MJD

A Victorian novel

MJD

Chapter one
Spring /Summer 1887

'I cannot exist without you - I am forgetful of every thing but seeing you again - my life seems to stop there- I see no further. You have absorbed me. I have a sensation at the present moment as though I were dissolving... I have been astonished that Men could die martyrs for religion - I have shuddered at it- I shudder no more- I could be martyred for my religion - love is my religion - I could die for that - I could die for you. My creed is love, and you are its only tenet- you have ravished me away by a power I cannot resist.'
~John Keats

...now as I think of it, I was obsessed with him, beguiled, smitten. I watched him from afar, you might say, I watched over him- but I did not dare approach him, yet his demure charm and sadness lodged deep in his dark eyes kept me painfully longing for a contact...however brief.
I must make myself known to him, I thought. I must - but how? You'd think me a youth of uncertain age, but by Gods, I was much more than a trembling flower. I've spent a long time on this Earth, and two hundred years in England alone by that time. I should have been more adept in social graces, true - with knowledge and experience of such kind, but at all times, I was alone. Centuries passed me by, you might say, and I had no idea how to approach this young man.
I took to walking by the Old Bailey, and Inner Temple gardens where I first spotted him months ago. Sometimes, he'd stand by the banister, looking quite lost, but for a moment, and then, deep in thought, he'd stare at something beyond reach. His face was so beautiful to me, that all the great works of art paled in comparison. His brilliant sapphire eyes, his pale skin, and slightly wavy hair - all that was so reminiscent of ancient Greece and Rome, so out of place in that busy Victorian surroundings!

I longed to hear his voice. Somehow I thought it to be musical. He had something about him, I couldn't quite put a finger on- a quality you'd find in musicians- long, tapering fingers, graceful gestures and movements, as if he were a Renaissance dancer,moving through a crowded ballroom somewhere in Venice.
I couldn't read him, although normally I would have - to know what a person was like. But with him, I could not. I could hear music around him, though. Quiet, dignified, almost church like, something from the age gone by. They still sang like that in cathedrals, I thought. Was it Porpora, Tallis or Handel? Or was it the music unheard yet? I didn't know. I didn't even know his name. But I was deeply moved by this young man.
One day, in late April, I think, Gods were merciful to me. My strange young man was indeed there, as before, and suddenly someone called out.
So, his name was John. Not that I disapproved, it just seemed a bit odd to me. They were talking, and my young man laughed, remarking,

'Nobody calls me that, except for my brother when he taunts me, you know. Will is such a bore sometimes, you almost forget he's but a year older! Please, don't call me that anymore, be a good boy'.

'As you wish, old chap. Montague, then! Fancy a cup of tea later? '

'Absolutely, George. I have to dash, I'm afraid. They must be waiting for me.'

They parted, leaving me alone. So,I thought, his name is Montague. It became him, this old fashioned name. It had a similar dusty golden glow about it. Now, I had to wait for the right moment.

The moment came two weeks later. Quite suddenly, I had a desire to take a tour round St.James Park. I rarely went there, but the moment seemed so right somehow, with all the vivid greens, and fragrance of May in the air.

I walked through the alleys, drinking in springtime, enjoying the setting sun, when something made me stop. I turned my head- and to my astonishment, Monty was there, on a bench by the pond. I approached carefully, trying not to make the slightest noise.

I can be lighter than a feather on my feet, and I usually am - but I was sure he sensed my presence - I was sure of it, but he never attested it. When I finally dared come closer, he looked at me as you would at an old friend.

'I knew you were there' he said simply 'I wonder who you were'.

'A friend' I replied,after a pause that took, as I felt it, forever. 'A friend'.

He smiled, relieved.

'God knows I am indeed in dire need of a friend! My name...'

'I know,' I whispered 'Montague. But some call you John. I'd rather call you Montague, if you do not mind. I think it suits you better'

'Oh, I do not mind. I like the name - there's something medieval about it, don't you think?'

'Oh, there is. I am...well..you can call me Lawrence. Lawrence Graves'.

'Montague Druitt' he said with a charming smile 'Friends call me Montie.’

‘ Would that be Mont - ie or Mont-y?’ I asked. He smiled again,

‘ Montie. Irish reminiscence, as I gather. ‘

‘If you don’t mind, I prefer Mont-y. Montie seems a bit too childish for a grown young man’

‘ Oh I do not in the slightest’ he replied ‘I feel, to be honest, that it sounds quite like my lady’s lap dog’s name’

 ‘It’s decided then’ I said ‘Pleased to meet you, Monty. Would you care...'

'A cup of tea would be delightful'

That is how we met. And this time was the happiest of my life. I had everything I needed, I was happy- blissfully so, perhaps for the first time in my entire life. Summer came by, the favourite season of wanderers and cricketers, and my ancient idleness became restless excitement as I observed endless (as it seemed to me) matches, trying to take in Monty's world. He never insisted on me going, but I thought he needed me there, and he looked so happy seeing me that finally I grew used to this part of his life.
His was the cricket ground, mine was the theatre, and we visited the opera as frequently as his schedule would allow us. He loved it, I could tell. He had a musical ear, and his voice was well-suited for singing, a soft baritone tenor, and he enjoyed accompanying my play at times. He was a really gifted man, that barrister, but most of his talents were unknown to his family or friends. I knew him better, still. He was an artist at heart, and some of his sketches still adorn my walls. Being modest, he'd laugh when I praised him, and say,
'In faith, good sir! It is but a child's scribbles!'
And he'd blush. A little bit. One more endearing trait, that blushing. I loved everything about him- and he knew that, but I'd never dare talk about my feelings. I loved him - and I was certain of it, with the passing of time, I could say that. But the time was ambiguous, and men were so restricted in their feelings! Love ceased to be free then, with society clipping its wings. Love, they proclaimed, is only pure when it's shared by man and woman, and everything beyond it is heresy, an abomination, a crime.
Monty didn't support that point of view, but as a lawyer, he was even more tied up by the power of justice. He felt deeply, but he never admitted it publicly. He knew my heart as I knew his, and this was enough for both of us.
That is how it all began. The year was 1887, and it seemed that the whole world belonged to us.

Chapter two.
Autumn,1887

"It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of light, it was the season of darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair."
~ Charles Dickens, A tale of two cities, 1859

My kind is not known for mirth, optimism or boundless joy. We've been around for centuries, and yet the mortal mind somehow pins us to the Victorian era as one would pin a butterfly to a board. We should thank that odd Irishman for placing us on the map, although he wasn't the first one. Somehow, people tend to forget Lord Ruthven, Carmilla and Varney- Dracula's forebears, which is, at best, unfair.
People were aware of us long before that, and many a tale was spun, attributing awful traits to us, none of which is tr
ue. I must admit, the mere idea of a sharply dressed vampire is not a new one, but to have us wear opera cloaks or top hats, sleep in coffins or be afraid of sunlight is ludicrous. Would you, I wonder, trust someone who wears his evening dress on all occasions? I would not dare presume you that stupid. What we do, though, is more akin to blending in with the times. Elegant, but up to date and appropriate - that is, you might say, our rule. We are but cogs in that mechanism of time, and should not be any different to other cogs.
We rarely let our nature out in public. That would be utterly preposterous- and absolutely unnecessary. When emotional, or deep in thought, we might let our guard down but that makes us more human, so we naturally try not to 'feel' more than needed.
I was quite successful in that, for years. Two hundred years spent in London taught me more in the subject than the previous three hundred spent elsewhere. London is a harsh teacher, but it is also a wondrous place full of progress and dreams, - and it was no different back in the 1600s. People rarely change, but society does, and in London, as I've found out early on, there was a void between classes, a void that deepened from era to era.
In Victorian times, you'd see Charles Dickens striving to bring morality to the fallen women on the very same street where the distinguished and esteemed gentlemen did away with things more abominable than riding St.George with young boys or teenage girls. I knew him, and I must say, he felt deeply for the misfits, the outcast and the poor, but Victorian life was at best ambiguous when it came to morals, and that life was very different for those in the East end.
I've discovered early on, that a man of my kind has to have eyes and ears wherever it seems well fit, and there was no place better to have them at than a pub. So, naturally, three leading pubs in the East end were owned by me. A good move, as it turned out. The Ten bells, The Britannia and The Princess Alice were more than pubs of course. I had trusted people placed there, - for instance, George was the Bells landlord, and his cousin, Molly, watched over the girls of Commercial street. George, of course, wasn't your average landlord. Agile and sharp, ever-vigilant, even at his age, he was fiercely loyal to me (back in the days of the Stuarts, I saved him from the noose), and there was nothing that could escape his beady eyes. The other two pubs followed the similar pattern, and the best thing about this scheme was the knowledge. I could visit one of them once a month, and it would be enough to know everything there was to know.
I was careful enough not to take Monty there, though. A man like him in the East end of London wouldn't make an uproar, of course, but still, there was something about him that singled him out. However, to ensure his safety at all times, I showed him to George once.
'I see, m'lord ' George said, eyeing Monty from a safe distance 'Ye need 'im watched over for ye. We can do tha'. Now I know him, so Moll will know. Ye can trust blood, huh?'
I nodded, noting to myself that that particular day Monty looked slightly paler than before.
'Of course. But, George, make it discreet, will you?'
'Aye, m'lord. We won' letcha down. But, if I may ask - that lad, is he...well...'
'No, George. And I don't plan to make him one. He is a dear friend, though. And, George, I do worry about him sometimes'.
George, whose golden heart was safely hidden behind his grubby facade, smiled reassuringly.
'I can see why, m'lord. He got som'thin hangin' o'er him alrigh ', and it's not the bloody Ol' Bailey. Me mum would say he was too darn good lookin to be happy. Me cousin Larry keeps a shop nearby, he could keep an eye on yer boy. And Cathy, the flower girl...'
'George. Keep it discreet. I don't want everybody to know. And yes, flower girls count.'
George chuckled softly, stroking his white beard.
'She's family, m'lord. Her ma, bless her, was me sister. Moll and I raised her since she were a babe, Cat's a nice girl'.
Sometimes reasoning with George was useless. His extended family ties, it seemed to me, reached well beyond the vicinity of London, or should I say, England?.. But, this family however large it was, was as close-knit as your next, and you could certainly count on them.
'We'll keep an eye. Where's he at, yer lad?'
'Blackheath. He teaches there. Another family member?'
'Aye, m'lord. Me nephew, a gardener at the school. Would ye mind?'
'Not in the least, George. There was one more thing I 've been meaning to ask. Have you noticed anything odd lately, in the area?'
George frowned, his face turning concerned. He gestured to me to listen closer.
'Moll says she heard from them other girls, someone's been attacking the ladies. Beatin' 'em up, ye see. She reckons, it must be lads from George street. Sorry lot. Also, they've been sendin coppers to me pub. All dressed up, they think I ain't seen the boots. Police are all up on their toes since the riots. If you see your lad these days, warn him, m'lord. I'll ask around folks at Blackheath, m'lord, but the crowd playing there is up to no good, believe me. Warn him will ye? He's a decent lad by the looks of him'.
I sighed. George has just confirmed my worries. Bloody Sunday had its toll on people, and the discord didn't end the Square. Anger was still rolling through the streets like a tidal wave.
'I shall. In the meantime...George, do send someone to me when you find anything...odd. I'll do what I can. Tell Molly to be careful, too. And, George...thank you.'
'Don't you mention it, m'lord ' George said happily 'I owe you me life. Tom will drop by in a day or two, no worries. Will scuttle now, m'lord, left young Angus at the pub, and I'm afraid that one will drink me dry!'
George tipped his hat and was gone in a whiff. Monty was no longer outside, and I left my watchpost too, albeit reluctantly, to wait for him at a much warmer spot.
***
We spent the next hours talking, and I must admit, it was the most wondrous thing. Talking isn't what our kind normally does, so I listened. Soon enough, all the family was as familiar to me as it could be, presented in Monty's soft, melodious voice. His authoritarian father, the esteemed surgeon and justice of the peace, his sensitive mother, Ann, who was much like Monty. His elder brother William, a solicitor who could pass for a dried up toast if he wanted to, his sisters - the eldest, Georgiana, and the younger, Edith and Ethel (nineteen and sixteen, respectively), and brothers, stubborn, military man Edward and Arthur, a bright young man of twenty three. In character, as I could deduce, Arthur resembled Monty just as he resembled his mother.
'When father died...it was unfortunate for all of us. But mother was...I think, most affected. She lived in his shadow, she loved him more than she loved any of us. Even Arthur and Edith couldn't soften her grief. She just...distanced herself from us. William was almost cruel then, almost forcing her to come out for her own sake. She resisted, he insisted, and we were all caught up between them. I was glad to be living somewhere else, honestly. Staying at the manor was...daunting. And, you know, I feared the worst. Mother didn't come back to her usual ways, but the doctors say she is stable enough. The girls are still tense around her, I can tell. She is so fragile...and so afraid '.
He stressed the last word.
'What do you mean, afraid? Does William scare her?'
Monty chuckled unhappily.
'Oh, that indeed he does. But she is afraid of running mad. Has been for ages. My grandmother and aunt succumbed to madness under stress, and she is...well, afraid she could follow the pattern. I keep telling William to be gentler with her, but he's no sister of mercy. He's way too much like father at his worst. I think...he somehow got into his mind this absurd idea of substituting father. They are very alike, and Father always loved William more than any of us. I cannot say it made William a better man. Almost unbearable, if you ask me. But there you go, that is my odd family...'
His voice trailed off into silence, and I realized Monty had fallen asleep. Right there, by my side, his hand clasping mine.I shifted lightly, so as not to trouble him, placing his head on a cushion.
I held him,there in my arms,he was safe and soon enough his nervousness vanished. I watched him sleep, and a strange feeling unknown to me before, rose within me, like a tide. I sensed his heartbeat, I counted his breaths. I watched his chest rise and fall. As his breath steadied, his face became serene. In the dim candlelight his skin was almost pearlescent, shimmering and his dark hair formed perfect curls round his high brow.
In my long life,I have never seen anything that perfect. He was perfect to the last jot, that young man. Slender, tall and graceful, yet muscular, he'd make Antinous blush and David would weep in envy. To me, he was everything, and I couldn't bear the thought of him losing his heavenly glow that can only be found in the young - and however sad it might seem- in ones, irrevocably lost.
My Montague was both - so young, compared to me, a 230 year old immortal, and fragile, so very lost in his fears and hopes!
His mind, troubled before, was at rest now, and his dark eyelashes trembled slightly as he dreamt.
Have I fallen in love with him? I think it all happened then- in a moment, when I watched him sleep beside me. This feeling, however, came tinged with pain of unknowing. The future wasn't clear and it was an alarming sign. I could sense it before, with others- but not with him. This future was dim as the autumn dawn.
I loved him, but I was afraid to say it out loud. I loved him- loved everything about him: his smile, his sudden bouts of thoughtfulness amid lively talks, his habit of furrowing his right eyebrow while listening. I found him charming, gentle, tender and witty, sharp in observations and highly logical- and yet, so fragile!
He was athletic and muscular, and you would never think him weak- but all his weakness lay deep in his mind, so restless that even a storm seemed tame in comparison.
It was raining outside, and the leaves were rustling in the rising wind. Storm was nigh, and lightning crossed the skies.
Thunder rolled by, and Montague shifted uneasily and his beautiful eyes almost violet in the shadows, opened wide.
'Oh Lawrence' he said, his voice hoarse from sleep ' I have seen the strangest dream!'
'Tell me' I moved closer, my fingers stroking his hand. He didn't move away from me, as I thought he would.
'I was standing there, by the river. It rolled beneath me, gray and cold, and I couldn't keep myself from looking at the lapping waves - and it kept pulling me in, calling me- and then it was nothing but darkness, and I felt...I felt dead'.
He looked so scared- and even younger than he was, and his beautiful hands trembled.
I touched his cheek.
'You are safe with me' I said 'I will never let anything happen to you. This was just a dream, Montague. Just a dream.'
'But it felt so real!' He exclaimed 'And, Lawrence, I know this place! I have never told you - but I tried to...well, you know - to end it all there. I stood there for hours, I guess - it was last October, and the cold crept over me. I was leaning in, lower and lower, when this girl called me'
'Girl? You've never mentioned a girl before' jealousy reared its ugly head in me. Monty might have sensed it, as he smiled.
' She barely touched my shoulder, there on the pier. And I came back to senses. She saved me, but I never knew her name. She had long bright hair, and I remember walking her to Miller's court- and when I woke up, I was back at my lodging again!'
'You don't remember whether you slept with her?' I asked incredulously' But how can this be?'
Monty laughed again.
' You don't understand. I most certainly would not - could not. I would never'.
'Pray tell me why '
He sighed.
'I never had any inclination...any desire of being with a woman in that sense. I had to keep my doubts at bay, keep them private. I suppose you know why. But women never interested me. Otherwise, I'd be where most of my acquaintances are at the end of the day- at a pub with a girl. But I'm here with you'.
My heart skipped a beat.
'What do you...I mean...'
'Simple' he said, leaning towards me. I felt his breath on my skin. 'Simple.' He repeated ' I am here because I love you'.
The room spun before me, everything blurring, tangling and detangling- the only thing I could see clearly enough was his face- and his deep blue eyes tinged with gold.
My mind burst with millions of words and thoughts. He loved me. He loved me. He loved me. I wanted to hold him, to make him stay- forever.
My heart overruled my mind and I was close to being unreasonably careless. I couldn't tell him who - what I was- not now.
Say it again, I begged him in my mind. Say it again, say my name, make me tremble. Make me lose my mind, touch me - and never let me go. Love me. Make me forget myself. Make me forget what I am.
Instead, I said,
Hold me.

Chapter three
November,1887

In the universe, there are things that are known, and things that are unknown, and in between, there are doors.
~William Blake

Somebody once said to me, that human heart contained more mysteries than the holy books. I was young then, a boy of eleven, and I could not comprehend the depth of the concept. It took me more than two hundred years to realize how true that was. Monty's heart, however open it was, still had darkness deep inside, and it seeped out sometimes, drop by drop, casting shadows on his face.
'I am certain, Lawrence ' he said once, while playing chess with me, 'that the worst possible fate for a man is to run mad'.
'What an odd thing to say, Monty' I replied 'I wonder why you even think of it '.
He looked at me. Attentively, sadly, as if weighing the answer. Then, making a move with his bishop, he said:
'My grandmother. She tried to end her life twice. Last time she succeeded - I was fifteen, and I remember the day still. The doctor was adamant she was unwell, and advised treatment, but my father disagreed. He said it was temporary, and that bouts of melancholy were habitual in older women. He said she would come round, eventually. The very same night, we heard her crying, then she had a nervous collapse, I think. My father forbade my mother to go, although she wanted to calm grandmother down herself, a desire most logical in a daughter. But he just sent her off to bed, like you would a servant. When she didn't come down for breakfast, mother went up with a tray for her, thinking perhaps she was too weak. We heard the door creak, then the tray crashed on the floor, and my mother screamed. Father rushed there, and we - we just froze at the table. We all were there, and little Ethel was asleep at the nursery- being but 10 months of age. Poor Arthur was so frightened, his face went green. Edward grabbed my hand, and I winced, and Georgiana tried to wrestle him off me, he kicked her. William did his best to comfort Edith, who started sobbing almost immediately. He always loved her more than the others. Somehow we managed to calm them, and Jane led the children to the library. The chaos settled down, for a moment. Georgiana, bless her, was my rock - If not for her, I'd have punched William in the nose. Shaken as we were, we both noticed how unfazed he was. He remarked that, obviously there would be no Christmas that year, and that he could have spent the time wiser.
Georgiana called him a heartless idiot, and he said something even more foolish. His behaviour then made me realise I didn't like him at all.'
'What did he say?'
'To quote, we hardly knew the old bat, why should we pretend to care?'
I couldn't hide my disgust. William was the direct opposite of Monty, a pompous, cruel and uncaring cad. Such people, as far as I was concerned, never changed, displaying even more heartlessness in later years. Monty looked at me, understanding glinting in his eyes.
'I suppose he took after father. A very respected man, mind you. But a much feared one, too. He always said I was a dreamer, useless and too soft to attain something of worth or value. I took up cricket to prove him wrong. I led the debates, I excelled at sport and logic, I became a barrister - but it wasn't enough. He still taught me worse than William. He left me nothing in his will, except for several paintings and a table clock. Mother tried to soften that, assuring me she'd leave me something. But, Lawrence- I was never after money. Anyway, when father came back, he was composed and calm, and it surprised me that he never did anything to console mother, who clung to his arm. That Christmas was a black one for us. Since then, I have an utmost abhorrence for the day, and the mere thought of visiting Wimborne for the season sends shivers down my spine.
Apparently, grandmother used her embroidery scissors to cut her hands. At the wake, my aunt, unhinged and almost hysterical, blamed my father for his cruelty. She kept shouting at him, and nothing could appease her. I can see my father, giving her laudanum - his hands trembled, when he mixed the solution. As he was passing the coffin, mother gasped- I was told later on by the local woman, who came to help, that grandmother's wrists started bleeding precisely then. Oh Lawrence... deep in my heart, I know my aunt was right. Had it not been for his obstinate character, she would have lived longer. Knowing him, however, I do not think he ever felt guilty about that incident. He felt wronged, but never wrong. Jane said, my grandmother was against my mother's marriage, but she couldn't contradict her husband. Perhaps, that's what makes me think women need more rights, more freedom to decide for themselves. Mother was so traumatized afterwards, she refused to let father sleep in the same room as her. He would visit her, but after the mourning was done. And even before, I believe he did it only when it was medically...right, you know. To ensure she would fall pregnant. '
I shuddered.
,'The more I hear about the man, the less I like him' I confessed 'Was Jane that woman, who came to assist with the wake?'
Monty frowned.
'No, no. Jane is her daughter, her eldest, I believe. She's three years younger than me, Jane. My brother took her in as a cook after he became a solicitor. Her niece works for him too, I think. Will suffers from occasional generosity of spirit, when he feels it to be...right. I used to call him Scrooge, you know. We never got along, and he's grown even more unbearable lately, since father died. '
Monty's voice trembled slightly, but he was quick to master himself. Making another move, he concluded,
'I pity him, Lawrence. He's desperately lonely, my brother. His character would never suffer anyone, so he remains there, in his dusty office, buried under papers, never seeing what the world has to offer. He tried to be...normal, you know. Once...' Monty chuckled softly 'he dared me to a cricket game.'
That was surprising. I couldn't imagine a man like William playing cricket or even venturing out in broad daylight. For a moment, it seemed to me he was more of a vampire than I was, strict, weirdly unemotional, distanced, cold and calculating. And, as Monty put it, buttoned up to his forehead.
'William? Dared you to a game?'
'Oh yes, he did. Edward was still in the country, and Father was still alive. William was in a vicious mood that morning, and spat venom everywhere he went. He almost tortured me with cricket remarks, and then had the most absurd idea. He thought I was too scared to lose. Edward, who always took my side in arguments against William, suggested we play. William was so elated at the prospect, he almost tore up his necktie while dressing for the game. And so, we went outside, and we organized a match. We played against one another. '
'And?'
Monty noticed my interest and smiled.
'He lost. Naturally. And did that splendidly, declaring cricket a childish folly, a game to be enjoyed only by imbeciles. And exited the field, looking like a steam train about to explode. Edward taunted him with impressions and impersonations for months on end after that. But I swear to you, he never forgave me for playing him. I remember him saying that a day would come when my marvellous hit wouldn't save me, when my strength would be useless. He hates me, my own brother detests me and revels in it. That's the sort of family I have to put up with. Tell me about yours, for a change'.
He caught me off guard there. To tell you the truth, I wasn't ready for this sort of conversation yet. I wanted to be honest with him, I wanted to repay him for his truthfulness, and be entirely open, but imagine yourself in my place - what would you do, if you were me? Imagine, for a moment, that you are a 230 year old immortal creature, desperately in love with a mortal. Imagine being so irrevocably lost that a simple request turns everything upside down. What would you do? I thought. Then I thought some more, and, not to lengthen the pause that was already long enough, I said:
'You do not want to know'.
'Oh but I do!' Monty exclaimed, his eyes widening. 'I do. I won't force you to tell me, of course, but I would love to know more. That is, if you do not mind'.
Immediately, I felt guilty. He had that look of a schoolboy about to be thrashed by a headmaster. Undoubtedly, he's seen it many times, being a schoolmaster himself. I couldn't resist, but I had to be careful.
'I don't remember my parents' I began 'You see...my mother died giving birth to me, and my father...I doubt he ever knew I existed. My life, as I can remember it, was a far cry from a happy one, Monty. Back then, in Italy, orphanages...'
'Italy? I would never presume... I mean...you grew up there?'
'Yes. I cannot remember much, save for bleak streets, squalor and other orphans like me, frightened, hungry and scared. Nuns and priests, prayers and meagre food. Please don't ask me to dwell on it. I came to London when I was eighteen, a runaway, who had to learn on the streets, and learn fast. I had help of course - people took me in, taught me things. That's how I became the man you see now. My last teacher was a solicitor, who taught me to trust my instincts. I used his counsel, and now I am quite well-off. It seems , all that was so petty and insignificant when compared to you. With you, I live again. For years, I merely existed. London is a harsh teacher, Monty - it can be generous, but it is also treacherous and merciless to those who are too slow or weak. Once, I was both. But I've never known friendship or love in a way I do know. One day, God willing, I will tell you everything. But this day has not yet come, and please do not try to hasten its arrival. I am happy where I'm at, and I would hate it to end.'
Silence fell, as did the theatre curtain, slowly enveloping us both. For a time, Monty was pensive, and his eyes looked darker than before, his face grew ashen. Then, suddenly, a smile ran across his lips, lighting him up.
'Then, I believe, it makes two of us. My life was never happier, Lawrence. Perhaps to some, it would be a simple acquaintance, but to me, it's unimaginable. It's what I've never dreamed of having, these talks, these hours with you...'
He fell silent again, a bit flushed, indecisive, but he looked heavenly. I've never seen this sort of beauty in a man before, the type of innocence and purity only children possess. But there was Monty, exuding it, like a freshly opened pearl shell, all golden shimmer, champagne and sunlight. Renaissance would be head over heels in love with him, I thought.
I admired him. I loved him so much- and every other vampire would have used this opportunity to drink him up, to obtain this fairy dust glow. I, however, could not do this. I knew how fragile the human beauty was, I knew this glow was merely the glow of a young life- and it would diminish and become marble, steel and shadows in my presence. He would glow and shimmer, true, but this would be the dimly glowing candle in the dark of the cloister, not the radiant hours of young spring or sunrise. In other words, I would steal Persephone, instead of conquering Eos. And I didn't want that. For the first time in my long life. I didn't want to be a killer - and I would be exactly that if I ever dared touch him.
That's the moral dilemma all of us face. To preserve what we love, we must kill it - and nothing can ever change that. Preserving by killing means substituting light for darkness, beating heart for abyss, and life for existence.
I could never do that to him. But oh how I wish I'd have been more decisive! The future would prove me wrong, soon enough.

