A Fever of the Blood

by Oscar de Muriel

  The street we went to was aptly named Shambles, and despite being a few steps from the sumptuous town hall it was a depressing sight: a long row of run-down shacks, some of them barely standing. Most of the windows were boarded up or covered with filthy rags, and the crumbling chimneys spat black smoke as the people warmed their lodgings with whatever fuel they had to hand.

  We marched down the slushy road, our shadows projected as long stripes by the single working street lamp. The few wretched occupants we encountered ran away when they saw us, shouting and swearing, a couple of them so intoxicated that they tripped and had to crawl to the safety of their dens; even a stray dog ran from us as quickly as its bony legs allowed. Some faces appeared behind the windows, peering at us with suspicious eyes, probably wondering if we were coming after them.

  Among the Shambles one building stood out, a storey taller than the rest and boasting the only full set of windows with their glass unbroken. The walls, though as dirty as the others, appeared to be thicker and stronger. This must have been considered the mansion of the block.

  ‘There’s nobody home,’ McGray said; all the rooms were in darkness. He knocked anyway, but the door gave way with a creak.

  Thatcher had brought a lantern, and when he lit it we saw what had been a thick latch, still boasting a mighty padlock. The iron had been ripped from the wood and was hanging by a single nail.

  We drew our weapons, and after a deep breath McGray kicked the door aside.

  Thatcher lit the room, revealing that the place had been turned upside down. Wrecked furniture, splinters and shards of glass lay all around.

  ‘We are not the first here,’ I mumbled. ‘Do you think that the Redfern woman left before this happened?’

  McGray assented. ‘Aye, hence the padlock. That doesnae look like a lock to put up when ye go out to buy tatties.’

  We stepped inside cautiously, probing every shadowy corner as the light moved around. McGray found an oil lamp on the floor, cracked but still working. He lit it and I saw him sniff the air.

  ‘Smells … herby here.’

  I agreed. ‘Like an apothecary’s.’

  ‘Look upstairs,’ McGray told the two chaps, ‘but be careful.’

  We searched the ground floor, kicking aside chairs and rubbish as we went. I recognized the smashed remains of a few bird cages; some black feathers still lay around. There was a large back room used as a pantry, entirely taken up by shelves and cupboards, once crammed with jars and bottles that now were shattered on the floor. Herbs, powders and unknown liquids were spread all over, giving off that strange musky smell.

  ‘See any foxgloves?’ McGray asked, but before I could answer we heard a piercing cry from upstairs, then hammering steps storming down.

  It was Kenny who’d screamed, and he came to us looking as pale as a ghost. ‘Sirs, you have to see the loft.’

  He rushed upstairs and climbed up through the hatch. We found Thatcher there, trembling as he shed light on the bizarre room.

  In its centre there was an enormous pewter pot, wide enough to have a bath in, but instead of water it was full of ashes and the charred remains of an outlandish collection of items. I recognized book covers, pieces of distorted clay figures and quite a few animal bones – I’d rather not speculate whether they had been burned dead or alive.

  That, however, was not what had made them scream. My eyes drifted to the opposite end of the loft, and I instantly felt a chill rising up my spine.

  A raven had been nailed to the wall, the poor bird’s blood dripping on to the wooden boards. Pinned to one of the wings there was a piece of paper, with the most horrendous message written in blood:

  You whores are next

  I KNOW

  Joel

  We all stood still for a moment, transfixed by those ghastly words and the sacrificed raven.

  I gulped and was the first one who managed to speak. ‘Nine-Nails … is this a spell? A ritual?’

  McGray looked at the pot. ‘Could be, but I doubt it. Looks more like someone was getting rid of evidence.’

  I walked closer to the bird and examined it carefully. ‘The blood is not congealed yet …’ I forced myself to touch the plumage with my fingertips and could not repress a gasp. ‘This is lukewarm! Lord Ardglass must have been here minutes ago.’

  McGray looked staggered.

  ‘Youse heard the dandy!’ he told the officers, not wasting a second. ‘Our man could be near. Go and search the surroundings. Knock on every door if need be. Come back here in half an hour if youse don’t find him.’

