Davies and Faulke Chapter 1

“Murder!”

The cry echoed down the hallway and rattled the ears of dear Elizabeth. Thoughtfully, her head lifted up and tilted delicately to the side. Dark brown orbs focused on nothingness as she strained her sensitive ears. The shout from her lover did not sound painful in the sense that he had witnessed a murder. Rather, it was as if he had just heard a very dark confession. She shook her head, as she knew all too well any shout could come from his study when Gilbert Davies was visiting.

Indeed, poor Doctor Jonathan Faulke had just heard a confession, one that would surely upset his stomach. In order to prevent his mind from running rampant, he shut out all noise and thoughts. Wistfully he stared at the bookcase in his study. A single index finger ran itself along the titles of some of his favorite works. How beautiful the spine on some appeared, the names etched in lovely gold and the leather strong and sturdy. Books – the savior of his soul!

With a click of his heels, he whirled around to face his good friend. Legs crossed in a chair, Gilbert appeared to be awaiting something other than a panicked yell, with his elbows rested on his knees as he tapped his fingers together. No, Gilbert did not look the slightest bit worried or remorseful. In fact, his demeanor seemed to be too calculating, too thoughtful, which greatly disturbed Jonathon.

“Well, don’t just sit there!” Jonathan demanded. He took a menacing step forward; his finger shook as he pointed it accusingly at his friend. Motionless for a moment, Jonathon regained his composure with a deep breath. Even though they still shook, his hands managed to straighten out his waistcoat. He followed Gilbert’s lead and took a seat. He did not want Gilbert to notice his trembling knees.

“What do you want me to do, dance?” Gilbert asked. A grin spread itself across his features. Gilbert was not as educated as Jonathon was, but he could read people fairly well. He knew that while his friend appeared calm as he sat thoughtfully behind his desk, inside his conscious was battling itself.

“Sarcasm, Gil,” Jonathan spat. He leaned forward onto his desk, his arms rested on the polished wooden top. “Now, without charades please tell me what exactly this man did to end with you killing him.”

Gilbert remained unmoving. “It was a woman,” his even voice confessed.

“A woman!” Jonathon shrieked in disbelief. Down the hall, Elizabeth again raised her brow in curiosity.

Gilbert watched his friend bury his head into his skillful surgeon hands and the pitiful man mumbled inaudible curses. “Oh, God!” Jonathon moaned. “My friend is a murderer of women!”

“Woman,” Gilbert corrected. “We’ve established that, can we move on?”

“Move on!” Jonathon jumped. He rushed around his desk and ended just in front of Gilbert. “Dear, God, Gil, what do you mean ‘move on?’ I could have lived without this confession, so I demand an explanation! I am not a priest!”

“Of course you’re not, John, you’re worth more than any priest,” Gilbert praised as he, too, stood from his seat. His feet took him away from Jonathon and to the large window that looked out upon the busy streets of the great city of London. Miserable, worthless people hustled back and forth, rushing as if their meaningless little chores actually mattered to the greater existence of the world. Pathetic, insignificant creatures such humans are. Gilbert smiled in content, for he knew he was much more worthy and noble then any peddler on the street.

“Tell me,” Jonathon pleaded. His voice was softer now, as it had transformed itself from that of a lecturing older brother into a worried friend. From the center of the room, Jonathon observed his friend’s back. Ah, it shuddered, proof Gilbert was human after all! Recalling such an event would be difficult for anyone, would it not? Unless, Jonathon feared, that was a shudder of satisfaction.

Gilbert calmly recounted the morning’s events with crisp facts and a few details. The clock read half-past one o’clock the last time he had checked. Alone he sat in the Ten Bells Pub, savoring the worth of his well earned money. It was not uncommon for the pub to get rowdy; drunks, beggars, prostitutes, and the desperate all made their rounds in the smoky establishment. Gilbert watched their workings in disdain. Such disgusting animals these patrons were! While he dabbled in the drink, he never found himself tripping over air like those bumbling buffoons.

He could not help his eyes as they rolled upon seeing a fight break out. That was his cue to leave, as it was just about every night. With the drink paid for, Gilbert placed his black top hat upon his head and maneuvered his way out of the building. It was difficult, because a crowd had formed to watch the brawl. The whole lot of them could be gone in an instant, and all it would take would be a small fire. The panic would create a stampede, a riot, and the wasteful garbage would be taken care of. Trampled to death – just the fate they should suffer!

