by JM Bannon
Cordially,
Lester Chilton. Barronett
P.S. Dinner attire is respectfully requested.
He threw the letter on his desk and mumbled to himself. “Now I need to get my hands on a dinner jacket.” When he looked up, Mayne was there.
"I don't like French men in my office any more than you, Williamson, but don't be making a scene because of your pride as a detective. You have four bodies and you’re no closer to finding the killer or building a case, so get your nose on the grindstone and let them help.”
"Yes, sir,” replied Dolly.
"Detective, save the tone. What's the difference between these blokes and when you call on your witch?"
"She's English."
Mayne noticed the other detectives watching. He turned and left before they started a pissing match.
Meanwhile, Dolly knew there was no need to argue with the boss. Mayne didn’t ask for cultists to help, and he didn’t approve of Rose. If the Home Secretary was prepared to let necronists help on this case while crying that the French were trying to start a riot at the gaswerks, then pressure to solve the case was coming from someone directly on Walpole and it was mounting.
Thursday, the 17th of June
9:00 PM, Weng Lo’s Tien Gow Parlor
Rose passed through the raucous smokey Tien Gow parlor. The area was packed with Chinese migrants; it was loud. Maybe Rose perceived it louder since she didn’t speak the language. The illegal gambling den was a contrast to Lo’s attempt at a high-class environment with his dealers and staff clad in tuxedos and gowns and the bulk of the working-class patrons looking like they walked in right off the street; many had done just that.
Even here she got looks as she followed Weng Lo’s lieutenant, Jimmy Lin to visit Master Weng. Rose and Weng developed an unusual relationship based on their history before she turned into a demon hunter and Weng the chief of the Lucky Three Triad in London. Rose administered to the Saint Luke’s Children’s Home, where he was a benefactor. He had lived there for a time when he first arrived in England. His tenure was well before Rose began her ministry there. Rose figured they were about the same age. When she fell into her troubles, Weng made certain she was taken care of when others, including the church, abandoned her.
Outside his office door was an imposing Chinese man in a tuxedo. He never broke his stare, continuing to observe the gambling parlor.
Jimmy knocked. Another guard peered through the view slot then opened the door, admitting them into the narrow corridor leading to Weng Lo’s office.
“Miss Rose, how good of you to visit. Did you enjoy the fleetster?” asked Weng as she and Jimmy Lin entered the office. The gangster lord was reviewing his books and did not get up. Jimmy moved to the side of the room, standing at attention until his master directed him to sit, leave or speak.
“What a thrill. It was like flying,” answered Rose.
“How was our friend, Preston?” asked Weng. Weng was one of the few individuals who unconditionally accepted the metaphysical, and Rose could share with him what she experienced in her practice. She knew little about his history, but he had alluded to having a relative engaged in the mystic arts.
“Weng, the possessions take such a toll on him, but we have a strategy to liberate him of his unwanted house guest.”
He chuckled. "So why do you call? Are you in need of the coupe again?"
"No, it is the matter of Preston’s condition. I require your professional help to find someone. Someone who doesn't want to be found," said Rose.
"Tell me more," coaxed Weng.
Rose continued. "You’ve heard about the Chilton and Carlton murders?”
“Yes,” he replied.
"It is the work of a Voodoo priestess. I was able to divine a vision of her. She is African and possesses a powerful command of the arcane. The same methods she has used to kill can, in my estimation, be used to rescue Preston."
Weng looked at his long-braided ponytail and played with the end of it, giving his black hair all of his thought. "And?"
Just spit it out. "And I need your help to find her."
“Like you said, Sister, she does not wish to be found. This wizard that murders powerful white men in London. You now ask the Chinese gangster to help you catch her? Why would I be interested in getting on the bad side of a wicked Voodoo priestess?”
“It would help me and more so Preston. I need to learn from her. I need to talk to her and see if she will help.”
“Rose, the only reason you know of such things is because of the burly Scotsman you help over at the police department. What do you expect he would say about you consorting with the Lo brothers and the Lucky Three Triad?”
Rose grinned and sat down on the couch away from Weng’s desk. "Weng, the detective knows my work has me traverse many diverse worlds, and while I have never mentioned our friendship, I doubt it would shock him.”
“I assume the policeman would not approve of the company you keep,” countered the triad leader.
“It’s common practice for law enforcement to reach out to the criminal element when trying to solve a crime. If Dolly were to take issue with our helping each other, it would likely be from resentment that my underworld contacts are of a higher pedigree than his." Rose looked to see if he bit on her backhanded compliment.
“Let him reach out to his contacts. This is too messy, a mysterious witch killing wealthy society types with an ongoing police investigation. Sounds like a tar pit to stay away from." Weng shook his head and looked at her sternly.
“I don’t understand, Weng. All I need is your help locating her. After that, I’ll deal with the priestess. You won’t be connected.”
“You look outside that door at what I have going on. Do you think the police don’t know there is a gambling hall underneath the noodle shop? We have an understanding. I need not get mixed up in this. Too many big names, too much newspaper attention, and that's not good for trade,” Weng said while he walked over to the couch to sit by Rose.
“She has gold,” declared Rose.
