Blood Bath (Seven Jack Nightingale Short Stories)

by Stephen Leather

  There are five full-length Jack Nightingale books – Nightfall, Midnight, Nightmare, Nightshade and Lastnight. You can download the first, Nightfall, at a special low price at http://tinyurl.com/lbxk7w7 in the UK and at http://tinyurl.com/n8keumd in the US

  If you enjoyed this short story, please do leave a review. Reviews do matter to authors and we are always grateful to receive them. Jack Nightingale appears in the full-length novels Nightfall, Midnight, Nightmare, Nightshade and Lastnight. He has his own website at www.jacknightingale.com If you want to stay informed about the latest Jack Nightingale stories, drop by www.stephenleather.com and sign up for my mailing list.

  Here are six more stories called Blood Bath, written by fans. I hope you enjoy them.

  Blood Bath

  by Alex Shaw

  ‘Do come in Mr Nightingale.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Nightingale managed a thin smile and crossed the threshold. The room was as he had imagined the study in a mansion house to be. There was an open fire place, dark wood panelling on two walls and floor to ceiling bookcases on another. A large bay window at the far end gave out to views of the grounds and the English Channel beyond. James Gaskin stood at the window, his features part obscured by the contre-jour effect of the sunlight streaming in around him.

  ‘Is that my non-disclosure document I see in your hand?’ Gaskin asked with a voice which betrayed a public school education.

  ‘Signed as per your request.’

  ‘Excellent.’ Gaskin held out his hand. Nightingale crossed the room and gave him the envelope. ‘I find that I never tire of the view from this room Mr Nightingale.’

  Nightingale saw a fishing boat crossing from the left and several yachts bobbing nearer the shore. ‘It must get windy up here?’

  ‘Very. Let us sit.’ Gaskin sank into a high backed leather chair next to the fireplace and proceeded to check the agreement. Nightingale in turn studied Gaskin. He had a thick mane of silver hair and his skin was so pale that it appeared translucent. He could have been anywhere from forty-five to sixty in age.

  ‘This is a nice place you have here.’ Nightingale wasn’t one for small talk and felt awkward making it.

  ‘My family has owned the house since it was built, I inherited it from my father and he from his father before him, and so on. I trust that your ‘call out’ fee was satisfactory?’

  Nightingale wasn’t an emergency plumber but nodded. Unsolicited he had received a cheque for £500 and a request to meet James Gaskin at his house in Rottingdean. All he had to do for this was to sign a non-disclosure agreement and turn up, so he had. Gaskin’s house had turned out to be a sprawling mansion. A butler, who looked more like a sergeant-major, had opened the gates and then waited for him at the front door whilst Nightingale had parked his MG. ‘What is it I can help you with, Mr Gaskin?’

  ‘I need you to act on my behalf in the acquisition of an oil painting Mr Nightingale.’

  ‘Wouldn’t an art dealer be better equipped to assist you with that?’

  ‘You run your own business Mr Nightingale, yes?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘If a client wished to pay you three thousand pounds to drive a transit van full of apples to Edinburgh you could accept, even though you knew nothing of apples?’

  Nightingale frowned. ‘They’d be very expensive apples at that price.’

  ‘But you get my point? I can pay you for a service and you can undertake it for me.’

  ‘So tell me about the painting?’

  ‘It is a little known work by Felix Philippoteaux called ‘Blood Bath’. It is to be auctioned off in London next week. I will pay you a fee of five thousand pounds if you attend the auction and secure it for me.’

  ‘Why the secrecy?’

  ‘I am a collector of art and artefacts related to the Crimean War, Mr Nightingale. I have one of the most extensive collections in existence. Because of this I have become a target. There are certain individuals who would stop at nothing to secure this painting for their own collections if they knew of my interest in it. I am not merely discussing the possibility of a bidding-war, they have no qualms in breaking the law of the land.’

  ‘You make these rival collectors sound dangerous.’

  ‘I do, and they are which is why I want you to act on my behalf. Mr Nightingale although we have never met before nor had any previous business dealings I have “checked you out” as they say, and am aware of your abilities. So the choice is yours. You are free to leave now, keep the £500 and never speak of what we have discussed here or you may accept my instruction.’

