Varney versus Spring-heel Jack 23: December 1885.

Twenty-Three: December 1885.

After my return home, I tried to rest. Spurning the imprecations of my valet to call a doctor, I tried to sleep. It was no good: the events of the previous evening kept playing through my mind, endlessly. I could not sleep. All I did was twist and turn, which doubtless did little to aid the recovery of my injuries.

I think that the events of that evening will be seared into my mind, into my very soul, until the day that I die. I have little doubt that if you carved me in twain, they would be imprinted through every part of me, like the name of some foul seaside town.

It was about noon the next day when I felt able to rise. I did not bother to dress, and while I walked idly about my chamber, in something of a fug and wondering what it was that I should do next, I asked myself why I had not let my man call a doctor. The answer was simple.

Elizabeth.

I went along to her room as soon as I felt able. She was lying on the bed, eyes closed, breathing rapidly and shallow. Still dressed in the clothes of the night before, covered in her own blood. The curtains were still closed, and so I drew them in order to obtain a better look at her. To see if I could wake her up. The reaction incurred was not what I expected.

As the light struck her, her eyes opened wide. Staring yet sightless. She flung an arm across her face in an attempt to cover herself, then hissed like some alley cat before throwing herself off the bed. She slithered across the floor like some kind of a serpent, seeking out the darkest corner of the room, where she huddled, trying to hide as much of herself as possible. It was only when I closed the curtains once more that she returned to the bed.

She spoke not one word.

For the next fortnight, I remained at home. My injuries I was able to explain away as the result of a tussle with some footpads during an ill-advised jaunt to the East End. My secretary called on me daily, and such is the efficacy of my managers that I was able to keep my business ticking over satisfactorily from a distance. I sent word to Elizabeth’s family that she had contracted pneumonia. The doctor – a fictitious one, naturally – recommended that she not be moved. Visits could also be hazardous. Why I did not actually call a doctor, I could not at that time have said: only that a fearful stirring within me sounded warning.

The pattern of her days remained much the same. She slept during the day, then awoke at night. Saying nothing, restless, she would occasionally attempt to rise before sinking back onto the bed. Silent. I tried to feed her: broth she refused, and solid food met with little better response. Though meat and gravy aroused some interest in her, she still found it hard to force down even the smallest amount. Even that would soon be regurgitated, as though her body were rejecting it.

It was then that I remembered something I had read about the restorative powers of steak cooked rare. The finest, still dripping with blood. Looking back, how could I have been so stupid? Why did it not occur to me immediately?

Perhaps I did not want to see that which was before my eyes.

Her wounds healed, for the most part. The ragged rips and tears became pink flesh, then normal skin tone. The only wounds that failed to respond were the two jagged holes that appeared to be at the root of her injuries. These remained open.

In the following fortnight, her strength began to return, and the fearful stormclouds of doubt grew over my head, threatening the thunderous truth.