  Off they went. McGray and I stayed and rummaged through the cold ashes, but everything there had burned beyond use. If they had been attempting to destroy any evidence, they had done so quite effectively.

  I did, however, find something fresh on the floor: a shattered bowl which had contained sugar and a red onion, the root squashed by someone’s muddy boot.

  ‘Look at this,’ I said. ‘That charm we keep finding … It was also in Oakley’s bedroom.’

  McGray took a good look. ‘I’m more and more convinced it’s a protection charm. No other reason the witches would have it as well … And it explains why Joel would’ve trampled on it.’

  I arched an eyebrow. ‘It makes no sense. Were they trying to protect Ardglass? And now he is chasing and killing them?’

  I was going to elaborate, but McGray pointed at the broken bowl.

  ‘What’s that?’ he asked. Next to the shards of clay there was an envelope.

  I picked it up and my pulse hastened. ‘It looks like the envelope Ardglass asked me to hand him at Oakley’s house.’

  ‘I’ll have to trust ye; I didnae see it properly.’

  I looked at it more closely but I did not need to ponder for long. Our horrible encounter with Lord Ardglass was imprinted on my memory; I could almost hear his voice demanding the envelope, feel my hand pulling it from beneath the black cat. Every detail rushed back to me, even the touch of the paper in my hand. ‘This is it, I am certain,’ I spluttered, opening it, ‘but – damn! It is empty.’

  Nine-Nails frowned, looking around, and our eyes fell on the raven and the bloody note nailed to it at the same time. I held the envelope up, next to the blood-smeared warning. The papers were the exact same yellowy shade, the exact same texture.

  ‘Envelope and letter cut from the same sheet!’ said McGray. ‘Of course! A fugitive wouldnae carry pen and paper, so he used whatever he had to leave his message …’

  McGray was right. He pulled the paper from the wall and turned it over to reveal cramped lines of handwriting.

  ‘What was written on there that was so important to him?’ I asked, as McGray brought the gas lamp nearer.

  ‘It’s signed by Redfern. “Miss R”, just like the telegram.’

  We read it in silence. It was an ordinary, seemingly routine communication: Redfern stated that her ‘business’ was doing well and that the winter was setting in.

  However, reading on, embedded in one of the middle sentences, was the key:

  … Last night I saw an old man of the Lancaster gentry. He brought good business but was aghast to come round. I bet the likes of him rarely set foot in a place like Shambles St …

  ‘That’s how damn Joel found them,’ McGray said, pointing to the line. ‘Redfern gave away the name of her street. A terrible mistake to write that down …’

  We satisfied ourselves there was nothing else of relevance in the loft, and went downstairs. McGray was restless and walked out to the street, and I followed him solely because the house was as cold as outside.

  I saw that there was light coming from the adjacent shack, where McGray had already gone. He knocked but did not wait for a reply; he simply opened the brittle door, which had no lock, and entered the one-room dwelling.

  There we found a very malodorous woman, whose face was so dirty I could not possibly guess her age. She jumped into a corner, crouching on a filthy old mattress and covering her face, as if the very light of
the lantern hurt her.

  ‘Leave me alone! I haven’t done nothing! Nothing!’

  ‘We’re not gonnae harm ye,’ McGray said, as gently as he could. ‘We just need to ask ye a few questions.’

  ‘You peelers always say that!’

  ‘How do you know we are – peelers?’

  ‘Your boys just came here. I’m not a fool. You’re looking for her. But I don’t know nothing.’

  ‘Give ’er a sixpence,’ McGray told me.

  ‘Excuse me?’

  However, the woman had already uncovered her face, and her eyes lit up as I tossed the coin into her hands.

  ‘Do you know the woman who lives next door?’ I asked.

  ‘Aye … I mean, I’ve seen them.’

  ‘Them? Who else lives there?’

  ‘No one else, but the hag gets loads o’ visitors …’ Her mouth twisted. ‘Clients.’

  ‘What sort o’ clients?’ McGray asked.

  ‘All sorts. Gentlemen, ladies, washerwomen …’ Her tone darkened as she confirmed our suspicions. ‘She did dirty works for them. Everybody around here knows she’s a witch.’

