Whitechapel Read online

  Whitechapel

  Whitechapel

  Sam Gafford

  Ulthar Press

  Warren, RI

  Whitechapel

  © 2017 by Sam Gafford

  This edition

  © 2017 by Ulthar Press

  All Rights Reserved

  First Edition

  ISBN: 978-1546898948

  Published by Ulthar Press

  700 Metacom Avenue

  Warren, RI 02885

  Ultharpress.com

  I have passed all my days in London, until I have formed as many and intense local attachments as any of your mountaineers can have done with dead nature. The lighted shops of the Strand and Fleet Street, the innumerable trades, tradesmen, and customers, coaches, wagons, playhouses, all the bustle and wickedness round about Covent Garden, the very women of the town, the watchmen, drunken scenes, rattles,—life awake, if you awake at all hours of the night, the impossibility of being dull in Fleet Street, the crowds, the very dirt and mud, the sun shining upon houses and pavements, the print shops, the old books stalls, parson cheap’ning books, coffee houses, steam of soups from kitchens, pantomimes, London itself a pantomime and a masquerade,—all these things work themselves into my mind and feed me, without a power of satiating me. The wonder of these sights impels me in tonight-walks about her crowded streets. I often shed tears in the Strand from fullness of joy at so much life.

  —Charles Lamb

  Prologue

  April 3, 1947

  The weather was spectacularly dull as we buried poor, dear Arthur Machen. It had only been a few months since the funeral of his beloved wife, Purefoy, and there were more than a few of us who knew that the loss of his longtime love was more than he could bear. Ever the dramatist, Arthur knew the precise moment to exit the stage.

  Several of the mourners had expected a cinematic weather display of driving rain and pounding thunder, but it didn’t happen. The weather gods were totally indifferent to our ceremony, which would have amused Arthur greatly. Even though the sky was somewhat overcast, it was a regular English afternoon with a slight chill in the air. There were two or three clouds which, were you to stare at them long enough, could be mistaken for giant gods. But, given Arthur’s constant annoyances over that whole ‘Angels of Mons’ thing, I let that pass.

  The subsequent wake was a typical Welsh affair. A little food, tea, some wine. Most people were talking softly, respectfully, as we gathered in Arthur and Purefoy’s little house. I had always liked this house, despite its diminutive size. They had had larger and more impressive homes, particularly when Arthur’s literary fortunes were better, but I always felt that this house suited them best. It was cosier and reflected more of their character. Still, I know that many believed that, at eighty-four and with nearly half a century in literature, Arthur Machen deserved better. I didn’t disagree but, knowing Arthur as I did, I knew that the work had been its own reward and that he would never complain about his dwindling fortunes; and that left the rest of us to worry about him and Purefoy. It was selfish, I knew, but I was glad that they would no longer be plagued by such mundane problems as money. Now Arthur’s spirit was as free as his mind had been, but I still found myself wishing he had written more in the last ten or fifteen years—written with that same type of fire, like a literary inferno, that had marked his early work, and which he felt he would never return to again. “It was a product of its time, Albert,” he’d say to me, “much as was our London and ourselves. Let it stay in the past.” I lingered at the wake for as long as I could, feeling myself tremble as I looked about the tiny home, before deciding to head back to my own private grief.

  Seeing my aged, shambling form reaching for my coat, Arthur’s daughter came up to me and asked if I was leaving already. I mumbled something about pressing business I had to see to that could not wait any longer, but she knew that was a lie. Gracious as ever, she helped me to the door, asking if I needed anyone to walk with me. Despite my age, I had spent a lifetime walking and was still able to get about relatively easily. She smiled and pressed an envelope into my hand. “Father wanted you to have this,” she said, and walked back to her guests.

  I stared at the envelope in my hands, not knowing what was in it. I knew only that I didn’t want to be holding it, didn’t want it to be in my hand, in my life, knowing that it almost certainly contained one last kindness from Arthur that he probably couldn’t afford and shouldn’t have bestowed. One last kindness that I would no longer be able to repay or thank. Feeling weakened, I thrust the envelope into my coat pocket and shuffled my way home.

  It was no accident that Arthur Machen and I, after nearly a lifetime of friendship, had ended up living in the same town. There was something comforting in the knowledge that one was always there for the other. We still managed to see each other fairly regularly despite the infirmities of age. Time was spent during impromptu meetings over tea or a glass, lively literary discussions, debating Arthur’s ever favorite subject of the Holy Grail, or just reminiscing about Fleet Street and all the buffoons we had known there. Still, there were times when we’d be talking and Arthur would just look at me in that certain way and I knew that he was remembering. Then we wouldn’t see each other for a little while, but we would eventually fall back into our old habits. Except during November. Beginning in the late weeks of October, our visits would dwindle until November would come and we’d avoid each other. Not consciously, of course. I wouldn’t wake up and say, “Ah, it’s November; can’t see Arthur until December now.” But that’s the way it was all the same. Eventually, when the first days of December would roll in, one of us would show up at the other’s home with a bottle and a smile and everything would be fine again. How strange it will feel this November, knowing that even when December comes, I won’t be able to go and see Arthur again. How strange this will all feel from now on.

