“Henry Irving?”
“Henry is not present today.” The reply was not unpleasant, but Isaac sensed that the person did not want to be disturbed.
“When will he return?”
“Not this day… recent events mean that we must raise funds. May I ask what it is that you require? Henry Irving is a rather busy man.”
“I am working with Inspector Abberline and William Harkness. We are investigating the death of Vladimir Kostya.” For a moment, Isaac thought that his words had fallen upon deaf ears. However, an unseen candle suddenly came to life, and the figure was at last revealed.
“Forgive the darkness; it helps me focus my thoughts. I am Stoker, I manage the theatre for Irving.” He held out a hand to be shaken.
“Stoker – not Bram Stoker?”
“The very same, but please, do not hold that against me.” Stoker smiled as he motioned for Isaac to come closer and be seated.
“Hold it against you – my dear sir, your creation, The Crystal Cup, spoke to my very soul.” Isaac closed his eyes as if in deep concentration. “Ere I am lost in the great vortex. I see the singer throw up her arms and fall, freed at last, and the King sitting, glory-faced, but pallid with the hue of Death.” Isaac delighted in his recollection of a section one of his favourite pieces of literature. His delight was matched by that of Stoker, who with obvious fake modesty held up a hand to prevent Isaac from heaping praise upon him.
“Enough of this ...” Stoker paused.
“Isaac – Isaac Naismith,” he replied, feeling a little unsettled at meeting Stoker.
“Isaac, we have answered questions on Kostya before; I cannot see how we might be of more assistance.”
The familiarity of been called by his first name was not lost on Isaac. It was an act of friendship or at least generosity toward literary fan. He shook his mind free of his admiration of Stoker and pressed on with his task. “Often people don’t mention the small details, they feel them too trivial or unimportant. In a case such as this, we need all the information we can gather.” His words seemed to have an impact on Stoker, he genuinely seemed to be searching his mind, as though looking for a lost memory. Suddenly, the Irishman sat back and chewed his lip for a moment.
“What is it?” Isaac pressed.
“I don’t know if it means anything. No more than two weeks after Kostya agreed to fund our work, I was sat here, just like I am at this very moment. Henry had taken ill and so I agreed to oversee some of the actors who were auditioning for the smaller roles. A stranger approached and sat next to me, just as you have done. I asked him his business and in a matter of fact way, he claimed to be waiting for Kostya. I had no reason to expect a deception. He spoke as though Kostya was a friend or at the very least a close acquaintance. Nevertheless, as the conversation continued I felt as though the man was warning me. He talked of Kostya’s business dealings and of his dabbling with women of a certain profession. This did not come as a surprise to hear, I loathed Kostya the moment, I met him. However, it just so happened, that Kostya did, in fact, visit the theatre that day. When I pointed out his arrival to the stranger, he claimed that it was too late in the day, and hurried away.”
“Did you mention this to Kostya?” Isaac asked.
“I confess wild horses could not drag me to enter into a conversation with the man, unless I had to.”
“What did the man look like?”
“Alas Isaac, on that day there was no candle. Besides, my attention was fixed on the stage.”
“Kostya – did you know he was a Jew?”
“No – but this is the theatre, Isaac. Within this place, nobody is as they seem. It is in essence, a world of illusion and deceit. Tell me, Isaac, how did he die?”
“Why the interest?”
“I am an author Isaac, authors find inspiration in most things, even murder.”
Isaac thought for a moment, before deciding that he could trust Stoker with the information. “He was hung upon the wall of his own study, a two-pronged weapon was driven into his throat. After he had bled out, his genitalia and tongue were cut from his body.”
“God preserve us! The man was a proper bastard, but he did not deserve such an end.” He paused, “Bled out you say?”
“Yes, every drop drained from his body.” Stoker did not reply, but Isaac thought he dwelt too long on the grotesque details of Kostya’s murder. “Well – thank you. I shall let you return to your solitude.” Isaac slipped away eager to find the light of the day.
Isaac emerged into that cleansing light. He saw that Tom was leaning against the exterior wall of the Lyceum. He called to him, “You find anything out?” but could tell by the solemnity of the young man that he had been unsuccessful in obtaining any useful information.
“Sorry Isaac, they were willing to talk, but Kostya never visited the backstage areas of the theatre.”
“No need for apologies, Tom, we cannot conjure information or evidence from the air. We will return to Slaughter yard.”
Chapter 14
Isaac, Tom, John and Gossup sat in William’s office. The mood was bleak, and although the tasks set by William had been approached eagerly, in truth, produced little to aid the investigation.
“The ring, Gossup, surely such a strange design would have been recognised?” Isaac asked. His words almost pleading to be answered with positive news.
“I visited all my contacts on both sides of the law. For the most part, all I received were blank looks and shrugs of the shoulder. I did have a number of offers to purchase the ring, however. Finally, I called on Billy Jenkins, and truth be told, he’s a fine wire. There is not a pocket he can’t pick. He says he was over at Tolliver’s, that fancy jewellery place near Hyde. What a lot of people don’t know is old Tolliver came from the streets, and despite being all respectable, he still dabbles in the occasional piece of jewellery that has, let us say, lost its rightful owner.” Gossup gave a mischievous smile.
