Fogbound- Empire in Flames

by Gareth Clegg

  After a long wait, a nurse showed him to an office and introduced Doctor McKenzie.

  “Doctor McKenzie,” Simmons said as he offered his hand, “thank you for taking the time to meet me from your busy schedule.”

  McKenzie had a firm handshake, as befitted his massive build. “Erm, yes, very busy.”

  He leaned back behind a well-appointed desk, his chair squealing a protest at his sudden weight. “My assistant said you wanted to speak about a body?”

  Simmons sat opposite the fellow and pulled his pipe from his inside pocket. “Yes, Silas Cooper. Someone brought him in late last night or early this morning. Died from a severe neck wound. Found by the Police in a public house in the Dock area.”

  “Oh yes, I’m aware of the gentleman, I did the autopsy myself, but your interest is?”

  “Apologies, I’m Sir Pelham Simmons,” he said, reaching for his papers. Though he didn’t use his title often, it was useful on occasions such as these, cutting through the red tape like a surgical blade.

  He waved his licence in front of the surprised doctor as he continued. “I’m investigating the issue with the Whitechapel constabulary. I need your medical expertise and insight.”

  “Of course,” McKenzie answered. “Anything to help the authorities.”

  “Thank you. So have you found anything of interest with the body?”

  “He died of a single stab wound to the left side of the neck which penetrated through the carotid artery and the aorta, then into the heart itself. He would have collapsed and bled out within a few seconds. Other than superficial bruising and a few minor abrasions where he fell to the ground, there’s no evidence of other wounds or injury.”

  “Right, and how large would the blade have been that made the wound?”

  McKenzie smiled. “Well the incision measured an inch and a half in width, so no wider than that. As for the length of the blade, it would be at least six inches to penetrate so far, maybe longer, it’s difficult to be sure.”

  “So a long knife or sword, perhaps?”

  McKenzie screwed his face up a little. “A sword blade would be long, but too unwieldy considering the angle of impact. The blade entered the side of the victim’s neck almost vertically. A strike from above forcing the blade down, thus.” McKenzie raised his clenched hand above his head and brought it down into his other palm with a slap. “If it had been a sword, I don’t see how the attacker could wield it unless he was freakishly tall.”

  Simmons nodded. “So a long knife then. What about the attacker’s position?”

  “Oh, I would say he was behind the victim and a little to the side. It would be the only way to strike the blow, presuming he was right-handed.”

  “And if he was left-handed?”

  “Well, in that case, he could have been more central behind the poor fellow,” McKenzie replied.

  “Is there anything else about the victim that was unusual?”

  McKenzie frowned for a moment, his eyes falling towards the floor in thought. “Perhaps just one other item of note,” he said. “It seems an oddly precise attack. I’ve seen plenty of stab wounds in my time, ex-army you see.”

  Simmons nodded in agreement, allowing the doctor to continue.

  “But in the heat of battle, it’s more usual to find lateral, thrusting attacks with a bladed weapon. Much easier to stab into the back or chest, with an upward trajectory. This seems an awkward way of stabbing someone. It was effective, bypassing bones and heavier tissue to sever the arteries and heart, but tricky to make such a precise strike.”

  “Yes, I see,” Simmons said. “What of the body, what’s happening there?”

  McKenzie looked up. “I believe it’s due for collection later today or tomorrow. You would have to speak to my assistant for the details.”

  “I’ll do that. Thank you, Doctor, you’ve been most helpful.”

  “Always keen to help, especially if it might lead to capturing the ruffian responsible. From your questions, I presume he’s still at large?”

  “I’m not at liberty to discuss that at the moment, as I’m sure you understand?”

  “Oh, of course.”

  “But between you and me.” Simmons tapped the side of his nose with a finger. “I think you’ve given us enough to be going on.”

  “Excellent. All the best, Sir Pelham. If you need anything further, you know where to find me.”

  Simmons stood and shook McKenzie’s hand. “Thank you again, Doctor, your help is much appreciated.”

