The Art of Murder

Chapter 45

To Mrs Sonia Thomson 17 October 1888 'So it was you!' Archibald exclaimed, his face pale as winter snow.

'It very much looks like it, old fellow,' I replied, throwing the bag containing my materials on to the bed.

'You killed those women.' He stared at me like a wax figure, so shocked, his eyes expressed no emotion. Just the corner of his mouth twitched. A nervous tic, I assumed. I had never seen Archibald nervous or even worried, not even during those dramatic times in the opium dens. He was always level-headed, self-confident.

'So now you know, Archibald,' I said quietly; and suddenly, he was rushing towards me, his fists balled.

As you know, he was a chunky fellow and strong. But he was at least fifteen years my senior and all that good living was hardly to his advantage. He threw a punch that went wildly awry. I extended my foot and he tripped, landing heavily on the floor close to the dining table where I had recently written my letters and planned my masterpiece. In an instant, I was on him. One hard punch to the back of his neck and Archibald was out cold.

I laid him on the bed flat on his back and looked down at his prone form. As I turned away the latest painting caught my eye. It sat there on the easel, untouched by our brief struggle. I approached and studied it carefully. It was a fine piece, and if I had decided to complete it, it would have merited every ounce of praise it would doubtless have received. But it was not to be. Looking down, I found my painting materials: a collection of jars with brushes poised at different angles, a tray of paints and a large bottle of thinner. Picking up the bottle, I opened the top, breathed in the rich odour and then poured the flammable liquid liberally around the room. From my coat pocket I extracted a box of matches and struck one, watching the flame grow and shimmer before my eyes.

The match landed on the carpet a few feet across the room and the thinning fluid caught immediately. Striding towards the bed, I pulled Archibald up and propped him over my left shoulder. On the way towards the door, I grabbed my bag of knives and implements and dashed for the stairs just as the fire started to take hold. I had organised several escape routes and hideouts. After all, one of the most important aspects of any great creation is planning, and this could never be more true than of the form of art I have mastered.

It was an easy matter to get Archibald out of the building and along the street. In my adopted neighbourhood, semi-conscious drunks were more the norm than sober gentlemen. A quick turn into a nearby alley when no one was looking and Archibald and I were soon in the shadows at the rear of one of the tall buildings that fronted Whitechapel Road. I heard a couple of rats dash away from a pile of rubbish. Resting Archibald in a sitting position with his back to the brick wall of the building, I kicked away the nearby detritus until I could see the filthy stones beneath. I felt around in the dark. My fingers alighted on the metal ring in a drain cover. Pulling on it, I lifted the cover and the stench of the sewer below burst out into the narrow alley. I resisted the urge to vomit and turned away for a moment. I had a small lantern hidden beneath a pair of empty and rusted metal barrels close to the wall. I pulled it out, opened the window and lit the wick with a match. Returning to the drain, I yanked Archibald over to me by the feet.

Lowering myself into the hole via a short metal ladder, I plucked up my bag and dropped it inside before clambering after it with the lantern held aloft. I managed to reach the floor of the sewer only a few feet below the surface. I could not stand up straight, but I just managed to lever Archibald's legs into the hole and let him slither into the sewer on top of me, breaking his fall as best I could with my arms and shoulders. He fell face first into the mess at the bottom of the tunnel and began to come round.

Before he could wake up properly, I grabbed his arms, yanked his wrists behind him and bound them with a length of rope I had taken the precaution of keeping in my bag. Then I slapped him to wake him up a little.

'Now, Archibald. You need to turn round,' I said. 'We're heading that way.' And I nodded to the black tunnel behind him.

'Ah, fuck!' he exclaimed. 'What is that stink?' And then he looked down to see in the dim light from the lantern that he was covered in human excrement.

'Move!' I snapped.

He glared at me. 'You'll pay for this, Tumbril. You will pay.'

I laughed at that. 'Archibald, my dear fellow, my name is not Harry Tumbril. It is William Sandler. Now, this is the last time I will say it, move!'

Bent almost double, Archibald shuffled along the tunnel. After twenty yards it opened out into a much larger channel some ten feet across, the tiled ceiling a little above head-height, the walls curved.

