Domini Mortum

by Paul Holbrook

  About the Author

  My dad is Paul Holbrook and he is the author of whatever book this may be. I haven’t read it.

  Paul Holbrook lives in a small house in North Yorkshire with his wife, two amazing daughters, his father-in-law and of course his dog Lucy, who he loves with all his heart. I am his youngest daughter and he didn’t realise what he had done by asking me to write his biography – love you Dad! Anyway, he has been doing some work with Ryedale Special Families for quite some time now, along with his job as a teaching assistant at the local secondary school. He has been into horror stories and Jack the Ripper for a long time now and he directed his passion for horror into a group of thrilling books, all of which I have not read, but will in the future. He was overjoyed at finally finishing this book, and finding Unbound to publish his book. I really hope you enjoy this book.

  – Eve Holbrook

  Domini Mortum

  The ghastly investigations of Samuel Weaver

  Paul Holbrook

  Unbound Digital

  This edition first published in 2018

  Unbound

  6th Floor Mutual House, 70 Conduit Street, London W1S 2GF

  www.unbound.com

  All rights reserved

  © Paul Holbrook, 2018

  The right of Paul Holbrook to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with Section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. No part of this publication may be copied, reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  This book is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  ISBN (eBook): 978-1-912618-15-6

  ISBN (Paperback): 978-1-912618-14-9

  Design by Mecob

  Printed in Great Britain by Clays Ltd, St Ives Plc

  Thank you to my test readers Ian J Williams, Rob Townsend, Louise Moore, Debbie Thompson, and of course Kathryn Holbrook, whose combined support, guidance, and belief have helped me through from the first draft to making this book a reality.

  I would like to dedicate this book to my uncle, Bob Thorpe, for his generous support, and once again to Kathryn, for believing in me and being there always. xx

  Dear Reader,

  The book you are holding came about in a rather different way to most others. It was funded directly by readers through a new website: Unbound.

  Unbound is the creation of three writers. We started the company because we believed there had to be a better deal for both writers and readers. On the Unbound website, authors share the ideas for the books they want to write directly with readers. If enough of you support the book by pledging for it in advance, we produce a beautifully bound special subscribers’ edition and distribute a regular edition and e-book wherever books are sold, in shops and online.

  This new way of publishing is actually a very old idea (Samuel Johnson funded his dictionary this way). We’re just using the internet to build each writer a network of patrons. Here, at the back of this book, you’ll find the names of all the people who made it happen.

  Publishing in this way means readers are no longer just passive consumers of the books they buy, and authors are free to write the books they really want. They get a much fairer return too – half the profits their books generate, rather than a tiny percentage of the cover price.

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  Thank you for your support,

  Dan, Justin and John

  Founders, Unbound

  Super Patrons

  Mark Alexander

  Andrew Arnell

  Beverley Barf

  Fliss Barker

  Stephen Begg

  Helen Binks

  Angie Bowers

  Kevin Bragg

  Linda Bramley

  Richard W H Bray

  Dawn Briston

  Tanvir Bush

  Joanna Chambers

  Renee Chambers

  William Chambers

  GMark Cole

  Dom Conlon

  Hilary Corton

  Maureen Cresswell

  Catherine Davies

  Jessica Duchen

  Corey Eastwood

  Micheal Elliott

  John Ellson

  David Fairclough

  Jane Gascoyne

  Frances Hakkak

  E O Higgins

  Justin Hill

  Bernard Hill

  Emily Holbrook

  Kenneth Holbrook

  Eve Holbrook

  Simon Holden

  Claire Marie Jackson

  Eunice Jaquez

  Julie Jones

  Dan Kieran

  Patrick Kincaid

  Ewan Lawrie

  Aimee Lawson

  Milcah Marcelo

  Jessica Martin

  Chloe Martin-Owen

  Philip Middleton

  Emma & David Milbourn

  John Mitchinson

  Virginia Moffatt

  John Moloney

  Tommy Moore

  Louise Moore

  Adrian Mules

  Karen O’Sullivan

  Tiarnan OCleirigh

  Andy Park

  Gary Parker

  Julia Parker

  Lorraine Phippen

  Justin Pollard

  Charlie Ridgewell

  Stephanie Segal

  Janice Staines

  Tabatha Stirling

  Diana Tanaka

  Tot Taylor

  George Thomas

  Stacey Thorne

  Bob Thorpe

  Rob Townsend

  Mark Vent

  Prakash Vyas

  Dale Walters

  Wendy Wardell

  Pete White

  Ian J Williams

  Graham Worth

  Diana Worth

  Contents

  About the Author

  Dedication

  Dear Reader Letter

  Super Patrons

  1 Beginnings

  2 The Twelve

  3 The Ghost Village

  4 Fright at Frith Corner

  5 The Devil in the Dream

  6 The Maiden in the Tower

  7 Sent Before the Beak

  8 An Inspector's Fall

  9 Those Who Watch

  10 Deep and Grievous Wounds

  11 A Bringer of Death

  12 They Come in the Night

  13 The Golden Woman

  14 The Rush for Gold

  15 A Most Disreputable Party

  16 A Death at Surrenden Manor

  17 And in the End

  Patrons

  1

  Beginnings

  Death is not the end.

