Varney versus Spring-heel Jack 18: November 1885.

Eighteen: November 1885.

How I got out of that stableyard, I do not really know, even now. The relief that flooded over me as the mob entered, and were not hostile to me, must have sapped me of what little strength I had left. I babbled out what had happened, even though as the words breathlessly left my lips I knew that they were almost beyond belief. Almost: the first men into the yard had seen the flight of the fiend, and they knew that I did not lie.

And then there was Elizabeth. The man who had spoken to me first then helped me towards the dark corner where she lay.

My God: the blood was everywhere, gouts of it appearing to stain her dress and cloak. Yet even so, her face was pale and wan, with no sign of torment or torture, only the faraway look of one who has glimpsed something no living being is meant to see. There were two puncture marks in her neck. Holes of about a quarter inch in diameter. A vein, at that: no attempt had been made to rip her carotid artery. There was a precision about the placement that was almost medical. This was not an attempt to take her life: rather, it was a deliberate attempt to drain her of blood whilst still keeping her alive. The gore no longer flowed freely, now that the suction of the fiend was no longer being applied.

Perhaps, if they had not seen the fiend, they may have believed that I was the foul monster responsible. Yet I was not covered in blood – save my own, and that from obvious wounds – and there were dark mutterings from within the mob about previous events that had yielded such sights.

I thought nothing of this at the time, only being concerned with staying conscious and getting my beloved to safety. It was only after, when I had recovered, and had time to reflect, that it struck me as odd that I had never read of such events in the newspapers, nor heard of them. Certainly, when I asked for a cab to be called, there was no cry for a Bobby to come to the rescue, nor to investigate. I know the people of the East End have no great love for the Metropolitan Police, but even so, I was – upon reflection – startled at their instinctive decision to keep the authorities away.

How many of these attacks had occurred before that night?

But all this came later. Now, I sought only flight. A cab had been summoned, and I climbed into it. But barely: my vitality was so low that I only just managed to heave myself inside. Elizabeth, her wounds covered and cloak arranged by the mob so that the gore did not show, was bundled in after me. The cab took flight, its horse startled by a slap on the flanks. It was a number of streets before the driver calmed it enough to ask my destination. I directed him to Eaton Square.

His face had the look of one who had been terrified: he could not look me in the eye as he spoke, nor as I paid him, let alone spare a lance for Elizabeth.

As my butler and footman – who had been summoned by my feeble but insistent knocking – aided Elizabeth to a bedchamber, I poured myself a Scotch and considered these facts. First, I had not been followed by any of the mob, which – with the prospect of blackmail in view – I would have expected. Secondly, no attempt had been made to rob either of us, at our most vulnerable. And lastly, there had been urgency – terror, almost – about their desire to get us away from the area.

The key to Elizabeth’s immediate future, I was sure, lay in resolving these riddles.