The Valentine Circle

by Reinaldo DelValle

  By Reinaldo DelValle

  “Light thickens, and the crow makes wing to the rooky wood: Good things of day begin to droop and drowse, while night’s black agents to their preys do rouse.”

  —Macbeth

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to the actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2014 by Reinaldo DelValle

  www.reinaldodelvalle.com

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recorded, photocopied, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owner. All rights reserved.

  Cover design by Damonza

  www.damonza.com

  Copyedited by Claudette Cruz

  www.indieeditingservices.blogspot.com

  Artwork by Trevor Smith

  www.trevorsmithart.com

  CONTENTS

  Prologue

  Duty Calls

  The First One

  Return to Sender

  Follow the Lead

  Miss Darcy Reilly

  The Wandering Man

  Smiley Ollie

  Warning

  Hunting Mr. F.

  Lady of the Manor

  The Three-legged Raven

  To Kill and Kill Again

  Farewell, My Love

  Shinju

  The Circle is Complete

  Reckoning

  Brotherhood

  The Factory Breeds the Harvest

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note, Second Edition:

  Concerning Anachronisms – a few of my readers have pointed out some anachronisms found in the story’s dialogue. I’m aware of this and was aware of it at the time of writing the manuscript. It was done on purpose. This novel is not meant to be primarily a historical fiction. It is first and foremost a mystery/thriller set in 19th century Boston. The use of the setting functions as a tool for creating the mood, atmosphere, and tone of the story, which is a dark, gritty, and gothic mystery. As I wrote the book, I strove to find a balance between 19th century and contemporary language so as to appeal to a broader audience and to allow more readers to connect with the characters while still maintaining an authenticity to the text. I also found that keeping the dialogue as it is helped with the cadence and pace of the story, the latter being one of the most celebrated qualities of this book. I have since revised some of the dialogue a bit as to not have some readers be taken out of the narrative’s energy, but most of it has remained the same.

  Concerning Crime Scenes – all the crime scenes contained in this book were written to be as realistic as possible and in conjunction with its dark and gothic theme. There will be blood, shock, and some violence, but all was done out of respect to the tone of the story and in service to the plot. Depicting the harsh reality of crime in the 19th century was not written gratuitously.

  I’ve found that many readers have thoroughly enjoyed the book as it stands, and I do sincerely hope that it entertains you as well. Thank you for your interest in The Valentine Circle.

  My warmest regards,

  Reinaldo

  “He who dons the mask is forever apart.”

  —Soft Master

  Boston Harbor, winter of 1885

  A SULLEN RAVEN STOOD UPON A BRANCH, undulating with the sway of the midnight wind. Mounds of snow covered the sleeping cobblestone streets, and a thick layer of ice draped itself across the surface of the harbor water. In the distance, an oncoming ship made its way towards the docks, cutting through the ice and forcing it to break violently against the ship’s bow.

  The captain of the boat, a weathered man draped in a dark trench coat, stroked his white beard as he navigated the ship towards land. Once the vessel was docked, the captain grabbed his hot pipe and proceeded down the stairs to bid his men goodbye. “As cold as it is now, it’s going to be even colder tomorrow morning,” he said. “Try not to stay out late. We leave at sunrise, just as soon as we get these crates unloaded. Understood?”

  “Aye,” his crew said in unison.

  He reached into his pocket and grabbed a few dollars. “Here,” he said as he handed the money to one of his men. “Take this. Use it to keep your hearts warm tonight.”

  “Aye, Captain,” the man replied, taking the money, then turning around and leaving the ship with the rest of the crew.

  The captain stood idly as he watched his men go. He too wanted to go ashore, but not before closing up the lower deck cabins. As he moved along the bow, a group of seagulls broke the sky’s eerie silence. Bells were heard ringing in the distance as other ships made their way in and out of the harbor. An unnerving creak whistled through the air as the ship swayed back and forth, moving in sync with the waves’ rhythm. The captain kept still, discerning the space around him, feeling something foul messing with his sixth sense.

  He moved down the port side towards the stern, carefully studying the edge as he looked out into the sleeping harbor. All was quiet, too quiet for his liking.

  Nervous, he ran his hands across the ship’s rail, only to have it slip across the wet wood.

  What’s this?

  The captain raised his hand, spotting a bit of blood dripping down his fingers. He peeked over the edge, searching the hull’s entirety, and caught a glimpse of an object stuck to the side of the ship, faintly glowing within the shadows.

  As he made his way to inspect it, his attention was suddenly caught by another similar object stuck to one of the nearby walls. Carefully, he approached it, moving his head up close in order to fully inspect it. He lit up a match and raised it. He could tell the object was a sharp instrument jammed into the wall, blood dripping from its cold surface. Hesitating at first, he grabbed the object and pulled it out, struggling, for it was buried deep within the hard wood. Once in his hand, he studied it more thoroughly. It was like a steel cross, about the size of his palm, but each end was sharpened, having a double edge. He’d never seen anything like it.