Chapter four
Christmas eve, 1887

'What can I give Him,
Poor as I am?
If I were a shepherd,
I would bring a lamb.
If I were a Wise Man,
I would do my part.
Yet what can I give Him?
I give Him my heart.'
~Christina Rossetti

I dreaded wintertime. Nothing could be worse than that in London, where the cold is as spiteful and chilling to the bone as the public manners. When I was younger, there was no joy in it, either - although the season was infused with magic - and that, of course, came from the church.
They found me on the stairs of San Lorenzo fuori le mura on New Year's Eve of 1555. Paul IV was still Pope, and the war, they later called the Italian war, was still on. It was, of course, of no use to a newborn baby, motherless, forlorn and utterly alone - crying on the cold stone stairs.
I was barely a week old, they later told me, when the good father Giulio found me that winter night. He took me in, he taught me everything he knew - and he baptized me that very night. San Lorenzo gave me to him, he said, and thus I was to bear the saint's name. I was found on the stairs of his basilica, on his birthday, - what other name could come to his mind?
San Lorenzo was a curious place, being the one of the seven pilgrim churches of Rome - you couldn't imagine the amount of people crossing its threshold daily these days, to pray to San Lorenzo, roasted to death for distributing church's wealth among the beggars in order to save it from the greedy Roman prefect. They placed him on a huge gridiron and roasted slowly, for hours on end. He was thirty three at the time, as my guardian said, strong, handsome and the fires could not harm him as the fire of God's love was burning in his heart. They laid him to rest here, at San Lorenzo, and people said he favoured the beggars and the lepers more than anybody.
I loved the story as a boy. I loved the medal Father Giulio gave me - and a serene look on San Lorenzo 's face. I wished to be like him, so sure in my love for God, that nothing would ever harm me. I wanted to be a priest - honestly, what else could I hope to be?
I worked hard, I prayed the nights away, and God heard me. I was accepted into the seminary, and then - I suppose, father Giulio somehow intervened - I was suddenly a deacon of my beloved San Lorenzo! My life could not be happier, and people loved me as I loved them. In a year, I was an ordained priest - and of course, some said, I was too young for all that, but I was thirty by the time, and the good father staunchly defended me from all the naysayers and such.
'He is San Lorenzo' s gift to us, ' he used to say 'San Lorenzo blessed him with the spark of the divine divine, do you not see? He is our gift '.
Mostly, people agreed with him, and he only waved me off when I tried to argue.
'Eh, my boy, would you argue with an old man? Old age has benefits, you know- when we know, we know.'
This was his philosophy, and I dared not contest him, for I loved him dearly, as he loved me. In Father Giulio I've found what every orphan seeks - home, and San Lorenzo became my only comfort in spirit. Whenever in doubt, I would invoke him, and my head would be rid of fuzziness and confusion in seconds. My nightmares were healed through the intercession of Saint Blaise, my love for learning was a gift of Saint Catherine and Saint Ignatius. My life was a litany, a continuous prayer, that flowed easily and unperturbed, as the waters of the Tiber. I was content, I was loved - and as selfless as can be, growing up away from the distractions, jealousy and rivalry. Who could rival God, anyway?
Seminary was hard, but not because of hours and hours of studies and examinations, but because I was away from home. Upon graduation, my mentors noted in my papers, that a future appointment to the Holy city would be the best option, ob promptitudinem serviendi Deo et Papae pro virili parte (et gravissima causa cogendi quae eum efficacius facere prohibebat). That is, my homesickness was hanging over me like a ghost, preventing me from concentrating on service.
And so, either by the intercession of Saint Anthony, or by a happy coincidence, I came back to San Lorenzo and Father Giulio. The years went by - I was almost thirty then - when one night, while I was getting ready for the Mass, a ragged girl came running into the church.
'Tu, sei un prete? Vieni, mamma malata, la morte vicina, spaventata' she said in one breath, her Italian mingling with a language I didn't know.
I tried to explain that the Mass was too soon, and I had but a little time, but she wouldn't listen. I called for father Giulio.
'Oh' he said upon seeing her 'I understand. I'll cover for you, but be careful'.
I took the bag I used for visiting the parishioners, checked everything, and followed the girl outside. The snow was falling and I could feel the cold swirling in the air. My guide ran ahead, beckoning me into the labyrinth of small and narrow streets, until we reached a dilapidated house.
'Mamma ' the girl said, pointing to the door. 'Mamma'.
I crossed the threshold. It was almost pitch black inside, but I could discern a bed, and a pale woman lying there. I moved closer.
'Are you...a priest?' She asked, her voice hoarse and low. Judging by it, she was not that old, but there was something inherently hungry in it, something desperate. Something...not quite human.
To spare you the effort of combing through the confessions of the dying, I will tell you what I've learned in that dingy room.
Her name was Veronica, and her father took her on pilgrimage once, and while on the way she realized she was with child. Luckily her drunk of a father never cared, and she gave birth soon after they set foot in Rome. Forced to give up the child, she left it on the steps of San Lorenzo fuori le mura, and ran away. This happened (and you were right if you guessed) precisely thirty years ago on New Year's Eve.
The dying woman was, indeed, my mother. A mother I never knew, and had no intention of knowing. A mother who didn't want to be my mother for thirty years, was confessing to me, and wanted to elicit some reaction - and I could provide none. I felt nothing. I said what I had to say.
'Ego te absolvo, in nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti, Amen'
She sighed.
'I suppose...That is all I'm worthy of. I am so sorry now,but I had to leave you there. My father would have killed me. Please, say something...say you forgive me'.
'Let the Lord be your judge, signora. I am a priest, and thus I am here as one. Be at peace. '
She turned her face away from me. Her shoulders were shaking, and I realised she was crying.
'I know' she sobbed 'I wasn't much of a mother but I gave life to you. And you've grown so handsome now, so...like San Lorenzo. But he used to care for the needy...'
She was right. San Lorenzo was a champion of the poor, indeed. And I was unworthy of his name. Kneeling by the bed, I took her hand in mine.
'I never knew you - and my guardian was too gentle to remind me of you. But I sometimes wondered if...you loved me. Was it love that made you leave me? Or was it something else?..'
She looked at me. Her eyes were bright, much like mine. Her face was once beautiful, I could see that. And it pained me to see how alike we were. I wished I knew more of her, but there was little time left, too - she was growing weaker by the minute.
'I loved you so much, cuoricino...your eyes were so beautiful, when you were born. I could have carried you to the nuns, but I had little time...I was weak. I carried you as far as I could. And I've prayed ever since. You are so...handsome now. And I am so happy I could...' She clutched my hand. A smile lighted up her face and she was gone.
God is sometimes cruel,I thought. Tears ran streaming down my cheeks, and I cried, still holding her hand, until someone touched My shoulder.
'Father? Are you alright?'
I shuddered at the touch and turned back.
A woman of rare beauty stood there, looking at me quizzically.
She could have been Raphael's muse, easily. Even the painters of modern times,such as Rossetti or Millais, would fight for the honour of painting her. Try as you might to imagine the most ravishing, most sublime kind of beauty- that woman surpassed it by far.
'I was...praying. '
'Sounded like crying to me' she smiled 'Veronica was my aunt. She has found you, I take it. What do I owe you?'
I stood up.
'You don't have to, signorina. I did my duty, that's all. If you need any help with the funeral...'
She smiled.
'There would be no need, Father. It is all arranged. I will be taking her to Farneta. Our family hailed from Calabria, you see. Her father's name was Severino, Alfredo Severino. You'd have been that...too. But I think...it's best for you not to be. We do have a dark history. Will you have some wine to...remember her?'
Gratefully, I took the glass from her cold fingers. The wine was blood red, and had a curious herbal aftertaste. My head was dizzy. The room went out of focus, I lost my bearings- and then, darkness came.
****
'Enzo, my boy, do you hear me?'
Somebody was shaking me gently by the shoulders. Somebody had a very familiar voice, too. I opened my eyes; daylight seemed so harsh that I hastened to close them again. That brief moment was enough, however, to notice Father Giulio by my side.
'What happened? Why are you...where am I?'
'I wish I knew, ragazzino, I wish I knew. I found you on the stairs, on New Year's Eve. It was three days ago. You were naked, Enzo. The night was so cold, too - I was afraid you'd die. But you are strong, my boy. Here' he helped me up, and poured some broth into my mouth, slowly and gently holding my head.
'What do you mean, you found me on the stairs?' I asked hoarsely 'Tell me'.
Giulio shook his head.
'I only know what I know, Enzino. I was going to light up the candles, to leave some food out, like we do, and I went outside, and there you were- prostrate on the stairs, naked, pale, almost dead. I sent for the good doctor Spezzano, he examined you, and honestly, he couldn't find any fault. The only thing he said was severe anaemia, but you were still alive. We tried warming you up, we swaddled you in blankets, but you looked....dead still. So he said, the room must be well warmed, and you should be too, and it's been three days, and I thought I'd lose you. But you're alive, you're alive...'
He hugged me so tightly that I gasped. His tears left stains on my shirt, and he was trembling all over. I patted him on the back.
'Looks like it's you who needs a doctor, eh?'
Giulio laughed.
'Enzo...my dear boy! You know, they sent you a letter from the Holy See- they want you to come as soon as you are able. But it can wait, of course. My priority is you, not his Holiness. At least, for now. Get your rest. God bless you, my boy'.
With that, he left the room. I lay motionless, trying to gather my thoughts. I didn't remember a thing. I remembered my mother, and the young woman who talked to me. If I concentrated enough,I could remember the aftertaste of wine she gave me - it reminded me of laudanum, which seemed a bit odd. When I fell asleep, I saw nothing but nightmares- that darkened room, the woman in a blood red dress, sliding off her shoulders, a sharp pain in my neck would wake me, and I'd lay there gasping. When these nightmares came, the air reeked of blood, sweat and something unfamiliar to me. The smell was despicable, nauseating- and there would always be blood on my pillow in the morning.
However, I got better. The following year the Pope came to San Lorenzo fuori le mura to preach and meet the believers. He wasn't a pleasant man, and when he offered me a raise, I declined, as politely as I could. He looked at me curiously and muttered, 'Humility and lack of ambition...I find it refreshing, young man. Let it be, then. Stay, if you feel it right - but should anything happen, don't hesitate to come. '
He blessed me, giving me a beautiful rosary, made of blood red glass beads, and departed. Next time, when the Holy See came by, I was thirty three- that time they succeeded. My guardian passed away by that time, and I agreed to go to the Vatican, mainly because I felt so utterly alone and abandoned.
The Pope was kind to me, and even made me a generous offer, which I accepted, albeit hesitantly. He made me a cardinal, and thus, the weight of the title as well as the responsibility has never left me.
To cut the story short, not everybody was happy about it. I was sent to Scotland on a mission- of benevolence, as they put it, to show James VI, son of Mary, that the Vatican cared. Elizabeth's diamond years were long gone, and she was old now. We've had the reports of her Ill health of course, and of James's devout faith. True, he was devout. And he had a strange obsession with witch hunts, too.
Scotland was to be my demise.
The autumn months and chills made me quite sick. The doctors did their best to revive me, but the blood letting had a sad outcome: I died three weeks after coming. The only thing I remember is a strange mixture given to me before I passed away. It tasted of blood, apples, sage and yew berries, crushed - and when I woke up, I was no longer human. I was a vampire, a vampire with no past and no knowledge of the future.
The year was 1588.

Chapter five.
Christmas. 1887

Christmas won't be Christmas without any presents.
Louisa May Alcott

My story was complicated. My story was not the kind of story you tell your loved ones at Christmas; nor was it the best one to be shared easily. Now, as the hour of our meeting was fast approaching, I contemplated and pondered over it, realizing, with horror, that I could never burden Monty with all the details and hope he would understand or believe me.
What would you do if someone told you all that? Would you stay? Would you run? Perhaps, you'd think the narrator is a raving madman? Or, which is much worse, a liar?
Oh yes, being a liar in his eyes would have been much worse than passing for a lunatic or even a criminal. Every sinner deserves forgiveness, every man has a chance of redemption. A criminal can be acquitted, pardoned and freed. A madman can be placed in custody or treatment. But what would you do with a liar?..
No liar in my experience was ever granted trust again. No liar deserved to be loved again. Liars are murderers of hearts. Liars are worse than any vermin. That's what I've learned, that was what I grew up believing.
I knew I could not betray Monty in any way, and I knew that, should I dare tell him everything, there would be no word of lie in my tale. But to him, all that would seem false. He was, after all, a barrister, born and raised in values of the Anglican church, a perfect specimen of Victorian pragmatism and practicality. His mind was wound up differently, with no cogs for mysticism, prejudice or superstition, his mind was clear and sharp, as the first winter ice. His heart was in the right place, of course, but I suspected that in the face of my story his mind would prevail, and he would most certainly leave. But perhaps, I was wrong? It could well be, but I had no desire to test this idyll of a relationship.
I should have thought this through. What a fool I was, what an absolute, utter fool, to think I could play mortal once again. To dream of having someone to love. To care too much. But it was too late. My heart was his. And he knew that.
Deep in thought, I stood by the window observing the street somewhere below. The world was getting ready to celebrate. London looked magnificent with all the decorations, and of course, that was a posthumous gift of the late Prince Albert, who was gone too soon but left a wonderful legacy- and a void in his Royal wife's heart.
I sympathized with Victoria, having lost so many people I loved but I could not understand her negligence in questions of her people's wellbeing.
Yes, of course, here, in the West End, everything was completely fine, but only a very strong and knowledgeable man would dare step out in the East end. With all my prowess and immortality, I was more than cautious- but I could not be harmed, which could not be said about all the others.
Molly and George were fine there, but even they used to call the slums of London dangerous. George's advice still rang in my head.
'Wha'ever 'appens, m'lord, don ' take 'im there. Not even fer a second. Keep 'im away. '
'If they notice him, he'll be haunted for good' Molly would add, nodding 'This ain't no place for a boy like yours. For the likes of him, girls could tear each other up. He's too good, keep an eye on him'.
They were right, of course. Monty was glowing, and I would notice it even with mortal eyes. He was too good looking, too. Once, he said, observing us side by side in the mirror, that we looked really alike.
'You look more like my brother than my brother does!' He exclaimed ' but compared to you, I am bleak. Were you a woman, I would call you exquisite'.
He was wrong. I was not exquisite. I was anything but. To my own eyes, of course. But I saw only him. And I wished for more- but the time was unstable, cruel and devoid of compassion. The storm was brewing but its climax would come in four years. The storm was brewing, and no one knew where it would hit the most.
Amidst those unhappy thoughts I lost track of time and didn't notice how Monty appeared. He looked younger than ever, his cheeks still slightly red from the cold outside. His eyes sparkled mischievously, and he was, as I noticed, in high spirits.
'Merry Christmas, Lawrence' he smiled 'You seem...preoccupied. Is something wrong?'
'It's nothing, don't worry. Just a ghost of a headache. You look as if you have a cunning plan or is it just the lighting?'
Monty laughed.
'Well...You can say that. I've brought you a gift.' He reached inside his coat and to my surprise, produced a somehow aghast kitten. Its fur had a greyish-misty tint, and its eyes were almost sapphire blue, exactly the shade of Monty's. It seemed quite docile and charming, but I was aware of the reaction cats usually have when a vampire is present. However, this one merely yawned and settling in my hands, purred loudly.
'That, as far as I know, means he likes you' Monty chuckled 'I didn't want you to feel lonely while I'm away. I found him on the stairs of the Old Bailey, can you imagine? Poor fellow was shivering all over. Such a relief he's feeling better now. What would you call him?'
I paused for a moment.
'I must admit, he looks a bit like you. Would you mind?'
A boyish smile ran over his lips. He looked so charming that I could hold back from kissing him. When I pulled myself back from him, with some considerable effort- I saw he was smiling.
'I was hoping you'd do that' he said 'I really did.'
Inside, I was trembling. Sometimes my actions didn't coincide with my logic, and this moment was exactly one of those. You might say, I was overpowered by my own feelings, which, in retrospect, never did me any good.
'Thank you for being so thoughtful, Monty' I said 'He is lovely. Compared to this, my present looks cold and heartless, but...I can assure you it is not. Here...'
'How elegant' Monty picked up a velvet pouch from my open palm and inspected it. His long fingers reached inside and found the gold chain. 'Are you going to chain me to the wall, Mr.Graves?' He teased 'What a whimsical idea! Oh...look, it's a watch!'
My gift sat comfortably in his hand, a silver-lidded watch, with a neatly made inscription inside. 'MJD' it read, nothing too fancy, but the script was quite artistic, and, were you to turn it in a certain way, the initials read 'LG'. Monty, being as sharp eyed as a falcon, noticed it right away.
'Oh Lawrence ' he said, his voice trembling a little 'It is so beautiful '
'I'm glad you like it, dear boy ' I said before I could think. Monty looked at me in surprise, but in a moment his concern was gone.
'I quite like how it sounds.' He said 'but let's leave it here. The world doesn't have to know, does it?'
Relieved, I nodded, albeit too enthusiastically. Monty was a born diplomat, I had to give him that. Suddenly I noticed that a watch lacked something vital: it had nothing to keep it steady in a buttonhole. Fumbling in my pocket, I found a coin and placed it into a latch at The end of the chain. The coin was a silver guinea.
'Now you won't lose us both' I said 'keep it safe'.
'I shall. But look, Lawrence! It's snowing!'
It was snowing indeed, and it felt as if the skies were blessing London - and us. Finally I felt that my future wasn't bleak and lonely any more. I wasn't alone. I had Monty. Life wasn't a disaster- it had a meaning.
I felt alive for the first time in 200 years. I was in love and I knew I was loved in return.
That alone could make me happy for all eternity.
That night was the most magical night in my long life, and, anticipating your questions and innuendos, I will say this: we spent it together, saluting the coming year, reading aloud and telling stories. Christmas is, after all, the time for purity, light and hope, isn't it?