“My dear, Sister. You barter with the possessions of others. That is not particularly Christian.” Weng rose from the lounge. “I have made my decision, Rose Caldwell. Did you have other matters to discuss?”
“No,” Rose returned. She had gone too far.
“Then we are done.” Weng went back to his desk and spoke in Mandarin after completing his sentence in English.
She heard the office door open and shifted to see Weng’s bodyguard waiting for her to depart while he held the door.
Rose stood and looked back at Weng, who had already gone back to reading his book. She pondered pushing further but appreciated that Weng’s decisions were definite when in front of lower ranking members.
She stepped out and was again escorted by Jimmy Lin. Jimmy smiled as he ushered her through the gambling hall. An elderly man at one table turned and wailed at her as she walked by.
“He says you are bad luck and you should go away” translated Jimmy.
"He would be right," she said as the pair exited through the metal door that hid the illegal hall from the eyes of the public.
Rose climbed the dirty old staircase up to street level and the alley entrance of the club. The rhythmic shuffling of her and Jimmy’s footfall up the wooden steps were broken when Jimmy stopped and asked a question. “How much gold does this woman have?”
She smiled to herself but wiped the smirk off her face before she turned to him. “I have it on excellent authority that she took over twenty thousand pounds’ sterling of gold from the Chilton House.”
“Who is this excellent authority, witch lady?”
“The detective on the case,” she explained.
“If I help you find this person, how will you help me?”
“She thought quickly. I can provide wards to protect you from her powers.”
“Yes, you can do that, and you can be a diversion to her if she is there when we grab the gold. If I can find her, and I
can secure this gold, I will tell you where she is,” responded Jimmy.
Rose thought, Now I will become part of Jimmy's heist. “Jimmy, Weng said no.”
“He said no to you. I am not you. What can you tell me of this woman?”
“I can show you what she looks like if you come by my flat,” said Rose.
“What else?”
“The culprit left a note at the crime scene. That makes me think she has completed her business in London. I expect she will attempt to leave the city. She has over four hundred pounds of gold. That won’t be simple to tote around, and she’s black. so even in this cesspool called London she will stand out in a crowd. The woman will go someplace where she can fit in and have flexibility, so I would say she will travel to the continent or to America. I’d say the Northern States or the West Indies.”
“That is helpful. I will get a search started. Don’t seek me or talk to anyone about this matter. If I have something I will find you." Jimmy shook her hand. "Weng’s chauffeur is in the alley. He will take you back to Bethnal Green.” Jimmy checked his cuffs and made sure his coat was buttoned, a sure sign he was done with business. “Good evening, witch lady.”
Friday, the 18th of June
9:15 AM, Pelton’s Bookstore
The bell sounded when Jimmy Lin and Allen Chen walked into Pelton’s bookstore, a shabby little-used bookshop in Hay Market. The store was devoid of customers.
Jimmy followed Allen as walked he around the cashier counter. Next to the register, Jimmy noticed a racing form for the weekend and an empty teacup. Chen shoved aside the ratty curtain stretching across the doorway that served as a privacy screen from the store to the rear rooms. “Trevor, it’s Friday,” Allen Chen called out melodically.
Collecting weekly interest payments was grunt work, but Jimmy’s occasional unplanned involvement made certain his underlings were not skimming. Every so often, like today, he would escort his men on the weekly shakedown of debtors. He also needed to be on the streets to ferret out leads on the gold. The owner of Pelton’s was one of a dozen or so blokes he thought might have a lead on the thieves. Trevor was a degenerate gambler that owed money to all the bookies and to loan sharks like Jimmy. The gambler didn’t make money from his crappy bookstore or his horse handicapping. He earned a living as a document forger, and he was one of the better ones that Lin knew. Trevor could know who was looking to fake some paper for stolen gold.
Around the corner, Trevor Conroy poked his head and peeped over his glasses. “Friday already? Oh, what a surprise, Jimmy. Did you come along today? No problems, I hope.”
“Don’t act surprised its fucking Friday, Trevor. I am like the racing form. I turn up every Friday," said Allen.
Trevor got up from his desk and scurried to meet Allen.
“Well, of course/ I realize I have a debt to repay and —"
Jimmy pushed by Trevor to discover what he was working on. Trevor’s office space was cramped but neat. Trevor was an artist, but had equipment for what he couldn’t create by hand. He had several types of printing machines, from clacker printers to variable stampautotrons to replicate government documents, and it appeared he was in full operation with multiple machines whirring and clicking. His specialty was documentation for smugglers and fences to get illegal goods into the continental markets.
“Looks like you have a job?” asked Jimmy.
“Yes, I’ve got some work. Just came in, a rush job,” answered the forger.
“You better have not spent the down payment. That’s money you owe Mr. Lo.” Allen was playing extra tough with his boss around. “How about you save your stories for your mates at the paddock and bring me my cash?” Allen finished.
“So the interest for this week is eight shillings—” calculated Trevor.
“Chen, rip this place apart and uncover my money,” said Jimmy as he tightened his ascot. Trevor’s interest calculation was correct, but Jimmy needed to learn how much the forger had been paid. He couldn’t leave Trevor with too much money as it would just go to betting on horses.
