Chapter Nine

Rebecca and Moira Williams 1811-1827, '38

Someone to Watch Over Me

Though it had been Cara's hope that after killing her, Angelus would find no reason to return to the Pear Tree, after placing Cara in the cargo hold of the ship and setting her adrift, he did just that. First however he paid a visit to the local police department. Declining to give his name, he told authorities that he had witnessed John Williams committing the recent murders, both at 29 Ratcliffe Highway, and at The Kings Arms that night. Angel writes:

I told the police I had gone to the Arms to visit my niece, Brigid. When I arrived, I heard the commotion upstairs, then saw Mr. Williams leap out the window, covered in blood. I followed him back to the Pear Tree, so I said, where I observed him having an argument with his wife. He hit her a couple times, then dragged her away towards the docks.

After concluding his business with the police, Angelus returned to the Pear Tree, himself, and watched from the shadows as the scene played out before him. Officers converged on the Public House, and Angelus continued to watch as John was carted out of the house, in handcuffs, one officer on each side. Behind him were two more officers, each carrying a female infant. They appeared to be twins, and each of them had strands of strawberry blonde hair poking out from their bonnets, just like Cara and Brigid.

Angelus knew this could be no coincidence, so he waited while officers hauled them away, then followed them back to the police station. There, he continued to linger about, and listened while the police took down all the pertinent information they would file in their reports. Their names, he learned, were Moira and Rebecca. John Williams, the supposed murderer, was their father, and Cara Penn was indeed their mother. His suspicions confirmed, Angelus continued to monitor them throughout their childhoods. He kept his eyes and ears open, and studied the diary he had stolen from Brigid with an obsessive quality akin to the way Anna had kept tabs on him all those years ago.

I had a rare opportunity, in January 2001, to interview Angelus' sire and longtime paramour, Darla, while she was recovering from a particularly violent encounter of own, with Angel. She seemed all too happy to share with me her recollections and impressions of Angelus during that time. Of course, that could have been because she expected to be compensated with some fresh blood out of the tap (I can't imagine where she could have gotten that idea). In her weakened state, however, there was little she could to collect on such a promise.

I had no idea how deep these obsessions of his ran, until I watched him track those little girls. And I didn't understand why he wouldn't just kill him. If he wanted them that bad, why didn't he just go get them? He knew where they were, obviously. All he would say was that he wanted to wait until they could offer up more of a challenge, when they would know what was in store for them. But he never would tell me what was so special about those girls in particular. There were any number of girls that already fit that bill, but he wanted those girls.

And then there was that damned book. When he wasn't babysitting, he was studying that stupid diary as if he held the secrets to the universe. Every day he would pore over that thing. And he took notes! I couldn't believe it. It was like he was going completely off his rocker right before my eyes. But that wasn't the worst of it. What was worse, was when he started adding things to it. Newspaper clippings from the Ratcliffe Murders. Sketches he had made of the girls on his stakeouts. Oh yeah, did I mention the sketches? Every night, he would go out and watch them, first at the orphanage, then with their adoptive families. Then he would come home and draw their pictures. Over and over again until he had them just right, the he would painstakingly paste them into that stupid book, like a new mother making her first baby book. It was sickening.

Unhappy Birthdays

Rebecca and Moira's childhood would be one plagued with a seemingly endless stream of bad luck, starting with the night their mother and aunt were brutally murdered, their father arrested for the crime. Placing the children in an orphanage proved difficult as the orphan population of the day, was vastly exceeding the space available to house them. To compensate for the overpopulation, many of the facilities adopted strict requirements for admittance, and as it was feared that accepting children with a stigma such as theirs would be inviting a similar disaster, Rebecca and Moira failed to meet said requirements. They were finally sent to the Coram Foundling Hospital, which was required, by virtue of a government grant, to accept any and all children delivered to its doors.