Chapter six
Winter/ Spring 1888

People are always blaming their circumstances for what they are. I don't believe in circumstances.
George Bernard Shaw

In 1888 the population of London was almost five million people, out of which over two million lived below the poverty line, and 900 000 of those inhabited the East End. Of these, in its turn, 76000 merely existed in Whitechapel. The Irish, drawn out of Ireland by the famine, the Polish and the Russian Jews escaping with their lives from the horrible purges they would call the pogroms, and all the rest of the world flocking to London to find employment, or hoping for a chance to start a new, better life, would come to the docks by ships, and remain in the dockland slums, unable to carry on. The work was scarce, with suspicions and prejudice growing, and most of those coming in hope, would find their hopes dashed as they would be turned out, kicked out or refused. Women and children would fare no better, as housing was abysmal, yet the rent - high and the landlords cunning and looking to increase their income by all means. I had no dealings with the landlords, but the girls Molly cared about would often complain about the conditions in those, so called, rooms they had to share. Flower and Dean street, Dorset street, Miller's court, - I've heard these whispered about, and was warned never to go there, although nothing could harm me.
'They would find the harm to harm' Molly would say 'and to a gentleman like yourself, too. And if you were to hand out money to them, they would tear you apart, isn't that right, Georgie?'
Somberly, George would nod and sigh, and at that the conversation would run dry. The housing,however, was my smallest concern: the overall atmosphere was turning dangerously explosive in the East End. Rows and brawls would erupt over the most minuscule things, and George was forced to keep a rifle safely hidden by the bar, to be able to ward off the bouncers, as he called them. Whitechapel boiled as a witch's cauldron on an open fire, threatening to drown us all in hate and fear, and it seemed that even the air grew denser, more polluted, and the days became darker.
Lack of space for living proved to be the worst of problems, provoking countless quarrels between the usuals at The Ten Bells. Religion, territory, social views, politics and money, wives and husbands, children and food - everything could potentially become the center of a heated argument that would turn into a beating. Police station was close by, but even that couldn't stop people from - well, being people.
Observing the city's unrest, I became more and more restless myself. Thoughts of something dark and foreboding crept into my mind, and I realized that Monty was in the epicenter of the maelstrom that raged in my mind. Was I worried? Immensely. Had I any reason to? On the surface, everything seemed well enough. We had our safe haven, our meeting place was discreet and far from the tumult of the East End, but its location also guaranteed the absence of prying eyes.
George's advice was resounding in my mind, and I did everything in my power to keep Whitechapel and Monty as far from each other as possible. I had more reasons for it than I could think of, and with the restlessness growing in the East end, it was more than unsafe to appear there with Monty. I had my eyes and ears in the East as well as the West of the city, and their presence kept Monty safely hidden from view, thoughts or talks. He was keenly aware of the atmosphere in the city, and has repeatedly noted on the living conditions and social insecurities of the poor. He had a compassionate heart, my Monty, and perhaps as I think of it now, it was this heart that propelled him to choose the barrister's career.
'I could be quite happy as a cricketer, you know' he confessed once, while staying with me during Easter 'But I wouldn't make a living. I could be content with less, too - but, Lawrence, being a schoolmaster is so tedious at times! I love teaching the boys how to be good at cricket, but that happens only when the weather allows. But watching over them at night can be quite a challenge. The matron is a god fearing, motherly type, but of course she doesn't have any idea of what is going on in dormitories after hours. I sometimes fear their...misdemeanors could get them into trouble. Being educated in a similar way myself, I find this system repressive and obsolete, to be honest. I find it rather...constricted. And thought provoking'.
'What do you mean?' His passionate tone made me raise a brow. He sighed and closed the book he was reading with a snap.
'Just think, Lawrence. What good can come out of twenty young boys locked together at all times? Would they be stable in all their thoughts and actions, or could that ...inspire them to look for...contentment and closeness among their peers rather than in the female company? Wouldn't this educational imprisonment push them..to potentially...harmful life?'
'Well if you think that a taste for other men is harmful, I have to disappoint you' I replied ' These leanings have been there since antiquity, or perhaps longer. It is not where we stand in preferences that molds us as you say; it is the society. The intellectual development of the individual is as history teaches us, this individual's responsibility. They might educate the young minds, I grant you that, but perhaps there is something like.... A natural tendency?'
Monty seemed troubled.
'I am not in the position to judge. Certainly. I am simply worried about these boys sometimes. I hear things, Lawrence. And the things I hear are unnerving. There are, apparently, boys that end up in the East end, working as...I cannot even bring myself to use the term our gardener at Blackheath used once. These appalling conditions, this inequality, these morals....oh how I detest them! Why would anyone think themselves capable and omnipotent enough to tell others what to feel, who to love? Since when did love become a rule to follow? '
'Since the inception of society, I think. But, Monty, people are cruel. People can be...perverse. Dangerous to one another. And there is always someone who leads those who puts new restrictions and changes the order of things to appease the masses. I'm not saying love is ruled by them, but the ways of life are. People are divided, and this division is an ancient one. Here in London the chasm between the East end and the West end is as deep and wide as the ocean that separates us from the Americas. People come here from all over the world to find employment, freedom or a better life, and they end up in the East end because they run out of means. I have no doubt you are well acquainted with Mayhew or Benjamin Waugh. There are those who care deeply and are troubled by these issues. Dickens was, in his days, but words are sometimes less mighty than actions. I mean, have you read Acton? '
'Well, of course. My father had it, and I remember him rage about the book. I thought it was very brave. And I must agree, distress and hunger mark women prostitutes, not general sensuality. The thought struck me deeply, I must say. These poor women, how awful that must be- to be unable to earn enough for living! Oh how I wish I could change something! I am so tired of reading these articles in the newspapers, so unimaginably tired! All these developments, and for what? You know, when I was a student, I was a debating leader. We had heated arguments on equality, women's rights and ability to make sound decisions. I was so furious at my peers, that my tutors had to step in. One of them even joked that if I had a cricket bat, my opponents would be struck down in a minute. Pursuing law was not my own idea, it came from my professors. I remember being asked if the classics were a field too meek for my character. I would never make a good classicist, they said. But a barrister's cloak would suit my temperament. You might say, I listened well.'
'You did. I remember how they praised you last year. Mildon v Binstead was quite a case!'
Monty laughed, his blue eyes lighting up.
'Oh yes. Marion Mildon was...decisiveness itself. In no uncertain terms she told me, she'd go riding st.George with me any day even though I was a black box. Luckily she said it after the court was adjourned. I'd die of shame. Or laughter. And that would have been impolite. She was, I must admit, a very pretty young lady. Alas, I was otherwise engaged. He sighed theatrically making me smile 'would you think me vain, Mr.Graves, if I say I am indeed a handsome black box?..'
He managed to keep his face straight, although his eyes twinkled mischievously. Gracefully he turned to me and said, as casually as he could,
'You are quite a gal-sneaker yourself good sir. Look at you! This forehead, these lines...you are a danger to the hearts, I dare say!'
'Am I? Get inside and pull the blinds down then'
'I'll get me shillings ready, sir, please don't kill me!' Monty whispered dramatically ' I am too young to die!'
'And too foolish to live it seems' I retorted 'are you even sure they called you to the bar?'
He'd frown at that.
'I am not too certain. Might be some other M.J.Druitt. London's full of them, you know. And not all of them are good, mind you'.
I admit that, I'd kiss him to end this foolishness, and the blinds would indeed be down on anything that could follow. You can easily deduce the consequences of two men in love being together. With him I couldn't think of anything else - although George was undoubtedly right about the anger, the tumult and public unrest. I tried to savour each moment we spent together, I clung to him desperately. He was my anchor. My lighthouse amidst the roaring storm, my stars guiding me home. Spring was blossoming, and in my mind Monty became firmly associated with this gently intoxicating time of year. Spring also marked the beginning of the cricket season, although I have to admit, with the dismal weather we have been blessed with, the matches were risky at the very least. I've observed Monty at play from afar, thinking somewhat selfishly that this dashing young man had eyes only for me. He was positively glowing on the field, and when Blackheath crushed all opponents triumphantly, I rejoiced with him. However, an unfamiliar shadow was hiding behind his sapphire eyes, and he looked more tired than usual. He was young, and youth helped him out that spring. Overall, he was a success both on the field and in the schoolroom. His colleagues respected him, his students adored him. His life could seem perfect as he balanced it wisely, finding time even for occasional lightheartedness and leisure.
Apart from the aforementioned, he was successful as a barrister too, and even though William sometimes tried to test him with the difficult cases, he passed the tests admirably well. I have to admit, he was the only bright thing in that period of my life, and my love for him seemed to grow by the minute. His wit, charm and outspokenness thrilled me, his eyes, shifting colors with each passing mood, captivated me. I loved him.
Have you ever been in love? I am sure you have. You must understand then, how my heart ached at parting, and how close I was from falling into the trap my own body set for me. Monty filled my dreams, I longed for the next meeting while he was still by my side. My heart was bursting with emotion, that I could not put into words or action fearing it would drive me uncontrollably mad. He had a curious habit, Monty - were we to meet in the evening hours, he would drift to sleep while stroking Monty Junior. I would remain by his side, vigilant - and too enraptured to move. I studied his face, his beautiful hands and saw nothing but pure perfection. He looked so young, so innocent, so...pure.
Having him close wasn't enough. Having him fall asleep on my shoulder while listening to me read aloud wasn't enough. Embraces were not enough. My vampire nature wanted more, but my mind had to keep the nature subdued in the fear of harming the man I loved. It became my obsession and nightmare - touching him, holding him close. Even in the most intimate moments he would marvel at my tentativeness, my gentleness - or did I seem distracted, distant? He never said anything, and I dared not ask. We were so in love yet so terribly Victorian, it seemed, that talks that candid were completely unthought of.
I had to be content with what I had, and I was. Sometimes, it is quite enough for one to know he is loved. Or so the saying goes.

Chapter seven.
June-July, 1888

They've promised that dreams can come true- but forgot to mention that nightmares are dreams too.

~Oscar Wilde

As summer unfolded (could we even call that stormy, sorrowful and thunderous period summer?), Londoners suddenly began to realize they were trapped. Waters in their multitudes swept the country, rivers flooding the land, and an unbearable chill settled in. Revisiting that period in my memory, I hear the rustle of newspapers and continuous rainfall pounding the roofs and cobblestones. The people of the East End saw more than their fair share of heavy rainfall, and this was coupled with severe thunderstorms and gale force winds.

Some of the railway lines heading out of London flooded, as did many of the houses of the poor in the East End of London, and, as August of  1888 was ushered in, there seemed to be no improvement to the conditions. But we had no notion of the horrors yet to come, so we could only observe the tensions, public unrest and nervousness rising day by day and wish for the change to happen.

June saw us struggling, July brought us nothing more than  despair and August would throw us on our knees and make us tremble, grovelling for mercy. Thus was the summer of dread, that would be but a messenger to the autumn that was to be known as the autumn of terror. 

In the beginning of July, amidst the chilling rain and fog, a strike took place. Match-girls, much inspired by the courageous and outspoken journalist by the name of Annie Besant,  rioted against their masters and factory owners, crying out for the better working conditions and compensations that were due, as their dangerous and highly toxic trade made them vulnerable and open to all sorts of disease. The strike went on for twenty five days, during which more than two hundred workers, most of them teenage girls, unionised.  Many of them were, by that time, gravely ill - and all of us, especially Molly, who knew more women and girls than we could anticipate, took that to heart. She'd spend many hours bringing food and providing means of comfort to them, and quite often I saw her confiding her grief  in George. She too had a heart of gold, although she seemed tougher than the London factory workers or the colliers of the North. 

'I wish I could help 'em more, George. Them poor gals, so young and 'alf dead already. '

He'd pat her on the back and pour her more tea, and carefully adjust the shawl on her shoulders.

'Bring em 'ere, sweetheart. If they 'ave nowhere to be, I reckon nobody minds if they stays here.'

And so she did. And so they stayed. Some would later repay George by helping around, and one of them, a woman by the name of Catherine Eddowes,  who still possessed some traces of long gone beauty, somehow  became a more frequent guest than the others.  Her dark auburn hair was salted by misery, poverty and heartache, and I dare suggest many lines on her face were premature. She could've been thirty-six and she could've been much older - no one could tell. She had honey-hazel eyes with long eyelashes, and her forehead spoke of intelligence and wit. There was more to her than met the eyes, and quite quickly I realized that she was almost scholarly, after talking to her. She wasn't born or bred in London, I could tell. George, with his knowledge of talks, accents and such, suggested she came from the Western parts. Cathy smiled when she heard that.

'That's right, sir. I was born in Wolverhampton.   I've been at them schools, too. I loved books when I was a girl. But when my mom died, us children were sent to all sorts of places. I don't think I was happy again after she was gone. To tell you the truth, I once wanted to be a writer. But, I'm here ' she added with a smile ' and we both know no writers come from Whitechapel. '

That summer she spent several evenings at the Ten Bells, voraciously reading - I lent her a couple of books quite happily, one of them- Henry Acton, and another - The Happy Prince. 

'He sees right through me, that Wilde" she said, dabbing her eyes with an apron given by Molly, ' I reckon he's seen plenty o' pain himself. A happy fella could not ever done that'.

I have to admit, that was right as rain. I've known Oscar since he was a boy, and he always had this strange talent to spot pain in people and create wondrous things around it. As he grew older, this talent only augmented, and undoubtedly, The Happy Prince was the pinnacle of his writing.  Cathy, although she never met Oscar, had a soul of a poet, - and judging by her reactions,she was an extremely sensitive and insightful woman. 

What a pity, thought I, that such women as her cannot get what they deserve in this cruel city. She could've been a good writer, if given the chance. But London was quite uncompromising in literature and publishing these days, and a woman of Cathy's standing was as far from being a writer as I was from being a pillow. Although she had more chances, if truth be told.

I've seen plenty of East end going grey or white before their time, and I knew what harm could be done by cheap gin or port, when supplied in abundance. Illness has already claimed her, I could tell - and she must have known it, too, for behind her jokes and laughs there was an unmistakable aura of death prepared to attack. Molly sensed it too, and that was the sole reason for her caring attitude for Cathy. She even gifted her some of her old dresses and a couple of aprons that looked really good on her.

Even George formed a sort of attachment to Cathy. Whenever she visited the pub, he would straighten his back, and behave as though they were high society acquaintances. Cathy blushed whenever he called her ma'am, and curtsied gracefully. I think George fancied her, just as she did him, but they never traversed the realm of polite courtship. Moreover, Cathy had her own man who could sometimes be a bit too possessive, as we heard. That man was a certain Mr. John Kelly, a labourer, as he called himself. A bearded, stout man with broad shoulders, he was considerably older than Cathy, and had a gruff voice. All in all, he looked much more grim and brooding than he really was.

His sentiment towards Cathy was truly touching. He definitely had feelings for her, and as we learned, they had known each other since 1881, and for much of the time  they had lived as husband and wife at a common lodging house in Flower and Dean Street. 

'Wretched place' George muttered when he heard that 'Were she my wife, I'd never take her there'. He never uttered a word that evening, and I suppose Cathy felt his opinion of Kelly and their accommodation was far from the best. George still harboured some feelings for her- and waited for her return.

He had to abandon his romantic notions in late July, when Cathy announced she was going to visit her folk in Bermondsey, and John Kelly was to accompany her. 

'I have to see my daughter' she said that evening 'And Lord knows when I come back. I reckon I'll find some work there- who knows... but I've brought you something to remember me by '.

George received quite an unexpected gift - a brightly coloured muffler Cathy made herself.

'I made it for you, George, ' she said, wrapping it around his neck. 'To thank you for all you've done for me. And to Miss Molly, too- give her that, will you?' 

Miss Molly's gift turned out to be a pair of black  fingerless mittens that were all the rage that year, just the sort of thing Molly liked. 

Cathy explained 'It's not much, but she's been so kind to me. I could not, for the life of me, figure out what to give Mister Lawrence, but I made him a doily'.

The craftsmanship was exquisite, I must say. The doily wasn't big, but very neatly made in the shape of a rose with 4 leaves, made of bright red and green cotton threads.  I thanked her profoundly and she hugged me. George, much touched by the gesture, kissed her hand. He loved the muffler, we could tell- he wore it quite happily, almost every day. Cathy and John Kelly were an odd sort of couple, but obviously they cared about each other. 

Without Cathy's presence, The Ten Bells became much quieter, and all of us would go back to our own knitting. Molly threw herself into helping the women of Whitechapel, and her seriousness and compassion soon earned her the utmost respect and admiration among the 'gals ' as she called them.

However much Molly was prepared to do - and she got me into this too- it wasn't enough. She would often rage about it, and George, the ever -logical one, would explain again and again that it was the drink that stood in the way of charity. 

'Face it, Moll.  Tha's all they got, the drink. Tha's cheap, an' tha's everywhere you go. Sad, 'appy, drink don' care. It's juss there. An' It's the best they got. Some of them only need to forget....'

I had to concede that George was right. Of us three, he was, undoubtedly, the most seasoned and experienced in London's ways. His judgement was as sharp as his sight, and he sometimes knew people's minds before they even opened their mouths to speak. He knew bad eggs from the good ones, and was quick to turn out anyone who had any suspicious aura around him - and for that, his furrowed brows and fierce expression were more than enough.

I trusted him implicitly, and I trusted Molly to be my ears and eyes in the East End.  She'd bring all sorts of news, most often - the news of new women in the district or new tensions around the area. That summer, she talked of several women, and especially- of a certain young lady she called Dark Mary.  

'She's young you know, younger than most, and with luscious golden hair'  she said one night, sipping gin at the Ten Bells. Gin had no effect on her whatsoever- but she would drink simply to relax, as she said. 

' Why call her dark, then? ' George looked puzzled 'If she's a blonde'

'They call her all sorts of names you know. Some call her Dark Mary, some - Red Marie, men call her sweetheart. I s'pose it's because no one knows her well enough. Do you know this lad, Joe Barnett? Lodges with her at Miller's court.'

George nodded. 

'Been here a couple times, Joe. Nice fella.  Serious one, don't drink much. Works as a porter, I hear. Moustache. Five foot seven at most. I liked him. What of him?'

'Wanted to marry the gal' Molly said 'But she can't quit you know. Likes the freedom, she says. Stupid, I say. He's a nice lad, Joe.'

They continued to discuss people and events, and I allowed my mind to wander off. I was thinking about Monty, whose schedule was too busy despite the summer break at school. Cricket took most of his time, and we met only once in June, amidst the troubling news, games and dismal weather. July brought him closer, with only two games - but emotionally, the matters took a turn for the worst. 

When we finally met toward the middle of July, Monty looked awful. Exhausted, almost emaciated, he collapsed on the sofa by the window after we had tea. 

'You don't look good, I have to say' I said, observing his pallor, anxious looks and bleak voice. 'Did cricket do that to you or is there something else? '

He opened his eyes with a pained expression. 

'I wish I knew, Lawrence. I think that is what life does to people. You probably think cricket was the only reason for the rare meetings, but I wish it was. Remember that gap between games I had in June? Well, I was going to visit you, but a letter came from home, and it made my hair stand on end. '

'What happened? Was it young Arthur? Or your sisters?'

Monty shook his head, his face suddenly turning ashen. 

'It was Mother. Georgiana wrote to me, half-hysterical with worry. Apparently, she found mother unconscious in her room, with an emptied bottle of laudanum beside her. She alerted William, who immediately arranged for a doctor. Fortunately, she came to her senses, but for quite some time she seemed incoherent.  She couldn't remember her own name, Lawrence. I was distraught- we all were- and I was ready to go home the same week, but a second letter arrived. That time it was William, who informed me that there was no need to come, that he had found a nurse and the doctor visits regularly.   The game was approaching, so I tried to steady my mind. We won but I fear I was dismal. My head was throbbing with pain then, I could hardly see straight. But again, news from home was getting better. In the beginning of July however William alerted me. Apparently, mother was getting worse  - she had deep bouts of melancholy, stupor and he was, as he put it, not certain if he could manage the situation on his own. 

Then doctor Rowland wrote to me, describing in minute detail how fast her decline progressed- she had forgotten how to wash even, and she didn't recognize her children anymore. He suggested therapy, of course. Georgiana, god bless her, took in the youngest - although she was expecting again. She wrote to Edward too, and he was on his way - the consensus being that William was not to decide anything on his own. 

I left for Bournemouth on the 10th, I knew I had some time till the game- and when I arrived, Edward was already there. Georgiana was visibly glad to see me- although she looked dreadful and very shaken. She told me that William and Edward had an argument over mother's condition and future, and that she had never seen them that angry. Apparently William did everything he could to arrange the matters himself, although he had previously promised to Georgiana he would not. The place he had chosen seemed to infuriate Edward, or perhaps it was the way William had acted in general, - and I cannot say I blame Edward for reacting. We both expected to see mother, but it turned out she'd been at Brooke House since the 5th, and a certain Dr. Pavy had enough time to certify she was insane. This was quite a shock, I can tell you. 

While I was there, William and Edward either shouted at each other, or glared at each other. I tried to resolve the matter amicably, I tried suggesting another way, like Brighton, where, as I knew, a lighter treatment could be arranged, and both Georgiana and Edward supported me. Arthur, Georgiana said, even proposed postponing his college studies for a year to care about mother, but of course, no one took it well. William was...awful, to be short. He said he had arranged for her to go to Brooke House, in London, and that the matters were settled, and he would hear no more of it. He stated that her case was hopeless. That enraged Edward, who lashed out on him, and they started bickering again. I had to escort Georgiana upstairs, in fear their argument would harm her condition, and she begged me to stop them before it was too late.

Honestly, William was so brutal that I was surprised at Edward's calmness. He reacted as a soldier - when William called him an ingrate, a fool and a careless fop, he simply sighed and said that he came to talk about mother. Insults, he said, were not mentioned in any letters. William raged on, and finally Edward left, having hugged Georgiana and me. I envied him, but my reasoning had no success. Legally, William had a right to decide these things, and he did. I wonder why he had chosen that asylum. Do you know anything about it?’

Internally, I shuddered. Of course, I knew the place. William must have known a great deal about it too, I thought- or nothing at all, if he had the audacity and brutality to commit his own mother to that sort of place. 

Madness was a highly profitable business then, and thirty-six asylums operated in London since the 1800s, Brooke House being only slightly better than Bethnal Green asylum, where treatment was a sentence. Brooke House was managed by the Monros, most of them solicitors or ardent art lovers, but rarely medical men. Some of them, proudly calling themselves doctors, were no better at treating patients than a horde of Neanderthals would be at Jacobean embroidery. Monty of course was too young to remember the trial of Dr. Monro, but I remembered it vividly. Monty's father, I believe, could have heard of the case, but even for him 1815 was an ancient time. Thomas Monro faced a full-blown trial then, for neglecting his duties and subjecting the patients to cruelty and suffering, to put it mildly. He was a great lover of purging, bleeding, medicinal vomiting and forced feeding of the patients as well as using chains and fetters. The regime was upheld twenty years after, and when the special commission came to evaluate the place, it was found to be dismal, too cold in wintertime, too damp, too dilapidated and drafty, and very depressing. Even the famous floral wallpapers and elaborate decorations could not hide the pain and cruel management. According to the Monros, management was all their patients needed. And from what I've heard, the abominable management was still in full operation. 

"I am sorry, Monty," I finally said quietly ‘But this is surely not a place for a lady. Are you sure about the name?’

Monty looked at me incredulously.

‘Are you suggesting…that William chose the institution on purpose? Tell me, Lawrence. Tell me all you know.’

‘I have no consolation to give’, I said ‘But I take it, that is the case of a fee-paying patient. The Monros are no strangers to providing a reputable attendance to those who pay. But all the same, Monty, the place is a graveyard. They won't inflict pain on her, of course, she's too…high standing. But the general…treatment won't be…mild. I believe William knows the place well - or its proprietors, to that matter.  Otherwise…it looks very droll. Judging by the reaction of your brother, I think it's quite obvious that he knows the place- at least by reputation. Please, think carefully - did someone of yours ever mention Brooke House?’

Monty blushed.

‘I should have thought about it earlier. My grandmother.  My aunt. I remember my father mentioning the place as the possible option for them. He thought they would be treated well there. Georgiana should remember that- but in her condition, I would never dare trouble her with that. Lawrence, my brother is a monster. I have a strange idea, which is as abhorrent as terrible: William has something to hide. He detests Edward openly, I think he draws immense pleasure from taunting him, especially if you take into account the fact that it was William who inherited money when father died. Not me, not Edward, not even Arthur. The girls and mother were provided for, but he left the bulk of the estate to William. I got 500 pounds, but it was only due to my reasoning.  I was told quite plainly that since I was a grown up man I could count solely on my wits to survive. He loaned me the money, Lawrence. I had to resort to begging - almost - while William didn't have to lift a finger. He had to sit in his dust-ridden office, turning over the pages and signing the documents looking smug.  And that he did.  Everything was always about William - not because he was the eldest, but because in father's eyes he resembled him most.And William knows that - he always knew that father loved him more than the rest of us. I have a strange feeling, Lawrence - it seems to me that William has a…plan. He certainly thinks he is the cleverest one around, but I do pity mother. I cannot defy the law that gave him the right to decide, but I can keep an eye on him. And I will. ‘

His voice steeled, his features sharpened. I haven't seen this side of him before, but I supposed this was the barrister M.J.Druitt rather than Monty, taking charge. Determination itself, I thought. But something in his tone alarmed me - and the whole situation looked ominous. Uneasiness crept back into my mind, and George's predictions started echoing in my head. Now I saw it too - that dark cloud over Monty's head, becoming denser and heavier by minute.

