The Raven Watcher Read online

  Copyright 2017 Amy Cross

  All Rights Reserved

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, events, entities and places are either products of the author's imagination or are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual people, businesses, entities or events is entirely coincidental.

  Kindle edition

  First published: November 2017

  Maddie desperately fights for her life in the house where Jack the Ripper once lived, but the real danger lurks hidden in the basement. Even when the danger seems to be over, Maddie discovers that something has been waiting for her. Something ancient and evil. Something patient but determined. Something that needs her...

  Meanwhile, one hundred years earlier, Jack attempts to take the place of Doctor Charles Grazier, only to find that his own plans are falling apart. Down in the basement, a taunting voice offers him anything his heart desires. Will he give in to temptation, or will he make a stand and try to protect the world from a terrible threat?

  The Raven Watcher is the seventh book in a new eight-part horror serial, titled The House of Jack the Ripper. This book ends on a cliffhanger, and the story continues in the serial's next (and final) book.

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  The Raven Watcher

  (The House of Jack the Ripper book 7)

  Prologue

  “No, like this. See?”

  I hold the playing card up and then quickly spin it between my fingers. Delilah's face is a picture of concentration; she even furrows her brow and wrinkles her nose as she watches to see how the trick works. I flick my wrist slightly and tilt the card, before letting her see that the ace of hearts has now – magically – become the queen of hearts instead.

  “How are you doing that?” she gasps, before snatching the card from my hand and checking it all over for some kind of hidden section.

  I can't help laughing. Behind her, a dredging vessel lets out a mournful blast of its horn as it makes its way along the Thames. It's late and cold, and I'm shivering so much I can barely even holds the cards. Delilah and I have come down to the waterfront so we can get away from everyone else, away from her parents and from the people who work the dark alleys. Sure, there can be trouble in this part of the city from time to time, but nothing I can't handle. I've got half a dozen knives hidden in the lining of my jacket. I'll keep Delilah safe, no matter what.

  Besides, I want to keep her away from the festering streets near where she lives. I've seen so many girls of Delilah's age get lured into bad lives, into sleeping with men for money. They get force-fed opium and left to die in brothels, and I refuse to let that happen to Delilah. The problem is, she's becoming more beautiful with each passing day, and I've already noticed some of the brothel-owners watching her. She might not realize it yet, but Delilah is already high on their list of potential new employees. All it would take would be for one of them to slip something into her drink, and she might be lost forever.

  “How did you do it?” she asks, turning to me with sheer delight in her eyes. She even lets out a faint giggle, which causes my heart to soar. “Tell me, Jack!”

  “If I told you, it wouldn't be magic any more,” I point out, taking the card back from her. I'm trying so hard to not let her see that the cold makes my hands tremble. “You don't want me to kill the magic, do you?”

  “I'm not an idiot,” she replies. “I'm almost fifteen years old, I know magic isn't real.”

  “I'm almost sixteen,” I reply, “and I know it is!”

  She hits me playfully on the arm, a mark of her exasperation, but I simply laugh as I slide the card back into the deck. I know I shouldn't get too comfortable with Delilah, but I can't help wanting to spend time with her. One day I'm going to take her away from all the mud and the dirt and crime in this part of London, and I'm going to take her to the fancy part of the city. We'll work hard and we'll rise up through society, and one day we'll be proper rich people with a big house and expensive clothes and anything else we want. I just hope she sticks with me and keeps some faith, because I know I can deliver. I can make our lives work. She will never end up in those opium whorehouses. I'd kill anyone who tried to drag her there.

  “Look at him!” she says suddenly, peering past me. “Is he okay?”

  Turning, it takes me a moment to realize what she's looking at. I watch the bridge above for a few seconds, but I don't see anyone crossing. And then, just as I'm about to ask Delilah what she means, I look down at the shore and see that the tide has deposited a human body in the sludge. Maybe the body was there when we arrived and we just didn't notice, or maybe it washed up while I was performing the magic trick. Either way, it's there now, glistening and wet in the pale blue moonlight. Another reminder of the realities of this world, just when I was trying to distract Delilah with a spot of magic.

  “Do you think...”

  Her voice trails off for a moment.

  “Is he dead, Jack?” she asks finally, and she sounds utterly heartbroken.

  I hesitate before turning to her, and then I take her hand and get to my feet. “Come on,” I mutter. “Let's not be here.”

  “But is he dead?”

  “Who knows?”

  “You don't need to protect me!” she protests. “I'm not a child, so just tell me. Is he dead?”

  “I reckon so. Now let's get going.”

  “Shouldn't we call someone? For help?”

  “And say what? That another drunk or addict has washed up somewhere?” I lead her past the brick wall that runs up toward the side of the bridge. “No-one even bothers to pick 'em up anyway. He'll wash away again soon enough and that'll be the end of it.”

  “But what if he has a family? What if people are looking for him?”

  “By the time a person ends up in the river like that,” I reply, “he doesn't usually have anyone left who'd care.”

  “I can see his face.”

