Domini Mortum

by Paul Holbrook

  ‘Now, you say that this man Falconer is at the head of the club,’ he continued. ‘That his home is their base and his monies fund their schemes. I think that maybe you are right but I have come tonight to tell you that all of what you have seen so far – the ritualistic killings, the murders and the Golden Woman – has been carried out for a higher purpose; Falconer is in fact working at the behest of another.’

  ‘Your Witch Queen?’ I said.

  ‘Not my queen, but yes, an ancient queen who is known by many names, but best known in Finnish legend as Louhi. She ruled over Pohjola, the frozen wastelands in the north of Finland, in ancient times. She was the daughter of Tuoni, the god of death, and reigned over her accursed land for many years. She had many daughters, and men would travel from far and wide across the ancient world to sue Louhi for their hands in marriage.

  ‘Now Louhi was a cruel and conniving woman who would set each suitor an impossible task that they had to achieve before she would give her blessing to any marriage. One such suitor was the hero Väinämöinen, a bard who was challenged by Louhi to bring the master creator Seppo Ilmarinen to her, so that he might create her an object of power; with this object she intended to rule over all the lands.

  ‘Seppo Ilmarinen plied his trade as a simple blacksmith but was in fact a god and master conjurer, able to create and form anything that he was bid. When Väinämöinen asked him to travel north with him to Pohjola, he initially refused, even after Väinämöinen told him that for his troubles he would receive the hand in marriage of the Maiden of Pohjola, Louhi’s most beautiful daughter. Väinämöinen would not be dissuaded and tricked Ilmarinen into climbing a tree to collect the moonlight which shone upon its branches. Once he was high enough in the tree, the Bard sang a song of power, conjuring an almighty wind which blew Ilmarinen all the way to Pohjola.

  ‘Although upset at Väinämöinen’s trickery, Ilmarinen soon changed his mind upon meeting the Maiden and become entranced by her beauty. The Maiden was promised to Ilmarinen in return for the creation of a tool of power for Louhi.

  ‘On the first day he created a crossbow made of gold, but within the weapon was an evil spirit which demanded a new victim each day. Seeing the misery that it would bring, Ilmarinen threw it back into the forge. On the second day he forged a beautiful ship but, once again, it was evil at heart and longed for battle; it too was cast back into the fire. The third day came and Ilmarinen made a cow of gold. It had a foul temper and sought to maim all those who came near it; the cow was melted also. In his frustration, Ilmarinen used his heavenly powers to bring the four winds of the earth to his forge to fan the flames. For three days the fire within the forge raged until finally the Sampo was created, a mighty tool indeed. The Sampo was a mill capable of creating grain, salt and gold, a device which would bring any who wielded it great power. Ilmarinen took the Sampo to Louhi, presented it before her and asked for his payment, the hand of the Maiden of Pohjola. This was granted by Louhi but refused by the Maiden, who held no love in her heart for Ilmarinen and would not leave her homeland. Ilmarinen was upset at being spurned and demanded that the Sampo be returned to him. Louhi refused, saying that her payment had been given and as such the deal was complete. In anger, Ilmarinen left Pohjola a bitter and angry man.’

  ‘That is a very lovely story, Mr Darke,’ I said. ‘And I am sure that there is, as in all fairytales, a moral to it. How does any of this apply to me, though? Am I expected to try to win the hand of some ancient ice maiden also? I shall have to buy myself a considerably warmer overcoat if you expect me to travel to the frozen wastes of Finland.’

  Darke chuckled a little and took a small sip of his drink. ‘Oh, Mr Weaver,’ he said. ‘You have no patience, for I am coming to the part of the story which will be of interest to you. Did your father never read you stories as a child, or did you harry him along just to get to the end?’

  With the mention of Father, I slumped back in my chair and bade him continue.

  ‘Seppo Ilmarinen did find love; he married eventually and happily enjoyed a simple life on his farm, with his wife. That is… until she died a most horrible death at the hands of a cursed youth called Kullervo, another wonderful story, which I will not bother you with at this time for fear of sending you apoplectic with impatience.

