by JM Bannon
“Who else in London would construct a camera that takes pictures of spirits but the good Sister?”
“Anything else I should know?” asked Keane.
“I have corroboration that the suspect is a negro from Haiti, a runaway slave. Monday I have luncheon at the French embassy to learn more.”
“Who are you meeting with?” asked Keane.
Nelson Bruce arose abruptly from his chair and crossed to the side of the auditorium, making his way to the rear stairs of the hall that served the balcony.
“Looks like it’s time,” Dolly said before slamming back his glass of whiskey. The detective went to the opposite side of the music hall then zig-zagged his way through the revelers to the back stairwell that led to the balcony. The lighting was poor in the upper balcony, and there were no tables, just rows of seats. These were the cheap seats, but the theater chairs were nice with velour cushions, compared to the wooden benches of lower class halls.
Upon reaching the balcony, Dolly worked his way to where Nelson Bruce sat in the rear row. From this spot, they could see anyone approach and were deep in the shadows of the rear balcony. There were only a few patrons in the mezzanine on a Thursday night, and they were close to the railing where the view of the stage was better.
The two others in the row with Nelson were embracing each other and were too engrossed with their affection to hear what transpired between Nelson and Williamson.
“How you doing, Brucie?” asked Dolly. He had passed the bar and picked up two ales. He handed one to Nelson.
“Thanks, mate. I'm still struggling for the worker.”
“You called for a meeting. What do you have to share?” asked the detective.
“You are correct. There are forces at play to instigate a panic,” responded Nelson. He handed Dolly a pamphlet.
Dolly unfolded it and read.
Citizens of London, Beware
The Baden Gaswerks is building the Royal Fleet at the expense of your children!
We have it on good authority from prominent doctors and scientists that the construction of the plant and the sub-street sewerage is part of a complex system for the Baden Gaswerks to defuse insidious gases through the city. Its dark purpose is not to fill airships with LQ gas but to sterilize the immigrants flooding the city’s ghettos.
Unite! Resist! Revolt!
"Where did you get this?" Dolly frowned. Now he had two cases about to boil over where he was the lead detective.
“Near the works. Some bill posters were gluing them up, and there have been a few laborers passing them out. When I asked who hired them to pass and post the bills, they had no notion where they came from, but they had been paid for the work.” Nelson said, never taking his eyes off the stage.
"This reads like what you were spouting to rile up your comrades the day I was down at the works. I would say verbatim.” Dolly put the handbill in his inside coat pocket.
"Well, it isn't the Commonwealth Communist Union. I made sure of that, mate. I got your message clear as glass and told the committee you drew the line, and it was my reputation if it was crossed.” Nelson’s speech was harried.
“Then who's the organizer, if it's not you?” asked Dolly.
“None of the trade unions I know. I inquired around, and none claimed the bills,” added Nelson.
“You pull off the picket line. I don't want one of your guys down there even walking their dog. The PM will call in the fusiliers to clear the crowds if there is any violence.”
“I moved my lads yesterday, but the crowds have doubled. The migrants are paranoid that the aristocracy will poison their children to keep them downtrodden. I’m steering clear of that site now, Detective, so as far as I am concerned, this is the last we need to talk.”
“If something goes down, expect to be carted in for appearances, but I’ll make certain that your aid is recognized,” said Dolly.
“Much appreciated.” Nelson looked at him with a sarcastic sneer then went back to watching the stage.
Dolly walked away and toward Keane. On the way back, he stopped at the bar again to pick up two beers. When he returned to the table, Detective Burton was sitting with Keane, and there were already drinks on the table.
“Adam, good to see you,” said Dolly, then he noted the third beer. “Someone sitting there?”
“No, that’s for you. I noticed you two registered in the logbook. Thought I would come over after my shift to grab a drink with you fellas,” answered Burton.
Dolly placed the pints down and pulled the chair around. “Well, it looks like we have a few ales to drink here, Keane.” Dolly then reached into his coat pocket and pulled out the handbill and gave it to Keane.
“Fuck me,” Keane said.
“A few more beers before I'll be doing that,” said Burton smiling at his own joke and reading the bill over Keane's shoulder. “Oh, those are glued all over the walls of the gaswerks,” Adam related.
“The leaflet isn’t as significant as what Nelson declared. He asserts that he nor the other trade unionist are behind this. In fact, he already pulled his brothers out of there before I proposed it.”
“That means he expects something is going to happen, even if he doesn’t know who is behind it or what they are planning,” Keane added.
“Righto, mate. We have some work to accomplish on Monday, but right now, I’m just going to get drunk at the Queen’s expense, and you fellas are welcome to join me.”
Monday, the 21th of June
8:40 AM, Scotland Yard Briefing Room
The detective’s briefing had concluded and Dolly was now in the constables’ briefing room listening to the upcoming police operation to break up the crowds at Baden Gaswerks.
Sergeant Eakins was chosen to command the operation. A uniformed officer with military experience, he was highly qualified in procedures where crowds were involved, from the planning of a parade or the smashing of a riot. Dolly, Keane and Burton were all in attendance as they had spent the most time gathering intelligence on the case at the gaswerks.