  I’m one of the last ones left. Most of our friends and contemporaries are long dead or, worse still, forgotten. The people who have organised the relief funds and the toast dinners for Arthur are the younger crowd now. They weren’t even alive when most of Arthur’s best work was written, and there is no one left who was alive in that fateful autumn of 1888. Except for myself, that is, and I sometimes wonder exactly how alive I am. My body seems to feel every minute of my seventy-nine years, and there are times when I can barely move from my bed to my writing table.

  I think about those old days often now—those days when we were both on fire for literature, when London was a fortress to be taken by siege and every night was a new exploration. I think about the people we used to know: the ones we talked to every single day but about whom I can barely remember any details now. I think about the friends who were so close to me then and so far away now. But mostly I think of London.

  The London I remember has been dead and gone for over forty years now. Not just blasted to rubble by the Nazis and their interminable bombs but gone in other ways. My London, Arthur’s London, our London, was long gone by then. It doesn’t just have to do with the movement of buildings, the changing of streets, and the replacing of horses with cars and loud, noxious trucks. It has to do with the mind, the personality, the life of London. I went to the city a few months back to see my solicitor about my own will and walked streets that were familiar and yet strange. The stores I remembered from my youth were long gone (and had been for some time, I admit), but even the aged buildings they had occupied were different. They held strange new shops selling items I had never heard of and had no use for, and I wondered, “Is it this easy to change the character of a place? Does it only take a few strange items here and there to make one doubt that you had ever been here at all?” When I mentioned it to Arthur, he stared gloomily at his feet. He hadn’t been to London in almost a
decade and would never go back. “Do you remember,” he finally said, “that bakery on Queen’s Road? Do you remember how that one shop would make the entire street smell like your mother’s kitchen? Remember the feeling you had then? That the city was welcoming you, making you safe, and sheltering you from harm? I’m told there’s a haberdasher there now.”

  I sat in my bedroom for some time, thinking about several things. Thinking about the envelope Arthur had left me, thinking about what I felt sure was inside it, and thinking about the locked drawer at the bottom of my writing desk. I suppose there was little harm in the whole thing now. Everyone involved was long dead, but there was always the question of the families. We had never discussed it, Arthur and I, but he knew I had kept notes on everything all the same. He knew that there was a part of me that wanted to write it, even if it was just for myself and no one else would ever read it. But he also knew that I probably never would if left to myself. Some of the events of that far-off year were too much to remember; and when I think of 1888 and what came after, I can only wonder if I am remembering it all correctly.

  I took out a bottle of port and placed two glasses on my bedroom table. I filled them both and took a long sip from mine, offering the other to Arthur. “Here’s to you, Arthur,” I said, “here’s to you.” And I drank the warm liquid down. I felt the familiar burning in my throat but did not feel the familiar sensation of relief and happiness that it usually gave me. I knew then that, however much time I had left, I would probably never drink again. It didn’t seem very pleasant to me anymore.

  Sometime later, I opened the envelope.

  There was a letter inside, written in green ink with Arthur’s usual spidery handwriting and dated two weeks ago.

  March 20, 1947

  My dear Albert,

  You’ve only just a few minutes gone, and yet I feel the need to write you this letter. Have I ever mentioned to you how much I’ve valued your friendship over the years? Probably not. For that, I apologise. I sometimes forget to say what I really mean. And for what I’m about to say, I apologise again.

  I have been thinking, dear friend, about them again. There have been times when I’ve woken up alone since Purefoy left and have been sure that one of them was standing beside me, staring into my face. I almost feel that, if I could just focus my eyes in the proper manner, I would be able to see them standing there. I have been both anxious and fearful of seeing them again. What would I say? What defence could I possibly offer? That is why I’m writing this letter.

  Albert, I know that there is little time left to me, nor do I wish there to be more. In some ways, I feel as if I’ve lived too long already; and now that Purefoy is gone, there seems little left to keep me here. But you know that I do hate to leave something unfinished, almost as much as I hate leaving this burden with you. I know what you must be feeling right now—the sensations, the thoughts running through your head, the images you must be seeing. Mary, Martha, Buck’s Row, Miller’s Court, Caerleon, that final, hideous scene on the hill at Isca Silurum . . . and I know that, above all else, you are thinking of Ann. I also know that, despite all this, you have wanted to write this for some time but you wouldn’t if I didn’t tell you to. So, dear Albert, I am telling you now.

  Yes, I can hear your protests. “Arthur, you should be the one to do this.” But you’re wrong. I cannot write it any more, not the way that it should be written, not the way it needs to be written. Only you can do that. In some ways I have written about it several times over and my demons have been exorcised, but yours haven’t. I know full well what I am asking of you. I know the pain that this will cause. And, Albert, if I did not feel that this would help you as well, I would not ask it. I would take this with me to whatever life awaits beyond, but I know that you need to do this almost as much as I need you to.

  When it is done, do whatever you like with it. Publish it, burn it (almost the same thing as publishing these days), or paper your bedroom with it, but write it! Write it for me, for yourself, and especially for Ann, so that you can remember and put it all to rest for the last time.

