by Mark Morris
As I nodded, Clover prompted, ‘You mentioned a murder, Mr Lacey?’
Lacey released my hand so that he could wave dramatically. ‘Indeed I did. Although…’ He gave me a meaningful look.
‘Is there a problem?’ I asked.
Lacey glanced quickly at Clover, then back at me. ‘Not a problem as such. No, no, I wouldn’t call it a problem. Only…’
Clover frowned. ‘Only what?’
‘I’m sorry, my dear. Perhaps I’m a little old-fashioned; indeed, I’m certain that I am. But the fact is, the particulars of this matter may prove a little… distressing for delicate ears.’
Clover smiled, though her teeth were clenched.
‘Oh, don’t worry about me, Mr Lacey,’ she muttered. ‘I’m a lot tougher than I look.’
‘She is, Mr Lacey,’ I confirmed as he glanced at me dubiously. ‘And the hour is late, and we’re all eager for our beds. So if you could lead us to where the murder took place…?’
At once the theatre owner was all fluster and activity.
‘Of course, of course! Please forgive me. This way…’
He skipped past us, liberating another waft of his nostril-stinging odour, and unhooked the rope barrier at the bottom of the stairs. He waved us through, re-hooked the rope, then darted ahead.
‘This way, this way.’
He led us up the stairs and along a narrow corridor that skirted the left side of the auditorium. Evenly spaced arches along the right-hand wall led into the auditorium itself, which at this hour was nothing but a vast black space, whilst to our left were a series of doors, most of them marked: Private No Admittance.
Lacey ignored them all, stopping only when he reached the door at the far end. One of a set of keys was dangling from the lock. He grasped it and gave it a twist.
‘This door allows one access to the back-stage area from the front of the theatre,’ he explained breathlessly. ‘One can also access the area via the stage, of course, not to mention through a door at the back of the theatre, which leads into the courtyard where tonight’s deed occurred.’
‘Is the victim’s body still lying where it fell?’ asked Hawkins.
Lacey looked shocked. ‘Certainly not. I informed the local constabulary as soon as the matter was brought to my attention.’
‘You intimated in your note that the murder was unusual, Mr Lacey?’ I said.
‘And so it was. Hideously so.’
‘In what way?’
Lacey licked his lips and glanced worriedly at Clover, who said, ‘It’s all right, Mr Lacey. I’m a big girl.’
Nodding doubtfully, Lacey said, ‘Although the unfortunate victim had been freshly despatched, her remains were… picked clean.’
‘Picked clean?’ I repeated.
‘Of flesh, sir. The poor girl had been stripped to the bone. As if by an army of vermin. Or carrion.’ He shuddered, causing fresh waves of perfume to waft over us. ‘It was a singular sight. I wish never to view its like again.’
The way Clover looked at me I knew we were both thinking the same thing. Along with the tracks I had found last night, could this be evidence that the Wolves of London were nearby? Perhaps toying with us prior to closing in?
‘How can you be certain that the murder was a recent one, Mr Lacey?’ Hawkins asked. ‘Is it not possible that the victim was slaughtered weeks or even months ago and her remains, for whatever reason, tonight transferred to the courtyard behind your premises?’
Lacey shook his head vigorously. ‘No, no, it is quite impossible. There was blood, you see… a great deal of fresh blood… on the ground and… and on the wall beside the body.’
He slumped against the door. Recounting the experience was clearly taking it out of him. I could see his legs shaking, as if they were struggling to keep him upright.
Sweetly Clover asked, ‘Are you all right, Mr Lacey? Would you like a chair?’
I shot her a warning look, but Lacey seemed unaware she was teasing him.
‘No, no, my dear, thank you. It’s very kind, but… I’m sure I shall be well in a moment.’
‘Forgive me, Mr Lacey,’ I said, ‘but is it possible that Mr Hawkins could be right and that the corpse may have decomposed before being brought here? I mean, how do you know the blood found close to the body belonged to the victim?’
Lacey pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at his forehead. ‘She was recognised, sir.’
I raised my eyebrows. ‘Recognised by who?’