  Nightingale’s interest had been piqued but more importantly he needed the money. ‘I’d like to accept your instruction Mr Gaskin.’

  ‘I thought you would, I am a good judge of character. Very well as you have agreed to work for me I can tell you that the actual fee I shall pay you will be £10,000. I am not buying your time rather rewarding you for your trust.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘You are most welcome. Now there are a couple of formalities. I need you to sign a contract with me regarding my instructions and then I will need your bank details and postal address.’

  ‘And why is that?’

  ‘Christie’s does not accept bids or payment from third parties, including agents. Therefore you need to be registered as the bidder Mr Nightingale, not I. Do not worry it is all quite legal.’

  It sounded like a tax dodge of some sort, but again Nightingale was in no financial position to refuse.

  *

  Nightingale pointed his MG away from the sea and aimed at the South Downs. If he was lucky he’d be back in his flat in under two hours and eating a curry half an hour later. He floored the accelerator and the roadster surged forwards. The climb out of Rottingdean started off steady but then became severe. Half way up the first steep hill there was a loud clunk, the sound of metal on metal grinding and the car lost speed. Nightingale swore to himself, coasted to the kerb and pulled on the handbrake before the MG could roll backwards. Up ahead he nodded at a speed camera. ‘Next time eh?’

  *

  ‘What’s wrong with it?’ Nightingale asked the mechanic an hour later.

  The man pulled his head out from the bonnet cover. ‘Know much about cars Mr Nightingale?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘In that case it wouldn’t make any sense to you if I explained it. Basically a bit from there,’ the mechanic pointed with an oily forefinger, ‘has snapped off and that piece there has started to rub against that bit.’

  ‘Can you fix it?’

  The mechanic straightened up. ‘Course I can, but the question is how long have you got? I could do a bodge job and get you going again in an hour, which I would not recommend, or I can fix it properly. I’ve got the parts and that’ll take at least three.’

  ‘How much?’ Nightingale had learnt from bitter experience the cost and risks of running a classic car.

  The mechanic whistled as he estimated the cost. ‘Doing it properly? About £300, parts and labour all in.’

  ‘And you know what you are doing?’

  The mechanic folded his arms. ‘See the name above the shop? M. Craig? That’s me Mike Craig. Now if you take a look around the back you’ll see an MGC, not much dissimilar to your MGB but rarer, more powerful and in much better nick. I’ve been fixing MGs for thirty five years. Any more questions?’

  ‘No. Sorry. I’m just pissed off that I’m stuck here.’

  ‘You must enjoy all Rottingdean has to offer.’ Craig said with undisguised sarcasm. ‘Why don’t you walk back into town, grab a pub lunch and then go for a stroll along the cliffs? By the time I get her fixed she’ll purr like a kitten. I’ll call you when she’s ready.’

  *

  A half hour and two Marlboro later Nightingale found himself sitting in The White Horse eating a chicken Jalfrezi and nursing a bottle of Corona. The sea just beyond the walkway outside was choppy and on the horizon he could see wisps of rain. The bar was empty apart from an elderl
y couple eating at a table on the other side of the room and a plump barmaid. There was a sudden and loud quacking. Nightingale looked around and then rolled his eyes as he realized that it was his new iPhone. He’d let his assistant Jenny McLean set it up for him.

  ‘So what was it?’ Jenny asked, ‘What’s the job?’

  ‘He wants me to buy a painting for him.’

  ‘An oil painting?’

  ‘An oil painting.’

  ‘What type of oil painting?’

  ‘An oil painting depicting ‘The Battle of Balaclava’.’

  ‘Painted by whom?’

  ‘Felix Hippopotamus or something.’

  ‘Philippoteaux?’

  ‘You’ve heard of him?’

  ‘You still haven’t read my CV have you?’

  ‘Not recently.’

  ‘What’s the name of the painting?’

  Nightingale looked around the bar. The old folks were still eating and the barmaid was gazing at a television in the far corner. ‘Blood Bath.’

  ‘I’ve never heard of it.’

