The Silent Legion

by P W Hillard

  “Lucille?” said Mark. “Well, I think you can work that one out yourself.”

  “She definitely has some sort of support network. I think maybe some kind of unit or cell,” said Mark. He and Jess were stood in Florence’s office. D.C.I Weston was behind her desk, hands clasped together, elbows resting on the arms of her chair. She was listening intently.

  “You think it’s a handful of people or something more?” asked Florence.

  “Difficult to say, but I think they recruited her not long after her son died. Perhaps even right there in the hospital,” replied Mark.

  “There’s a thought,” said Jess. “It’s a long shot, but I’ll contact the hospital, see if they still have security cam footage from around then. It’s about a year ago, but if they have it we can rule that in or out.”

  “Do it, we need to get on this. We know this woman is responsible for one murder on her own. If there is a group out there we need to stop them as quickly as possible. Work with Beecham and Adcock. I cannot stress how much we need to get a lid on this.” Florence unclasped her hands, resting them flat on the desk.

  “Understood Ma’am,” said Mark.

  “Well? Dismissed, get moving you two.”

  Chapter Eleven

  “The devil had a hand in this Inspector, I am certain in that,” said the surgeon, his gloved hands holding the creature’s chest open. The twisted thing on the table before him was a sickening sight. It wore a full suit, including a top hat and cape, giving the impression it was an ordinary London gentleman at a distance. It’s face however was lupine, a long hairy snout, its jaws filled with jagged teeth. Its hands were humanlike, but its nails were long obsidian daggers. “This thing is part wolf part man. I never thought I would see the like in my day.”

  Detective Inspector Fredrick Abberline stood next to the doctor, watching the grisly autopsy. He grimaced as the doctor lifted a clump of organs from the corpse, dumping them into a bucket. "I think," he began, "that it be for the best sir if we kept this to ourselves. Honestly, I would never have believed it had I not witnessed this myself. I managed to interrupt the thing as it stalked a young woman, and I would be dead, had the woman not stabbed the creature from behind as it attacked me."

  "Ah, with this I assume," said the surgeon, holding a large hatpin aloft he had slipped from the creature's flesh. "It would appear that you are lucky the woman was not frugal. This is silver.”

  “A, for lack of a better word, wolfman. Slain by a silver blade? I would expect such nonsense in a penny dreadful, but to be lain before me?" Fredrick removed his bowler hat and shook his head. "Eighteen sixty-three I joined the Met. Twenty-five years of work and I have never seen anything so strange."

  “Nor have I Inspector. This is certainly a first. You think it’s him?”

  “I would imagine so. It would certainly explain a lot about his victims. The organs being removed, to, dare I say it, feast upon them. To think something like this was lurking in the streets of London. We can not allow this to get out sir. Could you imagine the chaos?” said Fredrick.

  “I dare say I agree, but what then, will you do Inspector?” replied the surgeon.

  “Keep this thing out of sight until I return, I need to speak with my superiors, and I surmise that I will perhaps need to show them this…thing.”

  Fredrick looked at the tiny office he had been given. It was stacked high with papers and books, filling every conceivable corner. From this tiny room, the fledgling department he had been given was running. Whilst it was only himself and two uniformed officers, the workload was much higher than had been anticipated. He was a little shocked that his superiors had agreed to his idea even when shown the slain body of the wolfman. He was not shocked at the very meagre resources they had given them to do it. He sighed, took a seat at the desk, and picked up the first case to hand. The department was swamped with cases. It transpired that there was a lot more strange and bizarre cases than he had realised, it seemed these things were hiding so well because quite simply, no-one was looking. The documents in his hand were related to supposed strange lights on the moors. A local was claiming to have captured a light and discovered it was a tiny winged human. Tabloid news articles were abound about fairies. It would need to be checked out, but there was no crime involved, so on the bottom of the pile it went. The next document proved more interesting. A woman was claiming to be visited every night by a ghost, who pinned her down and prevented her moving. She claimed to be paralysed as the spirit caused pandemonium. This was much more interesting and could possibly be classed as assault. It was good enough for him. He clutched the paper, stood up and opened the door.