“Mr. Chen, no need to get physical. These are delicate apparatus. Let me get the payment." Trevor went over to his coat to get his pocketbook.
Jimmy stared at the document descending from the stampautotron as it slowly lurched out of the rollers. The machine selected the correct letter template, inked them and pressed the page with the stamp. He cocked his head to read the upside-down type. The document was a bill of sale for 1450 one hundred-gram bars of bullion purchased in Amsterdam in 1842 from a metals dealer to a Venetian banker.
Chin grabbed the billfold from Trevor. The intimidating goon brought the wallet to Jimmy, who looked inside and pulled out thirty-three pounds. Jimmy exclaimed. “Holy fuck, Trevor. This job was a big payday.” The thirty pounds would take care of Trever Owens’ gambling obligations. “Trevor, you are having a lucky streak.”
“I’ll have you know I have plum picks for the courses. There is this trifecta that is an absolute lock—"
Jimmy interrupted. He didn’t give a shit about horses. “Trevor, tell me about this assignment you’re working on.” Jimmy looked at the sheets on the line drying, a waybill for a steamer line moving the gold from Venice to Liverpool. A bill of sale from a Venetian merchant bank to a trust in the United States.
Lin did the math in his head, converting grams to pounds, figuring the losses in paying for smelting, recasting and paying a document forger; this looked like just the right sum of gold to be left over after losses and costs for the witch’s gold.
He held out the wallet to Trevor. “This is how lucky you are. You tell me about who employed you and when they are returning to pick up the paper, and you might get me to cover this week’s interest myself and leave you with all of these banknotes for that trifecta.”
“Jimmy, honor among thieves, mate. If it were to get out about town that Trevor Owens spills the beans, I would never get work.”
Lin put the billfold into the inner breast pocket of his coat. “No worries, Gov. I understand. Looks like I found the last honest criminal in London. Good luck at the track tomorrow.”
“Ah. Mister Lin, how about leaving a bloke with a fiver to see him through the week?”
Jimmy made his way out of the back room. “Come on, Chen. We got a schedule to keep.”
“Let’s say I was to provide this information. You and I would be good for let’s say two weeks of interest, I could get that deposit back and be sure that my name would never come up."
Jimmy stopped short with his back to Trevor. He had to admit that was a ballsy move on the forger’s part to up the ante. This certainly was Jimmy’s lucky day. It had been less than twenty-four hours, and he had a solid line on thousands in gold. This could save him days of running around town, listening to the stuttering shit birds that provided underworld information. All this would cost is a few weeks’ interest, and Trevor was a degenerate who would lose the thirty pounds in the wallet and then come to him for another loan.
Jimmy plucked out the wallet and held it up for Trevor to grab. “You tell me everything about what you're putting together, who and how they are getting the paper from you, and we can keep this lucky streak going for you.”
* * *
8:00 PM, Canterbury Music Hall
The meeting place was Canterbury Music Hall. Keane had a table where he could keep an eye on Nelson Bruce and his associate Allister “Red” McKenney. The nickname was from his hair color, not his political affiliation. Both parties had a stake in the meet-up and wanted to make certain the encounter took place without witnesses.
The Canterbury was brightly illuminated, with sodium arc lamps ensconced in the walls and the most magnificent chandeliers. Each fixture had over one hundred arc reflectors that cut through the haze of soot and smoke that hung in the theater from countless cigars, pipes, and cigarettes. The house band played an interlude between acts, and many of the patrons sang along while a charming girl held up cue cards with the lyrics to the ditty.
Dolly approached the table with two whiskeys. He was singing along, reveling in the atmosphere of the hall. Setting one glass down in front of Keane, he held his up for a toast as he sat down. “To a night out on Her Majesty,” said Dolly in an acknowledgment that the Metropolitan Police Service would be picking up the tab.
Keane said nothing.
“Callum?”
Keane turned to Dolly.
“Sorry, mate. I was daydreaming,” Keane replied.
“Are you alright, Keane?”
“Brilliant. Just have a lot on my mind, casework and such,” Keane replied, still a bit distant and dissociated.
“Well, here’s to the Queen,” Dolly motioned.
“To the Queen!” replied Keane.
“What is the latest with the Chilton murders?" asked Keane.
"Are you going to take another stab at clearing up the case with your alcohol-sodden deductive powers?" replied Dolly.
"I only share my logic to show you how to close cases. If you're ever going to have a career, you need to close a case once in a while.”
"Thanks for the career guidance," said Dolly “Will you get all shitty when I tell you that Rose established what the killer looks like?”
"How the hell did she manage that?” Keane asked, setting down his drink.
“She built this contraption. It is like a camera, but it captures spiritual remnants. I couldn’t believe my eyes.”
“What was the picture of?” asked Keane.
"I saw two pictures, one of a black woman standing over a white man at a writing desk. The second was the same woman and man, but she was gripping a sphere and penetrating his heart with a wand while he writhed in torment. Between the orb and the stab wound was a streak like lightening going across the night sky," explained Dolly.
“Rose Caldwell has these pictures?”