Airship Shape & Bristol Fashion (27 page)

I also made sure to stop by the stables, where Goblin-Groom was asleep on the neck of one of the Professor’s draught horses. My occasionally-stalwart hobgoblin companion was fascinated by the creatures, and spent most of his time trying to figure them out. He’d adopted me as his human a good five or six years ago, and aside from the odd prank, he’d become a welcome member of the household, scampering around in his little brown loincloth, tripping over his own beard and generally lending a helping hand with keeping the place tidy. We had to keep Dorry the cook from trying to sew him little hobgoblin-sized outfits, because we knew how offended he’d be if we gave him clothes; they can be quite malevolent little creatures when wronged, and apparently suggesting that they’re walking around in the nude is the height of human insolence.

As the aethercarriage clattered along, Goblin-Groom spent the entire journey tying my shoelaces together, then shaking his head and muttering in disgust before trying to find an even more fiendish method with which to trip me up. The Professor was sound asleep, and I was sat reading the letter which we had eventually found hidden under a copy of Darwin’s
On the Origin of Species
.

Dear Cornelius,

I know that you and I have had our differences in the past, but I fear I may be in need of your expertise in that peculiar field you study. I have no doubt that you will gloat when you read this, but I find myself flummoxed by new evidence that has arisen regarding the spate of murders that I’m sure you have heard about. I would appreciate your assistance in this matter, and will tell you more when you get here.

Yours,

Gerald Chalmers
Superintendent
Bridewell Street Station

I must have read the letter a half-dozen times before Bristol finally came in to view down the Wells Road. Even in the bright spring sunshine the faint green-tinted aether-fume haze marked the location of the city for a good five or six miles before the town itself appeared over the horizon. The smog was particularly thick today, largely due to the clear, cold weather and the lack of a breeze to carry a large part of the stinking cloud out to the surrounding countryside. The cloud sat over Bristol like a brooding spectre, fed by the constant burning of coal and aether crystals. Aether-smoke had become a common feature of the up-and-coming industrial city of the period, ever since we started tapping the ley lines that criss-crossed the country and refining the energy that coursed along them for fuel. Now that I lived in the country I found myself almost sickened by the thought of going back in amongst the pollution, despite having spent most of my childhood in the city paying it absolutely no heed.

Goblin-Groom became more and more restless the closer we came to the city, and eventually I lost my temper with him. “Groom! What on Earth is the matter? Stop that now, you pesky little bleeder!” He had been tugging at my shirt sleeves for a while, and had started attempting to undo my cufflinks. He looked up at me, hurt, and turned away, folding his arms and huffing like a miniature version of a petulant child. He started to chant softly to himself in that lilting voice of his.

“Humans nasty, no one see
Goblin-Groom excited be.
Still, I’ll show them all one day,
When they’s need me, I’s away!”

It was typical Goblin-Groom moping, and I paid it little heed. His sulking was, after all, far better than his constant badgering. A few moments later he began to fade from view, a trick he normally used to keep out of sight when strangers were around but had been known to employ to indicate that he was very upset with me. I shook my head and took out my novel; a huffy hobgoblin was the least of my worries at that moment in time.

A further two hours passed — thankfully in relative silence - before the aethercarriage pulled up outside the police station on Bridewell Street. Abraham got out to open the door for the Professor and I to dismount. For a man in his early fifties, Professor Cornelius James Montague was still surprisingly spry. His cane was purely for show and not a walking aid, though he was capable of playing the frail older gentleman whenever he thought he could swindle his way out of helping with, say, heavy lifting. As we entered the station, he threw a smile at the desk sergeant.

“Sergeant Benningfield! A delight to see you again. Is your Super around?”

Benningfield looked askance at the Professor, then nodded towards the back of the reception area. “Out back, in the Autopsy Room. We had another last night.”

“Another?”

“Another murder. Lass found over in Frogmore Street, slashed up good and proper same as all the others. Seventh in as many days…” Benningfield leaned over the desk conspiratorially.

“Looks like something’s been ‘aving a bit of a nibble, Professor.” I wasn’t entirely sure what he meant, but didn’t have time to ask for clarification as we were ushered through into the back of the station.

The autopsy room at Bridewell was a recent addition, paid for by the British Aether Extraction Corporation as part of their continuous program of ‘civil responsibility’. We found Superintendent Chalmers in there, a tall, spindly gentleman with a half-hearted attempt at a moustache. He and the station doctor stood over a body on a cold marble slab, and both looked up as we approached.

“Professor. Mr. Dalton. A pleasure to see you both, as always.” Chalmers walked across the tiled floor and held his hand out.

