The Society of Blood

by Mark Morris

  If whatever had killed the girl was hiding here, it was lying low for now. Could it be lurking in the shadows, silent and motionless, watching me? I felt vulnerable in the doorway, framed by the light at my back, but I held my ground. I didn’t want to retreat before investigating further, but neither did I want to step into the room before my eyes had adjusted to the dark.

  Wishing the Victorians would hurry up and equip all their buildings with electric light, I peered into the blackest of the shadows. When I’d satisfied myself as much as I could that nothing was moving, I turned my attention to the parts of the room I could see. On the right-hand wall, close enough to the open door that its basic shape was sketched out in yellowish light, was a make-up table beneath a large mirror. There were items cluttering the table, including several candles in brass holders and a small rectangular box that I guessed held lucifers.

  Glancing again at the most impenetrable patches of darkness, I crossed quickly to the make-up table and picked up the box of matches. I took one out, lit it and seconds later candlelight was pushing back the shadows. Slipping my finger through the metal loop of the holder, I turned, the candle flame flapping as I swept it from left to right.

  The room was small, boxy, and contained only two possible hiding places. One was a squat, battered wardrobe in the corner beside the left-hand wall, and the other was a large trunk pushed against the back wall.

  I drew my gun, and then, candle in one hand and pistol in the other, crossed to the trunk. Noting there was no padlock through the loop of the hasp, I used my left foot to nudge the lid open.

  My first impression was of something shiny and shapeless, which entirely filled the trunk’s interior, heaving itself upright. It took less than a second – during which my heart gave a single alarmed jolt – to realise that what I’d taken for movement was simply the trunk’s tightly packed contents bulging under the release of pressure.

  The trunk was full of costumes, most of which looked bulky and garish. The top one, which my brain had registered as something reptilian, was made of shimmering green satin edged with gold braid. Beneath it I could see something yellow, something pink, something patterned with bright harlequin diamonds. The costumes looked like ones that the cast of a Gilbert and Sullivan opera might wear. Perhaps that’s what they were. As far as I could remember, Gilbert and Sullivan were still knocking about in this era.

  Kneeling on the floor, I put the candle down and rummaged through the costumes with one hand to reassure myself there was nothing beneath the topmost layers of material. I didn’t expect there to be, but I was cautious all the same. When I was happy the trunk contained no nasty surprises I straightened up and crossed to the wardrobe. The candle, which I’d left on the floor, didn’t throw out much light, but there was enough for me to see by, even if the flickering flame did cause vast brown shadows to sway and lurch up the walls.

  I listened at the door of the wardrobe, then pulled it open, stepping back and levelling my gun. But apart from a few more costumes on hangers, which jangled like unmusical wind chimes as they swayed from side to side, the wardrobe was empty.

  I closed the wardrobe door and released a deep sigh, partly of relief. I might not have solved the mystery of the horrible smell, but neither had I had to defend myself against whatever had torn a girl to shreds out in the courtyard. Now I was convinced I was alone I realised I was shaking slightly; sweating too. I sniffed again. The mouldy bread smell still lingered; in fact, here in this room it had an almost muscular quality.

  Wrinkling my nose, I took a last look round, blew out the candle, then exited the room, closing the door behind me. I hurried back to the foyer, slipping my gun back into my pocket so as not to alarm Lacey.

  I smelled the theatre owner before I saw him. His overpowering scent curled along the corridor and clutched at my throat. Not for the first time I wished Victorian London didn’t have to stink so much. If it wasn’t the smog, it was the sewers or the people or the reek of horse sweat in the streets.

  ‘Anything?’ Clover asked as I appeared at the top of the stairs down to the foyer. From the way she jerked upright and took an eager step towards me, I could tell she’d been on tenterhooks.

  ‘Maybe,’ I said. ‘Who’s currently occupying dressing room five, Mr Lacey?’

  Lacey looked puzzled. ‘Five?’

  ‘Yes.’ I tried not to sound impatient. ‘You told Mrs Locke earlier that a theatre company are rehearsing a play here. Is one of the actors using room five?’

  ‘Why… yes,’ Lacey said. ‘That’s my primary dressing room. It is currently at the disposal of my leading man, who also happens to be the head of the company.’

