by Giles Ekins
LUCY SHIVERED, WRAPPING THE BLANKET and robe closer about her but the thin materials offered no warmth or comfort against the cold of the night and the deep chill of the stone floor of the cell. ‘I’m cold, that is all,’ she told herself. ‘I shiver not from fear but chill. I will not show fear to the monster.’ She reminded herself of King Charles the First, who on the morning of his execution asked for an extra shirt so that he would not shiver from cold, not wanting it to be thought that he shivered from fear. ‘I will show him no fear, I will show him no fear, I will show him no fear.’ She repeated her mantra over and over, whilst the beating of her heart and the dread palpitations writhing within her stomach told her otherwise. ‘I will show him no fear.’
‘Miss Lucy,’ it is time, please follow me.’ His voice, deep and resonant in the close confines of the cell hit her like the blast from an ice-cold winter’s wind. Closing her eyes again, she took a deep breath, drawing it into her lungs as though it might be her last. I will show him no fear.
‘I can go to my Lord Jesus Christ in the sure and certain knowledge of the Resurrection to come; I will sit at his right hand. I have no fear of death for it comes to us all, even you, vile monster. My father will see to that if he has to hunt you down to the very ends of the earth. I ask only one thing, sir. I ask only that I am not … violated.’
Sinistrari pondered for a long moment, a long pause that stretched Lucy’s resolve to the absolute. Finally he nodded.
‘It will be so.’
‘CARFAX HOUSE? YES SIR, I KNOWS CARFAX HOUSE’
A heavyset constable, with barrel chest and drum-taut paunch, his belt stretched to the last hole, bushy walrus moustache and gleaming bald head stepped forward, his helmet tucked under his arm, boots ringing echoingly over the tiled floor. ‘Leatherbeck, sir, PC Josiah Leatherbeck, No13673, sir. My old Ma, she used to serve there, long dead she is now, of course, God rest her soul, scullery maid she was, worked her fingers to the bone; to the bone and never a word of thanks or appreciation. Old Mrs. Lanchester, the mother-in-law , Sir Samuel’s mother-in-law, as was, she was the worst, a real old dragon, nasty with it if you gets my meaning, nothing ever good enough for her. Spiteful too. Anyhow, Ma’ she maided there and I used to go along wi’ her at times after me Dad died. Consumption it were that took him away. I only ever went below stairs o’course. Quiet as a mouse I ’ad to be, Barclay, the butler, another nasty one, all smarm upstairs, butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth but a right bastard tyrant downstairs. ’e’d take a stick to my knuckles if I as much as breathed too loudly.’
‘Yes, yes.’ Collingwood tried to curb his impatience, he needed Leatherbeck’s knowledge of the house but each passing second of the copper’s reminiscences seemed like an hour, every irrelevant word another step closer to Lucy’s death. ‘The house, Leatherbeck.’
‘Yessir, just coming to that,’ Leatherbeck continued stolidly, unfazed by Collingwood’s impatience. ‘Carfax House were built…mebbes an ’undred year or so ago. Sir Henry Carfax, ’e made ’is fortune importin’ fancy French wine, Bordel and Burmungy. And champagne, champagne by the boatload, never took to that Frog muck me self, can’t beat a good pint o’ Fullers for me.’ He patted his rotund paunch, as if in appreciation for the very many good pints, if not gallons, of Fuller’s ale partaken and amply evidenced.
Collingwood clicked his tongue impatiently but Leatherbeck either did not hear or bore it no mind and carried on speaking in his slow measured pace.
‘E had the house built, Carfax House, Sir Henry, like a palace it was, still is I suppose, not been there for a while. Like I says, Sir Henry, ’e made his fortune with the Frog wine, his grandson, Sir Samuel as was; ’oo me Ma maided for; he lost it all, bad h’investments, railways I fink.’
‘The house, Leatherbeck, if you please,’ Collingwood, said as calmly as he could muster.
