Within an hour of Annie’s visit. Sir John came to see me. I had spent the time between dreaming of what I might do with twenty guineas. Annie was right: it was a fair fortune. With it I could buy Mariah’s freedom still, and … and what? The bitterness I had taken away from our last two meetings had somehow been expunged by that remarkable dream I had had. Would what was left from her deliverance buy our passage to the colonies? I doubted it — though it might indeed see her back to Italy and her people there. Was that what I wanted? Of course not, though I should prefer that to seeing her remain in London with no trade, no proper work at all. Perhaps once she was free of that villain, I could persuade her to enter the Magdalene Home or accept the offer of employment Mr. Bilbo had made to her — yes, I was sure I could. In the latter situation, at least, she would be safe, live an ordered life, and best of all, I could see her often as I liked. My mind dwelt so on these possibilities that I gave no notice when I heard Sir John’s step upon the stairs. Thus I was taken by surprise when he stood at my door in an attitude of uncertainty. He could, of course, not tell whether I waked or slept.
“Come in. Sir John,” said I, “for I am eager to hear all you might have to tell.”
“Ah, Jeremy, good lad. I heard from Kate you were much improved. Took nourishment, you did.”
He stepped inside and stood, hands clasped behind him, beside my bed. For my part, I had rearranged my pillow and now sat up with no ill effect.
“I did eat,” said I, “and glad I was, for I was most famished. I do believe I’ll soon be ready to eat proper food again.”
“Something stronger than broth, eh? Well, that will depend on what Mr. Donnelly has to say. He’ll be by later to have a look at you.”
He paused. I waited. Then did he launch into his account of the Raker’s capture. There were, in all, six of them who arrived at the necropolis down by the river — four constables led by Mr. Perkins, and with them Mr. Donnelly and Sir John himself. They went quietly to the barn, from which a dim light shone. Yet there was little need for quiet, for when they arrived, they found him criminally engaged, oblivious of all but what he was at.
“In flagrante delicto we found him,” thundered Sir John. “So sure of himself was he that once he had knocked you senseless and made his escape through the adjoining court, he had got himself one more victim, and done her in with that same single knife-thrust to the heart. He had practiced it for months on the bodies in his barn. Mr. Perkins put a pistol to the Raker’s head, and the Raker left off what he was doing soon enough.”
(All this, reader, was a bit vague to me.)
Found so, the fellow readily confessed and produced the thin, long-bladed stiletto with which he had done his villainous work. He allowed that there had been more victims than we knew. He had killed about one a month, for the better part of a year. It was only because Teresa O’Reilly’s body was discovered before he could cart it off that his nefarious work came to light.
“I should have suspected him, stupid of me really,” said Sir John, “for twice he was on the scene, unbidden, with his wagon. Yet he was so familiar, so much a part of the process, that I gave him no thought.”
And, remembering, I then interrupted his narrative for the first time: “I recall. Sir John, that I saw his wagon in the alley off Bedford Street where Poll Tarkin was killed — and that just before his attack upon me.”
“And you thought nothing of it?”
“Nothing at all. Only that he had come to collect one who had died of natural causes.”
“Then I am perhaps not the dolt I supposed myself to be.” Holding back but a moment, he then proceeded somewhat thoughtfully: “Something quite disappointing came out today in court. I held coroner’s inquest on last night’s murder and the Raker’s hearing all in one. It may not have been proper procedure, yet that way I had done with it swiftly. In any case, it developed that while that madman quite willingly confessed to three of the murders, he quite hotly denied that he had had anything to do with the deaths of Poll Tarkin and Libby Tribble — that is, those in which the bodies were so brutally defiled. To quote him: ‘I would not treat a woman so’ — as if his method of murder were so much more merciful than that practiced upon those two women. I gave him a proper dressing-down on that point. I said — ” He shrugged. “Well, it matters little what I said. The significant thing is, I had no choice but to believe him. And so, having apprehended one murderer, we must now seek a second.”
“And Mr. Tolliver is still held suspect.”
“For want of any other, yes.”
“Lady Fielding will be sore disappointed.”
“She has already expressed her disappointment. No doubt you are about to do the same.”
“No, sir, you have heard all I have to say on that matter.”
“For that I thank you. There is one other matter affected by this revelation, and it has to do with you, Jeremy. I had intended to put your name forward to Parliament to be the recipient of the reward that was offered for the apprehension of the murderer. But since we now know there are not one but two murderers, you will no doubt be given part, though not all, of the reward. I know not how it shall be divided, but you should be receiving a considerable amount.”
Disguising my disappointment, I said most brighdy, “But, Sir John, I am quite overwhelmed.”
“Indeed it is you who deserve it,” said he. “It was you risked your life. It was you recognized him. You did all but put the pistol to his head.”
“Well, thank you, sir. I hardly know what to say.”
“There is no more need be said — except p)erhaps from me, my repeated apology for putting you in danger as I did. Do forgive me please.”
“I feel there is naught to forgive, but if it is my forgiveness you seek, you have it a thousand times over.”
“Thank you, lad.” He turned to go, then added just at the door: “Well, at least Hosea Willis is now in Newgate, assured of a swift trip to the gallows.”
“Hosea Willis? Who …?”
“That is the Raker’s given name. Vd no idea of it. Even he had to think a bit before he could produce it. What a strange and unfortunate man he is — or was.”
And so saying, he left me.
Indeed it was true. I recalled what I had heard of the Raker — Hosea Willis, if that be his name. He had inherited his strange calling from his father, who had it from his father before him, and now he would be the last in the line. The Raker had always seemed to me in my many meetings with him to be, as Sir John described him, half-mad. Had the work he did made him so? Who could say? Did he deserve Bedlam rather than the hangman’s noose? Again, who could say?
Mr. Donnelly’s call upon me began most professionally. He had found me sitting up in bed, which I think displeased him, though he said nothing of it. Instead, after a word or two of greeting, he set about unwinding that great turban of a bandage he had round my head so that he might inspect the wound. He touched the cut tentatively with a finger, and I flinched slightly.
“Does that hurt?” he asked.
“A bit,” said I.
“I’ve no doubt that it does.”
Then did he take a bottle of gin from his bag, soak a bit of cotton with it, and apply it to the cut. That produced a sharp, stinging pain. Taking another rolled bandage, he then wrapped me Mussulman-style as before.
“You’re lucky you’ve a good thick skull, Jeremy. A fracture of your head would have put you in serious danger. What about pain inside your head? I take it that must have abated, or you wouldn’t be sitting up as you are.”
“I feel it only when I turn my head sharply.”
“Well, don’t. Let me now have a look at your eyes.”
He lit the candle and, as he had the night before, he waved it back and forth before my face, asking me to follow it with my eyes. Then did he blow it out and peer into them.