by George Mann
“Morning, Foulkes,” he said, wearily. He already knew what to expect, but he raised a questioning eyebrow anyway. “Well?”
Foulkes nodded. “It’s exactly the same, sir. Same as all the others.” He pulled a disconcerted face and lowered his voice, as if concerned that someone might overhear his familiarity with the chief inspector. “It’s a ruddy great mess in there. There’s blood everywhere.”
Bainbridge tried to keep his grimace to himself. “They took it again?”
“Yes. It’s nowhere to be found. Ripped the chest right open and tore it out, just like the others. It’s bloody disgusting.”
“Quite literally,” said Bainbridge, drily. “Alright, show me the way.”
“She’s in the library,” said Foulkes, gesturing back the way he had come. “Made a terrible mess of the books.”
Bainbridge wasn’t sure whether Foulkes was being sarcastic or not, but he let it wash over him regardless. Foulkes was most likely as aggrieved as he was at being dragged from his bed into the cold and dark. And, to add insult to injury, both of them knew there was a long day full of questions ahead.
Resignedly, Bainbridge trudged after Foulkes, deeper into the big house, on towards the grim scene that awaited them in the dusty stacks of the library.
* * *
The scene itself was just as Foulkes had described. Worse, in fact. It was as if Bainbridge had suddenly found himself in an abattoir rather than a library. There were spatters of blood everywhere, as if the killer had made it their sole purpose to ensure that no surface remained untouched by the crimson rain they had unleashed. The stench was foul, too; cloying and thick, it made the air seem humid, metallic, and uncomfortable to breathe. Bainbridge felt his stomach turn and fought the urge to vomit.
If anything, the scene here was even more atrocious than the previous two. It was somehow more flamboyant, more grotesque, as if the killer was showing off. There was certainly something theatrical in the manner in which the body was positioned behind the desk.
Bainbridge inched into the room, taking care to avoid the puddles of blood on the paisley carpet-more because he didn’t wish to get his shoes dirty than because he was concerned with preserving the murder scene. It was already obvious what had happened here, and if the prior murders were anything to go by, no amount of tiptoeing around the spilled blood was going to help shed any light.
The room was exactly how Bainbridge imagined a library in a posh London town house should look. Row after row of towering oak bookcases were crammed into every available space, their innards stuffed with serried ranks of musty, leather-bound tomes. A large globe sat in its mount in one corner, a stag’s head glared down at him balefully with its beady glass eyes, and a large, antique writing desk with a burgundy leather surface dominated the centre of the room. Beside it, a captain’s chair had been overturned and sheaves of paper spilled across the floor in a stark white avalanche, covered with scratchy black script, as if the pages were home to an army of scurrying ants.
So, the dead woman had put up a fight. That was interesting. That was different.
From the doorway, Bainbridge could see nothing of the dead woman save for one of her hands, jutting out from behind the desk as if beckoning for help that had never arrived. The skin was pale, papery and wizened, the hand of someone who had lived, who had seen life. Bainbridge could see little flecks of blood upon the fingers, like ladybirds on a clutch of white lilies.
He rounded the desk, wrinkling his nose at the foul smell. The woman lay sprawled upon the carpet in a pose that might have been comical if it hadn’t been for the expression of sheer terror that contorted her face, and the fact that her rib cage had been cracked and splayed open to reveal her internal organs. She was still wearing her skirt, stockings, and shoes, as well as most of her jewellery, but her top half had been stripped naked, exposing her milky-white breasts and her ample belly.
The killer had made an incision at the base of her throat, cutting deeply into bone, gristle, and cartilage, as well as severing a line of pearls, the constituents of which now lay scattered around the body like miniature planets in orbit around a floundering giant. Many of them now nestled in congealing puddles of blood, dulled and strangely obscene amongst the carnage.
The incision continued down to the belly, where it terminated abruptly above the navel. The rib cage had been pulled open like two halves of a cantilever bridge, or two hands of splayed, skeletal fingers clutching unsuccessfully for one another. This, too, was just like the others, and Bainbridge was still no clearer about what kind of cutting device had been used to hack through the bone.