Along one side ran a metal pipe about three inches in diameter. There was a narrow gap between it and the wall, and it was fastened on to the tiles and the stone behind it with large steel clamps. I double-checked the rope around Archibald's wrists, then turned him to face me. He was clearly terrified, but he was also burning up with rage. He opened his mouth to say something, but I had grown bored. I punched him hard in the face and he stumbled back, hitting his head on the wall. Leaning over him, I checked that he was breathing. Then, standing up, I untied the rope about his wrists and reworked it about the pipe attached to the wall. I pulled it taut and stood back. 'Not exactly the Reform Club, is it, Archie?' I laughed. And now, dear lady, I'm approaching the end of my tale. I took rooms at Claridge's, swapping the seediness of Whitechapel for the luxury and grandeur of Mayfair. To be honest, I felt I owed it to myself – a little reward for creating the most revolutionary piece of art since Giotto first popularised the use of perspective.

The hotel was entirely pleasing, as you would expect. Hot water, a luxurious bathroom, soft, clean sheets. I'm not one for hedonism, but it did make a favourable change from Wentworth Street. In room 325, I perused The Times, reading the most fantastical accounts of Mary Kelly's demise. And on pages four and six, I found two much shorter stories. One of these concerned a terrible fire in Whitechapel which had destroyed two shops and the rooms above them. Three charred bodies and dozens of roasted chickens were found among the wreckage. The other story concerned a certain newspaper editor who had disappeared without trace. Last seen at the Reform Club, Archibald Thomson had not returned to the offices of the Clarion on Pall Mall. The police had been notified, and the man's usual haunts visited by detectives. All to no avail. Mr Thomson seemed to have vanished into thin air.

I savoured Claridge's, but after two days told myself I had things to do. My first job was to purchase a one-way ticket to New York, first class. The ticket was for the White Star Line's ship Oceanic, which, according to the brochure, offered the ultimate in seagoing luxury. The ship was due to leave the following day, 6 October, on a two-week journey across the Atlantic.

That afternoon I returned to Whitechapel. Under cover of darkness, I crept into the passage where the drain was located, found the lantern which I had replaced behind the rusty barrels, and then retraced the steps I had taken with Archibald two nights before. Inside the narrow tunnel, the lamp cast a measly light, but I could see the dribble of excrement and the streak of unctuous mould. I crept along slowly and emerged into the larger tunnel. The light bounced around the discoloured tiles and illuminated the wretched figure of Archibald, just where I had left him.

Crouching down in front of him, I lifted his head. He was alive, but barely conscious. From my bag, I took a water bottle and brought it to his lips. He did not respond, so I slapped him hard about the face until he opened his eyes. He looked at me, but I could tell he could not make out who or what I was. I tried him with the water again and this time he sipped at it. The liquid seemed to invigorate him somewhat and he drank more, making small grunting sounds as the water trickled down his throat. Slowly he began to revive a little.

'I've brought you some things, Archibald,' I said. 'I'm going away now. But I thought I would leave you a few tokens to remember me by.'

From my bag, I withdrew my favourite knife, a fine steel eight-inch blade with a calf-skin inlaid handle. This I placed on the filthy floor about three feet away from where Archibald was bound to the metal pipe. Returning to the bag, I pulled out a parcel covered with cloth. Unbinding the wrapping, I lifted the gift to Archibald's face. In the gas light he could just see a box containing a round fruit cake, a ham, a large slab of chocolate and an opened bottle of red wine. More awake now, his eyes widened.

I lowered the box to the floor next to the knife, the whole assembly just out of reach. Then I placed the lantern close by so that the gifts would be illuminated after I left. Standing up, I looked down into his face. 'Look on the bright side, Archibald,' I said. 'It will all be over soon. Cheerio.' So, dear Sonia, there we have it. I have to say that writing these letters to you has been a most interesting experience. I did not intend them to be so detailed, nor so long, but I got carried away. I would say that it was cathartic, but that would imply I needed to get something off my chest. A ridiculous notion, of course.

Do what you will with this information. I imagine you will want to find Archibald's body and to give him a decent burial. Each to his own. For me, this is certainly not the end of the tale, but the conclusion to the part in which we have shared a connection. I will be arriving in New York City in a few days, and from there… who knows? I have no fixed plans. I'll be glad to be away from London but shall doubtless, at some point, start to miss the place. I have a feeling I may never return to England. But anything is possible. Life is like art. Let your mind and your will run free, and who knows where fate may lead you? Farewell.