Shadow of the Dolocher

by European P. Douglas

  "The Alderman has a few leads on these murders in the city," he said casually.

  "Oh yes? About time."

  "Yes, but his leads are all wrong."

  "Same as ever then?"

  "I feel sorry for him, really. He cares so much about those people."

  "He'll never be happy if that's true," Spencer opined.

  "He'll be happy when he catches the killer."

  "If."

  "No, he will catch him." Again, he could feel the eyes of the Colonel on him and could feel the charged atmosphere.

  "Why do you think that?" Spencer asked.

  "Just a feeling. It may not be the Alderman himself who catches the killer, it could be someone else, like when the blacksmith caught the Dolocher." Edwards still didn't look at Spencer. "Little clues go a long way, but pure luck also plays its part in these things. Who did you say saw this painting?"

  "No one important."

  "What’s going on here ladies!" Buck Whaley said dropping in on them from behind. "Something serious?" he was laughing, and Edwards looked at Spencer,

  "Not at all, just sorting out a little mess," Edwards said. Spencer looked at him curiously.

  "Time to unveil the painting," Whaley said aloud, and a cheer went up, and everyone began to gather around the table. Edwards stepped forward and took the rope and hushed the assembled crowd.

  "Gentlemen, our esteemed artist has given us something to be truly thankful for. Something beyond what we could have expected. I'm not going to make any speeches here, but I know that the subject of this picture will be as happy with it as we are!" and with that Edwards pulled at the rope harshly and let the drop sheet fall to the floor to unveil the painting that had until recently sat in Colonel Spencer's attic.

  There was a general gasp at the sight, and Edwards stepped away from it so that he could see it better. It was a large sized painting of the face of the Devil up close as though he were coming out through the canvas. His eyes were fiery red and seemed almost to have the quality of liquid in them. His teeth white and sharp and framed by a crooked mouth and inside that mouth the outline, if you looked closely, of spectral bodies, souls being devoured Edwards supposed. Dark red skin covered the face and scars ran deep with more limbs trying of escape from the crevasses, the horns were dark and short but pointed and held the threat of stabbing.

  Behind the Devil was the coal fires of hell and his body, what there was of it and neck were also made of coals burning so hot. They looked almost too hot to touch even for a painting. It really was a masterful work, and Edwards looked at Spencer who was receiving slaps on the back and having drinks thrust into his hands. Spencer looked at him, and in his eyes, there was something of not only fear but hatred for Edwards. Edwards smiled and raised his glass to the artist who nodded and then went about taking the compliments of the men around him.

  Later when the people thinned out, some having left and others passed out on various chairs and couches, Edwards sat alone at the table looking at the painting in the weak light of the fading candles. Spencer arrived in front of him, also looking at the work. Everyone had spent some part of their night contemplating the painting like this, and no one has been able to look away from it for too long.

  "It's truly great work," Edwards said to him. He could feel the weight of the alcohol on him, and he was tired. Spencer looked worse for wear too, and he sat down without answering the compliment.

  "What do you think I've done?" Spencer asked after a long pause.

  "I don't suspect you of anything," Edwards said. He could tell that Spencer was badly rattled.

  "What was all that about, then, earlier on?"

  "Spencer," Edwards started in a fatherly tone, "If you've done something to be ashamed of you don't have to confess to it. That's one of the great things about being a non-believer."

  "I haven't done anything," Spencer protested.

  They were silent for a time. "Normal people believe in this," Spencer said nodding towards the painting.

  "I know, that's why they are so afraid all the time."

  "That must be an awful life."

  "All lives are awful." Edwards looked at Spencer, and he could see that the Colonel was badly in need of sleep.

  "Not all," Spencer said, and there was a hint of defensiveness in his voice, as though he alone were the only happy man on earth.

  Edwards wished that he was looking at him now, eye to eye, so that he might see something of what the Colonel might be thinking, but instead, he could only look up at the painting. It really was terrifying, the most nerve racking thing he'd ever seen, so lifelike and angry and portentous. It gave off the feeling of something of the future somehow, even to his disbelieving mind.

  Chapter 26

  That night, Kate lay in bed and listened to the light breaths Tim took in the cold dark as he slept. She could see the embers of the fire, and they looked inviting, but she knew if she got out of the bed she would feel chilly all over. It was odd that it was so cold on this night so early in the year, this type of night was more like what Dublin would expect in early November. She looked at Tim and smiled; he was never too bothered about the cold.

  She'd been happy to get to his shop that afternoon after seeing Edwards. She had to hide how she was feeling, but he hugged her as she knew he would, and she felt safe and concealed in his huge arms. He was always so happy to see her when she dropped in and surprised him. Today she didn't stay long, not wanting to hold him up in his work and she wanted to get home to prepare their dinner. The short walk home was a nervous one, and she was glad when she was finally inside the door to this little home.