‘Please, be careful. In all you do. You are clearly exhausted, Monty.  I doubt cricket would do you any good in that condition. ‘

‘To tell you the truth, I was thinking of handing in my resignation’ Monty said quietly ‘There is too much to handle, especially with the court work. I am so tired, but I have two games ahead of me. August will be much quieter, at least I hope so. I'll have to think about the choice of profession. You see, my Temple mentor, he has hinted to some sort of promotion set up for the autumn, but I suppose they are not too happy about their barrister having more than one job. That makes one lose focus, and I cannot let this happen. I must persevere, Lawrence. I must. I cannot end up like William. Not now. They said, a special pleaser position would be available, and although it is not typical for barristers, they think I am right for it. But I'll have to quit school- and cricket club duties, too. I do not think Valentine would have liked me to be neglectful of my duties, somehow- but if I am able to balance it all, I might be still alive by the end of the year.’

‘What an odd thing to say, Monty. You have a whole life ahead of you, why should you have such ideas?’

‘They say madness is hereditary. I am so afraid of losing my mind, Lawrence. ‘

‘Be logical. It has affected women. Women- not men, of your family. I am not saying that it happened because women were more susceptible, but I’d rather think..why did your father die?

‘Heart condition. A stroke, I believe. Why?’

‘And he was obviously over forty when it happened?’

‘Of course!’ Monty exclaimed ‘But pray tell me why does it matter?’

‘Doctors I know say that there can be a predisposition running in families, a certain pattern if you like. What happened to your grandfathers?’

‘I didn't know any of them. But I remember father mentioning his father died rather unexpectedly.  Must be heart, as well. He was fit as a fiddle, as they say. So, you say…madness…’

‘Would likely affect your sisters- after your grandmother, her daughters- you see the connection there, don't you?’

He looked alarmed yet relieved.

‘I see. But I would hate that to happen to any of the girls. It is frightening. Unsettling. Dark. But let us not dwell on it. I don't have much time- I must be back in an hour. But how glad I am to have finally spoken to you. I have missed you so much since our last meeting. I do hope we can meet more often in August and on. Otherwise my life would  be unbearable. ‘

Monty the cat, considerably bigger than he once was, jumped on his namesake's knees and purred loudly. 

‘ Oh this deadly charm’ Monty murmured, stroking misty grey fur. ‘Who could resist a steam-powered cat?’

I laughed. Monty the cat, looking slightly annoyed, jumped off the aforementioned knees and walked away, his tail high in the air- a sure sign of his wounded pride.

Monty stayed for another half hour, recounting stories of his childhood, and bade me farewell around seven. 

I remained alone, pondering over what I've heard. To say that I disliked William after our talk would be an understatement.  I almost hated him. But I had to make sure he was, as George would have put it, well looked after. And for that, I needed all the help I could get.

Chapter eight

August, 1888

"There is evil in every human heart, which may remain latent, perhaps, through the whole of life; but circumstances may rouse it to activity." 

~ Nathaniel Hawthorne

Have you ever wondered if you were being tested when everything seemed odd? Or, perhaps, you've experienced the sense of helplessness in the face of circumstances that spiral out of control right before your eyes? Have you ever been possessed by terror, so tangible that you could almost feel its cold tentacles, its bony, dead fingers gripping your throat? 

London certainly felt that as August progressed - weather changed from chill to hot spells, only to disintegrate into rains and thunderstorms; those who have lost their miserable houses during two previous months, were now losing jobs, health and time in vain attempts to get everything back. Whitechapel buzzed like a nervous beehive, and we observed, quite entranced, the new influx of people from Eastern Europe. The synagogue at Princelet street seemed overflowed, the streets were full of music- this particular type of it, that is woven from languages, spoken simultaneously. Yiddish, French, Hungarian, German, Italian- these days you could meet up to 12 people in the same street in half an hour, and all of them would be foreigners.

Jewish community, of course, was the most tightly knit, with families so vast and interwoven that it would take a considerable effort to untangle even if one was a renowned specialist. 

One evening - it was, as I recall, the very first evening of August-  I was visiting my good friend, who held a tiny shop on Whitechapel road. Everybody called him Mister Dee although his real name bore no resemblance to the name of the Elizabethan genius, being just one of the many names he used. Antiquarian by trade, he was a great admirer of all things occult.

I've known him since I first came to London, and that fact alone would be enough to realize that he was, by nature, of my kind. In those days, he was a visionary, who went by the name of Francis Collier, and he was rarely wrong. However, he was cautious- and his little pawn shop, filled with various things, helped him in disguising his real interests. He was a magnificent friend, and I valued his advice greatly. I should add that, due to his cautious nature, he changed his name when we entered the Victorian era.  But, I shall refer to him as Gabriel or Dee, to make the matter simpler for you, dear reader.

Upon arriving, I saw he had a customer, and, unwilling to break the conversation, stood quietly by the door. However, my friend surely sensed me.

He smiled cordially, and beckoned me. His blue eyes sparkled with anticipation.

'Lawrence, my dear boy, how glad I am to see you!' Dee exclaimed ' And how fortunate it is that my friend Solomon came by today, of all days!'

The man, he called Solomon, bowed courteously.  He was of middling height, nearly dressed, his silvery hair and beard making a stark contrast to his dark coat and grey necktie. His voice, when he spoke, was unexpectedly young and musical.

'Pleased to make your acquaintance, sir' He bowed curtly.I was telling Gabriel about my latest misfortunes. London can throw you down from the highest pedestal just to trample over you, and I am no exception. Did you know, Gabriel, they've apprehended our dear friend last week. I've been told that he was trying to protect himself...'

'Oh yes. Indeed he was. These young policemen, what do they care - they see a man holding an axe, and he's immediately called a killer!' Gabriel exclaimed 'Luckily, Abberline was there'.

Note that name, gentle reader. I was certain I'd heard the name before.

'Abberline?'

'Inspector Abberline, I must say' Dee corrected himself 'He's been here what, since the 1870s, Frederick. They say he was briefly at the Whitehall division, but came back earlier this year. Honestly, if anyone is capable of ensuring peace, that's him. A very humble man, Fred. From Dorset, I believe- not that it matters. He knows the locals well, and they've come to respect him. You'll see him round, Lawrence. He lives just above the station on Commercial street.  '

Solomon nodded almost enthusiastically.

'He is respected, indeed. And, he's not against us jews- the incident I mentioned involved my old friend, a shopkeeper. Accosted, he was, by two thugs- robbers, they later found out. And they insulted him, too. One of them made a bad remark about his wife, and he naturally stepped up...you see, he's frail, but he managed to cut one of them thugs...the police came by, and they were sure to declare him a killer. He held an axe, you see. But Abberline got him out. He talked to him, sir - just imagine that. A policeman who cares! And our friend was let go. Good man, Abberline.'

Now, I was mildly intrigued upon hearing that. Policemen weren't usually praised in Whitechapel, most of them being local, young and too eager to remain logical or consequent. They were often scolded - both by the neighbours and their superiors for lack of tact and common sense. I didn't know then that Abberline would become a household name sooner than the autumn would claim its rights. Everything was going to change, and quite abruptly - but we still had some time to breathe freely. At least that's what I thought. 

The conversation meanwhile flowed into a different direction. 

'Sometimes' Solomon was saying 'we have to be content with the least. That's what my father always said, and I have been, till now. But, the rent these days, oy vey! I had to part with so much already. This is the only valuable thing left in my hands.' With this, he produced a heavy silver watch on a ribbon from his waistcoat pocket. 

'It belonged to my zayde, this. He was a watchmaker, as was my father after him. See these? ' He pointed at tiny stars adorning the watch face. 'Beautiful, hein? Diamonds. It was a wedding gift for my grandmother. Still bears her name on the lid, see?'

An inscription ran around the lid, graven with an old-fashioned hand, repeating over and over: אהבה אהבהאהבה...

My knowledge of Hebrew wasn't perfect, but I could read the word and marvelled at the intricacy of the engraving. 

Ahava, Ahava, Ahava... 

Love love love...

'It was my grandmother's name' Solomon said, wiping tears from his bright blue eyes 'she was...beautiful, the youngest of seven children. The only one with golden hair. He fell in love as soon as he saw her. And being poor, by her father's standards, the only thing he could bring as a wedding gift was that. He had to work so hard to buy these small stars for his love. And now, I, his youngest grandson, must pawn his gift to survive. Vos a lebn, vos a lebn...'*

What a life, indeed, I thought. The man was right - London was an ever-changing, hungry beast with an artistic soul. I shot a glance at my friend. His face was full of emotion, a thing rarely seen, I must say. He shook his head.

'No, alt fraynd, ' He said hoarsely ' I cannot take that. Not even as a pawn shop owner. No. Such things cannot be pawned, loaned or lent.  No, I will not deprive you of that. Keep it. I know you're too proud to accept money...'

The old man straightened up and looked at Gabriel regally.  He looked exactly like the old kings of the Bible.

'Never in my life had I accepted money. I am a Stern.  We do not get paid for nothing'. 

Gabriel exclaimed, 'Do not hold this against me, old friend. Lawrence, does George do well with bookkeeping?'

This question caught me unaware. 

'He has been complaining lately ' I said 'That bookkeeping is strenuous due to the fact that...you know.. safety comes first'. 

Gabriel sighed.

'That indeed does seem the biggest problem nowadays. Solomon here could lend him a hand, I think. Were you not a shopkeeper once, my friend?'

Solomon beamed. 

' I was. A long time ago, I was apprenticed by my father. We had a clock shop, way back when. And I helped my cousin here, in London, before he sold his little tobacco shop. But I told him then, I said, everything would change, Isidore.  You listen to me'.  But of course he didn't listen. But then again, he's a Gluckstein- and they are stubborn as ewes.  They never listen. But I kept the books for him. '

'That's settled then', I said 'Would you be as kind as to visit The Ten Bells today? I'll be happy to introduce you to George. Do you have a place to stay? I believe we still have a room upstairs. '

Solomon smiled gratefully

'Of course, of course. Would six o'clock be convenient for you? I have to run some errands first, but I can be there by six. '

'Absolutely ' I replied, and Solomon beamed again. Thanking me profusely, and bowing to Gabriel, he left us. Gabriel watched him, smiling fondly.

'A splendid man, Solomon. I am so happy you've found a way to help him out. But, Lawrence, I must tell you one thing - and it doesn't concern Solomon. The signs, Lawrence. Edward was here yesterday - and you know him, he hardly ever leaves Mortlake. Well, he has been studying the planetary aspects, as you may expect from him, and he thinks... Well, you need to see this. Wait a moment'.

Gabriel's mention of Edward made me a tad uneasy. He wasn't particularly social, our friend from Mortlake - and being what he was, you could hardly blame him. An astrologer, a psychic, you might say, Edward never was too fond of people. His house in Mortlake was made as unwelcome as possible, all drowned in ivy and moss, its Tudor embellishments hidden away by the generous hand of Flora. To some eyes, the house would seem absolutely uninhabited, almost decrepit but it was nothing but a clever way of keeping unwanted visitors at bay.

I've known Edward for nearly two hundred years, and he was even older than Gabriel. Remember I told you about the moniker people used to refer to Gabriel? Well, Edward in fact was Mr.Dee. I've found it out accidentally, and was clever enough not to mention it or confront him about it, but John Dee of Elizabethan England never left Mortlake, whatever you might hear. He was still there then, in 1888, under the name of Edward Phillips - his silver beard neatly trimmed, and Tudor garb fashionably exchanged to the Victorian gentleman's attire, but one thing was ever present: the ring of gold, with a blood-red ruby, gifted to him by Her Majesty in 1595 as a sign of grace and friendship. He wore it on his left hand, and sometimes, when he spoke of Elizabeth, whom he always remembered fondly, golden sparks would rise and fall in the crimson depth of the jewel, as if it were alive. 

Edward leaving his refuge in the ivy-besieged house, meant something was definitely wrong. He would never visit Gabriel in Whitechapel just for the sake of visiting him. Apparently my friend was of the same opinion, for when he returned from the back of the shop where his private rooms were, his face was clearly troubled.

'Listen, Lawrence. Before you read this, I should tell you one more thing. Edward was not the only one to warn me of something dark. I think you know who I'm referring to'.

'You don't say...Aurelien? Here in London?'

Gabriel's face sombered.  He lowered his voice although we were clearly alone.

'Last morning I received a note. By midnight he was here. I could tell something was wrong. He was here for a mere moment, but Lawrence, I have never seen him that troubled. He said, blood drove him here. He said - it was quite a strange thing. I don't know what to make of it'.

'What was it?'

'Fera des sœurs de leur sang terre tainte' Gabriel's voice dropped to an almost inaudible whisper.  ' It made me think...Well, I don't know what I thought. It has a dark tone'.

'Ouy soubs Terre Sainte Dame voix feinte,

Humaine flamme pour Divine voit luire:

Fera des sœurs de leur sang terre tainte,

Et les saints temples par les impures destruire' I quoted ' Nostradamus'

Gabriel moaned quietly.

'Honestly. That is too much. My French isn't as good as it once was. Enlighten my old brain, my boy'.

'Hear from the ground a voice of Halidom,

A human flame pretending light divine.

The blood of sisters stains the earth to red,

And holy temples the impure destroy'. That's quatrain twenty four, if I am not mistaken.  But, Gabriel - could he be wrong?'

Gabriel bit his lower lip in doubt, frowned and shook his head sadly.

'I've known the man for more than 500 years, Lawrence.  I've known him when he lived in Provence, and before that, before the day he became known as Nostradamus. I'm sorry, my boy - he had never been wrong. Not even slightly. His visions are cryptic, metaphoric, symbolic, strange - but they always, always come true, in one way or the other. I do not think we should expect crumbling churches, but we do live in Whitechapel. This line about blood, I do not like it at all. But it coincides with Edward's note. Here' and he handed me the neatly folded piece of paper.

I opened it. There, in Edward's perfectly Tudor hand, was a single line: 

'These bloody days have broken my heart'

'Since when Edward decided to quote poetry instead of his own works, I wonder?' I scoffed. 'That's Thomas Wyatt, for God's sake!'

Gabriel nodded.

'Indeed. But don't you see? It is repeating. The pattern, the tone, the blood... I might be getting older, but I am certainly not losing my wits. Lawrence, listen to me.  I have no reason to doubt them both. They've never been wrong, and god knows how many times I wished they would be. But here is the rub: the blood they are talking about - we are not...those to spill it. Something is going to happen. And that something - look, we are not talking about a single occurrence, we are talking periods. You may doubt my words, but if your heart is set on someone, and it must be- I know that look of yours too well - don't let it go. Guard your treasure, Lawrence. For God's sake. And - if I were you, I'd visit Mortlake. '

'Why?'

'Edward' He said simply 'he'd want to see you.  Of us all, you always were his favourite.  And I believe it's been almost 95 years since you last saw him. He's stubborn, I know. But it's time to make amends. Go, talk to him. I'm afraid it can be too late if you tarry one more day.'

He didn't say another thing, but I knew he must've been right. Of course, all that looked ominous at the very least, and I knew Edward was expecting me- but my mind was stressed and preoccupied with millions of things, Monty's approaching birthday being one of them.  Seeing my absentmindedness, Gabriel sighed and, seeing me to the door, clutched my shoulder. His grey eyes darkened - it seemed to me for a second that he looked right through me - and then he said, raspily,

The Sun arises in the East,

Cloth'd in robes of blood and gold...*

Had I known better, I would heed his warning. But I was naive, and naively I assumed myself capable of safeguarding the only thing in my life worth saving and fighting for. I had to find a present, too - and it took me quite awhile. Finally, I've found something I knew Monty would appreciate: a handcrafted silk necktie of the most wonderful color that complemented Monty's deep eyes - in a shadowed environment, it looked almost anthracite, deep blackish-grey, but under direct sunlight it became oxford blue. Dots of golden cream arranged in perfect patterns, made the color shift as if they were lights dancing on the water's edge. To my mind, Monty resembled a river - or rather, a loch of the Scottish legends, deep, full of mysteries and sighs, dreams and forgotten memories. Despite this depth, however, a fire burned there, an all-consuming flame that could easily destroy both of us. Monty, of course, demonstrated a wonderful ability of controlling it, but as far as I knew, human restraint and willpower were not as durable as the human mind was always ready to imagine. Emotions proved to be far more destructive than any other weapon on earth, and even the strongest minds could fall under the weight of jealousy, hatred and despair. Monty, however, was safe- for now - and I eagerly awaited our meeting which was to take place on his birthday, August 15. 

Upon returning, still deep in thought, I found Solomon and George chatting amicably by the counter. Both smiled as I entered the room.

'Ah, here you are' they said in unison 'at last '

'Have you been waiting long? I'm afraid my business has taken longer than I anticipated. Please forgive me. I see George has taken care of you' I said to Solomon 'and I'm very glad to see how well you connected. Just give me a moment and I'll rejoin you '

George chuckled. 

'No worries,' I almost heard his usual 'm'lord ' ring in the air and freeze somewhere above his head 'I was just tellin Solomon here wha'ss it like, working 'ere.  He is a decent fellow, after all'.

'I've seen things in my day' Solomon smiled, 'And I've been here long enough to see how different people are when drunk. But then again, I'm happy that bookkeeping has nothing to do with attending to the customers!'

George's booming laughter bounced off the walls, waking up Monty Jr who was napping by the window.  He opened his blue eyes, yawned, showing brilliant teeth, stretched and hissed quietly. 

'Beg my patron, highness ' George muttered, tickling the cat behind the ears. Monty graced him with a purr and went back to napping. 

'What I meant to say, customers are usually Angus's job. You'll see him later on, he's prob'ly courtin his lass again. Young rascal, he does everything but work- no respect for me old bones!'

Solomon smiled again, understandingly. 

'Naturally. But he is young. Let him be - time is so short! When I was young- some thirty years ago, I thought I had plenty of time. I thought, well, I'll have a family and settle down. Later. And look at me now- all alone, approaching sixty five, and in London! That would make me ecstatic in my youth, whereas now...now I think about how to pay my bills!'

Solomon was truly one of those lucky, momentarily likeable people that grow on you. His wit and friendliness made him a much welcome addition to our little family. So, I just presented him with a spare key, and left him to George's hospitable nature.  Life seemed to have taken a nice turn - that's what I  thought, falling asleep - but the very next day, it all changed. 

I came down early, it wasn't yet seven o'clock- but Molly was already there, crying. A fresh newspaper- The Star, by the look of it - was lying on the table in front of her, and Molly was clutching. George and Solomon stood by, trying to console her.

'What is it, George?' I asked quietly ' What happened?'

George looked at me sadly. 

''S Martha, m'lord' 

'Martha? Martha who?'

'You know, Martha. She used to leave her boys with us a couple of times...Fred and Charlie, remember? Good boys, you liked them. Eager to learn you said'

Of course, I remembered them now- although several years must have surely passed.  Martha's boys were so close in age back then they could pass for twins. Slight and smaller than they should have been, they always looked younger than they were, being now as I presumed sixteen and seventeen- but most Whitechapel children were undernourished which resulted in their growth. In spite of that, Martha's boys were always very sensible and protective of their mother and each other. 

'She is dead' Molly sobbed 'They found her this morning- thirty nine wounds, they say here. Who'd have done that? Everybody knows she has children....'

'Them boys are no children, Moll.  They're young men now. That's diff 'rent. But everybody knew her, alrigh ' What would become of them now?'

Molly skimmed the article again.

'They don't say... But the inquest is set for the fourteenth.  Police are looking for her husband, I hope they find him. I've not seen the man for the last ten years. But boys...I mean, they are on their own now, with Martha gone. We have to think...'

Solomon sighed and muttered, under his breath,

'Grant, O God, that we lie down in peace, and raise us up, our Guardian, to life renewed. Blessed are You, Adonai, the Guardian of Your people Israel forever.. Miss Molly, I might not know you for long, and I have not known this poor woman, but my prayers are with you all. I hope they find those who did that...'

Molly sobbed again and clutched his hand.

'I'm scared, Solomon. I really am- what if this happens again? I know the local women, some are my friends- how are we supposed to live, if we cannot even walk the streets safely? '

Solomon placed his hands on her head and closed his eyes, silently  reciting prayers his people have used for centuries to keep their daughters and sons safe. This had an interesting effect - Molly's breath steadied, she calmed down and looked at him gratefully. It felt as though the air itself was filled with frankincense and something I could not quite discern - flowers, buried between the pages of old books, sandalwood and rain.

'May Sarah, Rebekah, Rachel, and Leah watch over you' Solomon whispered 'You remind me of my dear sister Adinah...she had hair like yours. Graceful as a willow, my father said. And she was, she was...' his blue eyes filled with tears ' We lost her too soon...Zayt mir moykhl**...'

'It's quite alrigh' Sol'mon ' George patted him on the shoulder 'We know loss, all of us. I myself came to London to forget the pain. Never did, I tell you that. 'S not that easy forgetting your family dyin' one by one on yer hands.  I'd be dead meself if not for mister Lawrence here. I tell you what, he's the heart of gold. He might not look like' George chuckled 'but he is'. 

'Do stop it, George '

I always felt uncomfortable when George praised my kindness or generosity. Now, I felt, wasn't the right moment. 

'Molly, we need to see how we can help the boys. Do you think you could arrange it?'

Molly stood up, decisively ruffling her skirts. Her eyes flashed.

' In a jiffy. But first...Solomon, how do your people say thank you?'

'Why, you can say, a dank' Solomon replied, sounding amazed 'But you do not have to thank me - I did nothing'.

'I do. A dank, Solomon. You are an angel ' and, hugging him, she stormed out of the pub. 

'That's our Molly. Emotion first' George laughed 'you'll get used to her. But I think she quite likes you.'

I might be wrong, but I still think Solomon blushed a little.

'Oy-vey! She's young, and impetuous.  Had I not known her to be English, I would think she was one of my people... were I younger, I'd be... how you say, smitten myself - but being an alt mensch, and all that...I have to live my days in despair. Obviously. And work! Show me the books!'

Leaving them alone with George's messy handwriting and books to sort through, I went out to think - and buried deep in thought, I didn't notice a man traversing the Commercial road. I bumped into him, we both tipped hats, he smiled upon hearing my clumsy apologies.

'We are both alive, aren't we? Do not trouble yourself with that, sir ' his voice had a tinge of Dorset accent in it, I thought. He looked neat and very agreeable to me, so we parted ways - and as I was almost by the corner, I looked back. I don't know what prompted me to, but my new acquaintance was still there, looking around. In a moment, he took off his hat and entered the police station. That's when I realized I've just met Inspector Abberline. 

