Death of Connor Sanderson_Prequel to Fire & Ice Series

by Karen Payton Holt

  Connor waited in silence, glad when Malachi descended into the form of communication he preferred; painting a scene inside Connor’s head...

  The darkness of the tomb became the crisp cold air of a moonlit night.

  Connor saw a figure wearing a dark cloak moving quickly up ahead, the fabric flaring out behind him flipped back every few steps to reveal the battered, leather Gladstone bag he clutched in one hand. Connor recognized the area as Whitechapel. He followed the man past the church and entered the district where there was a public house every few yards. There were also alleys where the air seemed thick with darkness.

  The musical lilt of female laughter floated through the night, and the figure changed direction. The speed with which the hunter dropped to one knee, extracted a blade and swooped down on his victim was terrifying. Connor felt disgust and despair as the man caught the girl by the hair – a prostitute judging by the low cut bodice and painted face – yanked her head back and slit her throat. Guiding her to the floor, with macabre care he arranged her on her back, cut open her bodice, and with devastating precision, cut out her liver. What am I watching? Connor didn’t want to look, and he realized he was Malachi. The weight of sadness he felt was failure. The monster dipped his face into the warm cavity, vapor pluming into the cold night air as he drank her blood. The slurping noise made Connor’s hackles rise.

  But then, he did something worse, he bit into the liver, even though he retched; it was as though he was trying to choke on it.

  The image faded and Connor looked at Malachi’s still profile. “Your protégé? He went insane?”

  Malachi nodded slowly. “Yes. Our worst fear was that he’d be caught and his ‘undead’ state would endanger the rest of us. You will have heard of his infamy. The newspapers called him ‘Jack the Ripper’, ‘The Whitechapel Murderer’ or even ‘Leather Apron’.”

  “Did you kill him?”

  “I planned to, but Principal Julian of the ‘Undead Council’ has to sanction executions.”

  “Even you fear this principal?”

  Malachi chuckled. “We all do.” Jerking his head towards the human corpse nearby, he added quietly, “You could be called up before Principle Julian if you bring our society to human attention. We’ve been here in London for many hundreds of years. Humans, thankfully, have eyes that look but don’t see what is right in front of them.”

  Connor nodded. Having been at the hospital and living a lie, he knew that more than anyone. “So, ‘Jack’ still lives?”

  “Yes, he disappeared from London. Until he returns, he is another council’s problem.”

  Connor sat very still, struggling with the revelation that the species existing, undetected, side-by-side with humans, was not just in London, but everywhere. “What made him become a monster?”

  “The bloodlust of ‘grave-sleep’ is hard to subjugate. Some vampires lock themselves away in coffins or sarcophagi after one kill to curb the appetite. It prevents the psychopath inside becoming so strong that their own will cannot resurface and take back control. Exercising that control is what you did tonight.” Malachi inspected Connor again, as if he had not seen him before, as if dissecting an insect under a microscope. “You are one of the strong ones. I made a good choice.”

  Connor could not agree. What he wouldn’t give for the blinkered existence he had shared with Reggie, Lavinia, and even his enemy, Rufus. But then, Rufus is dead, really dead, and that could have been me. Confusion made Connor irritable.

  “What happens now, Malachi? I’m undead, and a fugitive wanted for three murders. What happens now?”

  Leaning back against the wall, Malachi presented a blank expression. “That is for you to decide. If talking to Reginald Cranham will help you, then you know where to find him, just be careful.”

  Picking up the envelope from the floor where it had fallen while Connor witnessed the fate which befell ‘Jack’, he pulled out a sheet of paper and prepared to write. With a wry smile he acknowledged that he had been a child in his playroom the last time he had used a lead pencil, but expecting Malachi to return with his ‘Waterman’ fountain pen and pot of blue ink was an unrealistic expectation.

  He kept it simple, bearing in mind this was a letter from a dead man –

  Reggie, please meet me in the stables at Cranham Hall at midnight. I am not dead, but I can explain. Connor.

  Could he explain? He wasn’t sure, not really, but he could try, and trust that Reginald would agree to visit Lester.

