by A. W. Exley
“No, no, of course not.” He held up his hands to placate the woman. “We just want to be thorough. Two such terrible deaths, we need to do all we can to reassure you.”
“Well.” She walked to the table, picked up her tea cup and then took a noisy slurp. “She started as a chamber maid back in 1815―”
The woman droned on into the afternoon, recounting her mother’s work in the royal household. Time would have passed quicker if she narrated amusing anecdotes about the Duke of Kent and his wife, shame she didn’t know any.
They escaped after forty five years, or so it seemed. The interview took three hours but the bereaved woman had no gift for storytelling. Fraser took brief notes of key events. He jotted down when Penelope changed roles and who she may have encountered. Fenmore attended the duchess on a regular basis and the little maid would have seen him a number of times over more than four decades in service.
He stood on the pavement and heaved a great sigh. “Forty five years to dig through. What does our killer know, Connor? What secret might have passed between them that someone deemed it worth taking their lives?”
Back in his office, Fraser contemplated the dead end. If someone deliberately targeted the two victims of spontaneous human combustion he could not discern the underlying cause. He needed something more substantial; he was the bloodhound without a scent chasing his tail instead.
He stood in front of the filing cabinets and his hand sought one in particular. He pulled a metal drawer open and stared at the stuffed files competing for space. His eye went to a familiar one. The sharp edges of the cardboard roughened and dog-eared by the hours he spent running his finger tip around the file.
Deep in thought, he wandered over to his desk and dropped the bundle of papers, newspaper articles and photographs. On the front a cream label stood out against the dark grey background. In a neat precise hand a name identified this particular open case.
Nathaniel Trent. Viscount Lyons.
He flicked open the cover. On top sat the latest gossip sheet clipping, detailing the shocking news of the viscount’s secret marriage to Cara Devon. The reporter viewed the entry in the marriage registry, revealing the two had been wed for over three years. The ton erupted in a furore for missing that juicy snippet. The eligible bachelor suddenly whipped off the market.
He laid aside the article and turned to a particular section.
An incident report noted that date and location. 1858, St Giles Rookery. Over twenty dead and who knew the real number murdered that night. He leafed through the few notes and photographs he managed to gather that day.
Chaos reigned for a few short hours in the Rookery until the new order exerted its control. A tiny window of opportunity that let the Enforcers in. They saw the bodies and managed to take photographs of a few. None made it out of the tight knit community. Family claimed the fallen, some were stolen off the back of the Enforcers’ vehicles, his uniforms powerless in the face of the grieving mob. They counted twenty dead by looking at bodies, blood stains and the absence of well-known faces. Whispers on the street said closer to thirty fell. Nobody would talk. Nobody saw anything. It was as though the grim reaper himself wielded his scythe under the cover of invisibility.
Saul Brandt, the leader of the St Giles Rookery, was stabbed in the chest in the middle of a crowded pub. Saul stood at the bar, drink in his hand conversing with his men and the next moment lay in a pool of his own blood on the floor. Not a single witness. Every last one was either staring at his beer or looking in the opposite direction at the precise time the fatal wound was delivered and missed the entire incident.
Fraser didn’t have to witness the murder to know whose hand drove the blade into his rival’s heart.
He let out a sigh. He planted his seed, it simply needed time to grow and bear fruit. “You will fall. I shall see to it.”
London, Sunday 19th January, 1862
ara fell into a routine living with Nate that always involved a large breakfast, just in case she got kidnapped, stabbed, or otherwise detained during the day. Plans were discussed over coffee and bacon. The English could keep their kippers; once she visited America and discovered the joys of bacon for breakfast she wasn’t going back to small fish.
“We’re still plotting the route to Australia and New Zealand, and the supplies needed.” Nate said, sorting through the dispatches that arrived overnight. “We don’t think they will have to land anywhere, but we’re planning a stopover just in case.”