  ‘In his despair at her loss, and in fear of the loneliness that the death of a spouse can bring, he set about his forge once more and created for himself a golden…’

  ‘Woman!’

  ‘Yes, Mr Weaver, he created a woman made entirely of gold. However, she was cold and heartless and incapable of love; and Ilmarinen threw her, as he did with all of his failed projects, back into the forge.’ Darke picked up his tumbler again and flung the rest of the drink down his throat. ‘So there we have it, Mr Weaver, the golden bride of Seppo Ilmarinen is a woman not dissimilar to the one who currently stalks the streets of London, killing all in her path. The fears and whispers which I have heard regarding the return of Louhi, are, in fact, real. Somewhere she has found a man, someone in the employ of the Dolorian Club, who has been able to recreate the feats of Ilmarinen and forge life from metal through magic. This is the first part of a bigger plan, Samuel, I am sure of it. This conjurer that she has found will soon be set hard at work at bringing back Louhi and creating other such tools of power and destruction. These steps will not end until the Witch Queen has been given the power that she has craved for eternity.’

  ‘But I thought she was already in possession of this ‘Sampo’. Wasn’t that meant to be some kind of all-powerful tool with which to rule the earth?’

  ‘It was such a thing, but it was not in her possession for long. When Väinämöinen and Ilmarinen realised the evil of the Witch Queen Louhi, they decided that such a thing of great power should never be used by her. They stole it from her and, in the ensuing battle, it was smashed to pieces and Louhi vanquished forever.’

  ‘Until now?’

  ‘Until now, Mr Weaver. For I fear that she has made union with whoever the Dolorian Club has employed as their conjurer. She must be stopped.’

  ‘But why do you come to me? I am not some ancient hero, ready to save the world from a new Dark Age. I am sure there are better men for the job.’

  ‘I’m sorry to say that you are right, Samuel, you are far from the perfect hero, but there are limits to those I can speak to; it must be those who have a close bond with me or those with the power to converse with spirits. You are closer to me now than any other person still living, so it is you who I must come to for assistance. I have watched you for a long time, Samuel. I have seen into your past, and your possible future, and I know what you are capable of. My old friend Tom Finnan is near to exposing the club and all of its foul work, but he needs all the help he can muster. You know him; you also know what the Dolorian Club is capable of. You have the evidence to help Tom bring them down and halt the return of Louhi. Even if you do not have faith in yourself, Sam, please believe in the faith that I have in you. Use the knowledge that you have to destroy them.’

  I settled back in my chair. For a dream, he was most convincing.

  ‘Well thank you, Mr Darke,’ I said, draining my tumbler for the last time. ‘I fully expect to wake up at any moment, but it has been a pleasure to meet you at last. Tell me, what would you have me do?’

  ‘Find the Golden Woman,’ he urged. ‘Find out where she resides when she is not at her work. Destroying her will disrupt their plans.’

  ‘Destroy her? Did I forget to mention that the last time I saw her I loosed half a dozen bullets in her direction with no effect, whilst watching her cleave a man in two?’

  ‘Ask yourself, then, how is it that you met this Golden Woman and lived to tell the tale?’

  ‘Why, I do not know, Darke. I guessed it to be good luck.’

  ‘The reason that she did not strike you down is because she recognised in you a cold killer’s heart, just like hers. She sees herself in you, like a mirror, and that is why she did not harm you.’
>
  ‘Now look here!’ I said. ‘I know my past, but that is not all I am.’

  ‘I have no doubt that, deep within, you are a good man, but you have done terrible things, things that blacken the heart, things that cannot be undone easily. If you are the man that you say you are, then show the world this – the good you are capable of. You are a resourceful man, a man who has concentrated his abilities for his own end. A way of destroying the Golden Woman and her acolytes will come to you.’

  ‘What comes after my heroic success over the unstoppable killer, then?’

  ‘Use your evidence, use your contacts. Let the world know. You have the proof to do it, and in the right hands Falconer can be brought low. Do this for me and Tom, do it for your lady friend – for God’s sake just do it for your own soul, man!’

