Domini Mortum

by Paul Holbrook

  Next came the beautiful Isabelle, radiant still; her long red hair fell about her shoulders, her green eyes hypnotic and enticing, but her head lolled loosely, her neck twisted and lumped where the bones had been snapped as they had struck the stair risers time and time again.

  ‘Did I try to hurt you? Did I not just try to bring you joy? And this is what you brought me to, a worthless whore, discarded and pushed aside.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I sobbed. ‘It was an accident, you were in the way…’

  But she had gone, replaced by what I knew to be Tandry, although he was unrecognisable to all but me. His face was a crumpled mess of bone and blood, no features to be found, just holes and red wet matter. Somehow he managed to speak, although there was no mouth and his voice was a gargled froth.

  ‘You let out your anger, sir. Ha! Yes you did, let it out, all that pent-up desire to destroy. The boss would have made good use of you. Good use of you indeed, yes.’

  A pain within my head stabbed and stabbed again, jolting me violently in my sleep, causing me to claw at my face to stop the blade from sinking in. I felt the agony of the final moments of Marcus Tandry, but still I could not wake.

  It was, however, when the final ghost arrived before me that I knew that my hell was complete. The sight of it sent me screaming and choking in agony and only ended when my head hit something hard and I finally woke myself.

  I was lying upon the floor, having fallen from the bed. The damp sheet was still wrapped around me, but not tightly; there was no suffocation, no strangling grip upon my body. I shook it from me and pushed myself to my feet, staggering into the kitchen and reaching for a cup of water, which I drained noisily. I would not sleep again this night, I said to myself. No amount of tiredness or alcohol would drag me back into that hell. No, I would return to my bedroom and light a candle, I would pin my eyes wide open if necessary, but I would see the sun rising in the morning.

  I poured myself another cup of water and stumbled back towards my bedroom, picking up a book as I went to occupy my mind and keep me from sleep.

  ‘That is a great read, one of my favourites when I lived, I recall.’

  I turned quickly, to see a tall man standing by the window, looking out into the night beyond.

  ‘Did I make you jump, Sam? I suppose that is my lot now, isn’t it? To scare and to bring fear. But then again, like you, I am an accomplished killer. Allow me to introduce myself, in case you did not recognise me.’ He reached out a pale white hand towards me. ‘My name is Sibelius Darke.’

  13

  The Golden Woman

  For a moment neither my father nor I spoke. I looked to the face of Harold, who appeared more than a little confused; his wide mouth, which not moments before had been full of threats of death, now hung open and dumbfounded.

  It was Father who spoke first.

  ‘Harold, untie the boy and leave us,’ he said, his eyes not leaving mine.

  ‘But, sir?’ Harold protested. ‘He killed Isabelle!’

  ‘I am aware of the events within this house tonight, but I have given you a simple instruction. Please do not cause me further upset this evening by questioning, or worse still, disobeying my orders. Now do it!’ It was obvious that he was a man who was not used to being defied, as Harold immediately leapt into action and loosened the binds securing my wrists. Without another look towards me the large man left us alone, closing the door behind him.

  ‘It would seem,’ said Father, ‘that we have caught each other in rather difficult circumstances, have we not?’

  I did not speak, I could not, but instead rubbed at my sore wrists and carefully touched my swollen face.

  ‘Harold is a good man really,’ he said, observing my injuries. ‘It is obvious that you have upset him, for it is rare that he does such things nowadays. Tell me, why are you here, son? What, other than the obvious attractions, has brought you through these doors tonight?’

  ‘You will laugh, dear Father.’ I rubbed at my chin, my hand coming away stained with blood. ‘It was work and nothing more. I came here in the vain hope of uncovering the type of men who profit from such places. If I had known that it was you all along, I would have saved myself the trouble and written my piece from home. I knew that you had ample opportunity to deal with ‘fallen women’ but I never for one moment thought that it was you who actually owned them.’

