by JM Bannon
“I closed the Clove Row murder. It was Ginger Kelly, another member of Sweeney's gang. Apparently, Sweeney and Ginger were both rolling the same music hall singer, and it came to blows. After Ginger beat Sweeney to death, he passed it off like the Green Street boys, to protect his arse and stir up the strife between the gangs.
“I have also been putting in time down at the gaswerks helping Dolly with keeping an eye out for trouble," Keane finished.
"Detective Keane, you seem out of sorts,” stated Mayne.
"I feel out of sorts. I guess I got bad mutton on Friday."
"Dolly, do you have anything further to introduce on the case at the gaswerks?" Mayne asked.
Dolly looked up from his papers. "I looked around and made it known I was watching. Talked to one organizer named Nelson Bruce,"
Several of the detectives called out, “Brucie,” then the entire group chuckled.
“As you can tell, Commissioner, comrade Brucie is an admitted Marxist, with numerous arrests for disrupting the peace and one conviction. He served a year of hard labor. I put him on notice,” said Dolly.
"Thank you for the update, Detective Sergeant. Why don't you continue with your case load?” suggested the commissioner.
“I have the Chilton case. Sir Chilton found dead in his Belgravia office on Sunday morning, June 6th. Further investigation turned up a burglary of about five thousand gold guineas, worth twenty-thousand in pounds’ sterling from his offices in the city of London.”
One of the detectives in the pen let out a whistle when he heard the huge sum. Dolly was seasoned enough to talk over the rabble. “I am working with Sergeant Jones of London Police who is lead on the robbery. I opened another homicide case last night. Emilio Moya, a national of Portugal with connections to nobility. His corpse turned up in the same condition as Chilton. I will consider these incidents together as my conclusion is that the cause of death was the same. Thus, the culprit is also the same.
“I propose to make queries of the staff regarding the actions of Señor Moya at White’s gentlemen’s club. He was a guest there the preceding night.” Dolly knew he would have his best results if he gave the private club for gentleman of royalty and society advanced warning. This could be achieved through Spencer Walpole, a club member. “Could you reach out to Home Secretary Walpole to let the club manager know of my plans and determine if an invitation will be extended?” suggested Dolly.
“I’ll wire-type the secretary and see. You be discreet. Those are the true halls of power. You pull any of your shenanigans, like deciding to bring that witch of yours near there, and I’ll have your badge and pension," stated Mayne.
“Yes, sir,” replied Dolly.
The group of detectives consumed the next hour with the reports of the six other agents. Each rattled out opening, pending and closed cases of homicides and thefts throughout London.
Dolly had a full day arranged. Next stop was the flat of Sister Rose and then late night interviews with the staff at the Carlton. He would see if he could squeeze in a nap between Rose’s and the Carlton.
* * *
11:00 AM, Rose Caldwell’s Rooms
There was a banging on the door. Rose was in the midst of fixing the image in the bath of chemical. Timing, chemistry, art, science and magic all had to align to develop the image.
“Wait a bleeding minute,” Rose said. She watched the clock on the wall to see how much longer she needed. “I can’t open the door,” she yelled, so the Scotsman could hear her through the thick metal barrier.
“Any trouble in there?” came a man’s voice through the door. Dolly, Mr. Punctual.
“I am fine. The door must remain closed until I fix these photo plates, or the light will spoil the image," she emphatically responded.
She withdrew the plate out of the fixing solution, set it on the drying rack, then made her way to the door, pulling off her rubberized gloves and throwing them on the bench.
Rose wiped her hands on her canvas apron and unlatched the multiple locks, bars and the warding hex-box to open the door.
Dolly was yelling down the alley. “Hey, off with you two… You bugger off, or you’ll be in the boys ward tonight.” He turned back to the open door, giving one more quick glance down the street to make sure the boys were away from his carriage.
“This is my place of trade. Could you please come here with less ruckus?” asserted Rose.
