The Guild Chronicles Books 1-3

by J M Bannon

  Dolly stepped to the hall and signaled for the constable to come over to where he and the butler stood. He had been to countless crime scenes and only one had the same eerie feel that this one did. Dolly had kept in touch with the other witness that knew what happened in that cellar four years ago, but he kept contact to a minimum. Seeing her, while comforting, was also a reminder to him of that night of terror. He wouldn’t try to go it alone again. Better to reach out now and make sure that there was nothing out of the ordinary and if there was, she could point him in the right direction.

  “Constable.”

  “Yes, Detective,"

  “Run a message over to the Yard.”

  Cooper interrupted, “Detective, the house has its own wire-type. You can message them from here. It’s—it’s behind Sir Francis’s desk."

  Of course, they have wire-type, thought Dolly. “Thank you Mr. Cooper. Could you help the constable get a wire over to Scotland Yard? I need a photographer to come to this address and constables to go fetch Rose Caldwell and bring her here. Tell them to look for her in Bethnal Green.”

  * * *

  10:00 AM, The Hare and Hound, Bethnal Green

  Rose Caldwell looked up when she heard the tinkle of a small bell. She was at the Hare and Hounds Public House, and it was now quiet enough in the pub to hear the doorbell ring when the door opened. That was because it was early in the morning and she had been there all night. When Rose arrived on Saturday night, the pub was full of a raucous group of locals drinking and having a good time. Now Rose, like the few other patrons of the pub, were not eager to see the silhouettes of two constables or the bright mid-morning light come through the door of the public-house.

  The constables approached the bar. The barkeep was connecting one of those new-fangled draft handle systems to a wooden keg. Instead of pounding in a wooden tap and gravity feeding the ale, a hand pump was put into the bung. He stopped working and toweled off his hands as he conversed with the pair of cops. The man behind the bar pointed at her, and all three of the men's eyes went to Rose.

  The two constables approached her table and stood over her, returning her stare. The senior officer broke the silence. “You Rose Caldwell?”

  That question was usually followed by vitriol and accusations of the questioner.

  The last few days had been particularly hard on her, and so Ms. Caldwell had been in her drinks for some time. Drink wasn’t the solution to her problems but was a common choice in her family when answers didn’t come easy. The trouble she faced was not metaphysical but the common one most folks in this part of town had: how to pay next month's rent. Like her father and uncles, she only made matters worse by spending what little she had on washing her problems out of her mind for a few hours. “I wish I weren’t,” Rose answered.

  “Sergeant Williamson asked us to fetch you.” The constable that addressed her turned to his partner. “Go see if the barkeep has a coffee for the lady.” The other bobby walked back to the bar.

  Rose picked up a wine bottle on the table and tipped it over her cup, hoping that there was wine left. There was none. She looked at the cop that spoke and asked, “What’s this about?”

  The constable glared. “Miss, we’re here to collect you and take you over to Saint James to meet the detective,” said the constable.

  Rose had not talked with Dolly in a year. After the incident at Father Milton’s Rectory, she had regular meetings with him, the kind of get-together that war veterans had, not to share war stories but to be with someone that understood and had the same view of the world. When he didn’t call anymore, she assumed he had moved on. She missed him, but the thought of him moving on with his life made her feel better about losing his company.

  “He says he doesn’t have any coffee,” yelled the constable at the bar.

  “Is he alright?” asked Rose.

  “Fine, miss. He is at a crime scene and asked for you,” said the bobby.

  Sister Rose stood up but had to steady herself as she was still drunk and had not been on her feet for hours.

  The Constable grabbed Rose’s arm to help steady her and said, “Let’s go.”

  * * *

  11:30 AM, 217 King’s Road, Belgravia

  Sister Rose awoke in the rear of the black maria, her head throbbing in turn with the chugging of the drive turbines. Unsure of when she dozed off or why she was in the back of a police wagon again, she worked to piece together the events from the previous night. When the vehicle came to a halt, she peered out the rear window. To her surprise, she was on the street, not in the courtyard of the local jail.

