The Spider- 30 and Epilogue

Goodbye

Chapter 1-4| Chapters 5-6| Chapters 7-8|Chapters 9-11| Chapter 12|Chapter 13|Chapter 14-15|Chapter 16-17|Chapter 18-19 | Chapter 20|Chapter 21 |Chaper 22-23|Chapter 24-25.|26-27|28-29|30/Epilogue.

30

Wilcox and Muldoon stood outside the sunroom of Springheath Hall, awaiting the meeting that Ellman had requested the day before. “There’s nothing he can deny,” Wilcox began quietly. “The man had something on absolutely every accomplice; Jessops would do anything to disguise his secret preference for male company, Swinson and his fear of anyone exposing his secret family… the list just goes on.” Fred shook his head. “I’d be amazed if there was anything to talk about this morning.”

Thomas Edward Ellman sat in his sunroom, wearing his smoking jacket as though nothing had happened in the last twenty-four hours. Only, something had happened. He looked wan, lifting his eyes to look at Muldoon as though it caused him immense strain in the grey morning light.

“Just us, chaps,” he said with a slight slurring of his speech. Fumes of brandy sailed into the air, riding on his breath. “Let’s get on with it.”

“Mr Ellman,” Muldoon began, “are you saying you’re not seeking counsel?”

The old man seemed exhausted, staring at them with heavy bags under his eyes. “That is exactly what I am saying,” he said in a low growl.

Muldoon looked at Wilcox and then back at the old man. “Why the change of heart, Mr Ellman?”

“It’s not a change of heart. It’s rather a case of what I deserve,” he said, glancing over their heads for a second. “I made the wrong choices. I am responsible for the murders, even if I didn’t commit them myself. ‘If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just to forgive us our sins and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness’ and it is therefore what I should do.”

“It is not that you are directly responsible for your son’s actions—”

“But I am!” he cried, slamming his fist down on the table. “I lost a daughter, because I loved my son too much. One man cannot serve two masters, and I served him and myself. I am ashamed of what I’ve done.”

“Did you ever suspect that your son had some involvement in your second wife’s death?”

He nodded. “I denied it to myself, because I wanted to believe otherwise.” He hung his head for a moment, and when he raised it again, he said with a breaking voice, “what are you supposed to do when you discover that your son—even as a child—is a monster? Long has it been since the days when you could leave deformed children on the mountainside to die. If I was to send him away… I couldn’t. I couldn’t do it. My love for him clouded my judgement, and now I have lost two children.” He snorted, and followed with, “I suspect that Cecilia will never speak to me again, so let’s make that three. The things that…” he sniffed and tried to hold back tears. “The things I made that girl do… just to save… I am the monster.” He jabbed himself in the chest repeatedly with his finger. “I let Maggie down. I let my girls down. I am the monster.”

“Mr Ellman, I have the confessions for you to sign,” Muldoon said, gently. “First, we need your confession to orchestrating the poisoning of Frances Bryant, the blackmail of Dr Edward Swinson and of Michael Jessops. We need you to confess to forgery concerning John Bryant, and for perverting the course of justice on five counts.” Fred laid the documents out in a pile in front of Ellman, who took a deep breath and dipped his steel pen into the inkwell on the table. Muldoon and Wilcox watched him sign each one, as though it had been a pile of business contracts and he wanted to hurry up and finish for the day.

“Perverting the course of justice. That’s a new one, I take it?” He blew the last line of ink and pushed the papers back at Wilcox.

“Quite recent, yes. Long overdue, as well, in my opinion,” Wilcox said with an awkward smile.

Ellman sat there for a moment and stared into space. “So what now then?”

“Prison, Mr Ellman,” Muldoon replied. “You’ll be tried for these crimes and likely sentenced to life imprisonment… but of course, that’s up to the judge.”

“Very well,” he said, swallowing. “My will is written. Cecilia gets everything. Every last penny, every last brick. It is the least I can do…” He smiled through what looked like the first crash of his bottom lip and took another deep breath. “Now, gentlemen. May I have a moment alone before I accompany you back to Liverpool?”

Wilcox left the room first. Muldoon, just as he had turned out of the doorway, remembered something, and turned around. When he re-entered the room to collect his hat, he was met with Ellman holding a pistol to his head.

Muldoon stood in the doorway, saying nothing. Their eyes met. Ellman’s were wide, bloodshot and desperate: Muldoon’s, emotionless and steady. The seconds that passed felt like hours, as Ellman’s hand shook violently, pushing the slender barrel to his temple. “Let me die alone,” Ellman pleaded, with quick breaths. Muldoon opened his mouth, but couldn’t find the words. “Afford me this quiet death,” the man said through gritted teeth.

