The inspector started to reply, but before he could utter a word Lees shook his head. “No,” he said. “I don’t want to sit down. There’s not a moment to lose.”
Abberline nodded. “Tell me what happened.”
“As you may know, I’ve recently been abroad. I went hoping to rid myself of these premonitions of murder which so tormented me, and for a time I felt free. Then, quite suddenly, I began to experience a strange sense of foreboding — not visions, but something that took form as an urge. An urge that grew until it became a voice commanding me to return. And today I discovered the reason.
“My wife and I boarded an omnibus at Shepherd’s Bush. As we reached Notting Hill a passenger got on. Immediately I recognized him as the man I’d seen in my dream of Annie Chapman’s murder. You have the description I gave the police at that time—”
Abberline nodded. “Go on.”
“I turned to my wife and whispered, ‘That is Jack the Ripper.’ She laughed and told me not to be foolish. I assured her I wasn’t mistaken: I could feel it.”
“What did you do?”
“At the moment, nothing. No constable was present on the bus, and I could hardly accost the man without endangering myself and other passengers. We traveled down Edgeware Road to Marble Arch, and there the man got out. Telling my wife I’d join her later at home, I followed him through the crowd on Oxford Street, hoping to catch sight of a policeman along the way. Finally I did so, and hastily told him of my discovery. He thought I was joking, but when I insisted the matter was serious he threatened to run me in.
“Realizing he would not assist me, I turned away. By this time the man was far ahead of me though I still managed to keep him in sight.”
“Did he know you were following him?” Abberline asked.
“He must have felt it, because quite abruptly he darted into the street and hailed a cab. Before I found another for myself he’d driven off.”
The inspector scowled. “Is that all?”
“All? I told you I saw the murderer.”
“Correction. You told me you saw a man who resembled the one in your dream. Under the circumstances I can hardly fault the constable for his attitude. Arresting a man for appearing in a dream isn’t exactly police procedure.”
Lees’ eyes smouldered, but with a dying fire. “Then you don’t believe me?”
“It’s not a question of belief. One needs something more to act on, tangible proof or substantial evidence. You admit you have neither. So the only question that remains is why you came here with your story.”
The fire flared again. “Because I still have my premonition. There will be another murder!”
Abberline shrugged. “The last was committed almost six weeks ago. What can you offer to support this prediction or prevent it from coming true? I’d be a lot happier if you could use those powers of yours to tell me just where this supposed murderer can be located.”
“I’m not sure.” The psychic shook his head. “But I’ve a feeling he took the cab to a house near Grosvenor Square.”
“What house? What address?”
“It doesn’t come clearly.”
“In other words, your power is just a matter of guesswork.”
Lees’ eyes flamed. “It’s not a guess! How can I explain? Following this man in my mind’s eye is like following one thread in a tangled skein unraveling in all directions. A thread of evil, you might call it, because that’s what I sense. But there is much evil in London tonight, Inspector. Singling out this particular thread seems beyond my power at the moment, no matter how I strive to discern it.” His voice wavered. “Evil exists everywhere. Sometimes I think our limited senses are designed to protect us from awareness of its presence. We trust them to provide us with knowledge but it may be that they block out realization of horrors we cannot bear.”
Abberline gestured impatiently. “So what you’re really saying is that you know nothing.”
The medium’s eyes were white-hot coals. “I do know! The precognizance drove me to come here and it’s driving me still — driving me mad! Can’t you understand? It’s like some hideous growth inside my skull, getting stronger and stronger until it bursts my brain. Behind that premonition is a terrible truth. I know it’s there — if I could only reach it—”
Lees’ hoarse voice halted abruptly and his hands went to his forehead. Taking a deep breath, he closed his eyes, clutching blindly at both temples as he stood swaying before the fireplace. Now his mouth opened and the firelight glinted on flecks of drool issuing from between the parted lips. In a moment the sounds came; deep, guttural sounds which may or may not have been words.
Then, as Abberline strained to listen, the psychic gasped and crumpled to the floor.
“Lees—!”
Abberline knelt beside the unconscious man, loosening his collar. “Lees — can you hear me?”
Slowly a flush of color crept into the cheeks of the death-pale face, and the deepset eyes fluttered open. Lees’ stare was blank, but then recognition returned and he struggled up into a sitting position.
“Easy does it,” Abberline said.
“No need to concern yourself now.” The medium wiped the spittle from his lips as the inspector assisted him to his feet. “What happened?”
“Don’t you know? You had a seizure.”
“Not that. The vision came.”
“What vision? What did you see?”
“I can’t remember—” Lees’ eyes went blank again. “Did I say anything?”
Abberline nodded. “You tried, but it made no sense. I think I caught two words.”
“What were they?”
“One sounded like a name. McCarthy, it could have been.”
“And the other?”
“A number — thirteen.” The inspector peered at Lees, expectation in his glance. “What does that mean to you?”
“Nothing.” The whisper came, faint as a hiss of smoke from the fireplace. “All I know is that something is going to happen. And there’s no way to stop it now.”
~ THIRTY-TWO ~
San Domingo, A.D. 1805. A white military commander was captured and brought to Dessalines, who watched him being flayed to death with thornbushes. As he expired, a soldier ripped out his heart with his bare hands and ate it raw. Then, as a decorative touch, he tore the entrails out and hung them on a tree limb.
The crowds began gathering in Westminster early the next morning, lining the route of the Lord Mayor’s procession.
Cicely Marchbanks arrived in her carriage, wearing a fine new cambric gown. Old Mrs. Hargreaves took the train up from Richmond, carrying a lorgnette in her reticule for viewing purposes and unfurling a parasol as a shield against the sun. Jenny Potts came all the way from Yorkshire via charabanc, bouncing along with her straw bonnet askew.
The hawkers were out, peddling souvenirs and sweets; flower girls displayed their late autumn blooms; beggars and fiddlers competed for attention amid the excited outcry of children whose nannies and governesses shepherded them through sunlit streets.
All London swarmed to see the sights. Here stood Snibbs the greengrocer and Bert the hostler, beside gray-haired Alf Dawkins who’d fought the Pandies at Lucknow when only a nipper. Lionel Wyndham bestrode his mount from Rotten Row, Sid Fowler rode over in his donkey cart, and George Robey made the trip by shank’s mare, up to get a booking on the halls with his new name and make his bloomin’ fortune. Lords and ladies joined barristers and barmaids, jolly jack-tars jostled pious prelates; mingling in the mob were butchers and bakers and candlestick makers, for everyone was out to see the parade.