She took note of his urgency. “Why is that? What has happened?”
Dorian sunk to the table and began sobbing.
Lady Helena reached out to her friend. Her hand froze in midair. She could never bring herself to comfort a crying man. It seemed…childish. “Very well. Never mind what has happened. Is China far enough away?”
He sniffed and wiped his eyes. “China? Yes, fine.”
“I had hoped to find some other plan, but on short notice, this was the best I could do. Lord Crawley and you will leave with the Royal Navy on Her Majesty’s Ship, Victory. Your vessel will rendezvous with the French Navy and sail for China.”
Dorian grew anxious. “Why must we rendezvous with the French Navy?”
Lady Helena held up the paper she had been reading and pointed to one of the headlines. “I suppose you have been out of touch with world events? There is another dispute over trade routes. A second Opium War is brewing and the fleet has been ordered to attack if the Qing Dynasty does not surrender.”
Dorian tugged on his still dripping nose. “That sounds dangerous.”
Lady Helena smiled to reassure him. “You and the other seamen should be perfectly safe once you reach China—assuming there are no storms during the voyage. The army and the French will do most of the fighting. My military contacts assure me it will be a short campaign.”
Dorian thought he must be missing something. “The other seamen?”
Lady Helena saluted him as an officer would. “You’ve been enlisted. Congratulations Seaman Lynch. I have purchased a commission for Lord Crawley. He will be your superior officer.”
Dorian gasped in disbelief. “My superior—this is outrageous!”
Lady Helena beckoned him to come closer and took his hand in hers. “I am sorry, Mr. Gray. Please understand that I did not intend for you to suffer these humiliations. Anything of higher rank than seaman would raise suspicions and bring unwanted scrutiny of your documents authenticity. This way, Lord Crawley can look after you and we can get you as far away from London as soon as possible. At least until we have some answers.”
Dorian gave a crisp acknowledgement. He didn’t see any other way. Lady Helena was the only friend he had left in this world and she was doing her best to see him to safety. The least he could do was accept the help she offered.
She embraced him warmly. “I will stay here and see if I can uncover the truth of what is happening to you. Maybe there is some way to undo it. You may stay here for the night if you wish. Lucious will show you to a room. Now get some sleep. The captain of the Victory has ordered all hands aboard by dawn. The ship will sail with the morning tide.”
CHAPTER 7.
U
NDETERMINED CAUSE OF DEATH
Inspector Clarke surveyed the damage on the inside of the small cottage. A cheaply made wooden table sat collapsed in the corner, the center cracked and the legs snapped apart like twigs. He removed the black bowler from his head and scratched a small patch in a clockwise pattern. His wife used to scratch his head in the same way. Perhaps that was why his hair was thinning in that spot so quickly. He turned to the constable on the other side of the room. “What do you make of it, Constable McDonaugh?”
The Constable’s face was still black and blue from his broken nose. The bone and cartilage had been set straight and the swelling had decreased enough to allow him to speak clearly once more. “Well, sir, certainly there was a struggle. From the damage to the bedposts and walls, it looks as if the victim was attacked by several men with knives and clubs.”
The Inspector replaced his hat and carefully removed his notebook before inscribing several neatly spaced lines with the utmost precision. “It is somewhat peculiar that the pattern of slashes on the floor and headboard match those found in the home of Mr. Gray. How would you say the victim met her end?”
The Constable moved closer to the bed and leaned in to inspect the marks in the headboard. He put his finger into the deep grooves. “It would take a mighty strong bloke to cut this deeply with just a knife.” He gave a low whistle. “They match the cuts on the poor girl’s stomach and chest. She would have lost a good deal of blood from those injuries, but they might not have been enough to kill her quickly.”
“Very good, McDonaugh. It seems that broken nose of yours has taught you to use your mind for something else besides a battering ram.”
