by George Mann
He set out, passing under a small bridge and following the road as it curled around to the left, stretching away into the fog-filled night. He had no real idea where he was going; he just intended to walk until he felt the air of oppression lifting, or else he managed to get a clear perspective on his current predicament. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Emily. It was more that he felt she was holding back on something. Whether or not she was even aware of that herself was something else that had crossed his mind.
With Emily, he was beginning to learn, everything eventually came back to her amnesia, and the fact she simply couldn’t remember what she did and didn’t know.
Honoré ducked down a deserted side street, past a public house that still stank of spilt beer – even though it had obviously been closed for hours – and then round into a small park that sat neatly in the middle of one of London’s old residential squares. During his time in the city, albeit many years in the future, Lechasseur had come to know this type of setup well; he had often found himself venturing into these parts of the city during his time as a spiv, sitting amongst the leafy foliage in the middle of a small park, observing the comings and goings at one of the local houses, or else tracking the movements of a mildly interesting criminal or over-zealous lover.
He didn’t really miss that kind of minutiae, the details of others people’s lives, but he did miss the long stretches of time spent on his own, just sitting there, watching the world go by.
He made a beeline for a nearby bench and sat down, dusting off the seat with the edge of his sleeve to make sure he wasn’t going to get covered in grime. The fog was heavy and damp, curling around the surrounding plants in long wisps and hiding everything from view. It made him think of Normandy once again, and he shivered, despite his warm clothing.
He stuck his hands down deep in his coat pockets to savour their warmth. The fingers of his right hand encountered something shoved up against the lining, and he pulled on it, trying to get it free. When he did, he was disappointed to see that it was only the Tarot card he had taken from the murder scene earlier that day. He dropped it on the floor by his feet. When he looked back at it a moment later, the Devil was staring up at him, a cruel yet charming smile upon his face. Honoré looked away again. Somehow, the Devil seemed to have a hand in his business at the moment. To what end, he still wasn’t sure.
He sat there for about an hour, gazing into the fog, trying to look for answers in the empty night. He didn’t see or hear from another soul until a police whistle went off loudly nearby and he knew, all of a sudden, that they’d just found evidence of another horrific murder, and that things were either going to become suddenly very clear, or else unravel about him like a loose thread pulled maliciously tight.
Lechasseur didn’t wait for the whistle to sound again. He was on his feet in a moment, running quickly towards the scene of the disturbance. Somehow, in the back of his mind, he could see clearly what he was going to find: another young police officer out of his depth, another bloody corpse, another Tarot card of the grinning devil, and another mystery to add to his growing pile of problems. He doubted Sherlock Holmes had ever had quite so many things to deal with at once.
He reached the point where he believed the whistle had come from, a crossroads of old cobbled roads.
Nothing.
He stood for a moment, spinning around on the spot, trying to decide which direction to take. The fog swirled around him, pressing against his skin like a damp compress. He couldn’t make out exactly where he was.
He cursed, exasperated, and decided to wait for the whistle to sound again so he could follow its signal. He was sure he couldn’t be that far away.
Then, to Honoré’s surprise, he heard the sound of a hoof clacking loudly against the cobbles behind him. He turned around hesitantly, not sure what he was expecting to see. He couldn’t help conjuring up the image of the Devil in his mind; a tall, dark, grinning figure that would emerge from the damp fog with piercing red eyes.
He braced himself and faced his adversary nervously. The gloomy fog was shrouding everything, closing in on Honoré and making it difficult to see. Then, all of a sudden, the fog seemed to part like a curtain, and two horses emerged from the wall of grey, their nostrils steaming in the cold night, a rambling carriage trailing behind them like some sort of ancient black chariot. They were heading straight for him, and if it hadn’t been for the rain of hooves pounding at the stonework, he would have thought they were floating; they glided so quickly and easily toward him. He dived out of the way, landing hard on his shoulder, and managed to roll around to get a look at his opponent as the carriage swung around. A man was crouched hard over the reins of the horses on the front of the carriage, driving them on. His face was hidden beneath a dark cloak, and Honoré could see a shining whistle dangling on a chain from his wrist. Had he lured Honoré here to attempt to run him down?
The carriage sped off into the fog, and again, for the second time in as many days, Honoré caught a glimpse of a strange red symbol on the side of it, a symbol that now looked decidedly like it was intended to represent a horned creature of some sort.
He also noted, as it passed him by, a terrible whining and scrabbling sound from inside the carriage itself, as if there was some sort of animal penned up inside it.
He scrambled to his feet and quickly checked himself over. Just as he was about to take off after the carriage, he heard a voice scream out behind him.
‘Honoré! Stop!’
It was Emily, and she sounded desperate, hollow and distraught. He turned around. She was standing behind him, holding her hands out towards him, palms turned upwards, tears rolling down her cheeks like trickling rivers of salt.
Her hands were covered in blood.
‘He’s dead. He’s dead. He’s dead.’
Lechasseur was stunned. For a moment he didn’t respond, and Emily just continued to stagger towards him, gore dripping from her outstretched hands. He took a step towards her, and then stepped back again, unsure.