‘Yessir, look see, I can show you on the map ’ere. We is ’ere. At the corner of Richmond Road and Orleans Road. You continues along Richmond as if going to Richmond Bridge, past by the church there, St Stephen’s Church, and turns right down along Cambridge Park.’ As he spoke, Leatherbeck traced the route with his finger on the wall mounted map; a finger heavily stained by tobacco, Leatherbeck was obviously a heavy smoker of cigarettes. His slow pedantic manner probably made him a good reliable copper but it tormented Collingwood’s nerve endings to shreds; he could feel his impatience rising second by second and he fought again to curb it. He needed Leatherbeck and his colleagues and dare not alienate them by a show of temper.
‘Past them ’ouses on Cambridge Park and sharp left, Carfax House is there, you can see the ’ouse and the grounds clear like on the map.’
LUCY’S LEGS FELT UNSTEADY, her heart beating so rapidly she felt as though it could be heard echoing along the seemingly endless dank barrel vaulted passage that Sinistrari was leading her, stretching before her; the dank tunnel that led her to vile death. Gas lit wall sconces were turned down the minimum, giving the barest flicker of light; a light that hissed like the foulest serpents from the deepest reaches of Hell. An arched door then lay ahead, a thin glim of yellow light bleeding out from under the bottom of the door. Sinistrari was at her side, his hand laid gently, ever so gently, on her arm, as if to give her strength.
As they approached the door, it opened before them. A swelling of sound, echoing and evil, chanting, discordant, hungry and expectant. A shudder of fear, her hands shaking and she clasped them together. I will show no fear.
Once again, she raised her head and took a deep breath. Whatever awaits me I will go with my head held high, I will show him no fear. I will show him no fear. Papa, I will do you proud, I will not disgrace our name by maidenly fear. I will be strong. She closed her eyes, put her hands together in prayer and began to recite in a clear proud voice, seeking solace of the soaring, uplifting, sacred words of the 23rd Psalm.
‘The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want
He maketh me to lie down in green pastures; he leadeth me beside the still waters,
He restoreth my soul; he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his names sake …’
‘THE GROUNDS ARE WELL WOODED,’ Leatherbeck continued unhurriedly, ‘lots of old oaks and elm and sycamore, makes it sort of dark and gloomy. Eerie, that’s the word. Eerie! Leastwise when I was a youngster I thought that. The driveway winds through the trees and because of all the trees, and lower shrubs and that, you can’t ackchally see the house ‘til you’re prackly on top of it,’ Leatherbeck said ponderously, seemingly devoid of any sense of urgency. Even Rayburn, his station commander was now growing impatient.
‘For Heaven’s sake, Leatherbeck! Get on with it man, there is a young girls life at stake,’ he remonstrated.
‘Very good, sir, I have the awfulsome predicament of the young lady in mind right enough, but without some sense of the location, we’s going to be blundering about in all directions like headless … whatsits … chickens.’ Leather beck waved his arms about as if in imitation of the self-same headless chickens.
‘The main house, as can be seen from the plan ’ere, is shaped like a … a U shape, I ’spose, only broader on the bottom, and not much height to the legs … or arms … the bits sticking up. The front of the house, the front door has a sort of canopy like, with marble columns, them Greek things, with a triangular … impediment stuck on top. The coach house and stables, well they’re off to the left, hid they are behind a thick stand of trees and tall hedge, yew prob’ly … cut square, leastwise they was yew, I’m sure of it.’
Everybody in the briefing room now resonated with impatience and irritation, ‘Get on with it, Josiah Leatherbeck,’ one of his colleagues shouted in exasperation. ‘We ain’t got all bleedin’ night.’
Leatherbeck looked affronted and jerked his head up in indignation. ‘Silas Hollowbarrow, I’ll be talking to you later.’
‘If you please, Leatherbeck,’ pleaded Collingwood, almost distraught with anxiety, ‘please just give us a brief indication of
the layout. Are there cellars? Large cellars?’ finally asking the question he had wanted to ask from the outset but wary of upsetting sensibilities.
‘Lord bless me, yes. ’E was a wine merchant, Sir ’Enry Carfax, o’course ’e had cellars, mile upon mile of them. Scairt I was as I younker that I’d get lost down there, be wandering about forever, can’t find me way out. Then the rats ’ud get me. Barclay, the butler, evil bugger that ’e was, threatened to lock me down there, if’n I misbehaved meself.’