  There is no eternal silence when one passes from the world of the living. There are also no such places as heaven or hell. I know this now.

  I was raised with a firm belief in heaven and God’s greater glory. An unbending confidence in the existence of a better place, safe within the arms of our creator; a place towards which all those who have faith, and who lead a pure and simple life, are taken when their time upon this earth has ended. A place that does not exist.

  But death is not the end.

  ***

  ‘It is a truly evil thing that has been
done here today.’ The man in the dark brown suit looked down at the body by his feet. His voice sounded dry – impassive, even, but I knew the man well and I knew how much scenes like this disturbed him.

  He removed his scuffed bowler hat, scratching at his nest of red hair. His ruddy, stubbled cheeks puffed out as he looked upon her body. He was a large man; someone whom I would imagine was powerful and dangerous in his youth. Now, however, he looked beaten.

  The child’s eyes were cold and blank; there was no soul in her body, just stillness. Her long, blonde hair was dirty and matted, stuck roughly across her forehead like some ill-fitting wig. She was almost naked, for not even in death had she been afforded dignity. The remnants of a tattered grey dress showed upon her shoulders and, at the other end of her pale, skinny body, she wore a solitary shoe, well worn with the beginnings of a hole. I only dared imagine what terrible ordeal she had been subjected to before her life was finally taken.

  Had she been alive, afforded a bath and a set of new clothes, she would have been a sweet child to see, happy and smiling, eyes full of joy and wonder. I was familiar with this area. I had been in rooms like this before and I had seen countless others – different ages, different genders but they all shared the same things: poverty, hunger and murderous death. I would have shed a tear at her demise, but to me she was the source of my living and my tears did not freely fall.

  ‘How long has she been dead?’ I asked, not taking my eyes from her face.

  ‘I’m no doctor, but I would say within the last day, five hours, no more than that. The smell of death has not set in yet to this room.’ He nudged the girl’s shoulder with his boot, flaking off some dried blood.

  I crouched down and looked closely at the large splits which ran down from her chest to her tiny waist. The weapon that had done this to her had not been sharp and, as such, the force needed to create such large wounds must have been great indeed. The knife had not yet been found and I doubted that it ever would be. To the experienced eye, though, everything you wished to know about the weapon could be read from the wound. I counted myself as relatively inexperienced, but it was possibly a large kitchen chopping knife, with a blade which was chipped through use, causing tears to the skin. I looked up at the Inspector; he would have thought this through already and noted it upon his first sight of the body.

  ‘Are you sure it was the mother?’ I asked, pressing her skin lightly and noting how cold the girl was to the touch.

  ‘That’s where I would put my money,’ he muttered. ‘The father ain’t been on the scene for years. Mary Pershaw, the mother, has been falling foul of the law lately, trying to roll her marks, even getting the girl in on the act, as bait. I’ve pulled her into the station three times this last month alone. Sweet girl, really. I felt sorry for her. I even set her up with a new agency in Marylebone, temporary service work in some of the well-to-do houses. She should have started with them last week.’ He shook his head. As much as he was good at his job, he had far too much heart. He would not last much longer. ‘She must have just lost it. Neighbour says she heard screaming in here first thing this morning, both Mary and the girl; he banged on the door telling them to shut up. Mary came to the door covered in claret and told him to leave her be, slammed the door in his face. By the time the local police arrived they found Mum gone and the kid ripped to shreds; it doesn’t take a great mind to work out what happened.’ He walked to the window, wiping his fingers across the glass and making a clear gap in the dust and grease. ‘Mary won’t get far before she’s picked up… poor sod.’

  ‘You speak like you have sympathy for her. The woman’s obviously an hysteric. She needs the noose, not a bleeding heart.’ I had misread the level of pity in him, however, and he flew at me, pushing me from where I crouched, leaving me sprawled on the blood-covered floor.

  ‘Watch your mouth, Sam Weaver!’ His gravelled voice cracked in anger. ‘You know nothing of what goes on behind these doors and you are only here because of my friendships with those above you! Get on with your business and take your leave, before I lose my good temper and throw you from this here window!’ His burst of anger shocked me. I would never have imagined that someone so large could move at such speed. I had forgotten his reputation for sudden violence.

