by Skye Knizley
“Enter, Miss MacLeod,” he rumbled. “Brother Malachi has found something I think you will find interesting.”
He stood aside, allowing the much smaller woman to squeeze past and enter the spartan office beyond. Malachi was already seated in one of the mismatched leather chairs, a collection of newspaper clippings spread in front of him on the Father’s desk. He gave her a shy smile and gathered a thick book from the empty chair next to him, offering her a seat.
“Sit down, sit down,” Father William said, closing the door behind them and moving behind his desk to sit in the large overstuffed chair. “Malachi was just getting to the interesting bits, I am sure.”
Malachi opened his mouth, closed it again, and nodded. He sorted through the pile of clippings and lined several of them up side by side. Chastity leaned forward to look at the headlines. The first read ‘Head Found in Thames’, next to ‘Severed Arm Found in Whitechapel’, and finally, ‘Woman’s Leg found in Hyde Park.’
Malachi let her look at them for a moment before speaking, using the tone of voice he usually used to instruct newcomers to the Order.
“These are all within the last three months. The first article is from the Times, the second from the Daily Telegraph and the final is from the Morning Post,” he said. “The Yard has opened an investigation, but as you can see from the articles there are three different inspectors assigned to the cases.”
“Why is that?” Chastity asked, puzzled. “It would seem if there are dismembered bodies in the city, they are related in some manner. There cannot be three monsters with the same taste running about.”
“I tend to agree,” Malachi said, gathering the clippings. “Scotland Yard, however, seems to think otherwise.”
Chastity nodded and turned her gaze to Father William.
“Even though it seems the Yard is wasting resources, I am not certain what this has to do with the Order of St. Raphael,” she said.
“Malachi believes these crimes may be related to a similar series of murders that occurred some years ago in Ingolstadt,” William said. “The killer was never found in those cases, though he left more than enough animated corpses to strike terror into the populace.”
Malachi bounced in his chair like a child at Christmas. “Indeed! The local newspaper reports a severed hand walking through the library on four fingers! It took the constabulary ages to catch and destroy the wily little devil!”
Chastity stared at William for a moment, then half turned to look at Malachi.
“I’m sorry, are you saying the human body parts found in Ingolstadt were able to move on their own?” she asked.
“According to reports, yes,” Malachi said. “The implications are fascinating!”
“Malachi’s excitement notwithstanding, if someone in London is attempting to replicate the Ingolstadt experiments, then the crime definitely falls within Church jurisdiction,” William interjected, dampening Malachi’s enthusiasm.
Chastity folder her arms and arched an eyebrow. “I assume I am being briefed because I am investigating the case?”
William nodded and turned to the chalkboard behind him where he wrote “Severed Head” in the empty box next to Chastity’s name.
“With your success with Arachnea last night, you are the only operative not on assignment or in the infirmary,” he said. “I suggest you start with the latest crime scene, which I believe was a severed head found in a bag floating down the Thames. The Times article says a Mr. Marlow Locke found the bag yesterday afternoon. Start with him and see where the investigation takes you. I expect you to keep me apprised of any developments, otherwise you are on your own.”
Malachi handed a slim barrister’s file to Chastity and said, “This is everything I have found so far. Maybe you can piece the jumble together and find a lead or three.”
Chastity took the file and stood. Father William dismissed her with a nod while Malachi gave her a serious look and said, “Good luck, Chastity. The Swiss never found anything and two of their best investigators went missing during the investigation. I would be upset if the same happened to you.”
Chastity smiled back. “Don’t fret, Malachi, I shall start at once and not leave you…upset.”
She turned and left, closing the door behind her and leaving the two men to speak in hushed tones.
She returned through the passageways to her room, where she left the thick file. She would peruse the contents later, if time allowed. For now, time was of the essence. She packed a small notebook, her press card, and the latest article, then climbed back up to the sacristy and left the church. She stepped out into a bright London morning for once free of the ever-present fog that clung to the city like lichen. A coach was waiting not far away and she was able to hire it to take her to Mr. Locke’s lodgings on Surrey Lane. The coachman helped her down just shy of eleven o’clock and she offered him a three shilling tip.
“Why so much, Miss?” he asked with a crooked smile.
“Would you be so kind as to wait?” Chastity asked. “I have business here, but will need a ride after. I will pay you three more upon my return.”
“Six shillings for a ride, Miss? I shall be here when you return, aye.”
Chastity handed him her parasol and walked up the short staircase to the building indicated as being the home of Marlowe Locke. The red brick structure stood three stories high with the first floor occupied by a pub that was still shut for the night. The location was one of the better addresses on this end of the city and the young investigator was surprised Mr. Locke was able to afford the rent. The Times article had suggested he was a fisherman who sold his products from the back of a cart, which should put him firmly within the impoverished of the city.
With her curiosity piqued, Chastity passed the entrance to the public house and continued down the short green-painted hallway to a narrow spiral staircase. She climbed to the second floor where she found three apartment doors. She knocked on the one labeled “M. Locke”, and waited for a few heartbeats before a strong voice called out, “Who’s there? I won’t talk to any more news people!”