“Did Tolliver make the rings?” Isaac pressed.
“Well, that’s the problem. Billy was in there a while back trying to pass on a tidy silver money clip. He was fairly sure that he saw Tolliver closing a box that contained a number of rings. Billy was certain that the rings had the same design.”
“Well we can just go and talk to Tolliver.” Tom announced, keenly.
“There is a problem,” Gossup replied.
“Don’t tell me, Tolliver met with an unfortunate accident?” Isaac fully expected that another murder had closed a possible line of investigation.
“I wish it was that simple. Two months ago, Tolliver only gathered up his belongings and left for America. Another death would indicate a voice being silenced, but the reasons behind Tolliver’s move are known solely to him. His wife died many years ago and his only son is at his side, thousands of miles away,” Gossup replied.
“So, we have learnt nothing from the theatre, and the ring belonging to a dead man may or may not have been made by a part-time law breaker.” Isaac shook his head and did not look forward to telling William that the investigation had failed to move forward.
“I would trust Billy’s word on the rings. Which means more than likely, there are other owners who possibly face danger. It is not the sort of design you’d give to a loved one,” said Gossup.
“That’s if the ring has anything at all to do with the murder. The way forward seems clouded with mist.” Isaac pulled a flask from his jacket pocket and passed it to Gossup. The former soldier readily accepted the offering and took a drink from the flask before passing the container to Tom. “It seems we must wait for the sunshine to clear a path through the inclement weather gentlemen,” He announced, as the flask finally returned to his own hand. He took a long ravenous drink from the flask and, with a contented smile, replaced its lid.
As the flask was placed back into Isaac’s jacket the unmistakable sound of horses’ hooves clip-clopping on the courtyard cobbles could be heard. Isaac and his companions filed from the office. Isaac was keen to
learn what news William brought from beyond London’s boundaries, however, was surprised to see only Jack and a boy step from the carriage.
“Where’s William?” Gossup asked.
“There has been another murder,” Jack replied. As he spoke he helped the young boy from the carriage. “This is Alfie, Gossup you are to be responsible for his safety. Bessie has returned to William’s home, and I have informed Abberline of this latest murder.”
“What did he say?” Isaac asked.
“That the crime is clearly to do with our investigation. I was told to collect Dr Fitzgerald and then fetch the body at the earliest opportunity.”
Isaac heard the driver give a slight cough, but he and his companions merely ignored the man and carried on talking together. A second cough was much louder, which had more of an effect. Isaac and the others looked up at him, with obvious irritation on their faces.
“My girls,” he nodded towards his horses, “need rest and a good feed. The morning will be the earliest they can repeat the journey. Few will be willing to make such a journey this late in the day.”
“It makes sense to leave in the morning, Jack.”
“I know Isaac, but you didn’t see the body. I am reluctant to leave William with only the body for company.”
“But the dead can’t hurt you,” Tom announced.
Jack looked across at the young man. He was not angry at the statement but could not help rolling his eyes. “I’m a simple man, and I confess that God has never been in my heart. However, spend a night with some pour soul that has been ripped from this world in such a savage way as this poor chap was, and a darkness descends on the living. The heart and mind are dragged to places it has no business visiting. Trust me, Tom, pray that you never find yourself undertaking such a task.” The young man did not reply. His head dropped, and he looked to the floor. It was Isaac who shattered the awkward moment.
“But still, Jack, it makes sense to wait. We will send word to Dr Fitzgerald, and as the sun rises we will be on our way.”
Jack looked at the sweated flanks of the carriage beasts as if to confirm that what the driver was complaining about was true. He nodded his agreement, and ushered the boy towards the interior of the Yard.
∞∞∞
The noise came as quite a shock. William opened his eyes, but it was his ears that focused on the scraping coming from the adjacent room. Instinctively, his hand moved toward the pistol within his jacket, his eyes, never straying from the door. Sudden panic gripped at his stomach when he realised the trusted weapon was not in his pocket. He glanced about wondering if he had dropped the pepperbox as he and Jack had carried the body. A draft must have caught the fire, for it suddenly raged briefly, and then shrank away, its flames returned to only a fraction of what they had previously been. He looked again for the weapon and noticed a small necklace on the table, its pendent reflecting what was left of the fire's brilliance. He stared at the necklace that he knew so well. A necklace that he knew was at his home in London. He smiled - the rigidity which had raced through the sinews of his body relaxed. William learned to live with his vivid dreams; they had plagued his slumber since the death of his mother.
The handle turned and slowly the door slid open to allow entrance to what lurked beyond. A figure came into view; its slow shuffle, the source of the scraping sound that had caused William’s alarm. The figure was not lit like a celestial being from the books William had read as a boy, no brilliant light shone, caressing all in its path. This figure was an imprint upon the real world; the body did not fully block out the features of the room beyond. Its presence was incomplete; a pale figure that was more shadow than a creature of substance.
