The Broken Trilogy

by Amy Cross

  I take a deep breath. "I thought it was just... sex..."

  "There's no such thing as 'just sex', Elly." He stares at me. "Let me be totally honest with you. I invited you here tonight because I want us to make love. I want to lead you through to my bedroom, I want to strip you naked, and I want to touch every inch of your body." He reaches out and puts a hand on my waist, before slipping it down to my hip. "I want to feel how you move when you've got a man inside you," he continues, before moving the hand back to my crotch. "I want to taste you, and feel your wetness." Slowly, he moves the hand up my dress until he's touching the fabric that covers my breasts. "I want to see your bare breasts bounce as you fuck me, and..." He reaches down and takes my hand in his, before pushing my fingers against the front of his trousers. "I want to feel your hands on my cock. Your lips." Finally, he lets go of my hand and reaches up, brushing my lips with his thumb. "I want to kiss you, Elly. But first, you have to prove to me that you're willing to play the game."

  "I am," I say, feeling as if my mind has become completely empty.

  He smiles. "Read the document first," he replies.

  "No," I say, stepping closer to him. "I just want to -"

  "Read the document first," he repeats, stepping back. "It'll only take a few minutes. Read it, make sure you understand it, and sign it. When you've done that, we can begin. Either that, or you can refuse to sign, and then you'll have to leave." He pauses for a moment. "The most important thing to understand, Elly, is that you have total freedom to choose. At any point, you can say that you want us to stop, and we'll stop. But if you do that, it'll be stopped permanently. There'll be no second chances."

  "I don't need a second change," I say.

  "Just read it," he says, turning and walking across the room until he reaches a doorway. "I'll be back in five minutes," he adds, glancing back at me. "If you're ready, we'll begin."

  Inspector Matthews

  1896

  "Whatever happened to that Jonathan Pope fellow?" Constable Laverty asks casually as he sits at his desk.

  "I'm sorry?" I reply, startled. I've been engrossed in Sophia Marchant's diary, and the name Jonathan Pope is certainly not one that I expected to hear coming from Laverty's lips. It has been several months since I last heard from Pope, and his apparent disappearance is a cause of great concern. Still, Laverty knows nothing of my contact with Pope, and I would prefer to keep certain aspects of my investigation hidden for now.

  "You must remember him, Sir," he continues. "Small-time crook who operated south of the river. Used to pop up in all manner of places, ended up working as a private detective. I was just wondering if you knew what happened to him?"

  "I have no idea," I reply, trying not to panic. "Why do you ask?"

  "No reason," he says. "I suddenly realized I hadn't heard a thing about him for the best part of a year. Thought it was unusual." He sniffs derisively. "I suppose he finally got his comeuppance. Someone probably cut his throat and tossed him in the river. Men like Jonathan Pope always meet a sticky end. You play with fire, eventually you get burned."

  "Men such as Pope are in no short supply," I reply hesitantly. The truth is, I have become worried about the lack of contact from Pope since our meeting at the King's Arms, and I'm starting to fear that he might have fallen foul of the same group who seem to have dispatched Edward Lockhart.

  "I suppose you're right, Sir," Laverty says. "Actually, there was one other thing I wanted to mention to you. It's..." He pauses, glancing over at the door as if he wants to make sure we're alone. "It's a sensitive matter," he continues as he gets up and goes over to double-check that no-one is loitering in the corridor outside. "It's about a young lady named Eve Langley. She disappeared some weeks ago in the Wimbledon area."

  "I read of the case," I reply, realizing with a sinking heart that Laverty might be about to raise the subject of Edward Lockhart again. "As far as I understand it," I continue, "the situation is simply that a young lady disappeared shortly after her twentieth birthday. As sad as it might be, Laverty, young ladies go missing with distressing regularity in this country. We cannot put the full resources of the Yard on every such incident."

  "Quite right," Laverty says, "but it's perhaps of particular interest when they turn out to have visited the Castleton Hotel in Mayfair on the night of their disappearance."