It should be noted that Gilbert, while not a wealthy man, prided himself in his gentlemen appearance. Dressed impeccably, he did not walk down the streets but rather glided with an arrogant swagger. Elegance was the key, as a poor man can be viewed rich if he could wear hand-me-downs as tastefully as Gilbert Davies did. The top hat, the trousers, the coat, and even the golden pocket watch tucked into the waistcoat were not bought by him. Each one of them had been given to him by his doctor friend, Jonathon Faulke.

One would ask, “Why is a poor man wearing wealthy clothing while visiting a pub on a work night?” The answer is simple, as Gilbert would have told you. The streets of Whitechapel were littered with nobodies. Some of them were dying or perhaps even dead already. They wore rags and patches, with the grime of the street painting their forlorn faces. The stench you smelt as you passed by them was unbearable. Men pressured you into buying stolen goods and drugs; women solicited themselves for a cheap price. If a man walked down those streets, dressed smartly and clean, the way parted for him, because those beggars knew his words alone were worth more than all of them combined.

However, if those beggars assumed you to be rich, certain risks and trials accompanied you. This did not bother Gilbert so much, as he was a known face in Whitechapel and was rarely provoked by anyone. The greatest annoyance he faced were those damned, drunk, insolvent women. A single rich man that entered or exited a pub was, in their eyes, almost certainly searching for company.

As luck would have it, on that early morning of Tuesday, the 7th of August, 1888, a middle-aged woman had her eye on Gilbert for some time. He had felt the presence of eyes on him for about five minutes before he left the pub. That presence had followed him outside. Gilbert had learned you must always be on your toes on the streets at night. The keen senses of Mr. Davies prompted him to turn around. His brown eyes darted back and forth throughout the desolate streets. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Well, compared to any other night in Whitechapel, that is.

Movement directly behind him caused instinct to take over. Within a moment, he had turned completely around, grabbed his attacker by the throat and prepared himself to fight. His eyes were squinted so tight in his sudden anger that wrinkles formed near his eyes, which caused his appearance to age ten years. With his top lip raised and quivering, the slightly intoxicated and thoroughly angered Gilbert nearly killed his assailant. That is, until he realized it was a woman. A drunken woman. She could have only wanted one thing.

Rationality took control back from his rage, and his trembling hand retreated from her neck. Sighing, Gilbert allowed his facial features to relax. A polite smile carved itself onto his lips. “You really must be more careful, madam,” he advised.

“Oy,” she slurred. Alcohol reeked from her breath. Gilbert felt a displeased growl building in his throat.

Not wanting to fend off any advances, he immediately stated, “I have work in the morning. If you wouldn’t mind allowing me to return home, I’m already rather late.”

“Oy, late fo what, boy?” she asked. “Ya don’t ‘ave a misses, I cahn tell.” A short, chubby finger ran itself along Gilbert’s waistcoat buttons. It produced the opposite effect of what she aimed for.

Gilbert felt his eyes squint again as he tried to decode the woman’s words. The combination of a slight slur and the accent had thrown him off. He did not like women who talked too much. Quickly, he rebounded. “Correct,” he admitted. Before she could get any ideas of a possible deal he explained, “However, I prefer silent women who are,” he stopped to take in her appearance, “slightly more attractive. If you’ll excuse me?”

Offended, she moved out of Gilbert’s way. He tipped his hat to her in a mocking manner. It was not a lie he spoke to simply move her out of his path. Gilbert was not one to solicit prostitutes. Besides, he had spoken truth, as the woman was a bit overweight, short, and with the most distracting nose he had ever set eyes on. She must have been twice his age. It should also be mentioned that Gilbert did not find the intoxicated appealing. All of those traits reminded him of a woman from his past. It wasn’t a woman he had sexual relations with, however. This woman had been with him for nine, long, pitiful years.

Gilbert felt his body tremble in disgust. Being solicited by a prostitute had already unsettled his digestive system; to immediately think of his mother afterwards had sent him straight into a revolted state. The memories had not affected him in a negative way. Why should they? The Faulkes had taken him in, raised him; they were his family. The whore whose name was scribbled on his birth certificate meant nothing to him. She meant nothing to anyone, really. In fact, her disappearance had not changed a thing in the slums. Instead, it freed Gilbert of that obnoxious drunk.

Stopped dead in his tracks, Gilbert’s eyes returned slits, his lips thinned as he calculated his moves. He may have been born a slum-boy, but he had the quickest, cleverest mind. Would anyone notice if the disgusting creature behind him was gone? Of course, there was no use pondering of it, as Gilbert would never murder a woman. The thing behind him wasn’t a woman, though. She was trash, just like those men in the pub, just like the useless street peddlers outside Jonathon’s window.

