Bloody Business

by Ash, C. B.

  “Then there be those little valves that Doc found.” Moira said quickly. “In the dead bodies.”

  Hunter nodded in agreement while the cab jostled along the road. “Indeed. With luck, Thorias will make sense of those small devices and why the victims were missing pieces of themselves. Can you think of anything else?”

  “Oh! Don’t be forgettin’ Hiram! He took off runnin’ like a scared rabbit when ya asked him about Allison.”

  “Quite.” The captain agreed with a small nod. “That means there is some connection between the Leith Docks and the vanishings along West Port and Grassmarket.” He thought for a moment. “Smugglers have been known to abduct people for their crews. Risky for them to try that here in such a large city, but …”

  Suddenly realization struck Moira like a hammer. “Rodney!” She blurted out, derailing Hunter’s train of thought.

  “Eh?” Anthony said curiously. “What’s that?”

  “The bloke I told ya about at the parts market.” Moira said in surprise. “I’m supposed ta meet him today at two in the afternoon for a cuppa.”

  Hunter chuckled. “Ah yes, your new suitor.”

  Moira scowled at Hunter. “He’s nothin’ of the kind! Rodney’s a nice bloke, and he knows Allison.”

  However, the captain was still grinning while the cab bounced to a gentle stop. “Why yes, indeed.” He said. “Don’t fret, Moira, you won’t miss your engagement.” He looked out the window of the cab at the gray, drab walls of Mrs. Carpenter’s boarding house. “Capital! We’re here.”

  “It’s not an ‘engagement’.” Moira said, a bit embarrassed and frustrated. “Just meetin’ him for a cuppa. No sense makin’ it out ta be some sorta event.”

  Hunter paid the cab driver, petted one of the cab’s horses and chuckled wordlessly while he walked to the front door of boarding house. The cab trundled away down the street with a slow clatter of hooves. As the captain glanced upwards, his good humor melted away like sunlight fading behind a cold storm cloud. At the top of the stairs, the door stood slightly open, like a spring trap waiting to slam shut on the unwary. Just beyond, Hunter could make out that the small table in the foyer was overturned and a vase lay shattered into a dozen pieces.

  Moira noticed the captain’s change in attitude and started to speak, but Hunter held up a hand to stop her. He shot a stern glance at her, then pointed at the broken vase and overturned table. She nodded in understanding before Hunter carefully scaled the stairs and nudged the door completely open with his right hand, which also held the thin leather ship's journals. His left, the clockwork mechanical hand encased in its usual black leather glove, was balled into a tight fist.

  The front door groaned faintly in protest, its sound echoing down the darkened hallway. Hunter blinked while his eyes grew accustomed to the shadow-drenched corridor. All along the scuffed hard wood flooring lay evidence of raw violence and destruction. Overturned tables, another broken vase scattered across the floor and discarded in one corner, and the torn painting of an army colonel in dress uniform were just part of the wreckage that greeted Captain Hunter and Moira. From the far end of the hallway, the misshapen dome of the tower servitor could be seen. It lay on its left side, two of its mechanical arms twisted in front of it, and a noticeable dent cratered in its dome. A soft, low, mournful groan of metal issued from it, like so much steam from an exhaust pipe, then it went silent.

  Slowly, they eased through the door and crept down the hallway. All around, nothing moved. Everything was still. It was as if the boarding house held its breath in a dreaded anticipation. There was only the soft sound of their footfalls on the carpet and the occasional ghostly whisk when Hunter's coat brushed against a corner or an overturned piece of furniture.

  “Who coulda done this?” Moira asked in a hoarse whisper.

  “I have not the first idea.” Hunter replied, his voice equally low. He knelt down to lightly run his fingers along the frayed cut that sliced diagonally through the painting. It was a neat slice, as if from a very sharp knife. The angle by which it landed suggested to Anthony that the painting of Mrs. Carpenter's late husband may not have been the intended victim.

  Abruptly, a basket fell to the floor behind them, underscoring a woman's gasp of horror. Hunter half-turned and Moira spun around, fists at the ready. Lydia Olivander stood in the doorway, pale, eyes wide in shock with a hand to her mouth. The sunlight from outside gave her an unearthly yellowish, almost ghostly, halo.

