Birthright: Pray your past stays hidden (Alex Turner Book 1) Read online

  Contents

  Acknowledgements

  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

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  BIRTHRIGHT

  A novel by

  RICHARD BLADE

  Also by Richard Blade

  World In My Eyes

  SPQR

  and coming soon

  Imposters

  Copyright © 2020 Richard Blade

  BladeRocker Books

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 9798644073658

  Library of Congress Control Number 1-8810313065

  This novel is a work of fiction. Any reference to real events, institutions, businesses, government agencies, organizations, and locales are intended only to give the fiction a sense of reality and authenticity. Any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval systems, without the written permission of the author.

  Cover design by 100 Covers

  Acknowledgements

  To my beloved wife, Krista, for letting me disappear into my world of adventures

  To Mum & Dad, always in my heart

  To Mister Roxy, who kept me company as my story raced across centuries, continents, and oceans

  CHAPTER ONE

  The Final Victim

  November 8th, 1888

  London disappeared under a deadly blanket rolling in from the river, obscuring the streets and famed landmarks. It was a toxic, foul-smelling fog, restricting the sight and breathing of the six million people living in the world’s largest city. Heavy moist air, drifting upward over the Thames, formed a sulfuric soup when it mixed with the contaminated smoke spewing out of the blackened chimneys sprouting above the dozens of factories located within Britain’s capital. Adding to the noxious poison, was the soot rising from the countless coal fires burning inside residential houses in a vain attempt to drive away the November night's damp chill.

  For decades, parliament, mayors, and even the monarchy, had tried to clean up the putrid air that returned on these still, cold nights and killed thousands of Londoners every year, who perished from bronchitis, pneumonia, and black lung disease, but it was the people themselves who objected to any changes they were asked to make to save their lives. Wood was scarce and coal was cheap, and as winter drew in, they had to stay warm somehow, and if it gave them a bloody cough or made their eyes sting and run with dirty tears, then they would have to put up with it. They had more pressing things to worry about, like no jobs, food, or money.

  The owner of the three-story mansion overlooking Regent’s Park did not share the same concern about the scarcity of necessities the common folk stressed about, but he was very aware of the clinging fog surrounding him as he paced toward his waiting carriage. He paused and turned his gaze on the four gaslights in the corners of his expansive courtyard. He stared at the closest one and saw a faint flickering of flames behind the beveled glass but was unable to make out any details of the ornate lamp post, even though it was less than ten yards from where he stood. Good, he thought to himself, a night like this will be perfect for my business. He continued to the carriage, his long black cape hanging straight and barely moving, thanks to the lack of any breeze.

  The coachman, standing with a servant next to the horses, saw his employer emerging from the heavy, green haze. Both men ceased their conversation and snapped to attention in a gesture of respect.

  “Good evenin’, sir. Your carriage is ready.”

  The dark figure stopped, “Good evening, Gregson. I won’t be needing my footman.”

  “Yes, sir.” Gregson turned to his waiting friend, “You’re off. Go to your room and get warm.” He looked back to his master, “Will he be wanted later?”

  “Perhaps. I don’t know yet.”

  “You heard the gentleman. Run along.”

  The young servant took off at a sprint across the courtyard and disappeared into the fog.

  “It’s a real pea-souper this evening. Where are we off to, sir?” asked the coachman.

  The man delayed his answer until the footman was safely back inside the house and unable to hear before he replied, and when he did, it was just one word, “Whitechapel.”

  The coachman nodded in understanding and opened the carriage’s door, lowering the steps to allow his employer to climb in. The man entered carefully, making sure he didn’t dislodge his top hat.

  “Would you like me to take that, sir?”

  The dark figure involuntarily glanced at the brown leather utility bag he held, “No, it stays with me.”

  “As you will, sir.”

  He closed the carriage door and clambered into the familiar driver’s seat, retrieving his whip from its stand. He called out a quick courtesy warning, “We’re off, sir.”

  The coachman snapped his whip above the waiting horse team, and fearing the split leather cracking against their flanks, the two horses sprang forward, pulling the black carriage across the cobblestone courtyard and out onto the fog-shrouded streets of London on its mission of murder.

  Dorset Street was well known as the worst area of London, and it had worked hard to earn the title. Vast areas of the massive city had become slums and were untenable to respectable people, as chronic unemployment, abject poverty, and alcoholism had run rampant for close to fifty years in much of those stricken neighborhoods, but Dorset Street remained in a league of its own. Crime was so commonplace here the London constabulary had stopped responding to lesser calls, and foot patrols had ceased in Whitechapel in the 1870s because of the number of policemen being attacked or stabbed. But still, Dorset Street was busy every night thanks to its reputation as a place for easy, cheap sex. Dockworkers, sailors, and migrants flocked here to find a woman to have their way with for less than a shilling. The real trick was to escape from the wretched area after the sex was done without being accosted and robbed of any money remaining in your wallet.

