by Tom Becker
“Harry!” Arthur warned.
“Right. Sorry, boss. Anyway, Thomas was so furious that he tore the place apart trying to find who was responsible, but the killer was never found. To this day no one knows who would dare try to kill a Ripper, and – more importantly – why. Was it a random murder? Or had someone managed to find out that James was a Ripper before the Blood Succession?”
“Blood Succession? What’s that?”
Harry laughed disbelievingly. “Another searching question about the bleeding obvious. Is there anything you do know?”
“That’ll do, Pierce,” Lucien cut in. “I think you’ve graced us with enough of your presence for one day. And stop damn eavesdropping!”
The boy bowed mockingly, and withdrew.
“Sorry about that,” Lucien said apologetically. “I should really fire that brat. Problem is, he’s got the makings of a fine reporter. We can’t afford to be picky round here. The staff gets smaller every day.” He looked at Carnegie. “But you understand why we’re taking this case so seriously. It may be nothing, but if there’s even the slightest link to James’s murder, then it’s worth the effort. What do you say?”
“You know my usual rates?”
Lucien smiled. “Your reputation precedes you. And I wouldn’t dream of offering anything less.”
Carnegie picked at his teeth with a claw, and spat something on the floor. “You’ve got yourself a deal, then. Enough jabbering. Come on, boy, we need to go and find out who this guy is.”
“And how exactly are we going to do that?” Jonathan asked sourly. What with falling out with Carnegie and now Harry rubbing him up the wrong way, he felt distinctly at odds with the world.
The wereman ignored the tone in his voice and addressed the room. “Well, we may not know who he is yet, but we know where he’s been. Right?”
Jonathan shrugged, while Lucien and Arthur waited expectantly.
Carnegie shook his head. “I don’t know. Reporters! What did you say you’d found on the body again?”
“Erm . . . keys, coins and . . . oh, I see.”
Arthur pulled out a slim white box of matches. On the front, the phrase The Midnight had been printed in black lettering.
“We’ll start there, then, shall we?”
The Informer’s star reporter looked thoughtfully at the wereman. “I think I should come with you. If you’re going to stumble across some sort of exclusive, I want to be there.”
Carnegie shrugged. “It’s your money. Just make sure you don’t get in my way. Come on, then.”
They were halfway down the stairs back to the main office when a thought occurred to Jonathan. He tugged on Arthur’s sleeve. “Before we go, can you show me where my mum worked?”
The reporter nodded sympathetically. “Of course. Follow me.”
He led Jonathan over to a quiet part of the office, where a desk lay untouched. Had the windows not been boarded up, it would have looked out over the streets beyond and back towards the Grand. Even though the chair was vacant, someone had lit a candle nearby, casting a gentle light over inkstands and pots filled with fountain pens. A thick ledger was open on the desk, and Jonathan could see graceful handwriting flowing across the page like the tide.
“We’ve left her things as they were,” Arthur explained. “It just didn’t feel right letting anyone else work here. I know it’s been twelve years, but I still hope that one day she might come back.”
Jonathan settled into the chair, and with a trembling hand flicked through the heavy book. Until now, one solitary photo had been the only link he had to his mum. But she had sat in this chair and she had written in this ledger. He opened a drawer in the desk, and his heart raced to see that it was filled with notebooks. There was so much he had to read, so much he had to learn.
“Come on, boy,” Carnegie said, not unkindly. “You can come back and look over her things later. Let’s go and see what we can find out.”
He placed a large hand on Jonathan’s shoulder, and the two of them turned to go, with Arthur stomping along in their wake. From the other side of the office, Harry Pierce watched them leave, his eyes glinting in the candlelight.
5
Carnegie hailed a hansom cab outside the offices of The Informer, and they headed back towards the centre of Darkside. The mild sunshine of earlier had been smothered behind frowning black clouds. Rain was pattering on the roof of the carriage. Inside, Arthur scribbled into a notebook, which looked child-sized in his chubby grasp.
Jonathan stared moodily out of the window at the damp world outside. Beside him, Carnegie had tilted his hat over his eyes, and was lying back against the seat snoring, mouth wide open. A thin line of dribble was running down his chin. Despite all that the wereman had done for him, Jonathan couldn’t shake off a feeling of resentment towards Carnegie. He had been hiding things about Theresa, just like Alain. Why was everyone so reluctant to tell Jonathan about his mum? It made his blood boil to think about it. Worse than that, it confirmed what he had always thought before arriving in Darkside: he had no friends. Everyone was hiding secrets. No one was to be trusted.
Still, he had learnt one important thing. James Arkel had been murdered twelve years ago – the same year that his mother had vanished. Jonathan didn’t know if there was a connection, but he was determined to find out.
“Arthur?”
The reporter looked up from his notebook.
“What was Harry talking about back there in the office? What’s the Blood Succession?”
Digging into the pockets of his voluminous coat, Arthur pulled out a battered pamphlet and tossed it over to Jonathan.
“I thought you might ask me that, so I grabbed this before we left the office. After all, we can’t have young Pierce lording it over you! This is only short but it’s adequately written and should give you all the basic information.”