  "Is anyone here?" Lydia asked nervously.

  "Yes, Miss Olivander, we are." Hunter said, just loud enough for Lydia to hear. "Please step out of the doorway, we don't know if the brigands are still about."

  Lydia promptly ducked outside the door, peering carefully around its frame. “What … what happened?”

  Just then a faint thud echoed down the hall from deeper within the house. It sounded once, like a fist striking wood, then fell silent.

  "An attack of some kind. As for why, we are not sure." Hunter frowned at the noise. “Although, it seems there might be someone here to tell us.”

  Chapter 19

  “I don’t hear it again.” Moira Wycliffe said in a low voice. Her eyes shifted from one side to the other, as if she might catch a brief glimpse of the source of the mysterious sound.

  Anthony Hunter turned his head and listened carefully. The sound they all had heard a moment ago – a dull thud as if someone had tried to punch wooden planks – did not return. Instead, the house itself was silent, wrapped in layers of shadowy darkness cut through by light streaming in from the open front door.

  “Neither do I,” Hunter admitted quietly, “I do believe it came from further within the house.” The captain looked over to the door where Lydia still peeked around the edge. “When was the last time you spoke with Mrs. Carpenter?”

  “Earlier this mornin’,” Lyida said, just as quietly. “She was a bit sore from bein’ attacked an all. I left not long after ta turn in me notice with the factory. Seein’ her bruised an all fully made me mind up for me.”

  “Then we split up to look about?” Moira offered with a small shrug. “Whoever finds anything gives a quick yell to the other?”

  The captain nodded, "quite." He stood and stretched carefully. "Standard rules of engagement, Moira. If you come across any sign of Mrs. Carpenter, or what possibly made that sound, call out. Just remember," he added with a stern look, “if I would think you might be outnumbered, sing out; not when you consider yourself outnumbered.”

  The lady blacksmith gave her captain a lopsided grin. “A’course! I never mind sharin’.”

  “What of me?” Lydia asked quickly.

  “Stay here at the door.” Hunter replied. “If we don’t return in a few minutes, or if you hear any unhealthy noises, send for a constable.”

  Captain Hunter stepped around the torn painting of Colonel Carpenter, continuing down the carpeted hall. Moira followed behind until she reached the bottom of the stairs. They creaked gently under her weight as she slowly made her way to the second floor.

  Upstairs was thick with a layer of shadows, washed through with a light cloud of dust. All the doors in the upstairs hallway stood open, weak shafts of sunlight reaching through the doorways to push aside the thick blanket of darkness. Two tables stood silent watch in the hall, one with a stately, aged brass candelabra on it, the other with a small Gladstone porcelain vase of flowers.

  Moira cautiously approached the first room, the one Lydia was staying in, and looked inside. A small table with a washbowl was against one wall not far from the door. Between the washbowl and the far wall, a dresser sat quietly with its wooden back against the same wall. One or two drawers were slightly ajar, and personal effects lay neatly atop it and before a large, antique mirror. Moira was impressed by a second small, engraved hand mirror. Dominating the room, was a modest-sized bed suitable for one person, possibly even two at most. Everything looked as it should be, even though the door had been left open.

  She walked away
from Lydia’s room and stopped at the next open door. The washbowl was the same, the dresser and bed similar, but the personal effects and sheets were different. However, like before, nothing seemed obviously out of place, and there was no one hiding in the in the small room that Moira could see, unless they happened to be the size of a mouse.

  Meticulously, she searched each room in turn. While all of the doors were standing wide open, curiously none of the items in any of the rooms had been disturbed. Given the destruction in the main hallway, Moira had expected more of the same here on the second floor.

  Once certain she was alone, she casually walked the length of the hallway. Moira had stayed in a boarding house a time or two in her life. Leaving one door open was not uncommon. If a resident was in a hurry, that did happen. However, to leave them all standing open? That was very odd.

  Moira slowly walked back towards the top of the stairs while her thoughts spun frantically in her mind. The doors were open, but there were no signs that the rooms had been searched. She had originally considered it to have been a thief - or thieves - that had pushed his way in to do mischief to Mrs. Carpenter and steal what he could. But obvious things were left untouched, such as Lydia’s hand mirror. No thief would have avoided that.

