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CORONER’S REPORT - MAY 22, 1895
The body of a young woman – identified by victim’s father as being Rachel Bunton, aged twenty-two – was fished out of the River Thames at Limehouse Pier by a group of river scavengers who promptly alerted the police.
The autopsy report reveals the following:
- Bruises on neck and throat suggest cause of death: strangulation.
-Ears on both sides crudely cut off using a sharp instrument. Lack of bleeding indicates mutilation happened after death.
- Degree of rigor mortis suggests body died 6 to 12 hours before being found.
***
STATEMENT TAKEN FROM Mr Melvin Doucet, May 22, 1895
My father was raised in a very religious household. His parents were members of the Plymouth Brethren and the bible ruled their lives. They were a wealthy family. My grandfather was a banker, but they led a sober lifestyle. Earthly riches meant nothing to them. The afterlife was at the heart of everything my grandfather did, and he’d spent all of his free time travelling up and down the country, reminding people that there was a life after this one, one in which the consequences of their earthly actions would be meted out.
During his evangelizing tours, in which he was usually accompanied by my father, my grandfather would use a technique in which he would approach a random person engaged in some task and ask them what they were doing. After every answer, my father would reply with “And then?”
For example, the victim would say something like, “I’m walking into town to sell my turnips in the market.”
And my grandfather would ask: “And then?”
“And then? Well, then I’ll have some money.”
“And then?”
“Well, then I can buy myself a new horse.”
“And then?”
“And then I can plough that new field and sell twice as many turnips.”
“And then?”
“And then I’ll be rich. I’ll buy myself a large town house and have servants and butlers.”
“And then?”
“And then I’ll be mayor.”
“And then?”
“And then? Well, by that time, I suppose, I shall be ready to die.”
And that’s when my grandfather would move in closer, and in a low, solemn voice, ask once more: “And then?”
‘And then?’ became his motto. Nothing mattered in life but what would happen after it. This is what my father grew up with. This unhealthy preoccupation with a mystical, magical world, which was out of reach to the mortal man.
My father went on to study divinities in Cambridge and there, through a fellow student who was Jewish, he learned about Kabbalah. He became obsessed with the idea that there was a shortcut to the afterlife. That by deciphering clues which lay hidden in the sacred texts, he could have a direct link to God and catch a glimpse of heaven. This obsession never left him. In fact, it grew.
After university, he went to work at our family bank. Shortly after marrying – and before I was born – he was shipped off to India to open a branch there, while my mother remained in London. And that’s where he went off the rails. He got in with a crowd of spiritualists. He gave up his job at the bank and disappeared. My mother never heard from him again, although she did receive reports of sightings of him in Kashmir and Burma and even in Tibet. He’d become some kind of guru, ingratiating himself with bored and lonely expatriate wives, teaching them spiritual nonsense and receiving money in return.
My father became a figure of ridicule amongst the British community. The mad Englishman who’d gone native. My mother denied that the white man seen roaming the Indian subcontinent wearing a dhoti and turban was her husband. In fact, she had him declared dead and reverted to using her maiden name. Doucet is her name. My grandfather supported her in this. He cut my father out of his will and made me the sole heir.
My grandfather died in 1883 and my mother died in 1888. Two years later, my father suddenly re-appeared. I knew it was my father. His resemblance to me was too great for me to have any doubts. The eyes, the eyebrows, the long slim nose. And I recognised him from the old photograph I have of him. He’d come back from India destitute and had nowhere else to go. I don’t know exactly why he came back, but I suspect that he was forced to flee. I can only assume that the English gentlemen in India got tired of him meddling with their wives, manipulating them with his hocus-pocus and milking them for money.
My father was bad news. I knew that when he appeared on my doorstep. But he was still my father. You must understand, I grew up without him. I never got to know him, and I couldn’t bring myself to turn him away. So, I took him in.