  Stopping, I turn and look back down at the body. Delilah's right, the moonlight has subtly caught the side of the corpse's face, revealing blackened eyes that have most likely already been eaten away by crabs. I don't need to go any closer to see the damage. I've come across plenty of washed-up corpses over the years, some of them in broad daylight too. That's a side of London that the rich boys don't ever come close to. I'm used to it, of course, but I don't want Delilah to have to face that kind of horror, so I force her to keep walking until we finally reach the side of the bridge and duck under the railings. I'm still shivering, and I wish I had a coat to put around Delilah's shoulders.

  “It's horrible,” she says, clearly still thinking about the corpse. “How can anyone end up like that? Doesn't he have people who love him? Who miss him?”

  “Let me show you another magic trick,” I reply, hoping to take her mind off it all. I fan the cards out and hold that toward her, but this time she doesn't take one. Instead she's staring down toward the dark river and she seems unaware that I'm even here. “Take a card,” I say after a moment. “Delilah? Come on, don't think about the man down there. Take a card and prepare to be amazed.”

  I wait, but she still seems lost i
n thought.

  “Hey!” I click my fingers in front of her face. “Snap out of it!”

  She turns to me, and I see that there are tears in her eyes.

  “It's awful,” she sobs. “Why do things like that happen to people, Jack? Why is the world so cruel?”

  You wouldn't ask that if you'd spent much time in Whitechapel, I think to myself, but I decide not to say it out loud. “Things just happen,” I tell her. “You can't let yourself get too caught up in it, otherwise you'll lose your mind. You've got to learn to ignore some of the bad stuff, but it'll get easier. It'll be easier still when we get away from this part of the place, when we become proper people.”

  “We're proper people now, aren't we?” she replies, before furrowing her brow again. “Aren't we?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “No, I don't. Sometimes you talk like you're waiting for our lives to start, Jack, but they've already started. Look at us!”

  I open my mouth to try and explain what I mean, but then I spot a perfect example. Two rich folk are strolling along the other side of the street, probably heading home from some fancy musical of theater show. After a moment Delilah turns and follows my gaze, and we watch as the man and woman walk past. They're dressed up to the nines in the finest clothes I could ever imagine, and the man's walking with a cane. The woman, meanwhile, has a real fur over her shoulder, the kind that only elegant ladies are ever given, and her dress is glittering in the moonlight. They're so fancy, so completely caught up in their happy lives, that they don't even notice Delilah and me watching them from the darker side of the road.

  Why would they notice?

  To them, we're nothing but a pair of shadows in the night, a couple of stinking kids from the wrong part of the city. Those rich folk wouldn't want to come anywhere near us. They'd probably be scared of catching something.

  “We're gonna be like them one day,” I whisper, my voice filled with a sense of awe. I reach up and scratch my scalp, and I think I feel something small wriggling through my matted hair. A spider, maybe, or more lice. “We're gonna be right like them and no-one's gonna be able to stop us.”

  The rich people disappear into the night, although I reckon I spot the woman's dress still glittering for a moment after the rest of her's gone from view.

  “Knock it off,” Delilah says, nudging my arm. “People like us can never be like that. You're either born rich or you're not, and we're not. But Jack, my uncle says he can get me a job working in a laundry, though, so at least I'll have some money. That's gotta be good, right? Money for food, money for lodging. Maybe even one day money to start a family.”

  “You're gonna be so much more than a laundry girl,” I reply, turning to her. Seized by the feeling that I need to inspire her, I grab her by the arms and hold her tight. She giggles, and my heart soars. “One day we're gonna be like those fancy people,” I explain, causing her to immediately shake her head. “We are, Delilah! I promise you, on my life, that we'll do it! We're gonna rise to the top!”

  “People like us aren't -”

  “There ain't nobody like us!” I tell her. “Not exactly like us! We're different. Everybody's different, no two people are the same, but we're extra different! And just 'cause other people might not make it out of poverty, that doesn't mean we can't, 'cause we've got it in us to be pioneers!”

  “Jack -”

  “So we're gonna end up just like them!” I shout, turning and pointing toward the two rich folk, only to remember that they're out of sight now. All I'm pointing at right now, in fact, is darkness. Turning back to Delilah, I see that although she's smiling at me, she doesn't truly believe what I'm saying. “You'll see,” I continue breathlessly. “As God is my witness, Delilah Finglebottom, you'll see that I'm right. We'll be almost royalty one day. We'll be better, even. We'll be something that's so fantastic, there's not even a name for it yet. That's how grand we'll be!”

  “How about you walk me home?” she asks, reaching out and taking my hand. “That'll do for tonight.”

  “Listen,” I continue, feeling really enthused now, “one day we -”

  “I'm cold,” she adds, placing a finger against my lips to shush me. “Can you take me home? Please?”

  Of course I walk her home. And along the way, I tell her over and over about how one day we're going to be proper people. She doesn't really say much in return, but that's okay. Talk is cheap. Anyone can say they're going to make it big, but it takes someone really smart to actually get the job done. That's why I'm so determined to get started, because one day Delilah and I are going to be set, and then we're going to be happy. And nothing in the whole world is going to stand in our way.