  ‘I own nothing. I merely provide these women with a safe roof over their heads and protection from those who might take advantage of them. It would seem that my protection was not enough for poor Isabelle – good God, boy, you’ve killed a girl!’

  ‘Why, yes I have. Do not look so shocked. Perhaps it is a family trait? At least my killing was an accident. I hear from Harold that I have quite some way to go in my career before I reach your heady heights.’

  ‘You do not know what you are talking about!’ He quietened his voice before continuing, ‘I do what I do for a greater good. If you will let me, I will explain.’

  ‘Oh no, Father, there is no need to waste your precious time on explaining anything; it is all perfectly clear to me. I can see the headline now – “Respected Local Vicar is Whore-Monger and Villain”; now that is a story that would make my name.’

  ‘Stop, boy!’

  ‘I should think that I would rise very quickly, being known as the reporter who brought his own father down.’

  ‘Stop!’

  ‘Tell me, did Mother find out about your little sideline? Is that why you beat her, why you had her locked away?’

  For all of his many faults, my father had never struck me before, but strike me he did then. I fell from the chair into a crumpled heap on the floor. My body could take no more and I did not try to get up again.

  ‘You will not be reporting the events of this evening,’ he said, standing over me. ‘In fact, you may count yourself quite lucky that I don’t send in Harold to make of you what he will. You will be taken to a safe place where you will stay until I have resolved the disorder that you created here tonight!’

  He stamped on my chest then. A brutal crunch told me that at least one rib was broken and, as I groaned in pain, he left me, and the door was locked behind him.

  ***

  The devil stood before me, his hand outstretched in greeting and I took it in my own. It was cold.

  ‘I know who you are, Mr Darke,’ I said. ‘Won’t you sit down? I would be most interested to speak to you.’

  To be in the presence of the object of my obsession was not a little shocking to me, even if it was all a part of my imagination. Darke looked much the same as he had when he last appeared to me at the Devil’s Bush in Pluckley. Then, he had been white and ghostly, ethereal even; and here, in the flesh as it were, he had retained the pallor of spirit form. His skin had the look of one who had never seen sunlight, his hair blond but closer to white than gold; it was as if nearly all the colour had been drained from his body, his only physical feature demonstrating any kind of hue being his bright blue eyes. It was no wonder, I thought, as my mind raced to make sense of this vision, that he was known in Whitechapel as ‘the Pale Demon’. When combined with his height, his physical features gave him a truly inhuman appearance.

  He laughed a little and settled himself down. ‘I am aware of your little obsession. I see you even have one of my cameras.’ He pointed to the tin box and contents that still sat in front of my fireplace. ‘It was one of my particular favourites; in fact, I completed a good many jobs with it. Tell me, have you looked through the lens at all?’

  ‘I did, and it is not an experience that I wish to revisit. There is something ungodly and evil about it. Much the same as you, it seems.’

  Darke smiled and raised his hands to his chest in mock offence.

  ‘Oh please, Mr Weaver, you do not really still believe that I am the dastardly killer the world would have you believe? Do you not know enough about the Dolorian Club to know that they have the power to twist and distort the truth?’

  ‘I know tha
t you were a member of that vile place and that you carried out murders at their behest.’

  ‘Did I? Well, if that were true then I should be a villain of extraordinary proportions. Tell me, do I look like a killer and eater of children to you?’

  ‘No, but I learnt long ago, from people close to me, that you cannot tell everything about a man from the face that he shows to the world.’ I walked into the kitchen to retrieve my bottle of brandy. ‘I am pouring myself a drink, would you like one?’

  ‘Mm, yes please. Do you have any whisky?’

  ‘Whisky? No, I can’t stand the stuff.’

  ‘Then brandy it is; I cannot remember the last time I tasted alcohol.’

  I poured two large tumblers and seated myself opposite him at the table. ‘Do the dead not have the opportunity to drink? My God, how miserable for you.’ I took a small sip. ‘So if you are not the killer that I supposed, then who is? You cannot expect me to believe the man who killed all of those children is still alive?’