  Folding the paper and putting it inside the envelope, Connor passed it to Malachi to deliver.

  “I’ll be only a few minutes. Please stay here.” Malachi waited until Connor nodded, and then disappeared in a vortex of grit and stone dust.

  Connor guessed what would be the next task. We should get rid of the body. The thought of meeting ‘Principal Julian’ intrigued him. Would meeting others help him understand his state of suspended being, more clearly? Would he feel like part of something, rather than an outcast? Getting answers from more than one undead soul satisfied the researcher in Connor. I’ll ask Malachi to take me before the undead council. He ignored the little voice that asked, ‘what if your sentence is real death?’

  In truth, he almost wished it was.

  Malachi materialized a few minutes later, as promised, saying the words Connor expected. “Master Cranham will find the letter on the silver salver when he goes down to dinner this evening. If he is not hungry, the butler will take it to him. Now it is time to bury your mistake.”

  “I want to go before the council. Meet with Principal Julian.”

  “I know you do. All in good time. I have a feeling he would want to meet you too.” Malachi waited until Connor picked up the body from the ledge, and then led the way out of the mausoleum. Connor expected to bury the body, however the solution was simpler. Drop it in the Thames and watch it float away. Connor didn’t feel badly about that. He still had the wedding ring on a twine inside his pocket. Some people didn’t deserve consideration.

  Chapter 24

  Leaving the cemetery at ten o’clock, Connor pulled up his collar and walked into the city center. He sensed the flutter of alarm, like an electric current, passing through the late-night travelers. Darkness made everything menacing. Noises echoed more loudly, visibility reduced, and everyone knew things that went bump in the night were always bad.

  Connor heard what he hoped for, news about the ‘Toffs Murders’. Ivy wasn’t a ‘toff’, but she worked at the Hall. Three murders in three nights had everyone looking over their shoulder. Connor walked side by side with the fearful, and they had no idea he was the prime suspect.

  “I heard the murderer killed himself. A journalist my father knows is writing the story.”

  That his ‘death’ was already public knowledge made things more difficult for the Cranhams. His thoughts turned to Lavinia. I hope she has not heard the gossip. The last thing he meant to do was cause pain to those he loved.

  Heading to London Bridge railway station, he skimmed smoothly down the stairs to the platform just as a train pulled in. Choosing a window seat, he watched the rows of houses which lined the track pass by. The darkened windows bore the oily sheen of grime and the houses themselves were wedged together, filling every space along the route. Further out of London, the embankments were lined with tangled undergrowth and trees deformed by the unforgiving rush of endless carriages shuttling back and forth.

  Connor alighted at Orpington. He had not taken a train in six months, and he couldn’t account for the urge to travel on one tonight, except to say, he felt he was gathering experiences for the last time. Running lightly up onto the moonlit sidewalk, he walked until the shops and houses dwindled and greenery took over, and then, without a carriage or horse to ride, he ran.

  He had an hour to kill before his meeting with Reggie. Whisking towards the imposing presence of the Hall, Connor’s curiosity piqued when he saw the golden glow of lamplight in the window of George Cranham’s study. Peering caref
ully through a gap in the drapes, Connor identified two other men. Sir Edgar Cranham and Cedric Clare.

  Cedric Clare appeared to have shrunk since Connor’s last encounter with him, and it wasn’t difficult to guess why. The man’s grief made his head drop and his shoulders slump. His red nose and puffy eyes bore witness to the emotional storm he struggled to control.

  “Rufus was turning a corner.” Cedric’s voice was thick with tears. “The recent run-ins he had with Sanderson made him re-examine his future.” The old man dragged a hand down over his face. “Why? Why would Sanderson do this? I don’t understand. I don’t understand any of it.”

  Cedric sunk further down into a brown leather wing-backed chair.

  Uncle Edgar peered from beneath beetled brows and said, “I’m not convinced he did it. I know there was rivalry between the two, but murder, and three people, the police would have us believe. I’m sorry, I don’t see Connor suddenly losing his sanity like that. Because that is what it would take.”