Collingwood and Flanagan exchanged significant glances, Lucy, without doubt would be held in the cellars. Without doubt the profane Hallowe’en ritual, the Black Mass Sabbatt, was to be held there. ‘Where, Leatherbeck, where are the cellars?’
‘Well, underground o’course.’
‘Don’t be obtuse, man,’ snapped Rayburn, finally losing patience with his ponderously witted constable.’ Whereabouts on plan, entrances, exits, stairs.’
Leatherbeck drew back sharply, as if offended, before realising that perhaps he had been too pedantic and long winded.
‘Yes sir, sorry. Entrances to the cellars? Well of course, the main door was by Barclay the bastard butler’s office, his little throne room, king of the bleedin’ downstairs he thought himself, he held the keys of course. Fancied ’imself as a h’expert on wines ’e did, a smellier ’e called hisself. A smellier, whatever the devil that is. Sorry sir.’ He hurried on, seeing Collingwood’s brows knit in anger.
‘And Sir ’enry had a separate staircase from his study, ’e’d pop down and bring up a case or two whenever he ran short, there’s a little lift, you know, like in kitchens. Sir Samuel used it too, ’e was fond of a bottle or two or three; ’specially when ’e was getting it in the ear from Lady Hortense Carfax, his good lady wife, when ’e’d gorn and lost all his cash and capital. Lost her an’ all at the end, to an Eyetalian count or some such.’
‘Thank you, Leatherbeck, you just point out the general location of the cellars in relation to the main house.’
‘Well sir, there was the back stairs entry by the main hall, so that staff could come to answer the door, can’t say for sure which door it would be, but on the wall opposite the front door, and of course there’s the servants entrance, sir, on the north wing. Once you get downstairs you should be able to find the cellar door, right enough. All deliveries were to the north wing, including the wine and other Frog muck, closest to the river. In fact, I remember, sometimes delivery vessels used to come right up to the property, and I gather Sir Henry had his own steam yacht as he used to bring the goods from France, ’e ’ad his own jetty, think it’s rotted away now from disuse, don’t recollect seeing it as I do my beat. In point of fact, sir, I don’t believe I have seen any sign of occupancy for some considerable time. Considerable time to be precise,’ his tone of voice clearly indicating that if he, PC Leatherbeck, had seen no signs of occupancy, there could be no doubt that Carfax House was indeed uninhabited and that whole exercise was a waste of time and he would be better occupied doing further justice to Fuller’s fine ale.
Collingwood ignored the thinly veiled disparagement, nodded his thanks to Leatherbeck and took over the briefing again.
‘We probably won’t be able to locate the back stairs entry from the study and I don’t want to split our forces so we will not and try and find the back stairs entry by the front entrance. However, we should be able to gain entry via the servant’s entrance on the north wing and make our way down to find the butler’s entrance. We will all enter by the servant’s door, which is almost certain to be locked and possibly bolted. As this is a police station I am sure that somewhere in a store, there must be some burglary tools confiscated from one of Richmond’s more upstanding citizenry,’ surprised that he could allow himself humour under such desperate circumstances.
‘Eccles, sir, custody sergeant, it just so happens we recently apprehended Mister Lawson Peake, housebreaker of this parish, who had on his possession a fine set of cracksman’s ’s tools, from picklocks, brace and bit to the finest jemmy, all of Brummagem, that is Birmingham manufacture if I am not wrong. I’ll get on by and release them on police bail.’
‘Very good, thank you, gentlemen, I appreciate your assistance more than I can possibly say but, again, I must warn you that this is an illegal entry and should it prove that my information about Lucy is … incorrect (the very thought scalding his fears even higher). It could bode ill for your future careers as police officers.’
For a long drawn pause, which seemed like an age, nobody said anything until the officer who had spoken before – Silas Hollowbarrow – spoke up. ‘We’d best be getting on, sir; time is a fleetin’.’
‘Thank you,’ Collingwood answered; his heart swelling with gratitude that these unknown police officers should risk their careers for him, or more precisely, his imperilled daughter. ‘Thank you all.’
