Broken Blue: The Complete Series

by Amy Cross

  "Why did you kiss me the other day?" I ask.

  He stares at me for a moment. "In the car?"

  "In the car". I pause. "Do you really think it was a mistake?"

  "Did I say that?"

  "Uh-huh".

  He smiles. "As I've already admitted, Elly, I wasn't in the best frame of mind earlier today".

  "You were a mess," I point out.

  "I was. I'm sorry".

  "What happened to you?" I ask, looking at the two small cuts to the side of his face. They look fresh, as if they were only made a few hours ago.

  "Nothing much," he replies. "It's not important".

  "Whatever," I say, realizing he's not going to tell me the truth. Sometimes when I'm talking to Mark, I feel as if there are these impenetrable barriers that keep me from getting too close to the real man. At the same time, I'm convinced I can find a way around these barriers; after all, he seems to want to open up to me, even if the process is slow and painful.

  "Kissing you in the car was not a mistake," he says suddenly. "At least, not in the way you're thinking. It's just that there are some complications, and I wanted to make sure you were ready".

  "I'm ready," I say, leaning closer, hoping to be kissed again.

  "Come inside," he replies, turning and walking over to the door, leaving me standing by the railing. I don't know if it's nerves, or fear, or the cold air up here, or all of those things and more, but I'm still shaking a little. I watch as he disappears into the penthouse, and I figure there's no point hanging around out here when I could be warm inside. I follow him, and when I get inside I find that he's looking at some papers on a small writing desk in the corner of the room.

  "What are you doing?" I ask, fearing that somehow the moment was ruined. Did I go for a kiss too soon? If Mark's really that delicate and precious, I'm not sure I can do this. I don't mind things being a little complicated, but I don't relish the thought of spending the whole night doing some kind of pained dance with a guy who pulls away every time I make a move.

  "I need you to understand what you're getting into," he says, not looking up from the papers. "All relationships, whether physical or emotional, have contracts. Most of the time, these contracts are unspoken. As you get to know your partner, you learn what he or she likes. You give little hints about what you're willing to accept, and about where you have lines you refuse to cross. Over time, a contract of understanding takes shape, but it's a slow process that sometimes goes wrong". He finally looks over at me. "I don't see the point in messing around and denying these things happen, Elly, so I prefer to be up-front and agree the contract in black and white before we begin".

  I stare at him. "You want me to sign a contract before we..." My voice trails off as I start to wonder what kind of guy I'm with here. I knew Mark probably wouldn't be like most guys, but this is getting a little too weird.

  "Perhaps I used the wrong word," he continues. "It's not exactly a contract. It's just an understanding. It's not only for my benefit, Elly. It's for yours as well. This way, we both know what we can and can't do, and where this can and can't go. We know the boundaries, and we know if it's even worth getting started. After all, if two people are completely incompatible, shouldn't they know this from the start?" He walks over and places the papers on the table next to me. "You're twenty-two years old, Elly. You're more than capable of making a rational decision and signing this document to confirm that you agree".

  "So what kind of stuff are we talking about here?" I ask, taking a deep breath. "Like... bondage?"

  He smiles. "No, Elly. Not bondage. Not in the conventional sense, anyway". He pauses for a moment. "There's a game, Elly. It's vast and it's powerful, and it's so old, you can't even imagine when it started. The game is about pushing people beyond their comfort zone. It's about challenging people, and seeing how far they'll go. It's about finding the line you refuse to cross, and then running so fast past that line, you eventually find the next line, and then the next, and the next. It's about opening up your mind to the possibilities. Most of all, though, it's about sex. It's about two people in complete control of their bodies. It's dangerous, and you need to know what you're getting into. You need to agree, because agreeing is the first step in opening up your mind. After that..." He smiles. "No-one has ever gone all the way in this game, Elly. Some say it can't be done, but I'm an optimist. I think someone can do it. I think maybe you can do it".

  I take a deep breath. "I thought it was just... sex..."

