by George Mann
Honoré decided it would be better not to ask.
‘They tried to hang me for something I didn’t do. Bastards.’ He spat on the floor again. ‘Accused me of being involved with that cult, the missing girls and murdered whores. The girl they tried to hang me for, they couldn’t even find her body. Still, can’t keep Horace McEaseby down for long, eh?’ He chuckled, more to himself than to Lechasseur, who shifted a little on the bed, wary of what McEaseby might do next.
The big man smiled. ‘So, you’ll be anxious to know what happened to your lady friend, then?’
Honoré looked him straight in the eye. ‘You know what happened to Emily?’
‘I saw what they did to her after they pushed you in here.’
Lechasseur was on his feet. ‘And...’
‘And they stuck her in the cell next door. They may be bastards, but they ain’t stupid. They wouldn’t touch a lady dressed like that. At least, not until they’ve found out who she is.’
Honoré sat down again, relief washing over him. At least Emily was safe. Now all he had to do was work out how to extricate them both from their current, unhappy situation.
‘How long have you been in here?’
McEaseby smiled. ‘Too long. I can’t count, but I’ve been scratching the wall every morning.’ He indicated with his hand, and when Honoré looked, he was shocked by the number of tiny lines that McEaseby had scratched into the stone wall by his bed. ‘I was here all through the winter months. Nearly froze to death. It’s not so bad now the cold has broken; at least I get a warm meal from time to time.’
McEaseby took a draught from the bowl of water in his hands, before placing it back on the floor by his feet.
Honoré studied his face. ‘Do you think they’ll try to hang you again?’ He shivered at the thought.
‘Who knows? But they couldn’t finish me off last time, so I’ll keep fighting them ’til the end.’ McEaseby chuckled, a harsh, half-strangled sound that made Lechasseur bristle in sympathy and disgust. He was avoiding looking at McEaseby for too long in case he accidentally saw something he didn’t want to; this was one man he could imagine coming to a sticky end, and Honoré didn’t want to have to face him again, knowing how he was going to die.
Instead, he stood up.
‘I’m going to see if Emily’s okay...’
He tottered for a moment before righting himself and padding over to the bars at the front of the cell. For the first time, it occurred to him that he was missing his hat. He must have lost it in the brawl in the alleyway. He pushed himself up against the bars and raised his voice a little.
‘Emily? Are you there?’
There was no reply.
‘Emily? Are you awake?’
‘I’m here, Honoré.’ It was a faint reply, stifled by the oppressive atmosphere of the underground holding rooms. There was a shuffling sound as she made her way to the front of her own cell. ‘Are you okay?’
‘A little bruised and sore. Nothing a good bath and some sleep wouldn’t sort out. How about you? I saw one of them push you over in the alleyway. Are you hurt?’
‘No, I just grazed my knee. My dress is torn to shreds, but that’s nothing we can’t fix either.’ She sounded relieved, if a little tired.
Lechasseur smiled.
‘Honoré?’
‘Yes?’
‘What do you think is going to happen next?’
McEaseby chuckled to himself loudly in the background.
‘I’ve got no idea. But my guess is we’re going to be questioned about last night.’
‘So what are we going to say? That we came here from the future looking for a man who’s been cut out of history? We’ll be inside a padded cell by the end of the day.’
The laughing behind Honoré stopped short.
‘Then keep your voice down!’ he hissed. ‘I’m working on it. Sit down and try to get some rest. I’ll shout for you if I have any other ideas.’
Lechasseur, shaking his head, turned away from the bars and retreated slowly into the gloom at the back of the cell. He caught sight of McEaseby watching him from his bed, his eyes gleaming in the murky light. Lechasseur remained expressionless, and, soon enough, McEaseby glanced away. But Honoré could feel the scrutiny in that gaze, could sense that something inside the cell had changed after his conversation with Emily. He wondered what McEaseby had heard that had made him clam up so completely.
Shuddering, he resolved to stay awake until someone came to get him from his bed.