  Marveling at the small weapon, he felt a stream of blood drip down his thumb towards the floor. Seeing the mess it made, he grabbed a handkerchief from his pocket and knelt down to wipe the floor. As he wiped, he raised his eyes, spotting a long trail of blood leading down towards the lower deck.

  Alarmed, he stood up and followed the trail down the stairs until he stopped in front of a large closet. He reached for the knob. The second he opened the door, a man’s body toppled on him, knocking him down to the floor. The stranger’s blood washed across his face, and the captain began hyperventilating from the sudden shock. He grabbed the whistle around his neck and blew on it with all his might. The cry of the captain’s call shot forth from the ship, straight into the winter sky.

  Minutes later, a group of harbor guards came to his aid.

  ***

  An hour passed, and the mysterious man was taken to a nearby homeless shelter. A police officer stood next to the cot where he lay.

  “I wish I knew who he was,” the officer said, inspecting the young man, who appeared to be in his early thirties, muscular, with dark hair and fair skin.

  “I’m sorry I can’t tell you anything else,” the captain said. “I just found him on my ship. He must’ve boarded us somehow, sneaking inside one of our closets before passing out.”

  “When do you think he boarded your ship?”

  “Could’ve been anytime we were docked,” the captain said. “We were at sea for a few weeks, delivering our cargo to the Far East.”

  “The Far East?”

  “Yes, sir,” the captain said.


  The officer inspected the weapon found stuck to the ship. “What about this? You found this thing stuck to one of the walls?”

  “Yes, and I saw another one stuck to the ship’s hull.”

  “And you have no idea where it came from?”

  “None at all.”

  Another officer, tall and svelte, joined in the conversation. “Did you find anything else with him?”

  “Only the bag that was strapped to his back,” the captain said.

  “I see. So, no identification whatsoever?”

  “No, just what I showed you in the beginning, the label on one of his robes.”

  “So he just appeared in one of your closets, unconscious and barely dressed?”

  “I know it’s hard to believe, but you know as much as I do,” the captain said, sighing.

  There was a ruckus near the front door.

  “Is the man still alive?” said a voice near the shelter’s entrance.

  The tall officer turned around. “Inspector Belloc? I didn’t know you were going to show up.”

  “Surprise,” Belloc said as he kept himself in the shadows.

  “Well then—yes, he’s still breathing, but unconscious. I don’t really know his condition. We put out a call to the doctor. He should be here any minute.”

  “I see.” Belloc stepped into the light. He was short and lean and in his early sixties, with a white head of hair that seamlessly morphed into a bushy beard. His right hand grasped a long, wooden cane, and as he walked towards the officers, his unique limp was obvious to all. Approaching them, he honed in on the young man, peeking out of his delicate spectacles. “Step aside, please. Let me have a look at him.” The officers made space for the inspector.

  “What in God’s name?” Belloc said as he approached the young man. “Have you taken a look at his wounds yet?”

  “Not yet,” the officer said. “They seem to be healed, but they might still require medical attention. From what I can tell, he must have at least three rounds inside of him.”

  “Rounds? No, it can’t be.” Belloc bent over the young man, feeling out his torn shirt and pants. “These clothes aren’t American.” He looked over the man’s fresh scars. “And these wounds certainly aren’t holes; they’re gashes. He’s was stabbed, not shot.”

  “Stabbed?” the doctor said as he finally stepped inside the shelter. “Where is he?”

  “Oh, good,” Belloc said. “You’re just in time, doc.” The physician stepped up to the group. “He needs to be treated for his wounds immediately.”

  “What happened to him?” the doctor said as he began checking his vitals.

  “Well, that’s the real mystery, isn’t it?” Belloc replied.

  The doctor put his bag down, taking out a pair of medical shears, and starting from top to bottom, he cut the young man’s clothes down the middle, exposing his battered skin. “Oh, my,” the doctor said. “He’s covered in bruises. And those are—”

  “Stab wounds,” Belloc interrupted. “I’d like to inspect them closer if you don’t mind.” Belloc ran his fingers across the man’s wounds. “Some of these are quite long, as if made by a large…sword. Yet these here are quite smaller, maybe inflicted by a dagger, something small and sharp.”

  “Sharp?” the captain blurted. He remembered what he’d found on his ship. He pointed towards the bloody cross-shaped weapon resting on one of the small desks nearby. “As in that thing over there?”

  Belloc turned around and glanced at the shiny object. He walked over and picked up the weapon. “Where did you find this?”

  “It was stuck to one of the walls on my ship. There’s another one buried deep within the hull as well.”

  “Interesting.” Belloc inspected the weapon. Something about it reminded him of his years in the military. “It looks familiar to me, yet I have no idea what it is.” He took out a small paper bag out of his pocket and dropped the weapon inside. “This will have to be checked in at the station.” He turned to the doctor. “Did you find anything?”

  “He has a small wound on the back of his head, but he managed to cauterize it with something. I’ll have to do a closer examination once we get him to the hospital. But all in all, his vitals seem to be normal. He just needs some time to wake up.”

