Chapter 4
The morning sun was filtering through the grime-smeared kitchen windows. The master of the house liked to put on a show for important guests by spending lavishly upon the interior of his home. However, that spending was not extended to the areas of the house frequented only by his employees. The windows which could not be seen by the influential guests remained unwashed, unless one of his staff took it upon themselves to carry out the duty in their own time. If the master of the household had been a man who gained respect from those within his employees then it would have been highly probable that one would take a cloth to the windows. Kostya however, was arrogant and treated those of lower social standing with contempt.
Bessie stirred as beams of warm light made their way through the grimy windows to caress her thin, almost porcelain hand. For the first time in a number of hours her eyes flickered. Eventually, she allowed them to open and Bessie was filled with confusion as to the previous night’s happening. The confusion however, was not her only concern; her head throbbed with pain. It felt like she had consumed copious amounts of gin, but she knew that not one drop had passed her lips. Realising she was in fact resting her head on the large kitchen table; she forced her weary body to sit upright. Bleary vision took in her surroundings. Miss Doyle and Tom were slumped across the table. However, it wasn’t until she had managed to rise from her seat that she saw John, sprawled unceremoniously across the floor. She tried her best to force her aching limbs to rush to his side. Gently placing her hands on his body, she gave a timid push, and then when no response came, she repeated the action with more force. The extra effort went without reward. Bessie’s increasing panic was slowed by the knowledge that John had not departed from the world of men. John’s face retained its colour despite his apparent lifeless form. She was no doctor, but Bessie had watched her beloved father slip from the world. As death approached, the bronzed skin of the `man she idolised faded and then took on a milk-white pallor. She had observed as her father’s eyes lost their gleam and eventually saw nought, despite remaining wide open. That day, she had reached out a trembling hand. She had felt the cold waxy skin of the forehead before gently moving her hand down to end her father’s deathly stare. She knew that John had not followed her beloved father into the arms of the Lord.
Bessie was tempted to run, headlong into the street, fulfilling the urge to scream. She wanted someone, anyone, to come to her salvation. Then quite surprisingly, the image of her employer swam into her mind’s eye. Knowing what she must do, she moved away from John’s unconscious body. She would risk the fury of a master who rarely witnessed the rising of the morning sun. Before long, Bessie was timidly walking along the main corridor of the house. She ignored the various rooms which entertained the wealthy populace of London. The master would be in his bedroom, and that was situated on the upper floor. She placed a hand on the cold wooden banister; cold, like her master’s ice-like manner. Bessie paused, steadied her nerves, and gulped down the lump within her throat. Reluctantly, she placed her foot on the first step.
Eventually, Bessie reached the summit of the staircase. Her master’s private chamber was only a few paces away. Her mind was set about the task, and she would not be discouraged from its completion at this late stage. Moments later, she gave a gentle rap on the door. When her initial attempt went without response, she applied more force. Once more, silence was the only reply to her efforts. Bessie, bit down on her lip as she considered her next move. She reached out her trembling hand and grasped the round door knob. Her mouth felt uncomfortably dry as she gave the knob a short, sharp turn. When the door opened, she pushed her head through the widening gap and peered inside. The lack of movement from within or absence of a sleeping figure on the bed revealed why no reply had been forthcoming. The room was devoid of life, which did nothing for the panic experienced by the young maid. She retreated from the room and then proceeded to search the upper level. The task proved to be fruitless; she was forced to face the fact that she was alone. Eventually, she took to the stairs once more unsure of what to do next.
As she placed a foot on the downstairs corridor, she noticed that the door to Kostya’s study was slightly ajar. Her brow wrinkled in confusion; she had been sure the door had been closed on her last passing. She shook the puzzlement from her mind as she became hopeful that she would at last find the master of the house. She moved quickly to the door and gave it an expectant knock. Her jaw tensed, testament to the annoyance she felt, at the silence that followed. She uttered a curse under her breath as she flung the door open.
The scream held fixed in her throat for just a moment. Her brain told her that if the scream was to escape, then the nightmare that she now beheld would become a reality. The fear driven cry, however, would not be denied. Bessie screamed; when her lungs were fit to burst she gulped down air. The replenishment only took a moment, and soon her scream was declaring the horror to the world. She was still screaming as two powerful hands grasped her by the shoulders and spun her bodily around. Bessie was pulled into an embrace. She struggled violently, believing that an unknown attacker wished to do her harm.
“Come away girl,” John whispered. He manoeuvred the terrified maid from the study and in the same movement closed the door on the slaughter. Two steps into the corridor Bessie slumped into John’s arms. Her mind could not rid itself of the image within the study. The horror finally overwhelmed her senses and robbed her of consciousness.
∞∞∞
William Harkness took direction from the constable at the door. Frederick Abberline’s message was vague, giving no reason for the summons. He proceeded down the corridor taking heed of the constable’s advice to continue forward. Gradually, the familiar voice belonging to Abberline sounded in the distance. The Inspector’s voice and that of another grew louder as William approached the end of the corridor. However, as he pushed at the door that lay to his front, silence descended.