  I thought of the ledger and the copious notes I had made whilst investigating the club. If I knew who to trust, I could just possibly do it.

  The sun was beginning to rise over the rooftops outside; the noise of the early risers began to sound from the street below. Sibelius Darke, the man over whom I had long obsessed, stood and walked over to his box camera where it lay on the floor in front of the mantel.

  ‘This camera was always a favourite of mine; look after it for me, will you, Sam?’ He reached down into the tin box and brought out a plate which he inserted into the back of the camera, before placing it on the mantelpiece so that the lens faced me. I watched him silently as he withdrew a length of cotton from his jacket pocket, one end of which he tied to a small metal ring on the edge of the lens cap. He carefully unwound the string and paced towards me, my face dumbfounded by his actions.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I asked.

  ‘Be quiet, Sam. It is almost time to wake up.’ He stood beside me and placed a long arm around my shoulder so that he faced towards the camera also. ‘Now, look at the lens, there’s a good fellow.’

  He tugged the cotton sharply, an action which pulled the lens cap free from the lens.

  ‘Goodbye, Mr Weaver,’ he said.

  All was blackness.

  ***

  I felt cloth on my face and I realised that I was lying in bed, my blanket over my head. I slowly pulled it down, squinting as the morning sun shot arrows into my eyes. I had been right, my drunken imagination had got the better of me in my sleep; I had dreamt the whole thing.

  I rolled myself upright and stood, walking slowly out of the bedroom. I could remember it all so clearly; so strange that a dream should stay with me. As I looked over to the mantelpiece I froze in my tracks. There, pointing to where we had stood in my dream, was the camera, the lens cap now replaced. It was not this that caused me the most unsettlement though, it was the item sitting next to it.

  It was a fully developed photographic plate, the picture on it of myself and Sibelius Darke smiling broadly; and written in ink at the bottom were the words: ‘Good Luck S.D.’

  14

  The Rush for Gold

  The rain drummed against my bedroom window as I sat idly reading the newspaper. Mrs Coleman had made sure I had a copy of the York Herald every day since Father had brought me home, late in the night, a week earlier. The story we told was that I had been attacked and robbed by ‘violent lowbrows’ whilst out in York. She had never asked any more of the incident and I assumed that Father had strictly forbidden any conversation regarding the cause of my injuries.

  Father’s friend Dr Furnbridge had attended to me shortly after we arrived home; he told me that I had fractured my cheekbone and suffered a cracked rib or two. I was lucky, he said, that I had survived the night as he had seen too many young men like me beaten to death by those who lurked in the shadows of York. As he and Mrs Coleman fussed over me, helping me into my bed and tending to the weeping wounds upon my face, I silently watched the elderly man, all glasses and whiskers. As Furnbridge shone his dazzling light into my eyes and muttered about long-term damage to the brain, I wondered how much he knew of Father’s secret other life. Perhaps he was even a regular patron of the house on Fossgate? I could see him, bumbling along the street and knocking gingerly upon the door, only to be greeted by Harold, who would spread his arms wide and beckon him in.

  ‘Back again, good Doctor? I don’t know where you get your stamina from. I shall ask Isabelle to arrange your usual room.’

  Isabelle. I cursed my terrible luck for causing her downfall and bringing myself to this godforsaken point. During our carriage ride home, I had been assured by Father that any word from me to another living soul would not only bring about my own disappearance and death, but also that of my mother. He told the truth about this and I was never more afraid of any man either before or since. He had spent many years building his ‘business’ and he was not about to lose it to anyone, not even his own flesh and blood.

  I had spoken little since getting home; how could I trust those close to me when I had been so wrong about Father? I had always wondered about the amount of time that Father had spent away from the home, his ‘mission’ to aid the fallen women of York and of course his cold and callous treatment of my mother.

