Hampstead London – November 7th 1890
They found her body on the pavement, at the foot of Rosslyn Hill. She had been dead for just half an hour. The head had been almost severed from the body, and there were several deep holes at the back of the skull, which showed the ferocity with which she had been attacked. The woman was dressed tidily, though one of her shoes was missing. The police say she had the appearance of a domestic servant. There was no doubt that her death was caused by the blows to the skull. She was the third woman in three weeks to be murdered in the area.
‘There’s been another murder out there.’ Said Phoebe, closing the wooden hatch behind her. She was breathing heavily. Gus hurried across the stone floor and sat in front of her. ‘How many more will there be before they catch him? You are not to go out Phoebe, not even to the dustbins. It’s too dangerous.’
‘For god’s sake Gus we have to eat, otherwise we will all die down here. I have to wake the little ones; they need food and what do we have?…..’
‘But he’s got plenty of food upstairs.’ Gus called after her. ‘If only we could live like we did in the old days. When he shared all the food…’
He gazed at the cobwebs as they swayed gently from the rafters. The walls oozed with moisture, and the stench of lime scale and rotting wood pervaded the air. He stared down at the small scraps of stale bread on the table. Life, he thought, was an endless search for food. If only we could get rid of him upstairs. He quickly checked nobody was looking, then snatched a chunk of bread from the table and almost swallowed it whole.
Mr Barbauld had lived upstairs for two years. He much preferred it to his old house in Whitechapel. He had a slim figure, and a wide chiselled face, with a crease in either cheek. His voice was his most treasured possession. Every morning, just after 9am, he would sit at the grand piano, and begin to play. There was no doubt that Mr Barbauld was a beautiful singer. His voice would soar, and his tenor would touch your heart as gently as his fingers graced the keys. Quite often, if the windows were open, a small crowd would gather on the street below. Occasionally, when he had ceased playing, he would stand at the window and wave to the crowd. Mr Barbauld was already a famous figure; and soon to make a gramophone recording. Mr Barbauld was a celebrity, and was determined to leave an indelible mark on the world.
In the cellar, Phoebe reached down into the straw bed and gently shook it. Jaq opened his eyes and smiled at his mother. ‘I can hear Mr Barbauld singing Mummy.’ ‘Yes’ sighed Phoebe. ‘The whole world can hear Mr Barbauld singing. Now come and eat your breakfast.’ ‘Mummy, when I grow up, I want to sing like Mr Barbauld.’ Said Octavius, pushing passed his brother. ‘I want to be famous and own a big house so we can live upstairs.’ Phoebe gently stroked his head. ‘The likes of us don’t live upstairs Octavius. We live downstairs as we always have. Our family has lived in this house for generations.’ ‘
But Mummy, it’s so cold down here. Can’t we move upstairs?’
Phoebe felt the need to assuage her offspring: ‘You have to understand child, we are the lucky ones. I have seen those who live down by the river – amongst the filth and disease. We live in a house on Rosslyn Hill, and for that we should be grateful.’ Jaq leapt from his bed and ran to Phoebe, tugging at her leg. ‘Mummy, I saw an angel in my dream last night, and she told me there were too many ladies in heaven who shouldn’t be there.’ Phoebe stared down at her youngest and gently stroked his head. She gazed up at the faint light that was edging through the ceiling. The singing had stopped, and she heard the footsteps recede. She watched the dust motes dance around her head and suddenly felt a chill run through her body as she contemplated the future.
Over breakfast, she told Gus about Jaq’s’ dream. He stared at her, but did not respond, but she knew what he was thinking. She always knew what Gus was thinking. He had become moody and restless of late. Soon, she thought, it would be time to move on before their secret was discovered.
Later that night, an eerie silence descended on the cellar, the moon appeared large and scornful. Gus lay awake listening to the wind as it howled through the bowels of the house and shook the windows. He heard the screams upstairs, and Mr Barbauld’s voice appeared to echo and harmonize with the wind. He heard a woman’s voice cry out – it was sharp and anxious, as if questioning. Then the screaming stopped. A door slammed, and a calm settled on the house, as the wind whipped up a frenzy of dark whispers.
Phoebe lay in a deep sleep as Gus slipped quietly out of bed. He gently closed the door and crept towards the little one’s room. He stood listening for a moment, alert to every sound. At first, he could sense only silence, and the pounding of his own heart. As his eyes began to adjust to the light he saw Jaq, curled up in a ball. Octavious lay on his back, his feet sunk deep under the straw. They were breathing softly in their sleep, as if detached from the impending drama of the night.
Gus closed the bedroom door and began to climb the main staircase. He had not been upstairs for years, not since his mother had died up there, and soon after, Mr. Barbauld had brought the builders in and Gus had chosen to move down into the cellar; before the little ones were born. Gus knew intuitively that he should never go upstairs, yet something told him that tonight he must. He moved cautiously along the cold marble floors. At the end of the main hallway, he crept down the servant’s staircase and made his way to the scullery. The stale cooking smells made him hungry, and quickly led him to the flour sack that lay against the kitchen door. The top had been tied with string. Gus nudged the sack, then expertly bit his way through the knot. He tipped the sack, and it spilled out over the floor – and beneath the potato peelings and the chicken bones, a woman’s shoe suddenly became visible.