  “Jenkins! Smith! With me constables,” he shouted, “no tarrying about now.”

  They walked the streets of London, trudging through the thick fog, weaving through carts with the grace only a true Londoner could achieve. They were headed to the east end, manoeuvring across the web of London's streets. With what they knew now, Fredrick wondered if perhaps there was a great spider at its heart. Certainly, once you came to London you were stuck, trapped in its sticky grasp forever.

  “Sir, anything we need to know about this case?” asked Jenkins. The uniformed officer twisted with a quick jerk as he spoke, to avoid a man carrying a large wooden crate. He grasped tightly onto his helmet, trying only semi-successfully to keep it on.

  Fredrick held out the case file before himself and tapped the top of the page. “Our victim claims that she is assaulted by a ghost every night.” He was walking quickly, the two trailing officers having to jog to keep up. “A ghost lads! Our first one, hopefully anyway. There are enough stories and rumours about them, but this one, it's regular. Every night she says." Fredrick was excited, he had been fascinated, since that night in the morgue. The world was so much bigger and more interesting than he ever could have imagined.

  “Not to be a wet blanket Sir,” said Smith, “but my sister claimed the same thing. The doctor said that she was experiencing a deficiency in her sleep that causes the sensation of being held still. It is apparently not at all uncommon.”

  “I fear Smith, you may be missing the point of our little department. We are special investigations. Emphasis on the investigations part. We have a duty to check it out. Should it really be nothing…unusual, then no harm no foul.” Fredrick took a sharp turn onto another street, causing Jenkins to jog slightly past. The officer had to run to catch back up.

  “I…think…sir,” panted Jenkins, “that we… should check…it out.”

  “I’m glad you agree with me Jenkins but of course, this is not a democracy. Right gentlemen keep up the pace.”

  Their destination was a small flat directly above a butcher's shop. It lay deep in the east end, the buildings peeking out through the thick fog, dark stone erupting through the cloud like a castle in a myth. The cobbled street was damp, a recent light rain making the stones slick. Somewhere in the mist, someone was crying out, attempting vainly to sell something through the sight blocking fog. The entrance to the flat was around the side, squeezed into a narrow gap between the buildings. The three men had to twist sideways and shimmy through to the closed door. Fredrick knocked loudly on the door with his knuckles.

  After a moment, the door swung open. A woman in her early fifties stood there. Her hair was black and greasy, and she wore a tatty dress, repaired and resewn over and over.

  “Can I help you?” she barked.

  “Yes, my name is D.C.I Abberline, these are my associates Constables Smith and Jenkins. We’re here about a police report made by a Miss…” he checked the paperwork in his hands, “Capstone.”

  “Mrs Capstone!” replied the woman. “Emmaline Capstone, good to meet you gentleman, but I made that report months ago! Took your damn time!”

  “Is it out of date madam? Are the events within still not occurring?”

  “They are, come on in then, don’t stand outside. People will think me improper with policemen on my doorstep, “said Emmaline.

  T
hey followed her inside, up the creaking staircase. It moaned with each footstep, a wailing choir as they ascended. The flat inside was tiny, barely three rooms. It consisted of only a small bedroom, a cramped kitchen, and what was best described as a lounge. The space was consumed by an enormous pair of leather chairs, the material resewn and re-patched through years of abuse. Emmaline dropped herself into one of the chairs, the loose leather releasing a whoosh of air. She gestured for Fredrick to take a seat beside her. Jenkins and Smith stood at ease, rolling awkwardly on the balls of their feet.

  “Truth be told I thought you might never come,” she began, “maybe you thought me mad.”

  "I assure you Mrs Capstone that is not the case, unfortunately cases like these are, shall we say, a low priority," said Fredrick. "I aim to change that, however, me and my officers here. So, what can you tell us about this spirit, when did this all start?"

  Emmaline touched a finger to the side of her face. “Oh, around a year past I should think. It started not long after my Arnold died. I was laying there, alone in me marital bed, and then suddenly I awoke with a start. I was frozen, unable to move. Tried to wiggle my arms and legs I did, but nothing. Then I could feel it, a weight on my chest, pushing me down. I couldn’t get a good look, on account of being frozen and all, but it had terrible red eyes it did. I just knew it were a spectre, sent to torment me. It have done ever since. Every night, it wakes me, keeps me there stuck frozen solid.”

