A Case of Possession

by KJ Charles

  “I have wanted this since you called Esther a beautiful native sorceress.” Stephen started laughing too. “Her face, my God. You’re such a swine.”

  “And you love it.”

  Stephen grinned, then moved to meet Crane’s lips in a long, deep kiss that ended with him on his back on the desk and Crane half on top of him, painfully erect. “I need to lock the door,” Crane said throatily. “Unless you can do it from here.”

  “Iron,” Stephen said concisely; Crane was well aware iron was unresponsive to his powers. “But I bet I can get naked before you can lock the door and get back.”

  “Stakes?”

  “Ooh. If I win we do it on the desk. If you win, you can have me against the wall.”

  Crane’s cock leapt at that. He loved to screw against walls but the height difference made it necessary for Stephen to stand on something, and while he was normally unconcerned by his stature, that did annoy him. “You’re on.”

  He lost, of course, since Stephen cheated ruthlessly by sending the keys flying from his hand and skidding across the floor, but as he buried himself in Stephen’s arse and felt those magic hands flare joyously against his back while Stephen’s teeth dug into his shoulder, he felt as if he had won a victory of another and much more important kind, though he would have been hard-pressed to say what it was.

  Chapter Eight

  A couple of hours later, Crane sat at ease in the Traders. Stephen was next to him, wearing the suit Crane had bought him. Stephen’s obvious poverty, added to the height difference, made a mismatch in their appearances that drew far more attention than was prudent, and since Crane was an extraordinarily rich man where Stephen struggled to pay the rent, it had seemed only sensible to him that he should fund a decent set of clothes. Stephen had reluctantly accepted that, but had reacted with fury when he learned that Crane had had several other suits made up for him at the same time. He would have been livid had he known quite how obscenely expensive the discreet tailoring establishment was.

  Anyone who cared about clothes would have known, Crane reflected. The material he’d selected, with no useful help from his sartorially inexperienced lover, was a subtle heather mix with tiny flecks of red and yellow, a quiet, autumnal effect that set off Stephen’s hair and eyes perfectly, and it was flatteringly cut, without any ostentatious attempt to make up for his lack of height or breadth. He looked, Crane thought, delightful: well dressed, bright-eyed and freshly fucked, the latter point hopefully lost on the men gathered around the table with them.

  They were in the Traders’ conversation room for postprandial drinks. Cryer was there, with one speculative eye on the attractive young man who had arrived with Crane; Humphris, abstracted and frowning; and Peyton, interjecting obvious sarcasm whenever he could. Shaycott was enthusiastically retelling Willetts’ Red Tide tale yet again, but had earned his keep by introducing a Java man named Oldbury who Crane hadn’t met before, and a scholarly type called Dr. Almont, who he had seen haunting the library on several occasions, and who apparently was an expert on Polynesian tradition, insofar as that was possible without ever having left England.

  Shaycott came to the much-anticipated end of his tale and got a minimal grunt of appreciation from most of those present and an enthusiastic response from Stephen.

  “What a marvellous yarn, thank you, sir. Is that a common legend in those parts, I wonder, the rat cult?”

  “Not that I heard,” Oldbury said. “Only ever had it from Willetts.”

  “It has some similarities to other tales in the tropes of the priestess and the summoning.” Dr. Almont was ready to lecture. “Interestingly, it lacks an element one would have expected, which may be found in many superficially similar tales, the device or motif of the anitu.”

  “Ghost,” said Oldbury.

  “More than merely a ghost, if I may say so. The anitu, or spirit of the dead that has the capacity to animate another body—”

  “Not in this one,” Oldbury said firmly. “No ghosts, just rats.”

  “How much truth would you say there was in this?” Crane asked.

  “Truth!” Peyton snorted. “Giant rats and lovely darkies! Honestly, Vaudrey—”

  “Crane. Lord Crane.”

  Peyton flushed. “Willetts was a shocking liar. His stories were all absolute rubbish. You should know. He had the most marvellous tale about you.”

