Death of Connor Sanderson_Prequel to Fire & Ice Series

by Karen Payton Holt

  Connor felt shocked at Lester’s rambling narrative. Whatever he saw must have been terrifying.

  Resting his head back against the wall, Connor concentrated harder. There was a light scraping sound on the waxed linoleum of the floor and Reggie lowered his voice. It was easy to picture the scene; Reggie sitting on a chair, now, at Lester’s bedside. Listening for the low moan of bedsprings, Connor revised his perception. Lester is sitting in a chair, too.

  “Lester, have the police talked to you, yet?”

  A rattling sound filled the air, and then Lester blurted, “They don’t want to listen. I told them. I told them. I told them.” Like a gramophone needle which was stuck, Lester kept repeating those words.

  “It’s alright, Lester.”

  The creaking of a chair stopped, and Connor realized the poor boy must have been rocking in the seat.

  “I’ll listen. What happened? Can you remember?”

  “Sanderson. Connor.”

  Connor’s heart suddenly felt heavy. Did I do this? He rested his head against the painted bricks behind him. No, I would know. The human conversation beyond, began again.

  “Connor?” The dismay in Reggie’s voice was almost tangible.

  “He was a decent man. He saved Rufus.”

  Reggie’s confusion was evident, but he patiently walked Lester along the path his mind was taking. Lester recounted the drunken encounter when Rufus almost choked on his own vomit. “He said I could call him, Connor. Decent man.”

  Carefully, Reggie said, “And what about the night Rufus was murdered.”

  The blunt question set off a creaking of chair springs again. It settled into a steady tempo which matched the rhythm of Lester’s words.

  “Rufus came to dinner. He should have left earlier, but he had so many plans he wanted to share. He seemed euphoric, as if someone had turned on a light and he could see where he wanted to go. Such a waste.”

  A silence stretched until Reggie gently said, “So he left your house, late?”

  “Yes, and almost immediately after I closed the front door, I remembered something I had to tell him.” Lester’s voice faded as he struggled to recall. “There was something he needed to know. What was it?”

  “I don’t think that is important now, Lester. You went after him? Is that what happened next?”

  “Yes.” Lester’s voice faltered. “I heard a thud. It was like a wet sponge hitting a wall. You know? That dull thump.”

  Reggie stayed silent.

  “It was horrible. I wanted to chase it off.”

  “It?”

  “It. Him. Whatever it was. The face was just a skin mask over bone. No hair, at least, not that I could see.” Lester swallowed. “It bled Rufus like a hunter does to a stuck pig. The blood was everywhere.”

  “Take your time Lester. Anything you can recall will help catch this man.”

  “I don’t think it was a man. It was a walking skeleton. I saw yellow stumps of teeth.” Lester breathed in sharply. “It had something gold on its hands though. I remember a glint of gold.”

  The spaces between the sentences became longer and longer, and then Connor heard only breathing. Both men became silent and still for the longest time.

  Connor no longer needed to listen. But couldn’t help the final spurt of certainty when Lester took a shuddering breath and said, “It moved so quickly that at times it seemed to blur. You know, like a ghost. It was like a walking skeleton that appeared and disappeared. I should have tried to help Rufus, but I couldn’t move.”

  Connor shot to his feet, and stopped with his hand poised on the handle of the closet door. The wait for Reggie to emerge seemed to last hours, but Connor needed Reggie’s gun. After everything Lester had been through, Connor would not risk rendering Lester catatonic by rushing into the room, taking the gun, and leaving. If he registered on the human retina at all, then it would tip Lester over the edge, and so, he waited, impatiently.

  The door opened and Reggie appeared, and froze on the spot. “You can’t be here Connor,” he hissed.

  Even with the weight on his mind, Connor still could not help but laugh. “And yet, here I am.”

  Reggie spluttered and darted a glance at the closed door of Lester’s room. “You can’t-”

  “Don’t worry, Reggie. I’m not here to see Lester, but I do need your gun.”

