The Safest Man in London

“The Southwark Slasher struck again last night,” whispered Jasper Thomas. “A prostitute. Drained every drop of blood from her body.”

“I can’t imagine why he’s called the Slasher,” sniffed Arnold Penny.

“Why do you say that?”

“Well, there’s no blood for one thing. And, apart from a single cut across the throat the body is untouched.”

Jasper sniggered.

“Well, the papers can hardly call him the Southwark Drainer, now, can they? It just doesn’t have the same ring to it.”

Benjamin Good looked up from his ledger and frowned.

“Quiet!” he hissed. “If you two don’t stop cackling like hens, old Cruikshank will have everyone working late again.”

The three clerks looked over to where Mr Cruikshank, the chief accountant, sat perched on his stool. A Christmas Carol had been published the previous year and Jasper had remarked on the similarity between the old miser Scrooge and Cruikshank. “I’ll bet you a pint Mr Dickens has met the old so and so someplace. How else could he have described him so well?” But Benjamin preferred to think of the old man as a large shabby black crow, meticulously scrutinizing the rows of figures in his ledger like a carrion bird picking through the remains of some dead animal.

“All right, Benjamin,” said Jasper. “We all know you want a promotion, but don’t tell me you’ve not been thinking about this killer just as much as us. Twelve bodies in the last three months and the bloody Bobbies are none the wiser.”

“You would be wiser keeping your head down and getting on with work,” said Benjamin.

“What say we all discuss this over a pot or two at the Crown and Anchor after work?” said Arnold sensing an argument brewing. They did not need the attention of old Cruikshank.

Jasper winked. “I’ll not say no to a good ale. What say you, Good? Will you join us, or are you one of those who prefers to keep his own company?”

A sharp retort about Jasper’s fondness for drink hovered on the tip of Benjamin’s tongue but he decided against it. Jasper had a friend working the Slasher case and Benjamin desperately needed to understand what the authorities knew. This was not because he was morbidly curious but because he hid a terrible secret. He shared a bed with the Southwark Slasher.

“On the contrary, Mr Thomas,” he said. “I enjoy conversation as much as the next man and shall be joining you.”

Sub-letting his small room to make extra money on the side had occurred to Benjamin three months before. He was annoyed at himself for not having thought of it sooner. To his mind, paying for a room which stood vacant and unused during the day seemed absurd, especially considering how much he paid in rent. Despite the landlord not allowing the practice he’d advertised anyway. The next evening he’d heard a knock at his door. He’d opened it to reveal a large, hooded figure. The silent figure had handed him a letter indicating it should be read immediately. This he had done. The letter was from a Reverend Blackwell from the parish of Eastbourne in Kent. The man standing before him, the letter explained, was Sydney Stroud, a member of his parish. The letter went on to say Stroud had suffered severe burns in a fire a year prior. Owing to his terrible disfigurement he could no longer speak, nor could he afford to expose his skin to daylight. Accordingly, if the room was available, Mr Stroud would require its exclusive use from a half hour before sunrise to a half hour after sunset. Mr Stroud was willing to offer an extra two shillings a week for the inconvenience this might present. Thinking back Benjamin wondered why he accepted the terms. Greed, no doubt played no small part, but if he were honest with himself, it was that the extra money allowed him the opportunity to be extravagant in front of his colleagues.

The Southwark Slasher had commenced his reign of terror a week later. The connection to his new tenant had not been obvious at first, not even after Jasper started discussing the more gruesome details his police friend revealed to him. But then Benjamin remembered a story published some years previously in the New Monthly Magazine. It was the tale of Lord Ruthven, a vampire who preyed upon young women, drinking their blood to extend his life. Granted, Stroud was nothing like the character of Ruthven, but Benjamin could not help considering the possibility. And then there was the smell. Faint at first, it had become stronger by the week. It seemed to pervade the room, but was strongest in the bed linen. It reminded him of death.

Cruikshank finally allowed the clerks to leave around six that evening. Half an hour later the trio were imbibing a pint at the Crown and Anchor. The talk meandered amiably between the politics of the day, family matters and old Cruikshanks. It was another hour before Benjamin felt Jasper sufficiently lubricated to steer the conversation to the case of the Slasher. He cleared his throat.

“Mr Thomas,” he said. “Earlier today, you mentioned the Slasher’s latest attack. Does your police source have more to tell than what is in the papers?”

“Perhaps, but I’m afraid I cannot say much. It was told to me in the strictest confidence.”

 Arnold chuckled. “In other words, he doesn’t know anymore than what is in the newspapers!”

“On the contrary, there are a number of details not described in the papers.”

“Such as?”

“You know I cannot say.”

“Oh, go on. You can tell us. We’ll not repeat a word, isn’t that so, Mr Good?”

Benjamin nodded.

“I shouldn’t really,” said Jasper.

“Not even one detail?”

Jasper looked about furtively then leant forward.

“The cut across the neck of each victim was not made by a blade,” he said.