***

Monty's birthday meanwhile was fast approaching, and we have scheduled a date - as you would call it, on the 15th August. We were to meet by the Embankment gardens, take a stroll and proceed to the place I owned - not a grand one, but a fairly modest set of rooms, where, as I knew, nobody could disturb us. 

Time was of the essence: Monty was expected at his brother's house in Bournemouth again, in a couple of days, and before that his Temple mentors requested he meet with them to discuss his prospects. Cricket season was at an end, and Monty had just one match to look forward to, scheduled for September. 

As soon as I saw him, I sensed something was different. Not in his rapport towards me, or his feelings - that department was exactly the way it has been. But certainly, Monty seemed ill at ease, troubled and nervous. His features sharpened, his complexion - not the rosiest by nature- turned almost grey. The sapphire depth of his eyes was more akin to the perpetual darkness of the abyss, and his voice when he spoke, had a new, rustling quality to it. 

'What have you done to yourself? Have you been sleeping at all?' I exclaimed, unable to restrain myself 'You look as if you've seen a ghost, Monty'.

He smiled weakly, closing his eyes.

'If there's a single constant thing in my life except you, Lawrence, that's fatigue. Yes, I know, I must have overestimated myself on the field...' his voice drifted off and Monty fell asleep.  Right there, between tea and talking.  I remained by his side, thinking. Surveying his changed image.

I looked at him intently, but the only thing I could feel was that cricket had nothing to do with his condition. It couldn't have been work, so it must have been something else. The answer came, sharp, loud and clear as the ringing of the bell. William. I could bet my immortality on it - he had something- if not everything- to do with Monty's state. Mental, emotional- and that was slowly crossing the border towards the physical plane, too. He was exhausted, he was thinner than a month ago, deep shadows outlined his beautiful eyes. What was going on and why wouldn't he tell me? Was he afraid I would go to William and give the man a piece of my mind? I certainly could. Would it help any of us? It most certainly wouldn't. 

He was not himself. I had to know the truth, but I could never force anything out of the one who clearly was exhausted. I could only watch over him, trying to understand how the change occurred and what would be the best  remedy. 

In an hour, he awoke, with a muffled cry. Startled, he looked around, and noticing me by his side, calmed a little. I took his hand in mine, and asked,

'Are you all right? What was it you saw?'

He looked at me, fear rising in his eyes.

'Water. Dark waves engulfing me, darkness weighing me down. I was paralyzed, I could not move a finger, I just floated on the waves, until the weight became too much to bear. And I...disappeared under the cold, and the only thing I could see was the snow, shimmering on the dark-blue water. It haunts me, Lawrence, it comes each night. Am I going mad? God, I think I am. '

'Do you think...' I paused hesitantly 'that situation with your mother may have...provoked this anxiety?'

Monty frowned slightly and shook his head.

'I'm not certain of that. But, mother is slightly better now, I am told she's in Brighton now. William managed to convince her doctor to allow her a little holiday by the sea. She's been there a week or two I think, and the reports are positive...So far. I have my suspicions though, but I cannot be entirely sure. William is the will executor now, and quite legally at that. He's surveying everything, but he is on non-speaking terms with Edward still and he isn't keen on sharing details with me. He communicates with Georgiana, and I have to rely on her. She says mother's doctor at Brighton institution- I quite forgot the name of it - was very surprised with the lack of her medical history. So he made a request, and they sent him the anamnesis, which he declared uncertain at best. I try to focus on my work, and I was promised a promotion, too...' 

'But that is wonderful!' I exclaimed ' or are you doubting ?'

'To be honest, I am' He said 'The promotion will be possible only in late autumn, if I manage to win at least two cases. As you might be aware, this is absolutely unpredictable, as the cases may be very different in nature. I have a feeling it won't be as easy as the case of love gone wrong. Knowing my mentors, this test would probably have serious things. Like...I don't know, wounding or...legal matters of some importance. I do not think I am quite ready for that, Lawrence. I am so unimaginably tired that...I can hardly concentrate. The Christopherson brothers want their revanche too, but are held up till September. How on earth am I supposed to balance it all?'

'There is something else, is there?'

'You see right through me, don't you? There's a catch...almost an unspoken ultimatum. If I am deemed worthy of promotion, I will have to quit teaching. With quitting that, my cricket days are numbered, as this post is tied to the school and...I will have to relinquish my chancellor post and cricket in its entirety. They would insist on me being a barrister, full stop. No more cricket for Monty Druitt', he chuckled bitterly 'all I've worked for would be senseless.'

'You sound as though life  itself is ending! I know how important cricket is to you, but be logical, Monty- you cannot possibly handle everything at once equally well. I am amazed at how good you've been this far, to be honest. You've worked so hard to become a barrister, and your reward is round the corner. It's almost tangible, you only have to make a decision. It is not that easy, I realise that, but Monty, try to be honest with yourself. What is more important?'

His eyes glistened sadly.

'Out of these two, I'd choose you. But you are right of course. I am not being entirely honest. I want the promotion, I really do. What I don't want however, is to be labelled a traitor- and that's precisely how Valentine would make this look. Leaving in autumn, or winter, amidst all school tumult, would mean the children are  left unguarded and untutored. I would let them down, Lawrence. I know George would probably find a replacement quicker than I think he is capable of, but...'

'Wait. Didn't you say once that Valentine owes his position to you? '

'I suppose you can say that... I surely helped him up the ladder- that's why I was sure I'd always have a position available at Blackheath. An eye for an eye, some would call it. But George has changed since then, not necessarily to the best. He's grown...obnoxious and quite manipulative. And...I fear I was quite naive when I introduced him to some of my acquaintances...William included' he added grimly. 'That was a faux pas, I know it now. George has hinted at some mutual understanding with my dear brother. I'm  concerned now, but it's probably too late. Would you love me still if I were a humble barrister with no promotion, struggling between three occupations?' he asked coyly 'or would you leave me brokenhearted?'

I laughed. 

'Don't be an idiot, Mr. Druitt. What nonsensical thinking. Of course I would love you. But, I'd love you even more if I knew you were happy in all aspects of your life'.

'You are a saint, really. I should've thanked you for this little celebration, Lawrence. This all has been so wonderful- and I failed to acknowledge it! Thank you for the gift...I wish I were more worthy of such considerate attention...But you see, I am an undeserving wretch - as William once said, and I feel most humbled now, overwhelmed, even. Believe me..'

I barely restrained myself from saying something nasty. Clearly, William H. Druitt could be a real pain - and his words were as vicious as his mind, I suspected.  Talking about him, however, wasn't the best thing at the moment, and so I tried my best to reassure Monty in the most cordial way. He even laughed when I called him the most humble of barristers. 

'I wish I was that, you know' he sighed, when the laughter subsided ' but I'm vain, Lawrence. I still feel my father's disapproving gaze on me, his critiques jumping all over the place. I wish he'd been as supportive of me as he was of William, and I had no inferiority complex- but I have. And I'm trying my best to succeed in everything at once so he would just stop showing up in my dreams! I wish he had less influence on my mother, too - but she was so dependent on him, that with his death she had nothing to hold on to, and no number of children could make up for the loss. I feel for Ethel and Edith, they are too young to be facing this ordeal. And were it not for Georgiana, they would be even more vulnerable.  But sometimes, Lawrence, I look at her and can't help but wonder if she has the same thing in her as mother did... as aunt Jane did...or grandmama.  I hope it would never resurface again- but we're all I think susceptible to the curse. And it doesn't come from mother alone. My father had this streak in him as well, but it was more of a mania, - he was so precise, so meticulous, so calculating, so manipulative at times! And when something went out of control, he would rage, he'd blame it on every one but himself, and when we were children, it would usually be one of us... never William. Or Georgiana. Edward or me, in most cases. 

We were all afraid of him, I think... '

'Wasn't he...a surgeon, your father? A medical man?' 

'Oh yes. That's why, I think, even in his rage he would be careful with implementing punishments. He knew - or suspected - what it might result from. But, at times he would have a quarrel with my mother, and she would be hysterical, and he would bring her medicines and apologize, and in nine months we'd have a brother or a sister. At least that's what I've been told. Mother was fragile, both physically and emotionally, but Georgiana was born quickly, being a slight one. William took after father, and I remember our nanny telling me how long it went. Then I came, and it almost finished mother off- and my father always said I was cruel since I was in her belly. That is an evil thing to say to a child, don't you think? She loved me so much, mother - and always said I reminded her of her father. But it took her almost two years to recover, and she gave birth to Edward. The doctors were adamant that it would result in her health unfavorably, and father graciously gave her five years to get her strength back. Ethel was born seventeen years ago, and probably father thought it prudent to stop there, as he was advised to by a doctor from Edinburgh.  He said, mother being in her forties, and her body worn out by seven pregnancies was quite precarious. I wish he'd come earlier, for mother's sake. This is the kind of world I was growing up in, and you can imagine how happy I was to get away. I never told you that, but shortly before my father died, - and I know that because my brilliant sister wrote to me- they quarreled again. It was the only time she dared speak up, and she told him he had killed her with all the pregnancies and his control, and he stormed out of the house. She cried for hours, and when he returned, she never spoke to him. A week later he had a stroke. And honestly, although she grieved, and blamed herself for his early death, she was a bit relieved. At least that's what we both believed, Georgiana and me. William was never close to her, and so he distanced himself from the rest of us. He was mad at her after she promised to leave me an inheritance, and he never forgave her for that. You can see why.'

'He thought he was entitled to everything' I murmured 'as the first son...And father's favourite '

'That would be a very accurate description, yes. I've been thinking...his behaviour probably facilitated mother's breakdown. I cannot be entirely certain, as I wasn't there. But I know my brother, and he can be vicious as a snake - the trait he inherited from my father, I'm afraid. He used to say that I almost killed her when I was born.'

His voice was quiet, bitter, hollow. The weight of memories pulled him down, as a stone in the drowning man's pocket. No doubt these painful recollections were a part of his sleeplessness, fatigue and anxiety as much as cricket, approaching school year and proposed promotion. I looked at him, and for the first time ever a real Monty appeared from the shadows - a wounded, fragile boy, still haunted by the memories of his cruel brother and tyrannical father. A boy, still pining for his mother, a lonely child despite his many siblings - and a young man, forced to hide his brokenness behind the facade of a  successful barrister and sportsman.

Seeing him in that state, I could hear Molly's voice in my head, telling me it was the best moment to save him. Gabriel's voice followed, urging me to keep what I hold most dear, safe at all costs. But I was weak. I couldn't bring myself to take his life - even if it meant giving him another. I didn't want him to lose his warmth or glow...And that, probably, was a mistake. 

After we parted, I lost sleep. The month went on, bringing nothing but more anxiety and helplessness. The only bright thing was, quite expectedly, Solomon's dignified and good natured presence. Days turned into weeks, and the feeling of a coming disaster never left me. As in the Tower card of the tarot, it all came crashing down precisely as August was closing in.

In the early hours of the morning of August, 31 a woman's body was found at Buck's row in Whitechapel. Her name - Mary Ann Nichols. This was the beginning of the Autumn of terror.

*William Blake, 'Day'

**Please forgive me (Yiddish)

Chapter nine
September, 1888

"And yet to every bad there is a worse".
~ Thomas Hardy

Of course we knew her - everybody did. Polly, we called her, and she went by that name, cheekily and cheerily adjusting her tattered bonnet and fluffing her skirts, which she tried to keep neat. Sometimes, though, sadness crept in, and Polly would be moody, grim and somber, and slide into drinking, gradually.

Later they would claim she was a prostitute, but she wasn't. As all women of Whitechapel, Polly looked older than she really was, and she turned forty three several days before. She was 5 ft 2 in tall, had brown eyes, high cheekbones and, at the time of her death, greying dark brown hair, slightly curling when long. Her life was a miserable mess in later years, but before turning up in Whitechapel, she was married and had five children, whom she sorely missed, often stopping by the young mothers of the area and looking at their progeny with tears in her eyes. She even helped them to take care of the young ones, and when she was surrounded by children, she was truly happy.

Her husband - and we all knew that, wasn't as good as he had deemed himself to be. His secret affair with their pretty young neighbour caused a rupture in their marriage, and William Nichols did nothing to redeem himself. Of course, he blamed their separation on Polly's drunkenness- but he never mentioned how tired and exhausted his wife was, having to cope with four small children and a newborn at her breast, day by day. He was seeing another woman behind her back for years, although the woman in question was officially married, too. Polly would suffer in silence, lonely and depressed, seeing no escape- but to drink. When she tried telling her father, he would remind her of her duty, and probably rebuke her for the drinks, and she would return to Peabody buildings again, to the uncaring husband and forever present Rosetta.

Quarrels and conflicts, William's coldness and depression made poor Polly make a decision she would undoubtedly rue later on.
One day Polly left home, walking out of the gates - not meaning to return. When asked, she said that something came over her and she ended up alone in the streets. Her father and brother couldn't take her in, and finding a job wasn't easy, so she ended up at the workhouse. She wasn't a lily maid and could adjust to having less than she was used to,
but she couldn't cope with the loss of her children, who, as she feared, have forgotten their natural mother - and in time took to calling a new Mrs. Nichols their mama. Conveniently enough, Rosetta's husband had quietly left her, emigrating to Australia, and she was free to marry William. Soon enough, she had a child. Her life was complete and wonderful. Polly's, however, was not. Brokenhearted, she turned to drinking - as people often do- and she'd visit the Ten Bells occasionally. She wasn't dim, Polly- being a blacksmith's daughter (her father worked for the printers of Fleet Street, as I recall) she could read and write, and was a real pleasure to talk to.

Now, what you must understand - and some things you will undoubtedly read of the whole situation, will make you believe it - the police used to call the homeless, workless women prostitutes back then, even if they were forced to resort to that occupation from time to time just to survive. Details didn't matter, as long as they were out on the streets, they were called street walkers and the police would closely monitor their behaviour. Of course, they couldn't watch over 1200 women working in brothels of Whitechapel, so they automatically assumed the easiest thing: all women of the area were prostitutes, and that was it.

In Polly's case, the drink made her behave irrationally or disorderly at times, and she was a frequent guest at the Commercial road police station. During the Trafalgar Square incident, Polly even made it into the newspapers. They called her the worst woman on the square, and I can tell you that this fact made her proud in a sense. Her workhouse days once came to a halt though, when she managed to find a job as a domestic servant, but it wouldn't be for long- as Polly herself later recalled, something odd came over her, and she ran off with clothes and some trinkets of her mistress just some weeks after starting working. She's been many a thing, Polly, but she never lost humanity and dignity. That's what we remembered- and still do.

That was the beginning - a lonely woman bled dry and mutilated in the street, - and the month had just begun. Edward's words and all the prophecies slowly started to unfold, and I had to console Molly, worry for Monty and try to keep myself occupied in order to function. Luckily, I had Solomon - and his fatherly presence aided me greatly. While George watched over the pub and its customers, Molly went out of her wits to help the women she knew to remain composed and calm, and that wasn't easy. Those who knew Polly well, were somehow certain her fate would befall them, and those who didn't know her well, nevertheless found it increasingly difficult to carry on with their lives as they used to.
The police were slow to act, and the investigation turned out to be more complex than they thought, as finding William Nichols wasn't that easy. Finally, somebody noticed him by the docks and alerted the police. William was taken to the mortuary of the Working Lads Institute where his once wife's lifeless body remained during the inquest, and upon seeing her, as we were told later, he almost fainted- but recognized her, as did Edward Walker, her grief-stricken father.
No doubt that this sight haunted them both till the very end, and they wanted to know who killed Polly - but sadly enough, the inquest didn't give any answers. While it all went on, I was absolutely unable to concentrate on anything - and as a consequence, I had almost forgotten about the match that was approaching.
Monty was going to play the Christopherson brothers on the 8th September, and I managed to see him briefly on the fifth by the Old Bailey, and that happened accidentally. You might say, I bumped into him, and his pallor struck me.

'Lawrence!' He exclaimed 'You must have felt my anxiety. I wanted to see you so much, but they held me up at the school, and I'm only here for a short time, to see my mentor- but I'm so relieved to see you!'

'So am I' I replied ' Shall we have some tea?'

He smiled gratefully at my idea, and nodded.

'I think I'd kill for a cup of tea' He confessed ' I even had no time for breakfast today. Clearly, the school year is going to be difficult. But first things first- tea!'

I noticed, with a degree of satisfaction, that he was wearing both the tie I've given him, and the watch - which became obvious when he checked the time quite nervously.

The weather was surprisingly warm for the beginning of September, and we used it to our advantage by taking a stroll. London could be beautiful in autumn, when the gods were willing, and after the hailstorms and cold of the summer this warmth seemed a rightful blessing.

'Tell me something, Lawrence,' Monty said cautiously, while we admired the Thames from the gardens of the embankment, 'Do you know anything about this murderer of the East End? I know you have connections... this case, this poor woman...I trust miss Molly is alright?'
He had a keen memory, Monty - he met Molly only once before, and fleetingly, but they both remembered each other vividly.
' She is, thank you. Stricken of course, she knew Polly personally for a time- we all did. But why do you ask?'

'It is as simple as that- please warn her to be extra vigilant. I have just had a talk with my mentors at the Temple, and they both think that this death will not be the last. I implore you, Lawrence, whichever connections you have in the East End, use them to keep your acquaintances safe. I will not ask unless you want to tell me yourself, but please, be careful too. They are worried up there, as I was told. The barristers, the police - they might not show it but they are afraid of possible aftermath. Of course, I should be silent about this, but I didn't like their tone, I can tell you that. Tell George, tell the men you trust to keep an eye out. Both eyes if possible. Can you promise me that?'

Seeing him so worried, I promised to do my utmost to keep everyone I knew safe. This seemed to calm him down a bit, and he smiled in his usual way, and for a moment it seemed that the sun shone brighter.

'How is your mother, Monty?' I asked cautiously as soon as we were safely hidden by the magnificent aspidistras of Twinings tea house, ' Have you heard from her lately?'

Monty took a sip, sighed and said quietly,

'She was quite well when in Brighton...But now she's back at that dreadful place William has put her in. She's stable as far as I know, but we are forbidden to visit her. I do hope she recovers...But the doctors say she is not that easy to manage- whatever they mean by that, I do not know. William should know, but he tells us nothing. I have only just returned four days ago, you know. Dorset is wonderful in autumn, but my dear brother insisted on me staying with him for two days, and to this day I have no idea why. He barely spoke to me, he answered my questions in the most peculiar manner, he never mentioned mother, criticising me for playing at all! How droll, don't you think?'

'I think your dear brother is droll, full stop' I said dryly 'The more I hear about him, the more I want to punch him in the face, to be honest.'

Monty laughed and his face lit up at once.

'I can assure you, William has that lucky talent of inciting the warmest feelings in people. He was an insufferable child, and never became better in adulthood. By the time he reaches old age, he will be an exact copy of Ebenezer Scrooge. If we're lucky. If we're not, we'll have to evade him at any cost. But, ' he added seriously,' these days, I hardly know him at all. And I can tell by his behaviour it's not solely about mother. He is quite dismissive of everything involving her, whereas he always goes on and on about London vices and depravity of certain places. Some of his observations echo those of my colleagues and they have to do with the present situation in the East End. '

'What does he say, I wonder? ' I enquired, raising my eyebrow. This was the smallest thing I could allow myself so as not to offend Monty. He didn't seem to notice- but he shook his head sadly, still looking past my shoulder.

'You won't like it, I'm afraid. To him, as to most men, these poor women are no better than vermin or gutter rats. William openly despises them, and I had to endure his intolerable speeches on the day of my departure - for two hours at least. As his brother, I was appalled, but as a barrister who prefers defending women rather than degrading them, I was worried. But these views are common, as far as I understand, and I have only one word to describe them - misogyny. '

'Do be careful with the terms, Monty' I warned him, seeing his emotions rise ' This can easily get you into trouble '

He nodded and confessed, bitterly,

'I hate that, Lawrence. I really do. I hope women will have their own rights one day, and society changes its ridiculous stance on women and everything that makes them fall and lose their dignity. I've argued for that when I was a student, I've said it in court back then, and I know I'm right in saying men should stop taking women for things and decorations. I've seen it with my own parents, and I would defend any woman suffering from abuse of men. We cannot change it once and for all, but these recent murders...they made me think of changes- and the hypocrisy of our society. It won't be the last time, I fear ' .

He fell silent for a moment, returning to his tea and cake. His face grew grim - or so it seemed to me, in the fleeting sunlight, creeping between curtains. Monty spoke again.

' I forgot to mention one thing. They are giving me a case, as a test. I cannot tell you much now, but it's a serious one. I'll be up against a certain Mr.Gill, and he's a force to reckon with. If I pass- the promotion is mine. If I don't, and they stressed this quite explicitly- I shall be a disappointment. And probably remain a junior undersecretary for my whole life. I'll have to make arrangements with Valentine too, and he will not be pleased. This case will keep me here in London mostly, which means I won't have much time for reprimanding students and trying to teach them cricket - as much as I love that, it's certainly not what my education was all about. But then again, ' he added bitterly, 'it is the fate awaiting all classicists. You can recite Homer and argue in Latin, but all you're good for is patrolling corridors during exams and watching the boys as a sleuth... honestly, I sometimes think that I'm wasting myself at Valentine's. The pay is lower than it could have been, and he doesn't give a damn about rules and regulations, when it comes to his own needs- but he's happy to break them when it's somebody else's livelihood or work. '

'Let's say you are promoted, for the sake of hypothesis' I said ' what would that mean, for you?'

'Personally? I'll be happy to concentrate on a single job. And, my wages will be considerably higher than with Valentine. And, I won't have to endure trains, meeting Henry Lonsdale too often, or report to Mrs. Jamieson, whenever I come and go. My lodgings are quite nice, I have to admit, but there's not much space to breathe. Valentine doesn't like me on the field too often, or should I say, he doesn't want me to devote too much time to cricket. That means, I cannot practice as often as I should, which in turn means, I cannot play as well. Being a Chancellor could be nice, if it involved more than handling out papers and enquiries. And I somehow think it's all Valentine's doing. So, returning to your question, I shall not remain at the school a minute more if I get the promotion. I'm quite serious. He doesn't have a thing to hold me there with, and I think eight years is quite enough. Maybe I'll have to relinquish my duties at the club, as well, but it would be worth it. I've worked so hard to become a barrister Lawrence. I think I deserve a chance of succeeding in something I have put so much effort in. Don't you think?'

If I had any doubts before, they were gone. Monty's words sounded like music to my ears - he was ready to put everything he had into this job, and he knew how much was at stake. I could say, it was risky, that a bird in a hand might be worth more than two in a bush- but if he was ready to bet on this case being his tour de force, I was ready to stand by him, helping in all I can. There was, however, something that bothered me.

'Of course you do!' I said ' but Monty, would you mind if I assisted you with something? Not the case, I promise - although I'd do anything in my power to help. You'll have to be in better form to handle it all. Let me at least care about your health. '

Monty's face softened. He smiled thankfully.

'Thank you, Lawrence. I could do it with a bit of help. These headaches I've been having, they are a real nightmare. I cannot see straight, and I lose my concentration. And as a consequence, I feel so tired all the time! There is also insomnia, but I attribute it to my over excited brain. If you have a doctor in mind...'