Around the corpse, dark, glistening blood described two distinct leaf shapes, like crimson wings beneath the woman’s out-flung arms. The nearest bookcase had taken the brunt of the arterial spray, and even now some of the spines were still dripping ponderously, their titles obscured, their authors rendered anonymous by the bloodshed.
The woman had been in her late fifties, Bainbridge judged, although he’d have to take steps to confirm that in the coming hours. She looked in good health-putting aside the gaping rent in her chest for a moment-and she had a full, stocky figure, suggesting she was well accustomed to fine dining. It was clear from the property that the woman’s family had once been well-to-do: The lavish interior decor, the ancient portraiture, the well-appointed library were all indicators that the family had once rubbed shoulders with the upper classes. There were signs, however, that the woman had recently fallen on harder times. There were no servants, for a start, and anything more than a cursory glance at the furnishings betrayed the fact that they were mostly nothing but threadbare relics of a more affluent time.
Leaning heavily on his cane, Bainbridge dropped to his haunches to examine the body more closely. He could sense Foulkes standing over his shoulder, and for the first time since entering the room he registered the fact there were two uniformed men standing in the corner, trying their best not to look at the corpse. He supposed he could understand that-they were young and this was probably one of the worst things they had ever had the misfortune to see. But they had a job to do, and they needed to get used to it. It wouldn’t be the last violent death they’d encounter during the course of their careers, and Bainbridge would be doing them no favour by going easy on them now. They would stay with the body until it was safely removed to the morgue.
“She must have put up quite a fight,” he said a moment later, taking the woman’s right hand and turning it over to expose her wrist. There were multiple gashes crisscrossing the soft flesh on the underside of her forearm, where she’d clearly raised it to protect her face. “The killer must have come at her with a long-bladed knife. I’d wager he didn’t expect her to defend herself so vehemently.”
“Not that it did her much good in the long run,” replied Foulkes, levelly.
Bainbridge twisted around and glowered at the inspector. “Show a little respect, man.”
Foulkes looked momentarily taken aback. Then he nodded, his expression suddenly serious. “I mean to say that the killer was obviously relentless, despite the fact that the woman put up a tremendous struggle.”
Bainbridge sighed. He was taking out his frustration on the other man, and Foulkes didn’t deserve that. Three unsolved deaths in as many days, however, were starting to take their toll on Bainbridge. Three apparently linked deaths, at that, suggesting there were probably more to come. They’d all been virtually the same: Each of the victims had been found in their own homes, their chests cracked open and their hearts removed. The organs themselves were nowhere to be seen, spirited away from the scenes, Bainbridge assumed, by the killer himself. The only differences this time were the fact that the victim was a woman, and that she’d clearly tried to defend herself against her assailant. But once again, there was no obvious motive, no clear links between the victims, and thus-much to Bainbridge’s chagrin-no leads.
“Was she married?” he asked, spotting the gold band on the woman’s ring finger and frownin
g. Nothing he’d seen since entering the house suggested a man might have shared her home.
“No. She was a widow. She lived alone. Had done so for the last fifteen years.”
Bainbridge nodded. That made sense. She still wore the ring for sentimental reasons. “A housekeeper?” He glanced up at Foulkes, who shook his head dolefully.
“Just a maid who came in once a day to see to the washing and cleaning. Either she was fiercely independent, or she’d run into financial difficulties.”
Well, at least that fit with what Bainbridge had already surmised, although he cursed himself for not even considering that the dead woman might simply have been deeply private and independent. It wasn’t impossible, especially in this age. After all, Bainbridge had spent a great deal of time in the company of Miss Veronica Hobbes, who, to his mind, was the epitome of a modern, independent woman. He should have at least considered the option before jumping to conclusions. Shades of grey.
Nevertheless, there was hardly a comparison to be made here. The victim in this instance was older, a widow, and about as far from Veronica Hobbes as one could imagine.