  Now he’d spoken to someone in authority, the assistant gave out the information without question. The undertaker was in Spitalfields, a G Pinkett and Sons. The body had been released into the care of the sister, a Miss Elizabeth Cooper.

  That seemed quick, and something told Simmons it was a little too organised. A trip to Leman Street for a spot of further investigation into the family was in order. He just needed to find a way to sweeten the deal for his good friend Sergeant Carter.

  Leman Street was quiet as Simmons pushed the large wooden door open and approached the desk. “Good afternoon, Sergeant Carter.”

  “Good afternoon, Mr Simmons. What can I do for you today?”

  The rogue button from Carter’s uniform had rejoined its fellows in their ongoing campaign to contain his girth. “I need some information.”

  “Is that so?” Carter replied. “And what type of information would you be after?”

  “I want to know about Silas Cooper’s family and also any criminal record he may have.”

  Carter pursed his lips and sucked in a breath. “Now that’s not material I can just give out. Legally privileged, that is.”

  Simmons gave the big man a knowing smile. “I thought you might say something like that. So, here’s the thing. I found an item I fear someone must have lost and felt I’d best hand it in, being the law-abiding fellow I am.”

  “Oh, in that case, you’d better tell me all about it, sir.”

  “Well, as I was on my way, I happened across this bottle of Warriors Port. It says it’s an 1870 vintage, which I believe was rather a good one. Anyhow, there it was alone and abandoned. It was then I remembered my good friend Sergeant Carter at Leman Street. He’ll know what to do with it.”

  Carter held Simmons’ eye for a few seconds, then shook his head, a smile crossing his face. “If you hand it over, I’ll see what we can do about reuniting it with its rightful owner.”

  Simmons passed him the bottle. “Excellent work, sergeant. And the other matter?”

  “Yes, I’ll look into it.”

  After minutes of searching, Carter returned with a brown card file. The sergeant thumbed through the contents. “Cooper had several arrests for inciting civil unrest, affray and some other minor offences. But it looks like he’s never been charged with anything serious.”

  “What about the family?”

  “Just one sister, Elizabeth. Ah, but she’s dead.”

  “What?”

  “Elizabeth Cooper - deceased August 1895. There isn’t much else here. Keeping records wasn’t a high priority during the chaos with those metal beasts on the rampage.”

  “Let me see,” Simmons said, reading the line for himself. “Well, I’ll be damned.”

  Had she been a victim of the aliens? Dragged off by their fighting machines to the labour camps where they processed humans like cattle…

  Carter’s jowled face scowled at him across the desk. “Are you all right, sir? You look rather pale.”

  “I’m fine, just tired,” Simmons said. He forced his grip to slacken on the record file, his white knuckles returning to a more natural hue. With a visible effort, he released it and pushed it back to Carter. “Thank you for the information, sergeant, and I hope you find an owner for that port. I’d hate for it go to waste.”

  “Never you mind on that front, sir. Never you mind.”

  “Bethnal Green Road, sir.”

  “This will be fine. Thank you,” Simmons said as the hansom slowed to a stop and
he stepped down to the pavement.

  G Pinkett and Sons stood on the left ten yards ahead, its traditional sign, silver script on a black wooden board hung above the shopfront. A bell chimed as he entered the small shop, walking between lines of ornate coffins to a wooden counter crossing the full width at the rear of the room.

  “I’ll be with you shortly,” came a disembodied voice from the back office. The door swung open a moment later as an elderly gentleman pushed his way in, sleeves rolled up to his elbows and wisps of white hair plastered to his head.

  “Apologies for my attire, sir. My son is unwell, so I’m minding the place on my own, and there’s a devil of a lot of work to get through.”

  “That’s fine. I wanted to ask you a few questions if that would be all right?”

  “Certainly, sir. What can I help you with?” The older man brushed his sleeves back into position and buttoned them with two silver cufflinks.

  Simmons reached into his greatcoat pocket and retrieved his papers again. He showed them to the undertaker. “I’m working with the Whitechapel constabulary about a murder. I take it you are the proprietor, Mr Pinkett?”