  ‘A-ha, your posh school fails you?’

  ‘I haven’t heard of it but I know who will have, and he works at my “posh school” which is incidentally a five minute drive from Rottingdean.’

  ‘Car’s broken and besides why do I need to know about the painting? All the client wants me to do is bid on it for him at auction.’

  ‘And that doesn’t strike you as being a little odd?’

  ‘A little.’ Nightingale described the conversation with Gaskin.

  ‘How much has he agreed to pay you?’ Nightingale told her. ‘And that doesn’t strike you as being a little odd?’

  ‘A lot odd.’

  ‘And you don’t want to find out why he must have this painting so much? What significance it may have?’

  ‘Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.’

  ‘You’re the boss, but I’m interested in knowing more, aren’t you?’

  Nightingale mopped up the last of his Jalfrezi with a piece of naan bread. ‘I’m fine.’

  He heard fingers tap a keyboard in the background ‘Let me just…there. As I suspected.’

  ‘What have I told you about checking your messages from ‘Uniform Dating’ during working hours?’

  ‘Ssh. I thought I didn’t recognise the name of the painting as according to Wikipedia…’

  ‘And we always believe everything we read on the internet.’

  ‘According to Wikipedia there is no painting by Felix Philippoteaux with the title ‘Blood Bath.’

  ‘Well, all I can say is that it’s being listed at Christie’s this Thursday.’

  ‘What’s wrong with your car?’

  ‘Something snapped.’ He sipped his Corona.

  ‘Take a bus.’

  ‘A bus?’

  ‘Or a taxi.’

  ‘Where to?’

  ‘I’ll call ahead and tell him to expect you.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Mr McAdam. He’s the school librarian.’

  ‘Hang on, you want me to take a bus to Roedean to speak to a librarian about a painting?’

  ‘Or a taxi.’

  Nightingale shook his head slowly and sighed. ‘Alright, I’ve nothing better to do. Do you know a taxi number?’

  ‘Use your phone.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Safari.’

  ‘I thought that was a TV show?’

  ‘Twit.’

  *

  ‘Ah, dear Jenny McLean. She was one of my favourites you know. Always had her head in a book. How is she?’ Ian McAdam asked in a soft Cumbrian brogue.

  ‘Great.’ Nightingale replied as he took a seat opposite the ancient looking librarian.

  McAdam nodded thoughtfully. ‘So you would like to know more about a canvas supposedly painted by Felix Philippoteaux?’

  ‘Supposedly?’

  McAdam leaned forward across his desk conspiratorially. ‘It’s a rather intriguing tale, which is why I recall it. Philippoteaux claimed that he never created such a work, and indeed it is not attributed to him anywhere. However he was seen “painting” his painting.’ McAdam smiled at his own choice of words. ‘But none of this is of any consequence as the work purporting to be ‘Blood Bath’ vanished a few years after the end of the Crimean war.’

  ‘So it would be quite valuable?’

  McAdam looked thoughtful. ‘I’d say yes, nothing like a lost Monet but none too shabby.’ His eyes widened and a smile creased his ancient face. ‘Jenny said you were a private detective, it’s been found hasn’t it?’

  Nightingale squirmed, its auction listing was public record so he wouldn’t actually be breaking his confidentiality agreement. ‘Yes.’

  McAdam’s eyes widened. ‘Well I never. How exciting. Bear with me.’ He pushed himself up from his seat and trotted to the other end of the library.

  Nightingale looked around. He liked books. Actually he liked the concept of books as he rarely read.

  ‘Here!’ McAdam returned holding aloft a leather bound book. ‘I knew I had this. It is one of the only existing accounts of the existence of Blood Bath.’ He opened the book and then placed it on the desk in front of Nightingale before easing himself back into his chair. ‘According to this the painting was acquired by one of the surviving members of The Light Calvary Brigade, a Corporal J. Gaskin of the 11th Hussars.’

  Nightingale frowned. ‘James Gaskin?’

  ‘Yes. And there is, I believe, a photograph, too.’

  ‘Of the painting?’

  ‘No, of Gaskin.’ McAdam leaned forward and flicked to the next page. He tapped a bony figure on a soft focussed black and white image of a man in military dress.