  ‘Oh no, of course not, Samuel. The thing that slaughtered the children is long since gone from the world. Do you know much of Finnish mythology?’

  ‘A little, but only from those who I have spoken to about your killings.’

  ‘I grew up steeped in the knowledge of it; my grandfather was a great storyteller.’ He lifted the tumbler to his lips and tasted the brandy, savouring it. ‘When I was young, Grandfather told me of a being called Surma who guarded the gates of Tuonela, the underworld. This was a task given to him by the great god Ukko and it is a role that he maintained without question. That is, until he was taken from his place of work and his spirit dragged into the world of the living, our world. Men did this; dark, twisted men who sought to use Surma’s power to cause harm to the world. These men were led by Charles Earnshaw.’

  ‘Earnshaw? I have heard of him, and of Surma, from a couple of sources, one being Beth Finnan.’

  ‘Ah, dear Beth. I visit her on occasion, you know?’

  ‘Yes, she told me; I thought her crazed. As were her words about Earnshaw.’

  ‘Oh no, she spoke the truth about Earnshaw; he was the devil in human form. If it had not been for the assistance of Beth, I would never have uncovered the truth about the plans of Earnshaw and the Dolorian Club. Unfortunately she lost her mind in the process, unlike me – I only lost my life.’

  ‘Burnt to a smouldering crisp, I hear,’ I said, enjoying the moment. ‘So you are totally innocent?’

  ‘Innocent? Why yes, in a way. Any harm I caused was either purely unintentional or caused to those who deserved it. Beth and I discovered that Earnshaw and his cronies had somehow summoned the spirit of Surma and put it into a man, Arthur Downing to be precise; there it dwelled, taking Downing on a nightly rampage through the streets.’

  ‘So why did you not take this information to the police? Have the man taken in and hanged?’

  ‘Come now, Samuel. Surely you know the workings of the club well enough to be aware that their tendrils reach throughout society? The only way to stop the beast was to kill the man myself, which I attempted to do and failed. The man was already dead, Surma had passed on to another and Downing, aware of his terrible actions, took his own life.’

  ‘Passed on?’

  ‘Yes, the spirit passed through to another host and would have continued to do so if I had not stopped it.’

  ‘And so you are saying that I should not think of you as a killer but as a hero?’

  ‘I am no hero, just a man cursed by fate to be involved with the Dolorian Club’s dealings. I decided that the only way to stop the killing was to destroy the club itself, which I thought I had done by killing Earnshaw and his men, burning their club to the ground, and trapping Surma within myself. I was successful on both accounts, hence my demise. Surma returned to the underworld – and the world of the living had a flesh-and-blood demon to blame, and blame me they obviously did.’

  I took a moment to read the man. Here in front of me was someone who had become a singular obsession of mine, in the pursuit of which I had lied, cheated and stolen; and now, after all of this time and effort, here he was sharing a drink with me in the middle of the night, telling me that everything I knew about him was wrong. I was, in truth, a little let down: the man was totally plausible.

  ‘What do you know of Falconer?’ I asked, my brow furrowing.

  ‘Falconer? Lord William Falconer? Oh yes, I know of him, he was a member of the club. He was even a client of mine once; dead mistress as I recall, there was even talk that he killed her himself. I never met the man but, from what I heard, he was not one to be crossed. Is he still doing the rounds?’

  ‘You could say that. It seems that he is the man at the top now; the club runs from his house in Cavendish Square. I have had the displeasure of seeing him for myself on two occasions, the first in passing but the second was much more threatening and violent in nature. I had cause to think that he, and indeed the club, is involved in a string of murders, including that of a close lady friend of mine. I now know this to be true.’

  I had decided that I was enjoying this discourse now. Even to dream of meeting the subject of your life’s obsession was something to savour indeed. I hoped that, like some dreams, this particular one would last long into the night and that I would remember it when I woke.