Again Lacey glanced at Clover, as if unsure how much he should reveal in her presence. ‘The truth is, sir, certain young ladies frequent the courtyard – against my wishes, you understand – to… er… consort with… that is to say, entertain—’
‘Prostitutes, you mean?’ said Clover bluntly.
Lacey blanched. ‘Quite so.’
‘And the victim was a prostitute?’ I asked.
‘Not only the victim, sir, but the… um… young lady who discovered her remains. She made quite a racket, I can tell you. I felt certain her screams would rouse the entire neighbourhood. Naturally her client took to his heels the instant she began her caterwauling, and so I failed to set eyes—’
‘Sorry to interrupt, Mr Lacey,’ I said, raising my hand, ‘but didn’t you say the corpse was picked clean?’
‘I did, sir.’
‘So how was the victim identified?’
‘By her head, sir. Her face, I should say. That was left quite untouched – aside from the fact that her features were contorted in the most terrible agony.’ His eyes swivelled again to Clover as his hand flew to his mouth. ‘I beg your forgiveness, my dear.’
She waved away the apology with a flick of the wrist.
‘And when was the victim last seen alive?’ I asked.
‘Earlier this evening, sir. The… er… young lady who named the deceased informed the constables that the victim had been present this afternoon in a tavern called The Black Jack – a most unsavoury establishment – and that she had subsequently been observed plying her trade in Piccadilly Circus.’
‘I don’t suppose the girl mentioned seeing the victim with any particular client?’
‘I’m afraid not, sir.’
‘Hmm. Well, thank you for the information, Mr Lacey. Now, if you could show us the scene of the crime?’
Lacey nodded and opened the door he’d been slumped against. He led us down a set of thinly carpeted steps to a long corridor at the back of the stage. This part of the theatre, out of bounds to paying customers, was even shabbier than the public areas. The corridor’s only illumination, a pair of guttering oil lamps, above which greasy black stains fanned across the walls like coagulated shadows, was evidence that the Maybury Theatre was in decline. Electricity, though still in its infancy, was becoming more prevalent in public buildings, and yet the Maybury had not yet even graduated from oil to gas lighting. I looked up at the thick cobwebs clumped like balls of fog in the corners of the high ceilings, and winced as the uneven and possibly worm-eaten floorboards creaked alarmingly underfoot. We passed several doors, which Lacey told us were dressing rooms for the actors, or rather ‘actors’, his plummy voice emphasising the second syllable as if to impress us. Clover asked what was currently playing at the theatre, and Lacey told her that a travelling company were rehearsing a tragedy entitled The Fall of Oedipus, which was booked for a two-week run early in the New Year.
‘But you must come and see the production, my dear,’ he gushed. ‘I shall send you tickets.’
‘Thank you,’ said Clover heavily. ‘That would be lovely.’
The instant Lacey opened the door into the courtyard at the back of the building a thick brown wall of smog pressed in, wispy tendrils exuding from the main mass and reaching out like the long fingers of forlorn ghosts. Clover started to cough and pulled her muffler over her face. Pressing his handkerchief to his mouth, Lacey wafted at the encroaching murk, as if it could be discouraged like a flock of birds.
Lifting his arm and breathi
ng into his sleeve, Hawkins asked, ‘Where was the body found, Mr Lacey?’
The theatre owner pointed, the smog so thick it immediately enveloped his hand. ‘Against the wall on the far side, almost directly opposite this door.’ He lit a lantern from a small shelf beside the door and handed it to Hawkins. ‘You had better take this.’
Hawkins took the lantern, gave a curt nod, then stepped into the smog without hesitation. He was swallowed up immediately, as was the lantern glow, though I could hear the soft crump of his footsteps on the snow-coated cobbles. I eyed the swirling brown cloud warily for a moment, then plunged after him.
Behind me I heard Lacey say weakly, ‘I think I shall remain here if you don’t mind?’