He tossed several papers to one side and several more straight into the bin. “We should have Loki in the air soon with an airship full of people wanting to escape England for more temperate climes.”
She watched the never ending snow piling up outside. “Can’t say as I blame them. Rather tempted myself to journey to somewhere tropical.”
Nate looked up from the letter in his hands, a smile quirked his lips. “Tahiti for a second honeymoon? Very few clothes required, you wouldn’t have to pack much.” He folded the letter and slipped it into his pocket.
She rose for her morning kiss. “Let’s deal with Fraser’s mysterious deaths, then we can discuss heading somewhere warmer and my lack of clothing. I’m off to see Helene this morning and find out if she knows what happened to Suetonius’ Secrets.”
Snow fell outside and Cara took the carriage and mechanical horses to Belgravia. Each day, winter deepened and the Thames froze. People speculated if the ice would thicken enough to hold people, stalls, and animals. There hadn’t been a frost fair since 1814, when elephants walked across the Thames. Bookies were taking bets that 1862 would see another festival held on the river. The mechanical workshops were open late into the night as the craftsmen laboured to make enormous metal creatures to rival, and surpass, elephants. This frost fair would see gryphons, unicorns, and dragons glide over the ice as soon as it reached sufficient thickness.
Cara stepped from the warmth of the carriage and stood on the footpath. Looking up, she wondered what she would find behind the house’s façade today. Split paint and cracks ran down the door as though trying to escape what lay beyond. She glanced upward at the dust and soot coated windows. Clinging to the sills, abandoned boxes contained the remains of long dead plants and one held a desiccated pigeon that looked like it died on the job.
Snow settled on ledges and water dripped to freeze mid-fall, but even the pristine teardrops became tarnished by contact with the house. Soot puffing from steam conveyances and chimneys left a grimy dark layer over everything. The entire structure gave off an air of decay and abandonment.
Bet this house is related to my one in Soho.
She pushed the door open and stepped into the gloomy hall. Dust motes floated in front of her face and she batted them away. Brick cast a curious glance around and took up position by the main door. His back rigid, he didn’t risk lounging against the wall and being contaminated like the snow outside.
“Hello!” she yelled, and waited for any sign of life, ears pricked to catch the faintest noise to give her search direction. A shuffling from the hall drew her attention and the elderly butler appeared and squinted at her.
His rheumy eyes passed over Brick and failed to register the hulking man as anything other than a statue. He gave a hrumpf of vague recognition at Cara, waved his hand in a dismissive manner and then shuffled back down the hallway.
“Warm reception,” Brick quipped from his corner.
“He’s always like that. I swear he’s an automaton on a set route.” She stared at the ceiling, checking the plaster for any sign of leaks from the old roof. “Stay here, it only gets worse depending on what sort of day Helene is having.”
A bark came from upstairs. On the trail of the pug, Cara placed a hand on the end newel post and a piece of the ornate barley twist broke away in her hand.
“Bugger,” she muttered, and dropped the wormwood-infected timber over the side.
At the top of the stairs she struck off left, to Helene’s suite. She studied the dark paintin
gs on the landing and lining the corridor as she walked past. Helene liked to use her ancestors’ portraits for target practice and many sported bullet holes in the foreheads, testament to the countess’ excellent aim.
Cara considered having a portrait of her father hung in the Soho house so she could kill two birds with one stone. Or more accurately, shoot the two sources of pain in her life with one bullet.
She stopped at the painting closest to the double doors to the master bedroom.
“That’s new.” A cross bolt jutted from the bridge of the man’s nose. “What did you do, I wonder?” she asked the executed man.
She pushed open the dark doors and stepped into oppressive heat. Summer or winter, Helene kept the drapes tightly closed and the fire stoked, trying to sweat the demons from her mind.
The countess reclined on the bed, sinking into a mound of decorative pillows. The four pillars of the bed were made from tree trunks, their branches spread outward holding the flimsy curtains. Helene resided in a forest bower, like a mad fairy queen. Minnow gave a happy bark and shot off the bed. Today, he wore deep blue taffeta.
