Title Page
TRAPPING FOG
A Slice of Steampunk
William Stafford
Publisher Information
Trapping Fog
Published in 2016
by Acorn Books
an imprint of
Andrews UK Limited
www.andrewsuk.com
Copyright © 2016 William Stafford
The right of William Stafford to be identified as author of this book has been asserted in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyrights Designs and Patents Act 1988.
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published, and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Dedication
For Noel
One
I pounded my fists on the underside of the coffin lid. It did not budge. Neither did it make a hollow sound.
Crap, I thought. I’m buried alive.
Again!
I lay still and wondered how long I would have to wait this time, casting my mind back to the last thing I could remember before my death - before my ‘supposed’ death.
A hospital. Well, more of a dumping ground, really, for the sick and infirm of old London Town. The place had been packed, crammed to the rafters, with people in need - and the din! It was like Bedlam - which was across the road. The doctors couldn’t cope. It was all they could do to provide enough space for the poor bastards to get horizontal. And they was all poor - of course they was. No one with any money would be seen dead in a place like that.
I reckoned it had been about mid-afternoon when I was pronounced (presumed!) dead. That meant another few hours until dusk and then a few more until midnight. Doctor Hoo would probably wait until then before he came to retrieve his employee.
Mind you, I don’t know how long I’ve been out, I reflected. I’d taken the powder like he told me - I could still taste its vile bitterness - and let it work its magic. I can only assume Doctor Hoo had strode in, cloak swirling, and imperiously demanded the urgent removal of the corpse. Contamination, he would have said, along with a few other big words; the fellow must be interred with the utmost urgency.
And they, the overworked doctors and nurses, would have been impressed by his haughty manner, his implacable features, his hundred-yard stare. More than anything they would be glad of one less poor bugger to think of, one less drop to worry about in this ocean of human misery.
The rozzers might even have heard about my demise by now... I couldn’t help smiling, even in my coffin - There’s not many people what can say that, is there? They can cross me off their list of wanted men. I am free!
Well, apart from the whole being-shut-up-in-a-coffin thing, but that was only a temporary inconvenience.
No, Damien, I warned myself. You take it easy. Doctor Hoo has come through for you yet again and all you have to do now is lie back, get some kip maybe, and try not to think of how full your bloody bladder is right now...
It was easy to doze off. The powder was still in my system. I could only hope I wouldn’t piss myself while I slept.
Hurry up, Doctor Hoo! Get me out of here!
***
I woke to the sounds of scraping and the thud of a shovel blade against the other side of the lid. A few agonising moments later, there were creaks as the lid was prised off by a crowbar and then - oh, then! - cool air on my face and the smell of damp earth. Two hulking figures were standing over me, black shapes against the midnight sky. I squinted and shielded my eyes with my hand; they was shining their lantern right in front of my nose.
“Bloody hell!” cried one.
“We’ve got a live one!” added the other, no less shocked.
In their scramble to get out of the grave, the lantern was dropped. It burst into flames, licking hungrily at the men and leaping onto their overcoats. I sat up - the coffin was burning. Now, I’ve got nothing against cremation but this wasn’t the time or the place so I sprang out and clambered over the flailing men and hauled myself out onto the ground. Every man for himself in these situations; you know how it is - or perhaps you don’t. Perhaps your life is more normal than mine. I lay back on the mound of earth. At my feet, the grave blazed like a pit of Hell, the cries of the men the screams of the damned.
I drank in the fresh air like it was the first pint after a week of sobriety and couldn’t help being startled to see a gaunt figure standing over me. Dressed in black, his opera cloak hanging to his ankles like the wings of a giant bat, and the sheen of his top hat catching the glimmer of the flames, Doctor Hoo raised his cane to his lips and blew twice in quick succession. Poisoned darts appeared in the necks of the burning men, silencing and toppling them instantly.
I got up. “Thanks, Doc.” I wiped a hand on my shirt and offered it. As ever, he ignored it. “I knew you wouldn’t let me down.”
Doctor Hoo’s face betrayed no emotion. From his cloak he produced a shovel. I accepted it; I knew what had to be done. I set to refilling the grave, dousing the fire and covering the men. Doctor Hoo did not linger - he’s not one for physical labour; it’s what he pays me for.
Satisfied I was on my Jack Jones, I unbuttoned my breeches and relieved myself at last. Ahh... Talk about making a pleasure of a necessity.
Steam rose from the grave.
No offence intended, I saluted the dead men and got back to shovelling.
Two
“There’s been another one, sir.” Sergeant Adams burst into Bow Street nick with his cheeks as livid as his ginger beard. Inspector John Kipper, whose facial hair was sparse and dull in comparison, peered over the top of his newspaper.
“There never has!” he exclaimed. “Another what, for Gawd’s sake?”
“Another murder!” Adams was on the verge of stamping his foot. “Another dollymop down in Whitechapel, dressed up in her own insides like a blimmin’ Christmas tree.”
Kipper crumpled his broadsheet and got to his feet, reaching for his hat from the hook behind the door. “Who found her? Did you?”
