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newsprint was the face that had haunted Benedict for the last twelve years. The face of his great-grandfather. Declan Doyle.

FOUR
    T he closing sentence of the newspaper article stated that the police had no more leads and, at the time of going to press, the Mesmer Murderer had not been recaptured.
    Of course he wasn’t, thought Benedict, sitting back, his mind in turmoil, the grey and black image on the page burning deep into his brain. He never was recaptured.
    The mention of Victorian serial killers always brought to people’s mind one iconic image: the silhouette of a black-cloaked killer, only ever known as Jack the Ripper, forever surrounded by the swirling mists of a Victorian London ‘pea-souper’, a case of glinting surgical knives at his side . . . But Jack, it appeared, had had a rival for the dark title and that rival had been Declan Doyle.
    Declan had been the Ripper turned respectable. After the killings, he must have gone to ground somewhere and later bought Holly Lodge – although God knew how he afforded it, thought Benedict – then married and settled down into prosperous, middle-class London society. Who had he married? Benedict did not know anything about his great-grandmother, Declan’s wife, although he had a vague impression she had died young. But whoever she was, had she known she was married to a murderer?
    He could feel the familiar needle-jabs of apprehension scratching at his mind again, and, after a moment, he forced himself to look across at the old dressing-table mirror. Did something move in its depths? Something like a piece of old cine film struggling to come into focus?
    And then, between one heartbeat and the next, he was there. The man who had walked in and out of Benedict’s mind for the last twelve years, the man whose face had stared out of the old newspaper. Declan Doyle, who had apparently prowled Victorian Docklands and slaughtered five people. Three men and two women, thought Benedict, unable to look away. Declan was standing as he always did, slightly sideways on so that one side of his face was partially hidden, but Benedict could see details he had never seen before. The vivid blue eyes, the tumble of dark glossy hair, the soaring cheekbones . . . You might have been a murderer, thought Benedict, but you must have been a knockout, you really must.
    â€˜
I was . . . There was many a lady, Benedict . . .
’
There was an unmistakable note of amusement in the silvery voice now.
    The last thing Benedict wanted was to respond, but he could not help it.
    â€˜Why did you leave Ireland?’ he said softly.
    â€˜
Because of Romilly
.’
    Benedict was not actually hearing the words, he was feeling them etch themselves into his mind. He thought if anyone else had been in the room they would not have heard them.
    â€˜
She was a wild one, that Romilly. You’d think butter wouldn’t melt – you’d think the saints themselves would trust her with their salvation, but she was as bold as a tomcat under all the fragile innocence. Red hair and skin like polished ivory. And eyes that would eat your soul. There are some eyes that can do that, did you know that, Benedict
?’
    â€˜No,’ said Benedict shortly. ‘In any case I don’t believe you.’
    â€˜
But one day, Benedict, you will, because one day you’ll walk with me along those cliffs on Galway’s coast, and we’ll see the devil’s watchtower together, and you’ll understand what happened that day and why I can reach out across the years like this . . . There are chords deep within the mind, Benedict, and they can resonate far longer than anyone realizes
. . .’
    The glinting needle-points dug harder into Benedict’s mind, splintering it into jagged, painful fragments. He gasped and put up his hands in an automatic gesture of defence. As he did so, he felt, quite distinctly, a hand – a dry, light hand – close around his