Clover said something in reply, but by now I was already half a dozen steps ahead of her, and heard only the tone of her voice – understanding, soothing – and not her actual words. It was as if the smog was cramming my senses like cotton wool, muffling my hearing, distorting my vision. I tried to breathe as shallowly as possible and squeezed my eyes into slits to prevent the pollutants from stinging them. The client of the doxy who had discovered the body must have been desperate for a shag to brave these toxic conditions. As for the girls themselves… well, they were just desperate. Prepared to risk their health, their lives, everything, for the sake of a few coins to buy food and gin.
It was impossible to tell how big the courtyard was, or what was in front of me. I used my left hand to hold my muffler over my face and my right to probe the way ahead. The smog swirled around the fingertips of my outstretched arm, forming fleeting spirals in the murk. In these conditions you would have to virtually trip over a body to find one – which was possibly what had happened. In which case it was no wonder the girl who’d found her friend had screamed the place down.
I’d advanced fifteen, maybe twenty steps through slushy, gritty snow when the dimness in front of me suddenly darkened and shifted. I jerked back as a shape loomed from the smog, its head glowing yellow – but it was only Hawkins holding up the lantern.
‘Careful, sir,’ he murmured, lowering the lantern to knee-level.
I looked down to where he was indicating. Through the thick brown veil I could see that the off-white ground had suddenly become darker, slicker. I lowered myself into a squat and in the glow of lantern light the oily blackness staining the snow turned red.
Blood. Lots of it. I wafted vigorously at the veils of smog, trying to disperse them.
Vaguely I saw that the wall of the courtyard was no more than a metre in front of me, just beyond the range of my outstretched arm. As Lacey had said, there was blood not only pooled among the cobbles, but spattered up and across the mouldering bricks in jagged streaks. It was clear that whatever had killed the girl must have done so swiftly and frenziedly for her blood to jet out like that. Most of the injuries must have been inflicted while her heart was still beating. But what could strip a human body to the bone with such manic efficiency? A school of piranhas that swam through smog as easily as they swam through water?
If I hadn’t already seen the Wolves of London in action the idea would have been ludicrous. But I’d reached the stage where I was prepared to believe anything. This could even be the work of the shape-shifter. Though what puzzled me—
‘Why was she killed, do you think?’
Clover, emerging from the gloom and squatting beside me, seemed to pluck the question from my mind. I shrugged.
‘Perhaps she knew too much?’
‘Do you think she might have been one of yours?’
It was something I’d considered, but if the girl had information why hadn’t she reported it immediately? Given her profession it seemed odd that she would have held back when a potential payday was in the offing.
‘Who knows?’ I said. ‘I’d need to speak to Cargill, find out who she was.’
Inspector Cargill was my senior police contact – and another of my watchers. I’d discovered that in this period the Metropolitan Police Force was more of a loose and baggy monster than a coherent and organised body, with many of the modern protocols and procedures I was used to still to be implemented. Its officers, in general, were not averse to earning a bit of extra money on the side, and indeed saw no conflict of interest in doing so. For that reason I could number several dozen serving officers among my network of watchers.
Clover tugged her muffler down and briefly sniffed the air. ‘Can you smell something?’
I raised my eyebrows. ‘Apart from the delicate bouquet of carcinogens, you mean? Or is a whiff of Lacey’s Chanel No 666 drifting this way?’
She smiled. ‘I’m serious, Alex. There’s something else.’ She lowered her head, as if to lap at the blood-spattered snow. ‘It’s a musty sort of odour. Weird.’
Since warning me about the blood, Hawkins had been silent, but now he too crouched down and lowered his left arm from his face long enough to sniff tentatively at the air.
‘Miss Clover is right, sir. There is an unusual odour. It smells like…’
‘Mouldy bread!’ said Clover suddenly. ‘Or like when you leave wet washing in the machine for too long.’
Hawkins nodded in agreement – though as he’d never set eyes on a washing machine, I assumed it was the mouldy bread reference he identified with.
‘Quite so. It’s the smell of decomposition.’
‘But not meat,’ said Clover. ‘Something less… animal than that.’