Once the operation was initiated, Eakins would be in charge. Today he was laying out his strategy. He stood in front of a chalkboard with a map of the neighborhood around the gas and iron works drawn out.
“As you see, there is a natural flow of the avenues to the plant. Three streets east, west and south with a gate at each end. The northern gate sits opposite the south gate of the Lloyds Works with the perimeter road between the two fences. There will be three muster points. Here, here and here.” Eakins pointed to the spots on the map marked A, B and C.
“Muster point A will have two waves. The initial squad will go down Northern Docks Road and secure the north gate. At the same time, squad two will secure the western gate. Squads three and four will move on to the east and south gates.
“We will send in horse-mounted constables to separate groups and then police on foot behind them to disperse and guide people away. Those that won’t disperse, or resist will be rounded up. Each muster point will have police wagons staged to move in and pluck up those that we arrest.”
After a pause, Eakins continued, “I have spoken with Commissioner Mayne and have the 10th Fusiliers on ready if mass resistance ensues. Our preference is first to get everyone off the right of way to the gaswerks premises then to disperse and move the crowd out in an orderly fashion. Questions?" declared Eakins.
A constable raised his hand.
“Yes?” Eakins acknowledged the constable.
"Why are we breaking this up if there has been no violence?" the boyish constable asked.
Mayne interrupted before Eakins could answer. “Detectives Keane and Williamson have evidence that the common trade associations have fled and that there is a nameless group seeking to incite a riot at the location.”
“Do we know who?" asked another cop.
Dolly spoke up this time, sitting on the edge of a desk with his jacket off. The room was steamy from the June heat and the large congregation in the small space.
“The gaswerks are pivotal to our national interests. We know the throngs are not the usual trade unions causing trouble,e and we can’t put a finger on who is behind it. They are getting the migrants fired up, and we need to break it up before a bunch of ignorant buggers get hurt for no reason.”
The group began asking specific questions about tactics and strategy. Dolly lost interest and started his way out of the briefing room.
As he stepped out, Mayne signaled to him to come over. “Dolly, I need you and Keane down there tomorrow to keep an eye on things. We still have no idea what the caper might be, and once the crowd is under control there, we may lose the opportunity to find out who has been stirring things up at the plant.”
* * *
12:00 PM, French Embassy, London
Guild Master Saint-Yves had extended the invitation to Detective Williamson to meet for lunch at the French Embassy. He sat alone in the bright and spacious dining room, an island of black in a sea of white linen covered tables. The guild master sat in a contemplative trance, watching his thumb and forefinger slide up and down the stem of his water goblet. The condensation caused the motion to make a high-pitched squeak each time he did it. He stopped when the detective was escorted into the dining room.
The maitre’d approached the table with the detective following. The detective was nearly a foot taller than the maitre’d, and he walked with a confident gait.
“Guild Master, your guest is here to lunch with you,” pronounced the maitre’d.
Saint-Yves was upstanding and greeted his guest.
“Detective Sergeant Williamson, I appreciate you accepting my invitation. I assure you that you will enjoy one of the finest lunches in London and come away with information pertinent to the Moya Case,” said the guild master.
“Thank you, Guild Master.”
“Call me Gerard. Since we will be working together, I would like us to be on a first name basis.”
“Then thank you, Gerard. You can call me Dolly.”
“Please sit. Dolly, pardon me, but is this not a woman’s name?”
“It’s short for Adolphus. That’s my middle name, and it has been my moniker since I joined the police service.”
“I meant no offense, but it just sounded strange to my ear.”
“None taken,” said Dolly.
The guild master turned to the maitre’d “you can bring a menu for the Detective, si vous plait”
“So, you’re looking to nab this Voodoo priestess and bring her to justice?” asked Dolly.
“Our intentions align, Detective. You need to catch a murderer. I need to keep this primitivism from getting out of the jungle,” said the guild master.
“What can you share with me to apprehend the killer?” asked Dolly.
“Her name,” said Gerard as he drank his tea.
“You know the name of the person who killed Moya?” Dolly reiterated as he took out his notebook.
“Her name is Angelica Du Haiti, and I have met her.”
“If you don’t mind, I will take some notes,” said Dolly while he wrote the name in his book.
“The guild has been aware of the Voodoo practices in the New World for some time. Your Doctor Melbourne wrote a treatise on some of the pagan rituals, but it was more anthropologic than spiritual. To gain understanding, we had emissaries meet with the Voodooists and study the arcana. Ten years ago, I was part of the necronist mission to Haiti, and that is where I met the woman in question.
“France had just abolished slavery in the colonies, and plantation owners were concerned that practice of Voodoo would lead to the organization of the recently freed slaves and eventual revolt. We French know how ugly a revolution can be, and the Minister of Colonial Affairs contacted the guild to help assess the situation. We were intrigued, of course, to see if the tales were true of the ability to control and raise the dead. On the tour, we determined that there was a population of slaves that believed in the religion of Voodoo, but they were not practicing any arcana. It was a religion with no control or understanding of metaphysics,” said Gerard as the memories of his past came back to him.