  Did she know, I wondered. Did everyone except me know that he was not a saintly parish vicar but a brutal gang leader, owner of brothels and torturer of those who stood in his way? Perhaps she did, and perhaps this was why he had her committed to the asylum, safely placed where he could ensure she was watched day and night, whilst never being believed by those who cared to listen.

  In the following week of confinement I did not even venture out of my room. All meals were brought to me on a tray and I spent my days sitting by the window, looking out on the grey world outside and pondering my next move.

  Father had contacted the York Herald to tell them of my ‘attack’ and the injuries that I had suffered. I saw with some dark humour how they ran a small story regarding my robbery on one of the inner pages, not three days afterwards. I was described as bravely fighting off my assailants, who fled.

  Late every evening, once Mrs Coleman had gone to bed and Mr Morgan had returned to his small cottage at the end of the garden, Father would come to my room. I would not speak to him at first, would not reply when he asked after my injuries; eventually, however, sheer inquisitiveness caused me to make conversation with him. He would tell me little, of course, but that did not stop me: I would ask how long he had involved himself in such business, and was there good money to be made in the profits of sin? Did he partake of his own goods? The list of my questions was endless and he would not bite at the bait which I dangled in front of him. He would simply ignore me for a short moment, take a deep breath and start the conversation again, discussing the events in today’s paper or some other insignificant matter. Each night he would tell me that once my injuries were sufficiently healed, he would arrange for suitable employment for me elsewhere, possibly in London at one of the larger newspapers. He even offered to purchase accommodation for me and send me an allowance each month to live on. It was then that I realised that all of the ire and fury which he had directed towards me on the night of Isabelle’s death had been spent and he had realised that he could no more dispose of me, his own son, than he could bring harm to himself.

  In those days, alone in my bedroom, I thought on his offers. Of course a move to London and employment on a national newspaper would be all I had ever dreamt of. I could see why he offered it; with me out of the picture, and Mother committed to an asylum, the risk of his being unmasked would be lessened.

  Of course, I would not tell him how attractive his offer was to me; I would hold out until the last moment before agreeing to such plans. But it was as I sat there, alone each day, with only my own mind and conscience to guide me, that I decided that if I were to leave York to find my way in the world it would not be by Father’s design, but my own.

  ***

  I hid the picture of myself and Sibelius Darke in the chest under the floorboards where I kept all of my pieces of evidence, drawings and notes regarding my investigations. It was a st
range addition to my collection, being the recording of myself standing happily next to a man long dead whose crimes I had long obsessed over.

  As I returned the floorboard, there was a knock upon my door.

  I opened the door to a young man in a well-worn suit and battered hat. His smile was a pleasant one and sat comfortably upon a clean-shaven face, adorned with quick, bright eyes.

  ‘Mr Weaver? Are you Samuel Weaver, of The Illustrated Police News?’ he asked, his voice as rough London as could be, with the faint clippings of one who was trying most carefully to sound a proper gent.

  ‘I am he,’ I returned, looking down the hallway and noticing that another man, much larger than my visitor at the door, stood at the top of the stairs. The large man smiled politely and touched the brim of his bowler.

  ‘Wonderful,’ the young man said. ‘I am Langton, George Langton. I trust that you have heard of me?’

  ‘You are the new… inspector?’

  ‘I am indeed. May I come in and have a short word? I had been hoping to meet you “on the job” as it were, but it seems that my colleagues at the station are not so forgiving as I. It is only a quick word, sir. I am just here to introduce myself.’ He lowered his voice slightly and leant in to me. ‘I am also a great admirer of your work, sir – unlike many of my associates.’

  I paused for a moment; was this one of Falconer’s men, coming to warn me off again? He certainly looked harmless, but then again that would be how the Dolorian Club operated. I decided to listen to what the man had to say.

  ‘Yes, of course. Come in, please.’ I stepped back and allowed him to enter. ‘Will your sergeant be joining us?’

  ‘Who, Butler? No, no. I have asked him to keep his distance and keep an eye on the front door for me. I will explain all, I promise.’

  I led Langton inside and bade him take a seat, which he did nervously, his eyes flicking to the door as I shut it behind him.