by S. L. Hawke
“Gentlemen, I would like you to meet Benedict Shaw-Jones of Her Majesty’s Secret Investigations Unit.”
“Look, I thought this was our investigation.” Andrew was sounding annoyed. I was pleased at his discomfort. My life was also on the line. Who was really in charge here? “Why are the English here?”
My thoughts as well.
“We are standing in the reason why. I thought you would have figured that out,” Lord Shaw-Jones snapped.
“We are at war—” Andrew started.
“With each other, which is hardly confidence inspiring.”
“We are trying to arrest traitors to our country and do not need your help!!!” Andrew was shouting. This was a rare treat. His Lordship rolled his eyes.
“Destabilization affects us all. Like it or not someday soon, if not already, we are in essence a global economic force.” Shaw-Jones raised his voice as if Andrew were hard of hearing or a small child.
“You’d better not try and take us back again; we will fight.” Andrew returned his verbal fire with an even louder voice. They began an exchange of insults, patriotism, and bullheadedness. Finally, Fergus got between the shouting young men and held up his hands.
“That’s enough! Please! Stop shouting.” Fergus’ hair seemed to curl a bit more. “We’ve got a huge problem, one that involves smuggling. Our internal struggles appear to be adding fuel to a larger fire. This isn’t about just Union and Confederate, but a black market that can quickly overtake a nation when it’s at its most vulnerable.”
Here I paused and said somewhat under my breath, because now all of this seemed remarkably clear, “Why use an army, why lay waste to resources, when all you have to do is cripple the government’s economy?” I put my hat back on my head, but the hole from my previous battle was getting larger. ”Invasion by insidiousness.”
“THANK YOU!” Shaw-Jones intoned loudly with that explosively deep voice of his.
“Shit,” Andrew replied, now understanding the ramifications of being a small town on the edge of a vigorous shipping route. “Just tell us what we can do to help.”
“Make sure you truly understand the nature of this joint endeavor. AND you are not to challenge my modus operando. Is that perfectly clear?” Shaw-Jones ordered. He winked at me.
“As crystal, sir!” Andrew added, not without some acid I might add. “And the Army’s position?”
“We are here to assist in the arrest and seizure of all persons, valuables, livestock, and other incidental equipment relevant to the operation and perpetuation of the criminal enterprise,” Fergus said with delight, it would seem. “I have a local inside who has been reporting to me at regular intervals.”
“Who?” I asked, and then it hit me. I wasn’t the only bug in that poker game’s web. Fergus played dead to blackmail someone at that poker game. Who got arrested?
“Faustino Lorenzana.” Fergus elongated the name’s vowels. Andrew started to chuckle.
“He is excellent at navigating this country. You do need this kind of backwoods knowledge. When in Rome—” Shaw-Jones began to say. “His Royal friendship is also an asset.”
“Has he known all along, too, that you are not dead?” I asked, mainly because the rage I felt towards him was still fresh. But this connection to Emma was something I could not fathom.
“Sloan, it is imperative that you do not let him know.” Fergus looked as if he were about to laugh. I sensed he had done something more deceptive than fake his death to bend Lorenzana to his will but decided that the best thing I could do was be ignorant of his connection’s extent. “Just know that he is reliable, believe me. He can be trusted with your life.”
How could Fergus know this for certain? How could any one of us know how we would offer ourselves up when the time came? How did Lorenzana know Emma?
“I have a job to do.” I turned around checking my pocket watch. It was already early evening. “We,” here I gestured to both Andrew and me, “are on the trail of someone who is killing whores.”
“Where?” Shaw-Jones asked with too keen an interest. “And how, if I may inquire? There is always a method.”
“Torture and abortion,” Andrew added.
“Flaying of the upper layer of skin?”
“How did you know that?” Now I was suspicious of this English. Here Shaw-Jones smiled flatly and with some sadness.
“I’ve seen this done before. In London.” Shaw-Jones straightened. “Prostitutes mostly. Someone working for the Royal Family. It was dealt with, quietly.” He swallowed. “How long and when did it commence?”