The pamphlet consisted of a few sheets of paper pressed together beneath a purple cover. Jonathan glanced at the title, “The Ripper Bloodline”, and couldn’t help noticing it had been written by one “A. Blake”. He opened it, and began to read:
If someone wishes to follow the twisted branches of the Ripper family tree, they must first learn about the Blood Succession, the rite of passage that determines each ruler of Darkside. The Blood Succession was initiated under Darkside’s first ruler, Jack, who in his diabolical wisdom decreed that his children should fight to the death to determine who was the worthiest heir.
Victory could be sought by any means, fair or foul, as long as one rule was respected: the battle was to take place on Lightside, after Jack’s death. This was meant to remind the new Ripper of Darkside’s origins, and of the weak-minded and fearful Lightsiders who had originally banished them from the rest of London.
To prevent the eruption of all-out war taking place before his demise, Jack further decreed that his heirs must live in Darkside under assumed names, and swear to hide their true identities until the day of Succession.
In this manner, when Jack finally passed away at the age of 77, his sons George and Albert revealed themselves, and travelled to Lightside to fight. At that time a great war was raging in London, and both Rippers nearly died in a bombing raid. However, George survived and returned to take his place on the Darkside throne.
Thirty years later, Thomas succeeded his father after surviving a chaotic four-way battle that left him at death’s door for several days. Since that time, however, his iron-fisted rule has only served to prove the worth of The Blood Succession.
The rain was coming down more heavily now. The carriage had turned on to the Grand, where the pavements were more crowded and raucous. Distracted by the garish costumes and the foul-mouthed arguments, Jonathan folded up the pamphlet and stuck it in his back pocket.
The Midnight was situated in the basement of a large building on the north side of the Grand. Its entrance was hidde
n away behind a wrought-iron railing and down a flight of stone steps. The casual passer-by would have no idea it was there, and that was just the way the patrons of the Midnight liked it.
As the carriage came to a halt, Carnegie pushed up his hat and glanced around, instantly awake. He bounded out of the cab and tossed a couple of coins to the driver.
“Keep the change,” he barked.
The driver glanced at the meagre tip and made as if to say something in retort, but took one look at the hulking form of the private detective and seemed to think better of it. Instead, he gee’d up his horse and galloped away down the Grand.
As they started down the steps, Carnegie placed a warning hand on Jonathan’s shoulders. “It’s pitch-black in here. You’re not going to be able to see a thing, which means you’ll have to rely on me to keep an eye out for you. One thing wolves don’t have a problem with is the dark. So sit tight, leave the talking to me and try not to get into any trouble, OK?”
Jonathan nodded sullenly.
“Good. Let’s go.”
At the bottom of the steps was a thick wooden door, next to a copper plaque bearing the pub’s name. Through the entrance was a hallway leading to another door, which refused to open until Arthur closed the outer door behind them, plunging them into darkness. Jonathan felt his heartbeat quicken.
“They have to make sure no sunlight gets in,” breathed Carnegie. “Down here, people’s eyes get so accustomed to the dark that even the slightest ray of light could blind them. Ready?”
He pushed open the door, and they entered the Midnight. The darkness was immediate and total. Jonathan couldn’t even make out the vague outline of shapes around him. He was utterly blind. He walked slowly and cautiously forward, arms outstretched like a sleepwalker. Stripped of his sight, he had to fall back on his other senses to paint a picture of his surroundings. The smell was overpowering: a curdling odour of beer and unwashed armpits. His ears picked up a subdued murmur of conversation, the occasional clink of a glass or a glug of liquid from a bottle, the scrape of a chair leg across the floor.
A hand clutched Jonathan’s arm. He jumped with shock.
“Easy, boy. It’s only me. I’m going to lead you over to a table where I can leave you. I want to talk to the bartender.”
“Where’s Arthur?”
“About to crash into the bar. I’ll get him in a minute.”
“What does this place look like?”
“Put it this way, boy. I know why they keep the lights off. Now, come on.”
Jonathan allowed himself to be led over to what he presumed to be a quiet corner of the room. Despite Carnegie’s guidance, he still managed to trip over the foot of a hidden drinker, eliciting a hiss of displeasure from out of the darkness. He felt safer when he was seated, especially when he heard Arthur’s voice getting nearer.
“Look,” he was protesting. “If we’re going to have to hang around in this dungeon, you might as well let me get a drink.”
“No time,” came Carnegie’s growled response. “I don’t want to spend any longer here than we have to. Now sit.”
Jonathan heard the sizeable thump next to him as Arthur was forced down into his chair, and then the sound of footsteps padding away from them.
The reporter drummed his fingers on the surface of the table. “This place leaves a lot to be desired,” he muttered.
“You feeling nervous too?” Jonathan whispered back.
“I’d feel a damn sight happier if I knew where the nearest exit was. I always make sure I know that when I enter any building. I’ve tried to memorize my steps back to the front door here, but I wouldn’t like to put it to the test.”
“Me neither.”
The table fell silent again. While his vision remained nonexistent, Jonathan was convinced that his hearing was already becoming sharper and more discerning. Straining his ears, he could just about make out Carnegie’s gruff undertone at the bar. There must have been a table nearby, because he could hear the long gulps of someone drinking, and the satisfied sigh that followed each draught. Somewhere to his left, he could hear two men talking nervously. Jonathan leant forward and tried to eavesdrop.
