Mersey Dark

by Michael Whitehead

  Tanner twisted, rolling onto his back and kicked out with a booted foot. The creature came at him with its tender midriff exposed and the boot drove the wind out of it. It was a moment’s respite as the rat came straight back in to attack again.

  Tanner punched hard at its face, feeling the side of his hand scrape against the razor sharp teeth, drawing blood and rocking the monster’s head back. He grabbed at its throat, pushing back but the thing was massively strong. It breathed into his face as it tried to bring its teeth to bare. Tanner felt the strength leaving his arms and he wondered why none of his men were helping him. Then there was a bang and the monster flopped forward, limp in his hands.

  “Fortuitous timing, wouldn’t you say, Detective?” Templeton said, as he stood on the deck of the ship with a smouldering pistol in his hand. Two of the men pulled the body of the rat off Tanner’s legs and Templeton offered him a hand, which he took.

  “Never a truer word spoken, my friend,” Tanner said, brushing himself down and turning to his men. Spread out, stay in pairs and make sure there are no more of those bloody things about. Someone check if any of the men are still breathing.” Tanner looked at the bodies on the ground, he was sure they were all dead, their injuries were too bad for them to be otherwise. “Cover them up after you’ve checked them,” he added as an afterthought.

  He turned to Templeton, “You have a knack of turning up when you’re most needed. Is it worth my asking exactly how you knew where we were?”

  Templeton simply smiled and tilted his head to one side, an answer without an answer.

  The sounds of the riot could still be heard but if Tanner was any judge the fight was smaller than it had been.

  “How is it out there?” Tanner asked.

  “The strike breakers ran a few moments before I entered the docks. The sounds you hear are your fellow police officers rounding up the remains of the dock workers,” Templeton replied.

  “Ran? Why?”

  “I wondered that much at the time, now I see what has happened in here I can make a good guess,” Templeton answered, looking down at Captain Aspinal’s body. The blood that had spilled from the man’s throat was now drying, turning black.

  “You think they ran when the captain died?” Tanner asked.

  “I’m almost certain of it, Detective.” Templeton walked toward a small stack of sail cloth that was leaning against the main mast. He removed a square and unfolded it, then laid it across Aspinal’s body.

  Tanner looked out toward the final sounds of fighting outside on the street, then he looked back to the bodies of the rat-men on the deck.

  “You’re telling me that the men out there knew what was happening in here?” he asked.

  “There is no doubt in my mind,” Templeton said. “I have much to tell you about the things I have learned in the last few days.”

  “I have a few things to tell you as well, my friend,” Tanner replied. “Have you heard the name Davidson by any chance?”

  “The name has been mentioned,” Templeton replied.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Danny Jessops crouched low over the stock of his shotgun, as he stalked through his master’s grand house. His boots left dirty footprints on the fine carpets that the maids might have had a time cleaning off, were they not already dead. Normally the gamekeepers would not be allowed in any part of the house except the kitchen, but this was not a normal day.

  He had woken as usual at first light, rubbing sleep out of his eyes as he looked out across the mist-shrouded estate from the door of his cottage. He had washed, dressed in the tweed gamekeepers uniform, and walked up to the back of the house. Mrs. Fleming, the house cook had placed a plate of bread and eggs in front of him which he had devoured.

  Normally he would have spent the day running errands and doing all the dirty jobs Mr. Jameson, the head gamekeeper needed him to do. The man was a dour Scotsman with a shock of white hair who had worked for Sir Thomas Richmond since he was a boy. Now he was the second oldest person on the estate, junior only to Sir Thomas himself. Age had recently sent Mr. Jameson to his bed and Danny had found himself taking up the role of head gamekeeper.

  The days were long, from sunrise to well after dark most days. Doing everything from keeping poachers off the grounds, to catching fresh game for the masters dinner. The work was hard but the air was clean and earning a regular wage was nothing to be sniffed at.

