Death in London: A Nightshade Crime Thriller (Emma & Nightshade Mystery Series Book 1)

by Peter Jay Black

  “Can you see something unusual?” Nightshade asked.

  “Are you serious?” Emma replied. “This whole place is weird.” Alice had never mentioned the chaos of the pub she’d worked in.

  “I mean, does anything stand out?” Nightshade said. “Something related to our investigation?”

  Emma muttered under her breath as she squeezed past a group of drinkers and made her way to the three doors that led to the dining area. She peered over the top of her sunglasses, poised to push them back up her nose in an instant.

  Two more reliefs flanked the middle entrance: one of a friar holding an hourglass, the other friar was about to boil an egg in a saucepan. After a quick glance around the packed pub, Emma went through the door.

  Several tables crammed the dining area with people chatting and eating. Large mirrors hung on brown marble walls. The room itself had a barrel-vaulted ceiling covered in thousands of mosaic tiles. More reliefs of friars adorned each end, along with six others down each side—a friar drinking from a large tankard, another reading a book, one with grotesque ears eating, another sleeping . . .

  Emma stared first at strange double-light chandeliers sculpted as hooded, water-carrying monks, then at statues perched up high of men playing instruments and reading books, and at a couple of quotes pasted high on the walls: ‘Wisdom is rare’ and ‘Silence is golden.’

  Still overwhelmed by the hectic interior, but now with a measure of control, Emma’s gaze rested on a bronze sculpture of an impish character who grinned maniacally while holding up a deformed, screaming mask. At least, that was how it looked to her, and she shuddered.

  “Emma?”

  She didn’t take her eyes off the figure and an irrational fear of it coming to life washed over her.

  Nightshade stepped in front of her and broke the nightmarish spell. “Do you see any clues as to why someone’s led us here?”

  Emma swallowed and looked about. On a nearby pillar hung a gilded frame with a quote handwritten in red ink on yellowish parchment. It stood out due to its plainness.

  The quote read:

  If love be rough with you, be rough with love:

  Prick love for pricking, and you beat love down.

  Emma didn’t need to do an internet search to know it was another quote from Romeo and Juliet. She leaned in close, examined the frame and the parchment, then lifted it away from the wall and peered behind it.

  “Oi!”

  She let go and turned.

  A pub worker, carrying a tray of spent pint glasses, frowned at her. “What the ’ell is your game?”

  “A friend left this here as a joke.” Emma gestured at the frame. “I was just taking it back.”

  The man’s brow furrowed. “You’ll do no such thing.” He nodded at the door. “If you’re not drinking, leave.”

  Emma muttered another apology and made for the door.

  Nightshade stopped her. “We must have that frame.”

  “I’m not stealing it,” Emma murmured. “If that’s what you’re suggesting.”

  “We have to,” Nightshade said. “I’ll keep an eye out.”

  With the manager’s back turned, Emma said a few choice words under her breath, hurried to the pillar, unhooked the frame, and headed for the exit.

  “Oi, what are you playing at?”

  “I’m sorry,” Emma called over her shoulder, “I’ll bring it back later.” She barged through the door, almost knocked an old man over in the process, “Sorry, sorry,” and jumped into the car with Nightshade. “Go, go, go.”

  Neil slammed the car into reverse just as the pub worker burst through the door, fists waving. They backed around the corner and wheel-spun through a set of traffic lights.

  Emma glanced back at the pub and winced. “I feel terrible.”

  “You told him you’d return it,” Nightshade said. “No issue.”

  Emma switched on the overhead light and held the frame up. There was nothing unusual about the parchment or the writing, so she flipped the frame over, set it on her lap, and undid the clasps. She lifted the back of the frame out and blinked. “What the hell?”

  34

  Inside the photo frame, glued to the back of the parchment and stuck at odd angles intersecting one another, were strips of paper. Quotes from Romeo and Juliet:

  How much salt water thrown away in waste, To season love that of it doth not taste!

