Death of Connor Sanderson_Prequel to Fire & Ice Series

by Karen Payton Holt

  There was nothing Connor could do, so he laid out on the thin mattress, stared at the ceiling, and waited for morning.

  He wondered if Reggie had received his message. Cranham Hall was an hour’s coach ride from the hospital and Lord Cranham would be a powerful ally. This time, unlike Rice, Connor knew he didn’t murder Ivy. He could account for every moment of last evening. Searching his room would not take the police very long, but he doubted anything would happen soon.

  Falling into a restful trance, Connor considered reaching out to Malachi, but this was a problem for the real world. He needed to appear human, at least, although he felt sure breaking through brick walls remained an option, but only as a last resort.

  Listening to the discordant soundtrack of London traffic, the night passed by before Connor heard footsteps approach and stop outside the cell wing door.

  The door opened. “Inspector Cavendish has sent for you.” It was a different officer this morning, but the same routine with the handcuffs and escort duty.

  Facing Cavendish in the interview room once again, the inspector wasted no time. He placed a pile of damp clothes on the table. “Your clothes. Found in your bathtub.”

  “It was raining. I got wet.”

  Turning over a flap of fabric with the end of his pen exposed a label. “Anderson & Sheppard. Saville Row. Expensive.”

  “Indeed. They live up to their reputation of concern with easy movement and a natural body line. I would recommend them highly.”

  Cavendish let the flap fall back into place. “Expensive, and yet, you didn’t use an umbrella, overcoat, or hail a cab. In the pouring rain? Very odd. Are you sure you weren’t trying to destroy evidence?”

  Connor shook his head. “Just as I say. I was late for rounds and the suit was too wet to hang. That is all.”

  Back in the cell, another hour passed, and Connor began to think he should hire a lawyer.

  He stood and gripped the bars, contemplating calling out. But, would that make him look guilty? As footfalls echoed in the hallway beyond, he whipped back and sat on the cot as though he hadn’t moved, resting back with implied nonchalance.

  The custody sergeant entered, selected a key from his belt, and pushed it into the lock.

  So, this is it. They are charging me.

  Swinging the cell door open, he said flatly, “You’re free to go, sir. Sign for your property at the desk on your way out.”

  “Free?”

  The sergeant maintained a blank look, and Connor decided questions could wait. Minutes later, standing outside on the sidewalk clutching the damp paper parcel containing his crumpled suit, he lifted his chin skyward and took a deep breath. The polluted London air had never felt so good.

  The warmth on his face began to sting as the clouds shifted across the sky, and, dodging carriages and a motor car, Connor crossed with forced casual efficiency to the shaded side of the street. Glancing back, he saw Reggie running up the steps of the police station and called out.

  Changing direction, Reggie joined him on the opposite sidewalk, slightly out of breath. “Thank God. I couldn’t believe it when Cartwright told me.”

  “Lester?” Connor frowned.

  “Well, yes. The police were asking questions. They weren’t very discrete when they searched your room, I’m afraid. Lester went into the local police station to tell them about your encounter with Rufus.” Reggie took the crumpled parcel from Connor and hailed a cab as he spoke. “I can’t believe you saved his life. They phoned Bow Street and Cavendish talked to Lester and Rufus at the hospital this morning.”

  Following Reggie and stepping up into the carriage, Connor said, “I never thought I’d be grateful to Rufus Clare.” He slumped back into the seat, making the carriage rock.

  Reggie glanced across the confined space at his friend. “You look frightful, by the way.”

  Chapter 19

  The sheen of dewdrops on the sidewalk glittered in the moonlight as he rested against the wall beside the sweeping archway which framed the cemetery gates. He had followed his prey to the house opposite and waited with growing tension for him to emerge once more.

  The incarceration in the prison cell had been shorter than I expected. The fun is in the game. Gaining trust and playing with shades of truth. The police are fools. Running his diamond hard nails over the stonework, he scored deep troughs and listened to the whisper of the fragments hitting the ground.