  Danny had hopes that his new responsibilities might mean a permanent position as head gamekeeper, but age and experience were against him. Until he had been bedridden Mr. Jameson had taught Danny a lot. The man might be sour-faced, but he was eager enough to impart his wisdom. The trouble was that with every fresh piece of country lore Danny learned he became aware how little he actually knew. He was twenty five years old, and had the impression it would take the same amount of years to learn everything Mr. Jameson had to teach him.

  After his breakfast, Danny had set off on a scout of the grounds. Mr. Jameson had always insisted that he take time to learn the lay of the land. He would point out that the grounds were constantly changing, the wildlife, the plants and the trees and even the paths. The land was a living thing, sometimes it slept and sometimes it danced with activity but it was never silent.

  It was on his walk that Danny first became aware that not everything was as it should be. He was in the woods on the southern edge of the estate, looking at a fox hole where he was sure a couple of cubs were ready to show themselves to the world for the first time. Mr. Jameson said the birth of a new animal was the most wondrous gift that God bestowed on the world. Danny didn’t know anything about God, but he loved to see the young cubs.

  This morning, there was no sign of the babies but mother fox had been skittish. She had been deep in her hole, quaking. Danny had seen her many times over the previous months, she was a brave one, not shy of the few humans she came across. Today however, she was almost crying with fear.

  The sight of the fox had started a bad feeling in Danny. A darkness had stolen over him, making him glance about, as if something might be watching him. These woods were like a second home to him, he had spent most of his adult life walking their paths and reading their stories. Today, something was different.

  There was a sick feeling of dread about the place. Shadows seemed to close in on him, dark and ominous. He turned on the spot, then heard a noise that made him turn back just as quick. His heart began hammering in his chest and before he could stop them, his feet began to run.

  He ran without thinking, ducking under a branch that he had meant to trim. It was on one of the trees nearest the path, it could be dangerous in the hunting season if a horse got caught on it. Before long he reached the edge of the woods, panting breathlessly.

  The sun beat down on him from a innocent blue sky, overhead a magpie passed into the highest branches of the tallest tree. The day was, in short, perfect. Danny began to laugh at himself. Here he was, a grown man, running from shadows in the deep, dark woods. Next he would be crying at fairy tales and hiding from monsters under the bed.

  Still, he glanced behind him as he walked toward the long lawn that ran up to the house. The woods looked darker than usual, forbidding. Beside the lawn the driveway that carriages used to gain access to the house was flanked by elm trees. It might have been the shadow of those trees that made Danny shiver, but he really wasn’t sure.

  A woman’s scream brought Danny from his thoughts and back to the present. It came from the house, long and loud, it split the air like a crack in ice. This was closely followed by a second more panicked shout that was cut short, as if the screamer had been slapped, or otherwise had their breath taken away. Danny stared up at dark windows for a moment, as if he might be able to see what had elicited such a reaction but nothing moved.

  He started up the grassy slope, suddenly aware of how heavy his boots were. The distance, no more than a hundred yards, seemed to take an age to cover. As he finally arrived on the large gravel square in front of the hous
e a number of maids and footmen, were running from the house, throwing panicked looks back over their shoulders.

  Danny rounded the large round fountain that marked the centre of the square like so many carriages had done before him, to see one of the footmen pushing Sir Thomas Richmond from the house in his wheeled chair. Sir Thomas, as ancient as the hills that surrounded the house, was shouting something incoherent and waving his stick above his head.

  Danny felt gravel skip up from beneath his boots has he slid to a halt. Around him a general air of panic was setting in, everybody was talking at once. Sir Thomas was still shouting, and now Danny could tell what the old man was saying.

  “Whitchurch, gather the men! I won’t have invaders on my land! See them off or I’ll do it myself.” The old man then looked around him, eyes passing over the crowd. “Goddam it, where is Whitchurch? The man is never around when I need him.”

  Danny didn’t know who Whitchurch was, nobody did. Over the years there had been many rumours, but the mystery man remained just that, a mystery. Sir Thomas spoke to him often, giving the invisible servant instructions and sometimes asking him questions. The more stressed the old man became, the more likely he was to speak to Whitchurch.