  You have been a good friend, Albert. Purefoy and I couldn’t have asked for better. And I hope that, in the end, I’ve been as good a friend to you. I’ve doubted it at times, you’ve probably doubted it as well, but my feelings were always true.

  Goodbye, Albert, I will see you again someday where the dark shapes do not dance and sing.

  Yrs,

  Arthur

  I replaced the letter in the envelope and left it by the nightstand when I could finally stop crying.

  Later that night, I awoke to a sudden sound and sat up in bed. Looking around, I half expected to see the spectres of 1888 beside me, foolscap in one moldy, grave-rotten hand, pen in the other. But there was nothing there. Just as there had been nothing and no one there for the past sixty years every time I awoke in the night. My room was as empty as it had always been.

  Lying in my bed, I could see the locked drawer in my writing table. I knew what it contained, what it had contained since I locked them away more than sixty years ago. No one had ever been allowed into that drawer and no one had ever seen me open it. Still, I knew exactly where the key was. Despite the years and several moves, I had made sure never to lose that key even though I had never used it. It took but a moment to fetch and, pushing hard against the decades of rust, I turned the key in the lock.

  Inside lay the notes I had taken so long ago, along with the newspaper clippings and the pictures. Everything was the way I had left it. I turned up the light and sat down at my writing desk. Opening the notebook, I began to read the pages and felt the years slip away from me. I put one particular picture in front of me, but it was not necessary. I knew every line of that face as well as I knew the many lines crossing my own, even though I had not looked at the photograph once in all those years.

  I took out paper and pen and laid them next to me. I fingered the notes and felt the brittle paper crinkle in my hands. “Yes, Arthur,” I said, “you knew I’d write it.” And I would. I had no idea what I would do with it afterwards, but I would write it. Not for myself, not even entirely for Arthur or Ann (although that had much to do with it), but also for the time, for that supreme moment in time when we were golden and life was fresh and exciting and we lived in a magic land of kings and queens and monsters called London.

  Chapter 1

  The best bribe which London offers to-day to the imagination, is, that, in such a vast variety of people and conditions, one can believe there is room for persons of romantic character to exist, and that the poet, the mystic, and the hero may hope to confront their counterparts.

  —Ralph Waldo Emerson

  August 1888

  I had been in London for a little over three weeks when I discovered that starving to death for art was not the romantic ideal I had once thought it would be. I had come from Cornwall (land of pirates, shipwrecks, and smugglers) with the foolish notion to become a man of letters. Why I had ever thought to do so, I will never understand. Somehow, the youngest child of a modest fisherman had been bewitched by books. Not easy things to find in a remote village, the books had been my most prized companions and, through careful rereading and studying, I believed that to become a real man of literature one had to go to London. Never mind that my own education had been sparse and primarily on my own. Forget that I had no formal college degrees or letters of recommendation or even that I did not know a single person in London. I was young and the vast golden city was calling me. So I went to London.

  My parents had been sad to see me go, of course. Well, my mother was sad. My father seemed uninterested in anything I did, having long ago determined that I was a failure as a fisherman—which, to him, was the only honourable occupation for a moral man. Having failed to impress upon me in words and blows the joys of a fishing life, he had given up on me some time before. Small enough pain to him when I left, I suppose, for he still had my two brothers to carry on his work and man his ship. They, in turn, neve
r wanted anything more than the open sea and a full boat. I, if the truth be told, have never cared much for fish. And after all, what need did a cultured man of letters have for the world of fish? Did a literary man need to know the best waters to catch fish? Did he need to know the movement of the tides or the paths of the schools? But within a month of life in London, I would have dearly welcomed a full fish dinner.

  My first weeks in London were filled with a kind of rapturous joy as I explored the vast city. I had taken a room in a small boarding house in one of the less shabby neighbourhoods; but when I say ‘room,’ I am being very kind. It was a cell with a window. Stuck on the third floor of a small house, it had been my landlord’s intention to squeeze every last ha’penny out of his property by converting even the attic space into a rentable room. During the heat of summer, it could be stifling. I could only imagine what it would be like come winter. But I did not have too long to wait, for the summer of 1888 was one of the coldest on record and many have remarked upon the strange weather during that year. The air was unseasonably cool and filled with even more soot and dirt than was customary. More than one person commented that the “end of the world was coming,” but it was not difficult to find doomsayers in London.

  For two months I had attempted to find myself a position in literature but had found all doors closed to me. Looking back, I can hardly believe the foolhardiness and naïveté of my youth. I had simply believed that all I needed to do was arrive in London and the city gates would swing open and my path would shine before me like a beacon. I found no open gates nor any sign of a path. I went to publishers but discovered that they had no need for a self-educated editor. Newspapers were tight places where someone in my position, knowing no one and being known by no one, could never crack open. I went to the public houses where literary people were known to meet, hoping to engage one in conversation and possibly gain an ally in my search, but my speech betrayed me. Heavy with my accent, I could not be mistaken for the cultured, well-educated men who eyed me suspiciously, as if I had accosted them in the street demanding money.