  “If you mean the one about the crabman, it is, unfortunately, quite accurate.” The chorus of incredulous mockery that erupted suggested Willetts had shared the story widely. Crane spared an unkind thought for the deceased trader and waited for the catcalls to die down. “Yes, well, I was horribly drunk. These things happen.”

  “They don’t happen to anyone else.” Monk looked amused for the first time that evening.

  “Oh, I don’t know. I always thought things happened to Willetts.”

  Oldbury gave a grunt of agreement. “Ready for any spree. Looked for adventure.”

  “And when one looks for adventure, one often finds it. I’ve seen some strange sights—” Shaycott began.

  Crane came in over him ruthlessly. “We all have. Did you ever see this rat amulet of his, Oldbury?”

  The Java man shrugged. “Any amount of stuff. Rooms packed with it.”

  “What’s happening to his things?” Crane asked. “Who’s his next of kin? Did he even have family over here?”

  “Sister. Why he came back. Sick, you know. Lungs.”

  “Poor chap,” Crane said, frowning. “Do you have her direction, at all? I’d like to send my condolences.”

  The conversation splintered up into groups. Crane ensured he was with Oldbury and Humphris, finding out what he could about Willetts’ murder without seeming too obvious. He didn’t get much. After half an hour or so he looked around for Stephen, who had taken the unenviable task of talking to Dr. Almont. The scholar was still there, now latched on to Shaycott, but Stephen was gone.

  “Looking for your pal?” asked Town, at his elbow.

  “He probably jumped from the window,” said Crane. “Almont is a shocking dullard, isn’t he?”

  Town rolled his eyes. “He and Shaycott won’t shut up, and Oldbury talks as though he was charged by the word. I don’t know what it is about Java men. Bores, every last one. Except Willetts. You have an interest there?”

  “Not particularly. Just rather sorry for the poor fellow, wondered if I might help his sister. Day’s the one interested in Java.”

  “Your little, ah, friend?” Town waggled his eyebrows.

  “You have the wrong end of the stick, I’m afraid,” said Crane. “Since I’m not getting any of the stick at all, if you follow me.” Town, who loved a filthy joke, spluttered into his whisky. “He’s a friend of one of my cousins, got some kind of interest in the place. Not my bag, but I can play the head of the family by palming him off on Shaycott and Almont, and if he’s grateful enough, who knows, the palming off may not stop there.”

  “Hah! Well, good hunting, my dear fellow,” said Town, with comfortable callousness. “Though I don’t rate your chances if Peyton’s buttonholing him with stories of your disgraceful doings. He followed him out a few minutes back.”

  “Blast. Oh well, it was a long shot. Have you seen Rackham recently?”

  Apparently Town hadn’t, nor did he have any new gossip to offer. They chatted a little longer. Stephen didn’t reappear when Peyton did, but some time later a waiter brought a note which Crane read, then stuffed into his pocket.

  Peyton was watching. “Bad news, Lord Crane? I do hope your plans for the evening haven’t been spoiled for any reason.”

  “Trivial,” said Crane.

  Merrick got back to the flat some half an hour after Crane, looking decidedly the worse for wear.

  “Fun evening?”

  “You might say.” Merrick tried to hang up his hat, and missed. �
��You got any idea what that Miss Saint can do?”

  “Drink a grown man under the table, apparently. Did you find out about the shamans?”

  “Yeah. It was rats.”

  “No trouble?”

  “Not to speak of,” Merrick said. “You?”

  “Not much success. And the Amazing Vanishing Shaman has buggered off again, without a word, as usual.” Crane’s tone wasn’t quite as light as he’d intended.

  “Cor, dear.” Merrick shook his head. “You have got it bad, ain’t you?”

  “Shut up.”

  “I’m just saying. Round his little finger.”

  “Shut up.”

  “Pining, that’s what you are. I didn’t recognise it at first, but—”

  “Shut up, you repulsive inebriate, or I will dismiss you without a character. And go to bed. We’re up early tomorrow.”

  “Gawd, are we? Why?”

  “Rackham,” said Crane. “He gave me till Friday and that’s tomorrow. So we’re going to see him first thing.”

