The Sedgemoor Strangler and Other Stories of Crime

Dr Death

I am alone in the house with a madman, and I don’t know what to do. My poor husband Charles has been murdered, his throat cut after he went to open the door. Please God, may I be spared!

I am at the mercy of the monster who has butchered no fewer than twelve people in their own homes since March of 1873. The newspapers call him Dr Death. Of course he cannot be a doctor. That is a wicked slur against the medical profession. He is a murderer who knocks on doors and kills at random with a cut-throat razor, attacking whoever comes to the door. In the streets the children chant a horrid rhyme:

Our night of terror began at twenty-five past nine, less than half an hour ago. Charles and I were in the drawing room playing cribbage, as we do most Sunday evenings. Some will disapprove of cards on the sabbath; I can only say in mitigation that this is the only evening we have together. From Monday to Saturday Charlie supplements our meagre income by working long hours as a billiard-marker at the Amateur Athletic Club premises at Lillie Bridge. It is a humble occupation, keeping the score for gentlemen of leisure in the hope that they will be generous with gratuities, but in these difficult times a man is glad of anything that keeps him from the workhouse. We live — thank God — in a nice detached house on Putney Hill. Charles’s family has owned the house for generations. We were playing cribbage, then, and eating some nuts I had kept from Christmas, enjoying the modest comfort of a wood fire and a chance to be alone, with just our little Shetland Terrier, Snowy, for company. We have no servants.

There was a knock on the door, an urgent rat-a-tat that startled us both and caused Snowy to bark. I was in no state to receive a visitor. I had taken a bath earlier in the evening and had not gone to the bother of dressing again. In my nightdress and dressing gown I was relaxing with my dear husband. One feels so secure, so content in one’s privacy, at home behind locked doors and thick curtains.

“Who can that be?” Charles said.

I shook my head and spread my hands. It did not cross my mind that Dr Death was on our doorstep.

One Sunday evening a few weeks ago we talked about him. I asked Charles what he would do if the madman called at our house and Charles said, “I would protect you, of course.”

“But what if I were alone, as I am most evenings?”

“Don’t answer the door. It’s bolted and the windows are shuttered. You’re safe here.”

I believed him.

Tonight, we were proved wrong.

He got up and reached for his jacket. “I expect it’s William.”

His brother William is our mainstay, our Good Samaritan. He gives us money, pays our doctor’s bills and even hands on his old suits to Charlie. He found Charlie the job at Lillie Bridge. Without his help, we would have been on the streets years ago. I call him Sweet William.

Charles said, “You’d better leave the room, just in case it’s someone else.”

I obeyed willingly. It was possible Charles would feel obliged to admit the caller and I had no wish to receive anyone dressed as I was. I withdrew at once to the dining room. In there, without a fire, it was chilly, but I could remain out of sight until Charles had dealt with the visitor. I hoped it was just some hawker who could be sent on his way at once. People come quite late hoping to interest us in anything from bootlaces to kittens, or even expecting us to pay them something to remove their caterwauling hurdy-gurdy to another street. I suppose they think we must be comfortably placed, living in a house with a gravel drive. Little do they know the long hours Charles has to work to keep us from penury. He walks two miles to work every day, to save the fares.

Charles withdrew the bolt on the front door and opened it. From the dining room I strained to hear who the caller was. The words were modulated at first, and then they increased in volume and although I could not hear them distinctly I was sure they were not friendly in tone. In vain my poor husband, who is not the most patient of souls, tried to get rid of the visitor. The exchange of opinions turned to ranting. Still I had no suspicion as to who the caller might be. Then, to my horror, the argument was joined by sounds of a physical struggle. Some piece of furniture in the hall — probably the umbrella stand — was toppled over. Then a picture or a mirror fell and shattered. I cowered in a corner, shaking uncontrollably. How I wish now that I had gone to Charles’s assistance; feeble as I am, I might have created some distraction enabling him to gather his resources. You see, horrible as it was to hear sounds of violence, I had no conception that anything so dreadful as murder was being done.

