by J M Bannon
He retrieved an envelope from the center drawer in the writing desk and placed the totem in the envelope.
At that moment, Rose entered the room with her arms full of equipment. Her skin glowed with exertion. “Thank the heavens this place has a verticulator. I can’t imagine huffing all this gear up a stairwell.” Behind her was a constable carrying more cases.
“My experiment is ready for debut,” She presented the large black box fixed to a wooden tripod with a flourish, taking a bow. “What you see here is a camera obscura I modified with my scrying lenses. These plates are treated with my tinctures. I bake them into the gelatin. Now step back as I need to vapor the room.” She began to set up the equipment. “You might want to get the manager and the others out of here.”
"Ms. Rose Caldwell. Might I remind you that you are here as an observer and your presence is at the whim of the Metropolitan Police Department, where you have only one supporter? Me."
She gave him a square look.
“You don’t boss me," said the detective.
Rose lifted her brow and rolled her eyes “Okay. Long one last night?” She went back to opening cases and assembling her contraption.
“No, Rose, it was not. It was a pleasant evening, but today isn’t. I have two society types killed mysteriously, and you come in here with all this—this hooey-palooley marching me about. I am the Detective Sergeant, and you are the crazy lady who sees ghosts through a bottle glass.”
And you're also my only lead on this case.
“Detective Sergeant Frederick Williamson, I beg your pardon. May I please have your permission to examine your crime scene?”
Dolly turned to his men in the drawing room. “Alright. The lot of you get out to the hall,”
The room had cleared. After briefing the constable in the hall, Dolly came back firing questions. “Rose, what do you make of this note?”
Rose walked over to the writing desk. “I’ll capture images to see what I can scry, but it looks like our culprit is still sending messages,”
“Oh, you might want to look at this." Dolly took the envelope out of his coat pocket and handed it to Rose. “It is one of those spirit siphons. I had quite the shock when I removed it from his chest. Poor fella let out a gasp and collapsed. I thought for a minute he was still alive.”
“A death knell,” said Rose.
“A what?” he said.
“A death knell. There was a lingering spirit essence still affixed to the body, and when you tugged out the siphon, he exhausted his dying breath.”
“So, he was dead?”
“He might not be dead but trapped or banished. I can’t tell, but I know this body had its life force extracted like Chilton." She turned and smiled. “That death knell is a good sign there is residual energy here,” mentioned Rose before placing the amber lensed goggles that hung about her neck over her eyes. She set three of her incense burners in the room then waved a hand fan to create circulation. Dolly stood out of the way wondering if he should breathe normally when she was vaporing the room. It must have been alright because Rose never wore a mask.
Rose reached into a case, pulled out a glass slide and placed it in the top of the camera. She stood to the side of the camera. “Dolly, does your pocket watch have a second hand?”
“It does.”
“Fantastic. Would you be a dear and let me know when fifteen seconds has passed? Start timing once I remove the lens cap.”
Dolly reached into his waistcoat, pulled out his watch and popped open the cover. “Ready.”
"Go," said Rose as she lifted the cap off the lens to expose the plate to the light and eldritch energy.
“There’s fifteen,” said Dolly.
She replaced the cap and switched the photo plate.
"Rose, what do you make of it when folks like Keane call you..."
"A witch?” Rose completed his sentence.
“He is a good bloke. Devout, you know, and a great cop. He’s cleared more murders than me.”
Rose set down the plate. “Fredrick, I have never broken my vows and plan to never do so. When I joined the sisterhood, I joined to seek out the truth and understand the spiritual. I learned that the unseen is far beyond any one dogma, and many times, that dogma and the arcane become subordinate to the will of a single man, and that's when ill comes to be.”
The two took over ten imprints of the desk area where the note was placed and the bed where the body lay. As Rose packed up her equipment, and the mortuary removed the remains from the room, Dolly questioned the valet in the hall.
"Mr. Yardley, how long have you been working for Mr. Moya?" asked the detective.
"I don’t work for Señor Moya. I am a hotel employee and serve several of the gentlemen on this floor prepared to pay for service."