A Kind Of Justice
After about an hour, the silent monotony was disturbed by the clinking of a key chain and the sound of two men coming through the iron gate that led down into the underground lockup where Emily and Lechasseur were being held.
Honoré stood as the men approached the entrance to his cell. McEaseby stirred, but didn’t get up from his bed.
After a moment, a man in uniform noisily unlocked the cell door, and the two newcomers stepped inside. The constable was carrying an oil lamp and, after fumbling for a minute, he unsheathed it, partially lifting the metal shutters around the edges to release the light into the room like a soft cascade of liquid gold.
Honoré felt his eyes recoil from the sudden glow, and had to fight to try and make out what was going on. McEaseby shifted around on his bunk, burying his face in the crook of his elbow.
‘This is the man, sir; found him hanging around the body we did, like a vulture or something.’ The man’s voice was nasal, weasely.
‘Yes, that will be all, Stokes.’ The other man, who was dressed in a pale brown suit and tie and had a small bowler hat perched on top of his head, cleared his throat and looked straight at Honoré. ‘Sir, may I beg of you your name?’
Lechasseur looked back at the man quizzically.
There was a brief pause.
‘Oh, I do apologise. The name’s Newman, Sir Charles Newman, New Scotland Yard.’ He stepped forward, proffering his hand.
For a moment, dumbstruck, Lechasseur didn’t react, but then he reached out and took the man’s hand, shaking it firmly.
‘Honoré Lechasseur.’ His eyes were still smarting from the light. Nevertheless, he managed a brief appraisal of the man in front of him. He was certainly not the sort of man he would usually associate with the police; he looked uncomfortable standing there in the cell. But something told Honoré that there was much more to Newman than was immediately apparent. He had the air of someone foppish and well-to-do, but Lechasseur could see beyond that to the cool intellectual hiding beneath, and knew he would be foolish to dismiss him; Newman had seen things, and, like Honoré himself, he knew the world.
Honoré steeled himself and looked the other man in the eye. ‘I believe there’s been a case of mistaken identity. Your officers seem to have taken me for a dog.’ He let that hang.
Newman looked pained. ‘Indeed.’ He paced a couple of times in front of Lechasseur. ‘I think it best we take a short trip back to the Yard. We can collect your lady friend on the way.’
Honoré smiled. At last, things seemed to be going a little more his way.
‘I believe Emily is in the next cell.’ He waved his hand, and Stokes, after a nod from his superior, disappeared to go and fetch her.
‘Ah, yes, Emily is it? I do apologise for the rather discourteous manner in which you’ve both been treated.’
Honoré rubbed his bruised face in reply. ‘Hmmm.’
‘I have a bottle of brandy back at the Yard. I’m sure you could do with a stiff drink and an opportunity to wash.’
There was a moment of silence as both men waited for Stokes to return with Emily. McEaseby snorted to himself from the other side of the room.
After a minute or two, there was a shuffle of feet from outside of the cell, and Newman beckoned to Lechasseur, indicating that he should step out into the passageway.
; Emily was waiting outside, with Stokes standing behind her, a look of disgust evident on his face. When she saw Honoré emerge from the gloom, she gasped in shock.
‘Oh Honoré, your face...’
Lechasseur smiled at her. ‘Don’t worry, most of it will wash away... I’ve been through worse.’ At that, Stokes raised an eyebrow at his superior.
‘Yes, well, let’s see what we can do to get you all cleaned up. Stokes,’ he looked at the other man pointedly, ‘have a carriage brought around to the front of the station, post-haste.’ Stokes shuffled for a moment from foot to foot.
‘Well, don’t keep me waiting, man.’
The small, shrew-like character scuttled away into the gloom.
Emily moved closer to Lechasseur and put a hand on his arm. ‘Are you really okay, Honoré? You look hurt.’
‘Just a few bruises. Nothing I can’t handle. The sooner we get out of here, the better, as far as I’m concerned.’