Neither did it cross my mind that we were being invaded by Dr Death. Why should he choose our house, of all the homes in London? I know the answer now, of course. He didn’t choose it at all. He calls and kills indiscriminately, men and women, taking perverted pleasure in the power he feels when he produces his razor and sees the uncomprehending terror in their eyes. He’ll knock at anyone’s door. It must give him a sense of power, not knowing who will be next to feel the blade across their throats. That is why the police are having such difficulty catching him. He is unpredictable.

I should have been alert to the danger. Like everyone else, I have read about the killings in the newspaper and tut-tutted and shaken my head, but I never seriously thought we would be his next victims.

There was a blood-curdling scream that stopped abruptly, followed by silence. I shall hear it for ever if I live through this experience, the scream and the silence. It must have been the moment my beloved Charlie’s throat was cut. Then the thump of his body hitting the floor, followed by the beast-like panting of his killer.

Petrified, I pressed my fists against my teeth, trying to understand what had just happened. There could be no doubt that terrible violence had been done. I wanted to shriek in terror, but the slightest sound would have revealed me as a witness, and put me in danger.

I waited, trying desperately not to swoon and praying that this evil presence would leave the house. Presently I heard a door being opened. Then, faintly, the sound of running water. He had gone to the kitchen to wash away the worst of the blood, as I now realise.

It was my opportunity. Without regard to the risk, I left the dining room and went to assist my poor husband. Broken glass crunched under my carpet slippers. My heart sank fathoms when I saw the scene, the lifeless form lying across the hall with a dark pool spreading beneath his head, and blood all over the wall, running down in streaks. The smell of it was sickening. It must have gushed from an artery. No one could survive such a massive loss.

Now I knew for certain that Dr Death had called, and killed. Numb, petrified, ready to faint, I could not bring myself to touch my poor husband. I just stood staring at the back of his head.

Then I heard the tap turned off in the kitchen and steps across the tiled floor. What was I to do? Charlie was beyond help. The madman would kill me next. I had seen in the papers that he has twice before slit the throats of a man and his wife together.

I ran up the stairs. It was a stupid action, I admit, for where could I go if he pursued me? I went to our bedroom and looked for a place to hide and in my distracted state I could think of nothing more original than the wardrobe, a huge mahogany thing we inherited with the house. Charlie’s late father was quite well-to-do; he was deeply disappointed when Charlie failed his exam for the Civil Service and had to seek unsalaried work. We are not all good at passing exams. I was so grateful that he left us the house in his will. It is the one secure thing in our existence. The family money, the stocks and shares and so on, were left to William, who is a chartered accountant, and understands the world of finance, and helps us to survive. We have practically no money, but we have a roof over our heads. It was a wise decision.

Here I squat, at the bottom of the wardrobe, trying to hide under the spare blanket. I have been here ten minutes at least, weeping silently, trying to tell myself not to give way to my troubled thoughts. I must stay in control.

If Dr Death comes looking for me, I am going to die. I pray that he will leave the house. Surely his desire for blood is sated. Yet I know he is still here. Occasional sounds come from downstairs. I suppose he is looking for money, or valuables. He won’t find any.

Suddenly there is a sound nearby, here, in the bedroom. My flesh prickles. I want to scream.

It is not a heavy sound, but it is close, extremely close. The wardrobe door rattles. There is a scratching sound outside, followed by whimpering.

Snowy.

My little dog has found me. If I don’t do something about him, he’ll give me away, for sure. He will start barking any second.

I open the wardrobe door and get a terrible shock. Snowy has a gash across his middle, from the top of his back to right under his stomach. It seems unspeakably cruel. Then I look closer and see that what I am looking at is not a wound, but a streak of my poor husband’s blood. Snowy climbs up and nudges against me, seeking comfort, and some of it marks my nightdress. He continues to whimper. The sound will surely bring the killer upstairs.

