by Gary Dolman
Red Dragon – White Dragon
THAMES RIVER PRESS
An imprint of Wimbledon Publishing Company Limited (WPC)
Another imprint of WPC is Anthem Press (www.anthempress.com)
First published in the United Kingdom in 2013 by
THAMES RIVER PRESS
75–76 Blackfriars Road
London SE1 8HA
www.thamesriverpress.com
© Gary Dolman 2013
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced
in any form or by any means without written permission of the publisher.
The moral rights of the author have been asserted in accordance
with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All the characters and events described in this novel are imaginary
and any similarity with real people or events is purely coincidental.
A CIP record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN 978-0-85728-005-3
Cover design by Sylwia Palka
This title is also available as an eBook
This book was produced using PressBooks.com.
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 1
‘The Edge of the World.’
That was what they called this place – this vast, rocky promontory which lay across the Kingdom of Northumberland like a slumbering dragon. It was here that the Emperor Hadrian had chosen to build the great wall that marked the very edge of the Roman Empire, making use of the natural barriers of cliffs and crags in his bid to keep out the barbarians beyond.
He stood on the Edge of the World and gazed out over the bleak, rock-strewn moorlands below, pinched into ridges and escarpments like the waves of some petrified sea.
It was to that country he was bound. His work for this day, given to him by the Fates themselves, was done and he could go back now to his cool and silent vault, hidden deep in the crags and rocks of the Northumbrian fells. There he would tell this tale to his Lady, and to Lancelot, his one-time companion-in-arms as they slept their eternal sleep.
He smiled as he thought of his Lady and felt the spilled blood on his face bristle and crack. She was his love, his only true love, and he imagined kissing her smooth, white brow, taking her limp, slim fingers in his and telling her of the killing.
Ah, yes – the killing. His smile spread wide and the mask of gore tightened and pulled. With the memory he became aware of the familiar weight of the sword hanging, always ready, at his side. Instinctively he reached down and touched the grip. Perhaps his Lady was not his only love after all.
He allowed himself to luxuriate in the recollection of the long, elegant blade sliding so easily into the Gypsy’s body and stilling the heart inside. He remembered how with the tip of that blade, he had searched out the place where the ribs ended and the soft, yielding flesh of the belly began, how he had sliced deeply into the intricately embroidered waistcoat and watched the flesh beneath it parting obediently before the steel. And then, because this was a gift, he had carved open the flesh for a second time and formed the broad ‘X’ of a crux decussata.
The apex of that cross had gaped wide and beckoned him to the viscera within. It had gaped wide enough for him to push in his hand, wide enough for him to reach into the ribcage and wide enough for him to tear out the heart.
He glanced down at the clod of bloody flesh still grasped in his hand. It was cold now, cooled by the chilly dawn winds. He would wait until he was back with his Lady before he devoured the rest of it. It seemed only right to do so. She would know then that he truly was the victor.
Chapter 2
Atticus Fox gently drew aside the parlour curtains of Number Sixteen, Prospect Place and gazed out across the Stray – the two hundred acres of open pasture, which opened out the very heart of the bustling, fashionable spa town of Harrogate in the West Riding of Yorkshire. Its elegant avenues and walkways were filled with the cream of European and Oriental society taking ‘the Cure,’ that curious mix of light exercise and hydrotherapy for which the town was world-renowned. It was a sight of which he would never grow truly tired but in truth, he was bored and he was restless. After all, there was only so much tea one could drink and so much chess one could play.
“Tea, Atticus?”
He throttled an inner sigh and turned to smile his thanks to his wife. Lucie Fox was already pouring milk from a dainty, porcelain jug into dainty, porcelain tea cups. She glanced across at him as he dropped into an armchair opposite and instantly read his mood.
“The post office messenger boy has just called with a telegram for us, Atticus. It’s a commission.”
“What is it?” Atticus asked sullenly, “Some old dowager’s lapdog has got itself lost down a rabbit hole? Or perhaps a hotel has had another silver teaspoon go missing?”
Lucie lifted the lid of the big teapot and inspected the contents.
“Neither, Atticus; it concerns a murder.”
“A murder?”
Lucie nodded. “Yes, a murder; you’ll find the telegram on the tea-tray if you’d care to read it.”
Atticus, his woes forgotten, sat up and scrabbled the slip of paper from the salver.
“It’s dated today, Lucie; Wednesday, the 4th of June, 1890. To A. & L. Fox, Commissioned Investigators, from Colonel Sir Hugh Lowther of Shields Tower, Northumberland. ‘Wish to engage your services. Investigation of brutal murder. Please come forthwith.’”