  Some of the older servants seemed to think the man was in Sir Thomas’s service when he had owned the plantation on St. Helena. At that time the house in England had been a second home, passed to him by his father. The servants like Mr. Jameson, who had been in Sir Thomas’s employ at that time had seen him rarely, tending the house and grounds in his absence. None of the servants at the house had ever been to the plantation, so the place had become a source of stories and rumours. A distant land that was home to sun, sea and slaves, and if the talk was true the mysterious Mr. Whitchurch.

  “What’s happened?” Danny asked a passing maid. She looked at him, tried to speak and began to cry. She turned from him and hid her face in her apron. Danny turned in the crowd, looking for someone, anyone to tell him what was happening. There were only about fifteen people out on the square but it was complete chaos.

  “Jane and Megan are dead,” an older woman’s voice said from behind Danny. He turned once more to see Mrs. Overton the Housekeeper, her eyes were red rimmed and puffy and her hair, normally so perfectly scraped into a bun, was astray and loose.

  “Jane and...” Danny began, but his voice failed him. He felt a wave of dizziness pass over him, the world turning watery and hazy before he came back to himself. “Dead?” he asked. Mrs. Overton nodded weakly, seemingly unable to say more. Danny felt himself lean back to the edge of the fountain, fumbling behind him with his hand.

  “Dead?” he asked again, unable to comprehend what was being said to him. “How?”

  “Murdered,” one of the footmen said, his face as white as a sheet. “I saw them both. I was at the bottom of the stairs, heading up to the masters bedroom like. I heard Jane scream and saw Megan was dead on the landing. She was covered in blood and lying their all twisted like. Jane bent down to try and help her, I knew it was a waste of time, Megan was obviously dead like. Then a man came from behind her and...” he made a twisted claw with his hand and drew it across his throat in a ripping gesture. “He was wearing some kind of mask or something, hideous it was, all furry and...”

  The footman turned away from Danny midway through his last sentence, seemingly lost in the memory of what had just happened. The stone of the fountain suddenly didn’t seem real enough to support his weight, the world had taken on the sense of not being altogether solid.

  “Where is Mr. Jameson?” Sir Thomas shouted, his voice diminished by neither age or the shock of what had just happened in his house. Thomas’s valet, a man called Kennelly, bent down and whispered in his masters ear. The old man stared up at the sky, looking for all the world like a dog who has heard a noise he doesn’t understand, then spoke again. “Fetch me the junior gamekeeper then, what’s his name?”

  “I’m here, sir,” Danny said, standing up. The world felt no more real than it had a moment before, but duty had a way of solidifying things.

  “We are at war, man,” Sir Thomas said in his loud, booming voice. “Fetch your shotgun and any dogs you have and flush the bastards out of my house.”

  Danny felt the weight of everyone’s gaze fall on him. He was not a man used to too much company, he preferred the peace of the outdoors. The idea that everyone was now looking at him made him wish the world would swallow him up. Instead he nodded and began walking toward Mr. Jameson’s hut.

  It was a small wooden building with tiny windows and a heavy lock on the door. Danny would not normally have the key but since the old man was bed ridden he had been given the responsibility. As always the inside smelled of old wood, resin and pipe smoke. Leaves of tobacco hung from the rafters, drying. The smell steadied his nerves and brought a feeling of normality back to his world.

  At the far end was a solid oak cabinet with a heavy iron locking bar. Danny pulled a ring of keys off his belt, fumbled with them and opened the lock. The bar sprung back to allow the door to be opened, revealing three double barrelled shotguns. Picking up a WC Scott, percussion 12 gauge gun, he hefted it, feeling its familiar weight and then laid it on the workbench.