I must think of something. I can’t stay here, now that Snowy has found me, and I can’t silence him. If the madman comes anywhere near, Snowy will bark. He barks at the slightest thing. Oh God, am I starting to panic?

I dare not go downstairs again.

Above me, there is the attic, but I can’t get up there without the stepladder, and that is kept in the cupboard under the stairs. If there was a balcony to this bedroom, I would step outside, but there is not.

I have just remembered the fire escape. It is at the back of the house. You get to it from the little bedroom, the one we use as a box room. If I can open the window, I can climb down the ladder to the ground and run for help. That is what I must do.

With as much stealth as I am capable of, I emerge from my hiding place and cross the bedroom to the landing. Snowy follows me. Mercifully he is silent.

Then — Oh God! — I hear footsteps on the stairs. Dr Death has heard me and is coming.

Abandoning caution, I rush across the landing to the box room and fling open the door. Our box room is, of course, crammed with portmanteaux and trunks filled with bric-a-brac, summer curtains, old clothing, rolls of carpet, discarded ornaments, cracked mirrors, a dressmaker’s dummy. There is scarcely room for a person to move in there, and I must get to the window.

I slam the door after me, hoping to hamper my pursuer. Finding strength I did not know I possessed, I slide an enormous cabin trunk across the doorway and heap things on it, at the same time clearing a route to the window. Snowy is beside me, barking furiously now. I don’t know what I shall do with him. He will have to be left here and take his chance. In my frenzy I knock over a tower of hat boxes, and they crash against some brass stair rods with a clatter that sounds all over the house. I must get to the window.

I have to climb over an old armchair heaped with magazines to reach it. My foot slides on the paper and I fall against an iron bedstead. Pain shoots through my arm and shoulder. I try again.

Now Dr Death is at the door, rattling it. Brave little Snowy barks and growls. I don’t look round. I am at the window trying to get my fingers under the brass handles. The sash cord is broken, I think. I have to force it upwards by brute strength if I have any left. It is very stiff, but it moves a few inches and I wedge a book into the gap and try again.

I can hear the madman straining outside the door. He has it open a fraction and is crashing his shoulder against it.

I succeed in heaving the window upwards and putting my leg over the sill. It is pitch black out there. I tug my nightdress to the top of my legs, all decorum abandoned, and get a foot onto one of the top rungs of the fire escape ladder. Squeezing myself under the window I climb fully out. The window slams down, just missing my hand. The last thing I hear is my little dog still inside the room. He has stopped barking and is whimpering.

On the ladder, I feel the chill of the night air. I am so hot from my exertions that I welcome it. Down the iron rungs I hurry, feeling chips of rust flaking off under my already sore hands. My feet hurt terribly. Slippers were never meant for this sort of activity. I don’t know how far down I am when the window above me is thrust open. I suppose he is looking down, deciding whether to come after me. All I can do is keep descending until I feel the ground under my feet.

At last I am down, and running around the side of the house to the front, where it is better lit. I shall stop the first person I see. I run across the drive, sobbing now. I can’t stop myself from crying.

On Putney Hill the gas lamps show me an empty street. Nobody is about. What can I do except run to my neighbours? I cross the road to the Tyler’s house. We don’t know them well, but they have two grown-up sons. Surely one can be sent to summon the police.

Their manservant opens the door.

“Help me,” I say. “My husband is murdered and the man is still inside the house.” I point towards where we live.

He asks me to wait, but I follow him inside.

Mr and Mrs Tyler are magnificent. They grasp the urgency of the matter at once and the men go out to deal with the emergency. One son will go for the police, just a short way down Putney Hill. The others will keep watch. Mrs Tyler wraps me in a blanket and brings me brandy. I have given way to weeping hysteria again, but by degrees I lapse into a shocked silence.

I can’t say how much time passes before the front door opens. I jump at the sound, but it is only Mr Tyler, with a policeman. Mr Tyler has Snowy tucked under his arm.