'He's not exactly a doctor, but he does work for Her Majesty's family. I've known him for years, and his knowledge of herbs is outstanding- he's never been wrong. I can procure something for you - and meet you in a couple of days. Would that be convenient?'

'Of course. Let me think... I'm playing on the 8th, so we could meet the next day. How about...the gardens, as usual? Or, here? Say, at noon?'

That was perfect. I've had my reservations about the gardens, as we could have been seen easily. Also, I had a strange feeling of being followed, and I didn't want to alarm Monty. So, having made the plans, I accompanied him to the train station and, remembering Gabriel's words, decided to visit Mortlake.

The day was promising to get even duskier, and the clouds were already gathering. Mortlake has never been a sunny spot, so it was of no surprise when the first thing that hit me upon arriving, was the stench. I followed the narrow path to Edward's house, but there was no-one there. I had another errand, of course- and this was Philip Palmer's apothecary at 28 Sheen lane.

To me, Palmer was a genius. Opening his apothecary back in 1862, he rose to prominence very quickly, assisting the royals and remaining, in all ways and situations, humble and gracious. His love for natural remedies earned him the reputation and respect, and that was precisely what I needed.

Clearly, my being in a hurry and deep in thought, made me unaware of the time. Philip was leaving just as I was approaching the apothecary, and seeing me, smiled broadly.

'Now that is not a frequent guest, I declare!' He announced, and his grey eyes twinkled behind the golden rimmed spectacles. 'You seem preoccupied, my friend. I don't have much time- I am expected at the..well, there. But my new assistant will look at your needs - if you tell him what troubles you. Do not worry, he is a very able young man, I can promise you. Believe me, his knowledge of herbs is innate, he comes from the long line of herbalists himself. '

Now that was a surprise. I wasn't prepared for the new face, and I was certainly at all ready to rely on someone I've just met. Palmer noticed my hesitation and smiled reassuringly.

'Please, Lawrence, do not doubt him. I have to tell you, he knows more about herbs than anyone I've met. The only person who might know more is Culpeper himself, but the man is dead for three hundred years ! '

That made me smile. Philip patted me on the back and left, noticing the time. He was a delightful man, Palmer, and very old-fashioned in a way: in 1888, he was still using Penhaligon's Hammam bouquet. The air was still full of bergamot and lavender, when I entered the apothecary, and strangely enough, it was very befitting my friend.

'Hello?' I called, seeing no-one at the counter.
'Coming' someone called back, and I immediately felt the atmosphere shift. Now, what you have to remember is that all people have their own fragrance attached to them. It is not, however, the perfume they use, or the products that they tend to apply in order to smell good. It's what people are usually born with, their personal fragrance fingerprint, you might say. Let me explain.

A princess, born in a palace, and a butcher's son might smell almost identically when they're born, as all children do. But as soon as they form their own characters and opinions, you might find out that the butcher's boy actually smells of roses and vanilla, whereas the princess in question would reek of vegetables gone bad, and no perfumes or gold lace would change that. This smell would be here for her entire life, but you wouldn't notice that, as this is the vampire gift. We can distinguish many things in a moment, the nature of a person being one of them.

Vampires don't have that quality - we don't possess a fragrance in us, being what we are, so we absorb any fragrances quite easily. Molly, for instance, always smelled of flowers and linen, even though she lived in Whitechapel where everything reeked of poverty and despair. George, on the other hand, was a reflection of his pub - polished wood, whisky and rum mingling with newspaper ink, spices and bread. Monty had a fragrance any perfumer would kill (or die) for- sandstone, wild thyme and lavender, sometimes shifting into oak moss and rosehip. Such was the imprint of his beloved Dorset, that it never changed, even in London, the most ill-smelling place in the world. Sometimes when he was truly happy, I noticed a faint fragrance of apples and hawthorn around him, and sadness or nervousness added a distinct bitterness to it, as if the orchard inside him was overcome by ivy, yew and laurel.

The owner of the voice, however, didn't smell like an Englishman at all. I closed my eyes. Familiar, long forgotten notes resurfaced in my mind, but I couldn't place them. Not immediately. Sea salt. Stone. Rainfall. Honey. Wine. Heather. Rosemary.
Could it be France? No, I told myself. Think on. The fragrance intensified, and I could feel old books there, ink and ancient forests. Even the smell of London couldn't damper it.

'Can I help you?'

The voice attached to the fragrance had almost no accent, and sounded extremely polished. And yet...

I opened my eyes and almost gasped. I've seen many handsome men in my lifetime, but that one reminded me of old legends and to some surprising extent, of Monty. His hair was dark, and longer than the fashion of the era dictated. I could see the ribbon holding it back, and the wavy strand, falling on his high brow, looked almost Byronesque- which, coming from a man who had actually known Byron, meant something. A Cupid's bow upper lip, Roman nose, and the eyes...in short, it would be an understatement to call them piercing. It was the ever-shifting, ever-changing sea, greyish green, blue, silvery amber. The sea I've seen only in... Brittany.

'I...am looking for something to cure headaches and calm the mind. What would you suggest?'

He frowned slightly.

'Would that be for yourself?'

'For a friend. He has trouble sleeping and I think he suffers from fatigue.'

'Gwelout a ran*' He murmured, thinking I couldn't hear. But I did, and laughed. Inwardly.

'Eus pelec'h emaout?**' I asked casually.
'Landévennec' He replied automatically, and in a moment smiled.

'Setu emaon' ***

'Indeed' I smiled back 'Lawrence. Lawrence Graves.'

He shook my hand.

'Augustin. Augustin Des Lauriers. Laouen oc'h ober anaoudegezh ganeoc'h.'****

'Likewise. But how did you end up here?'

Augustin smiled.

'I could ask you the same question. I haven't met many of your kin in London. '

'What gave me away?'

'Your nature, I think. But it takes one of us to know one of you'.

Thoughts started spinning in my mind. I knew I'd heard his last name before. Augustin, it seemed, guessed my perplexity.

'My father's name is Antoine DesLauriers, and his father was Philippe- Auguste. I believe it was his father who had taught you the language'.

I couldn't contain myself. Of course, Augustin was the spitting image of his grandfather. How could I not see it? This family's roots reached down into the glorious times of Bisclavret himself- and he lived in the 12th century. The curse and the gift of the Baron Bisclavret was both awesome and terrifying: he was a werewolf. His wife deceived him by hiding his clothes, and he had to remain in his wolf form for quite a while before returning to his human form. The story was even recorded by Marie de France- and always fascinated me. The Des Lauriers family, it seemed, were his direct descendants, inheriting his wolf-blood curse and the gift given to them by the fair folk- herbalism. That unusual colouring of Augustin's eyes came from his ancient ancestor, and while he certainly didn't turn into a wolf at the full moon, his intuition and heightened, almost animal senses made him inhumanly perceptive.

'My God! Etienne! Your grandfather was just a boy then...are you telling me he remembered me?'

'A tall, dark man who gave him his first rosary? Of course. He cherished the gift till the day he died. He passed it down to my father, and he sent it to me, passing my foolish older brothers. They've inherited everything but the knowledge. That went down to me. '

' He was an exceptional man, Etienne. I am happy his knowledge lives in you. Philip speaks highly of you. '

'Philip is a very kind man' Augustin said 'and I'm grateful to him for accepting me, with all my foreignness. But tell me, how can I be of service?'

'I have a friend, you see. He has intense headaches, and he grows tired easily. His fatigue makes him lose his concentration...and he has trouble sleeping '

Augustin nodded.

'What does he do, your friend?'

'He's a barrister. And a schoolmaster. And a cricketer '

'I see. That is too much for a single person. He is young, I take it. Perhaps, not yet thirty-five. Otherwise, it would be very hard to do all that. '

'He is thirty one. But honestly speaking, he is exhausted.'

Augustin thought for a moment, closed his eyes to concentrate.

'Exhaustion...fatigue...trouble sleeping. I'd start with...The reason, not the consequence. Give me a moment'.

It took him no more than several minutes to find the right recipe. His movements were quick, professional and confident. His face - concentration itself. Soon enough, neatly packaged and inscribed paper bags lined up on the counter.

'Now. I'd start with tea. St.Johns wort, dill, peppermint and sage. That will relieve the sleep problems. However, the main problem, of course, isn't that. That is why we need lavender, bee balm, chamomile and mint. This will help with the headaches. For clarity of mind and anxiety reduction, we use rosemary and feverfew. Let's try these. I trust your friend to be disciplined enough to follow the instructions. He will need to drink these as he usually has tea, with honey for instance, before bed and first thing in the morning. Do come back in a week or two to tell me how he feels, will you? '

'Certainly. Thank you. A restorative, perhaps?'

Augustin smiled.

'That might be a good idea. But only in combination. I have chosen the most appropriate herbs- for a man of your friend's age, that would be quite correct. I think, however, that you need some help, too. Try this. I always use it when I feel...too overwhelmed and need to sleep. It's simple - lavender, catmint and jasmine. But use it every night before sleeping. Trust me, it will help.'

Somehow I trusted him - and his knowledge of herbs was a familial one, after all. I thanked him, and hurried back, wishing this long day to end. George mercifully agreed to deliver the apothecary package to Monty's doorstep, and returned promptly, with the news that Monty had the package.

'Found him at the Temple garden, m'lord. He recognized me straight away, and thanked me. I've followed him to his place at King's Place, unbeknownst to him. He was safe when I left'.

Hearing this, I've finally breathed out. Monty had the tea and explicit instructions now, and I could only hope he would use them well.

Augustin, as I've found out, was absolutely right about the herbs - the tea he suggested not only calmed my burning mind, but brought about the most peaceful kind of sleep I've ever had.

***

Days leading up to the 8th, passed in a blur. Now as I think of those days, I can remember nothing but the rustle of the newspapers. Endless, restless discussions of the poor Polly and her fate brought us all who knew her, to the state of frenzy. The clouds were gathering still, but we knew nothing of what was in store. Monty's game came and went, and I knew it went well just because George's cousin worked as a gardener at Blackheath. Somehow we all called down in the evening, and even went to bed earlier than usual, with Molly staying with us above the pub. Either we were too exhausted or the evil lurking in the streets was too industrious, but we didn't feel it approaching.

The very next morning presented us with a new chapter of horrors. A woman was found in Hanbury street, mutilated and bled to death. Her name was Annie Chapman.

Dark Annie, they called her, although her hair was not that dark. At forty-seven, she had chestnut wavy hair, grey eyes and a secret she wouldn't share with anyone. Annie, the hardy, toughened by streets, destitute and exhausted to the bone, was dying of consumption and grief.

Once her life was almost- if not completely- perfect. She had a home, children and a husband with a well-paid, steady job. Most women would be happy about that, and I think Annie was too - until the moment she felt trapped. Maybe she wanted more, or perhaps, she felt somehow overlooked. The drink crept into her life, and even treatment paid for by her husband's employer, helped only temporarily.

Annie left for freedom, and ended up in Dorset street of Whitechapel. She tried to get by selling crocheted flowers- that is how Molly met her, and her husband supported her for a time. But he died unexpectedly, and she was too late to say goodbye to him. Alone, abandoned, and already sick, she stumbled through the streets, chronic pain being her only constant friend. There, in Hanbury street, her life ended. Elizabeth Long, known to everyone in Whitechapel, started telling tales the very next day. That's how the stranger appeared in Annie's story. The stranger who'd come up every time the murder was discussed, the stranger seen by a single person in the darkened street. The stranger, whose description, thanks to Elizabeth Long, would gain new details each time. Thus, the police were faced with an upcoming inquest on Polly Nichols's case and a second murder to investigate.

Whitechapel became a nest of buzzing wasps- the eagle-eyed, hound-eared reporters, sniffing around for meager scraps of scandal. Now they had two women to discuss, and soon enough they all - the police and the reporters- labelled both women as prostitutes.

Molly was fuming. To every reporter she met those days, she gave a piece of her mind, colorfully spiced with curses. That didn't help much, and she was adamant about appearing at the inquests.

'Damn these bastards' she kept saying 'they think it funny to rummage about in dead gals lives like they are garbage. Those ones from the 'Star' are the worst, I tell you. '

George would scowl at the mention of the newspaper with the reputation worse than a guttersnipe. Even Solomon clicked his tongue disapprovingly.

'Oy-vey...this lot. The things they write about my people! This poor butcher, he never did any harm to no-one...and now look, they are all over him!'

He was right. The treatment they gave poor John Pizer was appalling - and it was simply on the grounds of his leather apron. The fact that the poor man had only one leather apron, which was in pristine condition, never fazed them. They have, after all, found a piece of a similar looking thing in the street...

The policeman who started the rumours, however, had to apologize to Pizer, forced into hiding up until his arrest on the 10th of September, when it turned out he had cast iron alibis for all days. But, I'm getting a bit ahead of myself here.

I saw Monty on the 9th, as we've agreed beforehand. He was a bit wound up, tense and had time enough just to thank me for the remedies, and say that the hearing for his upcoming case was set for the 17th September, and that he certainly was between rock and a hard place.

'It is inconceivable!' He breathed out, having a sip from his cup of tea. ' How do they expect me to get him off with a non-guilty verdict when it was clearly done in full conscience?'

Seeing my expression, he shook his head and sighed.

'Oh all right. I'll tell you, but you must promise me...'

'Cross my heart and hope to die' I said solemnly, with my hand on my chest. Monty burst out laughing.

'How do you manage this with a straight face, I wonder' He remarked when the laughter subsided and he returned to his tea. 'That is no easy feat. You'd do well in court, Lawrence! Have you ever considered taking up law?'

'No, thank you. I'd rather wallow in the dirt and depravity of the East End than wear an ill-fitting wig in front of a good hundred people'.

'That is a snub, my good sir!' Monty exclaimed, his eyes twinkling ' Are you trying to insult a barrister? There must be a point of law for that! But, in all honesty, that case is a strange one. On the surface, it looks easy, but it's not. I fear there must be something I cannot quite catch... '

'Tell me. Perhaps I could help?'

Monty sighed.

'You know, why not? So...where do I start...imagine two men. They work together, they know each other pretty well. Then something happens, and the second man starts to insult the first, following him, complaining about him to the supervisor. The man endured that for some time, and then changed his working place. You'd think it to be the end of it, but it's not. In March, this man, Power, barges into the other one's home, completely ignoring the housekeeper, shouting insults and threatening to kill the man. The man in question, Black...jumps up noticing that Power has his hand behind his back. Power carries on shouting accusations, then says, menacingly, that he'd cut Black's throat and strikes him with a knife. The damned thing goes past his hand leaving a gash. The housekeeper cries out, the commotion ensues, the police come running, and the man is apprehended. And now I'm....'

'Defending this man' I concluded grimly. Monty nodded.

'The good thing, you know, is that poor Black is quite alright. The worst thing is, Power wants me to get him out of prison...Or death sentence, which can happen, because I'm up against Gill, who loves that kind of ending to a trial. They label it a felonious, malicious wounding case, and of course, Black thinks the mad man is plainly a lunatic, and they would expect me to find a way to resolve the matter...peacefully, let's say. I still haven't found a way. And the hearing is almost there.'

A thought came into my head and I smiled.

'There is a way. Remember what you've just called the man?'

'Lunatic' Monty said automatically. 'Why?'

'Start thinking now, mister barrister. Think. The answer is right there before you. Lunacy. '

'How could I not have seen this! Lawrence, you're a treasure! Insanity, of course. If he committed this in an unsound state of mind...'

' He had no idea what he was doing or why. You would need some witnesses for the defence to corroborate this. Who do you have in mind?'

'His landlady. The prison surgeon.. his supervisor... These people are already on the lists. '

'Should be enough. I somehow think that poor man was delusional a long time before he did what he did. And that means, his landlady would know best.'

Monty seemed to have calmed down. His face was brighter now. Taking a sip, he added:

'I do have to thank you, you know. These teas George brought to me, they were so in time! I would be an absolute wreck without them, and it's been only a couple of days! I fear I would need more to survive, at this rate!'

'You have no reason to overexert yourself, Monty. And I can assure you that should you need anything, you shall get it, be it herbs or a place to stay. You should remember that - whatever happens, you have me.'

'Why does that sound so ominous, I wonder?' Monty frowned ' You scare me a little when you talk like that. I know I can trust you, Lawrence. I've never trusted anyone like I trust you. And, as we have turned into a serious lane, I have to tell you one thing. If not for you, I would not be here. You keep me sane just by being with me, and I wish we could meet more often. I hope October is more generous with free time, although I have a feeling that some unexpected surprise is nigh. '

'What do you mean?'

'Here, read this. I received it yesterday, it's from William. And it looks suspicious.'

He produced a folded piece of paper from his waistcoat pocket. Judging by the way it looked, Monty contemplated folding it four times if not more. I examined the letter. William's handwriting looked quite similar to Monty's, but it lacked elegance. He could've written these lines with a chisel or a dagger instead of a pen, and the lines looked forced even though he really tried to sound affectionate.

'Dearest Montague,

I do hope this letter finds you well, and that your work is successful. I might have a case for you to work on, but it has not been finalized yet. If it is in the nearest future, you shall receive the official notification. It is a promising one, and would require your presence here, in Bournemouth, for at least two weeks - that is, if you can spare them.

I shall be happy to have you here,
Your affectionate brother,

W.H.Druitt, solicitor'.

'That is so unlike William' Monty said, taking a bite of an excellent pastry they served us 'For one, he has never called me dearest. For two, he's never called himself my affectionate brother. Ever. '

'It certainly sounded as if he hated writing it, but was really trying to look good in your eyes. I have to be honest, this style makes me uncomfortable. No affectionate brother I know would end his letter with such an official signature. This gives him away, I think. If I were you, I'd decline the offer.'

'I'm afraid I won't be able to. If they send an official request, I cannot decline. I'll have to go and sort out William's tedious business and endure his tedious manner, his copious amounts of papers and his awfully pompous way of talking down to me. That is a younger brother's lot. Hate your brother but don't show it.'

He said it lightheartedly, but I could sense a bit of bitterness behind his words. Reaching out, I touched his hand gently.

'I tried to love him, Lawrence. I thought, well, we are so close in age, why should we always be rivals? Why does he despise me? But when I asked Georgiana about it, she hugged me and said, quite earnestly, that in her opinion William despised every one. I was ten, and that didn't make me happier. I cried that day, I remember it as vividly as anything. I hid myself in the garden, and Georgiana came looking for me, and found me behind the rose bushes, all in tears. William called me a ninny and all sorts of vile names because I preferred playing with Arthur, who was but four. I tried not to react, but William was in a cruel mood that day, and carried on bullying me, not even listening to Georgiana or our nanny, who went out of her wits to calm him down. Edith was not yet born, but she was due any day, and mother was in her bedroom almost all the time. There was no-one there to protect me from William- and so I burst into tears and ran off. From my hiding place in the garden I could hear Georgiana scolding William, and he was getting more and more out of hand. The very same night my mother went into labor, and Edith was born at midday the very next day. Funny enough, William was different around her. He adored her in a way he never liked any of us. She took an instant liking to him too, I think. Edith was - and still is - the gentlest, the most caring creature among us all. When father died, she took it the hardest, but she was so wonderful with Ethel, a mere fourteen year old, and with mother, who depended on her. Georgiana and Edith are so much like mother in many ways, and Ethel resembles her too. For them, I think, what happened to her, was horrifying, as they immediately started questioning their own stability. You know, after my grandmother and my aunt, seeing mother succumb to insanity was a blow. We all were prepared to rally around her, to find the best way to help her - that is, except William. He said we had nothing to worry about, and that there was a wonderful place for people like her. He said it in a most condescending way, and Edward got mad at him, and he would have struck him, if not for Edith. She just looked at them with her blue eyes, and they just fell silent amid the quarrelling. They always did that...even since we were children. I think, actually, Edward's military training is the only thing that stops William from using strength - he knows too well that Edward is far stronger than he is. And now...We are all bitter and angry, and Edward is still on non-speaking terms with William. '

'I do not think that it is Edward's fault, you know. I don't know your brothers, or sisters to that point, but I somehow feel young Arthur might resemble you more than the others. Is that so?'

Monty chuckled.

'He does, I must admit. He is a very bright lad, Arthur. And such a headstrong one. I think we might expect great things from him - and what is most touching, he was prepared to lay off his studies to care for mother. You can imagine the amount of ridicule and sarcasm William had subjected him to. But as his favourite Edith stood by Arthur, he was forced to shut up. God, sometimes I think we are all of different stock, as if we are not related at all. Mother always said that God indeed worked in mysterious ways, with six of her seven children taking after the Harveys and only one preferring the Druitt blood. But it is precisely that, and we cannot do anything about him. We cannot love him no matter how hard we try, for he did everything to repel us. We're forced to endure. And that is what we do. But look at the time! How irresponsible of me - I should have left half an hour ago... Now Valentine is going to scold me about my tardiness as if I were a schoolboy. Just to think- he's not even fifty, and he behaves like a headmaster from some Georgian novel! You'll have to forgive me, Lawrence- I must leave you, albeit reluctantly. I do hope to see you when this Black vs Power ordeal is over. Please be safe.

He left in a hurry but, stopping at the entrance for a moment, looked back at me and casting a swift glance around, blew me a kiss. It made me blush, I think - luckily, it was almost five, and the teahouse was strangely empty. I bowed myself out too, and returned home as promptly as I could.

****

To save you from long winded descriptions, I'll simply mention that the case was a success. Monty had used the insanity to get Power out of prison, and even the mighty and notorious Gill was forced to admit that Monty was a promising talent. Of course, Power still was pronounced guilty, but his corroborated insanity meant he was to spend the rest of his days in an asylum. The newspapers praised Monty to the Moon and back, and his promotion was in the works. We met on the 29th, and I was pleased to see how well he looked- his complexion improved, he no longer had the emaciated, sickened look. Quite the opposite, actually- he was glowing.

'If he makes me quit' he said while we were strolling round the West end, 'I won't defy his decision. I tried talking to Valentine about my resignation, but he made me promise not to quit till the end of November. I suspect it has something to do with payments or keeping books. He's pedantic to the bone, that man. I cannot say I detest him for it, but sometimes it makes him insufferable. All these talks of discipline and punishments...oh how I long for it to end!'

This was a glorious night! The Lyceum was full, and the great Richard Mansfield was giving the last performance of his brilliant 'Jekyll and Hyde'. Mansfield was sensational that night, and we spent a great deal of the night talking about the play. It's no wonder that Monty fell asleep in my living room, his head softly reclining on the damasked armchair.

I watched him, and marvelled, as I did before, at his beauty - the very kind that makes the painters strike deals with the devil in vain attempts of capturing the ethereal quality of youth and hope combined in a single face.

We parted in the morning, when the West end was still dreaming, and even the omnipresent fog looked romantic. But, perhaps, everything looks romantic to the ones in love?

I hurried home, my heart racing, blood pounding in my ears. I felt something was wrong, but had no idea what it was that made me uneasy and anxious.

As soon as I stepped over the threshold of the Ten Bells, I froze rooted to the spot: somebody was crying. Unnerved, I ran into the rooms where George usually stayed in, and found him kneeling on the floor. He was crying, and tears ran streaming down his beard. He was clutching the scarf made by Cathy Eddowes months ago- and it took me a moment to realize what might have been the reason for his grief.

