by J. M. Bannon
THE UNTOLD TALES OF DOLLY WILLIAMSON
AN OCCULT STEAMPUNK THRILLER: PREQUEL TO THE GUILD CHRONICLES
J M BANNON
Copyright © 2017 Claymore Ulfberht & Xiphos LLC
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either used fictitiously or products of the author’s imagination. This is a work of fiction solely for telling a good yarn. So relax and enjoy!
The Guild Chronicles, All characters, situations worlds are part of the Non-Newtonian Universe and are Copyright Claymore Ulfberht & Xiphos LLC 2017
Cover Art by Covers by Christian
To Mom who always believed.
CONTENTS
Foreword
Special Thanks
1. Sunday the 6th of June
2. Monday the 7th of June
3. Tuesday the 8th of June
4. Wednesday the 9th of June
5. Friday the 10th of June
6. Sunday the 12th June
7. Monday the 13th of June
8. Tuesday the 14th of June
9. Wednesday the 15th of June
10. Thursday the 16th of June
11. Friday the 17th of June
12. Monday the 20th of June
13. Tuesday the 21st of June
14. Wednesday the 22nd of June
15. Friday the 24th of June
16. Saturday the 25th of June
17. Friday the 16th of April
18. Saturday the 25th of June what remains
19. Monday the 27th of June
20. Tuesday the 28th of June
21. Wednesday the 29th of June
22. Friday the 2nd of July
23. Saturday the 3rd of July
Thank You
Chapter One of The Alchemists Book One of the Guild Chronicles
About the Author
Also by J M Bannon
FOREWORD
Fredrick “Dolly” Williamson is a young detective in the Detective Branch at Scotland Yard. When he is called on to investigate the murder of an investment banker, he is reminded of past encounters with the occult and requests help from Sister Rose Caldwell, an expert in the mystical arts. The body count continues to rise and the mystery deepens after the enigmatic Necronist Guild provide clues to the origins of the murderer.
A tightly wound thriller set in an alternative 19th century where powerful guilds use mechanical power, occult rituals and alchemy to vie for influence in the courts of Queen Victoria and the ever-youthful Emperor Napoleon.
The untold tales of “Dolly” Williamson is an occult steampunk thriller and the prequel to The Guild Chronicles, a steampunk fantasy book series.
SPECIAL THANKS
Editing by Suze Solari
Thanks to Beta Readers
Heidi Wags
Christianna Johnson
SUNDAY THE 6TH OF JUNE
8:00 AM 217 Kings Road Belgravia
He walked to the scene of the murder with the constable that roused him in the early hours of Sunday morning. This time of day on a Sunday the streets of London were peaceful. Later the residents would emerge from their homes, stoke the coal beds of steam carriages, hitch up horses to surreys and ride to church or the park. Except for the occasional clip clop of a horse-drawn carriage or the whine and chug or a steam-driven vehicle making an early delivery, the streets felt tranquil, a rare occurrence. This was London, the world’s largest city, the capital of the world's greatest empire and now home to over three million souls. Hundreds of new inhabitants came to the city every day, rural folk and the Irish all looking for factory work and a better life. To help deal with the chaos of the fastest growing city on the planet the Home Secretary enlisted Dolly and his fellow detectives with the responsibility for crime detection a novel concept that have proven its merit with thwarting conspiracies and catching villains that in the past would have gone unpunished.
Fredrick Adolphus “Dolly” Williamson made sergeant at twenty-eight years of age. Other men had achieved the position in the metropolitan police department earlier than Dolly, but he was the youngest sergeant of the ten men serving in the special detective branch of the Metropolitan Police Service.
More than the day it was the neighborhood that made this walk serene; King’s Road in Belgravia, as far away from the street swarming with new migrants and country folk seeking to make their way in the evolving world. Rarely was his services needed in this part of town.
The crime scene was the townhouse of Sir Francis Chilton first baronet and the managing partner in the investment bank Chilton, Chilton, Strathmore & Owen. Chilton and his partners were men of exceptional power, he was the principal partner of an enterprise where even kings went to borrow money. The Chilton's had the finances that could fund countries going to war or the creation of entire industries like those of the mechanists. The only financier’s in London that may have more money under management were the Rothchilds, but they had far less influence.
In front of Chilton’s townhouse were two bobbies managing the modest crowd that had gathered; including a correspondent from the Guardian, Gerald Welch. No doubt some copper tipped the newspaper man.
Dolly pushed past the growing crowd and entered the home, in the foyer was the beat sergeant talking with one of the household servants. Dolly walked up to him.
“Detective Sergeant Williamson,” declared the Sergeant with a tone of respect and relief.