‘Emily, who’s dead?’
She didn’t respond.
This time his voice was firmer. ‘Who’s dead, Emily?’
She looked up at him, imploring with her eyes. ‘I don’t know!’
‘Are you okay?’
‘I couldn’t keep him alive, Honoré. I couldn’t keep him alive...’ She trailed off into a series of heartfelt sobs, and Lechasseur felt himself softening, stepping towards her, holding her face as she cried. He didn’t know what to make of the blood.
After a couple of minutes had passed in silence, she led him back to where she had found the dying man, just a moment’s walk away from where he had been.
The corpse was a bloody mess, and it was clear that Emily had tried to pump the man’s chest in an attempt to keep him alive. It had obviously been a futile gesture; his throat had been torn away in the vicious assault, and the sheer amount of blood suggested to Honoré that the man had not died easily. He tried to see what was left of the face.
It certainly wasn’t the severed man.
He handed Emily a handkerchief from his pocket. ‘Come on. You did everything you possibly could. Clean yourself up as best you can and let’s get out of here before the police arrive. I think we could both do without spending another night in the cells.’
Emily, still sobbing, mopped her hands ineffectually on the handkerchief and dropped it on the floor beside the body. They started off, heading in the same direction as the carriage.
‘What are you... Hang on.’ Lechasseur turned and ran back to the body. He knelt over the dead man momentarily and rummaged in his pockets. A minute later he was back beside Emily, brandishing an old, worn Tarot card. Emily wouldn’t even look at it.
Honoré slipped it safely into his pocket. He knew now, with a growing certainty, that the mysterious carriage held the secret to the series of murders that had been plaguing the cit
y – and, more precisely, the time sensitive people who seemed to be active in this period. He knew also that whoever was responsible for those murders was aware of him and Emily, and certainly didn’t have their best interests at heart. Once again, it appeared to come down to their rare connection to time. Somehow, the murderer could see this in a very tangible way, and was hunting them out, stalking them – almost teasing them – as they went around the city, following his footsteps.
But why had he spared Lechasseur, after luring him to the scene just a few minutes earlier? The driver could have easily reined in the horses and taken another attempt to run him down. But instead, he had just disappeared into the night. Something was nagging at the back of Lechasseur’s mind.
He turned to Emily, who was trailing behind him, her face to the floor.
‘What were you doing out here? I thought I left you asleep in bed?’
‘I woke up when you were moving about in the room.’
‘Then why didn’t you say something?’
‘I wanted to see what you were up to. Why you were poking about on your own. I didn’t expect you to sit in the park for an hour.’
Honoré shook his head. ‘I just wanted some time alone. I needed some space, some time to think things through and take stock of what’s been going on. I didn’t want you to feel excluded. It’s just...’ He trailed off.
‘Just what?’
‘It’s just that you seem to know more about what’s going on than I do. Why are you so freaked out by all this Devil stuff?’
‘We’ve been through this, Honoré. I don’t know any more than you do. If anything, I have even less idea about what’s been going on than you! I have no memories of anything to do with the Devil. Perhaps there was something that happened in the past, some body-memory that makes me react in the way I do, but I really don’t have any concept of how that interacts with what we’re doing here. I’m sorry, Honoré, but I’m finding this just as hard as you are. All this blood and death...’ She held her bloodstained hands up to him and shrugged.
Lechasseur was unsure how to respond. Just as he was about to say something, he stopped suddenly and indicated for Emily to stay still. They both listened. Somewhere nearby, hidden by the fog, were a couple of horses, whinnying with pent up energy. Honoré tried to ascertain which direction the sound was coming from.
A moment later, he looked round at Emily and pointed down a nearby side street.
‘Down there.’
They fixed each other with a serious look.
‘That coach we saw when we first arrived,’ continued Honoré. ‘It just tried to run me over again.’
Emily looked a little taken aback. ‘You mean the coach that went past after I found the dying man? That was the same coach that nearly hit us when we first got here?’
‘Yeah. I think the driver was the one who blew the whistle. He may have been trying to distract me, or else get my attention so he could try and run me down. Something startled him and he shot off. I was going to give chase when you showed up...’ Lechasseur cocked his head to one side as if something had just struck him. ‘It was you!’
‘What do you mean, it was me?’ Emily took a step back. ‘I didn’t do anything.’
‘No. I mean, it was you who startled him so he ran away. He must have seen you coming and decided he couldn’t take on two of us at once.’ Honoré smiled. ‘That’s another one I owe you. Anyway, let’s take a look. If he’s stopped down here, we can try and surprise him.’
They slipped down the deserted street, edging their way along the front of the buildings to avoid being seen. Presently, they drew up next to a coaching inn that appeared to be still open for business. The lights were turned down low in the windows, but the sound of chatter could be heard coming from inside. Most of the rest of the street was quiet and empty, with just the sounds of the odd wakeful person rattling about in their house, or the occasional bark of a dog in the alleyways behind the buildings on the other side of the road.
