Day 25 - 3126 words

Once inside the guardhouse of the prison, Ernest had but a moment to think about what he would say. He found the sentence came easily to him, however. ‘I would like to see Mr Kerford. I am Ernest Kerford, his son – one of his sons.’
Ernest could not admit to being relieved that this request brought so little surprise. He had been hoping to be refused, to be told that there was no prisoner of that name. But beyond remarking that Mr Kerford got hardly any visitors, the guard took little interest in Ernest or his relationship to his prisoner. Ernest followed him down the grey drab corridors, and through a succession of metal gates and doors, these getting more frequent, and heavier, as they progressed further away from the dawn that must be brushing the streets outside. Finally the guard stopped outside a metal door which bore the imprint of some heavy object having been beaten against it.
‘He’s in there. The insane wing. The hospital, I mean. I don’t go in there. The nurse the other side will show you.’
Ernest was pushed through the half open door, which the guard swiftly pulled shut and locked. A burly male nurse in a white coat was there to meet him, and turned to go along yet another corridor without a word.  Finally Ernest was pushed gently forward through one last door – and found himself in a cell, with the man from his nightmares.

The man, Mr Kerford, Jack the Ripper, was sitting on a low chair in a surprisingly comfortable room. There were two other chairs, a table spread with books, a teapot and two teacups and saucers. A curtain hung across the room to give some privacy to the bed, and the commode wedged into the far corner. Ernest took in few of the details of the paintings hung on the walls or the titles of the books as he sat down.
‘So you have solved the poor puzzle of your parentage. Such a shame your poor Mother could not put a name to me. It would have made your life a little easier.’
‘You are Colonel Kerford’s brother.’ Said Ernest.
‘Jay Kerford. Your Father. And twin to Colonel Basil Kerford. You, of course, are twin to Gabriel.’
‘But – Lady Kerford…’
‘Her infant died at birth, as so many do, just a few days before your Mother gave birth to twin boys.’ Kerford smiled. ‘How fickle is fate. The baby born with every medical advantage is as blue and cold as stone, and the two bastards born in an empty room are so healthy that they could eat their mother alive.  What could she do? When Basil, my brother, found her and came to her, she willingly gave one of the twins up.’
‘Only one’ said Ernest, half to himself.
‘Only one. Lady Kerford, poor sweet thing, was so dosed up on morphine after the horrors of labour that she knew nothing of her child’s death. She willingly accepted that Gabriel was the baby pulled from her own womb. But the deception could not stretch so far as two.’
Ernest thought of the sketches that his Mother had made of babies, two babies, and of hands pulling them from their shared cot.
‘Besides’ Kerford continued. ‘As I understand it, your Mother wanted to keep one of the infants. She did not want to be left entirely alone. She made a song and dance about it as well, wanting to be sure she had kept the ‘right’ one. Now what can she have meant by that, I wonder?’ Kerford poured tea into two cups, his hand shaking slightly. ‘You’ll have to excuse my fatigue. The effort of projecting myself into your thoughts and manifesting before your optic nerves for so long tonight has quite exhausted me.’
‘How is it that you are here – alive. Why were you not hung?’ asked Ernest.
‘It is easy to tell that you were not the one brought up as a gentleman. I am here, as you so plainly put it, because I am, in the eyes of the law, innocent. Insane, deluded, witless, violent, unable to live in society. I have been labelled in many derogatory terms, but not as a murderer. I am suffering this captivity for my own safety, my dear boy. ‘
‘But, I know – the things you told me...the details.’
‘I am sure you know the meaning of the word deluded. Nothing I say can be trusted. My brother made sure that everyone knows that. It’s written in my notes. The doctors are agreed that I have a pathological, unhealthy fascination with the Jack the Ripper case. I may even, in my more – troubled – moments, declare myself to be the Ripper.  And the more loudly I do so, the more often it is disregarded.’ Kerford took a sip of tea. ‘You see how a man can live more freely while confined within his own myth.  Some fools outside even regard me as an expert on the facts of the case. They write to me about it.’ He gestured to the table behind him where lay a neat pile of letters. ‘Don’t worry, my lad. I never give them any meat.’ He looked up at Ernest. ‘You should calm yourself. For a young man, you look very tense. Alarmed, even.’
‘Sir, can you wonder at it?’ said Ernest. ‘I am sitting opposite a monster.’
‘I thought you knew me better than that. I thought you had more awareness of your own weaknesses than that. Still, allow me to put some details on your Mother’s impassioned sketch of your conception. That may allow you to relax a little into your seat. You’ll forgive me for making myself at home, in my own home.’ Kerford took some more tea. Ernest managed to swallow a little tea, while keeping his focus on Kerford.  He was watching his hands, which were so like Gabriel’s with their long fingers and animated gestures.