Cecilia appeared in the room, her skirts brushing against the door frame as she slid past Muldoon. Red-faced, Ellman began to cry. “No! You cannot see me like this!” he yelled.

She shook her head calmly, and slowly approached the table. With a fair, pixie-like hand, she wrapped her fingers around the handle of the gun and steadily lowered it from his head without a word. She then took the weapon from his hands and dropped it on the floor, and collapsed into her father’s lap, sobbing.

“I am not worthy,” he said, stroking her soft hair as she released fresh tears into the fabric of his smoking jacket.

“If I can find it in my heart to forgive you, father,” she said as she wept, and looked up at him, “then you can listen to me as I tell you this now.” She wiped away her tears and stared into his eyes as she held his face in her hands. “I believe in all that is just and fair in this world, and I know that deep down…” she steadied her whimpering and continued, “you do, too. And that is why you must go now. You must do this the right way. You, father, can still be a decent man, and you know that you must do the right thing.”

Father looked at daughter as though he was seeing her for the first time. Muldoon silently turned away, leaving them to say their final farewell in private.

***

Margaret Emily Ross Ellman and Mary Elizabeth Hobbs were buried side by side in St James’ cemetery the following week. Edward Ellman, remorseless and—thanks to his father—without representation, was sentenced to be hanged on the morning of December 18th, 1892. The scandal caused much hubbub among the mourners and their respective staff and tenants, as well as the wider population. Breakfast tables across the region found themselves plastered with front page stories about ‘Teddy Ellman, The Spider who haunted a family at number five’. Both Ellman men covered the front covers for weeks, bringing hundreds to huddle in coffee houses and tearooms to hear the latest about the killer who lived in the walls of Percy Street, waiting to trap his next victim.

“It just doesn’t bear thinking about,” Sarah said, covering herself with her cape as a small burst of sleet descended on the mourners.

“I wouldn’t have found him if it wasn’t for your drawing,” Muldoon said. She blushed.

“I didn’t know… I drew something from a dream I’d had. I didn’t realise that he… it sickens me.”

“I’m sorry that I didn’t take your allegation seriously,” he said.

“It’s no matter. It was the strangest thing, and I knew it must have sounded ridiculous.”

“That’s the last time I’ll ever doubt a woman,” Muldoon said.

She smiled at him, and said, “you’re a wise man, Inspector.”

“Please,” he said. “Call me Daniel.”

Muldoon stood with Fred Wilcox and the Bryants at the back of the dense swarm of mourners. “I wanted to say goodbye,” Frances said. “I didn’t know either of them particularly, but we are a part of each other’s lives now, in one way or another. I can’t bear to think of the suffering they had to endure.”

From where they stood, they could see the Hobbs family standing at the graveside, as well as Cecilia Ellman and her four-year-old niece, Polly. The little girl was wearing the gold necklace that had once belonged to her mother. Muldoon had the necklace cleaned, polished and returned to the family. “Why didn’t you just have her buried with it?” Gill asked, wondering why anyone would want the necklace found on a murder victim.

“Mary wanted me to give it to them,” he said. “And I value my sleep.”

Gill, understanding that the mysterious ways in which Muldoon had to work, were not worth questioning, nodded. His wound was healing faster than expected, but he was instructed to stay home and rest. Ablewhite prescribed fresh air, good food and ‘no police business.’

Muldoon, catching sight of Mary and Maggie, held his breath. They were dressed smartly, and if he hadn’t known otherwise, seemed alive. They waved and smiled as they looked at each other and back to him. Mary had her hand on the little girl’s shoulder, and Maggie stood beside her twin, who was wiping away tears. Muldoon turned to Frances, who had seen them too. When they looked up at the grave again, the ghosts had gone.

Long after the mourners had parted ways and vacated the cemetery, Muldoon accompanied the Bryant family back to Percy street where a couple of carters were loading their belongings onto a covered wagon.

“You’re leaving?” Muldoon asked.

“Yes,” John Bryant said. “Too much has happened here.”

“Where will you go?” Muldoon’s eyes met with Sarah’s.

John looked up at the house. “We are set up with some apartments in Chester for now, and then I was thinking of buying a farm.” He turned to his wife and smiled, reaching for her hand. “Life was simpler then, wasn’t it?”