  The elderly man’s eyes widened a little, and he drew in a breath. “That’s right, sir. How can I help?”

  “I believe you were engaged to deal with the body of a Mister Silas Cooper who died yesterday evening. Is that correct?”

  Pinkett swept his hand across his hair, trying to scrape it into a semblance of order. “I must consult my books, sir. The name doesn’t ring a bell though my memory isn’t quite what it used to be. I won’t be a minute, sir.” Pinkett went to a dark wooden bureau and fetched a worn brown leather journal.

  Flicking through, he found the page he was searching for. “Mr Cooper to collect from the London for preparation here. Collection set for tomorrow morning. I remember now. A pretty young lady, his sister, Elizabeth.”

  “His sister? Are you sure?”

  “Yes, sir. She was ever so upset. She was all alone and didn’t know how she would manage. I felt sorry for her, I did. It was such a tragic tale. I gave her a discount, told her we’d sort everything out and that she needn’t worry about a thing.”

  “Very kind of you,” Simmons said. “So what about the arrangements, do things often happen this fast?”

  “Well it is a little quick, but we can handle it. We’re to collect the body first thing tomorrow, bring it back here for dressing, and then on to Highgate Cemetery in the afternoon. From what I hear, it’s a single stab wound. There shouldn’t be too much work required, and it’s a closed casket.”

  “So what time are the proceedings at Highgate?”

  Pinkett looked up from the book. “The ceremony is at three o’clock, so we’ll leave from the North Gate at two with any cortege. Miss Elizabeth said she would make her own way to the service.”

  “Could you describe the young lady for me, Mr Pinkett?”

  “Young, probably eighteen or nineteen. She was a touch shorter than I am and was wearing an elegant dark dress. Red hair, pretty face.”

  Simmons retrieved the photograph of Annabelle from his pocket and passed it to Pinkett. “Is this the young lady in question?”

  “Yes, sir. That’s her, though her hair is red as I mentioned, bright red, not like in that photograph.”

  “It is a few years old, so she may well have changed her hair colour, it’s the current fashion among the young ladies.”

  “Is that so?” Pinkett said, “funny how fashion changes and all the youngsters must jump to its tune.”

  “Did Miss Cooper leave any contact details?”

  “No, sir. She paid the bill and said she would meet us at the Cemetery tomorrow at three. Lovely she was, but I saw the depth of grief in her.” Pinkett’s eyes seemed to glaze for a moment, as if he were staring far into the distance, then his attention snapped back. “If that’s all, sir, I’ll be back to my work. Still got a lot to do before tomorrow.”

  “Yes, thank you for your time.”

  The mournful sound of horns blaring signalled an early start to the battle against the red fog. Pinpricks of light were visible down the street as the gas lights ignited for the long dark evening ahead.

  Elizabeth, Annabelle. Just who are you, Miss Pemberton?

  11

  James Addison had never been a popular man. Others in the tailoring profession looked down on his creations as an exclusive ladies clothier. They considered it women’s work, but he had a knack for it, producing some of the most elegant gowns within the Inner-City. Though he tried hard to gain their appreciation, the ones whose approval he desired most, laughed at him, and he felt out of place in their clubs.

  It didn’t help that his build and mannerisms seemed effeminate. Everyone thought someone in his line of work, looking and acting as he did, was less than manly.

  He’d given up trying to impress the women he liked and taken to the less salubrious areas nearer the walls. There he could buy affection with no awkward explanations or convincing required.

  So it was, he met the young woman in the Black Dragon opium den in Whitechapel. He noticed the quality of her crimson gown and his stare drew her approach. They talked for almost an hour, and she never commented on his appearance, voice or mannerisms. She was a rare find in such an establishment. Yes, she was a whore, but she had an air of refinement and education. Had she maybe fallen on hard times, perhaps even cast out of the Inner-City and left to fend for herself?

  Whatever it was, she didn’t want to speak of it and turned the conversation back to his endeavours. He gladly spoke of his achievements until she dragged him from the dismal place to head somewhere more private.