  The condensation stiffened to frost, and still he did not move or breathe. He filled the time listening to the conversations playing out inside the row of houses. The problems and concerns of the occupants struck him as fatuous. There were many more serious problems in life than who to invite to dinner, when to visit the aged Aunt Agnes, and fussing over a child who has fallen and grazed a knee. Pathetic.

  He hadn’t decided the where and the when. He just knew the man inside one of those houses would not make it back to his own home tonight. With a smile, he listened to the ‘goodbyes’ playing out on the other side of the glossy black door opposite. The ‘take care, old man’ was followed by the muffled thump of the men inside slapping each other on the back.

  The door opened and the human stepped out.

  Light from the hallway sharpened the silhouette as, turning up the collar of his long-tailored coat, the man made a final gesture of farewell. The door closed, and he turned away and bounced down the stone steps. Immediately, he set off along the sidewalk at a brisk pace. The distant glow of a busier street up ahead beckoned. The reassuring brightness of shop fronts and a stream of passing humanity, both on foot and riding in carriages and motor cars, waited for him there.

  The man’s footfalls rang out in a steady, determined tempo. He paused beneath a gas lantern while struggling with his gloves. He moved onwards, increasing speed again until his stride checked as he made sure it was safe to cross a side street. A gusting breeze blew his hair over his eyes. He pushed it back, still concentrating on scanning for traffic, and then his feet left the floor. His body hurtled through the air and slammed into a wall of brick.

  The loud crack of ribs breaking shattered the silence. The coarse masonry ripped the skin from his cheek as he slid down and crumpled onto the cold sidewalk.

  Appearing beside the body, his attacker bent to grab a handful of hair and examine the bleeding features. A crushed cheekbone sunk inwards and dark shadow filled the crater in the once handsome face.

  Unbuttoning the dead man’s coat, he reached inside and went through the pockets. He pulled out a money clip, a set of keys, a handkerchief, and a pack of cigarettes. Such a filthy habit. The hunter shook his head.

  Dropping everything else onto the ground, he pushed the money from the clip into his pocket. From inside his own coat, he pulled out two glass vials with cork stoppers. Resting a knee on the sidewalk, he studied the bleeding face and licked his lips. Turning the corpse’s head with a bony finger, he pushed a sharp nail into the carotid artery and filled both glass containers with the reluctant crimson flow. Standing up, he pocketed the vials. With no heart to pump it out, obeying the laws of gravity, the blood flowed until it resembled an oozing pool of black tar in the darkness.

  Taking a final, intent look, as though committing the scene to memory, the dark stranger turned and disappeared. The dead man’s copper bright hair shuffled in the breeze, blowing across his eyes.

  Chapter 20

  Connor crossed the room and washed his grubby hands at the vanity stand. He sat down at his desk and took stock. The evening shift had been uneventful.

  Pretending he felt tired represented the biggest challenge for him. He tried not to take on more than his share, but it became harder when the nurses, easing their aching shoulders, had literally just sank into a chair to write up patient notes, and a call button bleeped at the ward station.

  Once or twice, when alone in the hospital corridor, he heard the groan of distress in a patient and attended to them before their hand found the call button. That made him feel slightly better.
He was off at eleven p.m. and try as he might, he couldn’t persuade the night sister to swap shifts, even though the dark circles under her eyes were purple.

  Instead, Connor used his time usefully. He joined Malachi for another hunting session. Rats, rabbits, badgers, and foxes all tasted intriguingly different. Anyone who thought ‘blood is blood’ is a fool. Meat tasted different so why shouldn’t blood, but his biggest discovery was that fear ruined the taste. He learned the value of a fast kill, cloaked in surprise. If the creature had no time to react, then their blood remained untainted by adrenalin.

  He heard police sirens wailing along the streets when he left Malachi and was on his way back. It served as a reminder that the streets of London had other predators too.

  A few specks of blood marked his clothes, so he had come in through the window. Although he moved too fast for a human to see, ghostly swinging doors in corridors might raise alarm.