  Chapter One

  “Doctor Charles Grazier”

  Saturday October 6th, 1888

  “And as I pull,” Brady whispers, tugging slowly on the bandage and causing it to come loose from the woman's shoulders, “watch as she begins to reveal her many secrets. Watch, ye ladies and gentlemen, as thousands of years of history are undone with the twirl of my hand. Watch and marvel at a sight that no man has witnessed since the day this mighty queen was settled in her tomb. Watch and be amazed...”

  His voice trails off.

  He pulls the bandage a little further, then further still. He has a showman's talent, to be sure.

  The room is so quiet, it is as if everyone in the assembled crowd has chosen to hold his or her breath. At the far end, vast panoplies of Egyptian items have been arranged on one of the walls. There are images of pharaohs and pyramids, and replicas of burial masks, and glittering jewels that are supposed to have been found in some of the deepest and darkest tombs in all the world. The display is extensive and impressive, and I can easily see how it would dazzle the most curious of minds. Indeed, this whole evening is clearly the work of a remarkable exhibitionist, and it is not difficult to understand how he fills these meetings night after night.

  And then, as Brady pulls the bandage even further, there is the subtle clink of a mechanism being engaged. Perhaps the other guests had not noticed the metal contraption attached to the rear of the mummified body, but I spotted it as soon as I entered the room. Some kind of clockwork device has been used to hold the corpse in an upright condition, and now this device grinds into life, causing the arms and legs of the mummified woman to start moving. It is almost as if she is dancing, and gasps emerge from the crowd.

  I allow myself a faint smile.

  This whole display is both fantastic and sickening at the same time.

  “From the great pyramid at Banochashir,” he continues, “this ancient queen was brought all the way to England so that we lucky few could gaze upon her beauty. Who knows what wonders went through her mind when she lived, more than four thousand years ago? Who can guess how elegant she must have appeared as she bathed in milk and commanded her servants? It is said that she was a great ruler. Her name was Hagadah, which in the ancient tongue of the old Egyptians means that she was the daughter of the sky river!”

  Nonsense.

  He's making this up as he goes along.

  This is all theater, of course. I see through it, but that does not mean I can't appreciate its brilliance. It's rather like a magic trick. I used to like performing magic tricks myself. Cards, mostly, for...

  For a moment, my thoughts drift back to those nights I'd spend shivering with Delilah on the shore. Lost in these thoughts, I don't notice at first that Brady is still speaking, but I am shocked back to the present by the sudden outburst of a round of applause in the crowd all around me.

  And then, just to add to the spectacle of an ancient Egyptian woman dancing in a Fitzrovia drawing room, the pianist strikes up again, and the assembled gasps become a series of raucous laughs. This really is more theater than scientific demonstration, but I should have expected nothing more. These Egyptian shows are all the rage in London at the moment. Indeed, one can barely walk down the street without tripping over another event where an ancient mummy is being unwrapped for
entertainment.

  “Dance!” Brady shouts triumphantly, pulling the section of bandage completely away. “Dance, O great Hagadah! Show us how you would have danced in the olden days, when you ruled over your kingdom! Dance as if you once again are queen of all your people!”

  The mechanism speeds up, and now the mummified woman is moving her legs and arms with considerable energy. I would estimate that approximately half her bandages have been unwrapped so far this evening, exposing considerable sections of her withered skin. A few funerary orbs and jewels have fallen from her body, causing further astonishment for the members of the crowd. The people in this room tonight – myself included – have all paid a considerable sum to witness Alexander Brady's latest unwrapping of a mummified body, and we are certainly being rewarded with a show.

  “And now for the moment you have all been waiting for!” Brady announces, stepping around to the other side of the upright corpse as its legs dance faster and faster. He reaches up and takes hold of the bandage around the corpse's face, causing more gasps of anticipation from the audience. “Prepare to be the first people, in more than two thousand years, to gaze upon the actual face of the Empress Hagadah! The privilege, ladies and gentleman, is one that I am about to share with you all.”

  With that, he starts pulling the bandage away, and I am surprised to see that he almost immediately exposes a withered eye socket.

  “I should warn you,” Brady adds, “that this is not for the faint-hearted. And I cannot guarantee that the great Hagadah will not suddenly return from the dead and attack me. Why, some even say that she placed a curse on her tomb, promising death and eternal damnation for anyone who dared disturb her sleep!”

  I lean forward slightly in my seat, peering more closely at the dead features as the corpse's head lolls in the grip of the mechanical contraption. Brady is already peeling away more sections of bandage, but I cannot help staring at the eyes and wondering how it is that this once-proud Egyptian empress has come to be here in a drawing room in Victorian London, undressed as part of an evening of frivolity. I am beginning to understand the concerns of those gentlemen from the sciences who complain that such evenings should not be allowed. After all, should not the dead be allowed to rest with a modicum of peace and decency? How would this audience react were Brady to dig up Queen Elizabeth for a show, or Mary or Matilda?