“You do not fear me?” A cold unfeeling whisper asked.
“I did not fear you when you walked amongst the living, Jonathan Locke. Why should I now fear a figment of my mind?”
“I suppose many have died at your hand.”
William looked closely at the figure. He saw the hilt of a dagger protruding from the bottom of Locke’s chin. William had driven the blade through flesh, bone, and brain, killing a vicious murderer and dispatching Jonathan Locke from the world of men. “You will find no guilt for the part I played in your death, Locke.”
“For me, no - but there are others.” The figure moved its hand in a long sweeping motion to his side. Suddenly, a gloom descended upon the room, as a shadowy scene appeared before William’s eyes. He shuddered, feeling as though someone had walked over his grave. On the floor lay what seemed to be a lifeless body, a pool of dark liquid seeping out from under him.
“Gaetan.” The name escaped William’s lips before he could guard against the pain it caused to utter it aloud.
“Another friend who’d paid the price for your heroics,” the figure smiled. A ghostly tongue licked at the smile, tasting the delicious cruelty of its words.
“Gaetan’s death was your responsibility… and that whore that served you!” William announced defiantly.
“How many more deaths, William? Another friend perhaps?” The figure waved its hand, and the image of Gaetan vanished to be replaced by Jack. “A father, perhaps?” Again, the scene changed. This time Sir Simeon Harkness lay across his own desk, his throat cut from ear to ear. “Or even...”
“No!” William knew which figure would be shown next and the very thought of it, turned his blood to ice.
“A lover,” the spectral vision delighted in whispering the words. Emily’s body lay before him, bloodied and torn apart by some unknown assailant.
“Bastard!” screamed William.
“How many are to die? Honour is a fine thing when it is not you that pays the price.”
“I would gladly take their place.”
“Oh yes, William the hero. Dashing and brave – is it no wonder those around you are so loyal? They go to their deaths with a thankful smile, content to bathe in your glory.”
“Go – to – hell!”
“Look at your lover, William. See the once beautiful woman torn to shreds, not because she met a killer. No, her crime was simply loving you. There can be no happiness with William Harkness, he is a curse, a harbinger of death.” Locke’s voice was as a sibilant whisper, his eyes, surrounded with dark circles, were set deep in his pallid, deathly face.
William screamed his rage and made to charge at Locke’s ghostly image. A small table crashed to the ground and the shadows that held the room’s attention slipped from view.
William opened his eyes, finding himself still sitting in the chair he had fallen asleep in. He looked around the room, which showed no evidence of the vision. He raised a shaking hand and wiped a tear from his cheek.
∞∞∞
A carriage and wagon threw the dust of the track into the air. Their journey had begun at the very start of the new day. The occupants of the carriage were beginning to feel the cramped conditions. Limbs needed stretching and nostrils needed to take in air uncontaminated by smell of horse flesh. As the transport stuttered to a halt in front of the cottage, the passengers observed a small fire that had been lit in the courtyard. The distinct aroma of cooking rabbit cleared the senses of the passengers as they disembarked.
A figure emerged from the cottage doorway; his hands contained all that was needed for a handsome meal.
“Don’t tell me you shot those,” Isaac pointed to two rabbits on an improvised spit, “with the pepperbox?
“I found an old musket. It was well maintained, perhaps the owner expected trouble.”
Isaac stared at William. “You look tired.”
“Sleep was not easily achieved, but it is nothing a decent meal won’t remedy.”
“Well, where is it?” A voice sounded with a distinct Scottish twang. It seemed to William, that Dr Fitzgerald’s mood had not improved since they had last met. However, William was not prepared for a verbal war. He signalled over his shoulder with his hand. Without another word, Fitzgerald strolled into the cottage and slammed the door after entering.
“She was not amused at being summoned.” Isaac announced.
“Then she should find a position that is less of a burden,” William snapped. “For pity sake, people are dying. I have not the time or inclination to place them against my teat until they are grown.”
“What a truly awful image.” Isaac tried to prevent the smile spreading across his face, but it was an attempt in vain.
Chapter 15
William was enjoying the meal that had been prepared in the open air. His companions, Jack and Isaac, he observed also seemed to be savouring the tasty meal judging by the gnawing sounds they made as they chomped and chewed their way through the rabbit stew. Inside the cottage, Fitzgerald was carrying out a quick examination of the body. The drivers of the carriage and wagon kept their distance, sitting near their vehicles, preferring to eat their meals together. It would have been more efficient to make a search of the property as Fitzgerald completed her work. However, William was reluctant to enter the cottage when the body was still present. He did not admit it to his friends, but the previous night had left its mark. The ghostly figures of loved ones were never far from his thoughts. He’d felt a panic within him, which he hadn’t felt since watching his men being slaughtered in the battle of Maiwand. Under his command, the 66th was torn violently from the world. So many men destroyed by cannon, musket, and blade.
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