  Rousing himself from his meandering thoughts, he set the blotter on the desk straight, and focused. He felt as human as he could, these days.

  Opening the top draw, he pulled out a sheet of note paper and dipped a pen in the inkwell set in a wooden block. He poised it ready to write. Turning quickly, as if he heard a noise, he twisted and inspected the closed window. Was it already open when I came back in? He frowned. He couldn’t remember if he had checked it. He made a mental note to be more careful.

  Focusing back on the paper, he wrote ‘Dearest Lavinia’, and then frowned. Unease crept along his spine. He detected an unfamiliar odor in the room. It smelled like Malachi, but that could not be. Getting up, he prowled around the space, sampling the air. His bed looked undisturbed. Running his fingers over the mattress, he found the smell grew stronger. Dropping to his knees, he peered under the metal frame, scanning the floor and the chain-linked fabric of the springs.

  A scrap of white cloth poked through. There’s something underneath. Connor stood and lifted the mattress. Reaching into the space, he pulled out a piece of torn fabric. It looked like part of a dress shirt. How the hell did that get there? The stench of blood radiated into the room, and the dried-in stain struck dread into Connor.

  The sound of footsteps on the stairs broke his concentration, and he knew there was a decision to be made. Is running going to help me? I need to catch the creep doing this. The window being unlatched and the musky odor added up to a vampire. Malachi? Playing games? The only way to know what he was up against was to stay put and face whoever came through that door.

  The voice shouting outside in the hallway almost drowned out the urgent pounding on the thick wood.

  “Police. Open up.”

  Opening the window and tossing the cloth outside took milliseconds. Connor answered the door and stepped back as two policemen and Cavendish pushed their way in.

  “You’re under arrest, you murderer,” blurted Cavendish.

  Connor cooperated, letting an officer cuff his hands behind his back.

  Cavendish glared into Connor’s face and then his eyes dropped down to the front of Connor’s shirt. The specks of blood he saw fuelled the inspector’s aggression. “Friends in high places won’t help you this time, you sick bastard.”

  “What am I supposed to have done?” Connor asked.

  Ignoring the question, Cavendish beckoned three more officers into the room. “Search every square inch.” Jerking his head towards the door, he said, “Take him away.”

  As Connor allowed himself to be bundled down the stairwell, he tried to piece together the puzzle. He knew the police didn’t need a warrant this time. They could search his room because he was arrested there. A creeping sensation of dread filled him as he realized he had not searched the room himself.

  <><><>

  Connor had been stripped of his clothes yet again, but wore a standard issue prison tunic and pants this time, with his cuffed hands resting in his lap.

  “You left a witness.” Cavendish grinned.

  Connor felt confused. A witness? He didn’t remember murdering anything other than some wildlife last night. So, who?

  “Where were you at midnight last night?”

  “In my room.” Another lie. But a calculated one, given he left and returned by the window.

  “Wrong answer.”

  Is he bluffing? He has to be. “You have me at a disadvantage. Your witness is mistaken. Someone with a grudge would lie, of course.”

  “Who holds a grudge against you, Doctor Sanderson?” Cavendish’s agitation had evaporated when he entered the interview room. He reminded Connor of a hunter stalking prey.

  Instinct told Connor to remain silent.

  “Let’s run through some names, shall we? You can just nod. Reginald Cranham? Lester Cartwright?” Cavendish held Connor’s gaze. “No? How about Rufus Clare?”

  Everything screamed ‘trap’ to Connor, so he said nothing.

  “Oh, come now, Doctor-”

  A knock on the door interrupted the flow. The tension broke when Cavendish got up and went to answer it. Stepping out, even though he closed the door behind him, Connor heard what was being said, and had some answers, at last.

  “We found blood on a torn shirt shoved behind the tallboy chest… Mr. Cartwright is still in shock… Cecil Clare has identified his son’s body. Nasty business, sir.”

  So there was more ‘evidence’ planted.