Cara bent down and scratched the little pug’s ears. “Hey boy.” She reached into a pocket she pulled out a piece of beef jerky and slipped it to the mutt. His curly tail wagged and he disappeared under the bed with his treat.
“I see you have a crossbow.” Cara drew back the leaf-embroidered organza and twisted the swag of curtain around an end post. She sat on the bed and searched Helene’s face, wondering how lucid her friend was today and where she hid the crossbow and bolts.
“I got it special for Henry. He’s been taunting me at night and won’t let me sleep.” Deep blue circles ringed the woman’s eyes, red seeped into the irises and echoed the rot eating through her brain. “He says he knows things, important things, and teases me that I cannot guess.”
“Would you like me to move him?” When did this become my life? she pondered. Pouring drinks in Texas was far simpler, although to be fair, that life involved just as many bullet holes.
“Oh no, don’t move him, then he would talk to the others. No, I need him close, so he doesn’t rally them against me. He will, you know.” She lurched forward and grabbed Cara’s arm, pulling her closer. Her once beautiful eyes locked on Cara’s face, but her mind remained miles away. “You believe me, don’t you? You won’t let him overthrow me with his whisperings? I only have you and my little canary on my side. No one else believes that they come to me at night, invading my mind with their constant chatter.”
She remembered Nate’s comment about Helene’s gypsy blood and their fabled ability to see through the veil of death. She wondered if the syphilis drove her mad, or her inability to sleep with the ghosts crowding around her bed.
She took Helene’s too-thin hand in her own and gave a soft squeeze. “I’ll not let Henry plot against you.”
Helene gave a sigh. “I hold them back you know, on the other side. My mother taught me how.”
“You tell me what you want me to do and together we will thwart him.”
“Yes, yes, if we work together we can silence the screaming. Then I can sleep.” She fell back on the pillows and a cloud of dust rose up around her and danced on the heavy air.
The fire crackled, munching came from under the bed, and Helene’s eyes stayed closed. Cara chewed her lip; she needed to pick her friend’s brain but today looked like there was little to poke through. She chewed a nail while wondering how to nudge the conversation in a more rational direction.
“You have a question, ask it now.” The voice much stronger, clearer.
“Suetonius’ Secrets has some pages removed. Unfortunately, they happen to be the very pages I need, about an artifact that generates fire.”
“Fire.” The syllable whispered over Helene’s lips. Her eyes flung open and she sat bolt upright. The red receded from her eyes and sanity paid a fleeting visit. Their time together often followed this pattern. Cara would tempt lucidity forth with a bait of tantalising clues and questions. Helene would give her cryptic responses and then sink back into the darkness within her.
Saloon girl, much simpler job than this caper.
Cara pulled the volume from her satchel and held the book open. “Look.” She pointed to the tiny fragment of shorn paper. “Someone cropped the pages out.”
Helene’s fingers wrapped around hers and she dropped her head so close to the book she seemed to be gazing at the individual fibres in the rough paper.
“Malachi,” she breathed over the pages as though uttering a word of power to resurrect the lost text.
“Who is he?” Please don’t let it be a painting or someone who died years ago.
A smile spread over the countess’ face. “You have been there before. He owns the little bookstore that you once visited and then he sent you to me.”
“Do you think he removed the pages?”
“Doubtful. Malachi would never harm a book. But he once borrowed my edition to transcribe it for a collector. If he has touched a page, he remembers the text. He absorbs the words through his skin. He will know what you are missing.”
Cara remembered the ancient store with its equally aged owner. He set her after Magyck of the Gods, the volume that became her guidebook to the strange artifacts.
Helene’s fingers tightened around her hand. Meeting her gaze, Cara watched the madness slink back into her friend’s eyes. She wished she had known the young Helene, the one full of life and vitality and not the shell that remained.
“Make sure my little birdie finds happiness. He has dwelt too long in the darkness with me, he needs a creature of light.”