  ‘I see. And what’s his name?’

  ‘Willoughby Willoughby,’ replied Lacey, and then amended himself. ‘Sir Willoughby Willoughby.’ He paled slightly. ‘But why do you ask? There is nothing amiss, I hope.’

  I forced a smile. ‘I hope not too, Mr Lacey. In fact, I’m sure it’s nothing. Tell me, what sort of man is Mr Willoughby?’

  ‘Why, he’s… cultured. Well bred. Well educated. He displays an enviable knowledge of the fine arts… and he is, of course, a consummate performer…’

  ‘You don’t like him, do you?’ Clover said.

  Lacey blanched. ‘I beg your pardon?’

  She gave him a conspiratorial smile. ‘Come on, Mr Lacey, there’s no need to be coy. You’re among friends here. Naturally you’re a gentlemen, and so you refuse to speak ill of your cast. But do I sense a certain… antipathy towards Mr Willoughby?’

  Lacey smiled shakily, and I saw his body language change, his defences slipping as he succumbed to Clover’s charms. In a hushed voice, as if afraid of being overheard, he said, ‘I must admit, I do find Mr Willoughby’s presence a little… disquieting.’

  ‘Disquieting how?’ I asked.

  ‘There is… an aura about him that bothers me. Oh, admittedly he is pompous, perhaps one would even say overbearing, but it is not wholly that. There are… shadows about him.’

  ‘Shadows?’ Clover asked.

  Lacey wafted a hand as though to dispel his own words.

  ‘They are not literal shadows, they are…’ he frowned. We waited silently for him to speak. Eventually he said, ‘…there is a darkness about the man. A sense of… danger.’

  I’d heard and seen (and smelled) more than enough to set my spidey senses tingling.

  ‘When are the company next rehearsing?’

  ‘Tomorrow. They have been idle these past two days, celebrating the season, but tomorrow they shall be hard at it again.’

  ‘Then we’ll be back tomorrow to speak to Mr Willoughby. With your permission, of course.’

  Lacey looked troubled, but nodded.

  ‘You have it, sir. Gladly. I shall see you tomorrow.’

  FOUR

  NIGHT TERRORS

  I was woken by screaming.

  Almost before I was fully conscious I was throwing back my heavy blankets, grabbing my gun from the top drawer of the bedside cabinet, where I placed it every night, and leaping out of bed. Even when asleep my brain was on constant alert, half expecting an attack, and my reactions were both instant and instinctive.

  As soon as my feet hit the floor I was running. The room was pitch black, but I knew its layout precisely, knew exactly how many paces it was to the door, how to grab the handle cleanly without fumbling in the dark.

  The scream that had woken me bubbled and died. But the screamer was only drawing breath. As I wrenched the door open, only peripherally aware of freezing air washing over me from the unlit hallway, a second scream rose, louder and more piercing than before.

  I now had enough of my wits about me to recognise who was screaming and where the sound was coming from. It was Hope. Her bedroom was at the far end of the long corridor, past the staircase on the left.

  As I ran towards it a door opened in the right-hand wall ahead of me and a figure emerged. It was Clover in a long white nightdress, her hair hanging loose, her fa
ce a glowing, shocked mask, underlit by the candle in her hand. The bloom of light was welcome, coaxing the angles of the house to emerge dimly from the murk.

  ‘Hope,’ I gasped as she blinked at me, wide-eyed.

  Her head jerked in acknowledgement. ‘I know.’

  Then I was past her, reaching the door at the end of the corridor, slamming into it, turning the handle. The door flew open and I catapulted into the room, raising my gun, not knowing what to expect.

  By the dim glow of the nightlight burning on the desk beneath the window I saw Hope sitting up in bed, back pressed against the headboard, knees raised to her chest. Her hands – one flesh and blood, one mechanical – gripped the eiderdown, which she had drawn up to her chin. Her saucer eyes were fixed on something on the opposite side of the room.

  I followed her gaze and saw nothing but shadows and furniture. I leaped across the room to the tall wardrobe – the only possible hiding place – and wrenched it open, aware that this was the second time I’d done this tonight.