“Good morning to you too, Sister Rose Caldwell,” Dolly greeted her with his melodic tone, a modest Scottish intonation weaved into his English accent. He seemed bigger and clumsier as he maneuvered the steps down to the underground flat and the cellar’s low beams supporting the floor above. “Have there always been so many street Arabs in this neighborhood?” Dolly asked, removing his tall hat and smoothing out the beard he was letting grow in.
“Ever since the dye mills have opened, there have been more and more,” responded Rose. She lit oil lamps as she strode the flat. It was an old basement with no windows. The open door produced the only natural light into the flat.
“Secure and bolt the door,” said Rose, lighting a lamp as she spoke. Once the door closed, the whale oil lamps would serve a hazy yellow illumination.
“When are they going to run current to this part of town?” Dolly asked.
“Come back this way.” Rose led Dolly out of the small area with a coal stove vented through the wall and two threadbare wing chairs with a small table and heaps of books. Across from the entry door was her writing desk. A folding partition divided the cramped space of Rose’s bed and dresser from the larger section that made up where she worked. The rest of the basement was part storage area, part workshop. She led Dolly by lamplight through a row of homemade wooden racks. A variety of jars and glass vessels held fluids and exotic substances, a cross between an apothecary, a sideshow curiosity and a winter pickle storeroom. “My landlord wouldn’t pay for gas lighting let alone arc lights. You know they dropped a gas line just on the other side of that wall under the avenue. All she has to do is fit out the apartment with pipe and this could be gas-lit,” added Rose, pointing to the street side wall of her basement dwelling. Of course, I would need to be up to date on rents too.
As Dolly followed her, he chimed in, “Rose, your place usually has a pleasant smell of candles and incense. What is with the vinegar smell?”
It was lost on Rose. She had been breathing the chemical for hours and lost the ability to sense the aroma. “Oh, that is just the chemicals for fixing the images for what I wanted to show you. Follow me.”
Rose’s cellar floor was unfinished and made of hard packed clay and stone. She had placed carpet runners in between racks and shelves to keep the dust down and the floor warmer. Rose led the detective down the main aisle to the workspace and strode over to her latest gadget. “This, Detective, is the phantasma graph. I have married the latest in the photographic sciences with arcane scrying to facilitate the uninitiated: to see the world as it is, was and can be.” Her right arm was outstretched and waving at a glass cylinder about eighteen inches in diameter set on a brass base with a brass crown. Her contraption looked like a cross between a fishbowl and a Russian samovar with copper tubing joining the top to the bottom of the chamber. On the opposite side of this recirculation tube was a bellows. Within the glass tube, in the bottom half of the container, hung a heavy cerulean gas with phosphors glimmering in the vapor.
An armature secured to the base incorporated a lens system, a photo plate holder and an oil lamp. “This ended up being more complicated than I thought, but you’ll like the results,” Rose pronounced as she took one of the glass sheets and placed it into the holder. She took a matchstick and ignited the lamp attached to the phantasma graph. Rose then pumped the bellows, causing the gas to recirculate in the chamber. “When you have seen me scrye a location, I use incense and potions that cause an ethereal reaction, which helps me to see the images. To see what the camera has caught, I must project the image back upon an eldritch element. For this, I use a refract
ive gas. I found a specialist apothecary that can source alchemical materials. I finally settled on seureleum mestificatos, or SM gas, but it is heavier than air, so it settles out over time. To get the gases in the tube to disperse, I recirculate them with the bellows."
Rose could see Dolly’s eyes glazing over as she peppered him with her lecture on her innovations until his eyes caught the figures appearing in the mist. In the chamber was a vignette of a gentleman garbed in a nightgown sitting at a desk writing. It was room 8A at the Carlton, and the man was Moya. Behind and to his left stood a handsome young woman adorned in an elaborate bustled gown with a lace veiled hat peering over his shoulder. Through the swirling image, Rose could see Dolly frozen with astonishment, fixated on the picture. Dolly finally spoke, “Rose, this has got me absolutely knackered. You’re telling me that this is an image from Moya’s suite the night of the murder, and this is actually Moya sitting there?”
