Whitechapel Read online

  Which, very shortly, I would have to do, for my reserves of cash were dwindling at an alarming rate. I had not counted on the cost of life in London, and the meagre amount I had been able to save (added to the small amount my mother gave me before I left) was not enough to sustain me for much longer. I had, of course, assumed that I would find a position immediately and that it would naturally pay me handsomely and allow me to move quickly into society. My writings would be widely published and I would become the darling of the literary set. I, a poor fisherman’s son, was either well and truly mad or simply the stupidest man ever to walk the earth. At times, I felt I was both. Desperate, I tried to apply for the position of a tutor, only to find that it was unthinkable for any family of means to employ a tutor without an advanced degree from Oxford or Cambridge. Any positions below that were already taken by governesses, and moreover I lacked the proper qualifications.

  At night I scribbled in my room; working feverishly on stories and articles that I tried to sell to magazines or newspapers. In the light of my single tallow candle, I filled as many pages of foolscap as I could find, but all my efforts were refused by editors. My grand quest into London had descended into a mad, never-ending nightmare. I had no friends to speak of. No one knew me and no one would care if I was found dead one morning. The only person I really knew was my landlord, and he was an ugly man whose only interest in me was that I should pay my rent on time.

  By the middle of July, my money was nearly gone and I began to feel sharp hunger pains. I reduced my diet as much as possible. Living on plumduff and biscuit as much as I could, I had virtually forgotten what meat tasted like. I cut my tobacco purchases to the bone, and this was even more of a sacrifice than the food, as nothing was as fulfilling as a good pipe in the evening. The few books and expendable articles of clothing I had were pawned to earn a few extra shillings for another day of survival, but I knew that even this would end quickly. I had to do something soon. I could not find any employment anywhere and, with my dwindling wardrobe, I hardly presented the vision of a cultured, educated man of letters seeking work.

  There was always the possibility of going home, of retreating back to the rolling green hills and the silent, deadly seas of Cornwall; but I knew that I could not do that. My parents had barely enough money to survive themselves, and the addition of a non-seafaring dependent would not be welcomed. While my mother would not mind her youngest son returning home, I knew that it would only create problems between her and my father, who would demand that an able-bodied man get out to sea and make his living or “quit his house.” Much of the same had already been said before.

  No, I could never return home, and yet it seemed that I could not survive London. Better to be gone than to continue suffering this frustration and dire hunger. So, on July 25, 1888, a Wednesday, I put on the best clothes I had left to me (which were not very much to speak of), put my papers in good order on my desk, and quit my home. I had not eaten for several days by this time, and my stomach was sorely pained. I was headed for the Thames, I think, though I was hardly thinking very clearly then. Along the way, I had gathered some heavy stones but could not remember actually picking them up. I must have, however, for they were in my coat pockets. At some point, I do not remember when, I lost all direction. In my delirium, I could not even find the Thames.

  I wandered mindlessly through the city and down streets I had never seen before. It did not take long before I lost all sense of direction and had absolutely no idea where I was. The people walking about me looked shabbier somehow, but I didn’t notice them too much. Indeed, I cannot remember any of them at all. As the sun started to set, the streets became darker and darker and I stared with envious hunger at the lighted windows behind which people sat in the warmth and glow of a full larder.

  At some point, I remember staggering along and falling.

  Then it seems that someone kicked me along and I moved quietly down the street, not knowing or caring where I was going. I think I would not have minded if I had been robbed and killed, but apparently even thieves could tell that I had nothing worth their attention. I know I collapsed somewhere.

  Sometime later, I was awakened by someone tugging at my arm. Without thinking I mumbled, “Sorry, I’ll move along.” To my surprise, the hand on my arm was gentle and did not push me away.

  “Hullo,” I heard a voice from some distance away speaking, “who are you? What are you doing lying in the street like this?”

  The voice had a curious, singsong accent to it, one that I had never heard before. It was as if it were speaking some strange, ancient language beneath the English words.

  “I’m sorry,” I replied, still not able to focus clearly. “I didn’t know this was your street.” Somehow I had reached the conclusion that this person owned the street and was annoyed at finding a vagrant stretched out in it.

  “My street? No, no, my friend,” he laughed. “It doesn’t belong to me, but I thought you might want to avoid getting run over by a hansom. This road is fairly busy at this time of night and the drivers are usually not very careful. Here, let me help you to the curb.”

  With that, the arms half carried me over to the side, where I fell back onto the ground.

  “Are you unwell?” he asked. “Should I fetch a doctor?”

  “No! No, I’m not sick, just tired. I’ve been walking all day.”

  “All day? Where do you live?”

  “Tottenham Court Road.”

  “Tottenham Court Road? Good God, man! That’s nearly half the city away! Have you eaten anything?”

  “What? No, nothing today, or yesterday, or the day before that, I think.”

  “Just as I thought. Come along with me then, let’s get some food into you. I know a fine public house not far from here.”

