by G. P. Taylor
‘Just what I’m here for. Want something finding, ask Mister Grimm and Mister Grendel. The finest detectives.’ The man stirred his beer with short fat nicotine-stained fingers.
‘Aah, Mister Grendel … And where’s he tonight?’ Luger asked as he sipped from the glass and puffed the cigar.
‘Too much … too much life …’ Grimm sucked the last drips of froth from the tip of his finger and gave a long sigh. ‘He has embarked on a habit that even I cannot pursue. By this time of night he is slumbering and in a world of his imaginings,’ Grimm mumbled. ‘Caught it from a trip to China. It is a malevolence that has pursued him like a deathly hound ever since.’ Grimm spoke as if he cared not for the condition of his friend. He put the glass mug to his fat lips and gulped the beer until the last drops trickled over his chin. ‘More?’ he asked Luger in a voice loud enough to be heard by Mathias.
‘Not a habit that will affect the way in which he works, Mister Grimm?’
‘Contrary … Mister Grendel is helped by his dreaming linctus. It gives him notions that can only be found when liberated from the human condition. In fact, it was such a chimera that helped us track down your little box –’
‘That ain’t to be spoken of in such a place as this,’ Luger snapped, unaware that ears in the dark cellar could hear his harsh voice. ‘I paid you well for what you did and it should be kept in the past. Listen,’ he said as he quickly looked back and forth around the crowd of wind-ruddied faces, ‘I have had a visitor to my private suite. Much was left in disarray and I need you and Grendel to find out who it was, understand?’
‘Investigation is our business, Mister Luger. We will attend the scene of the crime at eight in the forenoon. Leave everything as it is and we will soon have the scoundrel in our grasp.’ Mister Grimm paused as Mathias placed yet another pot of beer before him. ‘When we find the villain, what would you like to happen to him?’ Grimm asked slowly.
‘To disappear – without trace – as if he never existed,’ Luger whispered as Grimm whisked his fingers in the froth of the beer pot.
‘Very well. Then I shall wake Mister Grendel and tell him of the details. He will set about his dreaming and find the suspect.’
‘Good,’ snapped Luger as he picked up his coat and cane and stepped from the table. ‘No trace …’
‘There is one thing before you leave me for the night,’ Grimm bleated as he stained Luger’s jacket with his grubby wet fingers. ‘A slight embarrassment has come upon me. In my waiting I have drank more than my wallet would allow and I was wondering …?’
‘It’ll be settled … and with one more for the road to keep the cold from your back and the Kraken from your neck,’ Luger said quickly as he nodded to Mathias to bring more beer. ‘On the Prince Regent,’ he shouted as he took the cigar from his mouth and threw it to the floor, kicking it into the grate. He watched it fall between the iron bars and into the darkened cellar below. ‘I wait eagerly for your assistance, Mister Grimm, eagerly …’
Mariah watched from his hiding place as the fat cigar stub fell like a smouldering comet. It landed, sparking upon the flattened top of a stacked barrel, and burnt in the gloom as if it were a distant hearth fire of glowing turf.
From the alleyway came the sudden sound of the crisp steps of someone approaching. They picked their way through the darkness as if they walked in the bright of day, grunting and snorting as they crunched upon the discarded fish-heads and broken glass. Mariah ducked behind the barrel, pulling his hand away from the smouldering stub that he was about to take hold of. Sacha squashed in by his side, holding her breath as she listened in the shadow. Above their heads the sound of Luger’s steel-tipped horse-boots thudded across the thin wooden floor and the door to the inn slammed shut as he stepped into the street. In the stark blackness of the crevasse-like passage, the sound of the scraping got closer to the open door, lit by the paltry glow of the small lamp that shone feebly.
From his hiding place, Mariah listened intently as if his senses had been sharpened. Each and every step was crisp and quick to his ear. As the sound approached he was certain he could make out the scouring of steel against the damp brick.
‘Ast ?ú … ast ?ú …’ The voice chuntered and chirped as if an old maid stood in the doorway, and its muffled grumbling filled the cellar.