I filled the Lord in on Emma’s details and Cynthia’s plans. But Shaw-Jones was a step ahead.
“We have to proceed with the exhumation as soon as the twilight is gone. I suggest we go there now. We may be able to see if there are more burials than originally intended and hide, keep watch for whoever decides to add a new one.”
“The girls are scheduled to leave in an hour,” Andrew added.
“The killer probably waits until the whore is on her return journey. Sloan and I can do the photography. You can stand guard and keep an eye on whoever is stalking the women. Shall we?” Shaw-Jones made a gesture to remove ourselves from the den. I wondered about Emma. On our way out, I found her, however, speaking with Lam.
“Give me a moment,” I told Andrew and Shaw-Jones.
“Juan!” I called to her. She started at my voice, then walked over to a small alley away from anyone who could see her. Her face was covered. I decided to act like the aggrieved employer, in case anyone was paying attention. “Where the hell were you this morning? They’ve accused you of theft. My sister should not be exposed to such indiscretions. You do know what that means, boy?” The anger in my voice felt good to express. She ran away; I could not protect her.
“I’m sorry, sir. It won’t happen again.” She looked up at me but I could not tell if she were smiling under the kerchief that covered her face. Her voice certainly sounded as if she were smiling.
“The thieving or the running away?”
“I took nothing, sir.”
“This will stop. I will make sure of it. You will obey me.” Now I was the one to look away. I sounded like McKenna. “Just don’t do this again without telling me!” I said, trying not to scare her.
“Or what, pray tell, A.J.?” Her voice had mischief in it. “You will beat me?” The word beat implied something else by her tone. I simply stared at her.
“Right now, I have to do a job. But I will come after you and you will have to answer some questions, do you hear, boy?”
“I will submit myself to your…” Emma nodded, “– interrogation.”
This flirting was making me both intrigued and uncomfortable. Then when she saw no one was observing us, Emma whispered: “We are departing for the cemetery using the main road. Let us catch this monster.”
Gripping her small shoulder in a gesture meant to instill promise, I looked deep into her eyes. Thankfully, I heard my sister call for her. Emma departed with a quick run. Shaw-Jones came up alongside me.
“Hmm. Very persuasive indeed.”
“Shut up.” I adjusted my hat. “Let just get this done.”
8
The hillside above Evergreen Cemetery, Chinese entrance
“I found this path while out on my daily ride.” Shaw-Jones led us up the hill past the Mission, past another tannery, a dairy, and a farm to the side of a knoll that looked down upon the farmland I had taken the wagon through when Juan, I mean, Emma, and I had to travel to avoid the mess of a crowded downtown.
“Let’s hope we aren’t seen by the killer,” I grumbled. Andrew shifted in his saddle a bit more than usual, his wound still bothering him.
We took our horses along the narrow cart road that became a footpath. We came to an iron gate adorned with metal shapes that looked like a capital L but flipped over and joined at the stems. Ribbons and triangle flags adorned its sides.
“This is the mark of the Brethren,” Shaw-Jon
es explained.
“Brethren?” Andrew inquired.
“Some call them Triad. Here they have taken your Mason’s name.” Shaw-Jones pushed it open without dismounting. He closed it just as skillfully.
The myrtle bushes were thick, but we arrived at an old kiln, rebuilt to become an offering oven. The paddle-shaped, calligraphy-inscribed wooden grave markers that held the names of Chinese who died here, rose up around us like specters.
“Do you see that big stone gate?” Andrew said suddenly, making us jump in our saddles.
“What gate?” I asked, but the hairs on the back of my neck stood on end. I looked towards where he pointed but saw nothing. I squinted and something moved; like a sprite, it hopped down off an imaginary hillock and ran away.
“What? I thought I saw–” Andrew blinked a few times. “I swore I saw this grey stone Oriental Gate–” His hands made the traditional shape of pillars with an upside down arc to bridge the tops. “It was grey stone with red Chinese calligraphy written on it.”