‘I am not exaggerating when I say that I worshipped your Mother. She was so pure, so innocent. Even though she had a foolish passion for what passed for art at the time, and for the artists who liked to think themselves beyond convention, she was untouched by it all. Somehow, nobody dared to violate her.’
‘Until you.’ Said Ernest.
‘I will not rise to that remark. I had followed her for months, sketching her when I could, keeping out of her sight. I wanted to find a way to get close to her. Then I saw that my idiot brother was in love with her. Oh yes, he was already married. She would not dream of being his mistress. And so he pined and fretted for her, and I watched him and laughed. I knew that Rosalina, the fairest flower in the garden, would never stoop to him. Still, I thought, I could have some fun at his expense. You must remember, Ernest, I was a young and foolish man then.’
‘And a murderer.’
‘I do wish you could leave the costermonger tongue outside this room. I have told you before, I was conducting experiments to prove the existence of the hand of God in His creation. But I regarded Rosalina as something above such matters, so let us leave my other activities aside for the moment. My brother was about to join the Regiment, so he was enjoying a last season in town, and I was sharing digs with him. I decided to lure him to an assignation in the summer house. It belonged to a mutual friend of ours, one of the artistic brethren.  Basil would believe that Rosalina would be there, waiting for him. I wanted him to endure the pain of being, as your street friends say ‘stood up.’ That was all. A shallow joke at the expense of his pompous ardour for my angel. For I regarded her as mine.
‘So why was my Mother in the summer house as well?’
‘I don’t know. I suppose I could say it was fate. More prosaically I assume the artist had, in fact, invited her to model for him. Rosalina had many admirers, all of them scheming. When I saw her skipping down the path it was the work of a moment to pretend to be the artist. And when she began to undress…’
‘No!’ said Ernest, rising and pushing back his chair. ‘I will not allow you to speak any more about this.’
‘But you will. This is the only time that you and I shall meet. Your need to know outweighs your natural prudence. I am not going to boast. I am not striving to have any effect upon your emotions. I will tell you what happened, as blankly as I might tell a judge, one day. It is your inheritance, Ernest, and it is the only one you will ever have.’
Ernest sank back into his chair and covered his face with his hands. ‘Continue.’ He said.
‘I kept myself concealed from Rosalina by keeping to the shadows and turning her face to the light. Although she did not know me, I do bear some familial resemblance to Basil, and she might have realised who I was. As I worked, I did not have any intention to  - take matters in any other direction, but I posed her as an angel, and as I sketched I began to understand that she was indeed an angel walking through London. If I could not find the signature of God the artist somewhere in the beating heart of an angel I could find it nowhere else. It must be there, inside Rosalina. She was surely made by God even if every other woman in this foul and stinking city had been excreted by the Devil himself. And then I reasoned, as I stroked the outline of her curves upon the paper, that a sure test of her true angelic status would be to attempt to violate her. For God would never permit an angel to be harmed in that way. So even as I left the easel and approached her, even as I made my intentions clear to her, I was expecting a thunderbolt. I was certain I would be burned, blinded, killed on the spot. Believe me, Ernest – that I was able to perform the most basic of acts with her beautiful body was the most profound disappointment. The despair I felt then, even as I gave life to you and Gabriel, was the deepest sorrow I have ever felt. I carry it still. That Rosalina was a woman, not an angel I still find hard to believe today. But the evidence was there in the sensations of my own flesh – she was exactly the same inside as all the others.’
Ernest felt sick. The small room seemed to spin around him. He looked up and saw apple blossom above him, an unnatural slick of spring sunlight. He smelled oilpaints and fresh paper. He could hear a woman crying. Kerford touched him on the knee. ‘No more. You do not need to go there again.’
The room returned to its usual proportions, and Ernest saw the dark cell. He blinked at the painting which he now noticed above Kerford’s head. It had the outline of an angel, but he could not make out the details.
Kerford tidied away the tea tray onto the side table and sat back down with a sigh. ‘Still, if one was sentimental one could say that God was looking after your Mother, even if he did choose my brother as his agent. It was Basil who appeared at the critical moment and saved your Mother’s life. He told me he had never received my deceptive summons, but that he was compelled to hunt for me that day. He interrupted me, before I could properly begin my investigation. He got me put away. For somehow, Basil had become suspicious of me. He and I had, of course, discussed the Ripper case and the foolishness of the police. He was more charitable towards the doxies dead on the street than I could bring myself to sound. Of course that was due to my disappointment at their limitations, and the need to find a new and different experience. I should have been more alert to the tone of his questions. But Basil, on his own, came to understand what I was doing. Every waking moment in this cell I search and search through my actions to see how I could have alerted him, to the smallest mistake that I must have made, and yet I cannot find it.’