They remained there until 1814, when they were adopted by a couple in their mid-forties, Thomas and Celia Baker, who had so far been unable to produce children of their own and were excited by the notion of identical twins, though they were not informed of the twins' extenuating circumstances. Had they known, the Bakers might have reconsidered their choice, as in 1816, tragedy befell the Williams girls yet again. Rebecca remembers the day.

It was our fifth birthday. The whole day was like homage to us, and all we heard all day long, was what a "milestone" it was to be five years old. We didn't know what that meant, of course, but it sounded exciting, and we looked forward to the "special treat" we were to receive that night over supper.

That "special treat" turned out to be quite different from what the Bakers had intended. While the family was finishing their evening meal, and preparing to enjoy a healthy helping of birthday cake in the girls' honor, there was a knock on the door. Mr. Baker went to answer it, and finding no one on the stoop, stepped outside to investigate. When her husband failed to return after several minutes, Celia instructed her adopted daughters to remain at the table, then went to see what was keeping her husband. After what seemed like an eternity to the two five-year-olds, and neither Thomas or Celia had returned, Rebecca and Moira ventured to the front door themselves, and discovered the bodies of their adopted parents leaning against the outer door frame, their arms wrapped about each other as if they had simply sat down to admire the view. Closer inspection revealed that their necks had been broken, and that whoever had murdered them, had also arranged them in that position. The only evidence as to who or what might have perpetrated the act, was the twin puncture wounds each sported on the right side of their throats, and the single sheet of paper pinned to Mr. Baker's chest. It read simply, "Happy Birthday, Moira and Rebecca" and was unsigned. The note never made it into the police report, however, as Moira, for reasons unknown even to her, removed it before seeking help.

The twins returned to the Foundling until 1821 when they were adopted again by Philip and Emily House. Philip, aged 35, worked at a printing press, and Emily, 26, was a Sunday School teacher, who also had a fondness for playing Bridge on Thursday evenings. On Friday, November 26, 1824 the twins reached another milestone, their thirteenth birthday. Their day was filled aiding in preparations for the lavish party that was to take place in their honor, later that evening. Friends and relatives of the Houses, as well as some of Moira and Rebecca's schoolmates, arrived in abundance to join in the celebration. As will sometimes happen at such events, the twins had an unfortunate encounter with a fruit drink and had to excuse themselves upstairs to change. When they returned roughly fifteen minutes later, they were horrified to discover their adoptive parents, as well as the more than twenty guests in attendance, all dead in the sitting room, and arranged in various positions about the room. More than half of the victims showed evidence of neck trauma. A note was pinned to the front door, the number 13 drawn to resemble a birthday cake with candles. As before, it bore no signature.

This time, when the twins returned to the Foundling, it was to a chorus of nervous whispers, and a sea of suspicious glances and pointing fingers. While the other children were placed together in large dormitory, Rebecca and Moira were given their own room, as the other children in the Home refused to sleep in the same room with them. It became apparent that Rebecca and Moira would never find a proper home. While employees of the Foundling did their best to conceal the girls' unfortunate history from prospective parents, the other children felt no such compunction, and were quick to share the story with any visitor to the orphanage who would listen. After all, they too were looking for families to love and care for them.

So it was that their sixteenth birthday was spent in relative silence, with little in the way of celebration. That was fine with them, given the pattern of horror that had plagued their previous "milestone" birthdays. The day passed uneventfully, and the twins went to bed that night feeling both melancholy and relieved. That relief was to be short-lived, however, for Moira awakened the next morning, November 27, 1827, to find her sister, cold and pale in her bed, her throat marred by twin puncture marks, a tiny trickle of blood issuing from her lips. As before, there were no witnesses to the crime, and no evidence that could be linked to a suspect. There was no note this time, only an ornately wrapped package placed on Rebecca's chest, her hands arranged over the top of it, as if she had merely fallen asleep with it. As you might have guessed, the package contained the same diary that has remained in my family's possession for nearly two and a half centuries.