Quickly realising that the voice that spoke from the cellar door was not Mathias, Sacha moved closer to the side of the barrel stack, hoping to get a short glimpse of who it was that now stalked them. She peered warily from where she hid, keeping herself to the deepest darkness of the shadow and squinting out through the meagre gap between two barrels and a crate of stinking brown bottles.
‘Koma methmig … ¢ú lykta af svínsleur … ’ The follower squawked in a high-pitched voice like an old sea parrot.
It was then that Sacha saw the man for the first time. He stood in the half-light of the cellar, crossed with the shadows from the floor grates above and outlined in the amber lamplight. He was wrapped in a long wax coat with black leather straps across his chest. Upon his feet he wore old sea boots that dug deep into his skin as if he had grown from them without taking them from his feet. His hair was wrapped about his face and pulled tightly to one side in long thick strands. He reached out a large gnarled hand as if to catch the falling dust that shimmered down through the fragmented beams of golden lamplight. The fingers shook with a gentle tremor and Sacha could see that each was tipped with a long black nail.
The man turned his face and looked towards her, his eyes caught by the smouldering cigar that smoked briskly as it charred the beer barrel. He was stooping and bobbing his skull as if his spindly neck could not bear the weight of his bulbous head.
She held her breath, hoping not to be seen, and froze to the wall, unable to move as the two staring red eyes darted this way and that, taking in all they saw.
In three steps the man had crossed the floor, stealthily tiptoeing through the barrels and crates until he reached the smouldering stub. He plucked it from the wood and sniffed the sulphurous, smoking tip. He flinched as the embers bit at his nose, singeing the thick hair that stuck out from each nostril. The man chirped like a seabird with a fish stuck in his gullet as he carefully held the cigar to his lips and tasted its skin with his long snake-like tongue. In an instant the cigar was gone, snapped from the air in one bite. Sacha heard him moan in deep appreciation as if he had just feasted on a morsel of the finest food. Turning quickly as though he was called by an unheard voice, the man picked his way from the cellar and was gone into the night.
‘Who was it?’ Mariah asked as the footsteps ran into the street.
‘The Kraken – it was the Kraken …’ Sacha said shakily.
[ 13 ]
Hedonic Calculus
FROM somewhere deep in the night, as if heard through the heart, came a distant scream. It hung like a momentary crack of thunder as it echoed in and out of the dark passageways, along the quayside and in through the open door of the Three Mariners Inn. For a moment it brought a stilled hush that froze each voice. Then as quickly as it came, it vanished into the stillness of the night. There was no time for anyone to speak as with one intent the inn was quickly emptied of men and women, all spilling into the narrow alley to listen again in the hope that they could hear from which direction the call of deep and utter distress had come. None had to travel far; there in the small open square, bounded by four dark alleyways that led into the labyrinth of houses, was a huddled figure. It lay slumped to the ground and in the swirling mist looked as if it were but a mound of crumpled rags.
From the narrow alley Mariah and Sacha peered out of the gloom at the crowd that encircled the body like a rough-hewn fence of shabby coats and tattered trousers. A dim lamplight shone mistily upon their backs and balding heads, some draped with sea berets, others wrapped in rags to keep out the night cold. They all muttered as one as they stared at the cadaver that lay stretched out across the cobbles and marked by the lashes of death that pierced its neck and
forehead.
‘Get Talla,’ one said, prodding the corpse with the split end of his walking stick as he rubbed the bristles of his chin. ‘Need to get the copper, can’t have him left here like this … Not right … Second in a month and not a mile between ’em.’
‘Deal with it ourselves, can’t have the law down here. Bottom End is the Bottom End and the law has no place here, never has and never will,’ said Mathias sternly as he pushed his way to the front of the crowd. ‘Put him in the sea – no one’ll know. They’ll say the rocks did that to him.’
‘It’s not what to do with him that bothers me. Been too many dead in these streets and we can’t be blaming it on the Kraken, not this time.’ The man prodded the body once more for any signs of life.