  “He won’t be up first thing.”

  “He will once I’ve dragged him out of bed. Leo Hart sent me a note, he’s asked her for five hundred pounds. She’s fairly upset. And since we’ve got nowhere finding anything good on him, we’re going to have to act a bit more directly.”

  “Good-oh. What we going to do?”

  “Break his legs, I suppose,” Crane said. “Or offer him five hundred quid to fuck off. Or both.”

  “Better not break his legs if you want him to fuck off on ’em. What’s Mr. Day say?”

  “He’s got troubles of his own. I want Rackham to stop being one of them.”

  “Yeah, you take charge of that.” Merrick yawned widely. “Gawd knows he can’t handle himself. And you never know, do enough stuff for him, he might stick around a bit longer.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  Merrick gave him a look. “Means you need to do a bit more thinking, that’s what. You reckon if I was a Long Meg like you, I’d act like I ruled the world too?”

  “I do not act like I rule the world, and what’s my height got to do with anything?” Crane snapped. “What brought this on?”

  “You work it out. I’m going to bed.”

  “Fuck you too,” said Crane, and stalked off in a thoroughly bad mood.

  He was still in a foul temper the next morning as they knocked at the door of Rackham’s lodging house. It was off Cable Street in a rather miserable area of town east of the Tower. The house was damp, the landlady not overwhelmingly respectable or polite. She was torn between contempt for anyone who wanted to see her unloved lodger and awe at Crane’s obvious wealth.

  “Well, I dare say you can go straight in then, sir,” she muttered, pocketing the generous tip Crane offered for her trouble. “You’ll be lucky to find him up. Lazy worthless piece of trouble, that man is, with his dirty Chinee friends.”

  Crane and Merrick followed her through the low door, through a dank and cabbage-redolent corridor, and up an ill-swept landing, where she left them with something close to a flounce, and a suggestion that Crane could mention the matter of this month’s rent to his friend.

  “Well, he’s not spending his ill-gotten gains on luxurious living.” Crane banged on the door.

  Merrick hunched his shoulders. “He deaf or what? That racket’s giving me a headache.”

  “No, that was you getting sloshed with a small child.”

  “Barely had a drop. God, she can drink, that one.”

  “Stephen too,” Crane said. “It doesn’t seem to touch the sides. Must be a practitioner thing. What did you mean, last night, about me thinking I rule the world?”

  “Did I say that? Must have been trollied.”

  “You were. What did you mean?”

  Merrick looked at him out of one eye, assessing. “Yeah, well, maybe not rule the world, as such…”

  “What, then? Come on, spit it out. I want to know.”

  “If you say so, my lord. You’re bloody tall. And you’re rich, and you ain’t stupid, mostly, and there’s people reckon you’re not bad looking, which I got no opinion on, and your old man was an earl and that shows. It always did.”

  “Right, you’ve met me,” Crane said. “So?”

  Merrick rolled his eyes. “So, what I’m saying is, you might think you’re treating someone as an equal, but you ain’t. Because, my lord earl, when you’re bigger and older and richer and all that and you’re naturally a domineering sod, maybe that person don’t feel equal, no matter what you might reckon. I don’t mean me,” he added, in case Crane should get the wrong idea.

  Crane moved closer and lowered his voice. “I may be all those things but I’m not a magician. Christ, you’ve seen what he can do, and you’re telling me he feels intimidated by me? He scares the hell out of me!”

  “Does he know that?” said Merrick. “I mean, he’s a shaman, but he’s only human. No family. On his own. Always has to watch his back. And then along you come, with all that stuff I said, plus you don’t give a shit about anyone knowing you like blokes. The biggest problem he’s got and for you it’s nothing. He’s terrified, you couldn’t give a monkey’s. And you’re all, like, ‘I’ll buy this, I’ll dress you, I’ll fix it, I’m in charge—’”

  “Shut up,” said Crane. “Enough.”

  “I ain’t saying you do it on purpose. But that bloke’s held together by spit and pride, and if you take away his pride—”

  “I heard you, damn it. Stop.”