  “Did ye find anyone?” Lydia hissed out from the top of the stairs.

  Wide-eyed, Moira jumped in surprise and spun around, hands balled into fists. When she saw it was Lydia she blew out a long exhale of air, relaxing slightly.

  “Ya scared the sheets off my mast! The Cap’n said to stay by the door.” Moira said sternly while she caught her breath.

  “Don’t remember him bein’ me captain." Lydia replied saucily. "‘Sides, I don't see Vivian anywhere, and I'm worried. I'd rather be tryin' ta suss out what happened ta Mrs. Carpenter than standin' about like a lump. It also helps keep me from bein' scared."

  Moira grinned at the imagined thought of what Captain Hunter might say to such a statement. Then she noticed the edge of a bandage on Lydia’s forearm. She had missed it a few minutes before, as it was nearly covered by the young woman’s blouse. Likewise, Moira distinctly remembered Lydia did not have such a bandage on yesterday.

  “What’d ya do to yerself?” Moira asked in concern. “Did them blokes from the factory come back ta bother ya? If they did,” Moira reached out to grab a nearby heavy brass candelabra, “I’ll be sure ta give’em a good lesson they’ll likely not forget anytime soon!”

  Lydia left the stairs and joined Moira on the second floor. She nervously pulled her sleeve down over the bandage.

  “Its nothin’ of the kind. I got cut up a bit at the factory. Had a blackout and fell on one o’ the machines. Cut me up some. Happens now and again. Though the spells been coming along more frequent this past week.” Lydia explained.

  “Ya seen a sawbones about it, though?” Moira asked.

  Lydia nodded. “I’ve seen ’em. A Dr. White. Sirrah Monkhouse keeps him paid so's he’ll look after any of us … I mean them … that work at the factory. Keeps us up and healthy enough, I suppose, so we can keep workin’.” She shudders. “I don’t like havin’ them spells. I hope they stop now that I’m not workin’ at the factory anymore.”

  “I hope so, too.” Moira agreed. “If ya faint, there’s no tellin’ who’ll go through yer belongin’s looking for who knows what.”

  A thought suddenly occurred to Moira. Perhaps whoever came through was not out to find objects, but was here looking for people or a person? If so, whom? Mrs. Carpenter? She would have opened the door. Moira frowned in concentration while she idly brandished the candelabra. Just where was Mrs. Carpenter, she wondered? In another part of her mind, she hoped Captain Hunter was having better luck than she was.

  Meanwhile, on the first floor, Hunter had walked to the back of the house, his long coat billowing out behind him from an unexpected gust of air that blew down the hallway. It ended with a doorway to the right, and a shorter hallway to the left. Anthony eased the door to the right open a few inches. Inside was the kitchen. Gas stove, a clockwork egg-breaker and scrambler that stood on two spindly chicken-shaped legs, a pantry for provisions, a few worn dish towels and a water trough for washing the dishes all sat silently in the room. Nothing was disturbed, cut or tossed about on the floor. He waited a moment, to listen and watch.

  With nothing out of place, and nothing making any suspicious movements, Hunter stepped out of the room and carefully guided the door shut. He would give the kitchen a more detailed search later, if need be. He turned away to head the other direction.

  The short hallway led off to a small set of rooms. First was a sitting room, complete with chairs, a sofa, and a healthy collection of books. A full shelf, perhaps even two, held the full set of various books ranging from a treatise on naval strategy to the finer points of etiquette, to diagrams and plans on various modifications to servitors. Quite the impressive collection, given the lower income nature of the neighborhood, Hunter thought. He moved on. The next room was a bathroom, with modest furnishings and plumbing that had seen better days.

  Hunter brought his attention at last to the room at the end of the hallway. The door stood partially open, an ominous gloom lingering inside. He stepped closer, nudging the door open completely.

  Inside, the room was a disaster: sheets torn from the bed, mattress askew on the frame, and a table for the washbowl overturned onto the floor. The washbowl was broken into several pieces, and its water had spread out in all directions to stain the hardwood. Dominating the entire scene was the body that lay motionless on the wooden floorboards, partially covered by the mattress.

