The Untold Tales of Dolly Williamson

by JM Bannon

  Dolly had to lunge forward to catch his pint.

  "Crime solved! Your rich fella was kidnapped to get into the safe. The blokes that grabbed him ran into the guards, blasted them, and took off. Did I miss anything?" Keane said, grinning and droopy-eyed from drink but certain in his inebriated state he had just solved the crime.

  "How is it you have resolved more cases than me?" asked Dolly. Then he leaned forward to offer what Keane had missed. "The strong boxes had been opened and two of the three emptied before they were slain. Blood spatter inside the boxes shows the course of those events. The guards were in the safe when they were killed. The direction of the shot came from outside the safe, not from inside as you would expect if you surprised robbers. Then the weapon was dropped inside the strong room without further disruption to the other strong boxes—”

  “You also missed the part where a Voodoo priest removed the soul from the rich fella.” It was Rose Caldwell, and she had been listening to the small talk.

  Keane looked up. “Jesus Mary and Joseph—Dolly, could you show respect for my everlasting soul and not bring that witch around me? Her soul is already damned.”

  Rose took a chair from another table, twirled it backwards, and sat down, resting her arms on the back of the chair. “My researcher identified the totem as a spirit siphon. The object functions as a conduit for the spiritual ritual called Pwen Hanan, where the soul is transferred to another vessel. My guess is that Chilton crossed a Voodoo priest, and now revenge has been exacted.”

  "Let me ask you something, Sister. When you burned down that rectory, did a Voodoo priest make you do that?” asked Keane.

  "If you would like, I could exorcise the mongoloid demon that controls your mouth?" retorted Sister Rose.

  Keane put on his serious face and reached across the table, grabbing Dolly’s wrists. “Mate, we’ve known each other a long time. You're the smart one here. You have the chance to move up the ranks, but you got to get rid of this heretic. You make us all look bad, Fredrick."

  Dolly knew Keane was saying what he felt. He embraced Keane's wrists. “Callum, you have seen what people do to each other. Do you believe all that evil is manmade? I don’t, and neither does Rose. Just as you and I have seen horrors together, I have seen worse with her.”

  “Well, you both can fucking burn in hell. I am sure there is room for one more heretic and Protestant, but there will be no guilt by association for Detective Callum Keane.” Keane pushed back from the table and walked out of the pub.

  Dolly moved to go after Keane but needed to find out what Rose had learned. “Could this be fabricated to cover up for a heist?” asked Dolly.

  “You mean the soul stealing? No. Your fat drunk colleague may have it right, but Chilton was under the direction of another through Pwen Hanan, not a kidnapping.”

  Dolly shot her a baffled look.

  She continued. “I am just learning about this arcana. It is primordial and works along the courses of necronist seance and spirit manipulation. From the condition of the body, I think Chilton was tortured spiritually until he succumbed to the wishes of the persecutor. Maybe he was tortured to get the combination, or he could have been enslaved and made to open the safe himself only to be killed later.”

  Rose reached into her handbag and pulled something out. Without showing it to him, she shifted it across the dinner table and into his hand. “Fredrick, place that charm on your watch fob.”

  “What is it?” He studied the weird talisman of silver. In its center was a glass vial with a brilliant blue gas circulating about. He slid it on to the ring that held a small pen knife at the end of his silver watch chain, then stuffed it into his waistcoat pocket.

  “That is something I crafted. An apotropaic amulet.” She pointed to the stone on the choker she wore around her neck. It had a comparable stone. “It’s a ward. If we are hunting for a Voodooist that can control life force, that trinket will provide a defense. If a Mumbo were to beguile you, the enchantment will be limited as it confuses the ward for your spirit energy,” said Rose.

  “A decoy for my soul?”

  Rose continued. “Yes, the Voodoo call the spirit energy Ju Ju. The manipulation of Ju Ju is where the power of the Mumbo lies. They have a primal knowledge and have learned to tap into and exploit this spiritual energy. There are descriptions of the capability to direct the living and the dead. While you still seek the motive and the identity of the fugitive, what I know is that this individual understands and controls the necromantic arts differently than how the necronists tap into the spirit worlds. If this person could control Chilton while alive or dead, they are a dangerous adversary. I don’t want you or I to get close and become enthralled. That eldritch talisman is my best attempt at a shield.”

  Sunday, the 13th June

  8:00 AM The Carlton Hotel

  Dolly was called to the Carlton Hotel. A request for a sergeant in the detective branch meant either a serious crime or a matter of discretion with someone in high social circles. In the past, his superiors requested his skillful touch to deal with the affairs of the rich and powerful, always considerate of station and reputation while making certain that the Crown’s law applied to all. Too bad it wasn’t something simple like a lord getting held up by a tramp and her pimp. Instead, it was another homicide, and from the sound of it, Dolly now had a repeat murderer to capture. The constable who had summoned him mentioned on the ride over that it was another burned up person with no sign of fire. While never one to jump to conclusions, Dolly could not help but assume it was the same person.