  “And how long does this last approximately?”

  “Hard to tell. Not like I can turn to look at me clock. Maybe hours, maybe minutes,” said Emmaline.

  Fredrick nodded. “Every night this occurs?” he said.

  “Without fail,” Emmaline replied. "What can we do Sir? I'm at me wit's end."

  “I think, firstly, we should consult an expert.”

  They stood before a thin white three-story building, the kind that had been popular about eighty years previous. Its door was a rich dark green, a large silver knocker in the shape of a lion stamped in the centre of it. Upon the wall was a small sign, it read “George Johnsons’ Occult Bizarre.” Fredrick found the misplaced apostrophe vexing. He pushed the door, which swung open eagerly, and stepped inside, followed swiftly by Smith and Johnson.

  Bizarre was an excellent description of the shop hidden inside the Georgian townhouse. Everywhere Fredrick looked were objects that he could scarcely recognise. Stone tablets on plinths, a strange large bronze horn attached to a metal cylinder, a wooden board carved with all the letters of the alphabet, and a hundred other things he could not place. He was sure that there was a shrivelled desiccated head attached to one of the far walls. Across from the entrance, was a large set of wooden shelves, affixed to a thick wooden counter, similar to what you might find in an apothecary or grocers. The shelves were filled with strange plants and herbs, stuffed in heavy glass jars. A young man stood behind the counter, he was wearing an expensive suit, its waistcoat vibrant red with gold inlay. He waved to the police officers, beckoning them over to the counter.

  “Good morning gentleman, how can I help you today? Looking to peruse my stock? Perhaps get your fortunes read? Maybe, you would like to try and contact the other side.” He wiggled his fingers dramatically.

  “None of those today I think,” said Fredrick, “I am D.C.I Abberline, Metropolitan police, these are my associates, Constables Smith and Johnson.”

  “A pleasure sirs’,” said the man, bowing slightly. “I am George Johnson, welcome to my humble establishment. If I may be so bold as to ask, what brings the police here to my door today? You will find everything here is perfectly legal.”

  Fredrick chuckled. “A word of advice lad don’t start conversations with policemen about how something is legal, because anyone who claims such is very rarely telling the truth. Don’t worry, we aren’t here about you, we actually, would like some advice.”

  "Advice?" said George startled, "from me? Well, I am flattered but I fail to see how I could be of any use."

  “You may be surprised, we are investigating a case where the victim claims to have been assaulted by a ghost.”

  Georges attention became noticeably more focused, he looked at the detective before him for a moment, trying to decide if it were a genuine statement. “A ghost you say? Ok, tell me more.”

  George listened intently, nodding gently as Fredrick explained what Emmaline had described, how long it had plagued her, what brief glimpse she had caught. George allowed the detective to finish, thought for a moment, finger pursed on his lips, and then said, “Not a ghost.”

  “Not a ghost?” said Fredrick

  "No," George continued, "this often gets attributed to ghosts, but it is a fairly common totally mundane occurrence. I believe current explanations are that it is a sleep issue of some kind. Where your mind is awake, but your body is still asleep, hence why you feel like you have no control. I get a couple of enquiries about these a year, and without fail it is not a ghost."

  "You know this for sure because you checked each one correct? And for a decent fee, I would bet?” Fredrick said, crossing his arms.

  “I did check and yes, I did get paid for my services. You should never do anything for free if you can get paid for it,” replied George smirking slightly.

  "You seem to be remarkably forthcoming with information for free at the moment."

  “Yes well,” said George rubbing his palms, “I have never before, in my years as an occultist, had a policeman enter my establishment looking for help and advice on anything supernatural. Normally something like this would get written off as mad ramblings, and yet here you are, asking questions. You’ve seen something yourself, haven’t you? Something supernatural. I’m no fool detective, I give my information freely because then I am useful to you. Something comes along in the future that needs some esoteric knowledge or rare artefact, well you know now where to come. Call it an investment in my future. I just regret that on this occasion, I can be of no further use.”