  Nightingale shivered. The man in the photograph was a doppelgänger for his client.

  McAdam smiled. ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’

  ‘I just thought that I recognised this photograph.’

  ‘It’s possible. He was a survivor of the ill-fated Charge of the Light Brigade.’ McAdam gazed at Nightingale for a moment before he spoke. ‘The family was originally from this area. James Gaskin was the last living member.’

  ‘You know a lot about this subject.’

  ‘For a librarian? I was originally an art historian. I loved art, couldn’t paint for toffee, so decided to learn as much about my favourite painters as possible. Felix Philippoteaux was not one of them but he did create some exceptional cyclorama.’

  ‘Bicycles?’

  ‘No. A cyclorama is large panoramic painting mounted on the inside of a cylindrical platform. If you stand in the middle of the cylinder you get a 360° view of the painting. It makes you feel as though you are in the painting. Quite simple but quite clever. Philippoteaux’s cyclorama depicted battles.’

  ‘Like an early form of virtual reality?’ Nightingale hated using buzz-words.

  ‘Virtually.’ McAdam smiled to himself. ‘Philippoteaux was quite a traveller. He also painted The Battle of Gettysburg as a cyclorama. What is quite strange is that the Gettysburg painting was also lost until 1965.’

  ‘How big would one of these cyclorama be?’

  ‘Very big. The Gettysburg one is 27 ft. in height and almost 360 ft. in length.’

  Nightingale was about to ask another question when a loud, insistent quacking stopped him. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Go ahead.’

  Nightingale held the phone to his ear. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Your chariot is fixed Mr Nightingale. Collect it and pay me as soon as you can.’

  *

  ‘You should really be doing this the ‘investigation part’.’ Jenny McLean said as she dropped the print-outs on Nightingale’s desk.

  ‘Ah but you do it so much faster.’ Nightingale sipped his coffee and looked up at his blonde assistant.

  ‘That’s because I’m not a lazy luddite.’

  ‘I’ll ignore that remark. So what have you found out about this painting?’

  Jenny frowned. ‘Nothing more
than you already know. I also did a search on Mr Gaskin.’ She sat on the edge of his desk and rearranged the papers. ‘There.’

  Nightingale picked up the printed sheet of A4 and scanned it for several seconds. ‘I give up. What am I looking at?’

  ‘The birth certificate of James Gaskin dated 1805, no death certificate anywhere that I could find on record.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Mr Gaskin’s house, the address you went to, was built in 1856 for a Mr James Gaskin and as far as I can see the title has never changed.’

  ‘So what we are looking at are the records of the World’s oldest man?’

  ‘Of course not Jack. That would be just plain silly. It’s a coincidence that’s all. It’s a mystery, and you know I like a good mystery. A mysterious painting and a mysterious client.’

  ‘You don’t get out much do you?’

  ‘On what you pay me? No. Now when I did a search for “Blood Bath and the origins of” I got a lot of hits for Elizabeth Báthory.’

  ‘Báthory? Very apt. Who is she a French plumber?’

  Jenny shook her head. ‘No, Jack.’ She pushed a different sheet towards him. ‘Short version, Countess Elizabeth Báthory de Ecsed was part of the Hungarian Royal Family. She was accused of murdering between three and six hundred women in order to bathe in their blood. Eventually she was imprisoned in a castle, where she died.’

  ‘Lovely.’

  ‘Apparently she was one of Bram Stoker’s influences when he wrote Dracula. She vowed that one day she would be reincarnated. There are actually a lot of followers who believe that she did have supernatural abilities and await her return.’

  Nightingale looked at the picture below the text. ‘She was no oil painting.’

  ‘But that was. It’s a photograph of the only contemporary portrait of Erzsébet Báthory. It went missing in the 1990s.’

  ‘You as always are a fountain of knowledge.’ Nightingale drained his coffee and then steeped his fingers. ‘So going on what your librarian friend said, Blood Bath is a missing painting and may or may not be the work of Felix Hippopotamus and as such is very rare. Our client is a collector so therefore must have it. Simple.’