  Kate's fear, unfortunately, did not end there, and every noise that she heard in the neighbours on either side or from above, jolted her. Once, the children playing in the street crashed against the front door, and she shrieked, dropping the bowl she was carrying, and it shattered on the floor. She went to the door and set the boys who were running away a tongue lashing to chase them. Her hands were trembling as she picked up the broken crockery pieces of the bowl. She looked at her hands, and she couldn't fully understand why she was like this. She went to the fire to warm them, trying to convince herself that she was just cold. The heat was pleasant, but it didn't stop her hands shaking.

  Kate recalled all this vividly as she lay there. She rolled on to her back and looked up at the ceiling. Fear was still gnawing at her, and she knew it, too afraid to close her eyes. Earlier when she had tried, she saw the vision of the Dolocher rising up from Mary's body as she had imagined it during her Absinthe hallucination a few years ago. This image hadn't come to her for so long, and now it was as clear in her mind as when she had first thought she'd seen it. Her heart was racing. Tim shifted his weight and let out a contented sigh.

  Kate looked at him for a while until she knew he was asleep properly again, his breathing regular. She worried that he might somehow figure out what she was thinking if he was even somewhat awake and she didn't want to burden him with this. She ran a hand over his leg and felt the scars he'd gotten when he fought for Lord Muc's gang. He'd done that so he could get their help in tracking the Dolocher at night, something Kate herself had asked him to do. They hadn't even been together as a couple at the time, hardly knew one another but still, he had done it for her.

  Not just for her, though, he did it for Mary Sommers too and also at the time he thought his best friend had been murdered by the Dolocher. Who knew that this best friend was who the Dolocher would have turned out to be?

  What had set her like this today? Edwards; it was when he was talking to her that she started to feel this way, it was something he said that unnerved her but what? He had gone on in a normal way, hadn't he? Not as abrasive as usual but still normal. Kate tried to remember his words, and she found that she could and quite easily, but it wasn't those that did this to her. Was it the way he said them? Again she didn't think so. His facial expressions as he spoke? She pictured his face, his eyes and even as she poured into them and exa
ggerated in her mind each twitch and fold of skin or movement of muscle she couldn't make it a sinister or threatening face.

  And then she realised what it was! It was her, a feeling that she had gotten as he spoke, nothing in what he said, how he said it or how his face reacted to it. It was a feeling of fear that she got from him, she thought at that moment that he was the killer, even if she had not realised this at the time she knew now for sure that this was what it was!

  Edwards was the one going around killing these people in the name of the Dolocher! She sat up trying not to wake Tim. Could this be all part of his plan to get to her? She shook her head, no, this couldn't be right. Edwards was many things, but he was not a killer. She thought back to her days in the brothel, and she could remember no times when he had ever resorted to violence with any of the other customers, which was something that happened a lot. It couldn't be the case, could it?

  By the time she'd fallen asleep that night she was no clearer in her head as to what she really thought.

  Chapter 27

  Mr. Edwards stepped over the threshold and into the almost dilapidated building. The place was so run down that the walls seemed to slant in the corridors like the building might collapse on one side at any moment. There was creaking everywhere as people moved about, making it seem as though the whole structure was breathing wheezily, taking its last breaths. He found the door he was looking for and knocked lightly on it.

  A woman answered, and she peered out at him through a distrustful thin opening of the door, her weight behind it in case the caller might try to force his way in. She didn't say anything but just looked at him, with crooked eyes waiting for him to explain himself.

  "Mrs. Scanlon, I'd like to help you," Edwards said in his most charming voice.

  "I don't need any help!" she snapped back, still wary and ready to close the door on him at the slightest movement. He took his hand from beneath his cloak and held up a large purse, and he let the coins jingle and rub off one another to let her guess how much might be in it. Her eyes betrayed her amazement at the sight. "What do you want?" she asked.

  "I want to talk to you for a few minutes, that's all."

  "What about?"

  "Your son."

  "Is he in trouble?"

  "No, and I am to insure he doesn't get into any." Edwards flashed her a smile, and she seemed to warm a little. She edged back from the door and let it fall open and motioned for him to come in. When he was in the room, she looked up and down the hall to see if any of the neighbours were watching and then closed the door hurriedly and came about to face Edwards.

  "Sit down," she said, "I'll make some tea." He threw the coins on the wooden table, and they made a ringing noise that was pleasant to the ears.

  "I don't need tea, thank you," he said sitting down. She looked at the coins and then looked at him.

  "Do you want something stronger?" she asked conspiratorially. The idea of what she might have that she considered alcohol made him shudder.

  "No thank you, I'll not take but a minute of your time, please sit down," he said jovially. She sat across from him. "What is your son's name by the way? I've only ever heard of him being referred to as 'Scally."

  "His name is Stephen."

  "Stephen Scanlon," he said out loud, "Nice strong name."

  "Thank you."

  "Where is his father?"

  "Passed away."

  "I'm sorry to hear that. Is he long deceased?"

  "A few years now, but Stephen never had anything to do with him. He left before the boy was even born."

  "Did they ever even meet?"

  "No."

  "And what does Stephen know about his father?"

  "Nothing."

  "Does he know how his father died?" She looked at him now with a scowl as though he were being disrespectful.

  "I told you, he knows nothing about his father." Edwards could see that she was starting to regret letting him in.

  "Why is that?" he asked with a smile.