  "The Castleton?" I feel a shiver run through my body. The Castleton was, for a short while, home to Edward Lockhart. It would certainly be a rather surprising coincidence if it turned out that Miss Eve Langley was also linked to the place.

  "Several members of staff have confirmed that she was spotted entering the hotel on the night of January the 15th," he continues, "which happened to be the last time she was ever seen. Some discreet inquiries were made into the matter, and it was determined that the young lady's most likely destination was the penthouse suite, which is now occupied periodically by a gentleman named Vincent D'Oyly." He pauses for a moment. "Now here's the most interesting part, Sir. Just as the investigation was beginning to get somewhere, it was shut down without any explanation. Miss Langley's disappearance was consigned to the pile of unsolved cases, and officers were given strict instructions to proceed no further."

  I take a deep breath. Laverty's account of Miss Langley's disappearance makes it seem rather likely that D'Oyly and his cohorts are still preying upon unsuspecting young ladies.

  "You should be careful talking about this," I say. "There might be people who wouldn't want to have you snooping around."

  "Don't worry about that, Sir," he replies. "I've been the soul of discretion. I know the higher-ups don't want anyone looking into none of this stuff, so I've done it on my own time, and I've made sure to keep my name off any of the documents. Still..." He goes over to his desk and grabs a notebook, before bringing it back over to me. "Take a look at this, Sir. It's basically everything I've found out about them so far. Now, I'm the first to admit I haven't got the full story, not by a long shot, but I'm inching forward, Sir, and I'm gonna get there in the end."

  Opening the notebook, I find that it's full of names, each of which is annotated with various symbols and numbers. To his credit, Laverty is a tenacious police officer.

  "Those are the girls, Sir," he continues, with a hint of pride in his voice. "One hundred and seventeen missing girls from London over the past seventy-five years. I've categorized them according to three groups. First, there's the girls where I've got nothing to link them to this bunch of killers, but where I still have a hunch. Then there's the girls where I've got some evidence, though still not enough. And then, finally, there's the girls where I've got something solid, Sir. Girls like Elizabeth Cavendish and Sophia Marchant and Lucy Wellington. Those are the girls where I think we've got the best chance of finding something we can use against the suspects."

  "And who are the suspects?" I ask, keeping my voice down in case we're overheard.

  "There's three of 'em," Laverty replies. "At all times, three of 'em. Mr. Blue, Mr. White and Lady Red. As best as I can make out, Sir, these names are like codes. If I had to hazard a guess, I'd say that our Mr. Lockhart was Mr. Blue, but now he's gone and there's another Mr. Blue, by the name of Vincent D'Oyly. Lady deHavilland is obviously Lady Red, and there's a gentleman named Harrison Blake, who I think might be in the frame for Mr. White."

  "Harrison Blake?" I say, surprised. "The politician?"

  "The very same," he replies. "This thing goes up to the top, Sir. Powerful connections." He pauses for a moment, before grabbing the notebook and turning to one of the pages near the back. "Remember what Mr. Lockhart said about Dr. Cecil Harlingham? About him being Mr. White, and about it all being wrapped up with the Whitechapel Murders and Jack the Ripper?"

  "The most fantastical part of the story," I say, even though I am rapidly coming to the conclusion that no part of Edward Lockhart's claim can be discounted.

  "I think it might be true. The dates match, and Harlingham was an unusual fellow. He had the necessary sur
gical skills, and he was in and out of London on all the right dates, as far as I can tell. He was never suspected of the killings, but like Mr. Lockhart said, maybe he was removed from the game by Lady Red. Maybe she covered everything up."

  Pausing for a moment, I reflect upon the fact that Laverty might be correct on a number of points. There certainly seems to be someone acting on the shadows of this case, getting certain avenues of investigation shut down while continuing to draw an increasing number of young ladies to their doom. I'd hoped that Jonathan Pope would be able to give me some information on these events, but now I fear that he might have been killed. Furthermore, if Pope is dead, it is hardly a great leap to suppose that I might be next.