  He sent the policeman to fetch Sister Rose to the crime scene after he dropped Dolly at the fashionable hotel. He was greeted by the hotel manager, a portly Frenchman nervously moving around the hotel lobby and agitated by the law enforcement presence. A lobby and hallways with cops drew unwanted attention. He brought Dolly to the suites on the eighth floor via the verticulator. Dolly doubted the chubby Franc ever took the stairs. At the double doors of the apartment stood a patrolman. This was standard practice for protecting crime scenes until a detective attended to the scene.

  The spacious saloon included a sitting area, a work desk and a large table for dining. The table, unused for dining, was instead buried in packages and bags from the emporiums of Saville Row. Adjoining was the bedchamber and the scene of the crime.

  The body lay near the center of the disheveled bed. The man’s dressing gown was open, exposing his bare body, the back arched, pelvis thrust upward and arms sprawled out. What was stranger than the agonized contortion his shape was frozen in was the state of the body. It was another desiccated, gray and wrinkled corpse, looking like it was stolen from a crypt. While shocking to the others, Dolly was less shocked by the dead man’s condition and far more concerned that his occult killer was on a spree of murder.

  The manager stood to the right of Dolly and stared at the scene as he spoke. “The accommodations are rented by Señor Emilio Moya. He has leased this suite for the last four months.”

  Detective Williamson began his investigation. While inspecting the room, he asked questions of the manager.

  “Who discovered the body?”

  “The valet,” replied the manager.

  “I will need to speak with him,” said Dolly.

  “Of course. He is down the hall in the staff room,” replied the manager.

  “What can you tell me about your guest?” asked Dolly. He assumed the body was Moya but still had drawn no conclusions.

  The French manager spoke in a pompous tone about the patron as if it were an advertisement of his hotel. “Señor Emilio Moya can trace his lineage to the most serene house of Braganza, a distant cousin to the King of Portugal. He was not involved in affairs of state but rather was living here in London as a gentleman.”

  “Is he a man of means or inheritance?” asked Dolly. Any guest of this hotel had access to a fortune. It was where it came from that might help shed light on the case.

  “His family had shipping interes
ts then moved into land and sugar cane in the colonies,” replied the manager, with hands folded. Dolly thought, I wager you have more to tell.

  “Was he seen returning last night with any other persons?” asked Dolly.

  “I wouldn’t know. I came in at eight in the morning. The night staff had left,” responded the manager.

  “Can you get me a list of the staff on duty?” asked the detective as he continued surveying the bedroom before stepping in. He paid attention to the floor to ensure there was no evidence he could disturb by entering the chamber.

  “Yes,” the manager replied. Dolly stepped in and moved toward the body. “I will need to interview them. When do they start shift?”

  The manager did not follow Dolly into the bedroom. He stood outside as if he would be infected by whatever killed the man. “The night staff starts at eleven p.m. and finishes at seven the next morning.”

  At closer scrutiny of the body, the right fist of the corpse was distorted and clenched, as if it had suffered a hundred years of debilitating arthritis. On the ring finger was the signet ring of the Moya Family. Dolly assumed the body was Señor Moya but would need further confirmation.

  The suite had no signs of a struggle, no blood stains or any of the common signs of foul play. Although Williamson knew the item was occult, he used his handkerchief to shield himself from residual poison or magic that may have laced the totem. Dolly pulled slowly to ascertain the depth it penetrated the body. It held fast and required effort to dislodge. Dolly and the manager were given a shock as the corpse expired a moan and lost all rigor when the object was removed from the wound. It startled the detective so much he dropped the spirit siphon. After Dolly gained his composure, he pulled out a small mirror and held it over the mouth of the deceased to confirm that the subject was expired.

  Putting the mirror away, the detective walked to the writing desk to get an envelope for the totem. On the blotter was a note on the hotel stationary. It was a man’s handwriting.

  Those that profited have paid.

  E.M.

  He retrieved an envelope from the center drawer in the writing desk and placed the totem in the envelope.

  At that moment, Rose entered the room with her arms full of equipment. Her skin glowed with exertion. “Thank the heavens this place has a verticulator. I can’t imagine huffing all this gear up a stairwell.” Behind her was a constable carrying more cases.

  “My experiment is ready for debut,” She presented the large black box fixed to a wooden tripod with a flourish, taking a bow. “What you see here is a camera obscura I modified with my scrying lenses. These plates are treated with my tinctures. I bake them into the gelatin. Now step back as I need to vapor the room.” She began to set up the equipment. “You might want to get the manager and the others out of here.”

  "Ms. Rose Caldwell. Might I remind you that you are here as an observer and your presence is at the whim of the Metropolitan Police Department, where you have only one supporter? Me."

  She gave him a square look.

  “You don’t boss me," said the detective.

  Rose lifted her brow and rolled her eyes “Okay. Long one last night?” She went back to opening cases and assembling her contraption.

  “No, Rose, it was not. It was a pleasant evening, but today isn’t. I have two society types killed mysteriously, and you come in here with all this—this hooey-palooley marching me about. I am the Detective Sergeant, and you are the crazy lady who sees ghosts through a bottle glass.”

  And you're also my only lead on this case.