  "There's no such thing as 'just sex', Elly". He stares at me. "Let me be totally honest with you. I invited you here tonight because I want us to make love. I want to lead you through to my bedroom, I want to strip you naked, and I want to touch every inch of your body". He reaches out and puts a hand on my waist, before slipping it down to my hip. "I want to feel how you move when you've got a man inside you," he continues, before moving the hand back to my crotch. "I want to taste you, and feel your wetness". Slowly, he moves the hand up my dress until he's touching the fabric that covers my breasts. "I want to see your bare breasts bounce as you fuck me, and..." He reaches down and takes my hand in his, before pushing my fingers against the front of his trousers. "I want to feel your hands on my cock. Your lips". Finally, he lets go of my hand and reaches up, brushing my lips with his thumb. "I want to kiss you, Elly. But first, you have to prove to me that you're willing to play the game".

  "I am," I say.

  He smiles. "Read the document first," he replies.

  "No," I say, stepping closer to him. "I just want to -"

  "Read the document first," he repeats, stepping back. "It'll only take a few minutes. Read it, make sure you understand it, and sign it. When you've done that, we can begin. Either that, or you can refuse to sign, and then you'll have to leave". He pauses for a moment. "The most important thing to understand, Elly, is that you have total freedom to choose. At any point, you can say that you want us to stop, and we'll stop. But if you do that, we'll be stopped permanently. There'll be no second chances".

  "I don't -"

  "Just read it," he says, turning and walking across the room until he reaches a doorway. "I'll be back in five minutes," he says, glancing back at me. "If you're ready, we'll begin".

  Four

  1896

  "Whatever happened to that Jonathan Pope fellow?" Constable Laverty asks casually as he sits at his desk.

  "I'm sorry?" I reply, startled. I've been engrossed in some crime reports, and the name Jonathan Pope is certainly not one that I expected to hear coming from Laverty's lips.

  "You must remember him, Sir," he continues. "Small-time crook what operated south of the river. Used to pop up in all manner of places, ended up working as a private detective. Whatever happened to him?"

  "I have no idea," I reply, trying not to panic. "Why do you ask?"

  "Just wondering," he says. "I suddenly realized I hadn't heard a thing about him for the best part of a year. Thought it was unusual". He sniffs derisively. "I suppose he finally got his comeuppance. Someone probably cut his throat and tossed him in the river. Men like Jonathan Pope always meet a sticky end. You play with fire, eventually you get burned".

  "I imagine so," I reply, looking back down at my papers. The truth is, I haven't heard from Jonathan Pope for almost a year. The last time I saw him, we were sitting in the King's Arms public house, and he promised to get in touch as soon as he'd uncovered some information regarding Lady deHavilland and Edward Lockhart. He warned me that it might take a few weeks, or months, or even longer, to get back to me, but I never dreamed that he'd stay away for so long. I have often wondered what happened to him; whether he is still out there, searching for information, or whether he was picked up by sinister forces. It's certainly possible that his investigations brought him to the attention of the same people who disposed of Edward Lockhart, in which case Pope might well be dead. Still, if the latter is the case, then why am I still alive? Surely they would also want to finish me off?

  "If you
ask me," Constable Laverty continues, "the world is better off with men like Jonathan Pope out of the way. Absolute scum, causing nothing but trouble wherever they go. If you ask me, he's a -"

  "Nobody asked you," I reply, unable to hide the tension in my voice. I pause for a moment, seeing the look of shock on Laverty's face. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have been so short with you. It's merely that there are hundreds of disreputable types in London, and we should be concentrating on those individuals rather than on the likes of Jonathan Pope". I take a deep breath. "If Jonathan Pope is not causing us any problems, I fail to see why we should start poking around. After all, one does not stick one's finger into a hornet's nest to see if one might get stung".

  "Very true," Laverty replies. He looks back down at his notebook, but I can tell that he's annoyed by the tone of my response. I suppose I have been rather tense of late, but the matter of Pope's apparent disappearance has been very much on my mind. Where he has gone, I am bound to eventually follow.

