Blood of Angels (Curse of Weyrmouth Series Book 2)

by David Longhorn

  “What the bleedin' hell do you think you're doin'?”

  Erin introduced herself and explained what she was doing. The janitor, a fifty-something called Ron, was slightly mollified.

  “Oh, I didn't know, miss,” he said. “But I wouldn't muck about with that display. It's never been right since they put it up. They've had specialists in, the works, but it just keeps flickering.”

  Erin vaguely recalled being shown around the museum by Louise when she first arrived.

  “Is this the display with the model ship going around on the rocks?” she asked.

  “The Wreck of the Charlotte Clore, is the correct title,” put in the elderly visitor. “Really, one would expect a museum official to know that.”

  “I'm new,” said Erin, “a new broom. Come on guys, let's see if I can sweep clean. Isn't that the saying?”

  Ron offered to carry the bulky toolbox for Erin, and she gratefully accepted. The janitor showed them to a service elevator and took them up to the top floor, which housed relics of Weymouth's industrial past. When they got out, Erin frowned at the dark room. Ill-lit objects stood in dusty glass cases. A bored looking group of school kids were being guided by a teacher.

  “Kind of neglected, this area,” she said, “long overdue for a revamp.”

  “No money for that,” commented Ron. “Lighthouse is over there, in that alcove.”

  As they got closer, Erin saw the flickering light. It came from a small but intensely bright bulb. The lighthouse itself was a few inches tall and stood on a paper-maché cliff. Its light, instead of pulsing regularly, was flashing on and off erratically. Below, on the rocks, a Victorian steamship had run aground and was breaking up. Cotton-wool waves broke over the decks of the Charlotte Clore, swamped her funnel. Erin bent closer, nose almost touching the glass. In the rigging of the steamship, tiny figures were clinging to ropes no thicker than fishing lines. One was being swept off the stern.

  “Wow,” she breathed, “it's amazing. You can almost hear the waves.”

  “But the faulty lighthouse totally ruins it,” said the old man, his grating voice spoiling her reverie.

  “Yeah,” sighed Erin. “Okay, Ron, switch off the power. There's a panel somewhere you can open up, right?”

  The janitor nodded, took out a set of keys, and bent down to unlock a panel on the wooden plinth that supported the glass case. Erin put down her stick and gingerly hunkered down beside him. Her feet were throbbing even more intensely, now, and she wished she could take some painkillers.

  But popping pills in front of the public might look peculiar, she thought.

  “Okay,” said Ron. “I've cut it.”

  The old man gave a mirthless laugh.

  “God, these people,” he said to the teacher, who was just leading her line of students up the alcove. “Can't even flick a switch properly.”

  Erin bit her tongue. The model lighthouse was still flickering.

  “I have turned it off, you old git,” muttered Ron. Then, more loudly, “Look, miss. See?”

  Erin bent down and peered into the recess. There was a basic panel of switches. One was clearly marked Power, and was now in the “Off” position.

  “Guess the whole wiring system's shot, huh?” she suggested. “Must be pretty old.”

  “Maybe,” said the janitor. “But there's no way you can mess about with it now. Even with insulated tools it's too big a risk.”

  Erin had to agree.

  My first proper day on the job and I get a problem I can't solve. Crap.

  She retrieved her stick and struggled upright. The teacher was delivering an impromptu talk on the diorama and Erin stood politely. The kids still seemed bored.

  “During the American Civil War,” the teacher was saying. “And the ship was built to run the blockade by the US Navy to supply weapons to the Confederates. Most people in England at that time hated slavery and supported Abraham Lincoln, so the ship-owner's house was attacked. He had to install steel shutters, his windows were broken so often.”

  Despite the woman's monotonous delivery, Erin found herself becoming interested.

  “Miss,” said one girl, tugging at the teacher's sleeve.

  “Not now, Leanne,” retorted the teacher.

  “But miss, it's sending a message,” said the girl.

  Erin looked at the child.

  “What do you mean, honey?” she asked.