"Did Mr. Moya happen to share with you where he was going last night?” Dolly followed up.
"Yes, he did. He was meeting Mr. Randall Strathmore and a Mr. Owens at Whites for drinks and whist," replied the valet.
“Is that the Strathmore and Owens of Chilton, Chilton, Owens and Strathmore?”
"Why, yes, it is. Señor Moya’s a client of the firm, and my understanding is that his family and the Chiltons have socialized for generations,” added the valet.
Dolly now had two dead bodies within a week, with identical ends that only an excommunicated nun could explain. Now it appeared there were social connections, if not face-to-face meetings of the two dead men.
As he finished up his questions with the valet, he watched Rose make her way out of the suite with her kit. “What happened to the cases where a fella shot his old lady for running around?” mumbled Dolly.
“What was that, Detective?” asked the valet.
“Nothing. Just reminiscing about the good old days.”
7
Monday, the 14th of June
7:00 AM Scotland Yard
Monday morning, the detectives were back in the pen with the commissioner for case updates.
Dolly arrived early, having managed only a few hours sleep between the Carlton crime scene investigation and his need to prepare for the weekly case review starting any minute. As rough as Dolly felt from a deficit of sleep, Keane reflected it physically in the manner he showed up at the branch office.
“What’s the steam lorry driver’s name that drove over you?” questioned Dolly.
Keane was pale and looked flu-ridden. The tall detective sat down at the adjoining desk that faced Dolly. “Dolly, I ain’t been right all weekend. I guess I ate bad mutton or something foul at Albies. Me head is throbbing, and I been all woozy.”
Dolly stared at him with no outward expression. "It's called a hangover.” Then he went back to organizing his notes.
"I felt like this since Saturday morning, and I haven't had a drop since I was with you," replied Keane.
Commissioner Mayne walked into the pen. There was no formal command in the branch. Younger detectives were subordinate to detective sergeants, but no superior officer existed so all the detectives reported to Commissioner Mayne. To keep the office on task, Mayne held a weekly meeting where he listened to the comments of each police officer and could administer direction to the group. “Alright, gentleman. Let’s have it. You start, Keane.”
“I have a wash-up on the Thames, awaiting affirmation from the mortuary, but it looked like a stabbing before they deposited her in the river.
“I closed the Clove Row murder. It was Ginger Kelly, another member of Sweeney's gang. Apparently, Sweeney and Ginger were both rolling the same music hall singer, and it came to blows. After Ginger beat Sweeney to death, he passed it off like the Green Street boys, to protect his arse and stir up the strife between the gangs.
“I have also been putting in time down at the gaswerks helping Dolly with keeping an eye out for trouble," Keane finished.
"Detective Keane, you seem out of sorts,” stated Mayne.
"I feel out of sorts. I guess I got bad mutton on Friday."
"Dolly
, do you have anything further to introduce on the case at the gaswerks?" Mayne asked.
Dolly looked up from his papers. "I looked around and made it known I was watching. Talked to one organizer named Nelson Bruce,"
Several of the detectives called out, “Brucie,” then the entire group chuckled.
“As you can tell, Commissioner, comrade Brucie is an admitted Marxist, with numerous arrests for disrupting the peace and one conviction. He served a year of hard labor. I put him on notice,” said Dolly.
"Thank you for the update, Detective Sergeant. Why don't you continue with your case load?” suggested the commissioner.
“I have the Chilton case. Sir Chilton found dead in his Belgravia office on Sunday morning, June 6th. Further investigation turned up a burglary of about five thousand gold guineas, worth twenty-thousand in pounds’ sterling from his offices in the city of London.”
One of the detectives in the pen let out a whistle when he heard the huge sum. Dolly was seasoned enough to talk over the rabble. “I am working with Sergeant Jones of London Police who is lead on the robbery. I opened another homicide case last night. Emilio Moya, a national of Portugal with connections to nobility. His corpse turned up in the same condition as Chilton. I will consider these incidents together as my conclusion is that the cause of death was the same. Thus, the culprit is also the same.