  The bobby opened the door. “This way, Miss Caldwell.”

  Her mouth was parched. Her short slumber in the back of the police wagon had left her one foot in a drunk, the other in a roaring hangover. Her head was in a clouded funk struggling to piece together how she got to where she was. After she stepped down from the carriage, she stretched her back and arms to throw away the soreness. As clarity set in, she realized she was in Eaton Square and that people were staring at her.

  Sister Rose was used to getting looks. Rose was fetching, with short black hair, rather than long, put up, and that was just the start of her style that bucked current fashion rules. As usual, she wore riding pants and boots. Rose was never in skirts and bustles. Her blouse was white. Well, mostly white; it looked a little dingy and crumpled from a night of boozing. Rather than staring back at all the onlookers in defiance to the disapproving looks they gave, she reached into the leather purse on her belt and drew out sun spectacles. The darkened round lens spared her eyes from the glare of sun and society.

  She could not conceive who’s home she was standing before. There was a substantial crowd outside, including passersby and gawkers, mostly society types. Mixed in were a few columnists and several photographers. One shot a picture the minute he recognized Rose.

  Walking to the door of the townhouse, a smile came to her face as she saw Dolly Williamson waiting at the transom for her, but he was scowling, or at least she thought he was frowning under his thick mustache. Dolly wasn’t wearing his usual bowler hat but was finely dressed for an average English bloke, wearing contrasting plaid pants and a waistcoat with a lightweight summer coat. Always trying to be a bit fashionable, his collar was adorned with a wide black silk tie that was tied in a loose bow. He looked down at Rose as she approached. He stood around five-foot ten, nearly a foot taller than Rose.

  “For Pete’s sake, constable, you brought Rose Caldwell in a police wagon to the front door,” bemoaned Detective Williamson. The constable went pale. “This will be in every daily in London now,” the detective finished, ushering her into the home.

  Dolly turned to Rose and grinned as he greeted her. “Thanks for taking the time to come and slum with me, Were you with the queen at Buckingham or Windsor?”

  Dolly put his palm on Rose’s back and ushered her toward the crime location.

  “Swanky digs, Detective,” Rose mentioned, taking in the opulence.

  “Yes, you are in the Belgravia residence of Sir Francis Chilton,” he replied.

  “The banker?” said Rose as they walked through the marble-tiled foyer past the grand stairwell to enter the study.

  “And this is Sir Francis,” Dolly answered. As they arrived at the doorway of the study, he gestured to the withered corpse on the expensive oriental rug.

  Rose took in the office. It was an affluent man’s study. Rich exotic wood paneled the walls. A large writing desk dominated the room with two overstuffed leather armchairs facing the desk. Behind the desk was a credenza with a stock tape clacker and a type-wire keyset. Most people Rose knew couldn’t even write, let alone operate or own one of Mr. House’s type-wire sets. The machine looked like a small piano with twenty-eight keys to type a message that would go over Electric Telegraph Company wires to another wire-type set. Upon arrival, the message would print out above the keyboard via an array of brass mechanical components driving a daisy wheel to transfer a message
to paper.

  She removed her sun spectacles, then took a leather instrument roll off her belt. Walking past the body, she set the roll on the exquisite tortoise shell desk and unlocked the two clasps that kept it closed. Rose guided the unwinding of the case with her index finger, then surveyed the instruments attached to the case, selecting a silver chain for all the bits and bobs in her collection. Rose put the silver necklace around her shirt collar. From the necklace dangled a dozen monocle lenses of varied colors and dimensions.

  Rose took a small incense censer from her purse and lit a match to ignite the incense. There was smoke until she dropped a few drops of tincture from a vial. As the smoke stopped, she screwed down the cap of the censor with a chain attached and began to wave the incense burner in slow arcs to disperse the smoke. As the vapors spread, she used her other hand to choose various lenses to peer into the telltale fog. Her keen eye could detect fragments of the past, intermingled with the present, and future images echoing through the mysterious mist.