  "Once again," I say, "I am sorry for being so abrupt".

  "Think nothing of it, Sir," Laverty says. "Actually, there was one other thing I wanted to mention to you. It's..." He pauses, glancing over at the door as he wants to make sure we're alone. "It's a sensitive matter," he continues as he gets up and goes over to double-check that no-one is loitering in the corridor outside. "It's about a young lady named Eve Langley. She disappeared some weeks ago in the Wimbledon area".

  "I read of the case," I reply, realizing with a sinking heart that Laverty might be about to raise the subject of Edward Lockhart again. "As far as I understand it," I continue, "the situation is simply that a young lady disappeared shortly after her twentieth birthday. As sad as it might be, Laverty, young ladies go missing with distressing regularity in this country. We cannot put the full resources of the Yard on every such incident".

  "Quite right," Laverty says, "but it's perhaps of particular interest when they turn out to have visited the Castleton Hotel in Mayfair on the night of their disappearance".

  "The Castleton?" I feel a shiver run through my body. The Castleton was, for a short while, home to Edward Lockhart. It would certainly be a rather surprising coincidence if it turned out that Miss Eve Langley was also linked to the place.

  "Several members of staff have confirmed that she was spotted entering the hotel on the night of January the 15th," he continues, "which happened to be the last time she was ever seen. Some discreet inquiries were made into the matter, and it was determined that the young lady's most likely destination was the penthouse suite, which is occupied periodically by a gentleman named Vincent D'Oyly". He pauses for a moment. "Now here's the most interesting part, Sir. Just as the investigation was beginning to get somewhere, it was shut down without any explanation. Miss Langley's disappearance was consigned to the pile of unsolved cases, and officers were given strict instructions to proceed no further".

  I take a deep breath. Laverty's account of Miss Langley's disappearance makes it seem rather likely that D'Oyly and his cohorts are still preying upon unsuspecting young ladies. It would seem that Miss Langley was lured to the Castleton Hotel, and was then never seen again. So far, it would seem that almost all of Edward Lockhart's claims are coming true, which begs the question: how can such an obscene activity have been going on for so long, in this great city, without attracting significant attention?

  "You should be careful talking about this," I say. "There might be people who wouldn't want to have you snooping around".

  "Don't worry about that, Sir," he replies. "I've been the soul of discretion. I know the higher-ups don't want anyone looking into none of this stuff, so I've done it on my own time, and I've made sure to keep my name off any of the documents. Still..." He goes over to his desk and grabs a notebook, before bringing it back over to me. "Take a look at this, Sir. It's basically everything I've found out about them so far. Now, I'm the first to admit I haven't got the full story, not by a long shot, but I'm inching forward, Sir, and I'm gonna get there in the end".

  Opening the notebook, I find that it's full of names, each of which is annotated with various symbols and numbers.

  "Them's the girls, Sir," he continues, a hint of pride in his voice. "One hundred and seventeen missing girls from London over the past seventy-five years. I've categorized them according to three groups. First, there's the girls where I've got nothing to link them to this bunch of killers, but where I still have a hunch. Then there's the girls where I've got some evidence, though still not enough. And then, finally, there's the girls where I've got something solid, Sir. Girls like Elizabeth Cavendish and Sophia Marchant and Lucy Wellington. Them's the girls where I think we've got the best chance of finding something we can use against the suspects".

  "And who are the suspects?" I ask, keeping my voice down in case we're overheard.

  "There's three of 'em," Laverty replies. "At all times, three of 'em. Mr. Blue, Mr. White and Lady Red. As best as I can make out, Sir, these names are like codes. If I had to hazard a guess, I'd say that our Mr. Lockhart was Mr. Blue, but now he's gone and there's another Mr. Blue, by the name of Vincent D'Oyly. Lady deHavilland is obviously Lady Red, and there's a gentleman named Harrison Blake what I think might be in the frame for Mr. White".

  "Harrison Blake?" I say, surprise. "The politician?"