  Three women gathered close together for warmth in a small, dead-end mews leading off of Dorset Street. Miller’s Court was a claustrophobic alleyway framed by a cluster of crumbling buildings housing the poorest dwellers of London’s neglected tenements. That night, the women huddling there, shivering from the cold and damp, hoped there would be sufficient business, with the weekend coming, that they could make enough money to pay their overdue rent and perhaps have a little left over to buy food in the morning.

  It was several hours before the normal peak of their trade which happened when the pubs closed, but the three prostitutes had decided to come out from their dark, squalid rooms and be on the streets early in case there were any takers from the workers on their way home to their wives after a long day laboring in the factories and mills. The group of drunks at the end of the street, singing, pushing, and stumbling past, certainly wouldn’t be wanting their services tonight, and after all the cheap beer they’d downed at the Britannia public house, probably couldn’t function anyway.

  One of the women, despite the overuse of powder and rouge smeared across her face, began to
rapidly lose her color and started to gag.

  “You all right, Mary?” asked her friend, Joyce, seeing something was amiss.

  Mary shook her head, put her hand over her mouth and hurried to a corner, barely making it before she threw up against the moldy brick wall. She turned around, but a second tremor hit her and she tried to vomit again, but this time her retching was limited to a dry heave. Shaking, she shuffled back to her two friends.

  “Take a swig of this,” Joyce offered her a flask. “The whiskey will clean your breath a little.”

  “I’ll swill, but I’m not gonna swallow. Nothing’s staying down.” She took the small bottle, gargling quickly and spitting out the sharp alcohol.

  “You should go inside and rest. Try to get some kip.” Sarah, her other friend, was concerned, “I keep sayin’ to you, someone in your state shouldn’t be out on these stinking streets.”

  “I ’ave to be, Sarah. With me baby on its way, I need all the money I can make.”

  “I thought his father-”

  Mary cut off Joyce, “He can’t right now. The family sent him away when they heard about the wedding. He’s promised to help when he gets back, but you know what they can be like.”

  Joyce nodded in deep understanding, “It’s quite a pickle you’ve gotten yourself in. Tell you what. Go to your room. If any regulars come for you, I’ll take care of them and we’ll split the money.”

  “You are such a love to do that, Joyce. I promise I’ll try and pay you back when I’m feeling better.”

  “Don’t you worry about that.” She smiled, “Just name your little one after me.”

  “If it’s a girl, I will. Joyce is a fine name.” Mary coughed, a deep rattling coming from her lungs, and knowing she had to get out of the bitter night before her cold became the dreaded flu, turned toward the ramshackle terrace of Miller’s Court, leaving the chilled, foggy mean streets behind her as she shuffled into her room to try and get warm and perhaps even sleep.

  Sarah looked at Joyce with new respect, “You truly are a good friend to our Mary.”

  “She’d do the same for either of us.” Joyce peered out of the foggy mews and down the deserted road, “It’s not like I’m going to be killed in the rush.”

  The carriage pulled to a halt on Dorset Street, its wheels skidding on the damp cobblestones. The coachman jumped down and looked around cautiously before opening the door, “We’re here, sir. I’ll go and check for you.”

  The man inside replied softly, “Thank you, Gregson. And take care, many ne’er-do-wells and prowlers haunt this area.”

  The coachman grinned, “I’m prepared, sir. I wouldn’t bring you here at night without one of these with me.” He opened his heavy coat revealing a flintlock pistol tucked into his belt, “It’ll keep us both safe.”

  The dark figure nodded in appreciation as he watched his well-armed servant enter the shadowy mews.

  The coachman had only taken three steps when he saw two figures pressed hard together against a wall. Sarah Frost had her hoop skirt lifted while an inebriated dock worker took his money’s worth. A little further down, toward the end of the alley, a second woman lingered, bored and fidgeting with her fingernails, paying no attention to the noisy sex happening only feet from her. She would be the one to ask, thought the driver.

  “Is this 13 Miller’s Court?” It was not a polite question. He addressed Joyce York as if it were beneath him to offer her even a pleasant tone.

  Joyce pulled her gaze from her fingers and glared at the coachman, “You looking for directions, or are you man enough for something else?”

  “Watch your lip, whore, and answer me.”

  “Yes, this is 13 Miller’s Court. Home of the finest women in all of London.” Her voice held mocking laughter in her reply.

  “Good. I have someone who might be in need of your services.” He spun on his heel and hurried back through the fog to the carriage.

  “Well?” the figure inside asked.

  “This is it, sir. But I can find you much better girls-”

  “What I am looking for is here.” The dark figure emerged from the carriage, adjusted his hat and cape, and reached for his leather bag. He started into the dimly lit mews.

  His cautious coachman called after him, “How long, sir? So I’ll know you’re all right?”

  “Thirty minutes. That’s all I’ll need.”