‘I’ll find the culprit,’ said the small stubby man that Mariah had seen scurrying back and forth at the back of the crowd. ‘I am a detective, private of course and from London. You can trust me not to tell the police – they always get in the way and my enquiries are very … different.’ Mister Grimm pushed himself to the front of the crowd, holding his top hat close to him and wrapping his arms around it to protect the soft black silk. ‘Let me see …’
Grimm stood before the body. He carefully examined the neat broad scratches across its forehead and the three deep wounds to its neck. Its face had frozen in a strong grimace, half smiling as if in a quiet snigger of disapproval. From his coat pocket Grimm took a silver case, quickly unslipped the golden lock and felt inside the velvet bag that lay inside. From within he brought out a pair of fine gold spectacles, fitted with bright blue lenses that looked as if they had been cut from a single piece of precious stone. He carefully fitted them across the bridge of his nose and, pushing Mathias from the body, inspected the corpse.
‘Don’t know if we want an outsider doing this,’ Mathias said suspiciously as he wiped his hands upon his apron.
‘It’s either I or the police. Which do you prefer?’
There was no reply as the crowd huddled closer together, those on the outside pressing in for fear that the perpetrator of this hideous crime would pick them from the edge of the herd and drag them into the night.
‘He was the one with Luger, I recognise the voice,’ Mariah whispered as he stepped from the alley and beckoned for Sacha to follow. ‘We have to see what he’s doing.’
Before she could protest, Mariah had taken her by the hand and pulled her into the street. Looking around, he saw that the fine black carriage had vanished, its thin tracks cutting through the drifting sand that had blown across the cobbles.
‘Luger got away … at the same time as the Kraken,’ Sacha said as she looked to the warehouse by the quayside.
‘Just before the scream,’ Mariah answered quickly, his mind racing as to what had happened in the street and what kind of creature had made its way to the cellar. ‘Could be Luger,’ he said thinking out loud. ‘I heard a story once from Africa of a man who could turn himself into a lion and hunt people.’
‘Luger – the Kraken?’ Sacha asked quietly in disbelief.
They stepped further into the street and slinked closer to the crowd gathered outside the Inn. ‘Could be so,’ Mariah said quietly. ‘Left the inn and was transformed to go hunting – that’s why so many have disappeared from the Prince Regent.’
‘Luger ate them?’ she said sarcastically.
‘And turned what was left into wax …’
Mariah edged through the crowd until he was close to Grimm. The narrow street chilled with a fresh breeze that blustered in off the sea; it carried with it a multitude of crystal sand that hissed as it blew across the cobbles. Grimm hunched over the bundle of rags that was the man; thin, blue, dead hands stuck out from the ample cloak in which the body was wrapped.
‘We should take him inside,’ Grimm said as he prodded the wound on the neck with what looked like a long red pencil. ‘I need more light if I am to make a proper examination,’ he chuntered as he looked up at Mariah. ‘Take his wrists and drag him to the door. It’s as if an animal has bitten him to death.’
‘He goes nowhere,’ said Mathias as he pushed the boy away and stood between him and the body. ‘You’re the detective. Tell us who did this and we can have done with the body. I’m not having a corpse taken to the inn. That’s a place for the living, not the dead.’
‘Having eaten there I could not tell the difference,’ Grimm replied quietly under his breath as he adjusted his spectacles and stared at the cobbled street. ‘Whoever did this had one bare foot … The other was booted with an old sea boot.’ He looked to the floor as his spectacles followed a trail of footprints that to the naked eye were invisible. Mister Grimm stooped to the sand-covered stones and peered at a shadowy outline set against the open drain that ran the length of the alley. ‘It’s as if his foot were webbed, just like a large seabird’s … A pelican or albatross. The boot is well worn, as if he had an impediment. We may not be looking …’ He stopped short of speaking the words that his mind rapidly mulled over. Grimm pulled up the spaniel collar of his coat; he took his spectacles and placed them safely back in the velvet bag, sealing them in the case. ‘Couldn’t possibly be,’ he murmured. ‘Quite impossible.’