  His Lordship stood up from where he had sat behind his desk, drumming his fingers on the leather tooled surface. Passing in front of the window, he darted a glance at the drapes, almost as though he felt Connor’s presence. He said evenly, “Connor must have felt bad about something. The police think he committed suicide because he couldn’t face what he had done. It was the only way he could cope. I honestly don’t know what to think. It all seems so bizarre, and the police have been wrong before.” After circling the room, George Cranham sank back into his desk chair again. He sighed as though a weight crushed his chest and murmured, “Connor Sanderson may be dead, but I’ll visit Inspector Cavendish in the morning. I want answers.”

  Easing away from the window, Connor withdrew to the deep shadow of the trees beyond the lawn. Seeing Cedric reduced to a fragile shell brought home what was at stake. I have to clear my name. Cavendish is more than capable of labeling me a murderer. I can’t let them think I would do these terrible things.

  At midnight, Connor made his way to the stables and waited. At least he knew Reggie would hear him out and had not called the police already. Lord Cranham, Cedric, and Sir Edgar, would not be in so somber a mood if Reggie had shared Connor’s note.

  Inside the stable, straw dust floated like flecks of gold to Connor’s keen sight. Sabre snickered and his hooves scraped over the stone floor as he sidled away across his stall. The team of carriage horses, even though they were on the other side of the tack room, radiated nervous tension, blowing air through velvet nostrils.

  “It’s okay boy.” He silently entered Sabre’s stall. The stallion’s glossy black coat felt damp with sweat when Connor stroked his shoulder. Looking into the horse’s terrified white-rimmed eye, he hummed softly under his breath until the animal relaxed and plucked at his coat with soft inquisitive lips.

  “I won you over, boy. Now, I just need your master to be as understanding, hmmm?”

  Sabre’s head swung up when Reggie entered the stable and the wooden planked door swung shut behind him. Connor went back out into the hay store and waited for Reggie to notice he was there. It took human eyes time to adjust. Connor considered how easy it would be to surprise human prey before they knew what had happened. He thought like a hunter now.

  “Reggie.” He nodded in greeting when his friend eventually saw him.

  “What the hell, Connor?” A cocktail of anger and confusion raged inside Reginald, until finally, the tension in his muscles eased into a rush of relief. “It is you. You’re alive.”

  He smiled at the irony. “Yes. It wasn’t my plan to fake my death-” Connor shrugged. “But I had to escape to find the real killer.”

  “How? And wasn’t there a body? Burned?” Reggie’s voice grew cold with suspicion.

  “I can tell you the details. The body. Who helped me escape. But, Reggie, do you really want to know?”

  Reggie’s face gave nothing away, but the sudden rush of heat through his body and the heavy thud of a racing heartbeat gave Connor the answer he needed. Better not to know.

  Connor swallowed down the rush of saliva that filled his mouth – Pavlov’s dog theory held true with vampires too, it seemed – The plume of sweet nectar pumping thought Reggie’s veins was like a dinner bell.

  “When all this is over, I will explain, I promise.”

  Pulling a grooming stool closer, Reggie dropped down onto it and set his hands on his spread knees. “What do you want?”

  “Lester. Cavendish says he is a witness.”

  “As much good as it will do you. You think he’ll clear your name?” Reggie laughed bitterly. “Even if he does, you’re dead, Connor. Remember?”

  “But I need to know who did this. Don’t you get it, Reggie? What do all the victims have in common?” Connor waited a heartbeat. “Me. If I’m dead, then the people I love are safe, for now, anyway.” He wanted to believe that more than anything. “Lavinia. How is she?”

  “The doctor administered a mild sedative. She took it badly.”

  “God, what a mess.” Connor stabbed his fingers through his black hair. “Can you tell her I’m alive?”

  “Is that what you want? It may be better to leave things as they are. If you can’t clear your name then you’ll have to leave, surely?”

  He hadn’t thought about that. Connor came face to face with the fact that he would have to leave, whatever the outcome.

  “Perhaps you’re right, Reggie.”

  “I just don’t want to see her hurting again and again.”

  Connor nodded. “Can you get in to see Lester? He’s in St Thomas’ Hospital.”

