The Broken Trilogy

by Amy Cross

  Lashing out at her, I almost manage to grab the gun from her hand, but she takes a step back. I reach around to grab Mr. White, but the pain in my hip is intense and I know that even if I got loose, I would not be able to run very far. Nevertheless, I am filled with the urge to fight for my life. Is this how Elizabeth felt when she was on my bed earlier tonight? I feel Mr. White take a firmer grip around my neck, and I brace myself for the flash of his blade across my neck. If I am to die, I suppose it is at least fitting that I should die in the same way as all those girls who have been lost from the game over the years. I tense, preparing for the knife to slash my throat, and for my blood to pour onto the ground.

  "There is a great book," Lady Red says, sneering at me. "The book is a record of the game, going back to the very beginning. Tonight, when I get home, I shall have to sit down and update your entry in that book. Do you want to know something, Edward? You are the seventeenth Mr. Blue, and I feel quite certain that in years to come your entry will stand out as a lesson to all others that they must not try to run from their responsibilities." She pauses for a moment. "Do you have any final words, Edward? Is there anything you'd like to say?"

  I stare at her, my mind still racing as I try to think of some way I can save myself. "Go to hell," I say eventually, filled with hate and anger at the vicious grin on her lips. I want nothing more than to reach out, grab her neck and wring the life from her body. Perhaps the Lord Himself will reach down and strike all three of us dead; surely He cannot allow such cruelty to continue. Even in this devilish city, we are unusually cruel. "Go to hell," I shout. "Both of you!"

  Smiling, Lady Red starts picking up pebbles from the ground, and Mr. White grabs hold of my jaw and pulls my mouth open. Although I struggle with all my heart, I am unable to prevent Lady Red from slipping the pebbles into my mouth one by one and forcing them down my throat. I stare up at her in horror as she drops more and more of these cold little stones inside me, until finally I feel an excruciating pain in my belly. Unable to contain myself any longer, I let out a garbled scream.

  "All those little pebbles are so heavy, Edward," Lady Red says calmly, still smiling as she pokes the last one down my throat. "Why, you'll sink straight to the bottom." She looks up at Mr. White. "Get this miserable little wretch out of my sight. I've spent long enough dreaming up this method of dispatching him. I'm keen to see that it works."

  Still in agony as the pebbles fill my stomach, I feel Mr. White grab hold of my collar and drag me over to the quay. He hauls me along until we reach the same spot where, just a few minutes ago, we stood and tossed Elizabeth's body into the icy depths. I make one final attempt to get free, but my hip is destroyed and my belly feels so heavy, I doubt I could even stand up properly. All I can hope for now is some kind of divine intervention.

  "What are you waiting for?" Lady Red calls out to Mr. White. "Send him down there to meet all the girls whose fates he sealed. Who knows? Perhaps he'll land directly on top of poor Elizabeth? Or poor Sophia Marchant? Or one of the many, many others who we've sent down there over the years."

  "No!" I manage to shout, but at that moment Mr. White throws me off the quay. "If you -" I try to shout, but it's too late and I tumble into the freezing cold, pitch black water of the Thames and I immediately begin to sink. No matter how hard I struggle and try to swim back to the surface, the pebbles in my belly weigh me down, and the ice cold water starts to fill my body with cramps. I stare up and see nothing at all, just the absolute darkness of the depths as I continue to sink. Desperately gulping for air, I start to swallow the foul, dirty water of the river, which my lungs with its dirt. I keep trying to breathe, but more and more water floods in through my mouth; not just water, either, but rubbish and detritus from the river.

  Finally, just when I think I must be able to lose consciousness, I feel myself come to a bumpy rest on the riverbed. I desperately scramble about, trying to find some way that I might yet save myself, but suddenly I realize that the riverbed itself is covered with the dead bodies of the girls who have been thrown down here over the years. No matter how I try to get away from them, my hands keep brushing against the girls' frozen, dead limbs. Eventually I can no longer struggle, and I simply wait for death. Reaching out into the darkness, I accidentally touch a dead hand; instead of recoiling, I slowly wrap my fingers around that hand and it almost feels as if the frozen hand reciprocates. With my other hand, I reach out and feel a frozen human face, its mouth open in a scream. Is it Elizabeth? In my panicked state, I feel that it is her face.