“I need a drink,” Gilbert muttered. Jonathon was too focused on his own thoughts to realize that statement was not part of the story. Gilbert, angered, twirled around from the window and barked, “I need a drink!” Jonathon jumped at the outburst. Immediately he went to the cabinet behind his desk and dug out his hidden bottle. He also found a glass for the both of them, and poured a full glass in one and filled the other only to half. Before Jonathon could protest, Gilbert grabbed the full glass and downed it.

Jonathon filled the other to the top, and then refilled Gilbert’s glass. “A little upset, Gil?” he asked. When his friend only sneered, Jonathon pressed on, “I didn’t hear how you killed her. Did you strangle her?”

“No, no,” Gilbert told him, “I had escorted her a bit down the road. I can’t remember exactly where we were at; I think it was George Yard. I had been thinking rather deeply about how I would end her life. Strangulation seemed to be the best option, as the murder would have been largely ignored. As we made our way down the road I remembered the pen-knife I had folded up in my pocket.”

Gilbert took another drink. Jonathon had not even touched his own. Instead he watched his distraught friend stare sideways towards the bookshelf, a very unusual look in his eyes. Gilbert looked tired as shadows had developed under his eyes. When Gilbert did not finish his story, Jonathon knew it was time to ask questions. “So you stabbed her,” he concluded.

“No, I drowned her,” he sarcastically shot back. “Of course I stabbed her.”

“Did you make sure she was dead?” Jonathon asked, disturbed at his own question. Did he make sure she was dead! Indeed, what a thing to ask! He should be damning his friend for committing such an act, not making sure he silenced the victim!

Gilbert turned his attention back to Jonathon. Their eyes connected for a brief moment before the dark orbs of Gilbert wandered down to gaze at the last gulp of alcohol that remained in his glass. He could have laughed upon seeing his friend seated on the edge of his desk, leaned forward as if his very life rested on this one detail. Jonathon’s green eyes were wide with curiosity. If Gilbert did not know any better, he would say his friend was excited, perhaps even enchanted, that his oldest chum had committed a grisly murder.

“Oh, she was dead,” Gilbert answered. “I must have stabbed her thirty or forty times.”

“Thirty or forty -! Why in God’s name did you stab her thirty or forty times!”

Gilbert sighed. His voice was low, which signaled to Jonathon he really was not confident in what he was about to say. “I don’t know. The first time I hit her in the torso. When she opened her mouth to cry, I stabbed her again,” he stopped long enough to look back at Jonathon. “I couldn’t stop myself, John. I-I think I may have enjoyed it.”

“You enjoyed it!” Jonathon yelped, flabbergasted.

“Really, you should keep your voice down before Elizabeth gets suspicious of our relationship,” Gilbert joked. Jonathon would not stand for joking.

“Well if you wouldn’t surprise me with such things!” Jonathon snapped back.

“If you wouldn’t ask so many questions, perhaps you wouldn’t get so many surprises,” Gilbert offered. Jonathon opened his mouth to argue but was quickly silenced by Gilbert. “You’ve never killed anyone, John, you couldn’t understand,” he said. “It was so – so satisfying.”

Jonathon’s expression changed from irritated to speechless. He watched as his friend set his now empty glass down onto an end table. His eyes did not leave Gilbert’s form as he walked from the end table back to the window again. Jonathon hated it when he could not see Gilbert’s face during deep conversations. Although he could keep his voice fairly even, his brown eyes never lied. Shadows of the night created an eerie silhouette of his good friend. It was not the greatest setting to hear such an awful confession.

Finally, after a few minutes of silence, Gilbert turned back to face Jonathon. “You’ve cut people before,” he explained. “You know what it feels like for a knife to pierce the skin of another. Yet you’ve never done it with devilish intent. Never in your life have you done anything with devilish intent. You couldn’t possibly understand the satisfaction.”

“Of course I couldn’t,” Jonathon admitted. “I never wanted to kill anyone! What could I possibly compare that to?”

“Do you really want me to answer that?”

“Not particularly,” Jonathon mumbled, though he already knew Gilbert would answer no matter what. His friend stepped away from the window and approached him. The flames from the fireplace to the left of Gilbert casted an upsetting shade over his face. There was a toothy grin present as his eyes lit up with a sinful spark. He prepared himself for a very detailed and gruesome report about the lust Gilbert harbored for piecing flesh.

“Jonathon?”

Poor Jonathon jumped again. He turned from his seat on his desk towards his door. Gilbert had stopped his advancement and also focused his attention on the intruder. Elizabeth looked between the two men and wondered if she interrupted something important. Nervously, she adjusted her gown as the silence consumed the three of them.

“Yes, darling?” Jonathon finally asked. He stood upright and gave her his full attention.

