerite, cover your nose and mouth!” Challenger roared after her. He gestured down to the broken glass and dramatically rolled his eyes.

She paused for a moment with comprehension and reached into her pocket, pulling out her handkerchief and holding it up to her face. Roxton had reached the bottom of the steps but not quite in time to stop Netley. Unfortunately, as misfortune would have it, the killer seemed uninjured by the fall. He was already heaving his body upwards in-search of the missing gun.

“Oh, no you don’t!”

Roxton launched himself forwards, taking Netley down in mid-leap. The two men tumbled backwards in a melee of arms and legs, crashing into Challenger’s work-bench and sending some of the apparatus flying. Marguerite winced as they thrashed around, bodies crunching on broken glass. She tried to move in with the candlestick but was afraid of hitting Roxton by mistake. Roxton was gamely holding on, but he was fighting a losing battle. Weakened, he was far too frail to be engaged in a physical struggle.

And besides, he was fighting a madman. Marguerite looked into Netley’s one, good eye and saw all semblance of reason had gone. His bloody obsession to lay his hands on the knife had engulfed any lingering trace of sanity. He balled his fist into Roxton’s chest, jabbing viciously against the Englishman’s fragile lungs. Roxton’s head jerked backwards, pain flooding across his face - a pain which went beyond physical hurt as he fought just to catch his breath. Netley gave a snarl of triumph and pulled Roxton up by his shirt-front. The short-lived fight was over. Netley knew he had won.

Marguerite scanned the floor frantically in search of the errant gun. She spied it at last, with a sigh of relief, half hidden under a bookcase. At that precise moment, Netley chose to look up. He followed the direction of her eyes, his face lighting with unholy triumph as he too, spotted the weapon.

“No!”

Marguerite made a dash for the bookcase, dropping the candlestick in her haste. Her handkerchief was forgotten now as it floated down to the floor. It was no contest. Netley was closer by a good two yards and beat her with consummate ease. He rolled onto his back with the gun held before him, a finger poised on the trigger.

Astonishingly, Roxton was on his feet again, breathing hard and white with pain. Netley switched his glance between them both, but kept the gun trained on Marguerite.

“Enough games!” He was surreally matter-of-fact. “I’ve had enough of playing games.” He smiled conversationally across at Roxton and spoke as though discussing the weather. “May I congratulate you on a speedy recovery, Lord Roxton? Almost miraculous, in-fact. According to your devoted nurse, you were hovering at death’s door.” Netley flicked his eye across to Marguerite. “Ah, the clever Miss Krux. You know, I was going to save you especially for the knife – take my time with all that lovely white skin – get the feel of things again. But now, I see you’re not worth it, you’re just a crafty, lying bitch like all the rest.”

“That’s no way to address a lady.” Roxton sounded incredibly calm. “In fact, I suggest you desist at once if you want me to show you to the knife.”

“Really?” Netley was mocking. “Oh, I think you’ll lead me straight to the knife, Lord Roxton. You don’t have any choice.” He got to his feet and approached Marguerite, placing the gun to her temple. “If you want Miss Krux to stay alive, that is?”

Roxton shrugged his shoulders. “Why postpone the inevitable? It’s clear you intend to kill us all anyway, so why should I give you what you want?”

“Roxton!” Marguerite shot him a venomous look. She understood what he was trying to do, but Netley had gone beyond reason. He would just as soon put a bullet in her head as waste anymore time bargaining. She wondered uneasily what Challenger was up to, the scientist was suspiciously quiet. A wave of dizziness washed over her – it was then she remembered the vials.

“It appears we have what is known as a Mexican stand-off.” Netley smiled in appreciation. “I’m assuming you have a proposition?”

Roxton nodded. “I’m the only one who knows where the knife is hidden; I can assure you it isn’t in the tree house. I’ll take you there on one condition - the two of us go alone. Marguerite and Challenger will remain here, unharmed, and I’ll show you where the bloody thing is.”