“You can see what I see when I use my vapors and lens while conducting a scrying ritual. What I have done is imbued the incantations into my construction. That is to say, yes, you're seeing an astral imprint of a moment from the past.”
“Rose, we could settle every case that is outstanding," Dolly said as he clapped his hands together.
“Unfortunately, no, my friend. If the latent energies have dissipated, I can’t capture them, and if the homicide had no arcane influence, then there would be no imprint made.”
The smile left Dolly’s face.
“This next one is good,” Rose said as she switched glass plates. The next slide illuminated as Rose produced a steady stream of the gases through the tube. The picture was more vivid and resolved. The image was what looked like a negro woman. Rose could confirm it was the same woman from her height and clothing, but she had removed the veil. The genesis of the light for the exposure appeared to be generated from the man’s chest. He reclined on the bed. A streak of light weaved its way to a glowing sphere the lady bore in her left hand. “There it is. The transgression in progress, your mumbo priestess taking Emilio Moya’s soul. The image is so clear because the soul transferal is a violent discharge of metaphysical vitality.”
Rose observed Dolly. He went from a cop conducting an objective analysis of the scene, searching for clues, to a human disgusted and horrified by what the tableau presented. It was hard to fathom what Moya went through, but here you could see agony and fear on Moya’s face. Moya still looked human, not like the mummified shell left in the hotel. This was the moment where the priestess used her power to rip his eternal essence, that which is beyond the mortal realm, and stole it or destroyed it. Rose wondered if the detective understood what he was observing. If Moya’s soul were destroyed, this would be beyond murder in wickedness. The survivors, family and friends of a murder victim can take solace that the victim is somewhere, maybe even a place better than here, but no longer with them physically. In this case, the victim’s unique essence, that being that is you beyond the voices in your head, is obliterated. No longer eternal or universal; no chance of an encounter on some other plane at some other time. Obliterated!
The Sister felt a strange joy and sense of accomplishment watching Dolly looking at her contraption. He was like a schoolboy staring in the window of a toy shop. Rose also felt sorrow as she focused on the image within her invention, the murderess conducting black magic. Ironically the priestess’ face was also a mix of exaltation and sorrow. It was then while looking at the predator and the prey that Rose saw something similar and familiar in the faces of the victim and the murderess. Rose wondered if Dolly saw the same.
“How is this possible?” Dolly asked watching the vision fade as the smoke stopped blowing.
“It’s science, Detective. Have you read the works of John Dalton?” Rose took out the slide and stored it in a protective holder.
“No, I'm just a dumb cop, Rose.”
“Dalton advanced the theory that the whole universe is comprised of atoms. The simplest of elements. All the elements are made of the same aether and the number of aether particles makes up the difference between lead and gold. Preston taught me that the universe is of the aether, and it's all connected. By understanding its properties, we can manipulate matter, electricity and in this instance, I can detect the old aether imprint left from a moment in time,” Rose declared.
“So this is science, not spiritualism?” asked Dolly.
“It’s both. I say they are the same, just different ways of looking at the universe.”
“Well, like I told Keane the other day, I never thought a man could fly, and now we are building airships the size of buildings.”
“Keep that mind open as possible, Fredrick. If you don’t, that is when you are damned," Rose replied.
Rose knew Dolly took that in as a philosophical metaphor, but she meant it. She had seen souls sent to other planes of reality. She had been to other planes herself. It was when you grappled with the concepts of the eternal and universal that your limiting beliefs drove you mad.
“Dolly, when we find this woman, I need to learn how this arcana works.”
“Well, she can teach you while she waits for the gallows."
“That is my point. She can control the forces of life and death itself. She won’t be afraid of your gallows," said Rose.
“I am a simple fella, Rose, responsible for detecting the work of criminals in this city and bringing them before the Crown for justice to be served,” Dolly said as he looked over her contraption. There were many similar contraptions in various states in her shop. “Any of these other things work?”