  "I thought you said you wanted to help my son." She was nervous now and getting agitated.

  "I do, I do," he assured in a reassuring tone. "I'm just trying to figure out the best way to do that." She was silent, and she looked at him. He wondered how best to go on. "Did you go to the trial?" he asked, and her face went white, and her hands began to tremble on the table top.

  "What?" she said, denial in her voice but the futility of doing so in her tone.

  "Thomas Olocher's trial, did you go to it?"

  "No..." she muttered.

  "Does anyone else know that he is the father of your child?"

  "He's not!" she said weeping, the lie ridiculous. She had obviously thought that name would never come up again in her life and she was devastated and in shock that it had.

  "Don't worry, this information will not go beyond this room," Edwards said soothingly.

  "How did you know?" she asked, staring at the table, her mind distant.

  "I've met Olocher many times, I can see it clearly in the boy."

  "He's nothing like him!" she said crying more.

  "I've no doubt he's a fine lad," Edwards said. "He works with the blacksmith?"

  "Yes, Mr. Mullins."

  "Did you know that Mullins was good friends with the Dolocher?"

  "I'd heard that he knew him."

  "Did you hear that some people suspect him of these new murders?"

  "No," she looked at him in shock.

  "It's true I'm afraid," he nodded. "Perhaps this is not the best environment for young Stephen to work?"

  "Mr. Mullins has been very good to us."

  "He may be going to the gallows soon if the rumours are true; he wont be any good to you then will he?" She shook her head, conceding this point. "I would be able to find something more suitable for him," Edwards went on.

  "That would be fantastic," she said, she had aged ten years since he came in and she looked like she could fall asleep right there at the table.

  "Let him work at the blacksmith's until I get him something better. I'll see that he is paid well enough for both of you."

  "Thank you, sir," she said. He wondered, as he looked at her and saw the effect the mere mention of Olocher's name had on her, whether she had been a victim of his wild and bestial ways, or if it was possible that at one time they could have been lovers. She was not an unattractive woman, and he could see many men with lower standards than his own falling for her in the past. The boy was about thirteen now, maybe younger. He tried to picture her in her twenties, and he could see that she would have been something to look at. Still, he couldn't picture Olocher in a relationship, he was too wild, too restless for something so day to day and trivial as that. It stood to reason that this woman was lucky to be alive.

  "Think nothing of it. There's no need to treat the son in the same way as the father," he said smiling at her.

  "Please don't ever tell him," she pleaded in a weak, pathetic voice. He saw that she was about to reach out and touch his hand but thought better of it.

  "Stephen?"

  "Yes, it's not something a boy should have to deal with."

  "Someday he'll want to know who his father was and he will know if you lie to him."

  "That's for me to deal with if it comes up."

  "Something like that will always come up."

  "Maybe."

  "He'll be fine," Edwards said.

  Chapter 28

  It was growing dark as Mullins walked up on Ash Street and looked for Croslick Lane. Scally had come in earlier with a note from a gentleman who needed some work done up in his yard there. The customer said he was busy during the day and asked that the blacksmith come in the evening when he would be home. There was an address and some money up front, so Mullins had felt obliged to do it. Now as he looked for the place, he felt put out and annoyed that he was here. Though it was not far from where he lived, it had been a long time since he was on any of the streets here. His bag was heavy, and he grew tired after a fu
ll day working, and now this walking around lugging it with him. Finally, he found the address and knocked on the gate at the rear of the house.

  There was no noise from within, and Mullins could see no light from there. He waited for a moment and then knocked again heavier this time. Still, there was nothing. He looked at the address once more and assured himself that he was in the right place. He called out,

  "Hello, it's the blacksmith." But still there was no noise and no sign of any light coming. He wondered should he go around to the front of the house and enquire, but he knew that people could be prickly about that and could get upset and cause problems for him. He looked up and down the lane; it was very quiet with no other soul around. Mullins walked to the end of the lane the way he had come in and looked up and down the street in the hope that he would see someone coming.

  He hated the way he was sometimes treated. Men with trades were always treated like this, and tonight was not the first time that Mullins was left waiting for a customer, especially a well off customer. Mullins imagined the man was probably having a brandy in his club somewhere, or dinner at some fancy place. He wouldn't give a damn about any inconvenience that he might be causing for Mullins. It was such an unequal society, and those who were deemed to be at the top were the least polite or considerate. It made no sense to Mullins.

  The blacksmith walked back down to the gate. There was still no sign of light, but he knocked again anyway. Nothing. He waited for over half an hour, walking the lane to both ends and looking around. He checked back at the gate a few times and finally decided that he was going to have one walk around the block, by the font of the house and then he was going home. As he passed the front of the house, there was no sign of life inside. It was dark and foreboding looking, and for all he knew no one had lived or worked there for many years. He came back around by the lane and knocked once more, knowing that no one was going to answer. He thought about putting the enveloped with the money through the fence or else back around through the letter box but he decided against this, thinking it better to send it with Scally the next day and have it delivered by hand; it would be just like these rich folk to pretend that they never got the money back and come looking for it. It was a miserable walk through the lonely streets home.