Chastity raised her voice to be heard through the thick wooden door. “Mr. Locke? My name is Chastity MacLeod. I am not with any news service, I’m with Newgate Christ Church. May I have a few minutes of your time?”
The door opened a crack and a man peered out with one bloodshot eye. “The church? What does the church want with the likes o’ me? I’ve done nothin’!”
Marlowe Locke turned out to be a middle-aged man with close-cropped grey hair and an anemic mustache clinging to his lip like an old fungus. He was dressed in a loose cotton work shirt with grey trousers held in place with matching braces. A small pipe was clenched in what few teeth still remained in his head and he smelled of an odd mixture of tobacco and fish.
“Good morning, Mr. Locke,” Chastity said with a warm smile. “May I come in?”
Marlowe looked Chastity up and down before opening the door to his apartment. Chastity entered past him and moved into the single room beyond, which seemed to be the entirety of Mr. Locke’s home. The apartment was almost bare of furnishings, containing only a small wooden table, a potbellied stove that belched heat through its red-glowing door, a pair of chairs that had seen better days and a small bed. The rest of the room was occupied with piles of discarded clothing, fishing gear, and stacks of old newspaper, the latter likely used to wrap the fish Mr. Locke caught to make his living.
Behind her, Marlowe closed the door and latched it before walking into the room. Chastity noticed he walked with a pronounced limp and by the dull thump of his gait she reasoned he had lost his left leg some years before. She watched him take a seat at the table beneath the window, his hooded eyes looking at everything except the young woman standing in the middle of his home.
“What can I do for you, Miss MacLeod?” he asked. His voice sounded hoarse from smoking.
Chastity again smiled, trying to put the aged fisherman at ease. “I read the article in the Times about the
object you found in the river yesterday,” she said. “My church would like to help identify the body so the remains can be given a proper burial and the soul laid to rest. I was hoping to ask where you found it and perhaps obtain a physical description of the victim.”
Locke nodded and extended his left leg out in front of him, rubbing just above his knee as if it pained him.
“I would like to see the poor lass get a right proper burial,” he rasped. “No one deserves what was done to ‘er. I’m not sure what good a description would do ye, though.”
“I am a rather good artist, if I do say so myself,” Chastity said, waving her small notebook. “If you allow me, I will try to sketch your description until you are satisfied with it, and then use the rendering to identify the victim.”
“You can draw what I tells ye?” Locke asked.
“If you will allow me, yes,” Chastity said. “May I sit?”
Locke waved Chastity to the chair opposite him. She sat under his watchful gaze and tried not to be irritated at the look in his eyes.
“Let us begin. First, where did you find the remains?”
Locke cleared his throat and leaned forward to watch Chastity write.
“Like I told the Blue-Bottles yesterday, I says I was peddling fish near Billingsgate Market. Them posh bastards won’t let a fisherman like me in, so I leaves me cart at the end of Fish Street. The morning was warm so’s I decided to set a spell on the wharf, watch the water and try a cast er two. I was resting me crabshells an’ I kept hearing this noise, like a thump against the pegs below. I looked down and saw burlap floating in the water at the edge of the wharf. I used one of me poles to fish it out and that’s when I found the...the girl.”
Chastity made her notes about the location before asking, “Was there anything written on the burlap?”
“Aye, though just a couple o’ letters,” Locke said. “A J and an M.”
Chastity added that to her notes and frowned. “Mr. Locke, I have to ask you the hard questions now. Can you tell me what the victim looked like?”
Locke took a deep breath and sat back in his chair, watching Chastity for a moment. When he spoke, his voice cracked and was barely above a whisper. It was evident the event had bothered him more than he wanted to admit.
“T’was a young girl,” he said. “The lass couldn’t have been older than you. Her skin was pale and she had short blonde hair, like it had been cut right orf.”
As Locke spoke, Chastity began drawing on her pad, starting with a basic woman’s face and filling in details as she queried Mr. Locke. After two hours of drawings, she was satisfied with the sketch and she showed it to Locke. On the page was a gorgeous young woman, in her early twenties with light hair, almond-shaped eyes and full lips. A small scar pulled her lips into a pout, making her face radiate a cherub-like innocence.
“Is this her, Mr. Locke?” Chastity asked. “The woman you found?”
Locke picked up the page and nodded, his fingers rubbing the paper with care.
“Aye, that’s the woman under the wharf. Ye can see why I say she didn’t deserve what happened to her. The lass had the face of an angel, so help me she did.”
Chastity took the page back with a soft smile and nodded.
“I do, Mr. Locke, and I will do all I can to make sure she gets a proper burial and her family is notified.”
Locke nodded, seeming to find some solace in Chastity’s words.
“Thank ye, Miss Macleod. I’ll rest better knowin’ she’s is bein’ looked after. Is there anything else I can do?”
Chastity stood and offered her hand. “No, Mr. Locke, I have taken enough of your time. Thank you so very much for your assistance.”
Locke stood as well, wincing at the pain in his knee. He shook Chastity’s hand and ushered her toward the door. He limped more than he had before the session began and Chastity let him lean on her. He opened the door and she stepped through, not looking back.