A flash of anger reddened the Constable’s face. He put his hand to his face, and then released his irritation with a laugh. “Aye, sir. You have me there. I underestimated that burglar and he got the best of me. It won’t happen next time.”
“See that it doesn’t, Constable. A man as strong as the one who overpowered you could have made those cuts with a very sharp blade. However, the pattern is almost like the claws of a bear. Now, you still haven’t answered my question about the cause of death.”
The Constable crouched down to the floor and examined the long streak of blood. “Her attackers raped her, cut her up a bit, and then destroyed the room before leaving. She must have waited until they left, perhaps feigning death, before dragging herself off the bed and across the floor. It was the loss of blood that finally got her, probably from the large wound in her neck.”
The Inspector tapped his finger on his notebook and closed his eyes. “A strange wound, wouldn’t you say?”
McDonaugh looked down at the floor as if remembering something. “I’ve seen smaller bites like that from bulldogs in the fighting pits before. The attackers must have had a pair of them.”
“Excellent reasoning, Constable. That would explain the dark fur that we found in the room. However, it does not match any dog hair that I have ever seen before. I also found a similar sample at the scene of the attack on Mr. Gray.”
The Constable’s eyes widened. “Could there be a connection?”
The Inspector opened his eyes and they shimmered as he considered the suggestion. “That is a distinct possibility. Did you see that the body was covered and taken to the House of the Dead for identification?”
“Yes, sir. One of the lads seems to recall a similar face belonging to one of the whores from the Roaring Lion Pub. We are asking around but haven’t found any family yet.”
The Inspector carefully put his notebook away. “Very well. We have one more stop to make today.”
“Sir?”
The Inspector looked once more around the room. “I find it a remarkable coincidence that this building is owned by our friend Lady Helena. We will have to pay her a visit and inquire about it.”
After stopping to buy a pair of roasted hot-eels for a halfpenny from a street seller, Inspector Clarke and Constable McDonaugh arrived at Lady Helena’s mansion. The Inspector had to show his credentials to a doubtful Lucious before he would admit them. The Scotsman led them to the drawing room, muttering under his breath about the “right fouter Polis.”
Lady Helena was taking her afternoon Earl Grey tea mixed with steamed milk and vanilla syrup. She sat in a mahogany armchair with plush red upholstery. Lucious gruffly introduced the two men before moving to stand in the corner with mistrustful eyes.
Lady Helena did not indicate that the two men should sit. “Ah, Detective Inspector Gerald Clarke, it is a pleasure to finally meet you.”
The Inspector removed his bowler and inclined his head. “The pleasure is all mine, Lady Helena. I do apologize for the interruption, but it is regarding a matter of some importance.”
Nor did she offer them any tea. “Of course, Inspector. I am always happy to oblige the law. Do give my regards to Chief Inspector Williamson.”
Inspector Clarke cleared his throat. “I am afraid that the Chief Inspector will be occupied, addressing the recent corruption charges in Scotland Yard. I have been granted full autonomy in the region regarding all inquests.”
The soft skin around her cheeks tightened for a moment before her lips spread in a beautiful smile. The Inspector marveled how beautiful of a woman she was despite her age.
Lady
Helena’s voice lowered in a conspirator’s tone. “That is a shame. Scotland Yard is very fortunate to have the famous Inspector Clarke during this difficult time. But won’t the scandal require your full attention?”
The Inspector’s eyes moved over the lemon and cucumber sandwiches on the table. “I have already been cleared of all charges of corruption and can now focus on my investigations.”
Lady Helena tossed her graying hair with her hand. “How…wonderful.” Their eyes met as she picked up one of the sandwiches and slowly took a seductive bite.
The Inspector blinked rapidly and redirected his gaze. “Yes, and that is what brings me here today. Surely, you were aware that a young girl was found murdered in one of your properties?”
Lady Helena’s eyes narrowed. “How dreadful. My late husband did have so many different properties; it can be difficult to keep them all straight.”
