by J M Bannon
“Good morning, sirs,” replied Dolly, shaking both men’s hands.
Dr. Anou, the smaller of the two, wore a light gray suit with a matching waistcoat, his dark goatee waxed to a point and his mustache tips curled.
The guild master presented himself; dressed in the classic garb of the necronist guild. Other than the edge of his white shirt cuffs showing, the ominous character was cloaked entirely in black. His long black silk brocade coat practically brushed the floor, with two rows of pewter buttons closing the front. On his high collar was the gold insignia denoting his rank as a Grand Master of the Wyrding, he was upper echelon necronist. Only six had that rank.
The commissioner continued. “Detective, it appears that the coroner’s inquiries to reach the next of kin of Emilio Moya raised eyebrows in Haiti, and they wired the French Republic.”
Dr. Anou interjected, “The French government requests the Crown to support their pursuit of a fugitive that may be on UK soil. The Emperor’s ministry will share all the pertinent facts with your department to assist in this matter.”
The commissioner could see the consternation on Dolly’s face and intervened to get him up to speed. “Dolly, this came from the home office. Walpole agreed to cooperate and offered the Metropolitan Police Service a sharing of intelligence and the arrest of the suspect.”
Dolly took the cue. Take your medicine. “Who will be my liaison?”
“Mr. Saint-Yves,” responded Dr. Anou.
“Not a Gendarme, or at the very least, one of the Emperor's secret police,” suggested Dolly.
Saint-Yves spoke. “Detective, the Emperor chose me because I am an authority in the arcane and have investigated the techniques of the fugitive. I can be of considerable service to your department and can help you to catch her.”
“You are seeking a woman?” Dolly replied. His interest was aroused.
“Yes, an ex-slave who instigated a rebellion in the protectorate of Haiti,” replied Anou.
“A colored girl?” Dolly followed.
“Most slaves in Haiti are negroes,” stated Dr. Anou.
“Why is this of concern to the guild?” asked Dolly.
"This is a matter of interest to the Republic of France and the security of its citizens. This woman is engaged in unwholesome practices; his Holiness Cardinal Almont, the See of the Catholic Church, as well as the guild have deemed these to be unnatural and heretical acts,” declared Dr. Anou.
"Now the Church and the necronists are making joint proclamations. My, how times have changed," taunted Dolly. Fifty years ago, when the necronists appeared in France as a cult, the pontiff declared them heretics. If it were not for the support of Emperor Napoleon, it is feasible that the Holy See would have sought to purge Europe of the necronists.
Dolly took another tack. “What makes you think the fugitive is here?”
“The plantation where the revolt started was a Moya-owned estate. Señor Hernando Moya was murdered. The Colonial Police advised the government when your coroner sent a cable to Hernando Moya to inform him as next of kin to Emilio Moya. I am not a police officer like you, Mr. Williamson, but it is logical that if both Moyas were slaughtered the same way, that it is the same murderer out to seek vengeance on the Moyas. You attempt to associate a natural cause to supernatural incidents of Señor Moya's death and that has bewildered you. I can explain how he perished," said Guild Master Saint-Yves.
Dolly crossed his arms. "Well, let’s have it.”
The necronist met his stare.
“You found the bodies in a state of dehydration, as if all the body’s fluids had been removed or as if the body had been burned, yet there was no sign or source of a fire. The guild consulted with the spirit world, and we have learned that the fugitive has tormented the souls of the living by invoking the fires of hell to appear here on earth.”
“So, you're saying you have talked with Señor Moya’s ghost? You fellas are going to put me out of work if you can start having spirits point out their killers," retorted Dolly.
Saint-Yves’s face never showed a variation of emotion. “Detective, I did not partake in the seance, nor do I know if those that did were contacted by Señor Moya or some other spirit guide. I can guarantee you that if the woman is practicing heretical arts in London, you will need our cooperation with her capture.”
“So, you're the guild expert on Voodoo?” asked Dolly.
“What makes you ask that, Detective” replied Saint-Yves. Dolly got the rise he was looking for out of the Frenchman. Not even a necronist could stay stone-faced forever.
Dolly pressed. "Let’s be clear. From this point on, if you answer my questions with a question to evade giving me the information I desire, we’re finished. Come calls from the Earl of Derby or the Queen herself.” The detective turned to Mayne. "Take me off the case and give it to someone that has time for this farce.”
Before Mayne could answer, Gerrard spoke. “Very well. It appears you know something of the arcane and therefore know our fugitive, and likely the suspect you seek, is a practitioner of Voodoo. I have been to Haiti and understand the nature of the practices and the capabilities of the practitioner. The woman we seek is a high-level Hougan witch doctor. She can twist the will of the living and raise the dead.”
“If we can keep it straight that I am the detective in charge, and you are a liaison with no jurisdiction and under no circumstances are you to act on your own, then I'll give this a go. We will apprehend her, lock her up and leave it up to our two governments to determine how justice will be meted out. If you agree, I will make sure I share my knowledge to date and continue to uncover during the investigation. Fair enough?”