My father claimed to have done a lot of studying in India. He’d apprenticed with sadhus and Buddhist monks and Muslim Sufis, and combining what he had learned with what he already knew about Jewish Kabbalah and Christian mysticism, he had come up with his own philosophy. He tried explaining it to me, but I didn’t want to know. I’m not a particularly religious man, but I have a lot of respect for my grandfather, who believed devoutly in sola scriptura – that the bible is the sole infallible source of faith and practice. It would’ve been blasphemous to him to practice aspects of another religion. But I felt pity for my father, and I wanted to help him get back on his own two feet. I also thought that he had a right to part of my grandfather’s inheritance. So, I helped him fund a new society, one in which he could spread his wisdom.
I should’ve known that he was up to no good when he told me that he named his society the Sons of Cain and Daughters of Lilith. Cain –history’s first murderer, and Lilith – the mother of all demons. But my father convinced me that Cain and Lilith had been misunderstood in the scriptures. My father can be very persuasive. He is a very charismatic man; it is no wonder he was able to manipulate so many women in India. He showed me a poem he wrote about Cain. About Cain’s devotion to God and how he had sacrificed his own brother for him. My father had a way of making you see things in a different light. So, I continued to fund his project.
It wasn’t until word started trickling down to me of exactly what he was up to at that society that I changed my mind. You see, I learned, through the rumour mill, that he was practicing magic. Dark magic.
I am a respectable man. I run a bank. I hold a position of trust and decency in society. I could not be associated with a man like that. So, I asked him to stop. He said he wouldn’t. I told him that in that case, I would stop giving him money. But then I learned that he had by now amassed his own fortune from donations given to him by the gullible fools he’d managed to manipulate. So, I kicked him out.
I don’t know where he went to. Last I heard, he’d gone to France. But a few months ago, I learned that he’d come back, and what’s more, he was meddling with members of my own staff.
My housekeeper confessed to me that my father had been visiting the house while I was at work. She knew that I did not want him in my house, but she felt sorry for him. As I told you, my father is a great manipulator, and he put on a great act for her. He told her he was hungry and cold. He has this great ability to look wretched and pathetic. So, she allowed him to come in through the back entrance and have lunch in the kitchen with her and the rest of the staff. During lunch, he would chat to the servants. Tell them fanciful stories about his travels through India and perform magic tricks for them. Naturally, they were impressed. One maid in particular.
Rachel Bunton was a sweet, charming girl. She came in every day to help clean the house. My housekeeper convinced me that the house was too big for the other maid to keep clean on her own, and that she knew a girl from a good family which had hit on hard times. So, I employed her.
Rachel was young, naive and impressionable, and my father was quick to home in on her and try to convert her to his new religion. When my housekeeper heard that my father was practicing dark magic, she became concerned, and she confessed to me all that had happened. She made it known to me that she suspected Rachel of visiting him after her shift. We asked Rachel about it, of course, and she denied everything, but neither my housekeeper nor I were convinced.
So, I hired a detective to follow her. I’d heard of John Billings – I can’t remember how. He was said to be discreet and had his office in Spitalfields, which was far enough removed from anyone I knew. I’m expecting to receive his reports any time soon. I suggest you speak to him immediately. He was following her. He is bound to know more.
***
BILLINGS CLOSED THE file and looked up at Clarkson, who sat opposite him at the dining table.
“Did you speak to Miss Bunton’s parents?”
Clarkson nodded. “Yes. They were distraught, of course. They had no idea something had happened to her. Apparently, it was not unusual for her not to come home. She’d often stay at her cousin’s.”
“Mrs Moorhouse?”
“Yes. Particularly if her cousin was feeling unwell.”
“And did you speak to Mrs Moorhouse?”
“Of course. All the reports are in the file, Billings. Mrs Moorhouse claims that she was not feeling unwell and that Miss Bunton had left her house at the usual time.”
“What did she look like, Mrs Moorhouse?”