His eyes settled on a particularly tasty looking lady’s fingers covered in melted chocolate. “Yes. It took hours of research to trace the ownership through several holding companies. It was almost as if someone was attempting to conceal the true owner. I found it most intriguing.”
Lady Helena crossed her arms in displeasure. “You know how men can be. Perhaps my late husband was using it to dally with some tramp and wanted to keep it secret. What exactly can I help you with, Inspector?”
The Inspector gestured to his companion. “Constable McDonaugh here noticed a change of clothes in the cottage and wondered if someone wasn’t living there. You wouldn’t happen to know who?”
Lady Helena looked over at the tall constable as if noticing him for the first time. Her eyes flitted across his strong arms and muscular chest. “Well, aren’t you an observant young man? Quite strapping too, by the look of you. Do come and sit by me and have some tea and lady’s fingers. I will rack my poor, addled brain and see if the two of us can’t uncover this mystery.”
CHAPTER 8.
T
HE HOUSE OF THE DEAD
The House of the Dead was the common name given to the nearby dead-house at the Hanwell County Asylum. Built in the year 1831, the gray stone two-winged asylum cared for the pauper insane. Any unidentified bodies could be housed there for forty-eight hours before being buried, or in some cases sold to medical institutions or physicians for dissection. Nor was it unusual to receive a murdered whore. As in the case of many other victims, the attendant covered the nameless girl with a plain burial shroud before wheeling her gurney into the corner and ignoring her. As the sun set, the attendant left for the evening, leaving only the other corpses there to witness the lacerations on her young breasts and slim waist slowly closing. Her eyes shot open as smooth skin replaced the wounds.
It all seemed a horrible dream. Her memory came back in sluggish waves that resisted the flashes of violence she had suffered. Surely, the terrible monster that had attacked her and carried her back to that small cottage had only been a figment of her dark imagination. Her breath came in short gasps. She had no idea where she was. It was dark and she was naked and cold.
Ella slid off the table, her skin prickling. There was just enough light coming through a high window for her to make her way across the room. Spying some matches on the table, she lit one. A terror rose in her throat at the sight of all the dead bodies around her. She choked back a scream, feeling the bile rise in her throat like a scaled serpent crawling from its den, and blinked back the tears forming in her eyes—she had to get out of here.
Her nakedness did not embarrass her, but it simply would not do to run outside without any protection from the cold. There was a white coat hanging in the corner and she wrapped it around her lithe form.
Her heart began beating faster as she grasped the door handle. She breathed a sigh of relief as the door opened. The narrow hallway beyond contained a little more light. She could see several rooms around her, each filled with dead bodies in various stages of decay. The smell was unbearable. It was as if she could detect the individual rot and putrid gases emanating from every bloated corpse.
She hurried down the hall. Locked. Damn it. She was trapped. Ella looked around frantically. All was quiet as death. She grabbed a small wooden chair and smashed it against the window as hard as she could. To her surprise, the glass shattered with a loud crash. Ouch! Her tears began to flow again as she walked barefoot over the glass on the floor, the sharp pieces cutting the bottoms of her feet. She was no stranger to pain. Her feet were soon slick with blood as she struggled to climb out of the newly made hole. She shuddered as she lifted herself up and out the window, the glass biting deep into the flesh of her hands.
With a groan, she landed on the ground below and took a few seconds to pull out an embedded piece of glass from her thumb. She wiped off her feet as best as she could and was surprised that the pain was already receding. She set off at a lurching run across the grounds, heading towards the outer gate. Ella paused at the sound of swinging metal and sunk down behind a nearby bush.
She held her breath and uttered a silent prayer as a man with a lantern walked past and headed towards the broken window. This was her chance. She ran at full speed towards the high gate just a few meters away. A withered oak tree had grown up against the metal bars and she jumped as high as she could, reaching for one of its branches. She amazed herself with the height of her jump. She easily grasped the branch and lifted herself up.