  Fredrick couldn't help but laugh. "Very shrewd Mr Johnson. Well, I cannot disagree with your logic. Still, I think I shall continue my endeavours in this case. I'm not sure why, but I think there is something here. Call it intuition maybe."

  "Intuition is a powerful tool in dealing with the occult Inspector. Our reaction to it is instinctual, visceral. You would do very well on trusting yourself when dealing with such matters. Still, forewarned is forearmed, come with me a moment." George lifted a section of the counter, swinging it vertically on its hinges. He stepped out, replaced the countertop and walked across the room to a large bookcase. He slipped a small leather-bound book from the shelves and blew off a thick layer of dust. The cover was dark crimson, its title inlaid with gold lettering above a gaudy printed illustration. "On Ghosts and Spirits and their proclivities," it read. George handed it to Fredrick. “Consider it a gift.”

  “An investment in your future,” said Fredrick.

  “Exactly,” replied George.

  Jenkins thumbed the book idly, only half paying attention to it. The inspector had insisted both he and Smith read it, but Jenkins had never been much of a reader himself. Smith had devoured the book, though he always carried a stack of penny dreadfuls under his arm whenever he returned from an errand.

  “I don’t get it,” said Jenkins, “why would an iron protect against ghosts? Mine barely protects against creases in my trousers.”

  “Not an Iron. Just Iron, the metal,” said Smith, “though I suppose an Iron is made of Iron, so would work just as well.”

  “Metal works on ghosts?”

  “Iron works on ghosts, lots of cultures consider Iron to be representative of the earth itself, as ghosts are not of this plane, they don’t like it. An oil and water type situation.” Smith looked up from the small loosely bound book he was reading. A garish drawing of a vampire, looming over a helpless woman filled the cover. “Are you even reading that properly?”

  “Trying,” said Jenkins. He said and dropped the book onto th
e small desk. They were sat in the tiny office their supposed “department” had been given, it was stacked high with paperwork and books the inspector had collected from across Scotland Yard, every trace or scrap of anything remotely unusual. They had given Abberline a large wooden desk to go with his new role, but the massive thing dominated the office, forcing Jenkins and Smith to make do with two tiny wooden stools. They shared the looming dark mahogany desk with the inspector, trying to fit any more furniture into the room was folly they had all decided. “I’m not really the bookish sort.”

  “You read the papers,” said Smith, picking up his vampire story.

  “For the football results and stuff, nothing like this.”

  “Well, keep reading, the boss will be back soon, and I’m sure he will be checking we read it properly.”

  "Wish a ghost would come to paralyse me," muttered Jenkins below his breath, "then I wouldn't have to read this damn thing. What are you doing anyway, there’s no way that’s work.”

  Smith scoffed. "It is actually. Its folklore, kind of. Think about it, everyone knows you use silver to kill a werewolf, or a stake on a vampire. Why? Why does everyone know that? Because it gets passed down. What we know as stories now had to have a basis in something right? Your nan used to leave a saucer of milk out for fairies because her nan did. Someone somewhere down the line had to find out what worked and passed it on."

  “I think I see your point, but I mean, it could also be bollocks.”

  “Worth a try anyway,” continued Smith, “I got the inspector to approve it.”

  “Fuck that, you just convinced the boss to fund your reading habits,” said Jenkins.

  Smith laughed, a heavy throaty chuckle. “You’re just mad because there’s no way to convince him we need to attend football matches.”

  The plan was simple. The three policemen sat in Mrs Capstone’s lounge and waited. If the ghost came every night, then it would arrive this night. The execution of the plan had proved to be significantly more awkward than they had anticipated. Emmaline was unwilling to have one of the men sit in with her as she slept, so the door had been left ajar just enough for one of the men to peek through. Having to squint awkwardly through the small crack meant that the men had to be rotated every few minutes, and they had to do so quietly as Emmaline claimed it only arrived once she was sound asleep. So, they waited, tiptoeing around each other as they circled the crack in the doorway. It was a bizarre, comical sight.