  Go thither, and with unattainted eye, Compare her face with some that I shall show

  Come, he hath hid himself among these trees

  And doleful dumps the mind oppress, Then music with her silver sound—

  O, then, I see Queen Mab hath been with you . . .

  And fleckled darkness like a drunkard reels, From forth day’s path and Titan’s fiery wheels.

  And follow thee my lord throughout the world.

  How silver-sweet sound lovers' tongues by night, Like softest music to attending ears.

  This is that very Mab, That plaits the manes of horses in the night.

  There is thy gold, worse poison to men’s souls, Doing more murder in this loathsome world

  “What do you think?” Emma asked Nightshade.

  Nightshade pursed her lips. “If cats really do have nine lives, then they would’ve overrun the world by now, and we’d all be bowing to our feline overlords.”

  Emma rolled her eyes and held up the parchment.

  “Oh. Right.” Nightshade tilted her head one way then the other. “Well, given our killer’s fondness for games, and what we’ve encountered so far, I would say this is some kind of map.”

  Maggie looked up from her bed and sniffed the air.

  Emma’s brow furrowed. “A map? It doesn’t look like one to me.” She didn’t recognise the jumbled mess as representing either London streets or the underground. “Unless this is a crossroads somewhere?” She pointed at the bottom of the page, where four of the lines of text intersected, creating a star. “And this up here is a repeated phrase from the other clue.” Emma indicated the ‘And fleckled darkness’ line.

  Nightshade scratched her head, then her eyes widened. “Hold on. Let’s take them one at a time.” She shuffled closer to Emma. “We’ll start here.” Nightshade indicated the top line of text. “Go thither; and, with unattainted eye, Compare her face with some that I shall show.” She glanced at Emma. “Does anything stand out to you?”

  Emma wasn’t sure what the sentence meant, let alone if anything stood out as unusual. No one had emphasised any letters this time. The text had been cut, probably from a cheap book bought at a charity shop.

  “This line reads, ‘How much salt water thrown away in waste, To season love that of it doth not taste.’” Nightshade pointed to it. “Look at the way these two lines of text intersect. How they’re glued to the page.”

  Emma angled the parchment for a better look. Sure enough, the lines crossed at two distinct words: eye in the first sentence, water in the second. “Eye water? Crying?”

  “No, not tears,” Nightshade said. “If the killer has glued the lines in such a way as to resemble a map, we’re looking for a location.”

  “Water,” Emma muttered. “The Thames?”

  “Water eye.” Nightshade smiled. “An eye next to our beloved River Thames.”

  Emma gasped. “The killer is going after someone else.” She looked at Neil. “Can you take us to the London Eye, please?”

  He nodded and turned down a side street.

  Emma then tried to call her mother, but she didn’t respond.

  When Nightshade noticed her despondent look, she gave a nonchalant flick of her wrist. “I’m sure she’s fine. She’s busy catching up with Jacob and Raul.”

  “They killed Sophie and my uncle,” Emma said. “How do we know they won’t go after the rest of my family?”

  “We must remain focused, darling.”

  Emma sent a text to her mother, asking her to call once she was free, then her father too. When she was done, Emma continued to examine t
he parchment. The third line of text crossed with the second, but also intersected the tenth. She showed Nightshade.

  The word trees from the third line and face from the second intersected.

  Nightshade ran a hand through her messy hair. “Trees and face . . .”

  Emma recalled the last time she’d visited the South Bank and been anywhere near the London Eye. A little over six years ago her father had taken her out for the day. They’d strolled along the riverbank, ice creams in hand, chatted about nothing in particular, and enjoyed each other’s company: a rare treat, given how much her father worked.

  As Emma thought back to that moment—the boats gliding up and down the river, kids laughing, the buzz of the crowds—she couldn’t recall any trees with faces. Something like that would have stuck out.

  Neil pulled up in Belvedere Road, a street with office blocks on one side. But what made this road stand out was the giant Ferris wheel four hundred feet to their left.