  “And if I can get in?”

  “I need a description. I know I wasn’t there. If Lester was close enough to see what happened, and go into shock, he might have seen something important to identify the killer.”

  “Wouldn’t the police think of that?”

  “They would, unless they think the murderer was already locked in a cell, and is now dead. They won’t be knocking down Lester’s door.”

  Reggie digested everything Connor said. “Maybe you are right. Okay. It is worth a shot. I’ll visit him first thing in the morning.”

  “Reggie, even if it doesn’t make sense, whatever he says, write it down.”

  Connor gave Reggie a penetrating look. “No matter how strange what he says sounds, write everything down.”

  “Very well.”

  “Thank you. You’re a good friend.” Human slow, Connor walked over and rested his hand on Reggie’s shoulder. “Thank you.”

  Connor turned to leave, but froze. Swinging back, he said, “Reggie, you should carry one of your father’s handguns, for now, anyway.”

  Reggie frowned, his raised eyebrow filled with a hundred questions.

  “I just want to be prepared. ‘Never underestimate your enemy’, isn’t that what Lord Cranham says? Until the real killer is caught, you should take precautions.”

  The realization in Reggie’s expression made Connor feel more comfortable. You, Lavinia, any member of the household, none of you are safe until we know who we are dealing with.”

  “Very well. I’ll do that.”

  A second later, Connor had left Reggie alone with his thoughts. The weight of regret hurt. Like a broken glass, the events of the last few days had shattered so many lives, and things could never be put back the way they were.

  Chapter 25

  Connor couldn’t talk to Lester himself, but he followed Reginald to St Thomas’ Hospital and planned to gather clues from a distance. On his return journey the night before, he gave a beggar on a street corner at Orpington station money, and persuaded him to swap his coat and hat for Connor’s. The vagrant took the Saville Row cashmere coat and scuttled away, as though scared that the ‘gent’ would come to his senses.

  He didn’t tell Reggie he would be there. He felt it better his friend didn’t know. In the entrance foyer, Connor slumped into a wooden seat, polished slick by the thousands of backsides that had fidgeted while waiting to be called t
o the desk. Reggie shuffled forward each time the queue at the reception counter moved, then stood and waited. He adjusted his position every few seconds or so, staring at the clock on the wall as if it held the answers to the universe.

  “Good morning, sir. How can I help?”

  Reggie reached the front of the line at last. “Mr. Lester Cartwright? I’m a friend of his from The Royal Eye Hospital. I’m here to visit him.”

  The woman squinted over the top of her spectacles at Reggie, and then shuffled through a pile of papers below the counter. “Mr. Cartwright is no longer on the ‘Observation Ward’.” She smiled absently at Reggie, handed him a ‘visitor’ badge, and said, “Third floor. Ward C. He’s in his own room in a side ward.”

  “Thank you, miss,” Reggie said and headed towards the stairwell. If he noticed the funnel of air that chilled the space around him as he started up the steps, he didn’t show it. Connor whipped up the stairs unseen, ahead of Reggie.

  Connor felt reassured at the bulk disrupting Reggie’s usual streamlined tailoring where a gun fit snugly against his side, tucked inside his pants waistband.

  Looking for a position from where he could eavesdrop, Connor checked the other private rooms in side ward ‘C’, but found them all occupied. The tea station had nurses inside chatting between themselves, so in the end, Connor settled for the linen closet. He sat on the floor in his grimy coat and battered hat. If an orderly comes in, they’ll see a homeless guy. They would throw him out, of course, but they wouldn’t look at him twice.

  Listening for footsteps, Connor sat still as stone.

  Reggie arrived a few minutes later, puffing from the exertion of walking quickly up the stairs. Without being able to see, Connor heard Reggie knock quietly on a door, and then, hearing no reply, the door of Lester’s room opened and closed again.

  The voices were easy to tune into for Connor. The sluggish stream of garbled words belonged to Lester. Reggie asked how Lester was feeling. He offered condolences on the terrible events and let Lester know he had friends who cared about him. All these overtures were met by faltering, disjointed words.