Ten years had passed since Saint-Yves, a young silver seer, had the privilege to be part of a delegation to investigate the threat of Voodoo to the French colony or the Emperor. The guild was happy to have the government of France fund the expedition to evaluate Voodoo. This primitivism intrigued the necronists as it appeared to engage death magic in ways like what necronists were experimenting with in clandestine research.
His mind drifted back to the expedition under Guild Master Huey.
They tramped through the hot jungle of Haiti for six days. His urban upbringing in Paris left him unprepared for the long slog through the humid insect infested tropics. The trek was grueling even with the troop of porters and guides. His feet became blistered from walking and cracked from waterlogged shoes. Mud clung to his legs and made his steps heavier. His robes that he was so proud to wear absorbed the sun and held the sweat and humidity. Eventually, they found the secluded village. They had followed an estuary that led to the awe-inspiring waterfall, where the village had developed at its foot. Gerard was physically uncomfortable, sweating in his black necronist robes and morally unsettled observing a village filled with nearly naked men and women.
They were not greeted with open arms. Many of the inhabitants were escaped slaves and those that had grown up in the village had heard the stories of the cruel life on a plantation and had a genuine dread of the white man. As they closed in on the village, it became clear that they were being followed and were surrounded and outnumbered. At the edge of the river, just before where the village started, they were met by the Voodoo king and his retinue. His name was Papa Lafayette, a wiry old man with only a loin cloth for clothing and coated in a sheen of sweat and musky from the unwashed life of the jungle. He stood with his Ju Ju staff, the mantle of his power. The staff was horrifying. The tall warped and petrified wood had four human skulls attached to it. These were the heads of the past Voodoo kings, who imbued the staff and the present king with all of their power. The Frenchmen could speak with the king through Lafayette’s interpreter, a mixed-race girl. A true vision, the type of person you will always remember the first time you saw. Remarkable in her natural beauty and the glimmer of her aura. Even with his limited training, Gerard could detect the shimmer of her mortal and metaphysical charm.
Gerard came back to the present and chose carefully what to share. “There was, however, a village that was folklore to the slaves, where runaways who reached it settled in paradise under the safeguard of the gods of Voodoo. It was there I met Angelica. She was likewise an initiate at the time to a powerful Voodoo witch doctor. She was his protégé and interpreter.”
“You saw her conduct rituals that killed men by removing their soul?” asked Dolly.
Gerard thought back. His mind raced with the memories from a decade ago, back to the initial contact. He recalled in his mind’s eye Lafayette and the vitality and raw power he exuded, how his ebony skin glistened from the humidity. Papa boldly told the mission that they were not welcome and they were to leave. As Guild Master Huey attempted to parley with the Voodoo king, Lafayette began working a thralling incantation; the guides and porters quickly fell under his influence, and they broke and ran in fear. Huey was impressed at the strength of the invocation the king was fabricating and the king equally impressed with the necronist’s defenses against it. Huey and Gerard saw through the Voodoo illusion and stood their ground.
The acknowledgment of each other’s capacity to wield such power became the thread of common respect that the two parties could build on. The necronists were the first outsiders allowed in the sanctuary. The two parties learned from each other. The necronists could articulate the science of the metaphysical, and Papa Lafayette could help them to find a way to a primal connection with the arcane. That was the weakness of the necronist way: their connection to the supernatural was an intellectual one, not visceral. The necronist path t
o the metaphysical was books, learning and experimentation; the Voodooist path was spit, sweat and blood.
Huey understood the tremendous opportunity the necronist had after the group witnessed a Voodoo ritual where Papa Lafayette summoned the spirits of past Voodoo kings back to earth to possess the dead. It began more like a frenzied bacchanal with naked practitioners dancing themselves into a trance, so contrary to the puritanical dress and demeanor of the guild. Gerard, a talented necronist was adept at, scrying messages from the afterworld and beginning to hone his skills at controlling the wills of others, but what he saw that evening was raw and pure necromancy.
The village was located at the waterfall for a purpose. The falls were a rift point into the afterworld, a doorway for Ju Ju spirits to move from one plane to another. Papa Lafayette was in the center of the ritual, directing the ceremony. Four corpses were brought into the circle. Lafayette recited his incantations, and the dead rose. They became the mortal vessels of spirits that had passed. The savage could do what the necronists could not, reanimate the dead and do so by bringing spiritual energy from the afterworld.
“No. She did not have those powers then, but Papa Lafayette did, and I saw primal necromantic arts being performed. They were ignorant of the metaphysics behind what they were doing, but he still could wield the power of life and death.”
A few nights later, the necronists were invited to Papa’s hut. He had the three necronists sit with him on the floor around a small clay pot. He was brewing some concoction. Angelica was there, but she was standing on the outside acting as the interpreter. The Voodoo king said that he had decided that he would train the necronists on the condition that the necronists guaranteed the safety of his people. Huey wholeheartedly agreed to the pact. Lafayette said to seal this pact the four of them would drink from his pot. He ladled the foul-smelling soup into wooden bowls and each man drank. He smiled and gestured for them to drink it all. When done, he laughed and talked to Angelica. Her face lost color. The old man kept repeating to her the same words. She then told Gerard and the others their fate.