  I did not protest as he dragged me to my feet, nor did I know much about what was happening until I felt myself thrown into a seat and could smell that wonderfully delicious aroma of meat cooking on a nearby fire. Half awake, I heard my host arguing with someone about my attire, but apparently the production of a half-sovereign from my host’s pockets calmed the argument as two full mugs of ale were quickly placed on the table between us, followed by a plate of steaming mutton. I do not think I have ever seen anything so wonderful in my life. I tried to focus my attention on my host but still could not see him clearly.

  “Well, what are you waiting for?” he said in his lilting voice. “Go on, help yourself. No need to stand on formality here.”

  “I—I cannot pay for this,” I stammered, wanting desperately to devour the meat before me but still wary. I had heard tales like this. No one could have grown up in a seafaring country like Cornwall and not hear stories of men kidnapped in the night only to awake in some enforced slavery aboard a foreign-bound ship. I had no idea if such things happened in London, but I did not really wish to learn.

  “Of course you can’t!” the voice replied. “I imagine you would have already bought a meal if you could! Do not worry about that. Here, eat!” he exclaimed and pushed the plate towards me.

  I have never eaten so fast in my life. I barely tasted the food as I swallowed it, followed by large gulps of the ale.

  “Slowly! Slowly!” laughed my host. “You’ll make yourself sicker eating so quickly.”

  After a few minutes, my head began to clear. I looked across the table to the man who had so graciously provided this feast and wondered what payment he might be looking for in kind. He was a jolly-looking fellow. Rather round face with flushed cheeks and thin wisps of light brown hair atop his head. He was clothed nicely, but not pretentiously. So he’s not a toff, I thought. It had crossed my mind that he could have been one of those society rakes who troll the alleys for unfortunates to abuse, but he did not have that air about him. He had an atmosphere of shabby gentility, and his face was so open and honest that I could not believe any ill of him. Indeed, I felt ashamed at my earlier feelings of doubt.

  “My name,” he began, “is Arthur Machen, late
of Caerleon-on-Usk, Wales. And now that I see your reason returning, who might you be?”

  “Besame, Albert Besame,” I replied.

  “Well, Albert, you are obviously no native of London, not with that southwestern accent anyway. Where are you from?”

  “Teignmouth, Cornwall. It’s a little fishing village on the coast. I don’t suppose you have ever heard of it?”

  “Indeed! Indeed I have! Tell me, is it not somewhat close to Tintagel?”

  “Um, yes, I suppose so. Castle Tintagel is not that far. Why?”

  “‘Why?’ he asks! ‘Why?’ You cannot expect me to believe that you, a native of Cornwall and close neighbour to Tintagel, do not know it for the birthplace of our own King Arthur?”

  “Oh, that,” I said flatly. “Yes, there’s that, of course. I never paid too much attention to it myself. It seems that the only good thing to come from the Castle is the money the tourists bring. Not that they ever get in, of course: bloody family has got it locked up tight!”

  “Still, it is something to behold, isn’t it?”

  “I suppose.” I was starting to wonder about him again.

  “Now, tell me, Albert, why was a man, such as yourself, dressed respectfully if not elegantly and obviously possessed of some intelligence, lying in the middle of a street?”

  “I—I . . .” I really had no answer for that. “I had passed out, I suppose.”

  “From hunger?”

  I nodded.

  “Well, here, eat some more then. I’ll get these tankards filled again. The house ale here isn’t strong, but it is tasty!”

  As he walked away to the counter, I ate more of the mutton and looked around me. I was in a public house, of that much I was certain, but I had no idea where in London I was. At least, I assumed it was London. For all I knew, I could have lost several days. Sheepishly, I felt the rocks in my pockets and wondered if I could take them out here. But in the back of my mind I could not escape the thought that, no matter how kind this gentleman was, this meal was merely prolonging my agony and producing an even finer torture. Eventually, I would have to return to my wretched existence with no way to feed myself.

  “Ah, here we are!” Arthur said as he plopped the mugs back down on the table. Somewhere in the back, I could hear someone singing and more voices joining in.

  “So, Albert . . . just what do you think you are doing, hmm?”

  “What?” I answered with my mouth full of mutton.

  “Look at you. You’re obviously in a sorry state. Your clothes are worn, showing that better days are behind you, you haven’t eaten in days, your face is gaunt and pale, and you have rocks in your pockets!”

  “How did you know that?” I muttered.

  “I carried you in here, remember? You seem to be a smart lad, but you’re either in search of a river to drown yourself in or are an ardent collector of city stones! I’m not sure which.”

  I wouldn’t look up.

  “Oh, come now, Albert. It can’t be that bad. Tell me and maybe I can help you. I’ve known something of rough times myself.”

  I couldn’t help myself as I blurted out my whole story: how I had grown up infatuated with books and London, how I had left my quiet village to become a man of letters, how I found the city cold and painful, how my funds had dwindled to nothing and, rather than return to be a burden to my family, I had chosen simply to allow myself to die anonymously among the city hordes.

  Arthur stared at me for some moments. Finally he spoke.

