“You’re welcome,” Mattie interrupted.
“Forgive me, but I knew Gloria for some time. It’s hard to believe she’s gone or that she was… that she was murdered.”
She said the last word as though it were poison on her tongue.
“You’ll have to excuse me,” Mattie said, “but I don’t have any tissues on hand. If you start crying now, you’ll only ruin your makeup.”
Veronica smiled, sufficiently distracted. “It still hurts. It’s an ache in my heart that I couldn’t have imagined before. I believe it’ll hurt tonight, when I see her changing station at the club. It’ll hurt when I come home and see her room again. I’m just very glad to have you here, a friend to help me through this time. Thank you.”
“I’m glad I could help. I’ve lost friends before as well. It takes a while before the hurt lessens. It never really goes away; you just learn to cope with it better over time.”
“You lost friends in Haversham, right?” Veronica asked. “Simon told me how your tribe was subjugated by that vile creature, that demon.”
“He and my tribe were at odds,” Mattie replied as vaguely as possible.
“Then I’m all the more glad that you’re here. I might ask you for advice coping with the pain, should it become too much.”
Mattie smiled softly and opened the door. “Are all women in Callifax this emotional?”
“Excuse me?” Veronica asked as she led them down the hall to the elevator. When she pushed the call button, a loud buzz echoed through the elevator shaft.
Mattie chuckled. “You’ll have to excuse me, but I’m not used to spending so much time talking about my feelings.”
“You are an odd one, Miss Hawke,” Veronica replied.
“The feeling is mutual, Miss Dawn.”
The elevator stopped, and the liftman pulled the metal accordion doors aside. As the two women stepped onboard, he closed the doors and pulled the lever. With a lurch, the elevator dropped toward the first floor.
The two women walked mostly in silence toward the club. The sun still glowed over the buildings, and Solomon’s Way was in transition. Those who worked in the district during the day were meandering home while those who worked the nights were emerging. The dichotomy between the two groups—one group dressed in laborer’s clothes while the others were dressed in eveningwear—was striking. Soon, the crowds from the other districts would flood the streets. The clubs and bars that were just now opening their doors would be filled to capacity, and debauchery would begin on nearly every street corner. Mattie reveled in the relative quiet of the Way during the workmen’s transition. The city had never been her place of choice, even one as small as Haversham. She felt positively lost within the massive confines of Callifax.
Veronica led them to the Ace of Spades, which was just beginning to glow from its exterior floodlights. No crowds had lined up outside behind the velvet ropes, though a bouncer was already stationed by the door. Rather than scantily clad ladies opening the large doors, the bouncer opened them instead, letting Veronica and Mattie pass.
Unlike their last visit, the interior of the burlesque house was empty. A couple of cleaning ladies swept between the tables while a host straightened tablecloths. Veronica walked toward the door beside the stage, but Mattie hesitated.
“Where shall I wait?” she asked.
“You can always come into the back with me,” Veronica chided, giving her a once over. “You have a wonderful figure. I’m sure we could find you a job.”
Mattie frowned, though she knew it was only a joke. Veronica pointed toward the table normally reserved for Simon. “You can wait there, if you’d like. I’ll have someone bring you a drink.”
Mattie sat in the booth and tried her best to disappear. Nothing seemed simple, however, in the constricting corset. She knew immediately that it would be a long night.
Detective Sugden emerged from the Solomon’s Way police station completely unaware that he was being watched. He donned his overcoat and placed a fedora low over his eyes before descending the few steps to the street. The sun had set less than an hour before and already the district was coming alive. The roads were far more crowded than they had been a few hours earlier, with ladies and gentlemen filling the streets to capacity.
Sugden frowned as he forced his way into the crowd. The throng of people pressed around him like an envelope, driving him onward down the street. Though the night was dark, the Way was well illuminated by gas and electric streetlamps intermixed with brilliant fluorescent lights splashing across the sides of the buildings.
Fighting his way free of the flow of pedestrian traffic, Sugden turned down a side street, one that would lead eventually to his small flat. There were people on this street, but not nearly in such large numbers. The fluorescents, likewise, were gone, leaving only dripping pools of light every ten feet down the road.
He walked with his head down, feeling the fatigue of a long day’s work. The Inquisitor had taxed him, asking probing questions about cases he had worked before abruptly departing, his arms laden with files. His was a face the detective wasn’t eager to see again. More vexing was his intimate knowledge of which cases in particular about which to inquire. Sugden presumed the nervous doctor had let slip information he clearly shouldn’t, but without evidence, the detective wasn’t keen on confronting Youke Casan.
As he glanced up from his musings, Sugden noticed a short man in a bowler step into the light before him. The man’s hands were concealed in his pockets, and thick muttonchops framed a sour expression. Sugden glanced over his shoulder, but he saw no one behind him. The diminutive man had clearly come to speak to the detective.
Not eager for a confrontation, Sugden turned abruptly and began walking back toward the street from which he’d just emerged. No sooner had he turned, however, than Inquisitor Whitlock stepped out from the shadows, barring his path. The detective came to a stop before the mustachioed man and frowned.
