by Simon Clarke
Thomas crashed onward through the undergrowth. He found himself either jumping over fallen logs, or ducking under low branches. The dampness rising from the ground smelt strongly of forest and the wild animals that dwelt there. He stopped abruptly. Panting, he looked all around him. The soft earth was unmarked by footprints.
‘Dash it.’ He wiped sweat from his eyes. ‘Where is he?’
Thomas held his breath, so the sound of his respiration wouldn’t conceal any other noise – such as the furtive approach of the stranger. However, he could hear nothing other than bird song. Neither could he say where the stranger had gone. Thomas ventured to his right, his heart pounding. Dense woodland meant that he couldn’t see more than twenty yards in either direction. He retraced his steps to a gully that ran downhill.
Nothing. Not a sign. Tension gave way to frustration.
‘He’s gone.’ Thomas slapped his hand against his thigh. ‘I’ve lost him.’
Ten minutes later, Thomas Lloyd walked back into the yard. He was surprised to find the gamekeeper very much alive and standing by the workshop door. His head was swathed by a thick layer of bandages, and the man swayed, seeming decidedly groggy. Thankfully, he hadn’t been murdered as the servants first supposed.
Thomas heard Abberline say, ‘Thank you for wishing to help, Mr Brown, but you’ve had a vicious blow to the head. It would be better if you were to go indoors and rest.’
The gamekeeper, a former soldier, was a proud man. He insisted on doing his duty. ‘I wish to tell you what I know, sir, in case I forget.’
‘Very well.’
‘I didn’t see the man who attacked me. He struck me from behind. But there are two things I distinctly remember. One: as I fell, I saw his shoes.’
‘Were they in any way distinctive?’
The gamekeeper nodded that bandaged head of his. ‘His shoes were unusual. Not like an Englishman’s shoes. They were sharply pointed at the toe, and the leather looked very soft. They were reddish in colour – between red and brown, sir, like the way some leaves turn in autumn. Shoes like that must cost a lot of money.’
‘And the second thing?’
‘The smell … or more properly, sir, the scent. It was the scent of tobacco, but it had a perfumed quality, sir. When I was stationed in Egypt, local men used a particular brand of cigarette that had cloves mixed with the tobacco. It yields a very distinctive aroma.’
‘Tobacco mixed with cloves. Reddish shoes.’ Abberline nodded his thanks. ‘I shall remember that. It’s most useful. I’m grateful for your help; now please go and rest. A doctor is on his way and he’ll take a look at that wound of yours.’
‘I’ve had worse, sir.’
Despite the injury, the man walked smartly back to the house.
‘He’s a strong man,’ Thomas said. ‘And a determined one. He wouldn’t rest until he told you what he knew.’
Abberline turned to fix his eye on Thomas.
‘I’m sorry, Inspector. I lost the stranger. He escaped me in the wood.’
‘I could have been very sorry, too,’ Abberline growled. ‘You might have been killed, chasing after what must be a dangerous man.’
‘He has to be the Sir Alfred’s killer. I thought I—’
Abberline erupted with fury. ‘You might easily be lying dead out there. What kind of letter would I have had to write to your fiancée? You behaved like a fool!’ With that, he stormed back to the house.
Much later that day Abberline had calmed down. Thomas helped him gather up the broken pieces of statue. He also took pains to reassure the photographer that the police would compensate him for the destruction of his camera.
As they placed the debris in boxes, Thomas said, ‘He smashed the statues as if expecting to find something inside.’
‘There’s also one missing. Did you notice that the Faunus has gone? There are no fragments of that particular figure.’
‘I did see the stranger carrying an object. It must have been that particular statue.’ He coughed. ‘I’m sorry, Inspector. Earlier, I acted in haste.’
‘You acted bravely. But stupidly. I don’t order my men on suicide missions. I won’t ask you to do so, either.’
They carried the boxes out into the yard as a cart driven by the gardener rumbled across the stones.
The gardener excitedly pointed at a man in the back. ‘This ‘ere feller is Zachariah! I found him out on the road. He says he spoke to a stranger this afternoon.’
Zachariah was a wide-eyed man of around seventy, with a straw hat perched on his head.
‘Tell the gents, Zachariah. Tell em what he said to you.’