William entered the kitchen; he quickly took in his surroundings, trying to keep the look of surprise from his face. He had been expecting a murder scene.
“William!” Abberline seemed relieved to see his friend, and, a little flustered, also. “This is Dr. Anne Fitzgerald; Dr. Kempster has taken a much-needed leave of absence. I am assured that her work is of the highest calibre.” Abberline’s face betrayed his words, he seemed unconvinced.
“The Inspector seems to think that women have no place in dealing with murder.” The woman was short of stature, but still had an aura of confidence. Although she was attractive, the way she dressed and wore her hair suggested that she placed little importance on looks. William was in no doubt that she wanted those about her to see the doctor and not the woman. Her accent dictated that she was from the highlands and in some way added the seriousness of the woman. “I hope that you are not of the same opinion?” She eyed William as a cat spies a particularly plump mouse. Despite the intrusive stare, William was in no mood for games.
William switched his attention to the Inspector. “I judge by the quality of work and results. It has been my experience that women have many skills, murder just being one of them.” He purposely did not distinguish between the act of murder or the solving of one. “Why have I been summoned, Abberline?”
“This room was the scene of a crime. Four people now reside at the workhouse recovering from whatever ails them.”
“We don’t know what is wrong with them?” he asked.
“Poisoned, most probably,” Fitzgerald interrupted. “This fine piece of bakery is the most likely source.” The look she displayed, suggested she would have liked to have sampled the cake and damn to the consequences.
“So why am I here?”
“Because William the four unfortunate souls were merely bystanders to the real crime. They were kept quiet as a far greater sin was committed. Come with me.” Abberline did not wait for William to reply. He marched passed William and out of the kitchen. William turned, and then watched the Inspector as he travelled up the corridor.
Abberline stopped and just for a moment paused before opening a door, and disappearing from view. William slowly began to follow Abberline’s path, suspecting that he was about to be confronted by something truly terrible. He could not shake the look on the experienced Inspector’s face as he entered the room. Abberline had worked the streets of London for many years, and therefore, must have seen all the horrors that the old city had to offer. Nonetheless, what lay within the room caused the Inspector obvious discomfort. William knew the room held an experience that was not going to be pleasant to behold.
At first, all within the room seemed normal. The study was similar to his father’s; it was a room in which deals are made and fortunes gained. There were many like it within the city of London. As William lifted his line of sight, the horror of what lay about the room became all too apparent. A man was nailed above the fireplace. The victim was naked and his arms were outstretched in a grotesque Christ-like crucifixion.
“It’s quite an image is it not?” Fitzgerald walked beyond William. “Rather inventive, in a morbid sort of way.”
“Ermm - Yes I suppose so,” William replied. He was a little shocked at the delight Fitzgerald seemed to take from the scene of slaughter.
“Obviously, more than one killer.” She announced, as though it was plain for all to see.
“How do you know?” William asked.
Fitzgerald reached out a hand and felt William’s arm; she squeezed the muscle beneath his clothing. She raised her eyebrows and smiled. “You have an impressive frame, Mr Harkness. Tell me, could you lift a man so far from the floor, and in the process, drive nails through his flesh?”
“I see what you mean.” William felt a little uneasy at Fitzgerald’s touch. He sensed she was testing the flesh in her hand. He just was not sure whether it was to see if he would make a good lover or a specimen upon the slab.
“The victim has been separated from his tongue and genitalia,” Fitzgerald continued with her appraisal of the murder scene. As she made the announcement, she tapped two items, which embellished the fire hearth. They were obviously the aforementioned body parts.
“Is that what killed him?” William asked. His faced clearly displaying his disgust.
“One such injury would certainly lead to death; in this case, however, neither injury was the cause of our victim meeting his end.” Fitzgerald pulled a chair closer to the fireplace. She used it to gain the necessary height to more closely inspect the body. After a few moments inspecting the various parts of the victim, she nodded her head as if confirming an unspoken conclusion. “The wound to the throat is the culprit. “She placed her finger next to a heavily bloodied area. “It looks like a sharp two-pronged implement was driven through the flesh, and then it seems this unfortunate soul was allowed to bleed out. It would have been relatively quickly.”
“So why the other injuries?” William asked. He wondered if Fitzgerald had any insight.
“A vengeful husband perhaps? The tongue and genitalia are both needed to coax a dutiful wife to adultery. The butchery is an act of symbolism?”
William turned his back on Fitzgerald, lost in his own thoughts. “Symbolic, yes, but no vengeful husband.” His words were not meant for the ears of others. He was arranging the facts within his mind, preparing his soul for the battle which lay ahead. Suddenly, he turned and looked straight at the experienced inspector. “It’s going to start again, Fred.”
“That is what I thought, William.”