  Joyce saw the imposing silhouette appearing through the fog, and noted the expensive tailoring and top hat. Money was afoot and coming towards her. She smiled, maybe tonight would be worthwhile after all.

  The figure stopped mere inches away and viewed her up and down.

  She felt his examining gaze burning through her and spoke first, “You are a fine gentleman, aren’t you.”

  He ignored her compliment and was all business, “I’m looking for Mary Kelly. I’m told this is her corner.”

  Joyce flashed her best smile back at him, revealing two missing teeth, “If you have silver, then you’ve found her.”

  The dark figure held up a single coin, “I have a gold guinea.”

  “Haven’t seen one of those on these streets for years. A gold guinea will buy you a real good time. Come here, my love.” She reached for his hand and pulled him toward the wall.

  He wrenched away from her grasp as though her touch was offensive, “Not here, somewhere more private.”

  “For a guinea you can visit my room. Follow me.” She led the way inside the dilapidated building.

  Joyce’s room was small, dingy, and damp. What had once been wallpaper peeled in long, tattered strips from the plaster, and stained floorboards peeked through the threadbare carpet. A narrow single bed, shoved in the corner, offered the promise of uncomfortable sex along with the souvenir of itching parasites, its worn, filthy mattress scarcely thicker than two blankets.

  The working girl grinned at her client, “How would you like it, sir? In the dark or should I light some candles?”

  “Light one. Enough to see what I’m doing,” came his clipped answer.

  “Naughty boy. Likes to see and feel the fun.” The candle flickered into life, casting their silhouettes across the room.

  “Mary Kelly, come here.” He waved her towards him.

  She stepped in close and embraced the well-dressed patron. Knowing her work was now underway, she changed her voice to give it a more inviting, flirtatious edge, “You know my name. What’s yours?”

  Joyce felt his hand sliding down between them as he replied, “You can call me Jack.”

  The poor girl had no time to react before the serrated blade plunged into her stomach and ripped viciously upwards, lifting her off her feet, as the vivisection started.

  The killer thrust again with the knife, driving it in so hard and fast the impact violently pushed her backward, slamming her against the wall, painting the plaster red. As she opened her mouth to scream, he tore the blade out and sliced horizontally across her throat with such force that not only did he sever her windpipe but had the satisfaction of feeling the knife scrape across her vertebrae.

  The unfortunate prostitute collapsed on her bed, her life slipping away; her voice, her arms, her legs, not responding to her mind’s desperate commands to run, to flee. She was crippled, helpless, dying. The last thing her eyes were able to focus on was her murderer opening his leather bag and removing a surgical saw. She tried pleading for mercy but all that came from her mouth was blood, and thankfully, in seconds, what remained of her consciousness was gone – forever.

  The temperature had dropped outside, and Sarah Frost rubbed her hands together, hoping to generate warmth, when the dark figure appeared from the doorway and stepped into the alley.

  “Did you have a good time, sir?”

  He didn’t reply or catch her eye, and instead quickened his pace, hurrying to the carriage.

  Sarah strained to see through the fog as he climbed in and the coachman whipped the horses away, the night swallowing up Joyce’s rich client.

&n
bsp; She turned from her view of Dorset Street and gazed at the window on the ground floor of 13 Miller’s Court, “Joyce, how was your fine gentleman?”

  Her words echoed down the empty mews, soaked up by the dense mist.

  “Joyce?”

  This was not like her. She was always the first to be laughing and sharing stories about the strange predilections of her men. She scurried to the building housing their rooms and stepped inside.

  “Joyce?” she called again, before pushing her door open. That was when she stopped, unable to comprehend the horror of what she saw, as on the bed, the walls, and scattered across the floor, were the remains of her friend.

  She repeated the name again, but this time the word was a drawn out, protracted, hysterical scream, “JOYCE!”

  The carriage thundered through the darkness, leaving the dangers and dregs of Whitechapel behind as it returned to the more civilized locales of Britain’s capital city. In minutes, St. James Park appeared and the coachman whipped the horses along The Mall toward one of the world’s most imposing residences.

  The guards saw the carriage approaching, but instead of snapping to attention and issuing a challenge, they moved respectfully to the side and opened the heavy wrought-iron gates, allowing it to roll through onto the courtyard of Buckingham Palace before pulling to a stop outside the main entrance.

  The sinister figure stepped out into the light, and carrying his leather bag, strode confidently past the night watch and inside the iconic building. Had any of the sentries taken it upon themselves to inspect the carriage, they would have found a large canvas sack, tied tightly, concealing four towels the passenger had used to clean himself, soaked through with fresh, still-warm blood.

  The long sweeping staircase and plush corridors were guarded by uniformed soldiers, and all had the same reaction as the man in the cape and top hat approached. They lowered their heads in acknowledgement and made no attempt to slow his approach to the upper chambers.