  Cavendish returned and sat. “Silence won’t help you this time. I am charging you with the murder of Rufus Clare. You will appear in front of a magistrate and be remanded in custody.” Conversationally, Cavendish added, “You’ll ask for bail, but we will oppose on the grounds that people around you drop dead and we have a witness to protect. Do you understand the charge?”

  Connor nodded.

  “Humor me, Sanderson. Let me hear you admit to it. Save us all a lot of time.”

  “I understand the charge. As to the rest, no comment.”

  Cavendish stood up and called out to an officer. “Put him in the cells after the custody sergeant has completed the paperwork.”

  “Inspector, what did the witness say?” Connor asked, quietly.

  “All in good time, Doctor.”

  Connor got up and followed the police officer out, wishing he could talk to Lester. None of this made any sense.

  “Sanderson?”

  Connor recognized the gloating tone. It was the best thing he could hope for. That Cavendish would want him to squirm; human instinct at its best.

  “Here’s something for you to sweat over. Lester Cartwright witnessed your vicious attack. He went out to catch Rufus, because he’d forgotten to tell him about an appointment. He is sedated and catatonic. We are waiting for him to recover. But you’re a doctor. You know he may never recover, but don’t worry. We have enough to bury you anyway.”

  Chapter 21

  The police were in no hurry, Connor knew. He lay on his back in the same cell as before, with his forearm covering his eyes.

  A drunk snored rhythmically in the next cell.

  Connor also gave the impression of being asleep, but his mind was in overdrive. Even though suspicion about Malachi had taken up lodgings like a maggot in his brain, he deliberately didn’t think about that.

  Malachi, where are you?

  He sent out the call every few minutes. He sensed Malachi heard him, when a picture of his mentor’s grinning face solidified inside his head, but Malachi remained stubbornly silent.

  Connor hoped the decrepit vampire had a plan which did not include leaving him there to rot in jail. His feeling of optimism originated from somewhere, and it certainly wasn’t from Connor himself.

  As lists of pros and cons went, the cons side of things were heavily weighted. He might not be convicted, but laboratory tests were tediously slow and it would take time to determine the blood on the shirt he wore was animal blood. And that opens another can of worms, in any case. Try explaining that away without sounding like a lunatic. It could not alter the fact they found a blood-stained shirt in his room, an
d he knew the blood would be Rufus Clare’s. What he couldn’t work out was who put it there and why. Which led him back to the scenario he couldn’t think about.

  His current situation held no real fear for him. As a vampire, he could easily escape and disappear. Leaving London and starting again would be simple. But, leaving Reggie, Lavinia, and the Cranham family, thinking he was a murderer did not sit so well with him.

  He heard Malachi approaching long before he arrived. Connor frowned. His mentor’s progress resembled the vampire equivalent of a lumbering elephant. Every footfall sent shockwaves which bounced around Connor’s cell. What is he doing?

  Connor’s imagination had not reached as far as formulating what Malachi would come up with to get him out of this fix. Swinging up to sitting, like a look-out at a robbery, Connor kept an ear open for human footsteps inside the police station.

  The snoring next door stuttered, resuming once-more on a loud snort. The sting of alcohol seemed to be a whisky and bitter ale cocktail, which Connor knew the man would regret in the morning.

  A shadow filled the high-level window, and a waterfall of debris rained down onto the concrete floor as the iron bars disappeared one by one.

  “Malachi?” Connor whispered, even though it could not be anyone else.

  Of course. The words melted into a grinning face.

  What’s the plan? Even though, Connor felt relief at finally hearing Malachi’s voice inside his head, his patience was paper thin.

  Escape and misdirection.

  With all the bars removed, Connor stood back and watched with interest. As though it leapt from a trampoline, the body of a man appeared in the aperture and slumped forward onto his belly. His slack hands swung gently for a moment before he toppled over into the cell.

  Connor had already decided the man was dead, but, to keep the noise down, he whipped forward and caught the body. Malachi landed soundlessly beside Connor.