A shuffling of feet, coughing and stretching, and the coppers got ready to move, waiting only for the word from their senior officer.
‘Right men, you know your duty,’ Rayburn announced. ‘You follow Mister Collingwood’s order to the letter. To the letter and do not forget, our primary objective is the rescue of Lucy Collingwood. All other considerations are secondary but take care. Take care. Let us go quickly now.’
It seemed to Collingwood that the briefing had been endless, that hours of precious life for Lucy had been wasted, drained away in the ponderousness of Leatherbeck’s pedantry, but to his surprise, when he checked his hunter, barely twenty minutes has elapsed since he had arrived at the station. The time was now 12.07am.
YEA THOUGH I WALK THROUGH the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me…
The crypt or catacomb, sepulchre, whatever it was, was long and wide. Arched and barrel vaulted in all directions, high vaulted in blackened stone, musty in smell, the stench of something dead and decaying. A procession of arches led down to the far end where she could see shadowy figures, figures that glided in and out of the flickering candle light. Sinistrari led her on, the skirts of his robes susurrating over the stone-flagged floor, sweeping up dust, age old detritus accumulated over the years. The chanting, hideous and discordant, echoed around the arches and wall, grating on the teeth and starting the hairs on the back of Lucy’s neck. She felt very afraid, afraid that her legs could no longer carry her forward.
‘Thou preparest a table for me in the presence of mine enemies; thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over.
Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life; and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.’
A FITFUL GIBOUS MOON broke out from cloud cover, spilling thin silver light through the canopy of leafbare oaks, casting pale shadows that stretched across the grim faces of the creeping officers like strangler’s fingers. Gravel crunched deafeningly loud in Collingwood’s ears, a copper’s hobnail boots are not built for stealth or silent movement. Carfax House lay ahead and the party of police were steadily working their way up the curving driveway, boots scrunching up the small granite stones in reports that seemed to echo across the woods like gunfire.
When Collingwood and the other officers arrived at the gates of Carfax House, by Rayburn’s carriage and two Black Marias, another uniformed constable stepped out of the shadow of the trees.
‘Firkins,’ Rayburn announced, ‘I sent him out here to keep a watch on this place, to report on movements, people in and out.’
‘Since I been ’ere, sir, there’s been nine closed carriages in, none out. The last carriage came about twenty, twenty-five minutes or so ago.’
Collingwood felt somewhat cheered by Firkins report, if no carriage had left the house, it meant that Lucy must still be there and not spirited away. But the awful thoughts still intruded. Maybe Sinistrari had taken her away by river! Maybe she was not even here and they were about to burst in on a perfectly legitimate dinner or house party. The endless fearful thoughts seethed around hi
s mind like writhing serpents, no matter how reassured he felt one second, a myriad of conflicting dreads would overwhelm him and the roiling apprehension in stomach wood tighten up another notch.
He moved steadily along, as other doubts and fears assailed him in constant barrage. Nine carriages, but how many occupants, there could be up to four people, four foul Satanists in each couch, thirty -six depraved and vile accomplices. And the coachmen; were they part of the ritual, participants in debauchery, or would they be waiting in the servants’ quarters, taking tea, unaware of what their evil dissolute masters were about. Nine coachmen. Plus any occupants of the house that had arrived before Firkins took up watch. They could be facing up to fifty or sixty antagonists, how could his pitiful band of seventeen coppers cope with a band of desperate and evil men who kill without mercy, who murder the innocent for their own vile ends. He could be taking Leatherbeck, Flanagan, Rayburn, Firkins and the other to their deaths. And if he should fail to save Lucy, then his own death was of no consequence.
An owl shrieked nearby, sending a shiver down his back, as though of a premonition of impending death.
SINISTRARI LED LUCY ONWARDS, his hand still lightly placed upon her arm, as if to give strength, and perversely she found this touch, whether human or not, strangely comforting.
Robed figures, grotesquely masked in black and gilt goats heads, serpents visage, male genitalia with swollen erect phallus for a nose, the horned mask of a black bull, gargoyles such as carved on the great cathedrals of the world and the masks of creatures that could only exist in the most perverted of imaginations danced and cavorted before her, jeering and taunting.