  “You were wrong to give in so completely, if I might say so. Two months is far too short a time in which to find one’s way in this city. London, let me tell you, Albert, does not lie open and undefended; it is a fortified place, fossed and double-moated with curious intricacies. As must always happen in large towns, the conditions of life have become hugely artificial; no simple palisade is run up to oppose the man or woman who would take the place by storm, but serried lines of subtle contrivances, mines, and pitfalls which it needs a strange skill to overcome. You, in your simplicity, fancied you had only to shout for those walls to sink into nothingness, but the time is gone for such startling victories as these. Take courage, you will learn the secret of success before long.”

  Sulking, I stared at the table.

  “I cannot see how. Through your kindness, I have enjoyed a hearty meal and I am very thankful to you for that. But come tomorrow, my life will be unchanged. I will still be without a position, with no money, and no way in which to make my way in this city. I don’t see how I could possibly learn any secret of success at this point.”

  Arthur laughed in that singsong voice of his. “There lies the strangeness of it all! Those who know the secret cannot tell it if they would; it is positively as ineffable as the central doctrine of Freemasonry. But I may say this, that you yourself have penetrated at least the outer husk of the mystery!”

  “How so? How have I penetrated the mystery? Of anything?”

  “Excuse me,” he said in mock seriousness, “you ask what it is you have done? Well, merely the most important thing of all: you have met me! Come, it is late and you are no doubt weary from your long march. (Did you really walk all that way?) No matter. My home is in nearby Great Russell Street. You will be my guest this evening, and in the morning we shall see what we can do about getting you a position. No! No argument, Albert! My wife is a very charitable woman and she would never forgive me if I left you starving in the street or despairing upon a full stomach. Come! We go!”

  I stood up on wobbly legs and followed Arthur out the door. He walked slowly, in deference to my weakened state, but full of purpose and determination. Here was a man like so many whom I had tried so desperately to meet in the public houses and one who seemed, at last, to recognise in me a fellow human being worthy of both his time and concern. I was not totally unconvinced that I would not wake up in the morning in my flat on Tottenham Court Road from this most pleasant of dreams, with my stomach growling and my head aching. But for the moment it was enough to accept the dream for what it was.

  It was but a short walk to Great Russell Street. The windows of number 98 were well lit and welcoming. Arthur produced a key from his waistcoat and unlocked the door.

  Inside the small hallway were the usual items of respectability. There was a solid coatrack, a holder for walking sticks, and a small rug. There was no silver tray for calling cards or a downstairs maid to greet visitors. These were all signs that told me that Arthur and his wife were comfortable but not members of high society. I could have guessed as much, for most society fellows would never have stopped to help a shabby man collapsed in the street.

  A neatly dressed woman in a plain grey dress came down the hallway towards us.

  “Arthur!” she exclaimed. “You’re finally home from your walk. And who have you brought with you tonight?”

  “This, my dear, is Albert Besame. He is a young man who has fallen upon hard times. Pray for him, my dear, for he wishes to become a man of letters. Albert,” he said, turning to me, “this is my lovely wife, Amy.”

  Amy blushed a little and extended her hand, which I, not sure what to do, kissed lightly. She chuckled a bit (no giggling for her! Amy had a strong deep voice and it in no way inspired giggling) and looked to Arthur. “Such charming manners! Arthur, you would do well to learn from him.”

  “Hush, my dear, you’ll get fanciful ideas! I’ve decided that Albert will spend the night with us, as his home is in Tottenham Court Road and he is in no condition to make so long a walk at this hour of night. Would you make up the spare bedroom for him, my dear? In the morning, I believe I will take him to see ‘The Brothers,’ who will no doubt delight in my finding a new victim for them to throw into the black hole!”

  I must have looked terrified at this, for Arthur quickly added, “No, no, Albert, it’s nothing like that. Just my odd sense of humour. You shall see in the morning. Come into the drawing room and share a pipe with me.”

  As Amy went upstairs to prepare my room,
we settled into two comfortable chairs in the drawing room. It was a small room but very comfortable, with the air of actually have been lived in rather than being preserved solely for visitors. As Arthur went to fill his pipe, I had to admit that I did not have one with me. Graciously, he offered me one of his and we both relaxed as we puffed on our pipes. It was an excellent tobacco and one that I would never been able to afford myself. We spoke a little and then, at some point, I fell asleep.

  When I awoke, Arthur was prodding me gently. “Come on, old man. Time for you to get some sleep.”

  I followed him dreamily up the stairs to the guest room where I fell upon the bed, barely remembering to remove my shirt and trousers. Feeling safe and secure for the first time in months, I fell asleep, certain that at last I had begun to tame this wild beast of London and that soon, with Arthur’s help, I would be happy and content. I was entirely wrong, as I would soon painfully realise.

  In this way, nestled safely in the comfort of a new friend, the horror of 1888 had begun.

  Chapter 2

  London is a roost for every bird.

  —Benjamin Disraeli

  I awoke the next morning with no idea where I was. As I looked around the room, the events of the previous night slowly came back to me. I remembered leaving my room with the intention of drowning myself, then collapsing in the street, being found by a kind Samaritan, fed, and brought back to his home. But I could recall little else. The room was nicely furnished with a comfortable dresser and an attractive mirror on the sideboard. There was a jug of water and a basin in front of the mirror, and I stumbled out of bed towards them.