I removed my muffler and twitched my nose. They were both right. Beneath the choking, smoky odour of the smog, there was something. Stale and heavy, it was like mouldy bread… and yet it had a uniqueness and unpleasantness all its own.
The smell disturbed me. It seemed to hover above the blood-slick ground like marsh gas. Turning my head I sniffed left and right, then rose to my feet and sniffed again. I took a few steps back towards the theatre and took another sniff, this time stifling a cough as I swallowed a lungful of freezing smog. Pulling my muffler over my face, I walked back to where Clover and Hawkins were still squatting.
‘Can you do me a favour?’ I said. ‘Go back inside, get Lacey and take him into the lobby?’
Clover looked puzzled. ‘Why?’
‘Because I want to test something. I think that smell might lead back to the theatre. But if Lacey’s there—’
‘His smell will drown it out,’ she said.
‘Exactly.’
She nodded and straightened. ‘I’ll try. Though as I’m a mere woman I may have to punch him unconscious before he’ll listen to me.’
I smiled. ‘Hawkins, will you go with Clover?’
Hawkins glanced uneasily at the swirling smog.
‘Are you certain you’ll be all right, sir?’
‘I’m armed,’ I said, patting the bulge in my overcoat. ‘I’ll be fine.’
With another glance at the smog, Hawkins nodded, then he and Clover moved away. I listened to the slushy crump of their receding footsteps, aware as the lantern light faded of the damp, miasmic chill closing in around me.
Just you and me now, buddy, I imagined the smog – or whatever was in the smog – whispering. So how about I show you what I’m really made of?
I squinted. Was the smog solidifying to my left? Was a shape forming from it?
No. Course not. I was being stupid.
Even so, I shuddered and wrapped my arms around my body in a self-protective hug. No doubt bullets would be useless against a smog monster – although, to be honest, bullets would probably be useless against many of the Wolves of London.
I wished it were the heart I was carrying in my pocket instead of a gun. Unconsciously I cupped my hand, imagining the heart in my fist so vividly I could almost feel its contours beneath my fingers. I tried not to wonder when I’d next feel the weight of it in my palm – or if I ever would.
I gave Clover and Hawkins two minutes, forcing myself to count off the seconds slowly and steadily, and then retraced my steps. All that filled my vision was thick, brown, swirling smog above a
ghostly pall of snow. I did as I had done before, edging forward with one hand outstretched and the other holding my muffler up to my face. When I judged that I was halfway across the courtyard I removed the muffler and cautiously sniffed the air. At first all I could smell was the smoky sharpness of the smog, but then, remembering the smell had been strongest near the ground, I squatted and sniffed again.
And there it was, faint but undeniably present. I felt like a bloodhound following a trail. Within seconds the smog started scratching at my throat, so I pulled the muffler back over my nose and mouth, and straightened up. My coughs, even stifled by the muffler, seemed both too loud and oddly flat in the shrouded atmosphere. I glanced around, worried that I was drawing attention to myself. But there was no sign of movement in the thick gloom, and no sound of anything moving nearby.
Less than a dozen shuffling steps later I reached the back door of the theatre and slipped into the building. Even though the corridor was dimly lit it was a relief to see my surroundings again. I locked the door and leaned against it for a moment, stamping snow from my boots and sniffing the air. As I’d hoped, Lacey’s overpowering perfume had dispersed, but the mouldy bread smell, which was more subtle yet more persistent, was still detectable.
In fact, it was stronger in this enclosed space than it had been in the courtyard. Bending almost double, I moved forward, sniffing the air. After a bit of trial and error, I decided the smell was strongest around the door of dressing room five, the number of which was painted on the scuffed and battered wood in white paint that had glazed and partly flaked away.
I tapped on the door and got no reply. When I put my ear to the wood all I heard was silence. I tried the handle, expecting the door to be locked, but to my surprise, it opened. Still holding the handle I stepped into the room.
The space in front of me was dark, the flickering light from the corridor giving the room’s contents only the most basic definition. The mouldy bread smell was stronger here than it had been in the corridor. Blinking into the darkness, my hand crept beneath my overcoat and closed over my gun.
