Willing Flesh

By JoAnne Soper-Cook

When a series of bizarre murders occur in London's notorious East End, Scotland Yard's Inspector Philemon Raft is called on to solve the crimes, but even he is powerless to explain why the victims are displayed in public places -- or why the killer insists on drilling burr holes in their skulls. With little to go on except the strange red dust found on the victims' palms, Raft must scour the city looking for an explanation. Aided only by his newly-appointed constable Freddie Crook, Raft's investigation takes him into London's most dark and dangerous places, where human predators wait to devour and destroy. But Raft has an even bigger problem: a casual acquaintance is blackmailing him, and what she knows about his secrets could tear Raft's life to pieces.

• Language: English
• Publisher: JoAnne Soper-Cook
• Release date: May 22, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005523916

JoAnne Soper-Cook

JoAnne Soper-Cook was born in Old Perlican, Newfoundland and grew up in Hant's Harbour. She published her first story at the age of 8 when her mother, impressed with the quality of a short story she'd written for a school project, sent it in to a local newspaper. Since then she has written novels, novellas, short stories, plays, speeches, radio scripts and some really, really bad poetry. She holds a B.A. (Honors) and an M.A. in English Literature from Memorial University and a B.Ed, also from Memorial. When she isn't writing she teaches Communications and Creative Writing at the College of the North Atlantic.

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Willing Flesh

JS Cook

Smashwords Edition

copyright 2021, JS Cook

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Chapter One

London, 1889

She oughtn’t to be on the streets at this hour, a girl like her. What would people think? Her dress was none too clean but that was to be expected, and if the Ripper had taught anybody anything, it was this: the importance of disposable people. When it came to one’s work, they could hardly be dispensed with and when the experiments were done, well…they’d never be missed. No one would bother going out of doors after dark in Whitechapel to see where a girl like Lizzie Blunt had gone, or to enquire why she was late to her tea, and what about the parcel she was supposed to call for at the butcher’s shop? Only a few odd pieces, true — a scrap of bacon, some gristle and kidneys, the stray piece of offal — but Mr. Fleisch was kind enough to keep it for them, which was more than could be said for most folk round these parts. Really, this was doing her a favour, for what had she to go home to? A cramped and crowded hovel, filthy with the tight-pressed flesh of other people, too many bodies crammed into a space designed for merely one or two. But the landlord didn’t mind, oh no. He’d take your money without so much as a by-your-leave. He didn’t care. This was so much more important, this thing that he was doing, and Lizzie was making a real contribution to the world. Lizzie and others like her were helping to advance the cause of knowledge and if she knew — if, by some strange mischance or fortune she lived to tell about it — she could be proud that her sacrifice made such advances possible. It was a noble thing she did for him, and he knew it. She was better than those bitches at the medical school. Oh yes, she was better than all of them put together.

Not the done thing, sir. Can’t just hand them off to you, to do with as you please. We are patient men and Christians but no, sir. We cannot allow it.

He knew the bitter taste of disappointment: it lodged, a clot of gall, beneath the breastbone. He would prove them wrong, and Lizzie Blunt would help him.

God bless Lizzie Blunt.

He followed her at an easy pace, never moving too close but never letting her out of his sight, either. She walked quickly, without looking around her, and it seemed to him that she was greatly preoccupied tonight. He’d seen her earlier, standing on the pavements in front of the Flying Horse, walking to and fro in a great lather of agitation, swinging her hips and calling to the men who passed her by. He didn’t understand it. She was comely enough for a guttersnipe, with her great big eyes and her lush and promising figure. She went to some trouble to keep herself relatively clean, and when he’d passed her on the street she smelled of lavender, with only the faintest whiff of odour underneath. It wasn’t easy for a girl like her, but Lizzie Blunt took an interest. Now he was taking an interest in her.

She stopped outside a chemist’s shop and stood there for a moment, peering in the window, seemingly interested in a display of cosmetic preparations — the compounder’s magic, meant to swell the figure and sweeten the breath, white lead powder for the face and arsenic lozenges to soothe unexpected blemishes and belladonna to drop into the eyes. He approached her but did not speak or touch her. He stood behind her at the window, watching her reflection in the glass.