Shaw-Jones was watching Andrew intently, then also looked down past the oven. A few wooden crosses, wooden headstone markers, and stones appeared scattered before us. Downhill into the main cemetery itself, a neat set of square plots and a few large, marble edifices of families here a decade previous gave a sense of order to the brambles overtaking the place.
Shaw-Jones’ deep voice began to drone, making us feel like we were in a ghostly legend. “I was here a few days ago, simply to observe bone pickers remove these Chinese remains, when I saw a most peculiar sight.”
“Go on,” Andrew prompted. It was hard not to hear the interest in his voice.
Here Shaw-Jones stopped his horse and pointed along the hillside in front of the path we were on. “I thought I saw a gathering of people here, all standing facing the hillside. They were clad in strange garments of many colors, some looked as if they were wearing only undergarments. Then as I took this path,” he eased his horse forward and we came into the center of the cemetery, its small stream choked with bushes and small bay trees. “I saw dark shadows in the shape of people, sitting along the side of one of those family plots.” Here he stopped and looked at us. “If I didn’t know it, I swear, they were sitting and taking refreshment.”
“Very funny,” Andrew snarled. Then he straightened and pointed down to the end of the cemetery just outside the rickety picket fence I had seen Emma go through when she disappeared inside the cemetery. A fresh mound of earth was piled there topped with a few red roses.
“Excellent,” Shaw-Jones said to himself. “Let us take advantage of this light.” He spurred his horse forward and we followed, uneasily, to the mound.
It was most definitely a whore’s grave. It was outside the fence and shallowly dug. The first thing Shaw-Jones did was take off his bulging saddlebags. He pulled out a black cloth upon which he lay a few items such as a long curved knife, large forceps, and other items that looked as if they were designed to cause pain. He even had a small saw.
“I’m gonna go over here,” Andrew said, coughing slightly. “I’ll keep an eye out for the whores.”
“If you are going to spew, I suggest you do it in the lane,” Shaw-Jones said as he continued to lay out his tools. “Sloan, please have your photo plate equipment ready.”
I grabbed Andrew and we brought out three of the small boxes used to capture images. We set them up for each angle: flat, overhead (with a special three-legged holder that went over the grave), and one to the side. I exposed the opening lens as I was taught while we waited a full three minutes to capture the image on the paper within. That was the first picture.
The dirt was soft and loose, and the smell of decay was faint because of it. But the rigidity of the arm, deeply purple in spots – and Shaw-Jones laid his fingers directly over the spots to show that they were, indeed, finger bruises on the poor girl’s arms – caused Andrew to do his ‘spew’ in the lane.
I was grateful that we kept her face covered. Shaw Jones quickly cut away her clothing. I was no stranger to this, as on board ship, we had to do such things if someone died. They were stripped of clothing, wrapped in a sheet and thrown overboard, while the precious clothing was washed and shared with the remainder of the crew. When he peeled back the corset and skirt, I wanted to run off and join Andrew at the lane, but instead I was riveted to the spot.
“This definitely was a botched abortion.” Shaw-Jones put on paraffin-coated gloves of silk and exposed the gashes in the abdomen, the fetal remains, and then to my horror, he peered closer and reached inside this nightmare and withdrew a single small, lead ball. He smiled.
“Well, well, this is far better than any whip mark. This, gentlemen, is a bullet to a small caliber gun. One specifically designed to be used at close range. Find the gun, and you will find the killer. These types of weapons are rare and the bullets few. I can do some tests to determine where it was made.” He gestured for me to take another photo plate. My hands shook as I struggled to set the camera up on the three legs so that the lens hung over the top of the body. Shaw-Jones had placed a small white paper upon which the bullet rested over the area where he had extracted it.
The light was fading fast now, so I held the lens open for 5 minutes.
“So what can you tell us?” Andrew came back to the grave. He looked like an apparition himself, his white face practically illuminating the last bits of precious light. Shaw–Jones quickly pulled away the clothing after taking the bullet and carefully wrapping it up and placing it inside a special box he had brought. The whore had bruising, both old and new, even I could see that.
Suddenly I saw a shape. It was incredibly cold.