“Inquisitor,” Sugden said, trying to remain calm. “What a pleasant surprise.”
“Detective,” Simon replied. “I wish that our visit were pleasant.”
The detective glanced over his shoulder and saw the shorter man standing behind him. “What’s this all about then?”
“This? This is nothing. This is just a chance at a private conversation, just you, me, and Mister Strong.”
Sugden turned toward the street and began to step away. “If you want to speak with me about cases, you’ll have to come by the station tomorrow at a more reasonable—”
Luthor struck the detective across the chest with his cane, not hard but intense enough to stop the man in his tracks. Sugden glanced down at the offending item and scowled at the apothecary.
“I am an officer of the law. How dare you strike me? I could have you arrested.”
Simon placed a hand on the detective’s shoulder while using his other hand to push away Luthor’s cane. “Were that the case, we would save you a seat in our cell. It seems you’re not just an officer of the law, you’re also a liar.”
Sugden blanched and tried to step into the street, but Simon tightened his grip painfully on the portly man’s shoulder.
“Forgive me but I have no idea of what you speak,” Sugden stammered.
“I think you do,” Simon replied. “The files that I procured from you today were very telling, so much so that you could imagine my surprise when I discovered that you had personally investigated every one of the cases.”
“I’m a homicide detective. I investigate any number of cases. It’s sheer coincidence that the files about which you inquired had my name upon them.”
Simon stepped into the road and blocked Sugden’s way. The Inquisitor stared sternly at the nervous man. “If that were true, then what possible reason would you have to be so nervous? You’re practically dripping with a cold sweat.”
The detective huffed. “You and your goon accosted me in the middle of the street on a dark road. You’ll have to pardon me for feeling a b
it out of sorts.”
Simon stroked his moustache and nodded. “Let me explain what I consider the source of your obvious discomfort. I believe that the charade you put on in the police station, in which you feigned ignorance of any connection between the cases, has been revealed. You know now that I know that you knew all along.”
Luthor furrowed his brow as he tried to count back and forth which man knew what about whom. Sugden looked likewise confused.
Simon shook his head. “You knew there was a connection between the cases, very likely the same killer, yet you chose not to reveal any of the pertinent facts to me during our conversation. I ask you why.”
Sugden noticeably slumped, his shoulders drooping as his gaze fell to the road. “I did know and was caught completely unaware when you inquired, quite specifically, about every file pertaining to what I believe to be a serial killer within Solomon’s Way.”
“If you knew that our investigations were so obviously crossing paths, why didn’t you share your speculations?” Simon asked, shaking his head.
Sugden raised his gaze, his expression stern. “Because this killer is mine to catch and mine alone.”
Simon was taken aback by the change in demeanor. “Perhaps you’d better explain.”
“Perhaps we’d better discuss over a pint,” Sugden countered.
Simon could find no fault in the man’s logic and offered to follow the detective. Sugden didn’t walk far, taking them back to the main thoroughfare and leading them to the closest pub. There were quite a few open seats at the bar. Solomon’s Way was coming alive slowly as the night progressed, but few patrons were ready to sit in a dingy pub, drinking away the night just yet.
Taking their seats, Simon and Luthor on either side of the skittish detective, they ordered drinks. Sugden and Luthor both took their pints of beer while Simon ordered his ever-present scotch. Though Simon was eager to hear the explanation, the detective quickly drank half his glass before offering even a word to either man.
“Tell me what this is all about,” Simon demanded. “At this moment, it seems very much like you’re somehow complicit in these murders.”
Sugden looked up and frowned. “I’m no such thing. I want this murderer caught as much as you do. It’s just… it’s complicated.”
Simon looked around the half-empty pub and shrugged. “We have nothing but time.”
The detective looked back at the pint glass held tightly between both hands. “I don’t know if you recall or not, but when we first met on the bridge, I told you about my son.”
“He was murdered, was he not?” Simon asked, recalling their previous conversation.
Sugden arched his eyebrows. “I’m genuinely surprised you remember.”
“Don’t be,” Luthor said from the detective’s other side. “It’s what he does; frankly, it’s what makes him such an exceptional Inquisitor.”
The detective nodded. “My son was murdered by what I still believe to be supernatural means.”
“How was he killed?” Simon asked.
“I don’t know exactly.”
“Yet you believe the cause to be supernatural?”
Sugden looked up, tears welling in his eyes. “His chest was torn open as though by razor-sharp claws, like those of a giant wolf.”
Simon and Luthor exchanged nervous glances. “Was that all the damage that was done?”
The detective slowly shook his head. “I don’t know. I’ll never know, since his head and both arms were removed as though by a blade of some kind. We never found them. I was only able to identify his body because… because of a tattoo on his chest.”
Though the detective seemed overwhelmed at the memory, Simon pressed the conversation. “Severed in a similar fashion as the newest murders?”
“Exactly the same,” the detective nodded. “Doctor Casan even believes it could have been made by the same blade.”
Simon started to nod but then furrowed his brow. “Did you say that your son had been murdered nearly two years ago?”
Sugden glanced over and nodded.