‘He had found your sketches.’ Said Ernest.
Kerford gasped. ‘He told you this?’
‘No. But I have seen them. He preserved them in a book about the case. There are two sketches of my Mother – in the garden, not…not… And two sketches of another victim. One when she was alive, and…and another sketch.’
‘Well, well. Fancy Basil keeping them for so long. I suppose he thought they may be needed for evidence one day. I can hardly suppose he was going to show them to his cherished son. I was foolish for keeping them, of course.’ Kerford shrugged. ‘Still, it does not matter now.’
‘He does not have the other sketches of my Mother.’
‘No indeed. I have them. I kept them, and worked on them. I made a study for a larger work, as you can see. Do go and take a closer look. I would be interested in your opinion. It is done with gouache pencil ; the doctors will not let me have oil paints, they are worried I might eat them.’
Ernest got up to study the painting as Kerford moved the lamp nearer. The light swung over the image of an angel, looking out of the painting with a troubled, almost twisted face, but still beautiful. Her  hands were bound in front of her, her dress was torn, and blood dripped from her broken wing tips, and pooled between her feet.
‘it is grotesque.’ Said Ernest. ‘It is  - it is pornographic.’
‘It is called the violated angel.’ Said Kerford, sounding as he had received a compliment. ‘I am hoping that one day I can present it as an altar piece.’
Ernest wheeled round in rage.
‘Do not make a fuss.’ Said Kerford. ‘Remember I am a harmless lunatic and you are someone keen on keeping away from the police. If you give them a crumb, they will investigate your entire life.’
‘Get me out of here.’ Said Ernest.
‘That’s entirely up to you. I do not have the freedom to physically leave this room – you do. Just knock on the door and you will be admitted to the upper world once more.’
‘If I go, and share nothing of what you have said – will you do one thing that I ask?’
‘Is this a fairy tale, that there must be a bargain? Ask away, dear boy. Anything in my power as your Father, I will do for you.’
‘Stay away from me. In my dreams and – and in my thoughts. And stay away from Effie, too.’
‘Ah. Effie.’
‘I mean it! I do not want to  - to feel you anywhere near her.’
Kerford held up his hands. ‘Agreed. But I think, dear lad, that where Effie is concerned you have more physical rivals for her than any thought shape I can make. I am getting older, my powers are lessening. I will happily keep out of your dreams.’
Ernest banged hard on the cell door, and soon heard the key being turned.
As Ernest was stepping with relief through back out into the corridor Kerford said ‘Although can you promise to keep out of mine?’

Effie. Effie. I know that I promised to stay away from you, but believe me, you are in more danger from Ernest than you ever could be from me. He is on his way to you, and he is burning with a flame of righteous anger that I could rarely match. I can see feathers around you. I can see the sky on fire, the ground heaving beneath your feet as you run. Where are you? Run from him, Effie. Keep away from both of my sons, if you value your life.

Ernest was taken aback for the moment by the daylight outside. He seemed to have been shut in that foetid room for so long.  He could not tell for a moment what time of day it was, or get any hold on his thoughts. He walked aimlessly, until he found a café that was open. He drank tea and ate toast, feeling his appetite and his usual senses return to him as he took in the humdrum scene of everyday life going on around him.  But still he could not be calmed. He thought at first of telegramming to Gabriel, but then he wondered what on earth he could tell him in a scrap of paper. He must go to France and tell him in person. He must tell the Colonel  - no, he must ask the Colonel why he never told Ernest the truth. He must tell Effie. Ernest drank his tea and thought about Effie. How could he ask her to marry him, now? He saw the contempt she would try to hide from him. He saw how much she would hate him, because she would see this information as a plot not only to prevent their marriage, but to put a stop to her friendship with Gabriel.  He started to walk, full of agitation, rehearsing an argument with her in his mind. He did not pay any attention to where he was going, but finally he found himself on Westminster Bridge.  A couple of wounded servicemen and their friends jostled past him. They made some remark about the girl up ahead, and Ernest raised his head. At the highest point of the bridge’s curve was Effie, dressed entirely in white, standing on a small crate in the centre of the pavement. Ernest hurried up to her, but stopped for a moment to see what she was doing. She was scanning the passers by, looking for something or someone. Then he saw her hold out a white feather to a youth, no more than a boy in a man’s suit. He took the feather, turned scarlet, and ran from her. Ernest strode up to Effie and pulled her off her crate.
‘What the hell are you doing?’
‘Ernest! Let go of me. How dare you talk to me with such language.’
‘I dare because you are my fiancée and because I cannot believe you could be so stupid.’