Domini Mortum

by Paul Holbrook

  ‘As I said,’ he began, ‘I had hoped to see you out at work, but I gather that you are not exactly high up on the local police’s list of favourites at the moment. I keep my own counsel of course. I am new to the area, from south of the river.’ He shifted slightly in his seat, as if a little embarrassed, and I could not work out where the tension within him had its origin.

  ‘Would you like a drink, Inspector?’ I asked. ‘Is it too early for a spirit for you?’

  Langton raised his hands at once to me. ‘No, no, Mr Weaver. I am afraid that it is always too early for me no matter what time of day it is. I do not drink, you see. One drop of alcohol and I’m bedridden for days; it would seem that I’m destined never to enjoy the treasures of intoxication.’

  ‘Good lord, how terrible for you!’ I exclaimed. ‘My dear man, you have nothing but my greatest sympathies.’

  He laughed out loud. ‘For your sympathies I am grateful, but it is a cross which I bear with bravery and strength!’ There was, of course, sarcasm in his voice and I decided that, on first impressions, I liked this man. The initial nervousness had begun to settle with him and he continued, ‘As I said earlier, I am a great admirer of your work. Your pictures are quite remarkable, and I always await, with relish, any copy of the paper where you have had a hand in the cover. Do you do all of your drawings on site? I understand that my predecessor, Inspector Thomas, would often call on you when heading to the scene of a crime.’

  ‘I do initial drawings, Inspector. But a great deal of the work I bring home and finish here. Tell me, did you know the Inspector?’

  ‘No, I am afraid that I never met him, although I had heard of him of course; the man was a legend. In fact, if you do not mind me coming straight to the point, he indeed is the reason why I am visiting you today.’

  ‘Really?’ I answered. ‘Why is this?’

  ‘Well, I have taken his office you see, not that it is a place where he ever spent much time. From all accounts when he wasn’t out on the job he was touring the pubs in the area.’

  I smiled gently at the thought. ‘He had his own way of keeping his beat.’

  ‘Indeed, indeed. Well, you see I am much more of an office type, if you will. I am more about using my mind and studying evidence to solve crimes, if you see what I mean?’

  ‘But of course.’ I looked him up and down. Although not small, there was something light about Inspector Langton, something in the way he held himself, how he sat even, that marked him out as a man of thought and not action.

  ‘It was in Inspector Thomas’s office that I came across something a couple of days ago. Something well hidden, something that I am not sure he wanted found – a notebook.’

  ‘That would indeed be something that Abe would have wanted hidden.’ I coughed. ‘I have never known him take notes at a scene. Even the thought of him owning a book is quite bizarre.’

  ‘Well, notes he did take, copious amounts; the book in my possession is nearly full and has been kept for at least six years.’

  ‘Notes on what?’

  He shifted nervously in his seat once more and stood, walking over to the window and glancing out of it.

  ‘I am sorry. I am not normally the nervous type but what I have read in his notes is most alarming. You see, after reading them I did not know who to speak to – other than yourself. The Inspector held you in great regard and you are mentioned in the book as someone to trust in this matter.’

  ‘This matter being?’ I asked.

  ‘Murder, Mr Weaver, terrible and ritualistic murder planned and overseen by those who we are led to believe are respectable and free from sin. Tell me, sir, what do you know of the Dolorian Club?’

  It was my turn to be struck with anxiety.

  ‘I have heard the name,’ I said cautiously. ‘In fact, it was one of the last things that Abe said to me. He told me he was suspicious of this club. What does his notebook say? Have you brought it with you?’

  ‘No. It is in a place of safety now. I am not sure who it is safe to speak to at the moment – other than you. Inspector Thomas seemed to believe that they were the force behind the recent killings of servant girls in the area. He even claims that they were involved in the murders committed by Sibelius Darke back in 1877. He has done a great deal of research into the club and its members, although a lot of it is pure conjecture. Do you have any information on them?’