  The girl looked up at Erin, reddened, became suddenly shy.

  “It's okay,” Erin reassured her, hobbling around the case towards the girl, “what do you mean, a message?”

  “We learn it in Scouts,” the girl said, as if that explained everything. “It's spelling out letters.”

  “Good Lord, she's right!” exclaimed the old man, peering at the lighthouse. “I remember this from my army days.”

  “You mean Morse code?” asked Erin, realization dawning.

  She looked at the lighthouse again. It was not flickering randomly, as she had assumed. It was sending out dots and dashes.

  Thinking quickly, Erin said, “Yes, of course, I forgot. It's a special test, a puzzle – for keen-eyed members of the public to solve. So, Leanne, and you sir, maybe you can work together and tell us what it's saying?”

  The old man snorted.

  “I'd have thought that would be apparent to anyone,” he said. “Three dots, three dashes, three dots. S-O-S.”

  There were ahs from some of the children, and a few derisory comments to the effect that ‘the gimmick’ was ‘pretty lame’.

  “Well, isn't that interesting, guys?” said the teacher, without much conviction. “Come on, now, plenty more to see, I'm sure.”

  The little group trailed off after her, except for Leanne. The girl stood staring at the tiny lighthouse for a few moments. Then she looked up at Erin.

  “Save Our Souls,” said the girl, and then went to join her class.

  “Rather tasteless, for my money,” said the old man, again looking accusingly at Erin. “And historically inaccurate.”

  Erin stared back at him, raising an eyebrow questioningly.

  “He means,” put in Ron, “that SOS is a radio distress signal. They didn't have radios in the 1860s.”

  “But they had Morse code?” asked Erin, looking at the lighthouse.

  “Yeah, I think so,” said Ron. “It was invented when the telegraph was coming in, around about 1830, maybe? You could look it up.”

  “I could indeed,” said Erin.

  “So you're not going to do anything about it?” demanded the old man.

  “On the contrary, sir,” said Erin. “I'm going to solve a neat little mystery. In the meantime, is there anything else we can do for you?”

  “Really, this is ridiculous!” said the visitor. “I point out a legitimate problem and you not only fail to solve it, but offer me what amounts to insolence! Typical American, you all think you bloody well run the world!”

  “Now listen, old timer,” began Erin, straightening up despite the pain. “I've been pretty goddamn patient, considering what a massive pain in my consecrated ass you–”

  She stopped, realizing that the children and their teacher had all turned around. They were about thirty yards away at the other end of the room.

  “I'm sorry, sir,” she said quickly, “I may have inadvertently raised my voice.”

  “How dare you!” fumed the old man. “I will make a formal complaint! I trust you have the relevant forms at reception?”

  Without waiting for a reply, the irate visitor stormed off, barging through the still gawping school-kids.

  “First day, right?” said Ron.

  Erin nodded.

  “I suppose,” she said, “we do have complaint forms?”

  The janitor looked at her in disbelief.

  “How long have you been in England?”

  ***

  “Leave who alone?” asked Detective Sergeant John Carr.

  Jen Deighton shrugged, then hit the office coffee machine sharply on
the side. It gurgled but produced nothing.

  “Your guess is as good as mine,” she replied. “The Queen? Lady Gaga?”

  Carr grimaced, glanced around the open-plan office. It was quiet for a Monday lunchtime. There was nobody within earshot. Most officers were involved in the Smith case. Carr and Deighton were supposed to be writing up preliminary reports.

  “You don't think,” he went on, “that it refers to Erin Cale?”

  “You know what the Chief would say to that,” replied Jen. “Man murdered in a frenzied attack, message about a woman at the scene. Must be linked to something in his personal life, possible motive jealousy.”

  “But the neighbors all say he had no girlfriend, or boyfriend for that matter,” said Carr. “And by all accounts he was wrapped up in his work. At the museum.”

  “So we're both on the same page,” conceded Jen. “But who – or what – did it?”