“The technique may be the same, but nothing else matches up with our current killer’s methodology. Your son was male, whereas the current victims are female. A blade severed his extremities, but the first women’s deaths were by brute force rather than the clean separation of the knife. Why all the variations?”
“I don’t know, but now you understand my desire to find this killer. When the murders began and the bodies of the women began appearing in the morgue, I knew right away that my son’s killer had returned. Not at first, mind you, because of the rending of the limbs, but once the blade was applied, there was no doubt in my mind that it was the same killer.”
“That is why you’ve been the detective on scene for all the subsequent murders.”
Sugden nodded. “As soon as I discovered the similarities in the cases, I made sure my constables contacted me immediately when another case presented.”
“How close are you to finding the murderer?” Luthor asked.
The detective frowned and shook his head. “I’m not. Solomon’s Way is a terrible location for physical evidence. Drunkards urinate in dark alleyways, often unaware that a corpse rests not three feet from their shoes. They unwittingly and unknowingly trample crime scenes, leaving the constabulary to discern pertinent evidence from the multitude of rubbish around the bodies. It leaves my reports—”
“Woefully inadequate,” Simon said.
Sugden was clearly unhappy with the interruption, but he nodded just the same. “The killer is still loose within my district, and I fear that I’m no closer to catching him now than I was two years ago.”
“Had you been honest with us from the start, we could have been assisting you in your investigation,” Simon explained. “Due to my own personal ties to these cases, I will now be assisting you in your search for this killer.”
“I mean no disrespect, but I don’t need—”
“Of course you do,” Simon interrupted, to Sugden’s growing displeasure. “You haven’t been able to catch this killer without my help, so clearly you’re no worse off with a Royal Inquisitor at your side.”
“And an apothecary,” Luthor added.
“Of course,” Simon replied, talking around the stunned detective.
“I don’t suppose I have a say in the matter?” Sugden bitterly asked.
Simon shrugged. “The request from the Grand Inquisitor trumps any of your arguments as to why we should not be assisting in this investigation. So, no, you really don’t.”
The detective finished his beer in two long gulps and set the empty glass down on the bar. “Then, if you’ll both excuse me, I’ll be going home. I might as well get as much sleep as possible if I’m to deal with the two of you for the foreseeable future.”
“That’s the spirit,” Simon cheerfully replied.
The detective frowned as he climbed from his seat and walked hastily toward the door. The door opened and shut with a bang, drawing the attention and ire of the rest of the patrons.
“He didn’t pay for his drink, did he?” Simon asked as he stared at the closed door.
“No, sir, he did not,” Luthor replied as he took another drink from his own beer.
Simon sighed and turned back toward his friend. “This will be a difficult working relationship.”
“What do you think of the man’s story?”
Simon stroked his chin. “Sugden’s personal interest in the case is evident but what isn’t as transparent are the facts. Why would the killer change his methods from blade to superhuman strength and back to blade? Why change from killing a man and then switch to women? Most killers would do the opposite, refining their skills on the more defenseless gender before progressing to killing the sturdier male.”
“Let’s not forget about the claw marks on his son’s torso. Do you really think it could have been a wolf, like the detective believed?”
Simon shrugged. “Were there werewolves in Callifax—well, werew
olves that we didn’t personally bring into the city—I’m sure their presence would have been more evident. There would have been more cases of bites or rending, which, to the best of my knowledge, there hasn’t been.”
Luthor drummed his fingers on the bar. “Then you don’t believe the detective?”
“I’m undecided,” Simon replied, glancing over his shoulder toward the closed door. “The detective has already lied to us once. I find that lying is like an addictive drug. Once a man has lied and gotten away with it, there’s no end to the lies he will perpetuate to conceal the truth.” Simon took a drink from his scotch but frowned at the taste. He quickly set the tumbler down on the bar before him. “We’ll keep a watchful eye on the good detective over the next few days. I’m far more concerned with what occurred before the death of Sugden’s son.”
“I don’t follow, sir.”
“A killer doesn’t start with the slaying and dismemberment of a body, not with such violence and woeful disregard for human decency. Much like the women slain more recently, I’m sure that there were men killed in progressively worsening fashions before the detective’s boy was brutalized.”
Luthor ran a hand over his muttonchops. “There would be police files, were that the case. Does your letter permit you to review the other files as well?”
“Perhaps,” Simon hesitantly said, “though any resistance from Sugden or any of the constabulary would halt our investigation. My letter is hardly a blank check and, upon further scrutiny, would probably be dismissed by the detective out of hand.”
“Then how do we go about investigating three-year-old crime scenes without the police files?”
“We don’t. All the murders occurred within Solomon’s Way, which lends itself to the killer being from this district. Traditionally, a criminal will strike somewhere with which they have the most familiarity. That allows them opportunities to escape, should their crimes be discovered. Therefore, we focus on the present and the killer who is still here, somewhere in Solomon’s Way. The footprint you found is enormous. Even were the killer of normal stature with just inhumanly large feet, he would appear clownish and his presence noted. More likely than not, however, he’s a superhumanly tall chap. If there were a large killer about in the Way, someone would have seen him. We just need to find the man that did.”
The Golem of Solomon's Way Page 13