  McGray could have punched the air in triumph, but I was not excited at all. I only asked dryly: ‘And she surely charged good money for her services?’

  ‘Oh yes! How else could she have such a fine house?’

  I felt sorry for the woman. To her, any brick building with more than one room was a palace.

  McGray leaned forwards. ‘Did ye see her receive many clients lately?’

  ‘A few, as usual, but it all went quiet yesterday afternoon. Last person I saw going in there was a young woman.’

  ‘Did ye get a proper glimpse? What did she look like?’

  She shrugged. ‘About as tall as me’ – so medium height for a woman – ‘kind of skinny, brown hair, lil’ too fancy for this neighbourhood, if you know what I mean. And very fidgety. She kept looking round when she knocked. Well, most folk coming to her look nervous.’

  ‘She sounds like our lass,’ said McGray. ‘How come they’re not here any more? Did ye see them leave?’

  ‘Yes. A couple of hours after the lass arrived they both left with their bags. Looked like they were going on a trip. T’was all very hasty.’

  ‘Do you have any idea where they might have gone?’

  ‘No, no. I never had any dealings with her. She’s a witch, I told you.’

  ‘After they left,’ I said, ‘did you see who broke in?’

  ‘Ye must have seen,’ McGray stressed. ‘It happened in the last hour. And ye must’ve heard too. These walls o’ yers are paper thin.’

  The woman hesitated. ‘Well, I saw a man go in, but …’

  ‘What?’

  She shuddered. ‘He saw me sticking my head out the window. My Lord, he had those dreadful red eyes; I thought he was the Devil. And he shouted at me, “Mind your own business, bitch!” Then I heard hurly-burly in the house, smashing glass and things thrown round. I didn’t look again. You see, this isn’t the nicest place to live; we learn very soon to stay out of trouble.’

  ‘Indeed,’ I said. I gave her another sixpence and just as we left we saw Thatcher trotting back. Kenny was nowhere to be seen. I was going to ask about him, but then I saw that Thatcher was pulling a young boy by the arm. The child’s filthy face reminded me of our own Larry, the former chimneysweep who now helped my housekeeper.

  Thatcher was panting, his bursts of steaming breath glowing in the lantern’s beam. ‘This boy says he saw a man leaving the witch’s house.’

  McGray extended his palm at me and I had to give him another coin. I had run out of sixpences and all I had to give him was a shilling. He did not give it out straight away but waved it in front of the boy.

  ‘See this, laddie? The more ye tell us – so long as it’s true – the sooner this’ll be in yer pocket.’

  The boy sneered, an expression that did not belong on a child. ‘You speak funny, mister.’

  McGray laughed. ‘Well, if ye don’t want it …’ But before he could shove the coin into his pocket the boy jumped forwards.

  ‘He went to the shipyards!’

  ‘How can ye tell?’

  ‘He ran to Wood Street and he was carrying a big bag.’

  ‘Not exactly conclusive,’ I remarked.

  ‘No,’ Thatcher jumped in, ‘but I sent Kenny down that road. If we run, we can –’

  Nine-Nails had already tossed the shilling into the boy’s grimy hands and was running towards the main road. ‘Take us there, Thatcher!’

  ‘Your loss,’ said the child, pocketing the coin and running away as soon as the policeman let go of him.

  I sighed, looking at the receding shadows of Nine-Nails and Thatcher. ‘Come on, Ian,’ I told myself as I sprinted off. ‘At least this will keep you warm …’

  20

  The wind now blew mightily, whistling as we raced along the gloomy, icy streets. More than once I felt my feet skidding on the hardened snow and managed to keep my balance by sheer good luck.

  ‘Skerton Shipyard,’ Thatcher announced as the narrow alley broadened.

  Before us were curved embankments descending sharply to the River Lune. The waters were turbulent under the harsh wind, large waves crashing against the brick walls of the banks.

  We stopped to look around, but the road along the river was deserted. Any workers would have run for shelter after dusk. In front of us were the open gates of the shipyard, where a mass of scaffolding clustered around two unfinished hulls.