“Some do, some are in progress, others are parts to tinker with,” answered Rose as she organized items on a counter, almost an attempt to clean up the mess. “What if the priestess has killed no one? She could just have trapped them in that orb she was holding. She could be holding them hostage,” Rose followed up.
Dolly gave her a look of disdain, “Well, here is my small mind closing. I signed off this morning to hand Sir Francis Chilton’s body back to his family. So seeing as most folks bury the dead, am I supposed to instruct them to hold off until we catch a Voodoo sorcerer that may or may not have their loved one’s soul in a box; or do we dig him up after I get Miss Mumbo here in irons and have her funnel Sir Francis back into his rotting corpse?”
Rose hated this part of Dolly. The less he understood, the more his hackles were raised. “Dolly, that’s not the point. I want you to work on catching her so I can learn from her. This could be a powerful weapon for Her Majesty.”
“Nice try, Caldwell. Use my allegiance to the Crown. Just walk me through that conversation with the home secretary. Your Honor, I have it on good authority from an ex-nun that we will soon have the ability to trap the souls of our enemies. After I apprehend the person who damned the souls of one of your mates, not to worry. I am hot on her trail because I know what she looks like from a ghost picture I saw in a tenement basement. I would ask that we not hang her until she teaches the ex-nun how to steal souls. What did I miss? Oh yes, and could I please have a pension and a knighthood?” He walked down one of the aisles to leave.
“Dolly, there is a bigger game here. You and I are fighting this war together. This is about the light and the dark, and we need any advantage to win,” Rose implored, grabbing his arm to halt his exit.
“Rosie, dear, I thank you. This contraption of yours is plum. We got something here to go on, but this is a murder investigation and a robbery. I need to identify your mystery woman and catch her before she kills someone else or gets away. Let’s say I get somewhere on this lead and we find her. What should we expect with this magic Is it like firing a gun, or does she need to get prepared?” asked Dolly.
“It’s ritualistic. She has to establish a contact with the victim and enthrall him. Preston told me that some of the most potent work requires multiple hougans or very powerful ones. I expect she has a natural talent and is getting more experience with the most complex of the Voodoo rituals. The amulet I gave you wi
ll afford protection.”
“This might sound stupid, but do you think she has the power to stop a bullet?” asked Dolly.
“I doubt it,” replied Rose.
“Well, there’s a bright spot. This thing of yours on my watch fob should give me enough time to put a shot on her.” Dolly looked Rose in the eyes. “This won’t be another case where I shoot someone and they don’t die.”
* * *
11:30 PM, The Carlton Hotel
At half past eleven, Dolly arrived at the Carlton. The hotel was frenetic with horse-drawn and steam carriages pulling up and departing. A society event in the ballroom recently concluded, and couples in tuxedos and ball gowns lined up waiting, for livery to retire home.
The detective sergeant made his way to the lobby counter and requested to speak to the night supervisor. Hodges was his name. The day manager informed Hodges that Detective Williamson would need to talk with the night staff. Hodges was a man who prepared.
“I would be delighted to call on the staff and have them sent to you for interview,” said Hodges as he handed the handwritten list to Dolly. "I also have arranged an office, my office, for you, Detective Williamson. To get you out of all the hustle and bustle of the hotel.”
Dolly knew it was to keep him out of the sight of guests. What hotel wanted an active homicide inquiry in plain view of its patrons, even late at night?
“I don’t wish to be problematic, but it would be best for me to just visit with the staff on the floor,” suggested Dolly.
“Very well, but my office is yours if you should need it. Who would you like to chat with first?”
“Let’s begin with the doorman. Is this Winters on duty tonight?" said Dolly.
“Yes, that is him at the door.” The manager pointed to an average-looking man in a top hat and overcoat.
The doorman was frenzied with the commotion of guests exiting, and Dolly had to make sure he was standing out of the way of the traffic. Winters was sweating between working the door and being overdressed for the balmy night. “Good evening, sir,” announced the doorman.