“John . . .” Marguerite understood with a blinding flash what Roxton was attempting to do, but it was doubtful he’d make it as far as the jungle, let alone to the lava caves. It was all very well having a hero complex, but it didn’t include the word martyr. If Roxton thought she was about to let him stagger off into the jungle alone with only pneumonia and a homicidal maniac for company, his Lordship had another thing coming.

As it was, Netley beat her to it. “The Professor can stay but not Miss Krux. She’ll be joining our little jaunt.” Netley ran his hand down the length of her hair and tenderly cupped her breast. “Such beautiful skin, Lord Roxton, like alabaster, don’t you agree? But what am I saying, of course you do, such a shame if it were to be spoiled . . .”

“If you touch her like that again,” Roxton’s voice lowered in fury. “You can forget your precious knife for good. Marguerite stays in the tree house – I won’t have you manhandling her!”

Netley laughed and removed his hand. “She comes with us, your Lordship, I’m afraid it’s non-negotiable. Such a noble protector you have, Miss Krux, but I wonder how well he really knows you?” He put his head on one side and pretended to consider. “Do any of us really know the people that we love?”

Marguerite became very still, her face frozen like a mask. For such a flimsy object, the piece of paper hidden in her bodice suddenly seemed to weigh a ton. It was clear Netley was enjoying his hold on her in more ways than one. She prayed Roxton wouldn’t start asking questions, that he’d put the last question down to gamesmanship and simple spite on Netley’s behalf.

“Let’s just get on with it shall we?”

To her relief, when Roxton spoke again, he gave no sign of being bothered by Netley’s cryptic words. In-fact he looked decidedly nauseous and white around the mouth. Marguerite studied him worriedly and he gave her a nod of reassurance. It by no means helped to assuage her concern as she realised he could hardly stand.

Netley thrust her forward and gestured towards the stairs. After a couple of steps, her head started to swim and the room became slightly blurred. Whatever Challenger had put in the vials had permeated into the atmosphere. Her only grain of comfort was that Netley was breathing it too.

Once they reached the living quarters, it became glaringly obvious why they hadn’t heard from Challenger. The scientist was still stretched out on the floor exactly where he had fallen, blissfully unaware of anything and surrounded by bits of broken glass.

Roxton swore softly under his breath, no doubt under the misapprehension he might have injured his friend. Seeing his look of anguish, Marguerite wished she could reassure him, but with Netley poking a gun at her temple, she did not want to raise his guard.

“Ironic, isn’t it, Roxton?” Netley was enjoying himself. “Poor old Professor Challenger seems to have banged his head. Where as I, on the other hand, took an, hmm . . .” he cleared his throat delicately, “extremely violent tumble down the stairs but remain miraculously unscathed.”

“They say the devil looks after his own.” Marguerite spoke scornfully. It was all very well for Netley to threaten her, but she hated the look of self-reproach she saw in Roxton’s eyes.

“At least let us take care of him – we can’t go out in the jungle at night . . .”

Roxton’s plea fell on deaf ears as Netley grew suddenly impatient. “I’m not waiting any longer. I need to have the knife!”

It was then that Marguerite heard it. The first, wistful notes of a familiar tune, faint and vaguely melancholy. So delicate and ghostly as it wrapped around her – like the softly weaving tendrils of a spell. For a moment, she wondered if she was hallucinating, an effect, perhaps, of Challenger’s narcotic. The moon shone down through the reams of mist still rising-up from the damp ground. The air was milky, sultry and dense, and Marguerite felt strangely light-headed. It was as though she was drifting inexorably off into the land of dream.

The tree house had contracted around her, moving out from reality and space. It was filled with an intangible power, hovering on the brink of enchantment. And there, just as she’d known they would be, were the inevitable, haunting lyrics . . . floating through the humid air . . . as if through time itself.

‘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.’