"Detective, I agree to your offer. I only suggest that when the hour arrives to capture the Hougan, that my qualifications and services will be required to guarantee no further deaths at the hands of this enchantress,” replied Saint-Yves.
“We will cross that bridge when you hand over some evidence to where we can find your witch. Where do I reach you when I need your help?"
“I will be staying at the French consulate and can be type-wired there,” responded the guild master.
Dolly smiled. “Thank you, gentlemen. I will be in touch, and I will look forward to seeing your notes on the incident in Haiti.” With that, Dolly left the office and returned to his desk.
He sat down and gave his desk a visual survey, letting out a heavy sigh. He noticed at the top of the incoming mail bin an envelope addressed to Detective Sergeant F.A. Williamson in elegant calligraphy.
He flipped it over. The envelope was sealed with wax, but he could not make out the imprint. He opened the note with his penknife, noticing Rose’s ward dangling next to it.
The message read:
Dear Mr. Williamson,
You are invited to dine with Mr. Lester Chilton at the Meadhurst Manor on 24th June 1858.
Given the distance, the Chilton home will be open for you to stay as a guest on the noted evening. Please advise us of your acceptance of the invitation and intended arrival at Meadhurst so that our driver can meet you at the station.
Cordially,
Lester Chilton. Barronett
P.S. Dinner attire is respectfully requested.
He threw the letter on his desk and mumbled to himself. “Now I need to get my hands on a dinner jacket.” When he looked up, Mayne was there.
"I don't like French men in my office any more than you, Williamson, but don't be making a scene because of your pride as a detective. You have four bodies and you’re no closer to finding the killer or building a case, so get your nose on the grindstone and let them help.”
"Yes, sir,” replied Dolly.
"Detective, save the tone. What's the difference between these blokes and when you call on your witch?"
"She's English."
Mayne noticed the other detectives watching. He turned and left before they started a pissing match.
Meanwhile, Dolly knew there was no need to argue with the boss. Mayne didn’
t ask for cultists to help, and he didn’t approve of Rose. If the Home Secretary was prepared to let necronists help on this case while crying that the French were trying to start a riot at the gaswerks, then pressure to solve the case was coming from someone directly on Walpole and it was mounting.
10
Thursday, the 17th of June
9:00 PM, Weng Lo’s Tien Gow Parlor
Rose passed through the raucous smokey Tien Gow parlor. The area was packed with Chinese migrants; it was loud. Maybe Rose perceived it louder since she didn’t speak the language. The illegal gambling den was a contrast to Lo’s attempt at a high-class environment with his dealers and staff clad in tuxedos and gowns and the bulk of the working-class patrons looking like they walked in right off the street; many had done just that.
Even here she got looks as she followed Weng Lo’s lieutenant, Jimmy Lin to visit Master Weng. Rose and Weng developed an unusual relationship based on their history before she turned into a demon hunter and Weng the chief of the Lucky Three Triad in London. Rose administered to the Saint Luke’s Children’s Home, where he was a benefactor. He had lived there for a time when he first arrived in England. His tenure was well before Rose began her ministry there. Rose figured they were about the same age. When she fell into her troubles, Weng made certain she was taken care of when others, including the church, abandoned her.
Outside his office door was an imposing Chinese man in a tuxedo. He never broke his stare, continuing to observe the gambling parlor.
Jimmy knocked. Another guard peered through the view slot then opened the door, admitting them into the narrow corridor leading to Weng Lo’s office.
“Miss Rose, how good of you to visit. Did you enjoy the fleetster?” asked Weng as she and Jimmy Lin entered the office. The gangster lord was reviewing his books and did not get up. Jimmy moved to the side of the room, standing at attention until his master directed him to sit, leave or speak.
“What a thrill. It was like flying,” answered Rose.
“How was our friend, Preston?” asked Weng. Weng was one of the few individuals who unconditionally accepted the metaphysical, and Rose could share with him what she experienced in her practice. She knew little about his history, but he had alluded to having a relative engaged in the mystic arts.
“Weng, the possessions take such a toll on him, but we have a strategy to liberate him of his unwanted house guest.”
He chuckled. "So why do you call? Are you in need of the coupe again?"
"No, it is the matter of Preston’s condition. I require your professional help to find someone. Someone who doesn't want to be found," said Rose.
"Tell me more," coaxed Weng.
Rose continued. "You’ve heard about the Chilton and Carlton murders?”
“Yes,” he replied.
"It is the work of a Voodoo priestess. I was able to divine a vision of her. She is African and possesses a powerful command of the arcane. The same methods she has used to kill can, in my estimation, be used to rescue Preston."
Weng looked at his long-braided ponytail and played with the end of it, giving his black hair all of his thought. "And?"
Just spit it out. "And I need your help to find her."
“Like you said, Sister, she does not wish to be found. This wizard that murders powerful white men in London. You now ask the Chinese gangster to help you catch her? Why would I be interested in getting on the bad side of a wicked Voodoo priestess?”
“It would help me and more so Preston. I need to learn from her. I need to talk to her and see if she will help.”