On the street, Chastity found her coachman, waiting as he had promised. He was reading the news and chewing on a piece of paper-wrapped fried fish, likely procured from the pub against which he leaned. He smiled when he saw Chastity exit the building and stuck the newspaper under his arm.
“Was it everything you hoped for, luv?” he asked with a laugh. “I nearly left, you were gone so long.”
Chastity counted three more shillings from her purse and handed them to him. “Mr. Locke was quite helpful, yes. I need to visit Steampacket Wharf, if you don’t mind.”
Becoming all business, the coachman opened the door and helped Chastity inside before hopping into the driver’s seat and urging his team into the road.
The ride across the city wasn’t long, and Chastity passed the time studying her drawing. The girl was indeed quite beautiful and appeared very young. Surely someone in the city would recognize such a face; with any luck someone was already looking for the girl and Chastity need but find them to connect those threads of the puzzle and identify her.
Lost in thought, Chastity didn’t notice when the coach had stopped and the driver leaned down to bang on the side to get her attention.
“Oi!” he called. “The wharf is just ahead, but the Blue-Bottles ‘ave the road blocked off, y’ell have to get out and walk the rest of the way, Miss.”
Chastity opened the door and stepped down onto the muddy street. The driver had stopped at the end of Fish Street near Billingsgate Market, one of the largest fish markets in London. Even this far away, the smell of fish and fish oil was almost overpowering.
Chastity blocked the stench with one hand and looked at the battered wooden barricades that had been erected to block the street. Beyond and toward the wharf, she could see uniformed police picking through the trash that had collected in the gutters that lined the street and carried waste to the river. She thanked the driver, handed him a few more coins and strode purposefully down the lane toward the barricades.
“Miss? You want me to wait again?” the driver called.
Chastity ignored the driver, her attention on the street ahead. There were unmanned barricades ahead as well as a dozen uniformed officers and she was far more interested in what they were doing than in her ride home. She walked around the wooden posts, picking her way through the debris the police had tossed aside in their random search of the gutters. None of the police noticed her at first as she made her way down the lane toward the wharf. As she reached the end of the lane and turned toward the market, however, one of the police looked up in surprise. She smiled at him and continued walking.
After a moment he found his voice and called out, “Miss? Miss this area has been cordoned by order of Inspector Price, you shouldn’t be here!”
Chastity turned to look at the young officer who was covered from the knees down in mud. She smiled again and strode toward him, notepad held in front of her like a shield.
“Yes, I was told I would find Inspector Price on the wharf. Could you direct me to him, please?”
“Now, Miss, the Inspector is a busy man,” the young officer said with a smile. “I’m Officer Clark, is there something I can do to assist you?”
Chastity extended a hand. “I am Chastity, from the Dispatch. I was hoping to ask the Inspector a few questions about the body you found…”
“Oh, no no no,” Officer Clark said, cutting her off. “No body was found, we’re still looking for the rest of her. No, all anyone has turned up so far is a human head and some discarded fish bones from the market.”
Chastity let her eyes tear up. “Oh, then I must have been misinformed. I was under the impression a body had been found and I was hoping to do a story for the morning edition. I do apologize, it’s just I thought this could be my chance!”
Clark smiled and patted her hand. “Nothing to apologize for, Miss. Perhaps the Inspector can assist you with the…part that we found and you can do your story on that. He is just at the end of the lane.”
Chastity made a show of dabbing her eyes. “Thank you. I will let
him know how helpful you have been.”
She gave a small smile and continued toward the tall figure that stood at the end of the lane near the water. He was watching the river as if he could make it give up the girl’s remains by sheer force of will. He turned when he heard Chastity approach.
“How did you get down here, Miss?” he drawled. “This area is under investigation by the police. You can enter the market by the side door; accommodations have already been made with the proprietor.”
Chastity paused, somewhat surprised by Inspector Price. Unlike the usual Scotland Yard Inspectors she had encountered, who tended to be small men with large egos, Price was tall with wide shoulders that tapered into a broad chest and narrow hips; blond hair peeked out from beneath an American style hat and his stormy-eyed gaze made Chastity pant beneath her corset.
Trying to ignore the melting sensation in her belly, Chastity smiled and stepped closer to him.
“Inspector Price, I presume? My name is Chastity Macleod. I was hoping to get some information on the remains found in the river yesterday, and Officer Clark thought perhaps you could help me.”
Price glanced at the officer up the hill then returned his gaze to Chastity. “Yes ma’am, I’m inspector Price. I’m not certain what a lady like you has to do with this case, though. I’m sure Clark can help you with whatever you need.”
“Oh! Well, I am with the London Dispatch and was hoping to do a story on you and your investigation,” Chastity lied. “May I ask what you are doing down here by the water?”
“I was watching the currents,” Inspector Price said. “I'm not interested in any press at this time. We’re still looking for the rest of the poor woman’s body. Once we have uncovered more, the Yard will release what information we can. Our first priority is finding the body and informing the girl’s family of her death.”
“I see,” Chastity said, pursing her lips. “And the currents have something to do with this?”
Price glanced at the river behind him and said, “Perhaps. I have to ask you to leave, Miss MacLeod, I've got a lot of work to do.”
