by George Mann
‘Victorian London, 1892. This smog is unbelievable.’
Emily looked up at him. ‘How did you...?’
He shrugged.
‘Never mind.’ She hooked her arm through his. ‘We’d better get ourselves somewhere warm. We can start looking for the severed man in the morning. What do you say?’
‘Hold on...’
The sound of horses’ hooves had grown louder, as if it was coming directly towards them. Lechasseur could now hear the creaking sound of carriage wheels being pulled along by the horses, rattling on the cobbled road. Dimly, through the thick smog, he could just make out the glow of a lamp, obviously hanging from the side of the carriage.
‘Let’s just see who we have here...’
Two horses’ heads emerged from the soupy fog like phantasms, as if they had just been driven directly out of the netherworld. Honoré felt Emily shudder beside him. They jumped to one side as the carriage sped past, nearly bowling them over. The driver was stooped low over the reins, the curtains pulled shut so the mysterious inhabitants could not be observed. Dashed onto the side of the carriage in red paint was some sort of symbol, a circle with two points at its apex, reminding Honoré of nothing so much as a pair of horns. From what he could gather as the carriage flashed by, it seemed like a recent and hurried addition to the décor. At the sight of it, Emily emitted a startled gasp and fell backwards, landing awkwardly on the pavement by the side of the road.
Immediately, Honoré was by her side, scooping her up with the crook of his arm. She looked terrified, her eyes fluttering with nervous energy and her face was as pale as if she were a phantom herself. He held her for a moment, trying to ensure she had come to no harm. He wasn’t sure what had caused her to react in such an extreme fashion, but didn’t think now was the time to start bombarding her with questions. He guessed it must have had something to do with the symbol on the side of the carriage, and he closed his eyes for a moment, trying to commit it to memory.
He had no idea what it could mean. It was probably just a bit of graffiti that had pricked some latent memory, reminding her of something from her past. He propped her up, shivering, beside him, and together they watched the carriage trundle off into the distance, the diffuse glow of the lamp receding as it was swallowed by the murky fog.
After it had disappeared, and they were once again alone in the darkness, he turned towards Emily, offering her what he hoped was a reassuring smile. ‘Come on. You’re right: we should find somewhere to bed down for a few hours and wait until it’s light. Tomorrow, we can start searching for the severed man, see if we can find out what’s been going on. And besides, after that fright, you look as though you could do with a coffee.’
Emily nodded, shakily, and grabbed at the cuff of his coat, looking for something to hold on to. They turned together and began walking, one holding on to the other as they attempted to navigate their way through the dense yellow smog.
An hour later, they found themselves close to some sort of civilisation. The fog was still dense and obscuring, but tall buildings had begun to loom out at them from across the street, gaslights turned down low in the windows. Occasionally the chatter of people could be heard coming from a nearby side street, or else the sounds of yet another Hackney Cab trundling down a cobbled lane, the horses whinnying into the cold night air.
Honoré was a little dazed, unsure of his surroundings and edgy because of it. The fog gave everything a sinister edge, turning the once-familiar streets of London into a complex maze, where anyone could be waiting around the next corner, ready to pounce. He wondered, briefly, what had happened to the severed man.
Emily, on the other hand, seemed to be recovering well from her encounter with the mysterious carriage. She was acting far more like her usual self, and seemed quite at ease with their new surroundings.
‘Let’s see if we can find a boarding house where we can get a room for the night.’ She smiled, leading the way down the street, but nevertheless staying close to Honoré for comfort. They ducked down a quiet alleyway and out into a large square. Houses ran around the edges of a small park, and a couple of people were moving about there, staggering into each other as if they had just been thrown out of a public house. They were both dressed in scruffy black coats and flat caps, and Honoré could smell the alcohol on their breaths even from across the street. He guessed they must be factory workers or local workmen. One of them turned and leered at Emily from the other side of the road, his mouth cracking open in a dirty, toothy grin.
Lechasseur turned protectively towards Emily, but his words were drowned out by the shrill, piercing scream of a whistle, sounding loudly in the alleyway behind them. They both span around at the same time.
Honoré was first to make a move. He darted back into the mouth of the alleyway, heading in the direction of the whistle. For a moment, Emily was left standing on her own in a whirl of syrupy fog, but then the thought of the two lingering drunks propelled her onwards and she went charging after Lechasseur, her heels clicking loudly on the bumpy, cobbled street as she ran.
Moments later, she came to rest beside Honoré, who was standing at the other end of the narrow passageway beside a uniformed man with a whistle in his hand. The man was tall and clean-shaven, and was wearing a large policeman’s helmet with a shiny silver badge that read ‘Metropolitan Police’. He was staring intently at something on the ground just by his feet. Lechasseur, catching his breath, was doing the same. Hesitating, Emily allowed her eyes to follow their gaze until they came to rest upon the object of their attention. She averted her eyes with a gasp.
A human body, sprawled out on the cobbles, its face all bloodied and raw.