Emily nodded in agreement. ‘And then we need to talk. I’ve been thinking all night about that severed man. I’ve got a few ideas...’
Honoré stopped her mid-sentence with a gesture of his hand. ‘Not now. Later.’ He nodded at Newman, who was waiting for them at a polite distance. ‘Let’s find out what we can here before we make any more plans.’
‘But...’
‘Come on, we’re off to New Scotland Yard.’
They caught up with Newman and skipped up the short flight of steps towards the main part of the police building. Newman held the door open for them as they passed through.
A number of the constables who had beaten Lechasseur the previous evening were sitting around a table behind the main desk, playing cards. Newman cast his eye over them.
‘Quiet day, lads?’ It was obvious from his tone that he was far from impressed.
One of the men looked up, the contempt clearly evident in the set of his jaw. When he saw Lechasseur standing beside Newman, he sneered. ‘Off to the Yard are you? Saving us the bother of questioning him, eh, boss?’ The others sniggered. Newman stood for a moment, glaring at him, barely containing his anger. His face flushed. Then he turned around and marched out of the door, his back to the laughter of the other men.
Emily and Lechasseur followed close behind him.
Outside, their carriage was waiting. The morning sun was bright in their eyes after the darkness of the holding cells, and both Emily and Honoré had to shield their faces as they clambered up into their seats.
Presently, the snap of a whip indicated they were on their way, and the two of them sat back, exhausted.
Newman, sitting opposite, didn’t speak for the entire time it took to make their way across the city to New Scotland Yard.
The building was a massive, imposing structure that sat on the bank of the Thames, overlooking the sprawling metropolis of the Victorian capital. Emily, climbing down from the carriage, took in the view with some surprise.
‘Honoré, it looks... different, somehow. More grand, more stately.’
Newman smiled at her with a look of pride, misunderstanding her comment as a comparison with the original Scotland Yard, from which the Metropolitan Police had moved some two years earlier, in 1890.
‘It’s magnificent, isn’t it?, Fifteen thousand men operate from inside this building, working day and night to keep the city safe from criminals and madmen.’
Lechasseur smiled at Emily, wincing momentarily as his bruised face cracked with the movement. He knew as much as anyone about the changing face of the city. ‘Come on. Let’s go and get cleaned up.’
They followed Newman slowly inside.
After they had both been given the opportunity to wash and freshen themselves up, Newman guided them through a maze of corridors to his small office on the building’s second floor, pausing only to collect a plain manila file from one of his colleagues. His room smelled somewhat stale, like it was rarely used but cleaned regularly, so that the bleach and soap had worked their way into the surfaces, giving the place an atmosphere that reminded Honoré of the inside of a hospital. He wrinkled his nose as they stepped inside.
Newman bade them take a seat, while he shuffled around in a filing cabinet behind his large, impressive desk then produced a small bottle of brandy with a flourish and a smile. He made his way over to a small sideboard beside the window, where he rooted out three mugs and poured each of them a measure of the strong liquor.
As he handed them their drinks, apologising for the lack of glasses, Emily stood and took in the view from the window, looking out over the river below as it stretched away, snaking its way through the city like a long and muddy snake. People stood on a platform by the edge of the water, waiting to take a ride in the boats that shunted their way up and down the waterway throughout the course of the day.
Honoré watched her for a moment. The sunlight was dappling her face, and her petite form was now wrapped in a long, elegant Victorian dress that Newman had arranged for one of the maids to provide whilst they washed. He wondered, for a brief moment, what it was about this young lady that had caused their lives to become so entangled, that had sparked such a bizarre symbiotic relationship, which, somehow, had caused them to end up in the office of a Scotland Yard detective in the middle of Victorian London. He almost shook his head in disbelief.
He turned to Newman. ‘So, why are we here?’
The other man looked a little startled at the abruptness of the question.
‘Well, it’s, erm...’
Emily turned away from the window to watch them both, her fingers curled around the sides of her mug. She took a small sip of her brandy, and shivered as it spread tickling fingers of warmth down throughout her body.