  Merrick shrugged and leaned back against the wall. Crane stared at nothing for a few minutes, then banged savagely on the door again. “Is this bastard ever going to open up?”

  “Look, sod this,” said Merrick. “Shall I open it for him?”

  “Oh, why not. If he’s not in, we’ll leave a message. If he is in, it’s my turn first.”

  Crane positioned himself to obscure Merrick from the view of anyone who might come up the stairs while his henchman got to work on the lock with a piece of bent metal he produced from his pocket. It took him no more than five or six seconds, then he stepped back with an “after you” gesture, and Crane turned the handle and opened the door.

  The smell hit first. It was threefold: something musty and animal; the familiar stench of shit and piss; and the sharp iron tang of blood. A lot of blood.

  “Fuck,” said Merrick, as they stood in the doorway and stared into the slaughterhouse of Rackham’s room. “Fuck.”

  There was blood on the walls. It was smeared to about a foot off the ground, spattered higher up. It was smeared on the floor too, as if low furry bellies had dragged through the pools, with sharp snakelike curves where tails had flicked, and unmistakable long-toed footprints.

  Rackham’s sandy hair was still visible on top of his scalp, but there wasn’t much of him left that was recognisable.

  “Jesus Christ.” Crane shut the door again.

  “I don’t reckon we can slip off,” Merrick said quietly, in Shanghainese. “The landlady will give a description.”

  “Of course she will. Shut up a moment.” Crane bit his lip. “Right. I’ll stay. You go get a policeman. And then—do you remember that address Stephen gave you, back at Piper, for Mrs. Gold? Her husband’s surgery?”

  “Devonshire Street.” It had been four months ago, but Merrick had the retentive memory of the barely literate.

  “Good man. Go there. They said they were meeting there at ten. If you happen to find Stephen alone, talk to him and follow his lead, but if not, this is important, tell them anyway. Don’t wait to talk to him. And listen: I’m being blackmailed by Rackham. Not Stephen, nothing to do with Stephen. You aren’t going to tell Mrs. Gold that because it’s none of her business, but that’s your story to keep in mind, got it? So everything you do has to flow from that. We’ve found Rackham dead, so y
ou’ve got the police and gone straight off to tell the shamans about rats, and you don’t care which of them you talk to on that, because Stephen is nothing to do with this or me or anything. Understand?”

  “Got you. There something I should know?”

  “He’s in trouble with his colleagues,” Crane said shortly. “I’ll tell you later. Go, and don’t talk to the landlady, send her up.”

  Chapter Nine

  The landlady did not take the news well. She was still having hysterics when a policeman came in. He took one look at the charnel scene in Rackham’s room and vomited on the landing, which scarcely improved the choking atmosphere. By the time an inspector arrived, Crane was ready to damn Rackham’s soul to hell for dying in such an aggressively unpleasant manner.

  Inspector Rickaby was at least competent. A weary-looking man with a neat moustache, he contemplated the slaughter with a look of mild disgust, and poked around the gobbets of flesh and splintered bone as though he saw shredded people on a daily basis.

  They sat in the small shabby parlour, and he listened to Crane’s account with an expression of patient interest.

  “So, my lord, you were merely here to visit a friend?”

  “That’s right.”

  Inspector Rickaby turned Crane’s card over and back as though he expected to find a clue on it. “Earl Crane. Shouldn’t there be an ‘of’ in that?”

  “No. It’s like Earl Grey.”

  “The tea?”

  “The lord.”

  “Ah. Do you suppose the Earl Grey has many friends in Wapping?”

  “I’ve no idea.” Crane noted the detective’s correct use of the definite article. “I’ve never met the man.”

  “I just wondered. If earls usually have friends in these parts of London.”

  “I couldn’t speak for other earls,” said Crane. “I have several friends in this part of London. I lived in China between the ages of seventeen and thirty-seven, Inspector. I only came back to England eight months ago. Most of my acquaintances in this country are either Chinese or old China hands. People very like Rackham.”