  ‘Not much,’ I lied. ‘Although I would be glad to use my sources to look into them, if you wish.’

  Langton’s face dropped, not in sadness but in relief, and I found myself wanting to believe that this was a man who I could trust.

  ‘I would be most grateful,’ he said. ‘I hope that you are a man I can rely on. People who I feel I can trust are in short supply. I will not lie to you, Mr Weaver – I am scared; scared but committed to bringing these men down, if what Abe has written is true.’ He stood then and held out his hand for me to shake; and shake it I did.

  ‘One last thing, Inspector,’ I said as I clasped his palm. ‘Have there been any other murders since Thomas’s death? I had a friend… Alice, she is dear to me and went missing recently. I feared that she may have gone the way of the other girls but got short shrift when I reported it to the police.’

  ‘I’m afraid not, Mr Weaver. In the last couple of weeks there has only been one vicious murder and that was not a young girl, it was a man who ran a local employment agency.’ I attempted to remain untouched by his words. ‘It was a brutal attack indeed; the man’s skull was smashed to pieces. Whoever did it would be a man to avoid.’

  I laughed then; perhaps the wrong response, but I could not help it. ‘Then I should watch out for a skull-smashing monster on the loose as well keep an eye out for particulars about this club that you and Abe seem so worried about.’ To my relief he joined in with my laughter, although his was more of a nervous chuckle, while he jotted an address on a piece of paper, which he said was a safe place to send any information I found. As I waved him off and watched him walk away down the street with his sergeant, there was a small glimmer of hope sparkling within my mind. Perhaps I had found an ally at last.

  ***

  It was with a refreshed and committed mind that I went about my business that morning. I now knew that somehow I had to find a way to stop the Golden Woman and that only by halting her parade of killings at Falconer’s behest would I then be able to attempt to tackle the man and his organisation in the best way I knew how: by exposing their schemes in the national newspapers.

  Mr Purkess, although cautious in some respects, would not be able to stop himself from putting such a high-profile story on his front page. However, if he did refuse me I had decided that I would go to The Times or the Daily Telegraph.

  I took a room in the Portland Hotel that looked out upon Cavendish Square and set about observing the Dolorian Club from a safe and secure distance. This form of observation would not be as obvious as my previous attempt, and I made sure that I came into and went from the hotel through one of the side doors, out of sight of the club and any of its members.

  My watches throughout the day yielded no new information; many of those whom I saw coming and going through the large doors I had already noted on my previous visits. I saw the doorman, Mávnos, on numerous occasions, as well as the torturers Dawes and Soames. I wished to bring those two terrible men to justice for the happy jollity with which they carried out their heinous work, perhaps even more than I did Falconer.

  It was at night, though, that I kept my closest eye on the comings and goings, for if the Golden Woman was indeed based within those walls, it was in darkness and shadow that she would appear.

  After over a week of tiresome watching I caught no sight of her at all and I began to wonder if this was time wasted, time that could have been spent trying to convince Mr Purkess to go forward with the information that I had already gathered. I sent a couple of notes to Inspector Langton to inform him of my surveillance. It was on the eighth night, however, that I saw a
figure draped in a black cloak emerge from the cellar stairs below the main doors of the house. There was an easy glide to the figure’s movements, a way that the cowl of the cloak was brought low over the face, which told me immediately that this was my quarry.

  Gathering the only tool which I felt I could use against her, I rushed from the hotel room. As I burst from the building, I saw that she had not yet left the square, but was nearing the far corner and would soon be out of sight. Others walked the streets but did not give her a second look. I sped through the central gardens, jumping over gates and bundling past pedestrians. She was still in sight, head down and walking at pace along the pavement, avoiding the looks of those whom she passed and hiding her face from the light of the gas lamps, which surely would have reflected her golden features to all. Carriages rumbled past her at speed, their wheels bouncing off the cobbles as they hurried towards their destinations. I was catching her fast and hoped beyond hope that I could reach her before she slipped into the shadows and ran with all of the speed that I knew her to possess.