Molly was there too, barely standing, ashen pale and trembling. The newspaper was lying at her feet. I picked it up. This night brought about not only these wondrous moments. This morning London shuddered in horror again, as two bodies were found again, in two separate locations of the East End - Mitre Square and Berner street. West End, though, was still dreaming its pearlescent dreams, when the East end was ablaze with terror. Two women murdered, two more lives cut short. I scanned the article. Elizabeth Stride was found on Berner street, her throat cut. The name seemed familiar, but I carried on reading. The Mitre square victim was, to my horror, Cathy Eddowes.

The world spun before me. I sat on the floor right by George, and felt his tears burning through my shirt.

'Cathy, ' he moaned, 'who would do such a thing? Not to her! Not to her...'

The invisible, invincible murderer has struck again, more viciously than before. We would face more and more inquiries and unrest in the days to come. To every bad there is, indeed the worse, I thought. The only thought that made me a bit calmer though, was the thought of Monty being safe.

For now, at least.

*Oh i see (Breton)
** Where do you come from? ( Breton)
*** that's me (Breton)
**** pleased to meet you (Breton)

Chapter ten.

October, 1888

God grant me the serenity to accept that people are ignorant, the courage to uphold the law when I'm hostile, and the wisdom to realize that murder is illegal.

~Oscar Wilde 

When I look back on that autumn, I find myself wondering if there ever was such a man as that mysterious murderer we all grew accustomed to call Jack the Ripper.  He existed long before the blood stained the sidestreets of Whitechapel, he existed since the day when the first glimpse of injustice occurred. He wasn't simply a deranged lunatic, a hallucinating madman targeting poor unfortunate souls.  He was the product of many ages, not just his own. The depravity and cruelty, just like ignorance and want, as Mr. Dickens noted in his wonderfully allegorical tale, were always at play and had to be feared.  I recall his words now, and find them to be a very precise prophecy, as well as a brilliant description of the way people thought and acted then.

“This boy is Ignorance. This girl is Want. Beware them both, and all of their degree, but most of all beware this boy, for on his brow I see that written which is Doom, unless the writing be erased."*

These two words sum up Whitechapel. Want and ignorance have long been the bane of the local people, and not because they were less deserving than their wealthy and well-educated compatriots. They were ignorant as much as they were ignored, they were wanting because they were unwanted - and it all happened simultaneously. Coming to London in hopes of a better life, they often found their hopes crushed by the very place they were longing to see. London is cruel to those who are not born with silver spoons  in their mouths, to put it figuratively.  To them, London was a mother, to the rest - an evil stepmother. In the years to come,  I've encountered only one man, an American I've met by accident, who was absolutely right about London, although, of course, the words ring true for every megapolis of this world. It was a cruel city, he said, but it was a lovely one; a savage city, yet it had such tenderness. This was the exact sentiment of mine: I could have hated London for so many reasons, but I was in love with its ever changing, persistently obstinate rhythm, I was enchanted by the pulse of life in its arteries and veins. However, 1888 has almost robbed me of this love. But, I digress. 

Jack the Ripper wasn't a person. Jack the Ripper has never existed. There are many who would tell you otherwise, but hear me out. The name you know was a human invention, and everything you might learn of him, is partly a fable and partly a lie. The real murderer shall remain nameless, faceless, unnoticed and strangely, alive, being himself, a spirit of social unrest, fears, wants, hatred and ...ignorance that ruled the East end of London as much as any other place any other time. 

He was, you might say, the shadow of London itself. He still feeds off excitement and numerous discussions that circle around him, so I should warn you not to give him more credit than he deserves. He was not a hero, he certainly wasn't bright. He was lucky not to be found, but it doesn't take a genius to kill someone who is already dead - to society. Being dead to society means being dead to the world, and these poor women were exactly that. 

Poor Liz Stride, dying slowly and painfully of  badly treated syphilis, was so far from her native Sweden, that no-one ever remembered her real name- Elizabeth Gustaffsdottir. Her story was poignant, raw and sharp, full of pain and despair, and all that simply vanished behind the description given to her dead she'll of a body by the police. She wasn't a corpse, she wasn't a prostitute, she was a human being, flawed, yet nevertheless, aspiring to the best. She was a woman, clinging to each moment of happiness, each bright morning - and robbed of all that. 

Once a beauty, she had curly brown hair and startling grey eyes, and although they called her Long Liz, she wasn't that tall, standing at five feet. Men treated her poorly, save for her husband, John Stride- but that ended one day, when, after many misfortunes and arguments, their feelings ended. She left- and that was the beginning of the end. 

She wanted to be a mother, but her only child died prematurely, being born at seven months. The man she once fell for, back in Sweden, has left her a present to be remembered by, an incurable, vicious disease of syphilis. Although the sickness lay dormant for years, it was killing her slowly, affecting everything from her mind to body. She was many a thing, Elizabeth, and sometimes she resorted to lying to survive, but don't we all?..

The details of her life were scattered round the places she lived in, streets she walked and stories she created to keep herself standing. 

As for Cathy Eddowes, you might remember her better if I tell you this: she never thought twice before sharing her last money with those in bigger need. A generous, cheerful, charming woman, she was loved by many- and is still sorely missed by those who knew her and walk the same streets - remembering her. 

While we spent our days mourning them, the police and the rest of the world were trying to make sense of it all in inquiries and investigations. Of course, it came to nothing, and Jack's September girls, as one reporter wrote, were  finally laid to rest. 

October was dreary, with a curious hotspell almost at the end of the month, but I couldn't care less about the weather, as I had to take care of grief-stricken George, who was so ill that he couldn't think straight, let alone manage a pub. But thanks to Solomon, Angus and Molly, Ten Bells withstood it all. By the end of October George resumed his duties, but although he seemed cheerful, sadness dwelt in his blue eyes since then.

Monty, meanwhile, was surely heading for a promotion. His mentors, impressed by his professionalism in handling Christopher Power and Peter Black's case, had a thorough talk with the 'talented Mr Drewitt ' as they called him at the Old Bailey (to his chagrin), and explained to him that in order to succeed as a barrister he'd have to make some sacrifices and welcome the impending changes. That was their exact wording, used in a note received from him on the 10th of October. 

'They are quite adamant I should quit the school, but I've had no time to resolve the matter with Valentine yet, as dear William's firm has sent an official request for my humble assistance in a case of paramount importance.  I was forced (almost!) to leave immediately for Bournemouth, as William had arranged everything. I expect to be back around the 25th, and I will keep you informed.

Please rest assured that I remain your obedient servant and affectionate friend (and that none of that was my inclination!),

Give my best regards to Miss Foxton and George, 

Hoping to see you soon, 

M.J.D'

He must have been in a hurry, I thought, as the note was written on the back of the theatre programme for Jekyll and Hyde.  I cannot say the thought of Monty being subjected to William's antics was a particularly peaceful one, but I trusted Monty's resilience and judgement more than I trusted my worried brain. I've taken the time to visit Mortlake again, and Augustin was kind enough to supply me with his ingenious teas and herbal tinctures, both for George and myself, and was clearly pleased to hear that Monty's condition has improved. 

'That is wonderful to hear, Lawrence' he smiled when I described Monty in full detail. ' However, I see you're clearly troubled. How can I help?'

I told him about George, affected by grief for Cathy, and Molly, exhausted to the point of emaciation. Empathetic and compassionate, Augustin used his knowledge to our advantage again, and I left with two bags of various medications, bumping into Palmer by the apothecary entrance.

' I am so glad to see you, Lawrence' He said, pulling me inside again and closing the door..'We have to talk, and I think, Augustin was right this very morning '

He was clearly troubled; his eyes gave away his anxiety, and his movements were unusually brisk. He gestured towards the table in the corner, and I had to sit down. Augustin pulled the curtains close and joined us. Seeing his nervousness, I asked, tremulously:

'Right how? Philip, I must confess I do not understand a thing. What do you mean?'

Augustin sighed. Palmer frowned and replied, his voice hoarse and quiet:

'I am troubled, Lawrence.  Greatly, in fact. Most suspicious people lurk about, demanding things they have no prescription for, or simply threatening until they get them. I've had several incidents like that lately- and they wanted strychnine.'

'Rat poison? ' I was perplexed 'But what is so uncommon about it? Anyone can buy it, can't they?'

'Precisely. That is the problem, and I'll tell you why' Palmer replied 'they want a particular kind of poison. This one' and he produced a small tin box from his coat pocket. 'Open it'.

A handful of brownish round pills was inside the tin, odourless, neatly arranged, but somehow disturbing.

'They use it for the asylum patients who are...hard to control ' Augustin explained 'One such pill is quite enough to calm down the most...How you say...'

'Aggressive?' I suggested ' But...must there not be some kind of prescription for obtaining these?'

'Officially - yes. But people...you know, what people are like. I have just visited one of my colleagues in your area, Lawrence. There seems to be a strange influx of those who need precisely that. Or arsenic. '

'Sad to say, they are still buying laudanum as well. I fear it all happens because of ignorance and want.  They want a cure but they don't know any other treatment but the one everyone's after. They would not listen when you ask them to consider herbals, nobody trusts anything these days, ' Augustin said gravely ' The  worst thing is that they would buy it all off someone they barely know just because it's cheaper. And I have no  cure for poverty.'

Palmer nodded.

'We have had customers ignoring our advice. Ignorance is contagious, it seems.  Poor Augustin had a woman throw his own mixture in his face a couple of days ago. Most ordinary people are certain that laudanum is the new all-heal, and they don't want to hear of the old one. While these' he pointed at the tin in my palm 'are available everywhere, the police will have a terrible time trying to catch the Whitechapel fiend. They say, the number of poisoning cases has doubled up in growth since last year. Be vigilant, Lawrence. '

'I will be, Philip. But why are you telling me this ?' 

Palmer paused, clearly choosing words. Augustin, seeing the difficulty, explained.

'There have been...incidents. Poison confused with condiment of some sort, with medicine...family of five dead. In half an hour, Lawrence. And the mother had to witness the death of her children. She survived, but I'm afraid grief will kill her in days to come. There were also...jealous lovers, a servant who's been thrown out of employment and....'

'A revengeful brother' Philip said hoarsely 'The worst thing is, we have sold the wretched pills to him. He said they were for his aunt, who was in Broadmoor...that he had a prescription. And indeed, there was one, I have examined it. I happen to know the doctors there. Lawrence, he went home, he dissolved three- at least - in gin....'

I listened, dumbfounded.  Life in Whitechapel was cruel, and I have seen many instances of human rage, jealousy, hate and despair. I knew many women regularly beaten by the men who once swore to protect them, I have seen children thrown out of their pitiful homes by their parents, and men bent on avenging women who had once hurt them. I have seen so much in my years among mortals, and I have helped many- but the things I was hearing now, seemed inconceivable, even by London standards.  Philip sighed.

'I have spoken to some of my friends among apothecary owners, and they all say the same. We are all troubled by this spree of poisonings, but we cannot deny anyone anything, not without legal reason. We are helpless.'

'It has been going on for some time. ' Augustin put in ' But I've always hoped that all those  laws would put everything into place. They didn't. '

'The Arsenic act? Wasn't it passed in 1851, Philip? '

'It was. But arsenic isn't even the problem, Lawrence. It is, but to a lesser extent.  What troubles me is strychnine.  Liquid strychnia is not that easy to get- it is usually reserved for medical professionals and asylum patients. They think it's a good way to calm a person...'

'For life' muttered Augustin ' French doctors think it's a stimulant...For the love gone bad'.

Philip chuckled involuntarily. 

'Anything goes for love and war. But there are these devils.' He nodded at the tin in my hand 'one is enough to kill a grown man. And death will be hellish.  Tell those who matter to you: watch what you consume. '

We sat in silence for a time. Augustin was pale but collected, Philip - visibly upset.  Taking off his glasses, he cleaned them absentmindedly with a handkerchief and rose.

' I must leave you now. Mrs.Jones will be expecting me with her cough treatment. Have you...'

'I've put it on the counter. Just as you asked - nothing vicious. But I've put it into a bottle that says laudanum, as she will be expecting just that. Be careful not to give me away'.

Philip smiled gratefully.

'How very thoughtful of you. Please, Lawrence.  I'll see you soon, I hope. '

He left the room, hastily collecting the bottle from the glass counter. Augustin watched him leave, and then, seeing me getting ready to leave as well, said:

'Your young friend, Lawrence. I hope he is...watched over. I have a strange feeling, a premonition of sorts, but I cannot say what troubles me. Just keep your dearest ones...safe. '

I promised- with an uneasy heart. But nevertheless, I thought it was good advice. 

***

George supported the idea of keeping Monty 'watched over.  I entrusted him with the task, knowing he had to have something to think about. 

‘I do hope it ends soon’

Solomon's voice said right by my shoulder. Quietly, as a cloud, he had left his usual place at the back of the pub and was now standing near the window. 'I know, you will say, but Solomon, it is the rain! But I will tell you- and I think I will be right - that rain has nothing to do with the silence. It is the mourning silence. I hope it is the last one this autumn. It is dark enough already...in all ways. I want to believe in the best, Lawrence. At least, my blood tells me everything bad comes to an end - sooner or later.  '

'What would we do without you, Solomon? Where do you find this optimism?'

Solomon made himself comfortable, sitting opposite me. His eyes twinkled. 

'Being an old Jew has its good sides, eh? But, honestly, I'd blame it on my inner child. I still remember the boy I used to be - life was not always easy, we had to work for hours on end, but I was happy. My parents and grandparents, my sisters- we were all close, incredibly close. And I knew that whatever happened I could run home to my mother. And she would tell me that one day everything would change. She believed in me- fiercely, as all mothers, I'm sure. Your mother did too, I believe'.

' I am an orphan, Solomon. A priest raised me. I never knew my mother'

'Oy-vey...' Solomon touched my hand lightly 'That is the reason... I kept asking myself...but of course...'

I looked at him, puzzled.  He smiled . 

'You still long for a family, Lawrence.  " He said simply ' George, Molly - they are your family. Just as that fine young man I have seen you with once, I believe. '

Monty the cat chose precisely this moment to jump on my lap from the shadows of the pub. I stroked his silky fur, and Solomon watched us, smiling.

'This cat is family too' He said softly 'are you not, Monty?'

Monty purred and meowed shortly. 

'It was a yes, I take it!' Solomon laughed ' But you are much more than that, eh, Monty? You say you are an orphan, Lawrence.  But no child is an orphan in the eyes of God. You have faith, Lawrence?'

Concerned notes appeared in his warm voice. I hastened to assure him I had faith- of course, but I think I was too hasty. Nothing could fool Solomon.

'You do. It is so deep you cannot feel it. But I know  you are a good man. I knew it when you gave me hope. Our times, they are so cruel- nobody cares. But you do.  And I think...I think this is what makes you quite unique. If you will excuse me, I must return to my books now - or my employer might think me lazy '.

He rose to leave, but I caught his hand.

'You are family too, Solomon. ' I said ' And we would never be complete without you.  Thank you for being here. '

' My father always said, people were in actions. You are a decent, kind man, Lawrence. You took me in, and you all have been so good to me. But I do worry about your heart, my boy. It goes out to all people miserable. Saint Lawrence of Rome would be proud of you. Oh, I know his story ' He added ' and such courage is always admirable. But perhaps, you should care about your heart more....or it will break.  What troubles you? Tell old Solomon, he will never betray you. Not in a million years. '

I felt my guard give way to Solomon 's genuine care. My heart was heavy, but I had no one to talk to. I felt as if a dam burst inside of me, and I  told him about Monty and my worries.  I've told him about the signs and premonitions of the others. He listened and finally said, calmly:

' Keep him safe. If you love him, keep him safe. I'd watch over him. Somehow. I know George could arrange that for you, but whenever you need to talk, come to me. I have lived my share, and I know the pain of love when I see it. I am indebted to you, Lawrence, and I will repay what I owe in a way I can. I am Jewish, we take these things seriously. "

He patted me on the back, and scurried off but stopping midway between the table and the back room, turned to me again and smiled.

'You know what Solomon would do if he were you? A younger Solomon would leave everything behind and go anywhere to see his friend. I am sure he needs you wherever he is '.

Solomon was gone; I thought for a moment, then scribbled a note to George, and left the pub. I still had time to reach Bournemouth before the nightfall.

***

I have never seen the house before, but I found it instantly, as if something was pushing and pulling me. It was rather beautiful in the setting sun,  and to my relief, I saw Monty right there, in the garden. 

He was reading something in the dimming light, his face thoughtful and his aquiline profile beautifully opposing the dusky background.

The garden was full of fragrances: lavender competing with roses in bloom, daffodils and peonies, apple blossom and jasmine weaving an enchanting lullaby. To this day, this combination is linked to Monty in my memory, and no length of time will ever erase it.

I stood by the gate, watching him, admiring him and fighting the desire to reach out, to call him. He seemed so delicate, so young - and he must have felt something as he suddenly stopped reading and looked around.

His sapphire eyes looked almost cobalt in the shadows. 

'Lawrence' He breathed out 'is that you?'

I stepped out of the shadows. He rose from the bench, papers scattering round him on the grass. He ran towards me, and I almost caught him mid-movement. 

"I have missed you so much." He whispered ' But how did you find me here?'

'I'd find you anywhere, even if it took me an eternity,' I said, touching his hair. He lifted his head and I could see the glistening of tears in his eyes.

'What happened? Is it William? What did he do?'

'Do you really think I'd trouble myself on his account?' Monty smiled 'no, no. I am simply happy to see you. I had to leave so quickly, and I didn't want to. But William was waiting downstairs, and he bored me to madness while we were on the way. But I don't want to talk about him now. Everyone is out, so I'm all at your disposal- can I offer you some tea?'

'You don't have to. Listen...I wanted to tell you something very important, Monty. Be careful with what you're being offered. If you are offered...anything you cannot see made. '

'Do you think William would try to...? Not here. Jane is preparing everything herself, and we're friends. William never ever drinks anything but tea. Yes, my brother is that boring. Please. I can handle him. Will  you be here for long?'

'I came to see you. My train leaves in the early hours of morning, as it always does. Are you sure you're alright? It's getting chilly.'

'I am. I am now' 

We stood there, in the garden, watching the moon appear, and for those moments I was the happiest creature in the universe. I know, you probably expected something more - but I have told you before, that this love I had for him, was as pure as he was. But I'll indulge your imagination by mentioning a kiss- there, under the ivy-covered gateway.  

We parted, reluctantly, when the sky was already showing the signs of waking up. I watched Monty collecting the papers from the damp grass and going inside. The window of the garden facing room on the second floor lighted up. He was waving to me. 

I waved back and hurried to the station to catch the train. My heart steadied a bit only when I reached the pub. Quietly, I crept upstairs and soon enough fell asleep, with Monty filling my dreams. 

***

I visited him twice more, the second time - in Hampshire, where he and William went for the hearing.  Our meetings were brief, but I was still content- this way, I could make sure he was alright. The case was progressing slower than the drunken snail, as Monty put it, and that enraged William who somehow expected a quick resolution. However, at the end of the month he has mercifully permitted Monty to return to London, as Valentine was getting impatient and partially disgruntled: Monty had no time to warn him.in advance, and that meant he was risking his position now.

I caught him at the station, and escorted him to Blackheath where he spent a good quarter of an hour, resolving the matter. Valentine seemed appeased as he personally guided him back. I only heard him from a distance, but his tone sounded quite peaceful. 

'That is done, now' Monty said cheerfully, as we caught the train to London and finally could talk. ' The importance of the case and the letter from the Inner Temple certainly did the trick. I have five days to catch my breath....'

 He reclined in his seat, eyes closed. Easily, as the children do, he fell asleep, effortlessly - and I envied him then. My own thoughts often kept me wide awake well into the night. I certainly couldn't relax this much in a train! But he could, blissfully and swiftly passing from one state to another, finally free - if only for a time - from William's suffocating presence.

Watching him, I pondered on the nature of love. Have you ever thought about its omnipotence? For the first time, perhaps, I viewed love as something entirely beautiful.

What does love mean for someone like me? Let me tell you. 

Love, dear soul, is the gentle flame that ignites the heart with a warmth both tender and profound. It is the silent whisper of the soul’s deepest yearnings, a sacred bond that elevates the spirit beyond the mundane into realms of purest devotion. Like the delicate bloom that unfolds in the first light of dawn, love blossoms softly, yet with a strength that endures the tempests of life. It is the sweet melody that lingers in the quiet moments, the unspoken promise etched in every glance and touch. In love’s embrace, we find our truest selves—vulnerable, yet exalted—forever seeking the eternal harmony of two hearts entwined in divine harmony.

Yet...as the sharpest thorn of the most exquisite rose, it can hurt our very soul simply by keeping the object of our affection away from us.

Such were my thoughts- and I haven't noticed time going past us, coming back to reality only when our train finally arrived. Monty looked refreshed, content even, and we established he needed rest and some time to arrange his affairs. 

'Let us meet on the first' He proposed, after examining his tightly packed schedule. 'I have to endure my mentors consulting me on the case, and visit my aunt Isabella...and...' he groaned 'attend a meeting with Valentine and staff. It was the only condition of a royal pardon.  He would have me beg, I'm sure - but I reminded him I was going to resign anyway after the case was closed, so he agreed not to notice my involuntary absence. What a tedious man he is! At times I think he can rival William....'

Dropping him off by the King's Bench walk, I returned to the pub,  where, to my surprise, I found everyone gathered around the table. 

Molly was comforting a young woman I have never before seen. No more than twenty five, she was startlingly beautiful, her strawberry blond hair streaming down her back in loose curls, her features too refined for an ordinary girl from the slums. When she spoke, her musical voice immediately gave away her heritage. To my ear, she sounded exactly like an Irish lass, born in the south of Wales. 

'I told him, I did, that there was no way I'd do that' she said ' But he won't listen, he kept offering me money...and when I refused, he said....He said...'

'What was it, dearie?' Molly asked, her face all worried 'Tell me, I can help you'.

'Aye, lassie ' George placed a cup of freshly made tea before her, and she looked at him thankfully. 'You are safe 'ere.  Who was it that scared you?'

'I don't know, he never told me his name. I only know what I saw. He was nice at first, but his eyes...I mean, he scared me to bits. A well dressed gentleman, he was not that tall, with m'stache. He had money about him, but I'd never go with him, never!' 

She was visibly distraught. Molly embraced her, and gestured to George to bring some food, which he did. The girl took a slice of mince pie from the plate and I could see she was hungry but well mannered enough not to gobble it up instantly.

'Georgie, be a darling, send young Angus to fetch Joe Barnett, will you? He should be at the market, I believe'. 

'Will do, Molly.  She shouldna go home alone' and George went out to get Angus, who was in the back somewhere, shuffling boxes, by the sound of it.

I moved closer, intrigued by the conversation, and Molly noticed me. 

'Finally! She said 'That's the man we need. That is Lawrence, sweetheart. He can help us. Lawrence, this is Mary Jane'.

That's how I met Mary Jane Kelly. 

*Charles Dickens, A Christmas carol

**Thomas Wolfe, Look homeward, Angel (1929)

Chapter eleven.