She looked across at Roxton but his legs had started to buckle, unable to fight-off the effects of the sedative due to his weakened state. He clung grimly onto the balustrade as he succumbed to Challenger’s drug, but he was fighting a losing battle and slid bonelessly to the floor.

The music was swirling around her, faster and faster again. A shape began to form in the centre of the room, curling higher like a column of smoke as it rose up out of the tree house. Marguerite knew what was happening as she tried to cling onto reality. She cried out a warning to Roxton, but then suddenly, it was too late.

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She tore out of Netley’s bruising hold, heedless now of the gun. The weapon seemed pathetic and ineffectual, the last of her present concerns. The whole of the tree house had come to life like an expectant, sentient being. The black wings unfolded above her and Marguerite was very afraid. Something lurked just beyond the veil, something which had grown tired of waiting. Whatever the cause of her feeling of dread, it was about to become very real.

Just as before, she was drawn to the mirror, compelled to stand in front of the hearth. Any flames had died down hours ago and the last dying embers glowed red. The words of the song grew louder and more menacing as the shapeless column took on form, a red silk dress and a cheap fringed shawl and the woman’s figure appeared.

Behind her, Netley was wide-eyed and staring, hardly able to believe what he was seeing. Any lingering trace of hope he had dreamt it the first time was surely being dispelled. His jaw fell slack with fright and horror, but he didn’t make a sound. Marguerite heard the clunk of the gun as it slipped uselessly from his hand and hit the floor.

Mary Kelly smiled and stretched out her arms, her face free of scars and unlined. There was something dark and cold about her eyes as she stared at them both in the glass, an indefinable edge of malignancy, an intractable malice and spite. Marguerite’s heart contracted, but as before, she couldn’t look away. The woman’s reflection was mesmerising, as though the mirror itself was drawing her in and sucking out the essence of her soul.

What was it she had read somewhere?

That a mirror could act as a kind of portal – as a gateway between separate dimensions or a reverse doorway between different worlds. Old Annis, the same village wise-woman she’d told Challenger about – (was it really only four days ago?) - had once warned her not to stare too long at her face in the glass, just in case the devil stole her soul.

Her fingers brushed against something solid in her skirt, it was the reassuring shape of Roxton’s cut-throat razor. She wasn’t totally helpless, but she would be if she froze like before. Marguerite slipped her hand into her pocket and gripped hold of the razor tightly.

There was a soft footfall behind her and Netley appeared at her shoulder. His remaining eye blazed with insanity as he pulled her back by the hair. “What sorcery is this?” his voice sounded cracked. “Get rid of her – make it go!”

“Fool!” Marguerite hissed at him. “She’s nothing to do with me!”

“By God, I should just snap your neck!”

“Then go ahead,” Marguerite gambled. “Aside from the fact I don’t control her, you’ll never see that bloody knife again!”

“You’ll be surprised what men reveal under torture – even men with the metal of Lord Roxton. And if he’s already broken in spirit because the woman he loves is dead . . .”

Netley wrenched her head backwards so hard that tears sprang to her eyes. She felt his fingers grope for her jugular and knew the game was over. Almost without thinking, she flicked the razor open and brought it up savagely across the back of his hand.

“Bitch!”

He let her go and she staggered forward, but all it bought her was a few seconds time. As she wrenched from his grasp, the top buttons of her blouse ripped open and Marguerite gave a cry of dismay as the precious map fell from her décolleté and fluttered into the glowing hearth. There was no hope in hell of retrieving it. The edges started to curl at once, scorched brown by the white-hot embers. A hungry flame soon licked at the corner of the paper; the way off the Plateau was lost.

But there was no time to mourn because Netley had recovered, as cursing and clutching his bleeding hand, he came straight after her again. Marguerite spun around to face him, the razor held out straight before her, ready to fight for everything she cared about as she crouched like a tigress at bay.

Suddenly, the music became even louder; increasing in volume and swirling through the tree house until it seemed to expand in her head.