  In a small draw at the bottom of the cabinet were a number of paper cartridges. Danny took half a dozen and placed them in a leather pouch on his belt. He then took a similar number of percussion caps, and placed them in the same place. Finally, he tore open two cartridges, poured the powder down the barrels, followed them with the shot and tamped the whole lot down before screwing two fresh caps in place.

  After locking the cabinet and leaving the shed, Danny made his way to the kennels at the rear of the house. As usual, the first sign of people sent the dogs into a frenzy of barking and howling. There were only four, all red setters. Not fighting dogs, but great trackers and unbeatable hunting dogs.

  One of the females, Lady, was heavily pregnant and Danny left her lying where she was. The other three, two male and a female were eager to be let out of their runs, seeming to sense that there was unusual fun to be had. Danny unbolted the gate and stepped back as a torrent of excited red fur barrelled past him.

  “Here!,” he shouted and the dogs came into some semblance of order, pacing around him, looking up and waiting for an order. Danny made his way around the house once more, finding the gathered staff still milling about in shocked silence.

  “Ah, here he is, good man, good man,” Sir Thomas shouted as Danny came into view. Danny walked up to the old man’s wheeled chair and stood, waiting for instructions. “Let the dogs in the house, they should flush the buggers out, be ready and shoot anyone you don’t know. I’ll take full responsibility if you kill them, so no worries on that score.” As he spoke, Sir Thomas thumped his fist down on the arm of his chair and grimaced angrily.

  Danny looked at the door of the house. If the accounts were to be believed he would be facing at least one man who had already killed twice. He had never been in the army, and the only thing he had ever shot was a pheasant or two. He turned back to see every eye on him and steeled himself to enter the house.

  The dogs ran off as soon as the doors opened. Danny saw two of them head toward the back of the house and the servant areas. The female however, bounded straight upstairs. Danny watched her stop at the top, excitedly sniffing at something on the floor. From where he stood in the atrium he could not see what was there, but he knew it must be the bodies of the two maids.

  He held his gun low, tucking it into his armpit, rather than his shoulder. He wanted to keep his vision free in case the intruder came at him from the side. At the kind of distances the house would allow, he didn’t think aiming would be a problem.

  Crouching low, Danny ducked his head into the parlour and then the dining room, both were empty and so he closed the doors behind him. The two dogs in the back of the house were making no noise and so it was a good guess that they had found nothing.

  He looked up the stairs, toward the bodies a
t the top. Placing his foot on the bottom step, he began to climb. He left footprints on the fine carpets, drying mud that would normally have seen him dismissed from service to the house.

  The two maids lay entwined in each other’s arms. Both wore looks of shock but not pain. Megan was on the bottom, blood had pooled about her right shoulder and the front of her uniform was torn from the stomach to the neck. It lay in tattered, bloody strips exposing the white breast beneath. Long red gouges had been torn deep into her flesh, and the blood had begun to dry to a deep crimson.

  Jane, beautiful Jane lay on top of Megan, her head twisted unnaturally so that she watched Danny climb the last few stairs. Her open eyes accused him of letting this happen to her. He had loved her from a distance, writing so many letters that he never dared send and she would now never read. She had been the sweetest, most innocent of girls and now her innocence would last forever. Her throat was torn.

  From one of the rooms toward the west of the house, Danny heard the bitch. She let out a string of harsh coughing barks, then almost as soon as she started, she let out a cry and was silent. Danny started toward the sound. He crept along the corridor, waiting for one of the doors along both sides to open.

  Each footstep felt heavy and deliberate, he became very aware of his breathing. Each slight noise of boot on carpet sounded like the thumping of a nail into a coffin lid. At the far end of the corridor, a single door was ajar, he thought it was the master’s bedroom. Danny felt himself increase his pace, eager to be done with the tension that twisted at his gut.

  The room was empty, at least of people. The dog lay on her side, bleeding from a wound along one side of her shoulder and throat. It didn’t gush but lazily pulsed, welling up in the gashed cut and then spilling down her side. She lay with her head on the floor and looked up at him with wet eyes, sucking in short panting breaths.