Honoré shuffled cautiously into the yard at the rear of the old inn. Sure enough, two dark horses were tied to metal railings at the back of the area, drinking from a wide trough full of rainwater. Behind them, parked further into the yard, was the black coach they were looking for, the strange red symbol emblazoned brightly on its side. The whole place stank of dirt and manure. He beckoned to Emily, who was by his side a moment later.
‘Let’s see if we can find somewhere for you to clean up properly, and we can try and find out what’s happened to the driver.’
‘Okay. But why don’t we wait and try to follow him back to wherever he’s going?’ Emily smiled. ‘If we can find out where his base is...’
‘Good idea. Let’s see if there’s a way in around the back.’ They continued to edge their way into the yard. At the sight of the large American, the two horses began shuffling their feet and panting noisily, but Honoré slipped past them quickly, and they soon returned to the water, if a little more nervously than before.
Once he was sure there was no-one else around, Honoré made his way over to the parked coach. He circled it once, then stood beside Emily and looked it over.
It was a tatty old thing; nearing the end of its days as a useful transport. The wheels were old and starting to crack, and the frame of the carriage itself was splintered and tired. Nevertheless, someone had a use for it, and it was obvious to Honoré that they weren’t concerned about the overall presentation; this was not a coach that was used to ferry around noblemen.
Emily was entirely enthralled by the sight of the red symbol, and had begun shaking again, as if it were bearing down on her, threatening to swallow her whole. Honoré guided her gently out of the way, trying not to dwell on her bizarre reaction. He wondered what was going on in her mind. He made sure she was okay, then edged around the side of the carriage and tried the door.
Locked.
He leaned up close, straining to try to hear if there was anything inside. He thought he could hear breathing – a ragged, rasping drawing of breath – on the other side of the door, and rapped his knuckles against the panel, trying to provoke a response.
‘Hello? Is there anybody in there?’
Nothing.
‘Hello?’
Suddenly the entire carriage lurched towards him, as whatever was inside abruptly shifted its weight and violently launched itself against the other side of the door. At the same time, the creature emitted a terrifying shriek; a wail so human and yet so animal that Honoré simply staggered backwards in shock and lost his footing. He scrabbled to catch himself from jarring his elbows sharply on the cobbles as he fell backward to the ground.
Emily ran over and helped him up.
‘What the hell...?’
There was a commotion from inside the inn. The creature in the carriage was still wailing, a horrible, piercing, warbling noise that sounded more like a cry for help than anything intentionally confrontational. The coach itself was rocking from side to side as the animal threw itself around inside, banging off the walls like some kind of penned up beast. The horses were spooked now and were pulling on their chains, kicking out with their front legs and trying to bolt.
Honoré and Emily ran quickly into what appeared to be an outside store, and hid themselves behind a stack of barrels. They crouched low beside each other, and could just make out what was going on through a crack in the old brickwork.
The man in the hooded cloak came storming out of inn, another, stocky man trailing behind him, looking scared. Honoré took this second man to be the barkeep.
The hooded man produced a long stick or staff from under his cloak and rapped hard on the side of the carriage. When he spoke, his voice was a croaking rasp.
‘Shut up in there!’ He rapped again on the door. The creature inside emitted a low growl, that soon turned into a kind of strangled bark when the rapping continued. It knew its master’s
voice, and it didn’t like it. ‘Mind yourself, you miserable spawn of shit. I don’t want to have to come in there and beat you again.’ The growling stopped short. Obviously it knew its master well, and knew that he would make good on such threats.
Emily put her hand on Lechasseur’s shoulder and whispered in his ear: ‘What do you think they’ve got in there?’
Honoré took a moment to answer; he was busy watching the barkeep retreating quietly into the doorway, standing back from the fray. The horses were still making a cacophony of noise, stamping their hooves and whinnying loudly in fright.
He turned towards her, noticing the gleam reflected in her eyes from the shafts of moonlight that punctuated the thick fog. She had a smear of blood across her forehead where she had obviously wiped her brow in the heat of the moment during her attempts to save the murdered man.
‘From the sounds of it, I’d say it was some sort of feral human, a wild boy or a tortured child of some sort. The Victorians used to bring them back from Africa or South America and display them in travelling shows. They probably beat the poor thing senseless and locked him in a cupboard for years, treating him like an animal.’
‘Why?’
‘Who knows, but I’m guessing it’s got something to do with the murders. And that symbol; I think it must be connected to a devil-worshipping cult or something. It looks like a pair of horns.’
By now, the hooded man had calmed the scared horses and was making his way back towards the inn.
Emily appeared lost in thought. ‘So what’s this got to do with the severed man? Do you think he’s mixed up in all this?’
‘Without a doubt. But in what capacity, I’m still not sure. What I do know is that there’s more to these murders than meets the eye. What’s more, I’m starting to think they know exactly who we are...’
‘Hmmm. So I guess we wait it out and follow this coach back to wherever it’s going next.’
‘It’s either that or try to catch the guy here, and I don’t think that would be the best thing to do, given the surroundings.’ Honoré looked pensive. ‘Let’s hold on and see where he leads us.’