“Have you read the newspaper?” she inquired. Gilbert felt his breath catch in his throat. The crime was ghastly enough it had probably made headlines, and with the shouts Elizabeth had more than likely concluded that Gilbert had murdered someone. Elizabeth was a good girl; she wouldn’t snitch on him, would she? He had his doubts when her eyes shifted nervously over to him. Warmly, he offered a smile, which she tried her best to return.

“You seem awfully tired, Elizabeth,” he observed. As she handed the newspaper over to Jonathon, Gilbert approached her and offered his hand before he motioned towards a chair. She smiled at him and accepted the offer, allowing herself to be escorted. Once she was lovingly seated by Gilbert, he asked, “Did my good friend keep you up last night?”

“Oh!”

“Gilbert!”

Gilbert tried his best not to laugh. It was so easy to get the two of them riled up! “I’m afraid if there are anymore shouts like those the neighbors might think something indecent is happening in here,” he joked again. Upon seeing the deep blush on embarrassed Elizabeth’s face and the flushed cheeks of the angered Jonathon, he decided it was best to leave before he made a bigger fool of himself.

“If you’ll excuse me,” he said to the two of them, “it’s getting late and I can’t afford to miss work tomorrow.”

“Uh, yes, of course,” Jonathon stuttered as he set the newspaper down. “Elizabeth, why don’t you show Gilbert to the door?” he requested as he took the chair behind his desk.

“Are you alright?” Gilbert asked his friend. Jonathon nodded and waved him off. Based on the way Jonathon rubbed his temples, he probably had a severe headache. Gilbert turned to Elizabeth and offered his hand once more. He assisted her to her feet and then followed her lead out the door of Jonathon’s study.

In truth, Gilbert did not need Elizabeth to show him to the door. This was his second home; surely Jonathon was aware of that. As he walked down the long hallway, he focused his attention on the many works of art collected upon the walls. Jonathon never cared much for art, but Elizabeth was very fond of paintings. Gilbert shook his head and let out a small chuckle. How much money had Jonathon spent on these paintings for a girl he was not even married to yet? Gilbert had prided himself in never being so foolish.

After walking down the stairs Gilbert found himself at the entryway to his friend’s house. He watched as Elizabeth scurried off to gather his coat and hat. What an obedient woman she was! He thanked her earnestly for her hospitality as she placed the coat over his shoulders and helped his arms inside. Just as he placed his top hat on his head, he heard her speak.

“Gilbert, may I ask you a question?” she squeaked. Brow raised, he turned to face her. She refused eye contact, and Gilbert felt himself gazing about the room. What would he do if she suspected? He couldn’t harm her, not his little Elizabeth!

“Of course, anything. I’d do anything for you and Jonathon,” he assured her. He hoped he sounded convincing enough she would not ask about anything related to murder. Apparently, his statement had slowed her down. There was a long silence in which they both remained unmoving, afraid of what the other was truly thinking.

Gilbert had always been jealous of Jonathon, though he would never admit it. How his thin, light featured friend had managed to woo the beauty standing before him, Gilbert would never know. At first, he convinced himself Elizabeth had accepted Jonathon’s proposal simply for the inheritance he had received from his father. It took some time, but Gilbert had learned that this kindhearted girl in front of him would never do such a thing. She was truly and madly in love with his best friend; and Gilbert hated them both for it.

Not that he had any desire to be with her. In his eyes, she was just a naïve girl; he treated her like a little sister and nothing more. Rather it was envy over the reality that Gilbert had not and seemingly would not ever fall in love. Never would he meet someone who looked as stunning as Elizabeth did that night, in that blue gown with her hair falling delicately over her shoulders. Never would the fates allow him to encounter someone with a heart as wonderful as hers.

“I’m sorry, did you say something?” she asked. He was brought of out his stupor instantly.

“Hm, no, I don’t believe I did,” he admitted. “I am a bit intoxicated right now, so I apologize if I offended you. It’s been a long day.”

“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about,” she revealed, which caused Gilbert’s throat to choke. Tenderly and pleadingly, she grasped his arm and confessed, “You and John are such close chums. He’s been acting strange recently. I know work is difficult for him, perhaps you can convince him to do something fun for once?”

Gilbert pretended to give it thought, and then answered, “Of course.”

He was rewarded with a kiss on the cheek. “Thank you so much, Gil,” she smiled. “Please be careful on your way home. Don’t let anyone suspicious looking near you. Who knows what could happen with that killer on the loose!”

Gilbert grinned and tipped his hat as he exited the house. “Oh, I don’t know Elizabeth,” he said, “I think the only one who has to fear that man is himself.”