“I am going to need more men. I would also like to speak to our four patients. Best keep them under guard, Fred, they may be involved.”
“It has already been done. I doubt they are part of this slaughter; two were still unconscious when I arrived.”
“I’ll get Isaac to go through this room. We need to know exactly who this man was and why someone took the time to search his office as they committed bloody murder.”
“Searched?” Abberline asked. The look on Abberline’s face clearly showed that he was concerned that he may have missed something.
“Look at the books on his shelves, Fred. Here and there, they have been replaced upside down.”
“Maybe our victim was not organised?” Abberline replied.
“Fred, one book out of place is absent minded. No, this room was searched and then quickly straightened to hide the fact. Words are important Fred; even the most slovenly care for a book like a newborn. I’m sure the books that grace your home are in order and hold pride of place.”
“Erm...yes of course.”
“This might help.” Fitzgerald threw an item to William. “It was in his mouth.”
William looked down at the item within his hand. It was a large gold ring with a black stone set in its front. Within the stone, a golden snake curled around an ivory hammer. A small letter ‘R’ inlaid with silver was situated beneath the beast and hammer. Abberline moved closer to examine the piece in William’s hand.
“That’s no everyday trinket. I’d wager that would cost more than a year’s salary.”
“I’ll look into it,” William replied, trying not to show the disgust he felt. The saliva of a dead man now covered his hand. William had been a soldier. He’d seen and endured so many horrors in his life, he still felt unease as the slime rolled over his flesh. Fighting the revulsion, he placed the ring into a handkerchief. Both he and Abberline then spent time searching the interior of Kostya’s household. The search, however, proved to be in vain. Neither William nor Abberline found any trace of evidence that could point toward the identity of a killer or motive behind the murder. With nothing to aid his investigation, William decided that he would leave Isaac to complete the remainder of the search. Besides, he could think of nothing more tedious than probing countless documents.
Chapter 5
As one man’s sorrows were at an end, his lifeless form hoisted from the fireplace, another man’s woes seemed to be only just beginning. He found himself a great distance from the home belonging to Vladimir Kostya. Beyond the cobbled streets of the old city, the green fields of England played host to the sinister acquaintances of Charles Coldridge.
A hooded figure carrying a tray emerged from the sizable country house. Unlike many of the large estates within the Empire, this one showed the signs of not prospering. It was by no means a ruin, but it did, however, take on a shabby, unloved appearance. Its gardens, which once caused visitors to gasp in appreciation, now ran wild and returned to the state intended by nature. The figure did not linger in the gardens; only the tray caused a restriction to its pace. Once through the gardens, it passed various outbuildings, but showed no intention of entering. Onward the sinister figure pressed, leaving the gravelled pathway for a small track that meandered into the countryside. As the robed figure and the track passed through a shield of trees, a circular building came into view.
Moments later, the figure lifted the latch which held a short but sturdy wooden door in place. The interior was bleak; no decoration adorning the walls. Only lanterns disrupted the dominance of the brickwork. Not one window shone light upon the interior. The figure moved forward until its progress was brought to a halt by a wooden fence. It was equal in height to that of his hip. Refusing to light any of the available lanterns the figure used the feel of the fence against his side as a guide. The barrier formed a circle within the round building. It wasn’t until the figure had reached the exact opposite point to which he had entered the building, did he reach out a hand to light a lantern. The rays of light danced their pagan-like ritual upon the aging brickwork. For the first time, a small gateway and staircase were illuminated. A stranger to the building would have been surprised that rather than a stairway running to the heavens, they disappeared into the depths. The figure began its descent, the sound of boot leather echoing in the chasm. Twice more the figure stopped on its downward trajectory as lanterns were lit and further steps into the pit were revealed. As the footsteps neared the end of their journey another noise joined their chorus. The jangling of chains could b
e heard. This noise was not the heavy beat of chain against wall, but more a rustle of metal. It was as though a manacled beast shook from fear or anger.
The stranger’s foot made contact with an altogether different surface. The disparity in sound signalled that the descent was at an end.
“Why do you keep me here against my will?” An anxious voice sounded from the shadows.
The figure did not respond but merely placed the tray upon the floor before lighting the last lantern. A beaten and bruised figure came into view. It shrank away from the light; its body pressed against the surface of the wall, as if trying to become one with the structure,
“Answer me, have I not done all that you have asked?” The desperate captive pleaded. He raised a hand to a deep cut on his lip. The words he had just uttered clearly caused him great discomfort.
“You have potential, Coldridge, but your arrogance makes you weak. Your greed means you have become a fool. If you wish to bathe in the light, first you must wash away the grime. You must be cleansed.” The figure bent down and for the first time in days, Coldridge received tenderness. The cloaked figure stretched out a hand and used his own garment to wipe some of the dried blood from Coldridge’s jaw. “Eat, tomorrow will begin your education.” The tray was placed before him, and without another word the figure extinguished the light, and moved toward the staircase.
The Reaper's Touch Page 4