November, 1888

It was night, and the rain fell; and falling, it was rain, but, having fallen, it was blood.
~ Edgar Allan Poe

Should you ask me to name the dreariest month of them all, then without a doubt and a moment's hesitation, I would say November. Charles Dickens, I feel, would have agreed—I always read this passage in 'The Mystery of Edwin Drood' as a perfectly November-like:

'It was a foggy day in London, and the fog was heavy and dark. Animate London, with smarting eyes and irritated lungs, was blinking, wheezing, and choking; inanimate London was a sooty spectre, divided in purpose between being visible and invisible, and so being wholly neither'.

Sadly enough, the inanimate London he referred to was exactly the East End of the city. With the sudden October calm and absence of murders, we have almost regained the sense of momentum and hope. I myself have almost believed in the possibility of a new dawn for us all.

November began in haste, as if the universe was still trying to make up for the horror it had plunged us all in before. The clouds were still menacingly low, and darkness threatened to blind us all. It rained almost constantly, but the weather was unusually mild for November, and George's gut, paired with Solomon's back, kept telling us it wasn't going to stay for long.

Monty was still championing William's case, and judging by his letter written in haste from Wimborne, William and the Christchurch conservatives were very much the same.

'They all want me to tear the other side to shreds,' Monty wrote, 'but I fear my own dear brother is the worst of the lot. He is certain the case can be won, but it goes on and on, reminding me of the tedious proceedings in Bleak House. Oh, I wish there was a single thing to laugh about! But there isn't—and William follows me like a bloodhound, reciting passages of the case or telling me, in his unforgettable manner, everything I don't have to know. My mind is boiling, Lawrence, and sometimes I catch myself thinking of the long nights at Blackheath quite fondly! I wish the people considering themselves experienced and grown-up were as easy to manage as the class of students! But alas!
P.S. I should have chosen a desk job!'.

Certain adults were getting on my nerves too, perhaps not quite as much as William. The members of the vigilance committee became synonymous with headache that month. They'd gather in buzzing clusters round the tables at The Ten Bells and demand drinks whilst deciding on the next action to be implemented. The last thing they did, I think, was to write to the Home Secretary, demanding resolution to the murders. George Lusk, their leader, was known to everyone in Whitechapel, and sadly, it wasn't because of his talent in the restoration of buildings—in which he was quite efficient—but for the incident that would keep him in the books forever. It was he who received the infamous kidney piece back in October and thought that the murderer sent it. You might remember the letter, still quoted, addressed to poor Lusk—it turned out to be a hoax, of course.

Lusk was a quiet, peaceful, gentle man—not the kind you'd imagine at the head of a vigilance committee, but he was respected, and they relied on him when it came to the communication with the press or politicians. Not that it came to any good. But his disciples came round, and they drank and discussed the situation well into the night, and George had to politely escort them out of the pub several times.

The second type of guests, who sometimes were as loud as the committeers, were the women. As the rains settled in, they were constantly around, and George, the ever gallant knight, supplied them with drinks, almost for free, to Solomon's utter dismay.

'Listen, George,' He would repeat again and again, 'I know, you know, tzedakah is a good thing, but what they are is schmeichel*, my friend. And it's no good for businesses'

'Consider it a chesed***, dear.' Molly would say to that, 'George is a gentleman.'

'And a bit of Shoyteh de'oraisah,' Solomon would retort, retreating to his bookkeeping room.

Obviously to him, George's ever-forgiving attitude towards women was sometimes absolutely inconceivable. But he still stayed and kept the books splendidly. Everybody loved him, from the 'gals,' as Molly affectionately called the working women, to the bobbies. For the first, he was a fatherly figure, grumpy at times but still with a heart of gold; for the latter, someone to ask for advice or simply to talk to. Most of them considered him George's relation, and consequently, he was untouchable and out of suspicion.
Without Monty in the vicinity of London, I had to concentrate on the mundane affairs, and I took to observing Whitechapel in its many forms and faces—never leaving the pub. I'd hide behind a newspaper or better yet—Shakespeare or Blake—and observe, sipping my tea, how the public kept changing and how the topics never did.
There would be some people, though, who took to coming every day and spent at least a couple of hours at the pub. Among them was Mary Jane, who, as it seemed, was hiding from someone. She would always choose the farthest table and try to look as invisible as she could. Her hair, had she not dyed it red, would not stand out that much, but in all that November gloom, she looked like a burning candle in the dead of night.
'I'd not do that to my hair if I wanted to stay low,' George said, apparently concerned for Mary Jane. 'She did a stupid thing there—she'd be noticed all right!'
'I think she was looking for the opposite effect, my friend,' Solomon put in, 'living but without being recognised.'
'Isn't that what I said? I mean, why do that?'

Without skipping a beat or looking away from his books, Solomon suggested asking me. It was his usual trick of getting me into a conversation—would I or not?

I closed my 'Bleak House' and sighed.

'She's noticeable enough as it is, I'm afraid. With red hair or not. She's visible. She draws attention, and I can see what this hair does—it attracts by distracting. But she's risking it all, surely. What does Molly say? I mean, the girl comes here every day—is everything alright with her and Joe Barnett?'

George shrugged.

'You better ask her, I think. But Molly's so damn busy these days that you never see her. I told her, I did, that it was plain dangerous to go out after midnight. She never listened. Stubborn, that's what she is!' He returned to cleaning, brushing so vehemently that were I the mop, I'd have surely fainted.

Solomon shot me a side glance and rolled his eyes. I chuckled and almost resumed my reading when the door burst open and Molly rushed in, Mary Jane under her protective wing.

'Blimey!' George exclaimed, 'What's with the lass?'

'No idea, George,' Molly snapped. 'I've found her outside.' She seems...intoxicated'.

Leaving my seat, I lifted Mary Jane and carried her upstairs, Molly following me. Placing her on the bed, I examined her. A fresh-looking bruise was on her arm, and on her neck—another one.

'She's not intoxicated.' I said, 'She was attacked. Luckily, though...she'll be coming round now. Do you have your foul smelling salts on you, Molly?'

Fumbling somewhere in her skirts and corsage, Molly finally found a small ornamented box and gave it to me. A smell, almost pungent, filled the room as soon as I opened the vile thing. Mary Jane's eyelids fluttered, and she opened her eyes. Almost the shade of Monty's, I thought, and felt a sharp sting in my chest. I missed him, and it took me some considerable effort to not think of something more...sensual. Mary Jane spoke as her right hand reached for her hair.

'It hurts,' she said, 'my head...'

Her Irish accent became more pronounced now—and the sheer musicality of it came out in just four simple words. Molly stroked her hand.

'What happened, dear?'

Mary Jane's lips were trembling. She tried to sit up, but she was apparently too weak. I helped her up. Molly ran down to bring some food, while I stayed, trying to read Mary Jane's thoughts. Tangled, like barbed wire, they revolved in her head, with one single image, in splashes of brilliant red, standing out. I watched it form, and it definitely looked like a man, although I couldn't make out a face.

Mary Jane touched my hand, and her hands, to my surprise, were soft. She looked at me, almost pleadingly.

'Can you keep a secret?' She asked, tremulously, 'I never told anyone, not even Joe. But I can tell you.'

'Why? You barely know me.'
'That's why,' she said, with a weak smile. 'They always betray you if they know your secrets... you know how it is.'

I knew. Of course I knew. I've been betrayed so many times that I stopped counting. I saw her pain, and she knew I did. I sat on the bed, right by her.

'All right. You can tell me'.

She sighed. Quickly, before I could even think of stopping her, she undid her corsage.

'What are you doing?' I said hoarsely, 'Molly can come back any minute.'

'Give me your hand,' she said, 'please.'

I obeyed, strangely intrigued and attracted, in spite of myself, to her perfect body. She placed my hand on her belly and smiled. I froze, guessing instantly. A slight pulse of a new life was obvious, although it could not have been for long.

'I have been there before,' she said, and I noticed, for the first time, the darker colouring of her nipples. She had given birth before, I thought. Mary Jane nodded as if reading my thoughts.

'It was back in Wales, you know. He was a collier, a very handsome one. Ioan Davies, he was called. I married him, and ...there's been a landslide in the mine. He died... They took him out, and he died in a week. I was so ill, I could not even see straight. My baby...my boy... He died....' Tears were falling on her milky white skin, tracing paths downwards. She tried buttoning up her corset, but her hands were shaking, and I had to help her.

'Your hands are so soft,' she muttered. 'I've never seen a man with hands that soft...'

She pulled me close, almost desperately, and her fingers dug into my hair. Something inside me stirred and became stone. Something inside her, I could feel it, was panicking, shouting, and beating like a caged bird. She was afraid of losing the child, and she was scared to keep it. She held on to me, and I was almost helpless—something quite unusual for me, as you have probably guessed.

I wished for it to end, I wished for Molly to return, and I could hear her preparing a tray, talking to George, and rummaging in the pantry. I could hear her until all the sounds died, and the only sound I could hear was the sound of her beating heart.

My mind was battling against this sudden attraction, trying to evoke Monty's image. Would this happenstance be a betrayal of my love for Monty? It was quite obvious what Mary Jane wanted, but I couldn't do that.

Why, do you ask?

It's quite simple. My heart was not in it. I could have taken her right there, of course. I'd enjoy that. But would she? Probably not. To be completely honest, being intimate with me would kill her. I'd rather be unable to stop myself from feeding off her, but then a little petit mort, a kiss of death, would become a murder. Or, as a mortal, she'd be unable to withstand, for a better term, my strength. Her death would be imminent anyway—and knowing what I knew, I couldn't let her seduce me, albeit unconsciously. Killing her wasn't in the cards that day—or any day, for that matter. I understood how Joe felt about her—there was something bewitching in Mary Jane, something that could easily make men lose their minds. She almost made me lose mine, and I cannot say I liked the sensation. So I backed away, gently, and said that I was sorry to let her down.
'You're in love,' she said wistfully, 'and it's good. I see it in your eyes. But will you keep my secret?'

I assured her that I would.

'You see,' she said, 'I didn't tell Joe for one reason. I am not sure he is the father. It's been two months, the doctor said. Two months ago we had a quarrel, and Joe left. That night I met someone. A man, who paid me handsomely...for...you know. Joe came back some time later, but I've been thinking...could it be...you know...not his?'

'Is that the same man you're so scared of?' I asked, and fear rose in her eyes.

'Yes. He appeared again the month poor Polly was killed. He offered me money—lots of it—for sleeping with him. Joe was barely earning money then; I thought I could agree. And I did; I was an idiot. He took me to some place in a carriage. He gave me a dress to wear; he said it was his mother's. And he...oh, I wish I could forget that!'

I watched her thoughts in horror as images came up in her head, and the things I saw made my blood burn.
Poor Mary Jane, she was abused, clearly.

'See this?' She pointed at a thin scar on her wrist, then at a similar one on her calf. 'He did that.'

'Bastard,' I said through clenched teeth. 'Did he say what his name was?' I swear I'll find him and make him answer for that.'

She shook her head.

'No. But he asked me to call him Monty'.

The world spun before me; I felt sick.

'What did he look like? Do you remember exactly when it happened?'

'I think it was… the tenth. Yes, it must have been. I was distraught at the news. He was shorter than you, and he had this strange, dark, bushy moustache, you might say. Brownish eyes, like the sad dog, and cold, cold hands. He said I was pretty.... But this time he said that he'd kill me if I refused him again. And he slapped me. And I fell...And here I am'.

Molly came back at this very moment, carrying a tray laden with food. Mary Jane, apparently hungry, tucked in, and I, finding some excuse I cannot remember now, left her in Molly's care. Thoughts were boiling inside my head: I knew the man she described couldn't be Monty. But I kept asking myself, how many men are called that in the vicinity of London?

Then another thought crept in. Mother's dress. Call me Monty. Abuse. But how could this be? ...William?

I had to speak to Monty. I had to see him—but right now he was probably in Christchurch, or in Wimborne, for all I knew. I could have written, of course, but the address wasn't known to me. I was lost, and I had to talk to someone. The answer came on its own: Solomon bumped into me as I was pacing round the room.

'You look awful.' He said, 'You better sit down, Lawrence. What happened? Is the young lady alright?'

'I believe so...she's with Molly now. Can I talk to you? But you have to promise me that...'
Solomon raised his brow sceptically.

"That I won't tell anyone? Bah! Humbug! Of course I will not. Solomon never does that. But we will talk in my room—here is no place for secrets. Come'.
He led me into his bookkeeping domain, and I marvelled at how neatly everything was arranged. Solomon installed himself comfortably in an armchair and, assuming the wise mentor pose, said,

"I am listening.'

I have told him everything except for the secret Mary Jane has entrusted to me. Frowning slightly, he asked,

'There is something else, isn't there? Something that has to do with both young Mister Montague and the young distressed lady upstairs.'

'I am not sure that...well. She is expecting a child. And she suspects...'

'It is not young Joe's child,' Solomon finished sadly. 'While I am not at all an expert in the subject of children, having no children of my own... I believe the woman always knows best. We are in no position to judge. But... What I can deduce is that young Montague has nothing to do with it all. The one who does, however, knows him well enough to hate him—to use his name as a shield in an abysmal, horrible deed, perhaps not one. We have to ask ourselves, my dear friend, who might that be. But I suspect you know the answer'
His face was stern, his eyes—full of compassion. He was right; I knew the answer. It's been before me all these months. There was only one person in this world who loved taunting Monty and would love to see him finished and gone from all the graces of society. Only one man would go out of his way and wits to harm the man I loved.

'William,' I said, and the name fell heavy on the ground, as a coffin lid would.

'I fear for your young friend,' Solomon said quietly, 'but I fear for you more. Should something—God forbid—happen to him, it will kill you. I know that look too well. My poor boy...' he whispered, thinking I could not hear him. 'Meyn oreman eyngl...' he repeated, trying to hide his tears. 'You are killing yourself with these doubts.'

'What else can I do? I am helpless, Solomon. He is there, with this man, his brother, trying to win a case for him, and I don't even know where he is. Hampshire, Dorset...I don't know. And I'm forced to...'

'Nobody forces you to do anything.' Solomon corrected me, 'You are free to do how you see fit. But to my mind, your only obligation is to make sure he is safe. Can you send anybody to Dorset to see if he's there?'

I thought for a moment. Everyone was so busy around me, and I couldn't risk sending George or Molly. They were needed in London. Solomon watched me intently.

'I can go.' He said simply, 'I've never been to Dorset. But you must supply me with an address, yes?'

He looked exactly like an old fox from children's tales—wiry, his beard still slightly auburn, and all in all, cunning. I embraced him, and he laughed.

'Do be gentle, my young friend; Solomon isn't young anymore. But he will go and see. First thing tomorrow.'

That he did indeed, and came back in a day with the news. He has found the house with no problem, he said, and the housekeeper told him that both brothers were in Hampshire but would be back in a week. The address was also given, Solomon announced proudly, and gave me a folded note. The very next day I went to Christchurch and reached the house by dusk.

Two men were arguing in the garden, and I knew Monty right away. The second man, to my horror, was exactly the man Mary Jane had described. So, I thought, that is W.H. Druitt. As unlikeable as Monty was charming, William had a certain air about him. All country solicitors happen to have the air of importance about them, and he was no exception.

As for Monty, I sensed his exhaustion and irritation and cautiously approached the place, hidden safely by the trees.

'What would you have me do?' Monty asked, his voice tired and grey, 'I cannot simply shout at everybody and expect them to rule it out in my favour. I am a barrister; we do not condone vile language or scandals at court.'
'Then be a barrister!' William snarled, 'I have brought you in so you could help me, and you do nothing but compare facts!'

'I have told you once, and I will repeat now: do not presume to tell me how to work the case. Do not think you know how to handle these matters, Willie. You are no barrister. You are a damned solicitor, so go and solicit. I am doing what is needed, and I will not back down now because some country paper rat thinks he's better than me.'
'A country rat, is it now? You are so brave now, our little London star.' William hissed. 'You weren't that brave when you returned home after your failure at university!'
'It was years ago, Willie. I might have made a mistake then, but I will not repeat it now. I will win this case, but afterwards, there will be nothing between us. You've broken up our family, you have mistreated all of us, and you've been very cruel towards Mother. You are so like Father; you even sound like him when you have someone to kick around. Go, Willie. Leave me alone. I've had enough of you.'

I've never heard Monty speak like that before, and I should say I liked his resolve and the steeliness of his voice. William seemed ashamed, as if he had shrunk, diminished. Monty, on the contrary, seemed to have grown taller and more stern. From my hideout, I could see the grimace of hate on William's ashen face, and I could swear his rancour was almost tangible.

He retreated inside, and Monty remained alone. This burst, I swear, has cost him much, as he sat on the bench, visibly shaken. I stepped out from behind the trees, just a little—for him to notice me—and gestured for him to follow me.

Before doing that, Monty looked at the house. No-one was watching—although he certainly expected William to, and Monty went out of the garden to join me. He looked relieved to see me, no doubt, but I had to admit, he reminded me of the vampire victims of the gothic stories.

'What did he do to you, drink your blood?' I asked, trying to sound less worried. Monty chuckled darkly.

'I am afraid he's close to that. But I will try to battle him until the sun appears. You've found me again—but how?'

There was a strange nervousness in his voice, which had just been steel-sharp and resonant. Panic appeared in his sapphire eyes for a moment and dissipated as I held him close, as my instincts told me to do. Something was odd. He was shivering.

'Monty? Are you alright? Are you ill?' I asked, pushing back slowly. He looked at me. Tears were streaming down his face.

'I am so tired, Lawrence. So unimaginably tired. I know I must finish this damned case, and I thank God for having these miraculous herbals you gave me. But they can't banish the things I have to go through while I'm with William. He behaves weirdly; he can leave without telling anyone and return after midnight. He is irrational, condescending, and confusing at times. He blamed me for Mother's condition, can you believe it? He somehow thinks I'm poisoning Arthur's mind against him, making him follow my example. But, Lawrence, Arthur is not a foolish schoolboy; he's old enough to decide for himself. I barely see him, to be honest. And William...I wish I'd declined the request. He seems not to know what he wants, and I am set on returning to London in a week. I won't be returning to Wimborne. The final hearings, I'm told, will be held in London, so there I'll be. I've written to my mentors, and they think it wise to return earlier. But look at me, I'm babbling on, and I haven't asked you a thing! How is everyone?'

'They are well. Shaken after the murders, of course, but we are coping. I have come to warn you. Be careful not to tip William off the edge. From what I've learnt, he was seen in Whitechapel when the murders began.'

Stupefied, he looked at me.

'I should have guessed...are you telling me...that is where he goes when he disappears?'

'One of my friends saw a man like him a few days ago. Were you always together?'

"No. I've told you, he's been peculiarly emotional lately. He left and returned quite unexpectedly. Was there anything else?'

'Apparently he threatened one young lady. The very same who once saved your life. I implore you—do be careful. For my sake.'

'I give you my word. You must go now, Lawrence. He'll be looking for me. I'll see you in London in a week. Thirteenth—if I'm lucky. Don't worry. He won't hurt me before the case is done.'

'Don't joke like that.' His words made me uneasy. Something ominous was behind them, and I didn't like it. Monty embraced me and, throwing caution to the wind—just a little bit—planted a kiss on my cheek.

'I love you,' I said quietly. 'Please be careful.'
'I love you.' He echoed, 'I will.'

He ran back into the garden, and I could hear the house door creak just a little. With a heavy heart I went back to the station.

The train brought me back in the early hours of the morning. Mary Jane was nowhere to be found; the pub was quiet. I sank into the bed, my head spinning. Morpheus must have been merciful that day, for I slept well into the night.

***

I don't remember the next three days, which simply means they were uneventful. There was no sight of Mary Jane, but Molly assured me she was well and back home with Joe Barnett. That sounded promising and would be perfect—but the very same night, on the 6th, she came back in tears.

Apparently they had a row over her guests, and Joe left—outraged, angry, and too drunk to carry on. Molly went to Miller's courtroomand found Joe there, beside himself with worry. She brought him to the pub, and we witnessed a tearful reunion.

'You're quite a cupid, Miss Molly,' Solomon said, watching Mary Jane and Joe walking hand in hand.

'Cupid?' Molly scoffed, 'I'm her fairy godmother!'

Apparently, Molly's charms were not everlasting. On the 8th they've had a row again. That time, Joe left for good. Mary Jane seemed unfazed. Her neighbours heard her sing that night, and we assumed the lovers would make up soon.

We were terribly, awfully wrong.

The very next morning she was found dead in her room. Massacred, obliterated, torn to shreds. The man who found her was her rent collector. It took him several months to recover, and I somehow think that such a sight never goes away completely.

I'd love to tell you that she was a bright, lovely young girl full of glee, but that would be a poetic turn of a phrase. And a lie. And I am no Edgar Poe.

To me, she was as much a mystery as to everyone else around her. Her secret died with her, cut out from her body, like her heart. Did her killer know he was butchering both mother and child? Hardly. If he did, he was the devil himself.

She had many names, as we found out later, and many stories to tell, and I am sure that most of them were partly true. However, she was cautious, that woman who called herself Marie Jeannette, and even those close to her couldn't agree on the truthful version of the events prior to her coming to Whitechapel. Her horrific demise left us speechless for quite some time, and we did our best to console poor Joe Barnett, who blamed himself for her death although he was as innocent as the coat that hid the broken window of Mary Jane's room.

The inquests took up almost the entire month, and I have to say that everything uncovered—or discovered—during those long hours of cross-examining the blabbering, confused, and mostly scared witnesses came to almost nothing. Mary Jane seemed to be the woman of the most enigmatic past and puzzling present. Everybody knew her without knowing a thing about her, and we all pitied Joe, who had to endure all that. He was a brave fellow, Joe, and a very decent one. He defended Mary Jane up to the moment when the tears started choking him. He would never be the same after her death, and as I was told, he had never married afterwards.

In that nightmare of a month, I felt as if the ground was giving in under my feet. Even Monty's arrival couldn't lighten the load.

I've seen him once in London, on the fifteenth—he was delayed, obviously, and had to report on the case. The final hearings were scheduled for the 29th and the 30th of November, and we met briefly on the 28th. I've procured tickets to the theatre for December, and he was looking forward to it.

'Ah! Shakespeare!' He said fondly, 'The best thing for an Englishman!'

Apart from the hearings, he was expected at Blackheath, for it was his resignation time. Valentine had agreed to let him go and even promised to supply Monty with a substantial reward. Monty wasn't expecting much but was clearly pleased that the Valentine chapter of his career would be coming to an end peacefully.

I escorted him there on the 28th, and he was back in fifteen minutes, light on his feet and joyful. The hearings turned out to be successful. Monty has won the case for William and reluctantly agreed to attend the celebration on the 2nd of December.

'Dear Lawrence,' he wrote, 'I am afraid I have to go; otherwise, William will be getting on my nerves each consecutive day afterwards.
Besides, this party will be held on Sunday (which means it would probably not be a long one) by the winning party, and all the officials are going to grace us with their illustrious presence.
Have to look dashing,
Wish me luck.
MJD.

I have replied in all fondness and started to prepare for the party I had in mind for us. November was at an end, and I hoped the autumn of terror wasn't going to transform into the winter of discontent.

December should have been our month. I have gotten him a Christmas present, too—a silver ring with a magnificent sapphire—a very fashionable accessory way back then.

I've anticipated December.

This year was difficult enough.

We all needed a new beginning.

*Charity
** someone who is using charm to get what they want.
***loving kindness
****fool of biblical proportions
*****my poor boy (Yiddish)