‘Tho’ the heart be weary, sad the day and long,’

It was mesmeric, almost hypnotising, and the last thing Marguerite needed. She was weighted down with a creeping numbness, as if her blood was turning to lead. She forced her mind to concentrate and tried her hardest to fight the effects, but Mary Kelly was winning, growing stronger with each passing second. The one spot of consolation was that Netley was feeling it too.

The man had turned back to the mirror and was standing in front of the glass, staring in horror as the phantom approached him, reaching out with her slender arms.

“No!”

Netley cried out in fear and revulsion, striking his fist against the glass. Marguerite observed in slow motion as Mary Kelly seemed to fly back through the air, but the apparition recovered instantly and the room crackled and seethed with electricity as she spun to face her nemesis again. This time the force of her hatred and power hit Marguerite like a bolt of lightening. She fell to her knees with a whimper and raised her hands to cover her ears. Anything to shut-out the music, to stop hearing that dreadful tune.

Netley staggered and gripped hold of the mantle, striving to keep upright. He was transfixed, almost gibbering with terror as the woman approached him again.

“The crucifix . . .” somehow, Marguerite choked out the words. “Show her the crucifix!”

One way or another – she knew it would guarantee a result. At the moment, she would settle for anything, so long as the music stopped.

Netley obeyed her without conscious volition, reaching into the pocket of his jacket. He pulled out the string of rosary beads and held them up with a shaking hand. The small cross sparkled with a peculiar light, reflected by the silvery glass.

The woman’s ghost made a sibilant hiss, long and curiously drawn-out. She reached out towards the crucifix with claw-like fingers and abruptly, her reflection began to change. Marguerite watched with familiar horror as the murder sequence started again. Even though she’d seen it before, it was just as bloody and shocking. Slash after slash of an invisible knife held by a vicious hand . . . a face transfigured and peeled away in a welter of flesh and gore. Her eyes were drawn back to Netley, watching it all in the mirror. Back then, it was his hand holding the knife which had perpetrated the horror. His expression now was a curious mixture of fear and unholy delight.

It was like being pulled into a vortex. The tree house was spinning around her. Marguerite felt as though they were being buffeted by a particularly malign wind. There was blood on the mirror, blood on the floor, blood in her hair, on her hands . . . Marguerite was drowning, sucked into a scarlet hell!

She tightened her grip on Roxton’s razor and tried to get back on her feet. The gun still lay where Netley had dropped it . . . if she could only get her legs to move. It was a forlorn hope. She was pinned as if by an invisible force, like a butterfly in a glass specimen case. Barely able to do more than stand and stare, her gaze riveted in horrified disgust. Desperately, Marguerite tried to maintain some sort of focus but all of her senses were besieged. Just when she thought it would never end, the sequence underwent a subtle change.

The music became faster and even louder than before, overpowering in its intensity. She was drifting, floating through time and space, the endless repetition of the ghostly tune dulling her mind and free will.

And suddenly, she was walking forward, the cut-throat razor open in her hand . . . the lethal blade reflected in the mirror as she began to raise her arm . . .

Scarlet flashed before her, the colour vivid and rich. She was aware of Mary Kelly in the glass behind her, a ghastly smile on what was left of her face, the bloodied, gouged-out eye-socket and the travesty of her ripped apart mouth. A wail rose over the words of the song, unearthly and almost inhuman. For a moment it shattered the strands of the spell which had ensnared them in its spider’s web.

It was Netley, his reflection trapped in the mirror, both arms hanging limp at his sides. He was shaking his head from side to side like a tormented, mindless animal, mouth wide open in a formless O as he screamed incoherently with fear. His cries reached a sobbing crescendo and combined with the words of the song. So loud, that the very air itself seemed to pulse and reverberate with sound.