“Rose, the only reason you know of such things is because of the burly Scotsman you help over at the police department. What do you expect he would say about you consorting with the Lo brothers and the Lucky Three Triad?”
Rose grinned and sat down on the couch away from Weng’s desk. "Weng, the detective knows my work has me traverse many diverse worlds, and while I have never mentioned our friendship, I doubt it would shock him.”
“I assume the policeman would not approve of the company you keep,” countered the triad leader.
“It’s common practice for law enforcement to reach out to the criminal element when trying to solve a crime. If Dolly were to take issue with our helping each other, it would likely be from resentment that my underworld contacts are of a higher pedigree than his." Rose looked to see if he bit on her backhanded compliment.
“Let him reach out to his contacts. This is too messy, a mysterious witch killing wealthy society types with an ongoing police investigation. Sounds like a tar pit to stay away from." Weng shook his head and looked at her sternly.
“I don’t understand, Weng. All I need is your help locating her. After that, I’ll deal with the priestess. You won’t be connected.”
“You look outside that door at what I have going on. Do you think the police don’t know there is a gambling hall underneath the noodle shop? We have an understanding. I need not get mixed up in this. Too many big names, too much newspaper attention, and that's not good for trade,” Weng said while he walked over to the couch to sit by Rose.
“She has gold,” declared Rose.
“My dear, Sister. You barter with the possessions of others. That is not particularly Christian.” Weng rose from the lounge. “I have made my decision, Rose Caldwell. Did you have other matters to discuss?”
“No,” Rose returned. She had gone too far.
“Then we are done.” Weng went back to his desk and spoke in Mandarin after completing his sentence in English.
She heard the office door open and shifted to see Weng’s bodyguard waiting for her to depart while he held the door.
Rose stood and looked back at Weng, who had already gone back to reading his book. She pondered pushing further but appreciated that Weng’s decisions were definite when in front of lower ranking members.
She stepped out and was again escorted by Jimmy Lin. Jimmy smiled as he ushered her through the gambling hall. An elderly man at one table turned and wailed at her as she walked by.
“He says you are bad luck and you should go away” translated Jimmy.
"He would be right," she said as the pair exited through the metal door that hid the illegal hall from the eyes of the public.
Rose climbed the dirty old staircase up to street level and the alley entrance of the club. The rhythmic shuffling of her and Jimmy’s footfall up the wooden steps were broken when Jimmy stopped and asked a question. “How much gold does this woman have?”
She smiled to herself but wiped the smirk off her face before she turned to him. “I have it on excellent authority that she took over twenty thousand pounds’ sterling of gold from the Chilton House.”
“Who is this excellent authority, witch lady?”
“The detective on the case,” she explained.
“If I help you find this person, how will you help me?”
She thought quickly, “I can provide wards to protect you from her powers.”
“Yes, you can do that, and you can be a diversion to her if she is there when we grab the gold. If I can find her, and I can secure this gold, I will tell you where she is,” responded Jimmy.
Rose thought, Now I will become part of Jimmy's heist. “Jimmy, Weng said no.”
“He said no to you. I am not you. What can you tell me of this woman?”
“I can show you what she looks like if you come by my flat,” said Rose.
“What else?”
“The culprit left a note at the crime scene. That makes me think she has completed her business in London. I expect she will attempt to leave the city. She has over four hundred pounds of gold. That won’t be simple to tote around, and she’s black. so even in this cesspool called London she will stand out in a crowd. The woman will go someplace where she can fit in and have flexibility, so I would say she will travel to the continent or to America. I’d say the Northern States or the West Indies.”
“That is helpful. I will get a search started. Don’
t seek me or talk to anyone about this matter. If I have something I will find you." Jimmy shook her hand. "Weng’s chauffeur is in the alley. He will take you back to Bethnal Green.” Jimmy checked his cuffs and made sure his coat was buttoned, a sure sign he was done with business. “Good evening, witch lady.”
11
Friday, the 18th of June
9:15 AM, Pelton’s Bookstore
The bell sounded when Jimmy Lin and Allen Chen walked into Pelton’s bookstore, a shabby little-used bookshop in Hay Market. The store was devoid of customers.
Jimmy followed Allen as walked he around the cashier counter. Next to the register, Jimmy noticed a racing form for the weekend and an empty teacup. Chen shoved aside the ratty curtain stretching across the doorway that served as a privacy screen from the store to the rear rooms. “Trevor, it’s Friday,” Allen Chen called out melodically.
Collecting weekly interest payments was grunt work, but Jimmy’s occasional unplanned involvement made certain his underlings were not skimming. Every so often, like today, he would escort his men on the weekly shakedown of debtors. He also needed to be on the streets to ferret out leads on the gold. The owner of Pelton’s was one of a dozen or so blokes he thought might have a lead on the thieves. Trevor was a degenerate gambler that owed money to all the bookies and to loan sharks like Jimmy. The gambler didn’t make money from his crappy bookstore or his horse handicapping. He earned a living as a document forger, and he was one of the better ones that Lin knew. Trevor could know who was looking to fake some paper for stolen gold.