Ill met by moonlight, proud Titania.

Go away. I’ll call me father on you. I’ll call a constable!

Do not trouble yourself, my dear. I mean you no harm. He took off his hat and bowed stiffly from the waist. He was nicely dressed in fine grey wool. His topcoat was expensive and beautifully made and his gloves were of the finest doeskin leather. He kept his curly red beard clipped close to his face and the plain gold rims of his spectacles made a pleasant frame for his pale grey eyes. He might have been a dancing master or a private tutor to young ladies.

I don’t know you. She drew her skirts back out of his way. Her top lip curled, the anxious gesture of a hunted animal. Get off or I’ll call a copper.

You don’t remember me at all, do you? He sighed and put his hat back on. I thought as much, but really, I can hardly blame you. It was years ago, and I was much younger then. Your mamma introduced us… He allowed a note of slight regret to creep into his voice. Ah, well. Perhaps I presume too much. It was merely an afternoon tea dance and you can hardly be expected to remember. The mention of a tea dance worked especially well on younger ladies who, regardless of their station, were flattered by such association.

Wait. She clutched his arm as he moved away. Don’t mind me. I’ve got an awful memory. Of course…the tea dance, that afternoon. I remember now.

He formed his face into an expression of appropriate surprise and profound delight. His hand closed over her arm, a trap snapping irrevocably shut.

Oiled, said Inspector Raft. OiiiiiiiilED wards. He held the book clear of the bathwater and peered at it. Turn the key deftly. He flicked forward several pages. Keats is all right, but I mean, it’s not Milton, is it? He was entirely alone in the room and a casual observer would likely be puzzled as to who, precisely, Raft was addressing. The bath was large and deep, of enamelled cast iron, set upon four brass legs and boasting that most modern of inventions, a shower head. When I consider how my light is spent. His voice deepened several octaves and began to boom like the bass drum in a Salvation Army band. Ere half my days – d’you hear that? Hawwwwwwwwwlf his days. Hawwwwwwlf. Tum, tum, tum. Yes, quite ponderous, the sanctimonious old fart. Blind as the proverbial, he was, poor old Milton. It was just past ten in the evening, and Raft was enjoying his nightly bath as he usually did at this hour – enjoying it, that is, in his own inimitable way. On a small table at his elbow there was a cup of tea, rapidly going cold, and a candle, and a flat packet of his favourite cigars, thin and slender and hand-rolled in Rotterdam to the specifications of Raft’s personal tobacconist.

Inspector Raft! Juliet Featherstonehaugh – all fifteen mighty stone of her – came thundering up the stairs and hammered on the door to Raft’s rooms. Inspector Philemon Raft! A large woman of indeterminate middle age, she tolerated Raft only so far as she had to, for all that he paid his rent on time. Raft had occupied the top floor of her house for several years, keeping resolutely to himself. He rarely, if ever, descended to the lower floors and Mrs. Featherstonehaugh couldn’t actually remember the last time they’d exchanged more than a handful of words.

What is it, Mrs. Featherstonehaugh? Raft made an annoyed face and set the book aside. For God’s sake, he muttered, I’m wet and naked. He stood up suddenly, forgetting about his volume of Keats, which tumbled into the tub and began to soak up its weight in bathwater. I am, you know. Raft slapped his wet flanks. Wet and bloody naked. Terribly naked. Mother naked. He stepped onto the floor and peered at himself in the mirror opposite. He was thirty-eight years old, not quite six feet tall, long-boned and slender with a mop of thick, dark hair and eyes the colour of coal, or nearly. What’s so terrible about being naked? He raised an eyebrow at his expression. Think about that, old man. You just think about it. Have an answer for me when I get back.

Inspector! The door threatened to buckle inwards under the flurry of knocks.

Yes, all right. He huffed out an annoyed breath and reached for his dressing gown.

There’s a constable in the street.

Raft approached the closed door. Mrs. Featherstonehaugh, are you decent?

She muttered a string of curses. Come down and see this constable, you bloody fool.

I shall be there anon.