  The look in Connor’s eyes impressed the urgency on his friend, and wordlessly, he pulled out a Webley MK VI service revolver and handed it over.

  “Thank you. I’ll return it, you have my word.” Pushing the gun into his own belt, Connor said, “You have to return to the hospital. Act normal. Attend lectures. Can you do that?”

  “Yes, I can do that,” Reggie replied.

  Becoming a wraithlike ghost himself, Connor left the hospital. The journey back to the mausoleum was challenging, it took all his focus to stay in shadows. At one point he rounded a corner into a sunlit courtyard and danced backwards as, despite the speed he traveled at, the capillaries in the exposed skin of his hands and face pulled tight. He took more care after that. Even cloudy days deserved to be treated with respect.

  He went over and over the things Lester said. Anger made his muscles tighten and his vision tint with red. Even though Connor having the gun would feel like aiming an arrow at a stone wall, David had felled Goliath. Stranger things have happened, and everyone has a weak spot.

  He entered the tomb of The Butcher, and it was empty, save for the mummified remains which could not talk to him.

  With a roar of rage, Connor punched the stone walls which felt as if they were closing in on him, and an explosion of shattered fragments hit the ground. Where the hell is Malachi?

  He settled at the entrance and stared out over the sun-dappled grass. The shadows grew longer, their stains coalescing into a carpet of ink. When, an hour later, the grass flattened beneath the down draft of Malachi’s fast approach, Connor observed his mentor objectively, as though through the eyes of a human.

  Malachi’s parchment colored skin clung tightly to his bones.

  When Malachi stopped beside him, Connor said, “Why am I getting the ‘student’ treatment? I am willing to wager that you disappear in a heartbeat – if you’ll excuse the pun – on other humans you ‘turn’.”

  Malachi assessed Connor’s grim expression. “Maybe, I like you.”

  “And maybe you’re amusing yourself by watching me self-destruct.”

  “Why would that amuse me? I broke you out of prison. You are safe here, are you not?”

  “That depends. Is it safe, being inside the den with the lion?” Connor drew the pistol and pointed it at Malachi. “I believe you put me in prison. Lester saw you.”

  His mentor laughed aloud. He stared at Connor and in the depths of those yellow reptilian eyes, Connor saw something change. A dawning of something important.

  “I know I can’t kill you, but I can enjoy putting a dent in your smug face.” Connor pulled the trigger and the bullet hit the wall where Malachi had been standing. It lodged in the space between two slabs of stone, excavating a crater. Once the sharp crack of the gunshot faded, Connor was left alone, with frustrating silence.

  Chapter 26

  Connor was reduced to hiding inside the mausoleum and waiting for Malachi to return. That look on Malachi’s face unnerved him. Connor had lost a battle, but he knew Malachi well enough to know he would be back.

  But as the hours ticked by, worms of doubt set up residence in his mind. “Is he out there murdering Lester? Reggie? Lavinia?” he whispered.

  Even though the police thought Connor had died in the cell fire, he feared Malachi might do it anyway. What did he say? It was only a matter of time before doubt would be cast on the identity of the dead man.

  Sitting and waiting became impossible for Connor. His doubts grew into monsters. He picked up a stone lying at his feet, and crumbled it into a handful of dust. He might not be as old as Malachi, but he had the strength of a newly turned vampire and he could prot
ect what was precious to him.

  In the gathering dusk, Connor took a direct route to Cranham Hall. The amber glow from a half-dozen windows created an illusion of peaceful warmth. Connor rested back against an elderly oak tree and scanned the surrounding woods for movement. He heard creatures rustling in the undergrowth, and peeling back the layers of awareness, he identified the soft shuffle of beetles moving over clumps of earth. The air around him remained still. If Malachi is coming here, he has not made it yet.

  Once night fell, and the lights were dimmed in all but the servants’ quarters, Connor jogged towards the house and scaled the wall of the east wing. Standing on the decorative stone cornice, he checked the room he peered into was empty, and then eased his way in through the second story window.