“Stop at once!” The guard’s deep voice boomed and he set to blowing a shrill whistle. Ella didn’t have time to question how she was able to fling herself onto the high bars of the fence and throw herself over the other side. She landed awkwardly on the soft ground, but was soon up and running. The watchman’s whistle faded in the background as she made her escape.
Ella had lived alone for most of her life, orphaned as a young child and forced to fend for herself in a hard existence on the street. She had managed to survive by stealing and hiding when she could. Eventually, her woman’s blood had come and she had been able to trade her body for coin. She had eked out a way to survive. After years spent moving from place to place whenever she felt threatened or the money dried up, she had plenty of practice avoiding the attention of the constables. She faded away from those searching for the young girl who had escaped from the Hanwell County Asylum.
CHAPTER 9.
H
.M.S. VICTORY
Dorian stepped from the simple carriage that had carried him to the waiting Portsmouth docks before dawn. The air was brisk and frigid; the scene before him bustled with activity. Seamen in groups of two or three hurried towards their waiting ships. Giant wooden crates and heavy oaken barrels covered in netting climbed through the air. Teams of men hoisted them aboard before securely stowing them below deck.
Dorian paid the driver and lowered his one small, simple oak chest of belongings allowed to the low-ranking seamen. He was dressed in the crew’s standard issue slops: loose white trousers that ended just above the ankle and a matching white linen shirt. The uniform came with a wool-grey pea jacket, black scarf, and a brown, round top hat that immediately identified his lack of rank or position.
He looked to the side and saw Lord Crawley clacking up in a separate, more luxurious carriage. Lord Crawley pointedly avoided his gaze. The two men would keep their distance, pretending not to know each other. As a Midshipman’s mate, Lord Crawley would be berthing in the officer’s quarters rather than with the other lower crewmembers. That meant he was allowed his two large mahogany trunks and would be afforded much more comfortable sleeping quarters. The Midshipman’s mate dress consisted of finer linen breeches cut to a knee-high length, which Lord Crawley had adorned with several gold buttons. He wore a fringed linen shirt and a deep-blue frock coat with white trimming and several more gold buttons. His collar and sleeves were decorated with white half-stripes indicating his rank. His uniform ended in a blue, cocked officer’s hat also lined in gold.
The sun continued to rise in an ominous ball of fire as the light reflected off the wat
er to illuminate the H.M.S. Victory. She was nearly seventy meters in length with three sails and a beam measuring over fifteen meters in width. Her hull was born from thick, dark-brown oak wood and trimmed in fresh yellow paint. The top of the mainmast was over sixty-two meters above the waterline. The vessel could reach a speed of eleven knots and hold eight hundred and fifty men.
He had read about the ship’s impressive one hundred and four gun complement. The Victory was a first-rate ship of the line with a fearsome reputation in battle. It was not hard to see why with that many guns spread across the three decks.
Chest puffed, Dorian moved down the quay and towards the ship. As he drew closer, his nostrils filled with the smell of tobacco and tar. A seaman passed him by and took a quick swig from a weathered cask that held the sweet aroma of rum.
He approached a table where the Paymaster and Clerk sat with the ship’s register. The Paymaster had a grizzled face, darkened and weathered by many years at sea. Gold buttons and two white stripes indicated his rank as a warrant officer. As Dorian approached, the man produced a pair of French pince-nez glasses. They had no earpieces, held on the nose by only the curvature of the metal centerpiece.
Placing the glasses on his face, the Paymaster looked down at his register with a bored expression. “Rank and name?”
Dorian floundered for a moment as he struggled to recall his new surname.
The Paymaster rolled his eyes. “Be quick about it seaman! I don’t have all day.” He scratched his long sideburns that stopped just shy of connecting with a short beard, still mostly black with only a smattering of gray hairs. A simple loop of gold in his left ear caught Dorian’s eye.
Box Set: The Wolf of Dorian Gray Series: Books 1-3 Page 18