  "I must go," I say, hurrying from my desk. I feel as if the time for action has arrived. If these people are truly engaged in some macabre game, and if they have truly killed Jonathan Pope, then time must be of the essence. The sooner I can gain some evidence to use against them, the better. My own life is likely at stake.

  "Sir?" Laverty asks.

  "If anyone comes looking for me," I tell him as I reach the door, "you must tell them that I am investigating some unusual activity down at the shipping yard."

  "And what will you be doing, Sir?" he asks.

  "I can't possibly say," I reply. "The more connections we make with one another's investigations, Laverty, the easier it will be for outside forces to stop us. Suffice to say, I am going to venture into the viper's nest and see what I can discover."

  "I'll come with you," Laverty says, turning to grab his coat.

  "No," I say firmly. "There's no point in us both taking the same risk. You need to keep your head down and stay out of the spotlight. If anything should happen to me, you'll be the one who has to continue the investigation into these people. Do you understand?"

  "Yes, Sir," he replies, "but are you sure I shouldn't come with you? What if something happens?"

  Without answering, I head out of the office, along the corridor, and out into the street. The day is drawing to a close and a darkening gray sky threatens rain. I hurry away, walking quickly in my haste to get to my destination. I have waited long enough for Jonathan Pope to get back in touch, but many months have now passed and I feel that I am becoming a sitting target. If I do not make a move soon, I will surely have my throat cut late one night, and these fiends will be able to get on with their macabre game. I must take the fight to them, and this means going to the heart of their operation. As I walk the streets, the evening becomes darker and darker, and I arrive in Mayfair just as the street lights are switched on. While there is a part of me that would like to turn back, I cannot simply wait around until these people decide it's time to kill me.

  Pausing in the shadows, I watch as guests trail in and out of the hotel. This is clearly the kind of place where rich and powerful people mingle; precisely the kind of people who are supposed to be the most sophisticated and refined members of London society. I look up at the top of the building, which rises high above the city, and I realize that tonight is the night. Perhaps Vincent D'Oyly is up in that penthouse at this very moment, seducing yet another girl to her death. If I am ever to strike at these people, I shall need irrefutable evidence that cannot be ignored. I shall need to see with my own eyes the horrors that they commit. For this, I shall need to venture into the penthouse suite of the Castleton Hotel.

  Elly

  Today

  "Are you done?" Mark asks standing in the doorway.

  I look up from the document, which I've been reading alone in the penthouse suite. "Yeah," I say, feeling my heart racing.

  He enters the room, walking over to the chair opposite the sofa. "I need to be very clear," he explains as he sits down, "that there can be no negotiation, no debate, about any of these things. That document was not the work of a moment. It was carefully written so that it covers all the bases, and it represents my attempt to be totally open and honest with you right from the start. You are free to accept or reject the document, but I'm afraid that nothing can be changed." He pauses for a moment. "Do you have any questions, Elly?"

  I take a deep breath. To be honest, I have millions of questions, but I guess they can all be summed up in one. "Yeah," I say. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

  He stares at me. "I wasn't expecting that..."

  "I mean, this?" I say, placing the document on the coffee table between us. "Why couldn't you just talk to me about all of this, instead of writing it up like some kind of essay?"

  "For the sake of clarity -"

  "For the sake of bullshit," I say, interrupting him. "I mean, I know I'm not the most communicative or expressive person in the world, but even I wouldn't resort to something like this. The stuff you've written here..." I pause for a moment, trying to wrap my head around how monumentally strange this whole situation has become. "The stuff you've written here is stuff you have to say to someone in person, face to face. You don't write it down and hand it to them, hoping they'll sign it."

  He looks genuinely lost for a moment. "For the avoidance of doubt..."

  "What are you scared of?" I ask, really starting to warm to my topic. I've tip-toed around Mark for days, and now I feel as if he's drawn me close only to erect a wall of bullshit around himself. "Is it just me, or are you like this with everyone?" I look at the piece of paper. "Do you give this thing to every girl you bring up here?"