  "The very same," he replies. "This thing goes up to the top, Sir. Powerful connections". He pauses for a moment, before grabbing the notebook and turning to one of the pages near the back. "Remember what Mr. Lockhart said about Dr. Cecil Harlingham? About him being Mr. White, and about it all being wrapped up with the Whitechapel Murders and Jack the Ripper?"

  "The most fantastical part of the story," I say.

  "I think it might be true. The dates match, and Harlingham was an unusual fellow. He had the necessary surgical skills, and he was in and out of London on all the right dates, as far as I can tell. He was never suspected of the killings, but like Mr. Lockhart said, maybe he was removed from the game by Lady Red. Maybe she covered everything up".

  "Don't you think this is becoming a little too big a story?" I ask. "It's one thing to run a private game that involves the killing of young ladies, but it seems a little absurd to try linking the whole thing to the likes of Jack the Ripper and..." I pause for a moment. What if it's true? What if these people are responsible for some of the most heinous acts of the past few decades? What if this game extends throughout London's history?

  "I'm not saying it's all definitely true," Laverty continues. "What I'm saying is that there's more than enough evidence to make it worthy of an investigation. And if them in power are trying to make sure we don't go digging, well, to me that's all the more proof that we're onto something".

  I take a deep breath. "You might be right," I say after a moment, "but you must be absolutely careful with this information. If these people are as dangerous as you're suggesting, then they'd cut your throat if they knew you were onto them".

  "Like I said," he replies, "I'm being careful".

  "I must go," I say, hurrying from my desk. I feel as if the time for action has arrived. If these people are truly engaged in some macabre game, and if they have truly killed Jonathan Pope, then time must be of the essence. The sooner I can gain some evidence to use against them, the better.

  "Sir?" Laverty asks.

  "If anyone comes looking for me," I tell him as I reach the door, "you must tell them that I am investigating some unusual activity down at the shipping yard".

  "And what will you be doing, Sir?" he asks.

  "I can't possibly say," I reply. "The more connections we make with one another's investigations, Laverty, the easier it will be for outside forces to stop us. Suffice to say, I am going to venture into the viper's nest and see what I can discover".

  "I'll come with you," Laverty says, turning to grab his coat.

  "No," I say firmly. "This is dangerous, and there's no point in us both taking the same risk. You need to keep your head down and stay out of the sp
otlight. If anything should happen to me, you'll be the one who has to continue the struggle against these people. Do you understand?"

  "Yes, Sir," he replies, "but are you sure I shouldn't come with you? What if something happens?"

  Without answering, I head out of the office, along the corridor, and out into the street. The day is drawing to a close and a darkening gray sky threatens rain. I hurry away, walking quickly in my haste to get to my destination. I have waited long enough for Jonathan Pope to get back in touch, and I feel that I am becoming a sitting target. If I do not make a move soon, I will surely have my throat cut late one night, and these fiends will be able to get on with their macabre game. I must take the fight to them, and this means going to the heart of their operation. As I walk the streets, the evening becomes darker and darker, and I arrive in Mayfair just as the street lights are switched on. While there is a part of me that would like to turn back, I cannot simply wait around until these people decide it's time to kill me.

  Pausing in the shadows, I watch as guests trail in and out of the hotel. This is clearly the kind of place where rich and powerful people mingle; precisely the kind of people who are supposed to be the most sophisticated and refined members of London society. I look up at the top of the building, which rises high above the city, and I realize that tonight is the night. Perhaps Vincent D'Oyly is up in that penthouse at this very moment, seducing yet another girl to her death. If I am ever to strike at these people, I shall need irrefutable evidence that cannot be ignored. I shall need to see with my own eyes the horrors that they commit. For this, I shall need to venture into the penthouse suite of the Castleton Hotel.

  Five

  Today

  "Are you done?" Mark asks standing in the doorway.

  I look up from the document, which I've been reading alone in the penthouse suite. "Yeah," I say, my heart in my mouth.