“It was,” she agreed, holding his hand tightly. Frances was still thin, but the light had returned to her eyes. “And even though he’s gone… I couldn’t sleep at night knowing he had lived right there with us, hiding in the walls. It is a horror that will stay with me for a long time, but we must look to the future and be glad that he's gone.” She shook her head, sending her pearl drop earrings swinging, and looked back at Muldoon. “Inspector, forgive me if this is forward but, we were wondering…” she looked at Sarah for a second. “We were wondering if you would like to come and spend Christmas with us… that is, if you don’t have any other plans? Mrs Mckinnon has made a rather large Christmas pudding, you see…”

Muldoon, taken aback, smiled. “What a generous offer,” he said. He looked at Sarah Jones, who blushed and cast her round, silk-lidded eyes at the floor. “I don’t have any other offers, and I am owed some time off after all… I’d be more than happy to come and visit for Christmas.”

“The little boy can come, too, of course,” Frances added.

“Thank you. Paulie will be thrilled. You are too kind.”

John held out a hand. “It’s the least we could do, after everything you’ve done for us.” The two men shook hands. “Our train leaves in two hours, so we’d better get on. Here.” Bryant pulled a slip of paper out of his pocket and handed it to Muldoon. “That’s where to find us.”

“Have a safe journey,” Muldoon said, placing the paper in his breast pocket. The Bryants went back into the house to collect their final things and wait for the cab, leaving Muldoon and Sarah alone beside the wagon.

“You look flushed, Miss Jones,” he said.

Her eyes widened, and she looked away shyly. “Please, we are beyond that now. You can call me Sarah, and you didn’t have to say ‘yes’ out of politeness… I’m sorry that Frances has taken it upon herself to play matchmaker.”

“I’m not.”

She relaxed her shoulders and laughed with relief. “So now that that’s settled,” she said, looking at the house and then back at the inspector. “I look forward to getting to know you, Daniel.”

“Goodbye for now, then, Sarah Jones.”

“Goodbye," she said, entering through the gate and turning to look at him once more with a smile.

Muldoon tipped his hat, turned on his heel and headed west toward the fading sun.

🕷

December 18th, 1892

Dear Margaret,

This morning, I awoke before the rest of the household in a manner similar to Christmas morning. The air was cold, but my mind was on the gallows. I am confused by my own feelings of delight on such a monumental day as this. Even in the darkest depths, even when our souls are shadowed by evil that seeks to break us, there is magic in the world, and I found it this morning. The frost sparkled on every blade of grass I happened to look upon, and I savoured every moment that I spent crossing the lawn to wait for the church bells to ring. A little robin came to sit beside me for a time, until Fig chased it away with his yapping. On the eighth bell, I collapsed onto the ground and wept with relief. He is dead.

The justice that he has been served will not bring you back to me. I know this. But I also know that somewhere, you can hear me.

Your death was not in vain. That little girl is alive because of you. She is growing more like Mary each and every day, and you will live in her life just as I do. Mr and Mrs Hobbs have invited me to stay with them. At first, I thought they meant just for Christmas, but they knew of my situation, and wished for me to stay with them indefinitely, if I should be unable to find more suitable lodgings. That is very kind of them, and I shall certainly consider it. I love that child with a fervour akin to what her own mother would have bestowed upon her. She will only know love.

Father is in prison, as he should be. I’m afraid I shall never see him again. As he had no living sons, the business passed on to me when he was sentenced, and I aim to sell the lot. Nothing will remain of Ellman and Co. and I have more than enough to have a long and happy life. I dread to think of what he did with that wealth. I learned of Mr Bryant’s treatment, and it horrified me, so I sent the family thirty gold sovereigns, as compensation, and they shall have the fattest goose for Christmas. I hope that that will be enough.

My love, always,

Sissy.

Epilogue

January, 1893

The deep grey clouds, pregnant with the swell of snow, hovered over the city as Father Brown finished dressing and prepared to emerge from his quarters. Heavy and aching, his head throbbed as he tried to drink some water; it was no use, and resulted in him leaning over the basin, trying not to retch.

His hands felt cold to the bone as he rubbed them together over the small fire. He winced as something under his shirt dug into his neck with a sting, but in his stoicity, he chose to ignore it. Still wearing his blanket over his head, he left his bedroom and passed his housekeeper in the passage that connected the rectory to the church. “Good morning, Father,” she said, busily sweeping up in the corridor. It was eleven o’clock, and Father Brown, usually a master at timekeeping, was late for confession.

“Morning, Mrs Flaherty,” he said, suddenly conscious of the way he might have looked with a blanket around his head.

She eyed the blanket and smiled knowingly. “It’s a bit cold this morning, Father. Are you well?”

He stopped for a moment, and pondered. “Perfectly fine, thanks,” he said, eyeing her full bosom and fat, round hips under her apron. Glistening with light perspiration, her skin, pink and full of life, distracted him from the conversation. For a moment, she didn’t notice as she swept, until she caught him still standing there in the corner of her eye.