By the time Raft had dried himself off and wrapped his dressing gown around his naked body the constable had moved into the front foyer of the house and was amusing himself by picking aphids off an aspidistra. He saw Raft coming down the stairs and straightened up. Constable Crook, sir. They told me to come fetch you. Crook was possibly the cleanest person that Raft had ever seen.

Raft gazed at the tall young man and frowned. Where’s your uniform?

Haven’t got one, sir. I mean, I’m attached to H Division. CID — plainclothes, sir.

Raft nodded. Right. Come on up while I get dressed. Crook followed him up and waited in the sitting room while Raft retired to his bedchamber to layer clean combinations under his clothes and double-tied his boot laces. Bit of an odd name for a policeman, isn’t it? he said, upon returning to the front room.

Sorry, sir? Crook looked up from his contemplation of the tea set. Don’t quite catch your meaning.

Your name’s Crook. Raft fastened his collar and whiplashed his tie into a tight .four-in-hand. But you’re a copper. He nodded, as if this pointed to some ineluctable truth.

The young man nodded. Right. He appeared to think about it for a moment. ’Fraid I don’t understand, sir.

Raft sighed. Your name is Crook. You’re a copper. The Americans, you know, it’s what they call a criminal, a crook.

Not an American, sir.

It was a good thing, Raft thought, that Constable Crook was pretty. Have you got a first name?

Frederic, sir. Most people call me Freddie.

Freddie Crook. You’re new, aren’t you? Freddie Crook was tall and lean, with curly blond hair and long-lashed brown eyes the colour of hazelnuts. An expression of sporting good cheer played about his pale, narrow face, but there was something underneath that gave Raft serious pause — something very like worry or anguish. That wasn’t good. No, that wasn’t good at all. The nervous ones were no good in tight quarters. Couldn’t possibly be, on the face of it. Not good.

In a way, sir. Used to be with the River Division.

Raft shrugged into his topcoat and took his hat off the peg by the door. River? With Abberline, then?

Yes, sir. Inspector Abberline—

Is a bloody idiot. He completely bungled the Ripper case. The dog handlers, you know. Completely lost the animals in the fog. Although why in the name of God— He examined Crook carefully. Do you read?

Crook coughed and focussed his gaze on a patch of carpet near the fireplace. Of course, sir.

Interesting. Raft found himself intrigued. You seem to be nice and malleable. Come on, Crook. He lunged for the doorknob and yanked on it. Take me to the corpse.

Constable Crook blinked like a man who has just been confronted with a wonder. How do you know there’s a corpse?

Raft grinned. There’s always a corpse.

* * *

Raft stood for a moment on the pavement outside the premises of H. Charters, Chemist, and peered up at the building’s drab grey façade. The shop had long since closed but there was plenty of activity, and everywhere Raft looked there seemed to be a uniformed constable. He showed his warrant card to the man at the door and went into the shop, Crook at his heels. A single light burned over the counter and the air inside the shop smelled of chemicals and coal. Near the front door stood a life-sized John Bull figure made of stiff card. The figure held a patent medicine bottle to its mouth with an expression of hearty enjoyment. A SURE CURE, the inscription read, FOR THE DRINKING MAN. It was very cold. Raft took his time inspecting the premises, touching the various containers, pulling out corks and smelling the contents of bottles and examining a set of brass scales that presided over the compounding table. He took up a small device used to form pills and tapped it against his hand, then examined the palm of his glove. Hm.

Crook was confused. Sir?

Not a very successful chemist, constable. If this had been recently used, a shower of fine powder ought to have descended when I shook it. As you can see — he extended his hand toward Crook — there’s nothing, which means it hasn’t been used in a while. I wonder what happened to make people desert our dear Mr. Charters? He went behind the counter and peered into the open mouths of a couple of large, green glass carboys, picked up a leech jar and shook it. Empty. Utterly leechless. Completely leeched out. I suppose that’s the leech of our troubles. Jesus, leech me near the Cross...

Sir, with respect, the corpse —

She came at him without warning, descending from the embossed tin ceiling in a shower of pale particles. She was young, perhaps twenty, with long red hair tied up in complicated knots and ribbons at either side of her head. Her dress suggested a prostitute. She passed through Constable Crook and stood in front of Raft: He did it. It was him that did it, the drinking man. You’d better tell them.