‘The thing is... there’s been another murder.’
Honoré seemed suddenly to snap to attention. ‘When?’
‘Whilst you were already in custody. Last night.’ Newman opened the file that had been handed to him by his colleague, and consulted the notes therein. ‘The second victim, a man in his fifties, was found dead at around three o’clock this morning, killed in an almost identical manner to the unfortunate chap that you happened upon last night.’
Lechasseur looked evenly at Newman. ‘So, when we’re done here, we’re free to go? I presume you won’t be intending to question us further after this second incident?’
Newman smiled, softly, although Emily could see that he was feeling a little tired and strained. ‘Quite.’ A pause. ‘Although I would appreciate it if you could enlighten me a little as to the circumstances that led up to your rather... sorry encounter with the officers last night. May help with the investigation, you see.’ He stroked his neat moustache as he spoke, and when he had finished, picked up his mug of brandy and helped himself to a brief, stiff drink.
Emily looked at Honoré, who seemed to have glazed over and was staring into the middle distance, somewhere just over Newman’s shoulder. Hurriedly, she tried to catch Newman’s attention.
‘Of course, Inspector, we’ll do whatever we can to help.’ She paced across the room and took a seat beside Lechasseur, placing her drink on the edge of the desk before her. She looked at Newman, nodding for him to continue.
He did so, hesitantly. ‘Recently, the killer seems to have increased the frequency of his attacks. There have been twelve in total, all in different areas of the city, all without witnesses or any substantial form of evidence. The trail was absolutely cold. That is, until the two of you came along.’ He looked over at Lechasseur, who blinked, suddenly, and met his gaze.
‘But there’s very little we can add to that, I’m afraid. Your constable was already at the scene when we arrived. We were responding to his whistle.’
‘Ah. Yes, well. If we’re speaking frankly, you know as well as I do that the constable in question was just a boy. And an inexperienced boy at that. When I questioned him on the topic this morning, h
e said that you appeared to know a great deal about the victim and the manner in which the murder had occurred.’
Honoré glanced at Emily, unsure how much to give away.
‘I was in the army for many years. I saw a lot of death, and I picked up a lot of experience in the field. I know how to evaluate a situation.’
‘Ah, a military man.’ Newman nodded, as if that statement alone explained away all his many questions. He turned back to Lechasseur. ‘Honestly, what do you believe occurred in the alleyway in the moments before you arrived? I mean, have you any inkling as to who, or what, may have been responsible for making that mess?’
It was Honoré’s turn to hesitate. ‘Well, some sort of beast, obviously. But I’m sure it can’t have been a dog. And then there’s the fact that you keep referring to a killer. From that, I presume you are under the impression that whatever this beast is, it’s being controlled by a man, a man who is targeting certain individuals, marking them out to be killed?’
‘That’s the line of enquiry we’re currently pursuing, yes.’ Newman inclined his head in affirmation..
‘So, we’re looking for a man with some sort of exotic beast or animal. There can’t be that many of them in London at this time... at the moment. Is there a circus nearby, or a stage show?’
‘Nothing.’ Newman hesitated. ‘But there is something else.’
He reached into the file and withdrew a small card, about the size of a typical playing card. He placed it face up on the surface of the desk in front of them. Emily reached over and picked it up.
When she saw the image on the front of the card, Emily dropped it with a sharp gasp.
Newman, feigning concern, took this in with an inquisitive interest. ‘My dear, are you quite all right?’
Emily sat back and tried to steady herself.
Lechasseur reached over and picked the card off the floor, glancing at the picture as he did so. It was the image of a horned devil, sitting atop a pillar, its two subjugated human slaves naked and chained by its feet. Pentacles and other sinister runes and symbols adorned its semi-naked form. The image itself had an almost cartoon-like quality to it, as if it were some sort of terrible caricature, yet it nevertheless chilled Lechasseur, stirring something quiet and cold within him. He looked up at Newman and placed the card carefully back on the desk. ‘Why are you showing us this?’