  Closer now, I concentrated my hearing on my prey, focusing on the hard metallic clicks that her feet made as they struck the paving stones. I slowed my pace to a brisk walk and found that I was catching her still. The perspiration poured from my forehead and into my eyes as my earlier exertions took their toll on my body. I was not a man made to run; if she gathered speed I would not be able to catch her.

  Closer still and, had I reached an outstretched hand towards her, I would have been able to grab at her cloak and unclothe her for all to see; surely then none would be able to deny the fact that the Golden Woman was real? Yet I resisted and kept my pace.

  The sound of my heartbeat thudded in my ears, pounding louder until I could no longer hear the sound of either her or my own footsteps; even the noise of the constant hackneys flying down the road was lost to me. I looked up and along the street, counting the gas lamps ahead. There were three left before there was a stretch of darkness; time was running out before me; I needed the light.

  Head down, I passed the Golden Woman, resisting the urge to turn and look at her. My feet began to pick up speed a little and I passed one lamppost. I was desperate to glance over my shoulder, to see just how far I was ahead of her, but I knew that if done too early it could ruin everything. I reached the second lamppost and thought to make my move, but something stopped me. I cursed myself for my indecision. I had only one chance left. The lamppost approached and the muscles in my arm tensed around the object in my hands, thinking through the next set of moves which I would have to make. ‘I must be smooth,’ I thought, ‘I must be steady.’

  I reached the lamppost and swung round, bringing Sibelius Darke’s camera up to my eyes and flipping the lens cap off from the front. I was a full ten feet in front of the Golden Woman – I could see her face through the lens. I held it steady, capturing her image, catching my prey.

  She stopped.

  I did not move, and held the camera as steady as I could in my shaking hands.

  There was no expression in her face, but I could sense that she was unsure of what I was doing. My shaking hand brought the lens cap slowly back up to the camera and I replaced it with a soft click.

  Slowly the Golden Woman stepped towards me; I did not move, I could not. As in Regent’s Park on our last meeting, she brought herself close to me, observing me intently, her smooth golden eyes inches from my own and I saw my reflection in her face. People walked past us and, despite not taking my eyes from her own, I could tell that we were being noticed. Would she attack me here, in front of all of these people, in clear sight of passing carriages, their passengers and drivers? Would she strike me down in plain sight? Even though I had survived our last meeting I knew that she was a creation, an automaton not in possession of human awareness and sensibilities, and I fully expected to feel her blade between my ribs. Once again, however, it did not come. Perhaps Darke was right and past sins were my saving grace.

  In a moment of madness I reached out with my free hand and grabbed her cloak. Her head lowered quickly, seeing my action, but it was too late to stop me and I pulled hard, with all the strength I could muster.

  The cloak, which was fastened only by a golden clasp at the neck, fell from her and suddenly all movement around me stopped as the Golden Woman was exposed and naked for all within sight to behold. She had the form of an unclothed female but without explicit detail, her skin smooth and without feature, her hair as if moulded from melted gold. She froze as if turned into a beautiful but immobile statue for a short but devastating moment, shining brightly in the lamplight and drawing the gaze of all around her. There was a moment’s silence and all time seemed to come to a jarred and deadened stop. I stood before her, her unveiler, a camera in one hand, the black cloak of a killer in the other.

  Without warning she sprang into action, darting away into the road and narrowly avoiding two horses as they thundered past, pulling a large black carriage. A woman screamed and soon her cries were echoed by all, as the shining form of the golden creature leapt across the road towards an alleyway at the side of one of the large houses on Margaret Street. Wrapping my camera in her cloak, I gave chase and found myself sprinting after her, dodging through the night traffic and the people who stood dumbstruck at what they had just witnessed.

  I knew that I would be no match for her if she decided to turn and take me on, but I had her in my sights; I was reluctant to lose her and gave not a damn about my safety in pursuit of my goal.