“Sergeant,” Dolly replied looking to him for his report of the situation. Dolly was now the ranking officer on the scene.
“This here is Mr. Cooper the Head Butler, he found Sir Francis this morning,” answered the beat Sergeant. Addressing the butler Dolly said, “I’ll have questions for you, later," Dolly turned to the Sergeant. “I want to see the scene first.”
The detective followed the sergeant down the hallway and as he turned right into the private study, a cadaver was in the center of the room. A dead man unlike any corpse the detective had seen.
The body was kneeling on the floor, arched back with its arms splayed out, chest up. A deceased male, naked above the waistline. A white shirt and dinner jacket folded neatly and placed on one of the overstuffed chairs beside the body that faced the writing desk. What was most disturbing was the state of the body, it was gray and the skin was like clay dried in the sun, cracked and leathery. This sight brought him back to the horror he saw four years ago.
He circled the body noting no trace of a struggle, no blood spatter or gun shots. Jutting from the rib cage of the deceased man was a remarkable object. A strange ornate piece of wood about a foot long, decorated with odd markings, small bones, feathers, and beads, almost like a primitive magician’s wand. The object penetrated his breast, but presented no evidence to why all the victim's vital fluids were gone.
Dolly paced around the chamber and sniffed the air to sense if there was solvent or chemical residue that may have caused the strange condition of the body. At first glimpse, it appeared to be a burned corpse, but it did not have the smell of a burned body rather it had no smell. Scenes from the past kept sneaking into his mind, visions of a man
on fire but not dying, laughing and not burning. It had been months since that fellow had visited him in his nightmares and years since the episode.
He glanced over to the constable by the exit, “send in the Butler.” Dolly needed help to understand if things were missing or out of place.
The policeman returned with Mr. Cooper. Upon viewing the scene again Mr. Cooper was overcome. “Do you think he suffered?”
Of course he suffered he looks like and overdone hen, Dolly thought, instead he asked a question. “How long have you worked here Mr. Cooper?” Dolly was now on his hands and knees peering at the carpet below the body for any traces of fluids or evidence.
"I have served at the townhouse for twenty-four years," Cooper replied.
“What causes you to believe the body is your employer?” Dolly asked looking at Cooper while going to his feet.
“The clothing, sir, like I said I have been in service to Sir Francis for a long time. I know every stitch of clothing he owns,” said the butler.
“And this is just how you found him. You touched nothing; you did not fold up the shirt,” asked the detective.
“No sir, I have not stepped into the room,”
“Please come in and look around the office. Does anything look out of place or missing?” The butler took a deep breath to steady himself then stepped into the room as if he were taking the step off a cliff.
The old man paced the room. Dolly observed him, looking for any telling behavior.
“From what I can see it all looks right,” said Cooper. Dolly doubted he could notice anything the man kept looking back, and the mummified remains of Sir Lester, like he would jump up or talk.
“Mr. Cooper when was the last time you saw Sir Francis alive?”
“Now that is the odd thing detective. I have not seen him since Friday morning and I did not expect to see him for a fortnight as the family is at the estate this time of year. He showed up unannounced and without staff late Thursday evening. All alone. I asked him if I should call for temporary help and he said no. That he was in London only for a short time and had no need to open the house.”
“So, you saw him Friday Morning?” reiterated the detective.
“Yes, I served him breakfast then he told me and Mrs. Blake to take Friday and Saturday off as he would not be returning after going into the office.”
Dolly stepped to the hall and signaled for the constable to come over to where he and the butler stood. He had been to countless crime scenes and only one had the same eerie feel that this one did. Dolly had kept in touch with the other witness that knew what happened in that cellar four years ago, but he kept contact to a minimum. Seeing her while comforting was also a reminder to him of that night of terror. He wouldn’t try to go it alone again, better to reach out now and make sure that there was nothing out of ordinary and if it where she could point him in the right direction.
“Constable.”
“Yes, Detective,"
“Run a message over to the Yard.”
Cooper interrupted, “Detective the house has its own wire-type. You can message them from here. Its.. Its behind Sir Francis’s desk,"
Of course, they have wire-type, thought Dolly, “Thank you Mr. Cooper could you help the constable get a wire over to Scotland Yard. I need a photographer to come to this address and constables to go fetch Rose Caldwell and bring her here. Tell them to look for her in Bethnal Green.