‘I know what you’re thinking, Mister Grimm,’ Mathias said as softly as he could for fear of being overheard. ‘Best not be said around here. There’s already too much superstition and it does a man no good at all to think such things on a dark night. Black thoughts are best for bright days, and then by the sunset you’ve forgotten all their bitter memories … and you can at least sleep.’ The crowd muttered behind him as if they were somehow aware of the quiet words that were being spoken. ‘Best if we say nothing and we leave it be. Don’t think it would be a good thing for you to look any further, Mister Grimm.’ Mathias pulled back the ragged cloak that had covered the man’s face. ‘Beggar,’ he said. ‘Won’t be missed and no one to mourn him.’ He nodded to a man nearby, lamenting the strange death with a raised eyebrow. ‘Get the cart. You know what’s to be done. All for a free drink. Come inside and let me warm your hearts and give you pleasure …’
‘Pleasure – that would be a fine thing,’ murmured Grimm. ‘And only to be measured by its purity, productiveness and propinquity. One thing your gin provides, Mathias is pleasure – pleasure that is intense, certain and of inestimable duration, and brings the greatest happiness to the greatest number.’
Sacha stepped back into the shadows as Mathias walked through the door of the inn, followed by the crowd and Mister Grimm. The body lay in the street, arms outstretched, face covered. Mariah stepped towards her as the sound of the cartwheels came across the stones.
‘Back already,’ she said as the moon broke through the clouds and momentarily outshone the gas lamp. ‘What will they do with him?’
‘None of your concern, lass,’ said a sudden voice, and a strong hand grabbed her by the arm and pulled her away from Mariah. ‘Should be tucked up at that fancy hotel of yours. Saw the American drinking in the inn, dressed like a lord and half as drunk.’ The man spoke in her accent. ‘I’m not having my daughter spending the night out in the streets – you’ll be coming home with me.’
Sacha had not seen her father standing in the shadows of the inn, nor had she known how long he had been watching as she had been stood with the crowd, trying to peek at the body. He stank of gin; his face was smudged with snuff. She tried to smile as he held on to her arm, more to steady himself than to control her future.
‘We were just going back. Came with a message for Mister Luger but when we got here he had gone,’ she said, thinking as fast as she could and knowing her tongue to be quicker than his soaked wits.
‘So this is your fancy boy, is it, Sacha?’ the man asked as he squinted at Mariah. ‘This is young Felix, all the way from London with his fancy manners?’
‘No, Father. Felix has gone away. This is Mariah.’ She knew what she said didn’t matter. He never listened, never took notice – scaled eyes and gin-blocked ears.
‘All the same,’ he slurred. ‘Best you be walking your father home to Paradise. The old lass will be locking me out and chivvying me for drinking at the Mariners. Fancy that, have a pub meself and drink somewhere else. Like having a dog and barking yourself.’
‘I said I’d be straight back. Have to get the things ready for Bizmillah.’ Sacha pulled against him as he gripped her arm.
‘It’s a steep hill with many steps and not a moon or lamp to guide my feet. You’re coming with me and not another word’ll be said.’ Her father spoke sternly through his teeth as he twisted her arm tightly and stared at Mariah. ‘Family matter, boy. Not for you to say a word. Not if you know what’s good for her.’
Two men pushing a handcart turned into the alley. Sacha looked at Mariah, trying to smile. ‘I’ll see the old lad home. I’ll be back in the morning. The door by the steps is always open. Go now, go,’ she said briskly as she waved him away. ‘Back you go, Mariah. Back you go to the Prince Regent.’
‘Ay, back to your soft beds and feather pillows, never to know a day’s work with your lardy-da … Pogmahone, boy. Pogmahone,’ he growled, the spit rattling his voice like the onset of a death-cough.
Sacha took her father and turned him to the night and the darkened alleyway that led to Paradise. He swayed as he walked, reaching out to the wall to steady his way. Mariah looked on, wondering what he would now do alone. He kept an eye on the men who pulled the body from the cold damp ground and tumbled it into the barrow. From its pockets jangled seven gold coins that fell to the floor and clattered across the cobbles. Quickly the men plunged upon them, leaving the crumpled beggar heaped in the cart, buried in his own coat. They scrambled to pick each one from the dirt and, seeing Mariah, tossed the first one to him as if to bribe his silence.