  “Detective Sergeant Frederick Williamson, I beg your pardon. May I please have your permission to examine your crime scene?”

  Dolly turned to his men in the drawing room. “Alright. The lot of you get out to the hall,”

  The room had cleared. After briefing the constable in the hall, Dolly came back firing questions. “Rose, what do you make of this note?”

  Rose walked over to the writing desk. “I’ll capture images to see what I can scry, but it looks like our culprit is still sending messages,”

  “Oh, you might want to look at this." Dolly took the envelope out of his coat pocket and handed it to Rose. “It is one of those spirit siphons. I had quite the shock when I removed it from his chest. Poor fella let out a gasp and collapsed. I thought for a minute he was still alive.”

  “A death knell,” said Rose.

  “A what?” he said.

  “A death knell. There was a lingering spirit essence still affixed to the body, and when you tugged out the siphon, he exhausted his dying breath.”

  “So, he was dead?”

  “He might not be dead but trapped or banished. I can’t tell, but I know this body had its life force extracted like Chilton." She turned and smiled. “That death knell is a good sign there is residual energy here,” mentioned Rose before placing the amber lensed goggles that hung about her neck over her eyes. She set three of her incense burners in the room then waved a hand fan to create circulation. Dolly stood out of the way wondering if he should breathe normally when she was vaporing the room. It must have been alright because Rose never wore a mask.

  Rose reached into a case, pulled out a glass slide and placed it in the top of the camera. She stood to the side of the camera. “Dolly, does your pocket watch have a second hand?”

  “It does.”

  “Fantastic. Would you be a dear and let me know when fifteen seconds has passed? Start timing once I remove the lens cap.”

  Dolly reached into his waistcoat, pulled out his watch and popped open the cover. “Ready.”

  "Go," said Rose as she lifted the cap off the lens to expose the plate to the light and eldritch energy.

  “There’s fifteen,” said Dolly.

  She replaced the cap and switched the photo plate.

  "Rose, what do you make of it when folks like Keane call you..."

  "A witch?” Rose completed his sentence.

  “He is a good bloke. Devout, you know, and a great cop. He’s cleared more murders than me.”

  Rose set down the plate. “Fredrick, I have never broken my vows and plan to never do so. When I joined the sisterhood, I joined to seek out the truth and understand the spiritual. I learned that the unseen is far beyond any one dogma, and many times, that dogma and the arcane become subordinate to the will of a single man, and that's when ill comes to be.”

  The two took over ten imprints of the desk area where the note was placed and the bed where the body lay. As Rose packed up her equipment, and the mortuary removed the remains from the room, Dolly questioned the valet in the hall.

  "Mr. Yardley, how long have you been working for Mr. Moya?" asked the detective.

  "I don’t work for Señor Moya. I am a hotel employee and serve several of the gentlemen on this floor prepared to pay for service."

  "Did Mr. Moya happen to share with you where he was going last night?” Dolly followed up.

  "Yes, he did. He was meeting Mr. Randall Strathmore and a Mr. Owens at Whites for drinks and whist," replied the valet.

  “Is that the Strathmore and Owens of Chilton, Chilton, Owens and Strathmore?”

  "Why, yes, it is. Señor Moya’s a client of the firm, and my understanding is that his family and the Chiltons have socialized for generations,” added the valet.

  Dolly now had two dead bodies within a week, with identical ends that only an excommunicated nun could explain. Now it appeared there were social connections, if not face-to-face meetings of the two dead men.

  As he finished up his questions with the valet, he watched Rose make her way out of the suite with her kit. “What happened to the cases where a fella shot his old lady for running around?” mumbled Dolly.

  “What was that, Detective?” asked the valet.

  “Nothing. Just reminiscing about the good old days.”

  Monday, the 14th of June

  7:00 AM Scotland Yard

  Monday morning, the detectives were back in the pen with the commissione
r for case updates.

  Dolly arrived early, having managed only a few hours sleep between the Carlton crime scene investigation and his need to prepare for the weekly case review starting any minute. As rough as Dolly felt from a deficit of sleep, Keane reflected it physically in the manner he showed up at the branch office.

  “What’s the steam lorry driver’s name that drove over you?” questioned Dolly.

  Keane was pale and looked flu-ridden. The tall detective sat down at the adjoining desk that faced Dolly. “Dolly, I ain’t been right all weekend. I guess I ate bad mutton or something foul at Albies. Me head is throbbing, and I been all woozy.”

  Dolly stared at him with no outward expression. "It's called a hangover.” Then he went back to organizing his notes.

  "I felt like this since Saturday morning, and I haven't had a drop since I was with you," replied Keane.

  Commissioner Mayne walked into the pen. There was no formal command in the branch. Younger detectives were subordinate to detective sergeants, but no superior officer existed so all the detectives reported to Commissioner Mayne. To keep the office on task, Mayne held a weekly meeting where he listened to the comments of each police officer and could administer direction to the group. “Alright, gentleman. Let’s have it. You start, Keane.”

  “I have a wash-up on the Thames, awaiting affirmation from the mortuary, but it looked like a stabbing before they deposited her in the river.