“Not by a blade?” said Benjamin. “How could they conclude that?”

“Well, a cut from a sharp blade would leave a neat edge, I’d expect,” said Arnold.

“Correct,” said Jasper. “In each case the wounds have been ragged, similar to the claw of some large animal.”

Arnold snorted. “Oh, come now, Jasper, that’s absurd. Surely the police don’t believe some giant beast is creeping about London hunting people?”

“I cannot say. But my source said there were also puncture wounds on the neck of each corpse, as though the fiend were latching onto their victim.”

“Like a vampire,” said Benjamin.

“A what?”

“I think Mr Good is referring to a creature who feeds on human blood,” said Arnold. “You know, like in the story by that chap, Polidoris.”

“You mean the one in the New Monthly?”

“The very same.”

“I thought Byron had written that.”

“Does it matter?” said Benjamin. “You cannot deny these murders appear similar to what happened to the victims in that story.”

“Oh, come now!” said Jasper. “How can that fantastical story be based on fact?”

“If I may quote Mr Shakespeare,” said Arnold. “There are more things in the heaven and earth, than are dreamt of in our philosophy.”

“Quote all you like, Mr Penny, but I cannot believe a vampire is stalking London.”

“On the contrary, my dear man. The story by Polidoris is based on fact.”

“Oh, go on!”

“Five years ago, I travelled to the continent. Greece mostly but I also visited Varna, a harbor city on the Black Sea. It was there that I...”

“Was this when you were an assistant to Lord Chalmers?”

Arnold nodded. He took a swig of his ale before continuing.

“His lordship fancied himself an antiquarian. He’d been told about a set of ancient Persian manuscripts and had decided to purchase them.”

“Hence the trip to Varna?”

“Correct. There we met with a Mr Dascalu, a dealer in ancient artifacts. Turned out to be quite a character I can tell you. He attempted to sell Lord Chalmers a 15^th century dagger said to belong to an infamous Wallachian prince named Vlad Dracula. Besides impaling his enemies, he also drank their blood. According to Dascalu, the dagger was the very same the prince had used to slit the throats of the young Ottoman virgins he chose as his victims. Drinking their blood, it was believed, would make him immortal.”

“And did it?”

“He was murdered by a rival. But Dascalu maintained the prince had returned from the dead and was alive somewhere deep in the Carpathian Mountains. The prince, he informed us, was not human but descended from an ancient race called vampires.”

“And I suppose vampires feed on the blood of humans, just like in Polidoris’ story.”

“Polidoris must have heard similar stories on his travels to the continent,” said Jasper.

“Did Lord Chalmers end up purchasing the dagger?”

“He was not interested, especially after finding out he’d been misinformed about the manuscripts.”

“Misinformed?”

“Yes, these turned out to be 16^th century copies of an older text. He suspected that the manuscripts were forgeries.”

“And the dagger, was it also a forgery?”

“That we’ll never know. He was so angry he stormed out of the place. We ended up returning to Athens with nothing.”

Jasper laughed then lifted his tankard and drank deep. and replaced his tankard on the table. “Does this mean you actually believe Benjamin’s vampire theory then?”

“I did not say it was a vampire,” said Benjamin. “I merely noted the similarity to the story.”

“Besides bodies drained of blood, Polidoris doesn’t give much of a description in his story,” said Arnold. “So, one cannot say for certain what the police are dealing with.”

The men sat staring at their tankards in silent contemplation.

“I wonder if vampires are afraid of the daylight?” said Benjamin.

“What on earth made you think that?” asked Arnold.

“Nothing really. It was just a thought, is all.”

“Methinks Good is in possession of knowledge the rest of us are not!” said Jasper winking slyly. “Why is that I wonder?”

“I most certainly am not! I was merely wondering out loud.”

Benjamin turned to Arnold.

“That Dascalu chap, did he ever say anything else about the vampire legend?”

“Actually, an aversion to the daylight is a mark of a vampire. According to Dascalu anyway. How did you come to think of it?”

“I’m not sure really. With our talk about vampires and the murders having occurred at night, there just seemed to be a logical connection.”

“Perhaps Benjamin should write to Mr Peel and tell him of his theory,” said Jasper. “Better still, volunteer his services as an expert. A detective, I believe it is called. Yes, that’s it. Mr Good, the expert detective.”

“There are times, Mr Thomas, when I cannot fathom whether you jest or not,” said Benjamin.

“Perhaps not an expert detective then,” said Jasper dryly.

“Gentleman, the hour is late,” said Arnold. “I think it is time we were off.”

“What? So soon, Arnold?” said Jasper. “And just when our conversation was getting interesting.”

“Considering we have a murderer prowling the streets, I think it wise. May I also suggest we walk together? At least part of the way.”