I won’t see her. Raft fixed his eyes on the far wall. Crook was saying something about the dead girl’s head. She isn’t real. She isn’t really there.

You have to tell them. He’ll do it again. You’ll tell them, won’t you? Her hand reached for him, and Raft took an involuntary step backward, stumbling into Crook and upsetting a display of glass medicine bottles. Sorry. He reached out to steady himself and caught hold of Crook’s arm. I’m sorry. Bit unsteady on my feet. He pressed his eyes closed and when he opened them, the girl was gone. Where did you say…the victim? Where is the victim, constable? The drinking man…

Crook ought to have been staring at him by now — they always did — but instead he held tight to Raft’s arm, squeezing gently. Right this way, sir.

She was propped up in a chair by the stove with her hands arranged in her lap and an expression of surprise on her face. The pupils of her eyes were dilated as they would normally be after death and there was a frothy white material in the corners of her open mouth. A chestnut seller up the street identified her. Her name’s Lizzie Blunt, sir. She’s a wh — an unfortunate.

An unfortunate, so says our esteemed Mr. Gladstone. This unfortunate girl. Fortune favours the brave. Raft knelt to examine the soles of her boots, working his way up her legs and — oblivious to Crook’s startled exclamations — sorting through her petticoats. He found the burnt stub of a match, the usual dirt and vermin, and a grimy handkerchief with three pennies tied into the corner. Crook.

Sir?

Bend down here.

There was a pleasant warmth and the scent of vetiver as Crook settled in beside Raft. What are we looking at, sir?

Raft turned up the girl’s palms. Have a close look.

Crook leaned in and looked. What’s that red stuff in the lines? He fetched out a magnifier and made a closer examination. It looks like some sort of powder.

Raft was impressed. You’ll do well here, constable. Whoever transferred you to H Division knew what he was doing.

Thank you, sir.

Notice anything about her fingernails? Raft turned the girl’s hands over.

Not really, sir. Sorry, sir. Crook looked ridiculously downcast and bloody adorable. You’ll be wanting to look at her head, sir.

Raft looked at her head. At the very crown, hidden under layers of blood-matted hair, a hole approximately one inch in diameter had been sunk straight through the bone, revealing the brain matter beneath. Christ. Raft turned aside and took several deep breaths. The hair around the hole had been hastily and inexpertly shorn. At first glance it looked like the killer had employed a razor to do the work.

Sorry, sir. I ought to have warned you. It’s a bit nasty, that is.

No, I’m glad you didn’t, constable. Raft dusted his hands. It’s best I see it fresh, as it were.

Who’d do such a thing? Crook hovered near him. Drilling a hole in her head like that. What’s that all about? It’s a daft thing to do, that’s for bloody well sure.

No. Raft drifted behind the counter. It depends… He did it, the drinking man. How many different brands of laudanum do you suppose the average chemist keeps on hand, Constable Crook?

Crook looked distinctly uncomfortable. Don’t rightly know, sir.

The drinking man… Be quiet. Too late Raft realised he had spoken his thoughts aloud. He doesn’t understand. For God’s sake!

I do rather enjoy a glass of port now and then, sir. Don’t see as how there’s anything wrong in it. Crook realised that Raft wasn’t talking to him.

Trepanning. He’d read about it.

Is that what killed her, sir? To his credit, Crook didn’t ask what trepanning was.

No. This was done after she was already dead. Raft indicated the area around the girl. There’s no blood on her clothes.

The red stuff on her palms, sir? Isn’t that blood?

Raft shook his head. No. No, what’s on her palms is something else…probably henna from the looks of it. People use it to dye the hair. It makes the hair turn red.

So that’s not her hair? Not really?

Raft turned astonished eyes to him. Constable, for the love of God — He stopped himself in time. It was a bad habit, assuming that everyone took notice of trifles the way he did. Crook was only doing his best — whatever that was — and Raft oughtn’t to assume. It was the error of a man who spent much of his time alone, eschewing the company of others, for Raft was a thoroughgoing misanthrope. Sorry, he mumbled. Most likely the red particles were transferred to her from someone else — perhaps her killer. He felt obligated to apologise again. I’m sorry.