Mrs Flaherty, thwarted by her arthritis in cold weather, stopped what she was doing and stood upright, leaning on the broom handle. She stared at him peculiarly. “Are you sure you don’t need some broth or a cup of tea?” she asked, concerned. What little grey light there was, shone through the rooms, leaving the corridor in shadow. She couldn’t read his expression, but noticed how the glow in his cheeks and twinkling of his eyes gave the impression of fever. It was winter, after all.

“No thank you, Mrs Flaherty. I’m… I’m fasting today,” he said, swallowing the saliva as it coated his teeth.

“Very well,” she said, observing his gaunt, hungry features that adorned his smooth, porcelain visage. “There are some people already waiting for confession, Father,” she said. “So I’ll let you get on.” She began to hum and continued with her work, leaving him to shuffle down the darkened corridor in peace.

Muldoon waited in the confession box and relaxed when he heard the priest climb in and sit down.

“Forgive me Father, but I am about to sin.”

There was a prolonged silence, followed by the rustling of a vestment. “How so?” the priest finally asked.

Muldoon, overpowered by the stench of death, looked up and covered his mouth with a handkerchief. The confession box was soaked in it: decaying, flesh-ridden death and despair. “See, Father… I followed a breadcrumb trail—only—the breadcrumbs were bodies. Bodies of women, children…of choir boys. You’re careless, and you’re messy, and you’re going to have to die, Father.”

“What are you talking about?”

“It’s a miracle, really. Here we are, slowly approaching the middle of the day, and I’d expect to see a pile of ashes there where you’re sitting right now, what with all the crucifixes but… anyway, any final words?”

“Disease!” he cried. “It was disease! It’s winter! I was giving them their last rites.”

He heard the priest fiddling with the door on the other side of the box. “It’s no use, Father. It’s locked from the outside.” Muldoon looked down at his lap. “Last night, while you were out hunting, the top of this box was removed and replaced with a sheet. In a moment, I’ll be pulling that cover off the top of the box, and the sun will deliver swift justice.”

“What is this? Let me out right now! Right now or I shall be calling for the police.”

Muldoon lowered his head, and smirked.

Closing the rattling confession box with a respectful turn of the handle, Muldoon nodded to Lacey, who helped him pull the thick cover from the top of the tall mahogany structure. The late morning sun, as high as it would be that day, beamed down through the stained glass body of St Michael—the archangel’s foot securing the body of the serpent as he angled his spear toward its head. Both men left the church to the recessional melody of shrieks and screams from the occupant of the confession box. “Won’t it burn the box?” Lacey asked. Muldoon shook his head.

“No. His type are quite self-contained, which is kind of them. The housekeeper will probably sweep it up thinking someone was smoking in there.”

They descended the snow-dusted steps of St Michael’s church where Andrew Gill was waiting for them.

“Is that the last one, then?” he asked with a sneer.

“I think so,” Muldoon said, stopping to admire the sunbeams penetrating through the thick cloud. “All roads led to Father Brown. It stops with him.”

Gill huffed. “What a strange world we live in. Vampires?”

“Yes. The very same. Uncannily like the kind you find in the penny dreadfuls.”

“I used to love those when I was younger!” Lacey said, pulling his gloves back on.

“Aye, me too,” Gill agreed. “End of an era now though. We’ve had our fill of vampires,” he said, adjusting his collar. “Anyway, where the hell have you been?” He angled his interrogative eyes at the inspector.

“I told you,” Muldoon began, “I took some time off.”

“Will you be pisssing off for Easter too just in time for Father Brown’s inevitable resurrection as well?”

Lacey quickly turned his head in surprise. “That happens?” he asked.

Muldoon shook his head. “No, it doesn’t. And yes Gill, I might.”

Gill regarded him for a moment. “Did you consider my offer, then?”

“I’m still thinking about it.”

Gill grunted and turned his face away for a moment. “How was Christmas then?” he asked the inspector.

Muldoon, fondly remembering the holiday that had just passed, smiled and said, “not bad. Yours?”

“It was fine. If anyone asks me to play Charades one more time though, I’m packing my bags.”

Muldoon chuckled. “I’m glad to be back.”

“Well…” Gill looked about the deserted streets as the snow began to float down in feather-like flakes. “Pub? Seen as we missed New Year celebrations?”

As they began to exit the churchyard, Muldoon rubbed something with his forefinger and thumb in his pocket: a soft lock of mousy brown hair. “Yes,” he said in response to Gill. “Let’s hope it’s a good one.”