  And for the second time, thankfully, the wardrobe was empty of everything but clothing. Hope’s dresses on hangers, her stockings and undergarments and petticoats neatly folded on shelves.

  With a sense of déjà vu, I lowered my gun, breathed a sigh of relief, felt the tension leaving me. By the time I’d closed the wardrobe door and turned round, Clover was at Hope’s bedside, wrapping her arms around the little girl, kissing the top of her head, murmuring soothing words.

  A nightmare, I thought. Just a nightmare. Hope had suffered plenty when she’d first come to us, had woken in the night frequently, crying and confused. But in the last month or so the bad dreams had begun to subside, and for the last two weeks, she had slept relatively soundly. Even on the nights when the infection had flared up and the fever had gripped her, she had not screamed like this.

  Maybe this one had been building up. An accumulation. A final explosion, like a boil bursting. Maybe now that she’d screamed it all out the bad memories would be expunged forever. It was cod philosophy, but I clung to it as I crossed the room and perched on the edge of the bed. Hope had her back to me, her arms wrapped tightly around Clover, who was on the other side. Clover glanced at me over Hope’s tousled head and raised her eyebrows. I shrugged and stroked Hope’s back gently. Her flannel nightdress was damp with sweat; her body radiated heat.

  ‘Hey, sweetie,’ I murmured, ‘it’s all right. There’s no one here. You had a bad dream, that’s all.’

  Hope’s breath hitched. Face still pressed against Clover’s chest, she shook her head.

  ‘Wasn’t a dream.’

  I tensed, glanced once more about the room. It was a nice room. Yellow wallpaper with a floral design; pictures on the walls; books on the shelves; a brightly painted toy box; the doll’s house we’d bought for Christmas…

  ‘What was it then, honey?’ Clover asked.

  Hope unpeeled herself from Clover’s body, turned her head and stared again at the spot she’d been facing when I’d entered. Her face was red, flushed. She raised her good arm and pointed.

  ‘He was there,’ she whispered.

  Her words, or perhaps the way she said them, sent a shiver down my spine. ‘Who was?’

  ‘The Sandman.’

  Again Clover glanced at me, her eyes wider this time. ‘The Sandman?’

  Must be a story someone’s read to her, I thought. Polly or Mrs Peake. I’d have words, tell them not to frighten the girl, impress upon them that she was still recovering…

  ‘What did he look like? This Sandman?’ asked Clover.

  Hope’s face crumpled. She buried it in Clover’s bosom again.

  ‘He was horrible.’

  I didn’t want to push her, but I had to know. Touching her back again, as if to anchor her somehow, I said, ‘How do you know he was the Sandman?’

  She didn’t answer at first, and I began to think she wasn’t going to. Then slowly she raised her head. She looked haunted.

  ‘Because he told me,’ she whispered.

  FIVE

  THE DEAR DEPARTED

  Willoughby Willoughby’s face reminded me of a sausage skin overstuffed with meat. I couldn’t help thinking that if I pricked him with a pin he’d burst. Either that or a sticky, colourless fluid would ooze from him, like seepage from a blister. But despite his corpulence he didn’t seem to sweat. The only wet parts of him were his eyes, so dark they looked almost black, which gleamed and squirmed in sockets made deep and shadowy by his bulging cheeks and overhanging brow.

  Lacey had told us that Willoughby’s company, the Guiding Light Players, would be rehearsing from ten a.m. until noon, and then again from two p.m. until five p.m. Clover and I turned up at the Maybury just after eleven, gritty-eyed and frayed around the edges after a night of broken sleep. We slipped into musty-smelling seats at the back of the auditorium and watched Willoughby and his colleagues strutting and fretting about the stage.

  Willoughby was instantly recognisable from Lacey’s description, though even if we hadn’t been here specifically to see him he would have drawn our attention. With his intimidating bulk and stentorian voice he dominated proceedings. He was like a vast, dark planet around which lesser satellites orbited warily. He was clearly the driving force of the company, haranguing and bullying his fellow performers when they didn’t meet his exacting standards, which seemed to be most of the time. After he’d reduced one trembling slip of a girl to tears for stumbling over a line, Clover leaned across and put her lips to my ear.