  Walking silently across the thick wool carpet in Lord Cranham’s den, he pulled the gun from his belt. He opened the chamber. Turning the remaining bullets out into his palm, Connor replaced them in their cardboard carton and set the Webley service revolver – a souvenir of the Second Boar War – into a velvet case, returned the weapon to its pride of place in Lord George’s gun cabinet, and closed the door.

  His good sense restored, Connor smiled wryly. David and Goliath could not be further from the truth. He and Malachi were more evenly matched than that, but it did not help him, he was still fighting shadows.

  Will Malachi kill again? Connor realized he didn’t know, and he didn’t want to take a gamble. He returned to the window of the study and swung out onto the masonry ledge.

  Instead of heading downward, he side-stepped further around the ledge and then climbed up another floor to where the Cranham family’s bedrooms were. Is this how the killer got to Rice?

  Anchoring his fingers into a crack in the stone wall, Connor applied persistent force to the window frame until the latch slowly bent out of shape and disengaged. He caught sight of his own reflection in the oily sheen of the glass. The ghost white cast to his complexion shocked even him. He had changed so much in the last three days, and the feeling of control continued to evaporate. But this, he could control. Easing open the window, he dropped inside and for three hours, he stood like a silent sentinel in the corner of Lavinia’s room.

  A slight turn of his head allowed him to scan the woodlands. The dead leaves he laid out carefully on the outside window ledge remained still and lifeless. If they shuffled or lifted, he’d know the pressure wave of an approaching vampire could be responsible. Fighting to the death felt apt. No one would get past him without ending his existence as an undead.

  The lilac fingers of dawn bled into the sky before Connor began to relax. He put his hand on the window ledge, getting ready to leave, but could not. Turning back, he approached the large four poster bed and gazed down upon Lavinia’s soft features. Tracks of dried tears marked her cheeks. Her black hair spreading across bronze colored pillow shams created an intricate web of glistening dark threads. Leaning closer, Connor could smell the scent of her warm skin and the thud of her heart rate caught his attention like a siren call. Dropping to his knees beside her, he wound a silken rope of hair around his fingers. If he could freeze this moment and stay here beside her forever, he would. If he could take away the pain she felt, he would. Reggie’s advice to ‘stay dead’ to Lavinia became harder to do with every moment he stayed.

  He wanted to kiss her tears away, but knew that would be selfish. Standing, in one fluid movement, Connor headed for the window, bent the catch back into shape, and swung his legs out over the ledge. He dropped like a stone to the ground below, absorbing the shock through his body in an effortless crouch.

  The trees wore a golden halo as the sun drove night away, and Connor sought the protection of their cover.

  A truck trundled up the driveway at a leisurely amble. The signage on the side declared the owner as ‘purveyor of fresh fruit and vegetables’. Mrs. Burnham would be up and about lighting the stove to prepare breakfast for her master’s household, and checking the days’ delivery and planning the dinner menu. The servants’ world revolved around making sure the hospitality of the Cranhams was envied by all who visited them. The truck stopped at the servants’ entrance, and the driver hopped out and banged on the door.

  As the door opened, the man blurted, as though delighted at being the first to bring the gossip, “You heard the latest? That body ain’t Doctor Sanderson at all.”

  It was enough to galvanize Connor into action. Going back into London, he whipped a newspaper from a stand outside the railway station and, like an animal retreating to his den, he didn’t stop until he was once more in the mausoleum.

  Just as Malachi predicted, the medical examiner found evidence which proved the body in the cell was not Connor. The newspaper report said the occupant of the police cell had a gold tooth. Other than that, the deceased had teeth missing, an old fracture to the eye socket. The clincher for the ME was the reason for the disruption to the teeth formation; a cleft palate.

  “This man was clearly disfigured. The body in the fire was not that of Doctor Cornelius Sanderson.”, was the expert findings of the autopsy.

  The quote from Cavendish contained an underlying note of glee. ‘We have launched a man hunt for Doctor Sanderson. He remains the chief suspect in three brutal, macabre murders. Evidence suggests he is responsible for a fourth death, perpetrated for the most diabolical of reasons, to cover his tracks and escape justice. This man must face trial for his crimes. Please come forward if you have any information of his whereabouts.’