“Lawks, no! Bobby on the beat stumbled across her. Well, stumbled into her, to be more precise. Poor chap. Been puking his ring up ever since. Only been on the job for a week and all. He’s as white as a sheet what’s seen a ghost.”
“Yes, yes,” Kipper waved impatiently. He strode along the corridor, expecting the sergeant to follow. “Enough about the boy. What about the girl?”
“The who, sir?”
“The victim! Who’d you think I meant? Princess Beatrice?”
“No, sir!” Adams quailed. “Don’t bear thinking about, does it? If Foggy Jack got his mitts on a Royal or somebody important.” He shuddered. Kipper came to a halt and glowered at him.
“Don’t call him that!”
“Who?”
“Our killer.”
“What? Foggy J-”
“Don’t call him that!”
“It’s what the papers is calling him on account of as how we can’t catch him. He just melts away like the mist, leaving no clues behind.”
Kipper growled. “I’ll thank you not to repeat what the papers say, Sergeant. They’d sensationalise a bran tub at a church fete if they thought there was something in it for them.”
Adams frowned. “In the tub, sir?”
Give me strength, Kipper sent up a silent prayer. “I mean, if it meant they’d sell more papers. That’s the only thing they care about. Call me a hansom.”
“You’re handsome, sir. Like an oil painting of Prince Albert himself, Gawd rest him.”
Adams held open the door to the street and saluted as Kipper went through it. “You’re a funny bugger, Adams, and no mistake.”
“Thank you, sir!” The ginger moustaches bristled with pride.
There was a cab waiting; Adams was more efficient than he appeared. Kipper was glad he didn’t have to wait in the chill, evening air. Drops of moisture condensed on his hat and overcoat.
It’s a foggy one, right enough, he thought as he climbed into the carriage.
“Whitechapel,” he instructed the driver. He sat back, steeling himself for the scene ahead. You develop a strong stomach for things like this over the years but nothing could prepare you for the gory excesses of Foggy - he stopped himself - of this particular killer.
Perhaps the papers were right. Or perhaps they were understating the case. Perhaps you couldn’t be sensational enough to depict the true horrors perpetrated by Foggy Jack.
Damn it, Kipper punched his own thigh. Got me doing it now.
***
It was not quite history repeating. It was more like current events stuck in a loop, Kipper reflected as he alighted from the cab. He dismissed the driver - there was no need to pay because the cab companies had an arrangement with the force. The Peelers were some of their best customers.
It was the same as the previous two occasions. Same kind of narrow alley. Same crowd of gawkers barely kept in check by a handful of bobbies. And beyond the cordon... Things would differ there somewhat, for the killer was imaginative, to say the least, in varying the presentations of his victims. He could get a job, Kipper mused, dressing windows for butchers and abattoirs.
“Sir,” a constable nodded a greeting and lifted the rope. Kipper nodded back and ducked under. The ground squelched beneath the soles of his boots. There was nothing unusual in that, for you can find all manner of filth fouling London streets, but Kipper did not need to look down to confirm what his nose was telling him. He was stepping in - almost wading through - the victim’s blood.
He pressed a handkerchief to his nose and mouth and pressed on. The walls of the narrow alley sloped ever closer together and at the point where there was only a couple of feet between them, there she was. Hanging several feet off the ground like washing on a line.
Blood continued to trickle from the gaping hole in her abdomen, running down her legs and dripping from the heels of her shoes, adding to the pool on the cobbles below. Adams’s bobby had been right; she did look something akin to a Christmas tree. Her guts had been yanked from her body and draped around her like festive trimmings.
Christmas lights, Kipper mused grimly.
He addressed the bobby who was guarding the scene with his eyes studiously averted.
“Get her down,” he ordered curtly, glad that the task was not his. Things would get gruesome enough in Kipper’s near future come the autopsy.
He returned to the street, trying to ignore the slaps and splashes his feet made and beckoned to a second constable. “Go back there and help him,” he nodded over his shoulder. Then he addressed the crowd. There was more than a few painted faces jockeying for position and straining to see. “We need to find out who she is. If any of you have any idea, report to Bow Street with some urgency. We need to get this bastard off the streets. For all our sakes.”
“Here!” squawked a woman with peroxided hair. “Wha’s the reward?”
“Yeah!” grunted a few of the others.
Kipper responded with a scowl. “Your reward will be me turning a blind eye to your business. Your reward will be, when I’ve caught him, to go about that business in safety. It’s in your interests to speak out. Any shred, any scrap of information might lead to the bastard what done this swinging from a rope. Surely that’s worth a few minutes of your precious time.”
A police wagon arrived. The breath of the horses plumed in the evening air, making chimneys of their nostrils. Two men, their faces masked with scarves against the stench, carried a stretcher into the alley. Kipper climbed up to sit with the driver while the men carried out their grisly task.
The crowd gasped as the body was brought out, covered in blankets. One of the men’s feet slipped in the spilled blood, jolting the stretcher and causing an arm as pale and lifeless as any rag doll’s to drop over the edge. The women screamed. A couple of them fainted.
Kipper rode back to the nick. A clock struck eleven. Good job I’ve got no home life to speak of, he thought.