  ‘When we talk to him, can I be the bad cop? I want to punch him right in the middle of his stupid, fat face.’

  I smiled and stood up. ‘I’m going to look around the yard again. You want to come along or stay here?’

  ‘I’ll come,’ she said. ‘If I stay here much longer I may not be responsible for my actions.’

  We slipped out of our seats and went in search of Lacey, who we found trying to polish scratches out of the woodwork in the foyer. When I asked him if he could unlock the door into the yard, he scuttled to do our bidding as if we were on official business. Judging by the shabbiness of the Maybury, I guessed his obsequiousness was due to the fact that the money I was paying him was a lifeline he was terrified of losing. Added to which, like much of the Victorian middle class, he was probably a social climber, hoping to impress the ‘gentlemen’, as he no doubt assumed me to be (though in truth, the idea of me as a rich gentleman was something I was pretty sure I’d never get used to).

  Although a haze lingered in the air, last night’s smog had largely dissipated. The improved visibility, though, did the cobbled yard at the back of the Maybury no favours. The ground was slippery with muddy snow, which was rapidly turning to slush, and the crumbling brick walls were patched with green-black damp so slimy it looked gangrenous. In the twenty-first century the yard would have been closed off and a forensics team would be crawling over every square inch in their hunt for evidence. But in the nineteenth century, police interest in murder sites tended to be perfunctory. I knew from experience that once they’d taken the victim’s body away, and spent half an hour grubbing listlessly around in the chilly murk, they invariably lost interest. In this case they hadn’t even arranged for the gruesome evidence of last night’s murder to be removed. Blood, blackened and congealing now, was still pooled around the area where the girl had died. And there was more blood spattered up and across the wall, the pattern of streaks it made so wild and jagged you could almost sense the violence that had liberated it from the victim’s body.

  I’d sent a message to Cargill first thing that morning, requesting as much information about the murder as he possessed, but so far had heard nothing back. Once again I stood with my toes a centimetre or two from the victim’s spilled blood, and stared at the spatters on the wall as if they were a secret code I needed to decipher to identify the killer.

  ‘The way I look at it there are two possibilities,’ Clover said. ‘Either this is a random killing or it was a calling ca
rd, maybe even a warning, aimed at you. Personally I favour the second option.’

  I looked at her staring unflinchingly at a scene that many would have found distressing, and thought of how capable, how kick-ass, she’d become in the past few months. She’d never been a shrinking violet, of course, but even so it couldn’t be denied that everything we’d been through, both in our own time and since we’d been here, had toughened her up.

  ‘You think the girl was a watcher then?’ I said.

  ‘Not necessarily – but Lacey is. So if the killer knew that, he’d also know that Lacey would get word to you about this. So maybe this is just the Wolves’ way of letting you know that they know about your network.’

  ‘Yeah, but what would that achieve?’

  She wrinkled her nose. ‘Could just be mind games. Or maybe it’s their way of telling you that you won’t find out anything they don’t want you to know.’

  I thought about it. It was a depressing prospect, and one I was reluctant to accept. ‘There’s no way they could know about everyone. Besides, why not just kill Lacey? That would have got the message across just as effectively.’

  She shrugged. ‘Maybe because the girl was innocent? Make you feel doubly bad?’

  It was a possibility, but my gut feeling was that Clover’s theory was too vague, too woolly.

  ‘I don’t think I’m being manipulated,’ I said. ‘I think, if anything, this is proof that my system’s working. I’ve got hundreds of watchers all over the city, primed to look out for stuff like this. It’s been three months now. One of them was bound to come up trumps eventually.’

  ‘So you think that’s what’s happened here?’

  ‘Don’t you?’ I nodded again at the blood spatters. ‘You really think this could be a straightforward murder?’

  ‘I think…’ She paused; I could almost see the cogs whirring in her head. ‘I think we should take things one step at a time. I think we should keep an open mind.’

  ‘I always do.’

  It was almost noon and there was nothing more to learn in the yard. We re-entered the theatre and snuck into the back of the auditorium to watch the end of the rehearsal. Once it was over and the actors had left the stage we walked down to the dressing rooms and knocked on door five.