  Anthony knew that it was not Mrs. Carpenter, as the body’s feet – the only portion Hunter was able to clearly see at the moment – wore a man’s work boots. Quickly, he crossed the room and hauled the mattress away from the body. Hunter nearly dropped the mattress in surprise to see the body of Hiram Jones laying on its side, eyes wide and staring. The man was obviously dead by the vicious stab wounds that perforated Hiram's ribs and chest. A series of bruises showed along Hiram's jaw and face, as well.

  “Ah … Hiram,” Hunter said mournfully. “What did you get yourself in the middle of?”

  After a moment of respectful silence, the captain knelt by the body of his friend, reached out, and closed his eyes. Quietly, Hunter remained in that position a moment longer, and said a silent prayer for his friend before taking a closer look at his body.

  The wounds were numerous, but did not appear very deep. They were the kind of cuts that came from a short-bladed knife. Given the amount of muscle on Hiram's bear-like physique from years of hard labor, it was likely the number of cuts rather than their depth that did him in. Either way, Hunter knew that someone like Hiram would have taken awhile to succumb to the blood loss.

  The captain took a long look at the wounds. They were jagged and drawn out, as if the knife – possibly as sharp as a surgeon’s blade – had slashed across the big shipwright’s chest randomly during the fight. However, a skinning knife would be nearly as sharp, not to mention be approximately the right length for the depth of the numerous stab wounds. Hunter frowned at the large set of punctures in the body, then at the heavily blood-stained shirt. As a sudden thought occurred to Hunter, he looked at the floor beneath the body.

  The floor in this part of the house was not carpeted as it was elsewhere. It was made of bare wood, so well kept that even in the dim gloom, the polished floor seemed to have a warm look. It was what Hunter did not see that gave him food for thought. He lifted the edge of the discarded mattress and then let it drop back to the floor. Given the number of wounds, neither mattress or floor held much blood.

  "Odd," Hunter muttered to himself. "Either you were killed elsewhere, old friend, or something's missing."

  On a hunch, Hunter took a closer look at the floor where the body lay. Despite the dim light, the captain swore he saw a faint discoloration to the wood, as if a carpet had been over a section of the floor. A carpet that was now missing. Hunter
filed that away in his mind and turned his attention back to the body.

  Hiram’s knuckles were bloodied and torn. Hunter could only assume that his friend gave back to the attacker as good as he received, which meant that somewhere in the city of Edinburgh, a very battered person was nursing their wounds right now. Wounds that would not be healed so quickly.

  Just then, Hunter noticed something odd about the placement of the body. If one of the many stab wounds had done him in right here in this room, he would have collapsed to the floor. However, he looked rather like he was reaching for the nearby nightstand with his right hand. Dropping flat to the floor next to the body, Anthony peered beneath the furniture in search of anything out of place.

  There, under the nightstand, Hunter found it - a bloodied scrap of paper wound hastily around a tarnished brass spyglass. Anthony thought he recognized it. The device was one that Hiram had owned for years. The captain fished the spyglass out from under the table, then separated note and cord from instrument. He turned the cold, metal spyglass over and finally found what he was looking for - the crude scratching of 'H' and 'J' in small letters at one end that Anthony remembered Hiram had placed there, himself.

  “Moira!” Captain Hunter called out while he unrolled the wrinkled paper. “Downstairs! Step lively!”

  A moment later, Moira came running into the room, candlestick in hand, followed by Lydia. Lydia gasped in horror, and even Moira took a step back in shock.

  “It be Hiram!” Moira exclaimed in dismay. “What’s he be doin’ here?”

  Hunter unrolled the note as he replied, “I haven’t the faintest idea. Nor does his note clear any of this up. It reads: ‘Ligan, The Betsy, south docks, dogs watch’."

  “How d’you know it's from him?” Moira asked, a touch of curiosity surfacing among the deep waves of grief over the loss of her friend.

  “What’s a ‘ligan’?” Lydia asked, her face a mask of confusion while she deliberately tried to ignore the horrible sight of the stabbed body.