Zachariah took the straw hat from his head, which he fumbled with nervously. ‘I was working in the big turnip field. A stranger in a yellow overcoat comes by and he says to me “Where is Fairfax Manor?”’
‘That sounds like our man,’ Abberline said to Thomas then, turning to the nervous Zachariah, said, ‘Yes, sir, please continue.’
‘That’s all he said, sirs. I’m sorry, sirs.’
‘There’s no need to be sorry. Thank you for coming to tell me.’
‘Tell how he spoke.’ The gardener looked gleeful – the man delighted in bringing the witness to Abberline.
‘Aye ….’ The farmworker took a deep breath. ‘He said just those words, sirs: “Where is Fairfax Manor?” He spoke with a foreignness.’
‘He wasn’t English?’
‘No. A foreigner. I could hardly understand him.’
Abberline nodded and turned to Thomas. ‘At last, we’re starting to build a picture of our suspect. What’s more, such a distinctive individual will stand out in a crowd.’ Abberline allowed himself a wry smile. ‘Your pursuit of the stranger in the yellow coat is far from over, Thomas, in fact I’m convinced that it’s only just begun.’
Events flowed at a much faster pace following the attack. A dozen constables arrived from a nearby town. Inspector Abberline put six of them to the task of searching the estate in the company of manservants and gardeners. The lion-hearted gamekeeper insisted on accompanying them with his rifle, even though his head was thickly bandaged. The remaining constables were stationed at various points near the house, whistles at the ready, in case the stranger in the yellow coat returned.
Abberline asked Victor Denby to provide him with shotguns from the gunroom. Denby didn’t hesitate and handed out weapons and ammunition immediately. Abberline armed himself with a gun and distributed the others to the police officers. Thomas, meanwhile, stood out on the lawn, scanning the surrounding landscape with a pair of binoculars
A little while later, Inspector Abberline walked up and gave a shotgun to Thomas with the words, ‘If you see the man again only fire at him if you need to save your life, or the lives of others. He’ll be more use to our investigation alive rather than dead.’
‘You suspect he might have been the one who murdered Sir Alfred?’
‘I don’t rule that out any more than I rule out the very real possibility that for the last twenty years the Denby brothers have been systematically murdered one by one.’
Thomas nodded in the direction of the house. Victor Denby stared out from a window on an upper-floor. ‘At least, there’s one man who’ll be reassured now that he has a guard of armed policemen.’
‘The guard won’t be a permanent one. Those constables can’t be spared their regular duties for long. He’ll have to rely on his staff and the gamekeeper for longer term protection.’
Thomas saw the uniformed figures of the policeman walk toward the forest. ‘I hope they find our man. However, I fear he’ll have fled the area by now.’
‘My feelings exactly. Though why he wished to steal a modern replica of a statue is still a mystery.’
‘Perhaps to prove to another party that he was there at Sir Alfred’s shrine?’
‘Which means that our foreign intruder today, who attacked the gamekeeper and photographer, and who wears expensive shoes and smokes cigarettes flavoured with cloves, isn’t wor
king alone. What’s more, it indicates that our man is answerable to a superior.’
‘What happens now, Inspector?’
‘We leave.’
‘Oh? Our investigation is finished?’
‘It has here for now. I need to report back to my superiors at Scotland Yard. No doubt you have your own matters to attend to in London.’
Thomas’s heart sank. ‘Is this the end of the two of us working together, Inspector?’
‘Far from it. I daresay the eldest brother is safe enough out in the wilds of Africa. However, the other surviving brothers in Britain are in danger. Victor Denby has sent them both telegrams, informing them to guard themselves and their homes. If you are willing, I suggest we take the sleeper train to Scotland tomorrow evening.’
‘I’ll be there.’ Thomas Lloyd grinned. ‘This adventure is becoming more interesting by the hour. Wild horses won’t stop me being on that train with you.’
CHAPTER 15
Thomas Lloyd walked along the busy road. As he did so, he thought: London is a beast. It’s a gigantic, monstrous beast that never sleeps. We are the insignificant microbes that live in its belly. A train rumbled along its track; boats on the river sounded their whistles; carts clattered by, street vendors and newspaper sellers shouted at the tops of their voices, dogs in a yard began barking, while pigs in a slaughter house squealed as loudly as the souls of the damned in hell. And, everywhere, huge engines hidden behind factory walls whooshed, thundered and screeched. Steam hammers in foundries pounded relentlessly. Thomas felt their vibrations coming up through the ground to shake his bones. Even after spending just a few hours in the countryside the contrast astonished him. The sheer clamour made his head spin. So, it was with great relief that he closed the door behind him, and climbed the stairs. Thankfully, the tenants of the other rooms would be out at their places of work. He’d be spared the agonies of Billy Wilkins playing his accordion next door. And the truth must be told, Thomas thought, Billy plays the accordion excruciatingly badly.