Three
Doctor Hoo let me recover at his gaff in Limehouse. I had to fill my own bath, mind; he’s not one for running around after others. He didn’t even tell me where the kettle was, and do you know, I’ve never seen him so much as sip a cup of tea, and I thought they was famous for it. Tea. Orientals. I thought it was even more sacred to them than the great British cuppa is to the English. But what do I know? Sweet Fanny Whojimmyflop, that’s what.
Well, I had me a good old rummage in the little kitchen. The place looked like it hadn’t been touched for donkeys’ and I had to evict a big fat hairy spider from the copper before I could fill it, having to coax water from the rusted pump in the yard - well, it was dust at first and then came sludge. My arm was sore before I got to anything resembling Adam’s Ale.
Adams! That was Sweet Fanny’s name. I know that much at least.
Well, I was more exhausted than ever by the time I’d boiled that kettle half a dozen times and I reckon I must have stunk to high heaven, on account of how much I was sweating and what with the reek of that grave still on me. I’ve never been so happy to have a bath in all my born days, I can tell you.
I splashed about a bit, giving all me nooks and crannies and dangly bits a good wash - especially the dangly bits - and then I lay back for a good old soak. I almost dropped orf, it was so relaxing, but then I heard voices - or rather, one voice, dominating the discussion, because he don’t say much, don’t Doctor Hoo, and when he does it’s always very quiet.
So I sits up. I’ve cleaned the dirt from my earholes and I can hear their conversation like I was in the same room with them. Which I just about was, on account of the little kitchen space was only a corner of the old warehouse, partitioned off by wooden walls. The top half of these walls was all panes of glass, and me, being low in the tub, they (Hoo and his loudmouth chum) couldn’t see me, but I could hear them all right.
“It’s not good enough,” the loudmouth kept saying. He sounded like he’d got a right strop on - and posh! It sounded to me like he was not only hoity but toity and all, with a receding chin and a nose made out of toffee and all, I shouldn’t wonder. He was giving Doctor Hoo a right ear-bashing, like he was a servant or something what had traipsed horses’ apples onto his best Persian carpet. I’d never heard no one speak to Doctor Hoo like that and I could imagine his face, like a mask carved out of stone, not moving. And his eyes, like black beads of glass, just staring, patient, like that spider I’d made homeless, waiting to pounce. And his thin moustaches, hanging down past his chin like untied shoelaces. And his skin the colour of old paper - but here’s me rattling on about what Hoo looks like when I should be telling you what the posh git was banging on about because it’s more relevant and pertinent and all the rest of it.
“It’s not good enough, dash it!” he hit something - probably punching the palm of his other hand. The floorboards creaked as he stamped around. He was getting himself worked up into a right old how’s-your-father. “What am I paying you for, man? And don’t give me that rot about awaiting a shipment from the East; it has been six months already. I know what you types are like. Probably squandering my money in some opium den, I wouldn’t be surprised. I
want results, man. I’m not getting any younger. Quite the contrary, in fact, and this leg is driving me to distraction.”
Oh yeah, I thought? It don’t seem to be stopping you marching around like you own the place. Which he probably did. Or he was paying the rent or something like that.
My interest was piqued, you might say. I didn’t even notice me water going cold. At one time, I didn’t know nothing about Hoo’s business. I thought he was a doctor, like in doctor. You know, the sort what gives you a powder and a hefty bill to go with it. Turned out he weren’t. Well, not just. You know, you can be a doctor of anything. It don’t have to be medicine. Oh no, you can even be a doctor of music. How does that work? Here, doc, can you come around and fix the leg on my piano? I don’t understand this world we live in.
I don’t know what kind of doctor Doctor Hoo was exactly but it certainly wasn’t pianos.
“It’s my twenty-fifth birthday next month,” the posh git was whining now. Pleading. “Do you think you will be able to do anything for me before then? If it’s a question of funding...”
I heard the unmistakable sound of money being slapped on a table. Things had just got more interesting.
“Tomorrow,” said Doctor Hoo, almost too quiet but I heard it. “Return at midnight.”
The posh git, his anger all run out, was all thank-yous and bless-yous. He’d let off his steam and Hoo hadn’t risen to it. It’s like arguing with a post; you can’t keep it up for long, you get nothing back.
“Until tomorrow, then,” the posh git said. I waited until I heard the door close again before I stuck my head out.
Doctor Hoo was standing by the table. He was like that post I mentioned only someone had dressed it in a cloak and topper and carved a face into it, like a totem pole.
“Aye, aye!” I clicked my tongue and nodded at the cash. “You’ve got your chink, then.”
The face didn’t move but the eyes seemed to bore into me. Had I said the wrong thing? I was going to explain that where I come from ‘chink’ means money. Cold hard cash. The sound it makes as you jiggle it in your pocket. But Doctor Hoo turned his face away ever so slowly and ever so slightly. I followed where his eyes went. In the corner was a large trunk, bursting with clothes. I scurried across to it, one hand on my privates and the other on my bum, although he wasn’t even looking; I’d put money on it.
Trapping Fog Page 1