  Emma checked that Maggie was asleep, then got out of the car with Nightshade and Mac. They strode down a wide brick-paved avenue flanked by a double row of trees. At the end, the three of them walked between two immense supports that held the hub of the wheel on one side, which made it look as though it might break free and roll away at any moment.

  A flashing blue light made Emma, Nightshade and Mac look behind them. A police car pulled up behind the Rolls-Royce and two officers climbed out.

  Mac took a step toward them. “Neil.”

  Nightshade stopped him. “We need to follow the clues.”

  Emma hated to admit it, but Nightshade was right.

  With obvious reluctance, Mac turned and the three of them hurried away. Emma looked about her, hunting for anything that resembled a face in a tree.

  Mac glanced back at the car. “You need to solve this quickly.”

  Lines of people queued in a zigzag pattern, tickets in hand as they waited for their expensive view of London and the Houses of Parliament. Mac scanned the crowds, eyes darting, shoulders tensed.

  Emma looked back along the avenue. “I can’t see a face.” She peered to her right, at Westminster Bridge, then to the left, where more rows of trees ran next to the Thames. “Trees. Face,” she murmured. “Wait.” She had it. The solution was obvious. “Not a face in the trees but face the trees.” Emma consulted the next lines of text on the parchment as they marched in that direction. “And doleful dumps the mind oppress, Then music with her silver sound.” She pointed where the lines intersected. “The word silver with ‘O, then, I see Queen Mab hath been with you’.” Emma looked up. “Silver queen. A queen made of silver?”

  Apart from tourists and sightseers milling about, an expanse of grass to their right, and a modern sculpture ahead, there wasn’t much else.

  Emma was about to check out the sculpture when she realised Nightshade was no longer by her side.

  She looked around and spotted her standing at the entrance to a park.

  Emma hurried over to her, and Nightshade pointed at a sign just inside the entrance.

  “Welcome to Jubilee Gardens.”

  “They created this park in nineteen seventy-seven,” Nightshade said. “For Queen Elizabeth II’s Silver Jubilee.” She looked at Emma. “Silver queen.”

  35

  Emma and Nightshade entered Jubilee Park.

  Mac followed and looked around as though he expected the police to catch up with them at any moment.

  They stopped at a sign fixed to a lamppost that read,

  We like to keep an eye on our gardens.

  Please treat them well.

  CCTV is in operation in this area.

  Emma assumed that meant there was a recording of the killer on a hard drive somewhere. The cameras would have picked up the perpetrator planning the route which Emma, Nightshade, and Mac would follow. A deliberate trail for yet unknown reasons, heading toward an endgame with undetermined results.

  A shiver ran down Emma’s spine. The park was an open expanse of grass and trees, with a children’s play area off to their right. She glanced at the lines of text. “These two intersect. The words ‘follow’ and ‘path’.”

  “Then that is exactly what we shall do.” Nightshade gestured.

  They strode along the left-hand path, parallel with the river, and Emma consulted the parchment. The last lines of text intersected at the star, highlighting the words wheels, music, horses, and gold. There were no signs of any of those objects around them, so she carried on walking.

  A minute later, they reached a fork in the path. Left headed back to the riverbank, right took them deeper into the park.

  “I think the police are heading this way,” Mac said.

  A bell rang, and the piped, upbeat trilling of a fairground tune danced on the air, drawing Emma’s attention toward the Thames.

  She pointed. “Wheels, music, horses.”

  Nightshade held up a hand. “Hold on. If we’re being led back out of the park, why take us this way in the first place?”

  Emma’s eyes narrowed and she scanned the area. “They’re watching us?”

  Mac looked about too. His hand moved under his jacket, then he stared into the distance. “Can you hurry up, please?”

  Nightshade eyed him. “Well, Emma, even if the killer is nearby, we have Commando Joe here to protect us.”

  “Not funny,” Mac said.