“I propose to make queries of the staff regarding the actions of Señor Moya at White’s gentlemen’s club. He was a guest there the preceding night.” Dolly knew he would have his best results if he gave the private club for gentleman of royalty and society advanced warning. This could be achieved through Spencer Walpole, a club member. “Could you reach out to Home Secretary Walpole to let the club manager know of my plans and determine if an invitation will be extended?” suggested Dolly.
“I’ll wire-type the secretary and see. You be discreet. Those are the true halls of power. You pull any of your shenanigans, like deciding to bring that witch of yours near there, and I’ll have your badge and pension," stated Mayne.
“Yes, sir,” replied Dolly.
The group of detectives consumed the next hour with the reports of the six other agents. Each rattled out opening, pending and closed cases of homicides and thefts throughout London.
Dolly had a full day arranged. Next stop was the flat of Sister Rose and then late night interviews with the staff at the Carlton. He would see if he could squeeze in a nap between Rose’s and the Carlton.
* * *
11:00 AM, Rose Caldwell’s Rooms
There was a banging on the door. Rose was in the midst of fixing the image in the bath of chemical. Timing, chemistry, art, science and magic all had to align to develop the image.
“Wait a bleeding minute,” Rose said. She watched the clock on the wall to see how much longer she needed. “I can’t open the door,” she yelled, so the Scotsman could hear her through the thick metal barrier.
“Any trouble in there?” came a man’s voice through the door. Dolly, Mr. Punctual.
“I am fine. The door must remain closed until I fix these photo plates, or the light will spoil the image," she emphatically responded.
She withdrew the plate out of the fixing solution, set it on the drying rack, then made her way to the door, pulling off her rubberized gloves and throwing them on the bench.
Rose wiped her hands on her canvas apron and unlatched the multiple locks, bars and the warding hex-box to open the door.
Dolly was yelling down the alley. “Hey, off with you two… You bugger off, or you’ll be in the boys ward tonight.” He turned back to the open door, giving one more quick glance down the street to make sure the boys were away from his carriage.
“This is my place of trade. Could you please come here with less ruckus?” asserted Rose.
“Good morning to you too, Sister Rose Caldwell,” Dolly greeted her with his melodic tone, a modest Scottish intonation weaved into his English accent. He seemed bigger and clumsier as he maneuvered the steps down to the underground flat and the cellar’s low beams supporting the floor above. “Have there always been so many street Arabs in this neighborhood?” Dolly asked, removing his tall hat and smoothing out the beard he was letting grow in.
“Ever since the dye mills have opened, there have been more and more,” responded Rose. She lit oil lamps as she strode the flat. It was an old basement with no windows. The open door produced the only natural light into the flat.
“Secure and bolt the door,” said Rose, lighting a lamp as she spoke. Once the door closed, the whale oil lamps would serve a hazy yellow illumination.
“When are they going to run current to this part of town?” Dolly asked.
“Come back this way.” Rose led Dolly out of the small area with a coal stove vented through the wall and two threadbare wing chairs with a small table and heaps of books. Across from the entry door was her writing desk. A folding partition divided the cramped space of Rose’s bed and dresser from the larger section that made up where she worked. The rest of the basement was part storage area, part workshop. She led Dolly by lamplight through a row of homemade wooden racks. A variety of jars and glass vessels held fluids and exotic substances, a cross between an apothecary, a sideshow curiosity and a winter pickle storeroom. “My landlord wouldn’t pay for gas lighting let alone arc lights. You know they dropped a gas line just on the other side of that wall under the avenue. All she has to do is fit out the apartment with pipe and this could be gas-lit,” added Rose, pointing to the street side wall of her basement dwelling. Of course, I would need to be up to date on rents too.
As Dolly followed her, he chimed in, “Rose, your place usually has a pleasant smell of candles and incense. What is with the vinegar smell?”
It was lost on Rose. She had been breathing the chemical for hours and lost the ability to sense the aroma. “Oh, that is just the chemicals for fixing the images for what I wanted to show you. Follow me.”