  ‘I beg your pardon, Abe. I did not mean any offence to you. I was just speaking my mind.’ I picked myself up from the floor and withdrew my materials from the leather satchel. It would not take me long to create a rough draft for my image, for I had already taken in the sights of the room. This first drawing would be concerned with the shape of the body upon the floor. I prided myself on being as realistic as possible, as brutal and horrific as you like; that’s what made me so good, that’s what sold newspapers.

  My initial drawing would be taken back to my rooms, where I would spend time embellishing and completing the sketch-work, before delivering it to the offices of The Illustrated Police News. It would then be passed on to one of the engravers employed by Mr Purkess, the proprietor. These engravers would finely carve my work into blocks of box wood. There are some who think that these engravers are artists in their own right; some who think the engravers are responsible for the quality of the pictures adorning the covers of the newspaper. They were merely workhorses, dull and mindless transcribers of a greater art.

  As I pencilled the outline of the child’s body, I sensed the presence of the police inspector behind me, looking down at the paper as the girl’s image slowly appeared. I heard the slight pop of a stopper, closely followed by the small slosh of liquid. It was a sound that I was used to when with him; whisky was probably the only thing that kept him going through the day.

  ‘I apologise, Weaver,’ he grumbled. ‘I should learn to control myself better. It is hard, though, when you know the victims. It’s a terrible thing when a child dies. There have been at least half a dozen like this in the last couple of weeks: child dead, mother missing. A cynical man would think that there was something funny going on, but there’s nothing that I can see to link the deaths.’

  I did not reply – my mind was elsewhere, thinking of the words that I would use to describe the scene, words which I would submit along with the finished picture.

  ‘Do you know the child’s name?’ I asked, adding a picture of a wild-haired, screaming woman wielding a knife.

  ‘No. Does it matter?’

  I did not reply and continued to draw.

  He paced the room, waiting for me to finish. There would be others arriving soon, men to take the body off to be examined by doctors so that they could decide what the Inspector and I already knew.

  ‘I’ll be finished in a whisker, Abraham,’ I said, putting the final touches to my initial sketches. ‘Maybe we can adjourn to the pub at the end of the street, catch a couple of quick ones before we have to go about our business. What do you say?’

  I knew that the Inspector would never turn down a drink and I had other, more pressing matters in mind, matters that only he could assist me with.

  ***

  Over the past few months I had nurtured my professional but friendly relationship with the good Inspector Thomas, which included offering him the opportunity for drinks when possible. We visited various taverns across the west side of London and I always spent the time teasing out information from him whenever I could; always with subtlety, always in a friendly and caring manner. Deep within, however, this information fed my obsession.

  We entered the pub and approached the bar. Those that stood in our way parted before us like a tide, making a clear path for myself and my large companion to avail ourselves of the liquid delights held therein.

  The barman, who, like everyone else in the pub, knew the good Inspector, began to pour our drinks before either of us had said a word.

  Abe reached for the inside pocket of his coat, a gesture of sorts, and one which received the expected outcome. The barman shook his head.

  ‘Have that one on me, Inspector Thomas, as thanks for all your assistance in the p
ast.’ The other customers lowered their eyes and stayed quiet.

  I made a point of nodding slightly to the barman, a prearranged sign that he was to keep sending drinks and I would settle any debts.

  ‘Shall we sit awhile, Inspector?’ I said, motioning towards a booth to our left.

  He grumbled in reply and made his way to the seat, pushing his generous frame along the bench.

  ‘Days like these weigh heavy upon the soul, Abe.’ I took a small sip of my beer. ‘I find that a gentle drink helps to mask the horror of what our eyes have seen, does it not?’

  He shook his head and lifted the tankard to his lips, draining half of the contents and leaving a line of froth on his broad red moustaches. He was in a drinking mood and I smelled my quarry.

  ‘You are correct, Sam, most correct. It is a small mercy in this job, a small, but blessed, mercy. Today is nothing, though. You would not believe the things that I have seen in my time.’ His eyes cast towards the soot-caked windows. ‘Did I ever tell you that I used to work on the other side of London? The East End?’

  ‘I think you may have mentioned it before, Abe,’ I said, motioning to the barman to start pouring another drink for the Inspector. ‘Where was it you were stationed?’

  ‘It was Whitechapel,’ he said. ‘H Division, the back end of the world, policing the worst that the world has to offer. I was a sergeant under Inspector Frederick Draper.’

  ‘Ah, Whitechapel.’ I winced. ‘A horror of a place. I had even heard of it before I came to London.’ I took another sip of my drink and eyed him carefully; he had lost himself in that place. The tension within me rose; I was so close to my goal now that it was hard to contain my excitement. ‘You must have seen some horrible sights. There have been some big cases in Whitechapel in the past.’