  Next to this there was a line of sad brown warehouses along the piers and docks, their windows like little glowing squares reflected on the choppy waters. Any of them would be a feasible hideaway.

  ‘Where do we go now?’ I panted, but then the wind brought the answer.

  ‘More policemen!’ a man yelled in the distance, and then we heard a second voice, a woman’s, begging for help.

  A man came running up to us, his arms flailing. He waved at us desperately, beckoning us to follow. ‘There’s a wounded peeler! Hurry!’

  So we did, and not a minute later we found a young woman kneeling by a man’s broken body. We instantly recognized him as Kenny.

  There was a nasty blow on his forehead, to which the lady was pressing a now sodden handkerchief. His eyes were wide open and spasms shook his hands and feet.

  Thatcher blew his whistle once and again, the call cutting the air like a clean knife, as McGray and I kneeled down beside Kenny.

  ‘Ye all right?’ McGray asked.

  ‘What a stupid question,’ I said. ‘Let me look at that wound. I am a doctor …’

  ‘Nae, ye never graduated.’

  I glared at him. ‘Do you honestly want to discuss that right now?’

  I carefully pulled the cloth away to see the bashed skin. The blood flowed instantly.

  ‘Well done,’ I told the woman. ‘Keep up the pressure. We need –’

  Kenny’s quivering hand grasped mine. The young man seemed fully conscious. He opened his mouth and gagged. I was going to tell him to relax but then his words came out: ‘He went there.’

  He raised his arm to point at one of the nearby buildings, less than a hundred yards away. It was a very old warehouse with small windows boarded up, and it looked no different from all the similar structures surrounding it.

  McGray leaped to his feet and ran towards it. I protested, but then Thatcher dropped the whistle and chased after him. In a blink I was left with a wounded officer and two confounded passers-by.

  I heard the swift steps of another officer, the only one who’d responded to Thatcher’s call, approaching at full speed.

  ‘Help these people to a hospital,’ I barked, showing him my badge, and before he could ask any questions I ran to the old warehouse, following the light of Thatcher’s lantern.

  I cannot believe I got there so quickly, for I could still hear the echo of the battering McGray was giving the front door. There was a final creak of collapsing wood and then I saw th
e light vanish into the decrepit building.

  The twenty steps that I still had to run felt like an eternity, but I finally made it to the entrance. Before stepping in I looked back and managed to glimpse the policeman and the man moving Kenny, the terrified lady following close behind. I felt terribly guilty for leaving them to their own devices, but the sound of frantic steps from the darkened warehouse reminded me of all that was at stake.

  I looked inside, but the place was so dark I could see only patches of unpaved ground. The light of the street lamps filtered through the gaps between the window boards, barely enough to reveal an enormous storeroom, entirely empty. A wide timber staircase was its sole feature. I did not like all the shadows around me, and readied my weapon as I went further in, step by cautious step.

  The sound of more footsteps came from above, and then I heard a whistle of astonishment that could only have been uttered by McGray.

  I climbed the stairs, tripping twice in the almost total darkness, but then I saw the gleam of Thatcher’s lantern and my jaw dropped.

  The upper level was cramped with sacks, crates and barrels of all sizes, some of them piled up to the roof. I recognized the same herbal odour as in Redfern’s house, and also the stench of caged animals. I saw a few crows and cats, but also magpies, snakes and even a grey baboon. Next to their cages stood an intimidating African idol.

  ‘What is all this?’ I muttered. ‘Have you not found Ardglass?’

  ‘Doesn’t seem to be here, sir,’ said Thatcher, scrutinizing the scene with bewildered eyes.

  McGray, however, looked like a child in a sweetshop. I saw him tearing open a jute sack, from which he extracted a fistful of odd roots, which were naturally shaped as human bodies.

  ‘Asian ginseng,’ I said, utterly unimpressed.

  ‘Aye, an aphrodisiac. Very pricey.’ McGray moved to an open crate and rummaged through its contents.

  ‘McGray, if Joel is not here we should resume our search.’

  But Nine-Nails was not listening. He lifted a jam jar half filled with fresh leaves – and something that moved. I had to blink to make sure it was not an illusion: a tiny frog, with skin as yellow and bright as a lemon’s rind.