  The three of them strode toward the source of the music: a carousel, complete with kids and adults riding decorated horses in endless circles. On the far side stood a ticket booth with a sign:

  The Golden Carousel

  “And there’s the gold.” Emma folded the parchment and put it in her pocket.

  The ride came to a stop, people disembarked, and a new group boarded.

  Emma faced the river. She scanned the opposite shore—the Ministry of Defence building, along with Whitehall Place and the home of the Royal Horseguards.

  A voice called, “You wanna ride?” A man in his late fifties, unshaven, weather-beaten with leathery skin, wearing dirty jeans and a money pouch around his waist, held open the gate to the carousel.

  Emma forced a smile. “No. Thanks.”

  “Two pound fifty,” the man persisted. “All ages welcome.”

  “Perhaps another time.” Emma turned to go.

  “Free, then,” he said. “Just this once, mind. I really recommend you do, Emma.”

  She turned back. The man stared at her, and the hint of a grin tugged at the corners of his mouth.

  Nightshade scratched her head. “Interesting.”

  Mac stepped in front of Emma. “How do you know her name?”

  As if she couldn’t already guess.

  The man swung the gate fully open and stepped aside. “Hurry now. Paying patrons are waiting.”

  Emma glanced at Nightshade.

  “There’s no way you’re going on that thing,” Mac said.

  “Limited time offer,” the man continued, still holding the gate. “It’s rude to delay other people’s enjoyment.”

  Curiosity got the better of Emma. “How do you know who I am?”

  “I was told to expect you,” the man said. “And given your description: girl with black hair, hoodie and sunglasses.” He chuckled. “In the middle of January.”

  Mac frowned. “Who told you that?”

  The man shrugged. “Got an anonymous note with fifty quid. Couldn’t say no, could I?”

  Mac faced Emma. “He’s lying.”

  Emma believed Mac, but knew that all the questions in the world wouldn’t get the truth out of the guy. Besides, he was just another pawn, not an important piece in the game.

  Mac groaned as Emma stepped around him.

  “Wise choice,” the man said as the three of them squeezed past him. He stank of sweat, alcohol and tobacco.

  Emma and Nightshade, followed by a disgruntled Mac, stepped onto the circular platform. Emma was about to mount the nearest vacant horse when the man opened a hidden door in the middle of the
carousel. “I think you’ll be more interested in what’s in here.”

  “Absolutely not.” Mac motioned for them to leave.

  “And you’ll need this.” The man held up a silver torch.

  Nightshade moved to Emma's side. “We really must do this.”

  “Are you insane?” Mac said through clenched teeth.

  “Think it through, darling,” Nightshade said, still focused on Emma. “We’ve been playing the killer’s game from the start. If they wanted us dead, we would be by now. Clearly, they need to show us something important.” She turned to the middle of the carousel. “I say we go.”

  Emma still hesitated.

  The man noticed her indecision. “I suggest you do.” He glanced around him, then whispered, “The note said more of your family would die if you didn’t.”

  Mac stepped to him. “What did you say?”

  The man recoiled. “Don’t shoot the messenger.”

  “Where’s the note?” Nightshade asked.

  “Burned it,” the man said. “Like it told me.”

  “You have a habit of obeying anonymous letters and not reporting them to the police?” Mac said.

  The man swallowed. “I do when they threaten my kid’s life, yeah.”

  “I understand if you don’t want to follow,” Emma said to Mac. “It’s fine. You can wait here.”

  “Of course, he wants to follow.” Nightshade rolled her eyes. “Don’t you, Mac? It’s in your DNA.”

  Before Mac could argue some more, Emma snatched the torch from the man and stepped through the door into the middle of the carousel.

  As soon as Nightshade and Mac had joined her the door slammed shut, the music started up, and metalwork rotated around them, a complicated framework spinning on a central column.

  But that wasn’t what drew Emma’s eye.

  Below, in the concrete, was an open manhole and metal rungs which led down into darkness.

  Mac shook his head. “Don’t even think about it.”