She hadn’t looked for long enough to see whether it had been a man or a woman. She wasn’t even sure that anyone would still be able to tell. It looked as if some huge animal or beast had savaged the victim’s face, tearing at it with demonic ferocity, its talons raking massive furrows across the flesh. She took a deep breath, trying to ignore the pervading stench of blood and iron in the air all around her.
There was something horribly familiar about the scene, and she shook her head, trying to shake off the alarming sense of déjà-vu.
The policeman seemed to be frozen in some sort of shock. Emily studied his face, as much to avoid looking at the body as for any other reason.
He looked cold and inexperienced, unsure what to do, and was staring down at the corpse as if he expected it to move, or to miraculously reveal to him what had happened. His whistle was hanging limply in his left hand. Emily realised that he must have been only about twenty years old.
Exasperated, Lechasseur knelt down to take a closer look at the body.
‘He was thirty-five, a salesman, been drinking in the pub just down the road from here. The... ah... The Tailor’s Arms.’ He paused for a moment, contemplative, and then looked up at the police officer. ‘It looks like he’s been savaged by some sort of animal. What do you think? A rabid dog?’
Emily got the impression that a rabid dog was the last thing Honoré considered to be responsible for the state of the disfigured corpse in front of him.
The police officer, startled, looked at Lechasseur as if he’d only just realised that the other man was present. He shot Emily a nervous glance, then tucked his hand behind his back to pull out his truncheon. Lechasseur got to his feet. The officer took a step backwards, and then brandished his weapon.
‘You seem to know an awful lot about the circumstances surrounding this suspicious death. Particularly for a, um, foreigner. Would you care to elaborate down at the station?’
Lechasseur stared at the man, barely containing his anger. He had expected the values of the Victorian Londoners to be outdated and hypocritical by his own standards, but this was something else. His fists clenched and then unclenched by his side. He turned to Emily.
‘Come on, we’re leaving.’
Emily g
ave him a small, suspicious nod. They linked arms and began walking back the way they had come.
Again, they were stopped by the piercing scream of the policeman’s whistle.
‘Halt! I am arresting you in connection with the violent death of this man. You may not leave the immediate vicinity until a police escort has arrived, at which point you will be escorted back to the station for further questioning. You will both be held until the superintendent is satisfied as to the question of your guilt.’
The boy held out his truncheon, shaking a little with nervous energy and adrenaline.
Lechasseur stopped and turned about to face the man in the uniform. He could hear footsteps now, other officers running towards the scene from a number of different directions, called away from their own duties by the urgency of their comrade’s whistle. He hesitated for a moment, debating the possibility of fleeing. Emily was standing just behind him.
The constable shifted awkwardly, unsure how to react to the big American in front of him, dressed in a strange black cloak of leather, an oddly-shaped hat resting on top of his head. Lechasseur, in turn, tried to gauge the young man before him. He watched the man’s history spiral out from him like a map of his past, a rich tapestry of his future. It bloomed all around him, telling the tale of his life. Honoré could see his difficult childhood in the slums, his mother forcing him to enrol in the police force, his first kiss with a girl. He could also see him being beaten with his own truncheon, a gang of thugs holding him down whilst they took it in turns to batter him, bludgeoning him into the ground in an alleyway not dissimilar to the one they were standing in now.
When he finally spoke, Lechasseur’s voice was measured and calm. ‘I can assure you that neither I nor my lady friend had anything to do with the death of this man. We came to your assistance when we heard the sound of your whistle from nearby. Besides, the man has been utterly savaged. If we had done that, don’t you think we would have been covered in blood? Look at the marks around his throat.’ He waved his hand to indicate. ‘Not to mention the fact that his right hand is almost totally missing, where he must have tried to fend off the creature as it attacked him.’
The police officer looked him in the eye, unsure.
Lechasseur continued. ‘The fact that the body is still steaming where the face has been torn open should give you some idea how fresh the attack must be – we walked down this alleyway just a few minutes beforehand and saw nothing of note.’
There was a commotion then, as a number of other policemen arrived at the scene almost simultaneously, each of them screwing his face up in disgust at the sight of the body lying spread out on the floor. They formed a loose semi-circle around it, taking in the stand-off between Lechasseur and the young constable.
Emily gave a gentle shudder beside Lechasseur as she glanced at the corpse again, watching the steam rising out of the warm body in little clouds, spiralling into the cold night air. The stench of blood was horrific.
One of the other officers, a man with a bushy moustache, glanced at Emily and Lechasseur and then looked back at the officer who had called them all to the scene.
‘What’s the story with these two?’ He nodded in their direction. ‘Anything to do with this?’ He pointed at the body almost nonchalantly, as if it were a sack of potatoes or a butchered pig.
The constable looked back at him nervously. ‘I’m not sure yet. I believe they should be taken in for questioning.’ He lowered his truncheon a little as the other man appeared to take over.
Lechasseur stepped forward. ‘Now, hold on a minute. My friend and I have absolutely nothing to do with this. We were out for a walk and looking for somewhere to stay the night when I heard the whistle and came running back up the alleyway here.’
‘Back up the alleyway?’