10:00 AM The Hare and Hound, Bethnal Green
Rose Caldwell looked up when she heard the tinkle of a small bell. She was at the Hare and Hounds Public House and it was now quiet enough in the pub to hear the doorbell ring when the door opened. That was because it was early in the morning and she had been there all night. When Rose arrived on Saturday night, the pub was full of a raucous group of locals drinking and having a good time. Now Rose like the few other patrons of the pub were not eager to see the silhouettes of two constables or the bright mid-morning light come through the door of the public-house.
The constables approached the bar. The barkeep was connecting one of those new-fangled draft handle systems to a wooden keg. Instead of pounding in a wooden tap and gravity feeding the ale, a hand pump was put into the bung. He stopped work and was toweling off his hands as his conversed with the pair of cops. The man behind the bar pointed at her and all three of the men's eyes went to Rose.
The two constables approached her table and stood over her returning her stare, the senior officer broke the silence “You Rose Caldwell?”
That question was usually followed by vitriol and accusations of the questioner.
The last few days had been particularly hard on her and so Ms. Caldwell had been in her drinks for some time. Drink wasn’t the solution to her problems but was a common choice in her family when answers didn’t come easy. The trouble she faced were not metaphysical but the common one most folks in this part of town had, how to pay next month's rent. Like her father and uncles, she only made matters worse by spending what little she had on washing her problems out of her mind for a few hours. “I wish I weren’t,” Rose answered.
“Sergeant Williamson asked us to fetch you.” The constable that addressed her turned to his partner “go see if the barkeep has a coffee for the lady,” The other Bobbie walked back to the bar.
Rose picked up a wine bottle on the table and tipped it over her cup hoping that there was wine left. There was none. She looked at the cop that spoke and asked, “What’s this about?”
The constable glared. “Miss we’re here to collect you and take you over to Saint James to meet the Detective,” said the constable. Rose had not talked with Dolly in a year. After the incident at Father Milton’s Rectory, she had regular meetings with him, the kind of get-together that war veterans had, not to share war stories but to be with someone that understood and had the same view of the world. When he didn’t call anymore, she took it as he had moved on, she missed him but the thought of him moving on with his life made her feel better about losing his company.
“He says he doesn’t have any coffee,” yelled the constable at the bar.
“Is he alright?” asked Rose. “Fine miss. He is at a crime scene and asked for you,” said the Bobbie.
Sister Rose stood up but had to steady herself as she was still drunk and had not been on her feet for hours.
The Constable grabbed Rose’s arm to help steady her and said, “Let’s go.”
11:30 AM 217 Kings Road Belgravia
Sister Rose awoke in the rear of the black maria. Her head throbbing in turn with the chugging of the drive turbines. Unsure of when she dozed off or why she was in the back of a police wagon again, she worked to piece together the events from the previous night. When the vehicle came to a halt she peered out the rear window and to her surprise, she was on the street not in the courtyard of the local Jail. The bobby opened the door “This way Miss Caldwell.” Her mouth was parched. Her short slumber in the back of the police wagon had left her one foot in a drunk, the other in a roaring hangover. Her head was in a clouded funk struggling to piece together how she got to where she was. After she stepped down from the carriage, she stretched her back and arms, to throw away the soreness. As clarity set in she realized she was in Eaton Square and people was staring at her.
Sister Rose was used to getting looks. Rose was fetching, with short black hair rather than long hair put up, and that was just the start of her style that bucked current fashion rules. As usual, she wore riding pants and boots, Rose was never in skirts and bustles. Her blouse was white, well mostly white; dingy and crumpled from a night of boozing. Rather than staring back at all the onlookers in defiance to the disapproving looks they gave she reached into the leather purse on her belt and drew out sun spectacles. The darkened round lens spared her eyes from the glare of sun and society.
She could not conceive who’s home she was standing before. There was a substantial crowd outside, Passersby and gawkers, mostly society types mixed in were a few columnists and several photogr
aphers. One shot a picture the minute he recognized Rose.
Walking to the door of the townhouse a smile came to her face as she saw Dolly Williamson waiting at the transom for her, but he was scowling, or at least she thought he was frowning under his thick mustache. Dolly wasn’t wearing his usual bowler hat but was finely dressed for an average English bloke, wearing contrasting plaid pants and waistcoat with a lightweight summer coat. Always trying to be a bit fashionable, his collar was tied with a wide black silk tie tied in a loose bow. He looked down at Rose, he stood around five foot ten nearly a foot taller than Rose.
“For Pete’s sake constable, you brought Rose Caldwell in a police wagon to the front door,” bemoaned Detective Williamson. The constable went pale. “This will be in every Daily in London now,” the detective finished ushering her into the home.
Dolly turned to Rose and grinned as he greeted her. “Thanks for taking the time to come and slum with me, Were you with the queen at Buckingham or Windsor?”