A clock chimed somewhere in the night and he heard footsteps on the stairs.
He grabbed the shoe and ran into the pantry, squeezing himself under a shelf. He lay there trembling, his nose pushed up against the wall. Mr.Barbauld entered the room breathing heavily. He lit the gas lamp and surveyed the mess on the floor. He bent down and scraped the debris into the flour sack and stood staring at it pensively. He opened the pantry door and stood motionless. Gus caught the scent of his rancid breath as he watched Barbauld reach up to retrieve the butcher’s knife from the top shelf. The door closed, and Gus lay listening as the footsteps slowly faded. He felt himself exhale softly in the dark, not realizing that he had been holding his breath. He waited until his breathing had settled, before pushing open the pantry door. He made his way swiftly back to the cellar; and out through the wooden hatch. Dawn was breaking as he tiptoed up the front steps of the house and gently dropped the shoe on the doorstep.
Shrouded in mist, the bay trees stood like solemn sentries either side of the door.
*******
Phoebe awoke to the sound of the wooden hatch opening. She jumped out of bed and ran to the kitchen. Gus was at the table, his head in his hands, his face pale and thin. He raised his head as he spoke. ‘I think it’s time we moved on. This house is no longer safe.’ He saw her eyes flash and then just as quickly dissolve into a distant and unreachable pain. ‘But I don’t understand Gus. We have the little ones to think of – and where would we go? To the river, with all the others? That’s no place for us.’
‘There is a murderer at large Phoebe. We are no longer safe here – particularly while Barbauld remains upstairs.’ Phoebe lifted her eyes to meet his. They had wildness in them. ‘What does Mr. Barbauld have to do with the murders? He is a man devoted to nothing but his music. I will not hear a word said against him. Look at yourself Gus; you are losing your mind.’ Gus stared down at the table as he spoke.
‘Last night I went upstairs…’
Phoebe’s eyes widened. ‘Upstairs? But why Gus, what on earth were you thinking? And what if he had caught you? Gus snapped back at her. ‘Perhaps he would have killed me – who knows? And you…..you talk of him as if he were some sort of God. You are blinded by his fame.’ Jaq suddenly appeared by the kitchen door looking down at his feet. He spoke slowly. ‘Who is going to kill you, Daddy?’ Phoebe ran to him and wrapped her arms around him. ‘Don’t you listen to him Jaq. Come with me, I have some meat for your breakfast.’
Gus stood up abruptly. ‘And where did you get meat woman?’
Phoebe stared at him, her sadness mingling with fear and fury. ‘The little ones need the meat – they have to grow, Gus.’
Gus stood, throwing back his chair, ‘We can’t have meat down here woman; they will smell it upstairs. Are you mad? Get rid of it.’
*******
Police Inspector Edmund Reid stopped outside the house, for no reason other than he could no longer see his way in the dense fog. To his colleagues, Reid was considered an avuncular man yet his pointy canines jutted out slightly, giving him the look of something feral. Two years ago, at the height of the Whitechapel murders, press criticism of the police had been mounting, and Edmund Reid was perceived as the one man whose immense knowledge of London may help shed some light on these gruesome murders. The Inspector rubbed his hands together and stamped his feet. It was the coldest winter he could remember. The fog was getting thicker by the minute, hanging damp and muddy so he could barely see the gas lamps in the street. At that precise moment, something caught his eye on the steps of the house. He bent down and picked up the woman’s shoe, massaging the cold leather between his fingers. It was then he noticed the buckle
. Immediately, he raced down into the street, and blew three times on his whistle.
Four police officers, led by Reid, entered the house on Rosslyn Hill at 8.20am. They began by searching the upstairs rooms while Mr. Barbauld remained in the kitchen. An hour later, three of the police officers went to fetch pick axes. They stood in line, above the cellar floor, where the dreadful smell appeared to emanate. The moment the pick axes fell, the damp wooden ceiling exploded down onto the cellar floor in a hail of wood and dust. Gus instantly scampered towards the little wooden hatch that led to the sewer. He turned, and gazed up through the gaping hole in the ceiling to see the row of faces staring down at him. As the dust began to clear, Inspector Reid peered down into the cellar. ‘Bloody hell’ he bellowed. ‘Look at the size of those rats. There’s a plague of them down there.’ Phoebe ran to the little ones. She stood between them, part warrior, part shield. She ushered them towards the hatch. ‘Be quick dears – and run towards the river!’ Gus hesitated at the entrance to the sewer and turned to look back at the house. He barked at Phoebe ‘I told you not to bring meat into the house, this is all your doing.’ Phoebe turned, and snarled with her mouth open, baring her yellow teeth at him, before scurrying down the sewer towards an uncertain future.
The following morning, at 9am, Mr. Barbauld sat at his piano. The fog had cleared, and for the first time in weeks a late burst of winter sun cast watery shadows across the room. He smiled to himself as he began to sing, unaware of the overly large rat that slowly edged its way across the marble floor towards him.
******
tonycowell 
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