Bainbridge sighed. “The maid. Has she turned up for work yet this morning?”
Foulkes nodded. “She was the one who discovered the body. Her routine was to arrive early and take care of her errands before the victim rose for the day. She’d then move on to another household, where she’d carry out similar chores before lunch.”
Bainbridge nodded. “Where is she now?”
“She’s rather shaken, as you might imagine. She’s in the kitchen with Cartwright. There’s very little she can add. The entrance and exit point of the killer is obvious from the broken window at the back, and there’s no reason to suspect she played any role in her mistress’s death.”
“Good work, Foulkes,” said Bainbridge, and he meant it. Foulkes had saved him a great deal of legwork, making sure all the basics were taken care of before Bainbridge had even arrived. He grunted as he pulled himself upright again. He turned away from the corpse to face the inspector. “There’s one thing you haven’t me told me, though.”
Foulkes looked perplexed. “What’s that, sir?”
“Her name,” said Bainbridge, indicating the body with a wave of his cane.
“Ah, yes. Right. Elizabeth Peterson, sir. She has one living relative, a son, who’s currently somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean on an airship bound for New York. We’ve sent word, so there should be a message awaiting him when he arrives there in a few days.”
Bainbridge nodded. Poor bastard. That was no way to find out about his mother’s death, especially in circumstances such as these.
“There’s one thing that’s been troubling me, sir,” continued Foulkes.
“Only one?” replied Bainbridge, and realised he was now being facetious. “I’m sorry, Foulkes. What is it?”
“The missing hearts, sir. There has to be some significance that we’re not seeing. Why does the killer take their hearts? He goes to a great deal of trouble to crack the victims’ chests like that. I just can’t work out what it’s all in aid of. I hesitate to say it … but do you think there might be some sort of ritualistic element to it?”
Bainbridge felt the corners of his lips twitch into a thin smile. Foulkes had been paying attention. “I think you’re right about the occult significance, Foulkes. The damn trouble is in working out what it might be.”
“And doing it before they strike again,” added Foulkes.
“Quite.”
“So…?”
“You never were very good at subtlety, Foulkes,” said Bainbridge, but there was an edge of levity in his voice.
“So you’re going to ask for his help?”
Bainbridge sighed. “Yes. I’m going to send for Newbury. If anyone can shed any light on the matter, he can. And, let’s face it: We’re not getting very far on our own, are we?”
Foulkes smiled for the first time that day, but he didn’t say another word as the two men filed out of the blood-spattered library, leaving the young bobbies to guard the corpse until dawn.
CHAPTER 3
Sir Maurice Newbury lounged on the sofa like a listless cat, warming himself before the fire.
A smouldering cigarette dripped from his thin, pink lips, smoke twisting in lazy curlicues from its glowing tip. His expensive black suit was rumpled and creased, his shirt open at the collar, the cravat long since discarded. He was unshaven, and his flesh had taken on a deathly pallor, as if it hadn’t seen the sun in many days. His eyelids were closed and his breathing was shallow.
The pungent aroma of opium was heavy in the air, mingling with the tobacco smoke to form a thick, sweet fog that clung to the corners of the room as if Newbury’s Chelsea home was now a microcosm of the city, choking amidst the tendrils of yet another pea-souper.
The fire spat and crackled noisily in the grate. The only other sounds in the small room were the gentle rasp of Newbury’s breath and the clacking of his clockwork owl as it hopped nervously from foot to foot on its wooden perch by the window.
Books lay scattered about him: heaped on the floor, piled on the coffee table, balanced precariously on the arms of the green leather couch. Their gilded spines shone in the soft light of the gas lamps, resplendent with titles such as A Key to Physic and the Occult Sciences and The Cosmology of the Spirit. Newbury had surrounded himself with them as if they offered him sustenance, as if the mere presence of the leaning piles was enough to grant him strength, comfort. In some ways, they did.