Cara placed the fragile hand over the sunken chest. “I’ll try and find somebody willing to take the grumpy bugger on, I promise.” God knows who though, Amy has the patience of a saint and she can’t stand him.
A smile touched Helene’s face. “Angelique promises to help, she knows who will heal his heart.” She slumped back against the pillows and within moments, heavy snoring filled the air.
“Fantastic, on top of everything else I have to find a woman who comes with a ghostly endorsement.”
Cara stoked the fire and placed the guard close to the bricks, making sure no wayward spark would escape while Helene slumbered. Minnow appeared from under the bed, dragging the strip of jerky, and plonked himself in front of the heat. He turned large brown eyes to Cara. Checking Helene slept, she reached down and removed the taffeta dress from the dog.
He gave himself a shake and returned to the treat.
She stroked his wrinkled head. “Look after her, little one.”
Leaving the bedroom, she confronted Henry. He appeared to be from the seventeenth century with his enormous wig of powdered ringlets and a painted heart on one cheek. A cold light in his eyes belied the dandy image and a chill shot down Cara’s body.
“What do I do with you, Mr Conspirator?” she addressed the painting. An idea came to her mind and with a suppressed giggle she headed downstairs to the library, to find the supplies she needed.
Rummaging around in the desk, she found glue and a roll of crepe. Borrowing a knife from Brick, she sliced off two short strips of fabric and took her supplies back up the stairs. A few minutes work and she stepped back to survey the results. Henry now had his mouth bound shut with bandage, stopping him from muttering a word and disturbing Helene’s sleep.
“That’s Henry silenced. Time to tackle the rest of my tasks for today.”
That afternoon, Cara stood on the doorstep in Broadwick Street Soho and pulled a key on a chain from her battered satchel. She unlocked the door and pushed it open. She peered in as though expecting an ambush. She kept putting this day off but McToon wanted to know if anything could be done to make the house not so much habitable as more hospitable.
She resisted the urge to cross herself as she stepped over the threshold and into the empty entranceway. Brick crowded behind her and shut the door. Gloom enveloped them.
Bugger. I’ll have to
turn on a light.
She reached out a hand, took a breath and activated the switch. The barest tingle of surplus charge ran back through her fingers. The bulb above flickered a few times before deciding to go and cast its yellow light.
“House is mellowing,” she muttered, trying to decide where to start.
Brick laughed. “It’s a house, what do you think it will do?”
She faced him. “It extracts a blood toll from the occupants. I spilled a fair amount on the floorboards, women died in the basement and the only tenant I found managed to slit a wrist slicing bread because the house played with the lights.”
She waited for a smart reply. Proving how smart he was, Brick didn’t have one. He did touch the knife on his arm as though checking it remained safe in its sheath.
“So what exactly are we looking for?”
“I don’t know,” she whispered. “But something is here.”
He cast around the half empty house. “How can you be so sure?”
“Have you ever stood outside during a thunderstorm? Before the rain, when the sky turns black, thunder booms from above and lightning arcs through the clouds. The air becomes charged and it skates over your skin. These objects we seek give me the same response when I am near one.” She pulled back the sleeve of her jacket and showed the goose bumps on her arm. “That’s how I know something is here.”
“Where do you want to start then?”
She placed a hand on the newel post. “Upstairs. You can wait in the parlour, there is something I have to do alone first.”
He raised an eyebrow and gave her a hard stare.
“I don’t plan to jump out a window.” She gave a weak smile.
“All right.” He tapped a pocket in his jacket. “I’ve got a book, take all the time you need.” He crossed to the front room.
Cara trod the stairs with a heavy heart and headed down the hall to her mother’s suite. An interconnecting door led to her father’s more masculine rooms. This softly feminine room was painted in palest cream and yellow with hints of rose and green. A few pieces remained untouched; the white washed bed and matching dresser. A cream cane chaise in front of the window.