The spinning vortex began to change – they were no longer in the tree house. The darkened room around Marguerite was small, depressing and dank. Cheap, faded rosebuds climbed up the walls, there was a single, iron-wrought bed. The smell of a gaslight filed the damp-laden air and a red shawl hung over the chair. It was strange and yet somehow familiar, like the memory of a bad dream, half re-captured in black and white before the comfort and safety of daylight could chase all the monsters away.

Marguerite’s head was reeling; she was falling forwards . . . or was it back? The sordid little room encircled her and she heard Mary Kelly laugh. Red on her hands . . . on her face . . . in her eyes . . . red like a mist all around her. It was dense and choking, filling her lungs, suffocating and threatening to drown her. The noise was deafening now. Screams and shrieks of gurgling terror interspersed with the words of the song. Marguerite was sucked into the whirlpool as somewhere, over and around her, the black wings started to fold.

“Roxton . . .”

She barely managed to call out his name, clinging to it like a talisman. He would save her just like he always did – like she knew he always would. Marguerite thrust the visions of horror away and summoned up the likeness of his face. He was handsome and smiling at something she’d said, eyes warm and alight with love. Roxton was her savour, her lucky charm – always there if she needed him.

“Roxton, I need you!”

She called out his name again and again and the noise in her head began to lessen. She seemed to be plunged into a wall of glass and behind her she heard Mary Kelly scream. And then she was back in the tree house as the floor rushed up to meet her. At last, the hateful words of the song faded and died away.

END OF PART TEN

Lisa Paris – 2006

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Notes

1. The Other Mary Kelly - the other Mary Kelly is part of the Ripper Conspiracy Theory. She was nanny to the unfortunate baby said to be Prince Eddy’s child. The Royal Conspiracy theory first appeared in 1973 in the BBC programme, Jack the Ripper. The producers of the program, in doing research, were told to contact a man named Joseph Sickert who knew about a secret marriage between Prince Eddy and a poor Catholic girl named Alice Mary Crook. Sickert painted a strange story involving Eddy, Lord Salisbury, Sir Robert Anderson, Sir William Gull, and even Queen Victoria herself!

The man, Joseph Sickert, was the son of the famous painter, Sir Walter Sickert, from whom he reportedly got the story. Walter Sickert had lived in the East End during the time of the murders and was a close friend of the Royal family. Princess Alexandra had asked Sickert to take Eddy under his wing. Sickert eventually introduced Eddy to a poor girl named Annie Crook who worked in one of the local shops in Cleveland Street. Eddy got the girl pregnant and they were living quite happily with their daughter until the Queen discovered her grandson's indiscretion and demanded that the situation be terminated. Not only was Annie Crook a commoner, but a Catholic as well and there was belief that news of a Catholic heir to the throne might spark a revolution.
The Queen gave the matter to her Prime Minister, Lord Salisbury, to solve and he, in turn, went to Doctor William Gull. After a daring raid on the Cleveland Street love nest, Eddy was taken away and Annie was sent to one of Gull's hospitals where Gull performed experiments on her designed to erase her memory and drive her insane. Their child, however, escaped the raid unharmed with her nanny, Mary Kelly.

Kelly had been a co-worker of Annie's, as well as a model for Sickert, and she became the child's nanny soon after its birth. Knowing that the game was up, Kelly hid the baby with nuns and fled into the East End. Eventually, she told the story to several of her cronies (Nichols, Stride and Chapman – later to become Ripper victims) and they decided to blackmail the government when they needed money to pay local protection thugs. When Salisbury learned of the threat, he called on Gull again.

2. Mother’s Ruin – colloquial name for gin.

3. Mary-Jane Kelly’s murder – this is indeed how Jack the Ripper gained entry to Mary Jane’s room. He reached in through he broken window and managed to unlock her door. According to eye-witness reports, she had been drinking heavily earlier that night and this might have accounted for her not raising the alarm. The other theory is that she knew the identity of her nocturnal visitor and was not unduly concerned until it was too late.

Lisa Paris

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