  “Those big, phantom dogs?” suggested Carr. “We both saw them tear people apart in the cathedral, then just vanish.”

  Jen nodded dubiously.

  “Except we're not talking about bite marks, are we?” she pointed out. “Look,” she went on, gesturing at a computer screen showing crime scene pictures. “They've sent them through promptly for a change.”

  The detectives went over to the screen, began to point out details.

  “This poor bastard was slashed to death. Lots of deep cuts with jagged implements. Nothing canine about it.”

  “More than one assailant,” added Carr, reaching for the mouse to enlarge selected images. “Or just the one guy with a tremendous amount of surplus energy.”

  “Hang on,” said Jen, putting her hand on his. “Go back, to the one showing the view from the doorway. Right, now enlarge and track down.”

  Carr did as she asked, and began to zoom in on a familiar-looking shape on the cream carpet.

  “Is that what I think it is?” Jen asked.

  “Yep, I reckon so,” agreed Carr.

  The much-magnified image was slightly blurred, but still clear enough to identity. It was the print of a bare foot in Mike Smith's blood.

  “How big is that, would you say?” asked Jen.

  “Four, five inches tops,” hazarded Carr. “They'll probably assume it's a woman's. The Barefoot Slasher Girl, makes a good headline.”

  Jen nodded.

  “But we know it's more likely to be a child's,” she said. “A boy who died seven hundred years ago, right?”

  “Him and his pals are racking up quite a score,” added Carr. “But why this particular guy?”

  “Leave her alone,” said Jen. “Didn't Erin say this guy resented her, thought she had taken his job?”

  Carr made a noncommittal noise.

  “Workplace rivalry seldom reaches this level of intensity,” he said. “But hey, it's a lead of sorts.”

  Loud voices alerted them to the return of some of the team working on the Smith case. Carr closed the image files and they returned to report writing. Later, when they were sure nobody could overhear them, they discussed their next move.

  “How much should we tell Erin?” asked Carr. “We've got to know her fairly well – it's hard to believe she'd be happy if this is being done on her behalf.”

  “She's sure to find out about the message if she doesn't already know,” admitted Jen, sheepishly. She explained that Louise Tarrant had the information.

  “That's a bit troubling,” said Carr. “Sure, Erin seems on the level, a good person. But that's on the basis of a few weeks' acquaintance. And remember those police reports from the States? Violence seems to hang around her like a bad smell.”

  “Yeah,” said Jen, “but she was never convicted of anything serious. Just possession of marijuana that one time.”

  Carr shrugged.

  “Even if she's an actual saint,” he said, “she might have allies or protectors who aren't. Or she might unwittingly be focusing some kind of power on people who annoy her. Who knows how these things work? We're essentially dealing with magic.”

  “God, can you hear yourself, John?” put in Jen. “We're doing a Mulder and Scully here!”

  “Except that both of us believe in the paranormal now,” Carr shot back. “We had no choice. So how much do we want to risk? Do we continue investigating Erin and the weird stuff swirling around her? We've already had one narrow escape.”

  “You're assuming we have a choice,” said Jen. “Seems to me like we're involved because we're here, policing this town, and people are dying.”

  “Okay,” conceded Carr. “It's our job to try and deal with the Curse of Weyrmouth. Let's hope it doesn't deal with us first.”

  ***

  Billy Jones walked out of the museum with his head held high and a sense of a morning's work well done. He had exercised his right as a citizen to complain about a public service funded by his taxes. And he had put a foreigner in their place, which was always a bonus. He would be back soon if he did not receive an official response, in writing, to his justified complaint. He relished the challenge. Sorting out petty bureaucrats kept him busy in his retirement.

  Right, he thought, time to go down the pub. Spend some of my pension.

  It was just after twelve when he arrived at the Rat and Cockle. The place was too crowded for his taste, with a lot of young people milling around the bar. Billy pushed his way none too gently through the throng and tried to catch the barmaid's attention.

  Silly cow, he thought, as the girl persisted in serving other people. I shall take my custom elsewhere!