Mrs Cherryhome, his landlady, bustled from the kitchen. ‘Mr Lloyd.’ She beamed up at him. ‘Mr Lloyd, I’m glad I saw you.’
Thomas paused on the stairs and smiled back. He liked Mrs Cherryhome. A robust woman of fifty-five, she doted on her tenants, as if each and every one of them was a favourite nephew. Her rounded cheeks turned pink with delight.
‘A letter arrived this morning.’ She picked up an envelope from the hallway table. ‘It’s very forward of me to say this, but I’m sure it’s from your sweetheart. In fact, I swear to the saints it is. I’d know her handwriting anywhere.’
She beamed even more broadly when he came downstairs for the envelope.
‘Thank you, Mrs Cherryhome. Yes, it is from Miss Bright.’
‘Oh, praise be. I do hate to think of her living on the other side of the world in the company of savages and tigers and all manner of nasties.’
‘Emma assures me that the people of Ceylon are most hospitable and kind.’
‘That is a relief. I once had a tenant who sailed to Java where he was boiled by cannibals.’
‘Emma will be quite safe in Ceylon, Mrs Cherryhome. How’s your throat? You told me last week that it was sore.’
‘Much better, thank you. I’ve been taking honey with whisky, that always does me right.’
‘I’m glad to hear it.’
‘Oh, I’m late, Mr Lloyd. The baker will only have stale bread left if I delay another blessed moment.’
‘Good day, Mrs Cherryhome, and take care. The roads are especially busy today.’
‘I will, Mr Lloyd, I will. Cheery bye!’
Thomas swiftly climbed the stairs. A letter from Emma! His heart beat faster with excitement and he could barely contain himself from tearing open the envelope there and then. However, he preferred the comfort of his old armchair by his window while he savoured the letter’s contents.
On the second floor of the lodging house, Thomas sat in his room and read the letter from his fiancée. Emma spoke of her father’s work, cultivating tea plants that would be immune from many of the diseases that often blighted crops, described sunsets over the mountains, the troops of monkeys that flitted about the veranda, and she’d included a sketch of a Hindu temple with its profusion of mysterious carvings. She did not tell him, however, when she and her father would return to England. That saddened him. In fact, he sighed and let his head rest back against the chair. It’s time Emma came back to me, he thought. A dutiful daughter is all well and good. But isn’t it time she became my wife?
Sounds of traffic flooded through the open window. The April sun shone on the letter that bore the pleasant loops and flourishes of her handwriting, and did he catch the aroma of the scent she wore, rising from the paper? Nevertheless, he realized that he would become gloomy if he sat here for much longer. To take his mind of this frustrating state of affairs, Thomas pulled a sheet of paper from a drawer and sat down at the table. He glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. The time approached six o’clock in the evening. Just over an hour ago, he and Abberline had gone their separate ways after arriving in London by train. The detective had set off for Scotland Yard; Thomas had gone directly home. Thomas would call on his editor tomorrow at the newspaper’s offices then he’d return here to pack for the visit to Scotland. He and Abberline were taking the night train to Edinburgh in order to interview Thaddeus Denby, the 60 year-old brother of Victor – the man who, no doubt, sat behind closed curtains at Fairfax Manor with a loaded pistol in his hand. But then the surviving brothers had every reason to be concerned for their safety. Sir Alfred had been killed eight weeks ago when an intruder fixed a pistol inside a cabinet in such a way that it detonated a cask of gunpowder when the cabinet door was opened.
Thomas’s nerves tingled. This case fascinated him. He was thankful to be part of the investigation – and especially thankful now it distracted him from Emma’s letter: one that had delighted him so much to open, and one that he’d read feeling progressively gloomier and with increasing disappointment when he realized it contained no word of Emma’s return. Damn Ceylon. Damn those tea plants. With an effort, he refocused his mind on the case they were investigating.