  Dolly stood and stared. “You know Rose, you look downright silly with that pantomime of yours.”

  “Dolly, I don’t question how you go about your business.” She never thought much about how she looked when she was doing this work. “Nothing otherworldly was in here. Whoever killed the man was from this plane of existence or he would have left a snag in the warp and weave of the Aether,” Rose said.

  The ex-nun inspected the body and the totem with various lens of different color and thickness, looking at the object through an amber lens then magenta. She pulled out the totem, examining the wound site. When done with her process, she closed the censer to extinguish the invisible vapors she was using to illuminate the supernatural.

  “Anything?” asked Dolly.

  Rose returned her tools to the appropriate places of storage and rolled up the leather and closed the clasps.

  “His soul was stolen. I have never seen the totem before, so I can’t help with the arcana used, but I’d say primal for sure.” Rose stated.

  She walked to the door. “Oh, two other things…”

  “Whoever did this took their time doing it, maybe all night. That is why he looks like a raisin,” stated Rose.

  “And the second?” asked Dolly his brow furrowed at the bad news.

  “They want you to know how they did it. Otherwise, they would not have left you this souvenir,” Rose said as she handed him the totem and left the study.

  2

  Monday, the 7th of June

  7:00 AM, Scotland Yard

  The work week was in full swing. Dolly woke earlier than usual when he heard the workers beginning construction on the street side of his three-room cottage. The lane he lived on was being broadened to better serve the growing adoption of steam lorries and electric carriages. A gang of workers ran jackhammers at first light to break up the curb on the east side of the street, widening the thoroughfare. Dolly had a light breakfast and got dressed before stepping out of his house and latching the door.

  Dolly purchased a paper from the boy as he made his way up Cottage Place to Westminster Road. On the corner, the paperboy squawked in a high pitch over and over, “Headline: English workers locked out of Prussian alchemical works!”

  It was the latest drama in London. The detective's curiosity pressed him to learn the opinions of the columnists and editors on the state of affairs with the trades protest at the gas works.

  He gave the headlines a cursory glance then tucked the paper under his arm, planning to have a careful read at morning tea.

  On his daily route from Number 12 Cottage Place to Scotland Yard, Dolly strolled along the raucous Westminster Road and crossed the river, turning right on Parliament Street, then on to Whitehall through to Charring Cross with another into Great Scotland Yard, a short walk for a man who walked a beat as a Peeler in 1850 and spent eight to ten hours walking the streets.

  The desk sergeant yelled out to Dolly as he strolled into the station-house. “Ay ya there, Williamson, the commissioner said you're to go directly to his office.”

  “Ta O'Brien” He was sure that the murder of a high-profile aristocrat would draw the scrutiny of the government and the police commissioner wanted answers. Any morning opening with being ordered into the office of Commissioner Mayne was not a good start to the day.

  When he got to his office, the commissioner was not there. Maybe there was something more pressing. Dolly needed to get prepared for the Monday morning briefing. Mayne would be there, as usual, to get updates from all the detectives on their cases.

  Dolly sauntered off to his desk to put his notes together. He squinted and scrunched up his face when he saw that Mayne was waiting in the detectives' pen going through files on Dolly’s desk. The commissioner looked up to see Williamson enter the pen.

  “Williamson, I’ve been looking for you!” exclaimed Mayne.

  “Sir?” Dolly answered as he stepped up to his own desk.

  Mayne sat in Dolly’s chair. “Sit down, Williamson. What’s this matter over in Belgravia?”

  Dolly set the paper on his desk and pulled out his notebook. “On the morning of June 6th, a body was discovered at 217 King’s Road by the butler, a Mr. Cooper. Mr. Cooper identified the individual as Sir Francis Chilton.”