  As he fought his way back the way he had come, Billy reflected on how much worse pubs had become since the smoking ban. Now they were 'family friendly', and there were lots of children running about, getting under your feet. He caught a glimpse of a group of boys peering at him from a dark corner by the fruit machines, and frowned at them.

  Bloody kids, he thought, then dismissed them, focusing instead of where he could get a pie and a pint.

  Billy finally settled on the White Lion, a more traditional pub a couple of streets away. He decided to take a short cut down an alleyway to get there faster. He soon regretted the decision when he found himself picking his way around heaps of garbage.

  “Disgusting!” he muttered. “This country is going to the dogs.”

  There was a giggle. It sounded as though from somewhere nearby. Billy looked around, saw nothing moving.

  Maybe someone on the other side of that wall? Somebody playing tricks, probably. Young reprobates.

  A giggle from directly behind him. Again, it sounded very close, but there was nobody there.

  Kids mucking about, definitely.

  “You don't scare me, you little – twerps,” muttered Billy.

  As there was still nobody in sight, he continued along the alleyway. A heap of black plastic garbage sacks moved, fell across his path, scattering trash. There was a tinkle of broken glass, a stench of rot. Bill reeled back, disgusted, pulling out a cotton handkerchief to cover his nose.

  Rats, he thought. They're everywhere. One of 'em just unbalanced a heap of sacks.

  Still covering his face, Billy stepped gingerly around the worst of the spilled garbage, wishing he had taken the long way to the pub. There was another surge of movement from the heap of ruptured sacks. A shape, much bigger than a rat, bulged out black plastic. Billy felt definite panic and sped up, not caring if he splashed through God-knew-what filth in his neatly polished shoes. He almost tripped because he could not tear his gaze from the sack, which was heaving.

  Then it was torn open from the inside. Four tears appeared, grew longer, and then a great gash was ripped in the sack. A hand appeared, then two, then a face that was incomplete, as broken and rotted as the garbage itself. The giggle came again, this time more clearly. Other sacks burst open, and small figures stood up, began to advance on the old man.

  No, no, his mind shrieked. This is not happening, it's not real, it must be some sort of horrible prank, a hidden camera, one of those gh
astly internet stunts!

  The nearest figure grinned, pulling what was left of its lips from rows of brown, broken teeth.

  “Bad man,” it said.

  “Bad,” came along child's voice, incongruously high and playful.

  “Leave her alone,” said a third creature, dragging itself upright as debris fell from its narrow shoulders. “She's going to help us.”

  “She's our friend now,” piped a fourth. “You won't say anything bad about her again.”

  There was more giggling. Billy spun round looking for a way out, but both routes out of the alley were blocked by diminutive, brown-robed figures. The nearest horror reached up towards his face, slashed with vicious nails. Billy reeled back, raised a hand instinctively, felt a stinging pain, then the warm gush of blood from his wrist.

  Not a hallucination! Not a prank!

  “Get away!” he shouted. Fear and pain began to work against his reason. But when his foot struck a broken bottle, he quickly bent down and then jabbed at the nearest assailant. The hideous creatures tittered, dodged back and sideways, making a game of it. Billy backed up further, felt the roughness of a brick wall at his back. A semi-circle of nightmare entities closed in.

  “Help!” he yelled, over and over again, jabbing and lashing out with the bottle.

  A tiny figure scuttled forward on hands and knees and fastened its talons onto his ankles. As Billy bent down to try and drive it off, another leaped through the air, ragged robes flying out from behind. It was the signal for a general attack. Billy flailed, kicked, tried to beat off his small assailants, but they bore him down easily. As he fell, he threw one arm over his eyes. He realized too late that the sharp-nailed fingers were tearing at the lower part of his face.

  A few moments later, a young couple appeared at the mouth of the alley nearest the White Lion.

  “There is somebody there, Gary,” said the woman. “I told you I heard something.”

  “Call the cops, and an ambulance,” said her boyfriend, decisively. “I'll go and check.”