Clarkson shrugged. “I don’t know. Ordinary. A respectable middle-aged lady.”
“She seems to be better off than the rest of the family.”
“She married well. Her husband was a railway engineer. Died twenty years ago. She has a good pension.”
Billings raised his eyebrows. “He died twenty years ago and she’s still wearing a mourning dress?”
Clarkson looked confused. “She wasn’t wearing a mourning dress when I spoke to her. She wore a purple skirt and a white blouse.”
“When Trotter followed Miss Bunton, he reported seeing a woman in a black dress open the door. He said it looked like a mourning dress. Does she live alone?”
“Yes. Alone with her dog, Gigi. Pesky little ankle-biter!”
“Perhaps it was a maid, then.”
“She has no maid.”
“No maid?”
“A charwoman cleans her house twice a week. She has no need for a maid, she says.”
“Well, then who was the woman that Trotter saw opening the door?”
Clarkson shrugged. “A neighbour, perhaps. Anyway, it don’t matter. Mrs Moorhouse is not important.”
“Of course she’s important. Mrs Moorhouse is the last person known to have seen Miss Bunton alive.”
“Actually...” Clarkson shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Flynt thinks you’re the last person to have seen Miss Bunton alive.”
“Flynt?”
“My boss. You remember Flynt, don’t you?”
Billings frowned. “How can I forget him,” he mumbled.
“He’s not satisfied with the explanation you gave about your whereabouts on that night.”
“I told you. I was in Lambeth, attending a meeting of the Sons of Cain.”
“I know. But you cannot provide any witnesses.”
“Because the others were all wearing masks. So, Flynt thinks I killed her?”
Clarkson frowned. “No, nobody’s saying that. He’s just not happy with your explanation.”
“What reason have I got to kill Miss Bunton?”
“None. Except...” Clarkson stopped.
“Except what?”
“Well... according to Doucet, you were supposed to be shadowing her. And you did attend meetings of the Sons of Cain. And there’s a precedent.”
“A precedent?”
“Well, that is what Flynt says.”
“What kind of precedent?”
“Well, that business last year with the Hirsch brothers. When the man we’d been looking for all that time turned out to be your... um...”
Billings frowned. “So, what’s our next move?”
“Well, you really need to come up with a better alibi, old chap. Is there no way you can trace the other attendees?”
“How?”
“I don’t know.”
***
BILLINGS STOOD IN THE narrow brick lane in Lambeth, staring at the abandoned mill where the meeting had taken place. He remembered the trepidation he’d felt when he wandered these dark alleys with a pocket full of cash. The place didn’t feel so threatening in broad daylight. The mill looked ordinary and nondescript. Just a large empty space, surrounded by orange brick walls, with swallow nests under the eaves and puddles on the floor. Was this really that enchanting and wondrous place where Ibis spoke about Elizabethan wizards and a magical angel language?
He’d asked some workers about the mill. They all told him the same thing. The building had been abandoned for as long as they remembered. Nobody knew what it was used for. Nobody had ever seen anybody go into it.
Billings frowned. How the devil was he going to find an alibi! He knew nothing about the other people who’d been present. Except... He did know that Mrs Cat was born in Bath. And that she was thirty-nine years old. And that her husband was called Reginald. It wasn’t much, but it was something.
Billings took a deep breath and shuffled forlornly to Chelsea town hall, where a long and tedious job awaited him: looking through the birth register for girls born in Bath in 1856 and then checking if any of them had married a man named Reginald.
It took Billings and Trotter nearly a whole week to get a result. A whole week of paging through large leather-bound registers, peering at smudged, ink-stained names and dates, copying them down in their notebooks and cross checking them with the marriage records. But it was worth it, for they came up with a very surprising result.
Mabel Anne Treves was born in Bath on the 19th of May 1856. And in 1873, she married Mr Reginald Moorhouse, a railway engineer who died in India two years later.