  "Yes," he says after a short pause.

  "And do they sign it?"

  "Yes," he says again. "But I don't know if they all necessarily read it properly. Certainly none of them have ever questioned its contents quite so vehemently."

  I take a deep breath, trying to work out what to do. After building up to this moment for so long, I'd be crazy to just turn around and walk away. Still, I'd been expecting tonight to be about fun, casual sex, and suddenly I find that it's the least casual situation I've ever encountered. Mark has written up a list of three things with which I have to agree before he'll take me to bed. As he's already made very clear, I'm completely free to turn down any of these things, but by doing so I'll be ending the encounter. Normally, I'd laugh and walk out, but there's something about Mark that's making me stay. It's not just the fact that I'm still incredibly turned on by him; it's also a kind of curiosity, as if I feel I'm tantalizingly close to getting through - finally - to the real Mark Douglas.

  "So the first thing," I say, picking up the document. "I have to agree that everything that happens between us, stays between us. I have to confirm that I won't discuss any of this with anyone. Ever."

  "Can you make that promise?" he asks.

  "Of course I can," I reply, feeling sorry for Mark. "It's a given. I mean, what do you think I'm going to do? Write a blog about sleeping with you?" I stare at him, trying to imagine what kind of betrayal must have left him in such a paranoid state. "People don't go around telling other people about their sex lives," I say eventually, slightly shocked to realize that I even have a sex life these days. "I mean, maybe some people do, but not me. What..." I turn and look over at the bedroom door. "What happens in there between us, if anything happens in there, stays between us. It's private and personal and intimate, and I'd never tell anyone about it."

  "So you'll sign the document?" Mark asks.

  I sigh, choosing to re-read the next part of the document rather than answering him directly. "The second thing is that I must acknowledge my total choice in the matter. I must confirm that I understand I can tell you to stop at any moment, but that by doing so I'll be ending the encounter permanently." Again, I'm struck by how bizarre this whole situation has become. "Mark, I'd already kind of assumed that you'd stop doing something if I didn't like it. I mean, it's not like you're trying to torture me, is it?"

  "Of course not," he replies, his gaze fixed on me. After a moment, he smiles, but it's a fake smile, as if some deep part of his brain has told him to deploy it as a weapon.

  "The third part, though," I say, looking down at the document, "this is the real
doozy." I pause, feeling a shiver of excitement run through my body. "I have to accept that you're in control. I have to acknowledge that you might choose to do things that would shock me, that would..." I pause for a moment. "Things that might be outside my comfort zone." I look over at him. "You don't give any examples, but I'm thinking you maybe mean... handcuffs? Whips?" I take a deep breath. I've never really thought about bondage or submissive sex roles before, and the thought of venturing into that kind of territory is kind of scary. All I really want is safe, fun, vanilla sex. At the same time, I'm more than willing to try new things, and I'm sure I can handle anything Mark throws at me. Just because I'm inexperienced, I don't have to be naive or scared. I doubt Mark can shock me too much.

  "I'd prefer not to be specific," Mark explains. "I'd prefer to leave the definitions as broad and as vague as possible, for obvious reasons."

  "Obvious reasons, huh?" I reply. "Would there be pain?"

  "That depends very much upon how you define pain," he replies.

  I stare at him for a moment, not sure if he's being serious. "I want to stay tonight," I say finally, glancing over at the bedroom door "I want to sleep with you. But..." I slowly slide the document across the coffee table. "I'm not going to sign some kind of form. I'll accept everything we've just discussed. I'll promise not to ever tell anyone what we do here, and I'll promise that I understand I can withdraw my consent at any moment, and I'll promise to understand that you're in control and that things might get a little kinky. I'll accept all these things, and I'll look you in the eye and give you anything you want. But the one thing I won't do is sign that document, because I don't think two people who are about to do this need to sign anything." I take a deep breath. My heart is pounding, and I'm terrified that he's going to tell me to leave. At the same time, I feel more adult than ever before. The old Elly would never have stood up for herself like this.