  Determined not to die down here with the bodies of Elizabeth, Sophia and all the other girls, I lift my head and try to scream, but nothing comes out of my mouth and, finally, I realize I can no longer feel my own body at all. Perhaps my dying mind is playing tricks on me, but I am certain that the hands of the dead girls are now reaching up and pulling me down. The cold has numbed me to the point where I can no longer move, and finally death envelops my soul and carries me to a freezing cold hell.

  Part Four

  Blood of a Billionaire

  Elly

  Today

  The black dress is draped over a chair in the corner of the bathroom. Standing naked, still wet from the shower, I take a deep breath and tell myself it's time to get changed; I've been telling myself the same thing over and over again for half an hour. All I have to do is put on some underwear, slip into the dress, and finish drying my hair. It's not a difficult job. At the same time, that dress looks so ominous and dark, as if it's lurking, waiting for me. I can't help feeling that as soon as I start putting it on, it'll grow teeth and start chewing me up. I guess the real problem is pretty simple: this is the dress I have to wear to my father's funeral today.

  "You should have gone to Exeter," my father's voice whispers.

  I don't turn around. I don't need to turn around, because I recognize the voice: it's my father, or rather it's my mind's approximation of my father. For the past few days, I've been imagining him talking to me, trying to think of all the things he'd say. So far, he's been pretty supportive, though he tends to ask questions I'd rather not answer. I know he's not really there, of course, but it gives me a little comfort to imagine that he'd understand how difficult this situation has become.

  "Why did you come back?" he continues. "You could be in Exeter right now, having fun with the band. You could be living the dream of sex, drugs and rock n'roll. What's wrong with you? Why didn't you grab that with both hands?"

  "I have to go to your funeral," I reply quietly, keeping my voice down just in case my mother hears me from elsewhere in the house.

  "Do you?" he asks. "Fuck it. Anyone with any spirit of adventure or fun would have blown this joint and headed off with the band." He pauses for a moment. "I guess you're just boring, Elly."

  "I'm not boring."

  "Yes you are. You chose the safe, boring option. You chose the path of least resistance. You had your shot to do something crazy and non-conformist, and you backed down. You got scared."

  "I didn't get -"

  "You broke down crying by the side of the road," he points out. "You literally started sobbing like a child. You went out into the big bad world, trying to do something independent, and you got scared. Fucking hell, it's a miracle you didn't piss yourself out of sheer terror. I'm not saying it makes you a bad person, but it shows who you really are, right? You're just like everyone else, Elly. All those years spent convincing yourself that you're somehow different or special, and you failed the first test." He laughs. "I guess we know how your life's gonna turn out now, don't we? Predictable, safe and sterile. Boring."

  "That's not fair," I tell him, but as I turn and stare at my reflection, I realize that maybe he's right. I always thought I'd be carefree and smart like my father, but maybe I'm going to be staid and rigid like my mother. I wish I could go back to how things were when I went off to university three years ago, feeling like my whole life was ahead of me. I wish I could try again.

  "When we were younger," m
y father's voice continues, "your mother and I used to have good times. But over the years, she got older and more boring. Maybe I shouldn't be saying this, but I figure I'm dead, so why not? By the end of my life, Elly, I couldn't stand to look at that woman. I hid it well. Everyone thought we were happily married, but the truth was that I hated her. She made my skin crawl. So boring and dull, and gray. And you're going the same way, Elly. Better find yourself a nice, safe, boring man so you can settle down in a nice, safe, boring house and have nice, safe, boring children. You'll be like all the rest. You'll go to sleep and then one day you'll wake up and find you're on your deathbed, and life has passed you by, and it's too late. But do you want some advice?"

  I take a deep breath.

  "Don't fight it," he says. "Don't make yourself miserable by trying to be special. Just sit back, relax, switch off and go to sleep. Sure, your life won't be exciting or fun or unique, but after a while everything will just become comfortably numb. Millions of people live like that. Don't be ashamed. Just go with the flow. Don't aim for a man like Mark Douglas."