‘Yes, back up the alleyway. We’d walked this way just a few minutes before. We came across a couple of drunks in the square down there. You’ll probably catch them if you send a man now.’
‘So, you came back up the alleyway just after you heard the police whistle, minutes after a murder had occurred on this very spot, and the only evidence you have to say that you’re not involved is the testimony of a couple of drunks? I should say you’re in for a long night of questioning back at the station.’
The officer with the moustache took a step forward, a couple of the other men stepping in behind him. Lechasseur tensed.
Emily skipped around in front of him. ‘Look, I can assure you we are only two honest civilians who came to assist when we heard the police whistle sound a few moments ago. Let’s talk about this for a moment and I’m sure we can make our position clear.’
‘Please step aside ma’am, this doesn’t concern you.’
Emily remained steadfast.
The constable with the moustache drew closer.
‘Ma’am, step out of the way. We don’t want you getting hurt now, do we?’
Emily took a step backwards towards Honoré, who was already moving around her to confront the gathering circle of men.
‘Look, I don’t know what it is that you want from us but...’
Lechasseur was caught by a blow to the face mid-sentence, and dropped to the floor, clutching at his nose. Emily caught sight of the young constable backing away as the older men moved in, surrounding the big American. She moved to go to his aid but one of the other men blocked her way. There were six of them now, drawing in to circle Honoré completely, penning him in like he was some sort of temperamental animal in need of restraint.
Honoré clambered back to his feet and gathered himself together, his nose bloody from the impact. He wiped the back of his hand across his face, and stood, eying his opponent and refusing to take the bait and retaliate. He wasn’t going to be the one to start an all-out fight, especially with these odds.
‘Not from these parts are you? Like murdering good English folk do we? Is that where you get the money to buy fancy clothes like these? Eh?’
The sergeant jeered at Lechasseur, indicating his leather trench coat with a wave of his hand.
‘Look, I’ve told you, I’ve got nothing to do with this dead man. Can’t you see that he’s been killed by some sort of animal?’
‘I can see nothing of the sort. We’re taking you to the station for questioning.’
The man turned and stepped away, waving a hand at his colleagues as he did so.
Two of the others stepped in closer and started throwing punches at Lechasseur. He put his arms up to defend himself, trying to stave off the beating, but their fists rained down on him relentlessly, pummelling him to the ground.
Emily, screaming in protest, threw herself at the moustachioed sergeant, but he slapped her away and she fell to the floor awkwardly, scrabbling at the cobbles. At this, Honoré finally allowed his anger to take over and tried desperately to fight back, even managing to land a few retaliatory blows on a couple of the men, but there were simply too many of them, and he was soon overwhelmed.
When they finally stepped back from him to catch their breaths, he was curled up in a heap on the ground, bloodied, battered and bruised.
Emily, alone and frightened, sat down beside him on the cobbles, tears streaming down her cheeks.
Just a few feet away, the dead man watched on in silent, eerie vigil, his unmoving eyes seemingly taking in all that was happening nearby.
The Hanged Man
When Lechasseur finally regained his senses, he was lying on a hard bed in a small, dark cell, somewhere on the other side of the city. He had a vague recollection of being dragged into a police carriage along with Emily and being towed to the station, but he guessed he must have slipped in and out of consciousness during the short journey, as his memories were all fragmented and made little sense.
He sat up on the bed, cringing at the smarting pain in his side. His head throbbed with an agonising rhythm. He ran his hands gently over hi
s face, feeling where the welts had appeared in the time since his beating in the alleyway. Dry blood was encrusted in his beard and his lip was swollen where it had split open during the fight. It must have been a few hours.
He felt around, looking for a way to get a drink of water.
Then he stopped, sensing for the first time since waking that he wasn’t alone. There was someone else in the cell.
‘Emily? Is that you, Emily? Are you okay?’
A harsh, rasping laugh came from the shadows at other side of the little room. Honoré could see no more than a few feet in front of his face.
‘Sorry matey, no such luck. I ain’t no lady friend of yours.’
The man’s face appeared out of the gloom, and Honoré felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle with caution. The man was a giant, rising a good seven feet off the ground, with a rough, shaven head and stark, staring eyes. He shambled over towards Lechasseur and handed him a bowl of water.
‘Looks like you took a bit of a beating last night.’ It was a statement rather than a question, and Honoré nodded silently in reply. The pain in his side was excruciating.
He took a swig from the bowl of water, trying hard not to notice it was tepid and tasted like it was three days old. He handed it back to the other man when he was done.
‘Thanks.’
‘No problem. So, what did you do to end up so badly beat on?’ The man’s voice was a low growl, a gravely, grating rasp that Honoré guessed must have had something to do with the lurid purple scar that curled around his throat like a pair of neatly pursed lips.
Honoré was pensive, not wanting to give too much away. ‘Someone took a dislike to me because I wasn’t from around these parts.’
‘Aye. A familiar story.’ The man broke into a wheezing cough, emitting a kind of strangled gargle, before righting himself and spitting, loudly, on the floor nearby. He looked at Lechasseur expectantly.