  The police search did not worry Connor unduly. I can easily evade the police, and I have a search of my own to perform, for Malachi. But first, Connor decided Reggie and Lavinia must be kept safe. He checked his pocket watch. Reggie will be arriving at the hospital for lectures.

  Connor intercepted the Cranhams’ coach and four. It was the first time he had tried it, and, when the horses sensed his approach, the whites of their eyes flashed as panic disrupted the synapsis in their brains. The odor reminded Connor of singed flesh as the unity of the team dissolved into chaos. Each horse became desperate to break formation and bolt. The team gave Harker a challenge he could barely manage, trying to prevent them injuring themselves and overturning the carriage.

  As the carriage rocked wildly, Connor pulled open the door and swung inside. A terrified Reggie clung to the door handle with one hand, bracing the other against the roof.

  Reggie’s face was as white as a sheet. “Where the hell did you spring from?”

  Beads of sweat stood out on Reginald’s face. Connor knew the fear had nothing to do with the runaway coach when Reggie remained in the braced, muscle burning pose, even after Harker had regained control and the carriage rolled along at its usual sedate pace.

  “What are you?” Reggie said.

  “You deserve an explanation, I know that.” How the hell I’m going to do that is another matter. Connor leaned back and spread his hands in a reassuring non- threatening attitude. “The papers have revealed I’m still alive, and Lavinia will be hurting even more, but listen to me Reggie, you could both be in danger.”

  Reggie snorted, but then said, “Danger? What kind of danger?”

  “I didn’t murder Rufus. Or Rice. Or Ivy. But whoever did, is still out there. You heard Lester. He wasn’t describing me, was he?”

  Reggie shook his head.

  “So, I need you to bring Lavinia into London and check into The Strand Palace Hotel. I can’t protect you both at Cranham Hall, and search for Malachi.”

  “Who?”

  Connor shook his head. “I’ll explain everything when you are both together, at the hotel, and safe. Will you trust me?”

  Reginald stared at Connor. “You’ll tell us what has happened to you?”

  “Everything,” Connor said quietly.

  “Okay. What time should we expect you?”

  For a beat, Connor entertained the idea that Reggie could betray him to the police, but his friends’ steady regard told him otherwise. “Just after dusk. Five o’cl
ock. I’ll book you both into suite 310.”

  Chapter 27

  Connor’s attention was divided between searching for clues of Malachi’s whereabouts and overseeing the wellbeing of Reginald and Lavinia. He had retraced his steps during the afternoon, and visited every place Malachi had shown him, and all to no avail. Connor began to wonder if Malachi could have left London for good.

  If that turned out to be true, Connor would be the only suspect the police searched for, and, as the evidence pointed to him burning a man in his cell to affect his escape, his fate as a murderer was sealed. The police could write off Lester’s testimony as trauma induced rambling. Malachi has left me with no choice but to run. Perhaps that was always his plan.

  At three minutes to five o’clock, he abandoned his search and raced through central London to The Strand Palace Hotel. The entrance foyer, lined with ornate panels which also decorated the high curved ceiling, glinted with gilt and the sheen of polished marble. It had been open one year, and attracted peers, Lords, and prominent politicians.

  The doormen created a flesh and bone barrier between the rich and scoundrels lying in wait.

  Those same doormen didn’t see Connor, however, when he whipped past them and headed up the wide staircase framed by carved stone balustrades. Of all the events of the past three days, this confrontation with Reggie and Lavinia was the most terrifying encounter Connor could imagine. He barely understood what he had become, so explaining it to people he loved, loomed as a huge mountain to climb.

  He paused in the wide cream-painted hallway, and listened at the doorway of suite 310. Subdued human sounds beyond confirmed it was occupied. Connor did not wait to count how many hearts were beating inside the room. If the room contained the whole constabulary of Bow Street police station, then he would deal with that in his own way.