“My God,” Shaw-Jones whispered. I turned to where he and Andrew were staring. A white figure radiated on the pathway we had just traveled upon. It was floating towards us. It had the shape of a man, but reminded me of Emma, dressed as Juan. It crouched suddenly, then stood again. The form became clearer, a woman, wearing spectacles, and a strange hat like a duck’s bill, with a narrow skirt? Or trousers? A terrible sense of yearning and sadness filled the air. Shaw-Jones suddenly stood and in his booming theatrical voice called out: “White Lady of Evergreen Cemetery, what do you seek?”
…Extension…
“Did you hear that?” Shaw-Jones questioned frantically. I nodded but it was dark. I had no words.
“Are you seeking an extension of your life? Or is the afterlife an extension of this life?” Shaw-Jones called out. The apparition faded.
“What just happened?” I whispered.
“That, my dear Mr. Sloan, was a full-bodied apparition. A ghost.”
We heard a thump. Andrew had fainted.
“Holy hell!” I whispered my exclamation. My hands were shaking from seeing the ghost. Shaw-Jones lingered for a moment at the spot of the ghost, then returned to me and with a dramatic wave of his hand, put a small vial under Andrew’s nose. He quickly woke, sputtering and coughing.
We heard voices. The women had arrived. There was Emma, dressed as Juan, with Camille from the hotel. They went inside the gate towards the center, then turned abruptly to come in our direction.
“The babes are buried up there,” Andrew whispered to both of us as he pointed to a dark, intimidating stand of redwood trees behind us.
Darkness was complete.
“I brought a lantern,” Andrew whispered.
“Keep it off.” Shaw-Jones joined us in our vigil. “Look.”
Camille had a lantern. So did Juan. They were leaving flowers on the graves and saying little. Camille was saying prayers in French.
Shaw-Jones pointed to another darker shape, human, and stalking the women.
A man had entered the cemetery.
Shaw-Jones pointed to an abandoned farmhouse. A small glimmer of a low fire had begun there. “That is the place,” he announced, deeply, as if it were the end of the world.
“It’s now or never A.J.,” Andrew said. I nodded. Shaw-Jones stopped both of us.
“Wa
it,” he said. “Let it be obvious first.”
“I’m not letting anyone get hurt,” Andrew protested.
More men moved towards the women. One remained behind a marble obelisk monument, while the other approached Camille.
“It’s a dark evenin’ to be out this late.”
I’d heard that voice before. It was the Sheriff.
*****
Emma had squatted down near a myrtle bush and waited. Camille and she had not seen anyone follow them to the cemetery. Perhaps they had been warned off, or they had found out from someone who had betrayed Cynthia’s trust that the Marshal had set a trap for the killer. Camille prayed, being Catholic, but she was not frightened. Emma was glad to do her part and amazed that Camille had volunteered to help them. “I hear that The White Lady haunts all who visit here,” Camille said in French. Emma also could speak French. Though no one was in the cemetery, they spoke in whispers.
“Yes, I have never seen her, but I have seen strange shadows carrying bags, or pushing wheelbarrows, as if they were caring for the place when others could not.”
Camille giggled, a sound out of place here. “Would that their efforts could have earthly effects.”
The sound of footsteps came near.
“It’s a dark evenin’ to be out this late.” The Sheriff’s voice greeted them. Emma gasped. “You – greaser – out here where I can cuff you.”
“Run, Juan!” Camille screamed. The Sheriff had a club in one of his hands. He raised it up to strike Camille. Emma was ready to counter and strike his belly, when Camille suddenly raised her skirt and kicked out.
The toe of her boot held a knife tip. It embedded itself under the chin of the Sheriff.
“U.S. MARSHALS!” Andrew came out of the darkness, yelling. There was a scuffle in the distance, and a man screamed in pain. Emma could not see beyond the reach of her lamp. Camille lowered her toe and there was the quivering body of the Sheriff as he gargled on his own blood. Using her free foot, Camille stepped on his flailing hand as he tried to grab her ankle and removed her toe dagger from his throat.