  Belloc turned to the captain. “What else did you find with the body?”

  “He had a bag strapped to his back.”

  “Here you go, Inspector,” said one of the officers as he handed the bag to Belloc.

  Belloc inspected the contents of the bag. There was nothing out of the ordinary, mostly clothes, a few bandages, and some snacks. He grabbed one of the shirts and peeked at the label. A word was scribbled on it: Silas.

  “Could that be his name?” He rummaged through the rest of the clothes and found a journal. “What’s this?” He smiled. “Hopefully this can tell us who he is.” As he opened the journal, his smile waned. “It’s not in English. Looks more like Japanese.” He looked back at the man. “But he’s not Japanese.”

  “He looks American,” the doctor said, “or maybe from Europe.”

  “He has the look of a Frenchman,” one officer chimed in.

  “Yes, indeed he does.” Inspector Belloc inched closer to the young man. “Silas?” He waited for an answer. “Silas, wake up. Can you hear me? Is that your name? Is it Silas?”

  Nothing.

  Belloc noticed that the man’s fist was balled up. “What’s he got in there?” He reached for the man’s hand when, without warning, the man jerked up and grabbed hold of Belloc’s wrist, contorting it in such a way where Belloc couldn’t help but let out a painful moan. “Argh!”

  “Good heavens!” the officer said, diving in to help the inspector. “Let go of him!”

  But before the officer could take out his billy club, the young man released Belloc’s wrist. He jumped off the cot, falling down onto the floor, too weak to stand up.

  “You’re not going anywhere!” the officer shouted. “You stay right there!”

  “No! Keep away! Don’t hurt him.” Belloc approached the young man who cowered on the floor. “It’s okay. You’re safe. You’re here with us.”

  “Where am I?” the man struggled to say.

  “You’re in America. You’re in Boston Harbor.”

  “Boston?”

  “Let me help you up.” Belloc extended his arm to him, and the young man grabbed Belloc’s hand, letting himself be led to the cot, where he then sat with his head lowered. “Who are you?”

  “What?”

  “What’s your name? Where are you from? Are you American? How did you end up in that ship?”

  The man moved his eyes back and forth, as if racing through his thoughts in order to come up with an answer, yet he couldn’t. With a chill in his bones, he looked back at Belloc and said, “I don’t know.”

  “What do you mean, you don’t know?” the officer blurted out.

  “Officer, please.” Belloc turned around. “Let me do the talking.” He turned back to the young man. “I need you to remember who you are. Can you do that?”

  A moment passed. The man looked up. “No, I can’t.”

  “Can you at least remember your name?”

  He shook his head. “I’m trying, but I just…can’t.”

  “On this label here, it says ‘Silas.’ Does that ring a bell? Are you Silas?”

  “I can’t really tell you,” the man replied. “I mean, it sort of sounds familiar, but... I suppose that’s me. I don’t know. I’m not sure. If it’s on my shirt, then it has to be me, right?”

  “Possibly,” Belloc said. “Do you remember anything about what happened to you?”

  Silas searched deep within his thoughts and found nothing but fog. “It was dark and hazy. I was running…I think. But that’s all I remember. What happened to me? Why am I here?”

  “You suffered a wound to your head,” the doctor replied, “so it’s possible you might have amnesia.”

  “Amnesia?” Silas reached for the w
ound on the back of his head, caressing it as his eyes bloomed. He moved his hand down to his body, feeling all of the scars throughout his exposed skin. “Who did this to me?”

  “That’s what we’re trying to find out, son,” Belloc explained. “You were found on this man’s ship. You had stowed away, hidden yourself in a closet. Do you remember that?”

  “No.”

  “It seems that you may have been living in the Far East somewhere, maybe Japan or China?”

  “I can’t remember any of that.”

  “But you look American, so I’m wondering how you got all the way there in the first place.” Belloc pulled out the journal he found in Silas’s bag. “Can you make sense of this writing? Did you do this?”

  Silas opened the journal and turned the pages. “I...can’t read this.”

  “I see,” Belloc said, disappointed.

  “What’s going to happen to me?”

  “Well, it’s obvious that you don’t have anywhere to go, since you don’t even know who you are or where you came from.” Belloc turned to the doctor. “How long can the hospital hold him?”

  “A few days or so, until we do some tests—psychological, mental, etc.”

  “Tests?” Silas echoed.

  “No, that won’t do.” Belloc thought for a moment.

  “What’s going to happen to me?” Silas asked. “When is my memory going to come back?”

  “It’s possible that your memory could come back at any moment,” the doctor replied, “but then again, it might not. But it’s more probable that it will. It’s just a matter of time.”

  “How long?” Silas asked, worried.

  “It’s hard to say.”

  Belloc put his fingers to his mouth and sighed, vigorously thinking. “Don’t worry, um...Silas. It’s important to keep calm about this. I’m an inspector for the Boston PD, and I have experience in solving these types of problems. We’ll find out who you are sooner or later. I will certainly try my hardest. Your situation intrigues me. Yes, most intriguing.”