  I stare at my naked body in the mirror. Is this all I am?

  "I know why you really came back," my father says. "You want to see him again."

  "So what?" I reply eventually, staring at the reflection of my eyes. "It doesn't make me a bad person. And stop complaining. I'm here, aren't I? I'm going to your lousy funeral."

  It takes me a few minutes to slip into the dress, which turns out to fit just fine. When I take another look at myself in the mirror, I see that I've actually scrubbed up pretty well. Not good, not bad, just... fine. I guess that's going to be the story of my life. Fine. Acceptable. Okay. I spend a few minutes finishing my hair, trying to make it look nice before eventually giving up and just tying it back. All I want is for this horrible day to be over, and then I can go to sleep for a few days until finally I can get on a train and go back to Bristol on Thursday morning. I still have a few months of college left before I graduate, and I guess I'll have to start looking for a job soon. It's weird, but I always thought I'd end up being someone interesting, or doing something amazing, but life is closing in around me and now I see that it's easier to just accept things the way they are.

  When I step out of the bathroom, I realize that although I spent an hour in there getting ready, my mother didn't come and knock on the door once. Normally she'd be fussing around, demanding to know if I'm ready yet, but it's half past ten and there's no sign of her. Wandering along to her bedroom, I knock on the door and then I push it open. She's sitting on the end of her bed, wearing her dressing gown, looking as if she's only just got up. She's so still and quiet, it's almost like I've stumbled into a painting.

  "You okay?" I ask.

  She turns to me. "I'm fine, dear."

  "You know it's half ten, right?" I say, starting to worry. "Don't we have to get going in half an hour?"

  "Half ten?" She pauses for a moment. "Yes, I suppose you're right. We should..." Her voice trails off. "You look nice, Elly. That dress really suits you."

  "Thanks," I say, noticing her own dress still hanging from the wardrobe door. "You want me to help with anything?" I ask, hoping to stir her into action.

  "No," she says. "I'm fine."

  I wait for her to start getting ready, but she seems content to just sit on the end of the bed and stare into space. Sighing, I realize that something definitely isn't right here, and for a moment I consider going to sit on the bed next to her. Most daughters would go and try to help, and try to talk to their mother in a situation like this, but she and I have never had that kind of relationship. She'll be fine if I just leave her alone.

  "Have you heard whether Mark Douglas is coming to the funeral?" I ask.

  "Mark?" She stares at me. "I don't know. Why?"

  "No reason," I reply, pulling the door shut. "See you downstairs."

  Inspector Matthews

  1895

  "Edward Lockhart," says Constable Laverty as he drops a notebook onto my desk. "Does that name ring any bells?"

  Picking up the notebook, I open it to find that it contains what appears to be a set of diary entries. The handwriting is undoubtedly that of a female, and as I glance at the first few pages, I see that she seems to have been writing mainly about family matters. I've never understood why women are so keen to record their every thought, but there seems to be a compulsion - common among the fairer sex - to note down a record of their every thought and action. I suppose it's good to keep the ladies occupied, but I'm quite sure that the vast majority of this muck is vastly uninteresting.

  "Lockhart's the man who came to see you last week, isn't he?" Laverty continues.

  "He is," I reply as I flick through the diary's pages. "He spun quite a tall tale. If nothing else, I found him to be a rather interesting man. In fact, I rather expected to hear back from him, but I suppose he got tired of fooling around and developed some other amusement instead." I put the notebook down. "Why do you ask?"

  "That diary belonged to a Miss Sophia Marchant," he explains. "Seems it was where she wrote down her most intimate thoughts and the like, including about her dealings with men." He clears his throat. "She had many dealings with men, Sir, if you catch my drift."

  "A whore?" I ask.

  "Not a whore," he replies, "but certainly a lady who liked her gentlemen, if you know what I mean."

  "And Edward Lockhart was one of them?" I say. "I believe he admitted as much when he was here."