“It’s all over, my dear,” he says, releasing my little dog, who runs to me and licks my ankle. “This is Inspector Reed.”

“You caught the man?”

“Yes,” says the policeman. “He’s in custody now. We forced an entry into the house and took him. You must be in a state of shock, ma’am, but I need to speak to you.”

I take Snowy into my arms. “It’s all right. I feel much better.”

“Did you see the man who came to the house?”

“See him? No. Charles, my husband, went to the door. It was savage, what happened. He was murdered almost at once.”

“We saw for ourselves, ma’am.”

“I heard everything. I was in the next room.”

“Heard what was said?”

“No, that was indistinct. Raised voices, and the sound of violence.”

There is a pause, as if they hesitate to tell me some new horror.

“Your husband had a brother William. Is that correct?”

I frown and hug Snowy to my chest. “What does William have to do with it?”

“He’s older than your husband?”

“Yes. He’s twenty-eight, I think.”

“Comes to visit you, does he?”

“Yes, he takes a brotherly interest in our lives. He’s a lovely man, generous and caring.” I don’t mention that William sometimes helps us with money. That’s private, and the Tylers don’t have to hear of it.

“It was William who came to your house this evening.”

I am astounded. “What? William? I don’t understand.”

“He came out of a sense of responsibility, ma’am. We’ve spoken to his wife and she told us they were deeply troubled by your husband’s conduct.”

“This can’t be true!” I say.

“Will you hear me out, ma’am? People at Lillie Bridge, where your husband is known — he works there sometimes, I believe — saw him last week using the bathing facilities, washing blood from his hands and arms on the day the man was murdered in Chelsea.”

“No!”

“They reasoned that a billiard-marker doesn’t get bloody hands. They suspected him of the crimes we’ve heard so much about. It was only suspicion, so they didn’t come to us as they should have done. They went to your brother-in-law.”

“To William?”

“William came to your house tonight to seek an explanation and was savagely attacked. Your husband must have had his cut-throat razor at the ready, in his jacket pocket. He murdered William.”

“No,” I cry out. “You’re mistaken. It’s Charlie who is dead.”

“Did you look at the face of the dead man?”

I am speechless. I didn’t look at his face. I couldn’t bear to see the cruel gash across his throat. How could I mistake my own husband for his brother? My brain is racing now. They have similar coloured hair. William is slightly taller, but their physique is similar. And Charlie wears William’s handed-down suits. Black pin-stripes always, as you would expect a professional man to wear.

The policeman says, “Your husband is alive. He’s the man we have in custody, ma’am.”

Mr Tyler says, “It’s true.”

I scream, a long, piercing scream, a scream of horror, and despair, and mental agony.

Mrs Tyler tries to comfort me. I push her away. I stare at them all, shaking my head, sobbing convulsively.

Over my sounds of grief, the policeman adds, “We believe him to be responsible for the deaths of thirteen people. You’re going to ask me why he did it and I can only say that he’s obviously insane.”

“He’s not,” I plead. “He’s a perfect husband to me.”

“He has a double life, then,” the policeman insists.

Now Mr Tyler tries to make me understand. “My dear, such cases are not unknown to those who study the criminal mind. They are perfectly reasonable ninety-nine per cent of the time. Then something happens in the brain. An uncontrollable anger makes them attack innocent people for quite trivial reasons. It seems that tonight your husband’s brother came to face him with the truth, a brave, but misguided action. There was a struggle and William was killed with a vicious slash across the throat, just like the other victims.”

The policeman says, “He would have killed you, too.”

“Never. Not Charlie.”

Will I ever believe it? I stare at the policeman, hating him for what he is saying, and knowing, deep inside, that he is right.

Mr Tyler says, “It’s going to be hard for you to accept. However intimate we are with another human being, we never know them fully.”

Wise, intolerable words. I have the rest of my devastated life to reflect on them.