  ‘How many are dead?’ he asked, leaning forwards.

  ‘I am not entirely sure, as I do not think that they have all been reported. If my suspicions are correct, the killings started with the deaths of twelve women in a ritualistic fashion, not two miles away from here.’

  ‘And the killer? Have they been seen?’

  ‘Ha! I have even seen it myself.’

  ‘It?’

  ‘Yes, “it” – for I do not think that it was human, at least not in a way that any normal man would imagine. This was a woman made of pure gold.’

  A twinkle came into his eye as I described to him my meeting with the killer, her speed and agility, and the brutal but exquisite manner in which she despatched her victims.

  ‘This Golden Woman of yours, I think I may know what she is and where she came from,’ said Darke, suddenly.

  ‘You do?’ I said, playing along with this figment of my imagination. ‘Well then, please do tell, I’m dying to know.’

  ‘And tell I will, Samuel, but first you must promise to do one favour for me, a favour which is at the heart of my visit to you this evening. It is why I tried to contact you in Pluckley. I was most disappointed when you and your friend fled at the sight of me.’

  ‘Ah, Higgins. Yes, I am afraid we were rather shocked, and thought it some kind of hallucination. We had drunk quite a lot.’

  ‘He is like that, your friend. I have tried to send messages through him before but he refuses to allow me in. I think I scare him.’ He had a look of bemusement about him, as if puzzled by the notion that the ghost of a known killer appearing in dreams should not be deemed as commonplace as any other encounter.

  ‘What messages?’

  ‘The same ones that I bring to you, Mr Weaver: there is danger afoot, a stirring in the underworld, in which I now live. An old darkness has surfaced on the lips of those who have passed. There is talk that the Witch Queen herself has arisen and has links with the living world.’

  I laughed aloud at his last statement, preposterous as it was. ‘Witch Queen? Mr Darke, you really are the most enjoyable dream I have had in an age! You talk of such things as if they are real. Am I to start believing in fairies and goblins next? Does your Witch Queen command an army of trolls intent on taking over the world?’

  ‘I know how this sounds to you, Samuel,’ he said. ‘You’re a man unable to comprehend that the world around him may not be as he sees it. However, there are things in this world and the next which are difficult to explain and even more difficult to understand. Yes, there is a Witch Queen and yes, she does aspire to return to this plane. Where do you think that legends and myths come from, Sam? Do you think them all dreamt up
by some lunatic? No! They are the stories which are handed down from generation to generation, becoming ever more magical at each telling, but the base for them is in fact, Sam!’

  I could tell that I had angered the man; not a thing to do with a self-confessed killer, be he a figment in a dream or not, and I held my hands up in submission. If this ‘ghost’ were here to give me a message, and if that message involved some long-forgotten fairytale, then I should sit back and enjoy the story.

  ‘I apologise, Mr Darke,’ I said. ‘As you have perceived, I am a cynical man, firmly grounded in the world that I can see, hear and touch. I have never been a lover of the make-believe. But, in deference to you, I will say not another word until you have told your tale.’ I poured us both another imaginary tumbler of brandy, looking forward to tasting the real thing when I woke.

  His smile was brittle, but he continued all the same.

  ‘As I have told you, the Dolorian Club has attempted to bring death and fear to the streets of the capital before, most notably the set of murders – including those of my father and my brother Nikolas – for which I was blamed and am still held accountable. I say again, I was not the culprit in those atrocities. The only deaths to which I will proudly hold up my hands and admit were those that occurred when I discovered the root of the evil and confronted it, resulting in the death of Charles Earnshaw and the fire at the club. As it seems you have discovered, I was not entirely successful in destroying this foul association; they have simply moved premises and started anew.’

  As he spoke his eyes blazed with anger and I hoped that, when I finally did wake, I would remember all of what he said. For, even if it was a figment of my troubled imagination, such stories would surely be a useful and sensational addition to the Darke legend.