He stared at the paper as if it might have contained all the secrets of the ancients.
“A murder!” he repeated at last, “But why would anyone engage us to investigate a murder? We are only commissioned investigators. Murders are police business.”
His wife shrugged. “I have really no idea, Atticus. It’s a pity Colonel Lowther didn’t give us any more detail, other than the murder was brutal of course.”
Atticus drummed his chin with his fingertips as he roused a memory.
“Now I come to think of it, there was a very peculiar death reported a few days ago, I believe in the Daily Chronicle. It was in Northumberland, on an estate near Hexham. A Gypsy man was found stabbed to death, but not only that, he’d been badly mutilated and beheaded. The papers were speculating as to whether it might have been the Whitechapel Ripper at work again, although I’m quite sure that it isn’t.”
He passed her the telegram.
“What do you think, Lucie; shall we take up this commission?”
She smiled at his expression – like a dog with its leash.
“Of course we shall,” she said brightly. “It is a murder enquiry. How often is it that we get one of those?”
Atticus beamed.
&nb
sp; “In that case, I’ll send a reply to this Sir Hugh Lowther straight away and arrange for our tickets up to Northumberland. We shall take the first train north tomorrow morning. ‘Quo Fata Vocant,’ Lucie: ‘Whither the Fates call.’”
Chapter 3
Quo Fata Vocant.
The Fates were calling for him again. They were calling him from his secret place, beyond the Wall, and he could not help but obey them. They would mock him, he knew. They would fling scorn at him and torment him as they always did. But this time, like opiates to the wounded, they would help him too. This time they would grant him relief from his pain.
They had promised.
Because now, at last, it was the End-Time. Now, the hour appointed to avenge the abominations of the past had come.
Chapter 4
The next day was bright and sunny, and very warm for the early hour. It was just seven-thirty in the morning but already the streets were bustling with ‘the Ailing’ who were roused at seven to begin their Cure.
The Foxes’ trunks and luggage had already been bound and corded and sent ahead to the railway station along with their bicycles and Atticus had only his big leather, investigations bag and thick, pewter-topped cane with him as he and Lucie stepped out into the morning to take the short walk across town.
Harrogate Central Station was a designated ‘floral’ station of the North Eastern Railway. The Foxes stepped onto the east-bound platform, already very warm under its delicate, cast-iron canopy and Atticus’s stomach fluttered at the heady mix of scents from the magnificent floral displays overlaying the lingering smells of oil, smoke and steam. To him, these were the smells of adventure, the precursors to an investigation and they were nothing short of wonderful.
The hands of the platform clock twitched from 7:54 to 7:55 precisely and they heard the shrill whistle of their own train as it appeared on the tracks of the station approach. It puffed slowly along the length of the platform and then, with a hiss of steam and a clatter of couplings, it drew gently to a halt.
The Station Master, resplendent in silk top hat and tailcoat, stood by a large, brass bell. He peered anxiously along the ranks of glossy, maroon-painted carriages, ready to announce the arrival of any esteemed visitors to the town. Atticus took Lucie’s arm and shepherded her through a wisp of steam and up into an empty first-class compartment.
They changed to an express train at the busy terminus station at York and duly settled into their seats for the long journey up the East Coast Main Line to the north.
As the train slowly gathered speed through the suburbs and outskirts of York Lucie pulled a copy of the The Queen newspaper from her handbag.
“Is there anything of interest in there, my dear?” Atticus asked, opening his own, much larger, bag and lifting out a travelling chess set with miniature pieces carved delicately in ivory and ebony.
“There’s an article on hospital nursing I am especially interested in,” she replied without looking up. “I know I’ve left the profession now, but I do like to keep abreast of new developments. They seem to happen so quickly these days.”
Atticus nodded and turned back to his chess set. He had a particular aversion to all things medical, especially if they involved any amount of blood or gore. In their profession of reuniting errant pets and straying spouses it was, thankfully, uncommon, but it was still very much an area he left to Lucie, who seemed to positively delight in it.
Atticus Fox believed very strongly in the need to keep his brain in first-rate order; it was the principal tool of his profession. In addition to drinking several large glasses of the iron-rich, Harrogate chalybeate water each day, he often played against himself at chess. By doing so, he fervently believed that he was training his mind to be completely objective and dispassionate in all respects. After all, that was what
he was obliged to do each time he switched between the ebony and the ivory.