What killed her, sir?

Raft leaned in and sniffed the girl’s mouth, lifted each of her eyelids in turn and let them drop. She was probably poisoned with an overdose of laudanum. The pupils of her eyes. ‘She took me to her elfin grot/and there she wept and sighed most sore’.

Crook appeared confused. This girl, sir?

Keats, constable.

Constable Keats. Crook thought for a moment. Don’t think we’ve got a Constable Keats, sir.

Keats, the poet. He took Crook by the elbow and they moved toward the door. I’ll know more once the police surgeon has had a look.

A carriage pulled by a pair of glossy black horses stopped in front of Charters’ shop. There was a crest on the door, but Raft wasn’t close enough to make it out. He pulled Freddie back towards the wall, near a display of cough preparations, and motioned for quiet with a finger to his lips. The carriage door opened and a set of narrow steps descended to the pavement. A tall, thin man with a rather drawn, almost cadaverous face, stepped out, looking up and down the street.

Good God! Freddie whispered. That’s Lord—

Raft pressed his gloved hand over the constable’s mouth. Sh.

The thin man walked past them, oblivious to the CLOSED sign in the window, and went into a back room. Presently he was heard shouting for Charters. Raft seized that moment to escape and propelled Freddie out the door into the chilly evening air.

Good God. Freddie shivered. That’s Lord Godalming.

Yes. Raft’s eyes narrowed. Yes, constable, that is Lord Godalming. He thumped Freddie’s shoulder gently with his fist. But what on earth is he doing here? What, indeed? It wasn’t like the landed classes to simply appear in Whitechapel, not unless they were slumming. Godalming ought to have been well above that sort of thing…

* * *

Sir? Two days later and Constable Crook stood a respectful distance from Raft’s desk, still not entirely sure what to make of his new guv’nor. Common knowledge assumed that Crook was thick, but this wasn’t entirely true and Crook, with his finely-tuned awareness of others’ moods, knew that Raft was not himself today. Sir?

Yes?

Cup of tea, sir. Bloody wet and cold out there today. Crook laid the mug down at the inspector’s elbow and made to leave, but just then Raft blinked and stared at Crook as if he’d materialised from out of the floor.

Constable.

Crook, sir. It’s Constable Frederic Crook.

Yes. Of course. Raft scratched his head, dislodging the part in his hair and Crook smiled. He hadn’t been with Raft more than a handful of days but what he’d seen so far he liked. Raft was the sort of chap who got things done, who didn’t fuss about with getting constables to do the work, but who waded in and did the job himself. Thus far, he’d been working Freddie hard, but Crook didn’t mind, since Raft — unlike others Crook had worked with — seemed to know what he was doing. And if that wasn’t enough (here Crook allowed himself a tiny grin) he fancied Inspector Raft just a little bit. He’d never say anything to Raft, not with things the way they were, and Freddie had no desire to end up walking the treadmill in Reading Gaol. Labouchere’s amendment to the Act of Parliament laid an ample precedent of fear for men like Freddie — so much so that a night’s sport was no longer worth the danger. Nobody wanted to end up in prison.

Crook huffed out an irritated breath.

Constable? Raft sipped his tea.

Nothing, sir. I brought the newspapers. He laid them on the desk. Shame, isn’t it? I wonder what drove him to it?

The headlines caught Raft’s eye and whatever he had been going to say next flew out of his mind forever. Christ! He grabbed the Daily Standard with both hands, but all the other papers carried much the same headline, albeit with slight stylistic variations. LORD GODALMING COMMITS SUICIDE. It says here that his death occurred in Hyde Park. He stood on the parapet of the West or Magazine bridge and shot himself through the head with a revolver, falling backwards into the water. The body was discovered by a police constable... He let the paper fall from his hand. Why? He was a member of Parliament, had a lovely wife, a son who apparently is the star of Eton...why would he top himself? ‘No, no, go not to Lethe’. Raft couldn’t stop himself quoting Keats lately.