  I bounded into the alleyway just in time to see her at the other end, turning left. She was not moving as quickly as she had in Regent’s Park and I warranted that her unclothing and exposure had made her confused. She had set out into the night to commit a murder but everything had changed and she was now vulnerable.

  As I ran down the alley, I could hear the sound of a policeman’s whistle up ahead, followed by further shouts and cries as more and more people saw her. I followed the noises that came in her wake and saw that we were entering Park Crescent, a place as busy as any in London no matter what time of day or night.

  The Golden Woman found herself in the middle of the road, surrounded by an ever-growing crowd of people. Her head turned frantically, looking for some escape, some path away from the eyes of the mob. They kept their distance, though, and a wide circle formed, full of the scared and the angry, a crowd of those that realised that this supposed make-believe killer, invented by the press and discounted by the law, was in fact very much real. The clamour of the crowd grew and more policemen arrived, themselves not knowing what to do now. The Golden Woman was trapped.

  Suddenly she stood bolt upright and spread her arms wide, an action which brought sudden silence to those around her. The silence continued as all eyes gazed upon her and wondered what her next move would be; no one other than myself had seen her before and no one knew what to expect next.

  Slowly, as if subject to a terrible yet invisible fire, her hands and the ends of her arms began to melt. They melded and moulded themselves, lengthening and flattening, until her arms appeared nothing less than two thin but deadly swords.

  Still the crowd stood dumbstruck; it was as if they did not see the danger that had now befallen them, as if they thought themselves immune to her deadly power.

  Her head turned and she surveyed the circle of people around her and the buildings which stood behind them. Her gaze settled in one spot and, before anyone had a chance to do anything to get out of her way, she charged the crowd at unbelievable speed, her arms swinging and spinning with such deadly force that they clove a path, leaving a line of shattered and bloody bodies in her wake.

  Screams rang through the air followed by gunshots, as those policemen who were armed attempted to stop her with bullets, unaware of the futility of such actions. The bullets which struck her ricocheted off into the crowd, bringing further injury.

  As the Golden Woman reached the edge of the pavement she leapt towards the building and her hands changed to sp
iked claws as she flew, so that they punched through brick and stone to form handholds for her to climb. Swiftly she began her ascent, smashing hole upon hole into the brickwork and rising towards the rooftop’s edge.

  Cries came from the police – to get men up to the roof, to cut her off – and men quickly ran into the buildings to climb the stairs to the top.

  She scaled the building like a large golden spider, her head flicking from one side to the other as she made her path up, pausing frequently to survey her attackers. I knew that her face, if it were able to give expression, would be one of panic and fear.

  Lights appeared on the tops of the buildings: men with torches stood on the edges, looking down at her as she scuttled up the wall towards them. She saw them and paused, desperately looking for another escape route, looking for a way to disappear from sight; there was none. She continued to climb but, as she reached the top and tried to clamber over the edge, the men attacked her with anything to hand. Some used iron bars to strike her, others hurled half bricks towards her.

  Her hands changed to blades once more, slicing out at her attackers. But they were too many. Again and again they struck her until eventually one of her hands slipped from its grip on the parapet of the building. One of the men grabbed at the arm, seizing hold of it, and she pulled at him, sending him toppling over the edge and screaming into the baying crowd below. Another of her arms was seized, this time by two men who pushed at her, trying to send her down. This they managed and she fell backwards, dragging men with her. The crowd below saw what was going to happen and stumbled backwards, clearing a space on the pavement.

  She fell.

  I watched her and the two men, her last victims, as they plummeted towards the ground, the men crying in fear, knowing that their time was done; but from her there was no sound, no change in expression, no look of terror at her demise. She hit the ground first, the sound ringing through the air as metal struck stone and she shattered into pieces. The men landed on top of her, their bodies breaking and bleeding over the splintered lumps of gold that had once formed the shape of a beautiful woman.