  A hackney carriage drove them to a more pleasant location, though still on the fringes of Whitechapel. The large townhouse with four floors was a brothel, but one on the verge of respectability, situated where it was.

  The girl said she had a permanent room on the top floor, laughing as she led the way up the carved wooden staircase. They’d decorated the establishment with beautiful paintings on almost every wall. The carpets were plush, and lavish furnishing sat at each landing.

  As she closed the door behind them, she pushed him towards the large four-poster bed. The drapes were gorgeous silk which complemented the flowing crimson gown that danced around her as she crossed the room. It had been the quality of the garment which had drawn his eye to start with.

  He sank into the luxurious mattress and lay back as she passed him a drink while sitting beside him on the edge of the bed. He tried to rise, but she pushed him down, taking the glass from him. “Let me take that for you.”

  She leaned over him, running her delicate fingers through his thick mop of curls while resting the glass on his bottom lip. A drop of the fiery liquid trickled onto his tongue, the quality of the spirit astounded him. It was by far the best he’d tasted, even from his private supplier in Belgravia. To find this on the edge of London’s slums was unprecedented.

  “More?” she asked.

  He nodded, eager to savour the spirit again now he knew what to expect.

  A small gulp passed his lips, and he realised he didn’t know what he was drinking. It was a spirit, but he couldn’t place the fiery warmth as it ran down his throat and settled in his stomach. Another swallow, bigger this time, and he coughed, holding his palm up for her to stop. But she kept pouring.

  He struggled to sit up, chest spluttering as it went down the wrong way, but she gripped his hair and forced his head back into the mattress.

  He tried to move, but her grip was iron. Another hand grabbed his chin, forcing his mouth wide, and more spirit poured into him. How was she holding the glass?

  He sputtered, droplets spraying into the air falling onto his face, his eyes burned as it seeped into them. His chest convulsed, body fighting to clear his airways, but the liquid kept pouring in.

  Another hand gripped his nose, closing the airway. The mild panic of a temporary blockage in his throat blossomed into full-grown terror as th
e liquid flowed as if from a hose.

  His whole body thrashed as his subconscious fought to find a means of getting air into his lungs but to no avail. The weight pressing down on him was relentless.

  His eyes flew open, to see not the woman holding him down, but a vile grey-skinned beast vomiting blood into his mouth. Eight slimy appendages gripped him and forced him deeper into the mattress while a cluster of oily black orbs rested two inches above his, observing as his survival instinct failed. He screamed or at least tried to.

  The young girl watched the last gurgle of brown sewage water as it leaked from the sagging edges of Addison’s mouth. One pitcher was all it had taken. Then she’d watched him with glee as he struggled to comprehend the story unfolding in his mind, his body convinced he was drowning.

  She stood to leave, satisfied another of her tormentors had met with a fitting demise. Just one left now. Then her icy revenge would be complete.

  12

  Rain fell from a leaden sky, striking the cobbles and leaving them slick. Simmons pushed onward through the downpour, pulling his greatcoat tighter to keep out the chill. The Black Guard seemed more tolerant at the Whitechapel gate during the hours of daylight. Within minutes he was striding towards the main road leading north toward Highgate Cemetery.

  Almost everything Fogside was a ruin. Red weed riddled the few standing buildings, clawing and grasping its way up, over and through them. The alien menace leached the green from the pleasant land that had once been the London suburbs.

  Mud ran like streams of blood between the decaying homes, cascading down the sides of infested stone and brickwork, settling to create small lakes. The landscape reminded Simmons of something more akin to what Dante described in his treatise on the Nine Hells. Thinking about it, it seemed an apt analogy.

  The rain was still hammering down as he approached the cemetery. An imposing three-storey gatehouse guarded the entrance. His first impression was of a large church with an arched tunnel through the middle, wide enough to accommodate a horse and carriage with room to spare. A low wall, topped with rusted metal railings, extended from either side of the structure and skirted the overgrown grounds.