He wrote on the paper: victims: denby brothers: first brother killed nearly twenty years ago. most recent slaying: february 1890. A span of two decades: a patient killer? or an incompetent killer? As he saw it, there were two main mysteries here. Once more his pen scratched out letters: one. the murderer: who is he? Beneath that, he added the words: foreign man in yellow coat? Then: two. the gods of rome: are they connected to the killings? After a moment’s thought, he jotted: possibly connected. foreigner wrecked shrine and stole carving of faunus. Thomas returned to the armchair where he rested his head against the comfortable curve of its back. He yawned. The last twenty-four hours had been extraordinary; they’d been exhausting, too. He recalled, with absolute clarity, those dangerous moments when he’d chased the man in the yellow coat deep into the forest. Thomas closed his eyes, and he soon found himself in pursuit of the mysterious stranger again. Although this time it was in his dreams.
Outside, meanwhile, the beast that is London growled and muttered: the eternally restless creature that never slept.
CHAPTER 16
Moonlight shone against the closed curtains in Laura’s room. Miss Groom had locked her in here. She was alone. And yet … and yet … .
A sound came from the darkness. Breathing, she guessed. The sound wasn’t at all loud and possessed a whispery quality. Did someone watch over her as she slept? Miss Groom, perhaps? Or Meg? The respiration changed its rhythm, becoming a little quicker.
Laura tried to turn her face in the direction of the sound. Although it was so dark in the attic bedroom, would she even be able to see who it was? Laura struggled to roll her head on the pillow. She couldn’t move. The drug that Dr Jones had administered paralysed her. She couldn’t sit up. She couldn’t move her head. All she could do was move her eyes. And all she could see of the
room was the yellow oblong that revealed where the curtains were, with the moonlight shining on the other side. The table beside her bed resembled a hunched, stunted thing, not unlike a crouching man.
The rising-falling sound of respiration became even faster. There was a snuffling quality – almost animal-like – then a whimper. But very soft … she had to listen hard to make it out. I want to see who’s there, she told herself. There is someone in my room. I want to see their face.
Laura wished she could turn her head. However, the drug rendered her as motionless as the tenant of a grave. The breathing sounds abruptly changed to an angry snorting. How could an animal have got into my room? The sound grew louder. It’s coming closer. Do I keep my eyes open? Do I close them tight? Her sense of dread increased; the breathing grew louder – angrier. She tried her hardest to spring from the bed. But she couldn’t move so much as finger.
Then she felt it: the sensation of the creature’s breath on her face.
Her heart raced in panic. If the creature bit her she could not fend it off. Her arms lay limp on the bed. All she could do was lie there, a helpless victim. Is this how I am destined to die? She shuddered from head to toe as if icy fingers touched her. Will I meet Death here? Unable to struggle? Unable to cry out?
At last, the opiate that rode those rivers of blood flowing through her heart, couldn’t be resisted for a moment longer. Laura’s eyelids grew heavy and closed as she felt that inhuman breath against her cheek. Soon, Laura found herself in the embrace of a dream. She moved through a moonlit forest where a white figure glided in front of her, always just ahead, forever eluding her. A tantalizing spirit. A lost soul. A figure leading her into darkness everlasting.
CHAPTER 17
Thomas Lloyd’s Friday was a busy one. Yesterday, he and Inspector Abberline had been at Fairfax Manor, south of London, now he prepared for the long journey north to Scotland. Thomas knew that Abberline had already despatched a telegram to Thaddeus Denby, informing him they’d take the night train from London to Edinburgh. Thomas had also written a long letter to his fiancée. Reading Emma’s letter yesterday had put him in such gloomy spirits. Make no bones about it, he told himself, I wish she’d tell me when she’s coming home. Marriage seemed as remote as the man in the moon. Nevertheless, after breakfast, Thomas sat at the table and penned a light-hearted account of his life over the last few days. Of course, he omitted reference to his potentially dangerous pursuit of a murder suspect. He didn’t want to worry his fiancée. Although the letter was decidedly lighthearted he did, in fact, write it with a heavy heart. He had to resist the temptation to scrawl in big black letters EMMA, PLEASE COME BACK TO ME! For the human heart is, by turns, a bringer of joy and a torture. He cared deeply about Emma. Being with her brought him happiness, being parted from her inflicted misery.