Rose’s cellar floor was unfinished and made of hard packed clay and stone. She had placed carpet runners in between racks and shelves to keep the dust down and the floor warmer. Rose led the detective down the main aisle to the workspace and strode over to her latest gadget. “This, Detective, is the phantasma graph. I have married the latest in the photographic sciences with arcane scrying to facilitate the uninitiated: to see the world as it is, was and can be.” Her right arm was outstretched and waving at a glass cylinder about eighteen inches in diameter set on a brass base with a brass crown. Her contraption looked like a cross between a fishbowl and a Russian samovar with copper tubing joining the top to the bottom of the chamber. On the opposite side of this recirculation tube was a bellows. Within the glass tube, in the bottom half of the container, hung a heavy cerulean gas with phosphors glimmering in the vapor.
An armature secured to the base incorporated a lens system, a photo plate holder and an oil lamp. “This ended up being more complicated than I thought, but you’ll like the results,” Rose pronounced as she took one of the glass sheets and placed it into the holder. She took a matchstick and ignited the lamp attached to the phantasma graph. Rose then pumped the bellows, causing the gas to recirculate in the chamber. “When you have seen me scrye a location, I use incense and potions that cause an ethereal reaction, which helps me to see the images. To see what the camera has caught, I must project the image back upon an eldritch element. For this, I use a refractive gas. I found a specialist apothecary that can source alchemical materials. I finally settled on seureleum mestificatos, or SM gas, but it is heavier than air, so it settles out over time. To get the gases in the tube to disperse, I recirculate them with the bellows."
Rose could see Dolly’s eyes glazing over as she peppered him with her lecture on her innovations until his eyes caught the figures appearing in the mist. In the chamber was a vignette of a gentleman garbed in a nightgown sitting at a desk writing. It was room 8A at the Carlton, and the man was Moya. Behind and to his left stood a handsome young woman adorned i
n an elaborate bustled gown with a lace veiled hat peering over his shoulder. Through the swirling image, Rose could see Dolly frozen with astonishment, fixated on the picture. Dolly finally spoke, “Rose, this has got me absolutely knackered. You’re telling me that this is an image from Moya’s suite the night of the murder, and this is actually Moya sitting there?”
“You can see what I see when I use my vapors and lens while conducting a scrying ritual. What I have done is imbued the incantations into my construction. That is to say, yes, you're seeing an astral imprint of a moment from the past.”
“Rose, we could settle every case that is outstanding," Dolly said as he clapped his hands together.
“Unfortunately, no, my friend. If the latent energies have dissipated, I can’t capture them, and if the homicide had no arcane influence, then there would be no imprint made.”
The smile left Dolly’s face.
“This next one is good,” Rose said as she switched glass plates. The next slide illuminated as Rose produced a steady stream of the gases through the tube. The picture was more vivid and resolved. The image was what looked like a negro woman. Rose could confirm it was the same woman from her height and clothing, but she had removed the veil. The genesis of the light for the exposure appeared to be generated from the man’s chest. He reclined on the bed. A streak of light weaved its way to a glowing sphere the lady bore in her left hand. “There it is. The transgression in progress, your mumbo priestess taking Emilio Moya’s soul. The image is so clear because the soul transferal is a violent discharge of metaphysical vitality.”
Rose observed Dolly. He went from a cop conducting an objective analysis of the scene, searching for clues, to a human disgusted and horrified by what the tableau presented. It was hard to fathom what Moya went through, but here you could see agony and fear on Moya’s face. Moya still looked human, not like the mummified shell left in the hotel. This was the moment where the priestess used her power to rip his eternal essence, that which is beyond the mortal realm, and stole it or destroyed it. Rose wondered if the detective understood what he was observing. If Moya’s soul were destroyed, this would be beyond murder in wickedness. The survivors, family and friends of a murder victim can take solace that the victim is somewhere, maybe even a place better than here, but no longer with them physically. In this case, the victim’s unique essence, that being that is you beyond the voices in your head, is obliterated. No longer eternal or universal; no chance of an encounter on some other plane at some other time. Obliterated!