Are you suggesting we find out, sir?

Wouldn’t hurt to pay a visit to the widow. Raft drew the paper to him again. Is the body being displayed at home?

Not sure, sir. Oh, I nearly forgot. Crook handed Raft a slip of paper. Thought you might want to see this, sir. Came in this morning’s post.

Raft took the paper and examined it carefully. Drink to me only with thine eyes, he read aloud, and I will pledge with mine. Ben Jonson, 1616. Not exactly modern music hall. It appeared to have been torn or cut out of a book.

Sir… Crook shifted closer to Raft. Don’t think this is the time or place, really. The idea that Raft should want to quote poetry to him gave him a very pleasant frisson. People might get ideas.

It’s a poem, constable. Raft treated him to a look that could peel paint. Not a declaration.

Yes, sir. Freddie sounded a bit annoyed. Poet and playwright, 1572 to 1637. Author of Every Man in His Humour, Bartholomew Fair—

Quite. Raft contemplated the document for a moment. Was this addressed to me specifically?

Yes, sir. It was marked on the envelope. Freddie handed it across to him. Sorry for the creases. It’s been in my pocket.

The handwriting was a man’s, sharp and angular, and the address had been written in pencil. At several places the tip had cut into the paper deep enough to leave a small hole. TO INSPECTOR RAFT, SCOTLAND YARD, PERSONAL. There was no street address, but that didn’t necessarily mean anything. Every postman in the city knew where Whitehall was. Why would someone send me a poem?

Crook’s forehead creased. Give up, sir.

Raft picked a cigarette out of the box on his desk and lit it. He shook out the flaming lucifer and tossed it into the wastepaper basket. Why would anyone send me a poem in the post, constable? A poem in the post, a postal poem, why?

Crook shifted his not inconsiderable weight from one foot to the other. I’m sorry, sir. I don’t know. Was there some hidden meaning in the question, a test of some sort? Perhaps Raft had already divined something in Freddie’s attitude toward him, and felt correction was in order. It’s intended as a message, constable. Obviously he’s trying to tell me something. He smirked. No trouble to tell you’ve been working under bloody Abberline.

Freddie chose to ignore the remark about his former superior. Who, sir? The one what did that girl?

Precisely Raft nodded. The drinking man."

I don’t know what you’re on about, sir. Privately he remarked that, whatever Abberline was, at least he was plainspoken, which was more than Freddie could say for Raft. It seemed like half of whatever Raft was thinking came out of his mouth and the rest got lost somewhere along the way. And his habit of stringing together nonsense words, what the devil was that? Sometimes he found himself wondering if Raft was entirely sane.

It’s nothing, constable. The utterance was perhaps unnecessarily curt. Look, Freddie… Up until now, Raft had been his own man, keeping his own hours and running his own investigations in whatever manner he saw fit. If other inspectors had constables under them, that was their affair, but Raft had always worked best by himself, at his own pace and in his own time, without worrying whether a subordinate could keep up. Two weeks ago, Sir Newton Babcock had taken over as commissioner, and one of his first acts had been to assign a constable to every inspector on the force, whether or not every inspector wanted one. Freddie Crook had turned up as Raft’s personal prize package.

Not that Raft was entirely complaining. Freddie Crook looked like something off a biscuits tin, all long bones and lean muscle. He was a hair over six feet tall, with the sort of frame that in another man might have been lanky and ungainly. His curly blond hair was slicked back over his head and tamed into place with a generous application of pomade. His eyes were brown — not the deep, nearly-black of Raft’s own — but the soft dun colour of sun-warmed earth. His mouth was wide, the lips not overfull but beautifully curved, with the hint of a smirk, as if the young constable knew much more than he was telling. Those who met him were reminded of a glorious young soldier, straight-backed and proud and inevitably strong. The circumstances that made Crook become a Peeler were a mystery.

Well — Raft turned up the stack of morning papers — the gentlemen of the press have not yet gotten hold of it. I’ve been through the lot.

They’ll manage to get on to it. Freddie picked up the Pall Mall Gazette and looked over the front page. "If