Benjamin wanted to say he would rather walk alone but decided against it. It wasn’t that he was afraid. On the contrary, he felt quite safe. He shared a room with a vampire. It would not, he reasoned to himself, be in the creature’s interests to murder the very person offering it secure lodgings. This probably made him the safest man in London. He only agreed to Arnold’s suggestion to allay any suspicion his work colleagues might have that he could be connected to the killer. There should have been no reason to think this, but then rationality and guilt make poor companions within the human conscience.

The trio set off together through the dark London streets. It did not take long for the comfortably intoxicated Jasper to annoy Benjamin and despite Arnold’s protestations he took his leave and headed down a side street which he claimed was a short cut to his lodgings.

The wan light of the gas streetlamps cast an eerie glow against the thick fog hanging in the dank night air. Benjamin strode along purposefully, passing strangers which seemed to emerge from the oppressive gloom then disappear as suddenly. Soon he found himself alone, the old brick buildings of the warehouse district looming high along each side of the narrow street. His footsteps rang dully on the cobblestones as he walked, emphasizing the unsettling quiet. He sensed rather than saw movement to his left. He stopped and looked about quickly. Had he imagined it? He cocked his head and listened intently. There! The scrape of a boot. Or was it? He stood awhile. Nothing. Benjamin looked about again. The row of black windows in the building opposite him stared back mutely. He shook his head irritably.

Pull yourself together, man! You have nothing to fear. You are the safest man in London.

He set off again but now every shadow appeared ominous, filling him with dread. There! That noise again. He stopped. Nothing. He began walking again. The end of the street appeared in the distance, promising sanctuary. He increased the length of his strides. A large man stepped out from the shadows, a long blade glinting wickedly in his right hand.

“Not very often we get a fine gentleman such as yourself in these parts,” growled the brute.

“Now look here, I want no trouble,” said Benjamin raising his hands.

“And there won’t be any trouble, as long as you hand over your valuables!”

The brute gave a satisfied grunt as Benjamin reached nervously into his coat pocket. He retrieved his wallet and handed it to the man. It was at this moment the vampire chose to strike, swooping onto the man from above. Benjamin stumbled back in horror as the creature pulled its hapless victim to the ground. He knew he should run but could not summon the will to. The demon drew its scythe-like claw across the man’s throat, choking off his desperate cries as it sliced through his carotid artery. Benjamin watched transfixed as the vampire latched onto the man’s neck and began to feed, drinking deep to the last drop. When it was done it looked up at him and smiled, it’s mouth and fangs red with blood. Its black eyes bored into his soul. It raised a gnarled, deathly pale hand to point at him and hissed in some ancient tongue. Then it spread its giant leathery wings and took off into the black night. Benjamin turned and ran then. He did not stop though his legs ached, and his lungs burned with fire. He did not stop until he reached the safety of his little room.

At first, he wanted to report what he’d seen to the authorities. But considering the possible repercussions he might face as the man providing lodgings to a killer, he decided against it. Besides, who would be mad enough to believe his fantastic tale? This is not to say he was not wracked with guilt. Quite the contrary, and if Arnold or Jasper noticed his quiet anguish over the next few weeks, they made no mention of it. But the prism of time has a way of distorting the past and it was not long before Benjamin decided fate had placed him in a rather fortunate position. While the creature stalked London and terrorized its citizens he could go about his business without concern. He truly was the safest man in London.

The weeks turned to months and the killings continued. Supposed experts were called in to investigate. Foot patrols were redoubled. There was even talk of engaging the army. All to no avail. Soon few people chose to venture out at night, especially on those moonless nights when fog hung thick in the streets. But the night held no fear for Benjamin. He walked the city’s deserted streets without concern. He’d even begun to consider other possible benefits of knowing the demon. Perhaps a note left on the bed requesting the removal of the irksome Jasper? Or maybe old Cruikshank? He might even be up for promotion should the old curmudgeon disappear. Yes, the possibilities appeared limitless for the safest man in London.

It was a particularly dark and foggy night when the vampire took Benjamin. There was a bemused look on his face as he felt his life-blood drain from his body. It was as though he still couldn’t quite figure why the vampire would do such a thing.

A half hour before sunrise Sydney Stroud entered the room he shared with Benjamin Good. He closed the door behind him and let out a weary sigh. His job as night-watchman at the city abattoir was arduous, especially on those occasions the men worked late. He found the terrified squealing of the pigs being slaughtered especially distressing. He removed his long black hooded cloak and caught a glimpse of his disfigured face in the mirror and turned away. The memory of that night was still too much for him to bear. His family was gone, burned to death in the fire which destroyed their home, and his negligence the cause of it all. If only he could go back and undo the past. If only, but he could not, his terrible scars a constant reminder of that bitter fact. None in the village had pitied him but for the good Reverend Blackwell. He had seen to his recovery and arranged for his relocation. At times Sydney felt his life too much to bear but then he thought of Blackwell’s charity and his spirits lifted. Selfless men did exist in this world.

He turned and looked about the room. ‘Strange,” he thought. ‘The bed’s not been slept in. Mr Good made no mention of going away. I wonder where he spent the night?’

END