As their train snaked its way inexorably northwards, the farms
and villages of the rural Vale of York began to give way to the
chimneys and manufactories of the industrial north-east of England, and a dramatic view of the bridges over the River Tyne eventually heralded their arrival into the City of Newcastle. Once there, they changed again onto the final leg of their journey: the Newcastle to Carlisle railway line, which, Atticus had promised, was to be spectacularly scenic.
Lucie reminded him sharply of this promise as she spotted her pocket-handkerchief with French perfume and held it delicately to her nose whilst the train skirted the foul open sewer that was the industrial River Tyne. Very soon, however, it began to gather speed over the gently-curving, iron bridge at Scotswood and the rows of mills and factories, along with their attendant slums, abruptly ceased. The stench faded, the vista opened out once again and the train began to climb imperceptibly into the rolling hills of south Northumberland.
It seemed no time at all before they came to the small but bustling, village station at Bardon Mill. Just beyond Hexham, this was the nearest point of the railway to their final destination of Shields Tower.
Chapter 5
The Fates: Urth, Skuld and Verthandi. Like ravens clustering around a dying animal they clamour for the old man’s spirit.
He owes them it, and more – seven times more. He owes them it because they have pledged him a gift. It is the gift of his Lady, pure and whole once again and there could be no gift more precious.
But he is bound to give in return. And in return they have demanded a wergild – a man-price – seven times over.
The old man’s life is to be the second part of that wergild.
And lo! He spies him – the old soldier, victor of a thousand battles. He who once led whole armies is alone now, slumped in his chair by the lake.
“He is sleeping,” Verthandi cries exultantly.
He cringes from the words and the noise. She will surely wake him
“By God, you have the luck of the Devil,” Verthandi continues, “He might be an old dog now, but he could still teach a young puppy like you a trick or two if he were to wake.”
“He certainly taught your wife a trick or two,” Urth quips, and they both cackle with delight. “And she was a willing scholar.”
The cackles become mocking peals of laughter, peels that grow louder and louder and louder.
“Pay no heed to them. Kill him now.” Skuld cuts across them and their laughter ceases. He is grateful. She at least understands how deeply their words tear into him.
“Kill him,” she repeats. “I do not care who he is.”
Quo Fata Vocant.
Stepping forward, he pulls a strip of stout silk from his pocket.
Chapter 6
When Atticus and Lucie Fox stepped down onto the platform at Bardon Mill railway station, they stepped down into a bustle of industry and a mass of people going about their daily business just as they would be in Harrogate. They were, perhaps, a degree less fashionable and a little less affluent than their counterparts to the south, but what they lacked in sophistication was more than compensated for in the warmth of their faces, in the cordiality of their smiles and in the richness of the South Tyne Valley.
A tall, strikingly handsome man in the uniform of a footman complete with felted top hat and, despite the heat of the day, a great, black cape-coat stood waiting for them on the platform. He lifted his hat and looked enquiringly in their direction. Atticus smiled in response and took out one of their thick, embossed calling cards. He said, “Mr and Mrs Atticus Fox of Harrogate,” and the footman bowed smartly, clicked his heels and took the card respectfully between his white-gloved fingers.
The required protocols satisfied, he cleared his throat and read: “‘A. & L. Fox, Commissioned Investigators,’” then twisted the card slightly to read the smaller, italicised script underneath: “Quo Fata Vocant.”
Looking up, he grinned as he translated easily: “Whither the Fates call.”
Atticus was both taken with the footman’s reading of the Latin in
his broad, lilting Northumbrian accent and taken aback by the ease of his translation.
“You speak Latin very well,” he said.
The footman laughed genially. He had very white, very even teeth.
“Aye, well I really don’t, sir, begging your pardon. My father didn’t think it worth the penny a term it cost to learn Latin and Greek at the Bobby Shaftoe. That’s the school in the next village, Hayden Bridge, where I did my letters. No, sir, I’ve served a time in the Northumbrian county regiment; the Fifth Regiment of Foot, and by coincidence Quo Fata Vocant was our regimental motto.”
He laughed again and, servant though he was, they both warmed to him.
“Welcome to Hexhamshire, Mr and Mrs Fox. My name is James and I’ve been sent doon by the colonel, Sir Hugh Lowther, to fetch you to Shields Tower. Follow me, if you please.”
He bowed again and led them across the railway tracks to a large square of open ground adjacent to the Station Master’s house. There, a glossy black carriage stood aloof from the carts and wagons of miscellaneous freight that filled the yard. It was harnessed to a team of four perfectly-matched bay horses with their sleek coats curried to perfection. The coachman, dressed identically to their escort, stood in his seat and raised his top hat as they approached, and several onlookers turned to see who the important personages might be.