  "But it's proof, Sir," Laverty replies. "She also talks about him in some most regrettable ways. They were clearly having a carnal relationship."

  "How do you deduce that?" I ask.

  "From the things she wrote," he says. "She talked about... bits."

  I stare at him. "Bits?"

  "Bits of their bodies," he replies, turning a little red in the face. Laverty has always been a somewhat prudish man, and it clearly pains him to be discussing sexual matters.

  "Where did you get this?" I ask, turning the diary over in my hand. "The Marchant house was destroyed in a fire."

  "The diary was found at the Castleton Hotel in Mayfair," Laverty says, clearly a little relieved to be back on firmer round. "A cleaner found it tucked under the mattress in one of the bedrooms. The penthouse, as it happens. Until a few days ago, that room was occupied by none other than Mr. Edward Lockhart himself, although it seems he vacated recently in quite a hurry."

  "He held the penthouse?" I say, frowning. "The man had a home in the heart of London. Why would he also wish to rent a penthouse?"

  "Because he had something to hide," Laverty says. "I could tell from the moment he walked through the door, Sir. I've got a second sense when it comes to these things. He had that air about him like many of the aristocracy have, like he was acting respectable 'cause he wanted to cover something up. He had shifty eyes."

  "I didn't notice anything shifty in his comportment," I reply.

  "Maybe you're not as attuned to such things as you might be," Laverty suggests.

  I stare at the diary. Last week, Edward Lockhart was in one of the interview rooms, telling me about some elaborate murder conspiracy that he claimed was linked to the death of Sophia Marchant and a dozen other women. The story was so complex, it was hard to keep up, but he talked about individuals with names such as Lady Red and Mr. White, and he claimed that Lady Henrietta deHavilland was involved. It all seemed rather preposterous and overwrought, and I dismissed his story as a complete fantasy, but I have to admit that this diary suggests there might have been at least some element of truth to what he said.

  "This could easily be a coincidence," I point out, intending to dampen Laverty's suspicions. "Perhaps Lockhart was having an affair with Miss Marchant, but so what? He certainly wouldn't be the first bachelor to have his way with an attractive young lady, and while such a thing is better kept quiet, it's hardly illegal."

  "Then there's this," Laverty adds, placing a second notebook on the desk. "This is the diary of a young lady named Eliz
abeth Cavendish. She hasn't been seen for the best part of a week, and her family are beside themselves with worry. As you can imagine, they took a look in her diary, hoping to find some clue as to her whereabouts." He pauses for a moment. "Anyway, one of the names in that diary -"

  "Let me guess," I say, picking up the second notebook. "Was she by any chance having a fling with Mr. Lockhart?"

  "She most certainly was," Laverty says, seeming rather proud of himself. "I've done some digging, Sir, and I've also managed to link Mr. Lockhart to a girl named Isabella Clements, who was one of the girls who disappeared late last year." He pauses for a moment. "At the very least, it's a hell of a coincidence."

  "It certainly is," I reply, sensing with a heavy heart that I am going to have to make at least a cursory attempt to investigate the matter. The last thing I want to be doing is digging through a bunch of old cases, but at the same time I suppose it wouldn't hurt to make contact with Mr. Lockhart again. After all, it's quite possible that he came and spun that ridiculous story to me in an attempt to cover his tracks. Perhaps he felt that his actions were set to come out into the open, and he wanted to sow the seeds of doubt in advance? "It seems half the young ladies in London were having an affair with this Mr. Lockhart fellow," I continue, "and they all seemed compelled to write about it in their diaries."

  "Indeed they did, Sir," Laverty says, reaching into his coat pocket and producing three more notebooks, which he sets on the table in front of me. "I did some digging, Sir. On my own time, of course. These diaries belong to three young women, named Annabelle Hitchens, Amelia Cecil and Lucy Borrell. They're entirely unconnected, apart from the fact that they've all gone missing in the past year and they all kept diaries what mention Mr. Lockhart by name."

  "I see," I reply, staring at the collection of notebooks that now sits on my desk. "Tell me, are all the young ladies of London cavorting with men and then recording their troubles in ink?"