Newbury’s eyes flickered open. His lids felt heavy and tired. He unfurled slowly, stretching his weary limbs. He had no idea what time of day it was. The heavy drapes were closed, shielding him from the sunlight, from all the cares and distractions of the outside world. In this haven, he was cocooned against the chaotic morass of humanity that swarmed through the rain-lashed streets of London. More so, he was distanced from their many designs and desires, their concerns and their problems, their petty squabbles and their crimes. In here, the outside world could not intrude, not unless he wished it to.
Newbury took a long, luxurious draw from his tainted cigarette, allowing the smoke to plume playfully from his nostrils. He felt ash dribble over his chin and brushed it away cursorily with the back of his hand.
He hadn’t left the house in days. He’d been holed up in the drawing room, buried in his books and the crimson depths of an opium dream. Scarbright had entered only to bring him meals, most of which had remained untouched. It was to the man’s credit that he’d continued to deliver the plates of steaming food, simply removing the uneaten remnants of the previous meal without judgement or comment. If the valet was reporting back to Bainbridge as he was supposed to, he’d clearly not said enough to concern the chief inspector, as Newbury had received no calls or summons from his friend.
That, in itself, was rather refreshing. As much as Newbury cared for his old friend, he could do without having his ear bent again about his “lackadaisical behaviour.” Bainbridge was in possession of only half of the facts. He couldn’t understand Newbury’s use of the Chinese weed because he didn’t-couldn’t-know of Newbury’s reasons. At least, not yet. Not until the situation with Veronica was fully resolved. Not until he had divined what terrors lay in the darkness, waiting.
Whatever the case, Newbury couldn’t deny that he was badly in need of a bath and a shave. He would see to them both just as soon as he could muster the energy.
His days had passed like this for some months, ever since the storming of the Grayling Institute and the supposed death of Veronica’s sister, Amelia Hobbes, ever since he had sworn to discover a means by which to heal the miraculously clairvoyant young woman, to halt her spiralling descent towards insanity and death. His time since then had been absorbed in ritual and the yellowing pages of ancient books, the hours drifting by in a warm, opium-inspired fugue.
There had, of course, been a number of cases over the course of the last six months that had vied for his attention. Some he
had been forced to take on at the behest of the Queen, others simply because Bainbridge had needed his help. He’d been able to devote only a small amount of his time and energy to such matters, however, engaged as he was in his search for Amelia’s cure, as well as his own ongoing investigation: tracking the mysterious Lady Arkwell across London.
Arkwell was-apparently-a foreign agent, but Newbury was as yet unable to ascertain her nationality, despite the fact that he had met her in person at least half a dozen times, battled with her on three of those occasions, and formed a temporary alliance with her on another. Nevertheless, Lady Arkwell had continued to outwit him at every stage. It was at once infuriating and exhilarating, and he had vowed to bring the matter to a head.
For now, though, Newbury was content to lounge on his sofa, smoke his opium-tainted cigarettes, and contemplate the universe. And he had to admit that he was in no real hurry to rid himself of such a worthy adversary. He was sure she felt the same, and she would make the next move in their little game when she deemed the time to be right. Newbury, for his part, would bide his time.
There was a firm rap on the drawing room door. Newbury sighed. Scarbright. Time for another meal, no doubt. He glanced at the uneaten remains of his luncheon-a thick beef broth, now cold and congealing on the sideboard-and felt a sharp twinge of guilt. It did seem wrong to let so much food go to waste, particularly as Scarbright was such a superb culinary craftsman. He would make an effort, he decided, to consume at least some of Scarbright’s dinner, despite the fact that his appetite was practically non-existent.
“Come,” said Newbury, his voice a low drawl.
The door creaked open, and he heard Scarbright’s footsteps crossing the room towards him. Newbury felt more than saw the shadow of the valet as it fell upon him.
Scarbright cleared his throat pointedly, waiting for Newbury to acknowledge his presence.
Newbury turned slowly to peer up at the valet through half-open lids. The man looked a little peaky, as if he was feeling unwell or had just had a rather unpleasant surprise. He was not carrying a dinner tray.