“. . . it’s true, I tell you. I heard it from a butler who works for the Ripper. Thomas hasn’t got long left. Months at best.”
“It’s not that surprising. He must be getting on a bit.”
“Still, it’s not good news. I’d be surprised if any of his kids turn out to be as strong as Thomas. Born ruler, he is. They reckoned that James might have turned out to be his father’s equal, but look what happened to him. It was a black day for Darkside the day he was murdered, I tell you.”
“Keep your voice down! You never know who’s listening. . .”
And with that, the volume of their conversation dipped below Jonathan’s hearing. He sighed and sat back. The novelty value of the Midnight was rapidly wearing thin. He was grateful when he heard Carnegie padding back towards them. A hand brushed his arm.
“How did it go?” Jonathan asked cheerily.
“Shut up, you piece of filth.”
The voice was not Carnegie’s. Jonathan would have cried out, but he could feel the chill of a blade nestling against his throat. A dull thud next to him was followed by a groan from Arthur. An unshaven face pressed close to his. When he spoke, his assailant’s breath was heavily, but not unpleasantly, spiced.
“All alone now. Who’s going to help you?”
Jonathan started to reply, only to feel the blade pressing more tightly against his throat.
“No need to shout,” the attacker said soothingly. “We can have a very quiet chat, just the two of us.”
“What . . . what do you want?”
“I want to know what you’re doing here. Sitting next to a reporter. Your friend – a private detective, if my eyes don’t deceive me – asking questions at the bar. Personal questions.”
“You can see?” Jonathan gasped.
The man chuckled. “Oh yes . . . I see everything.”
From over by the bar there came a howl of rage, and Jonathan guessed that Carnegie’s wolf-eyes had spotted what was going on. His attacker tensed, wrapping his arm around Jonathan’s neck like a vice. Just breathing was a struggle.
“Better stay very still,” the man whispered. “I’d hate to slip.”
From Jonathan’s left came the sound of rapidly approaching footsteps, and the sound of breathing. Not the regular exhalations of a human, but the ragged pants of an enraged predator.
“That’s close enough, Carnegie.”
“Correlli? What are you doing here?”
“I could ask you the same question. You shouldn’t be walking around here asking questions, poking your nose in matters that don’t concern you. It makes people nervous.”
“People get nervous when they do bad things,” replied the wereman. “What bad things have you done?”
“Too many to count, my friend. And I’ll do more before I rot.”
“Did you do anything bad to Edwin Rafferty?”
Correlli’s arm stiffened, squeezing a cry of pain from Jonathan. “I’ll kill the boy. Don’t doubt that.”
“I don’t. But if he dies, then I’ll rip you apart and eat you. Don’t doubt that either.”
The man chuckled again. It was as if he was enjoying himself. “Very well, my friend. When you are in unimaginable torment, and only seconds from death, do remember that I gave you this warning: stop asking questions – about Edwin Rafferty, about anything – or you will suffer the highest price. Let me enlighten you.”
Jonathan felt the arm loosen from around his neck. There was a flick of a match as it sparked into life. Squinting against the sudden light, Jonathan could see a huge man, shirtless underneath a red waistcoat, raising a flaming brand to his lips. Suddenly there was a roar, and the man breathed tongues of flames across the
room. The light was piercingly bright, and men who hadn’t seen the glare of the sun for months screamed as the brilliance singed their dilated pupils. Jonathan bunched his eyes shut, and felt himself flying sideways as his assailant cast him to one side. His head cracked against the cold stone floor. There was another roar, and more screams from the patrons of the Midnight. Panicky footsteps careered across the floor, as blind men struggled to find the exit. His head swimming from the impact, and the smell of burning in his nostrils, Jonathan thought he heard Carnegie bellow with pain, and then there was nothing.
6
Nicholas de Quincy strode through the door of a greasy spoon café in Finsbury Park and banged it shut behind him, making the waitress jump and earning a glare from the cook behind the counter. De Quincy ignored him. The long journey from Darkside to this part of North London had put him in a foul mood, and the sight of the café had only made things worse. This, he seethed, was the last time that he allowed Humphrey to choose the meeting place.
He rubbed his monocle on a black handkerchief and peered round the dingy café. The air was thick with the smell of fried food and the windows damp with condensation. Tinny music crackled out from a radio. It was late morning, and the green plastic chairs were empty save for one corner table, where Humphrey Granville was leading a ferocious assault on a huge pile of sausage, bacon, egg and baked beans. Rounds of toast were stacked high on a side plate, alongside a steaming cup of coffee. As de Quincy watched, Humphrey broke from his food to take a loud slurp, dousing his moustache in froth. A newspaper was spread out in front of him on the formica table. Engrossed in his reading, Humphrey didn’t notice the beans spilling down his jacket as he shovelled them into his mouth.
De Quincy removed his top hat and ran a hand through his stiff, spiky hair in an attempt to collect himself. Then he made his way over to the table and squeezed his long frame into a seat.