  “Yes, yes, Chilton’s homicide, I know, but this!” Mayne pounded his finger on the newspaper, showing frustration as he struggled to open the paper to page two. “You brought that witch to the murder scene in front of journalists." There it was: a picture of Sister Rose being ushered into the home of Sir Francis.

  He had forgotten, and now there was hell to pay.

  The commissioner went on. "I couldn't care less about her issues with the Papists and her ex-communication. She is not the first in this country to receive the Pope’s wrath, but to bring to the public's attention to the fact that you consort with her ilk... Well, you know, Williamson. It makes us look silly,” said Mayne.

  “My sincerest apologies, Commissioner. I understand that you may have to bring the hammer down, and be assured this lands on my shoulders as the detective in charge. Those boys picked her up on my request, and they weren’t given clear instruction to the level of discretion required,” explained Dolly.

  “Fortunately for you, the Home Secretary is more worried about this gaswerks business. His government is being questioned by the Crown on this matter. Her Majesty's cousin, King Wilhelm, has voiced concerns to her Majesty that the guild alchemists at the works were in danger of immigrants storming the facility. While the rabble is shouting Marxist and unionist slogans, the Home Secretary holds the belief that this is the work of French agitators out to wreck the alliance and cripple the strength of Her Majesty’s air fleet. Walpole called me to his home on a Sunday evening—a Sunday evening! I told him you would work this case like you worked the Fenian affair and rooted out those Irish traitors.” Mayne didn’t handle pressure well.

  As far as being inconvenienced on a Sunday, try getting pulled out of bed to look at a withered corpse. “I can do that sir, I plan to go to the Chilton offices to interview the staff, but I can look into the matter at the works afterwards,” answered Dolly.

  Mayne leaned back and let out a sigh, his shoulders slumping in relief. “Thanks, Williamson.”

  “I will get Burton and Keane to wander the crowd at the protest and determine if they can spot anything unusual,” replied Williamson.

  “That’s it, action. Eyes and ears on that rabble,” Commissioner Mayne confirmed as he pressed up from the desk.

  “Sir?”

  “Yes, Detective?”

  “Could you wire-type the home office and let Walpole know I plan to interview at Chilton House today?”

  “Yes, and let London police know you’re in their jurisdiction, in case they want to send an escort.” Mayne was one for protocol, and the City had its own police.

  “I will, sir.”

  After the detective’s briefing, Dolly composed a wire-type and sent it off to the City of London P
olice. He proposed having a sergeant accompany him on his interviews. The offer was declined. Finally, he grabbed a cup of tea and read the paper. The front-page story was on the growing protests at the new gas plant, Walpole’s paramount concern. It was likely the usual rabble looking to use the issue to gain local influence with common folk to raise money for the union or get votes in upcoming elections. He read the story that followed the lithoprint of the gaswerks gates with a crowd of sign-wielding protesters.

  The recently commissioned gaswerks on the banks of the Thames is the sole commercial LQ gaswerks outside of Prussia and the site of growing social unrest. As part of the Wessex Alliance, mechanists constructed a mechworks in Prussia to improve Prussian airship design in exchange for construction of a gas plant on British soil. Both guilds would profit from the compact, but Prussia’s compulsion to preserve their secrets has left the English worker out in the cold. The guilds agreed only to the terms of a lucrative deal that improves their profits and influence on the condition that the plants were operated without the local workforce. As London fills with hardworking country folk seeking a better wage promised by these industrialists, what they find instead the new jobs at the Badenworks are filled by Prussians hand-picked by the Alchemist Guild. Currently, the Workers United Party and the Commonwealth Communist Union have begun active protests at the plant with a list of grievances. Hieronymus Brood, a borough councilman and one officer of the Workers United Party, did remark when questioned, “Boatloads of immigrants come to London daily from Ireland and the continent with their pockets empty and their heads full of dreams about earning a wage in factory work. Instead, when they get here, what greets them is a locked gate.” Are the citizens of the empire more secure now with this plant on our soil, when no Englishman can enter nor learn the Baden Gaswork’s alchemical secrets?