“Gerald, dear boy, a pleasure to see you again. I must say you’ve certainly piqued my interest, given your notable disdain for my field of study.” The Professor took the proffered hand and shook it warmly. As we said our hellos I noticed that Chalmers looked drawn and tired, a condition that in no way assisted his semi-wilted appearance.

“I wouldn’t have called you here if I didn’t need your help, Cornelius. I’m afraid our latest case may have taken a turn which has put it beyond my realm of expertise, and if the ravings of a madman are to be believed, dropped it squarely into yours. Mr. Dalton, I’m glad to see that you are well.”

Even his handshake was weary. I liked Chalmers, and I have to confess to some level of discomfort at seeing him like this. He was a member of our club, the Bellerophon, and while he thought the Professor’s theories regarding aether-mining and the seemingly-increasing presence of the Fae was ‘utter bunk and flim-flam’, he was a good man, one of the shining beacons of Bristol’s law enforcement community. He was also a man who appreciated advancements in the scientific fields, particularly anything that made his job easier, but, like many of the more scientifically-minded members of society, this brought him into direct disagreement with the Professor, something which often caused raised voices at the Bellerophon’s main bar.

“It’s good to see you as well, Superintendent. Though judging by the look of the poor wretch on the slab, I’m going to make an educated guess that this isn’t a simple social call?”

Chalmers looked back at the corpse, then gestured for us to move closer.

What lay on the slab was less than pleasant to behold.

It was the body of a woman around my own age. Probably between twenty and twenty-two years old. I suppose that in life she would have been described as pretty after a fashion, but the five parallel cuts which ran from her left temple to right lower jaw and had caved in the bridge of her nose put paid to any real (and frankly less-than-appropriate) judgement of her physical appearance. She had deep lacerations on both arms, and one long cut which had laid open her throat.

Despite the horrific nature of these injuries, what shocked us both the most were the markings on her leg and torso. Chunks of flesh had been ripped away, leaving ragged, gaping holes that had already started to turn a pale purple around the edges. It took me a few seconds to realise what they were, but the minute I did I felt my gorge rise. I have to confess that the undignified choking sound I made trying to keep it under control may not have been my proudest moment.

“These… These are bite marks.”

The doctor gave me a disdainful glance, and sniffed haughtily. “A very astute observation. I hadn’t realised. Thank you for pointing that out.”

“I’m sorry… I just hadn’t expected to see somebody who had been half-eaten when we were asked to come.”

“Gentlemen, please.” Chalmers’ voice was exasperated and weary. “Yes, Mr. Dalton. These are bite marks. The other bodies found over the past fortnight have also all been partially devoured. This young lady is, I hate to say, the least-damaged specimen of the eight.” He frowned, then took a cigarette from his pocket, struck a match and lit it. He took a draw and exhaled with a breath that was half smoke, half sigh. “She came in last night. We believe her to be a Miss Rosemary Clay, of Museum Avenue. She left the home she and her fiancé shared late yesterday evening, then around midnight one of our officers came across the body… and her assailant.”

“Surely, then, the killer is in custody?” The Professor asked, adjusting his spectacles as he looked at the body more closely.

“Ah. There was a… fracas. The officer in question is in the Royal Infirmary, having been very badly wounded. Stabbed, in fact. Lucky to be alive.” His face twitched, in the manner of one who has more to say but is reluctant to do so. The Professor looked at him and frowned.

“Come, Gerald. If there is something to say, then say it.”

Chalmers bit his lip. “The… assailant was a woman. An old woman. Naked. She was gnawing on the girl’s leg when the officer surprised her. She jumped to her feet, gave an unearthly scream, and jumped towards him. She stabbed him…” he gulped. “She stabbed him with a knife, though he swears it were claws on the end of her hands. He fell, and she escaped down Frogmore Street.”

The Superintendent looked at the Professor.

“This is the second time she’s been sighted. I called you here after the first, which was a witness testimony from a local drunk who claimed to have been asleep in one of the alleys when the seventh victim was killed. Both descriptions tally up… an old woman, naked, with wild white hair and her skin painted blue. Both mention the claws, and both men testify that she had no eyes.
No eyes
, Cornelius. Just a single, gaping, empty eye socket in the middle of her forehead.”

The Superintendent paused for breath, then turned towards the body. “This is why I need your advice, Cornelius. I don’t think I’m dealing with a common murderer. I’m not one with a penchant for the dramatic, but as bizarre and irrational and fantastic as it sounds I fear some kind of monster is stalking my streets.”

We left Superintendent Chalmers an hour or so later, and took a walk across St. Augustine’s to the Royal Infirmary. Abraham had taken the aethercarriage back to Greendale and would pick us up a week later, so we decided it would be prudent, as we were in the area, to take a slightly extended route via Denmark Street, in the heart of the area where the attacks had been reported. As we strolled, the Professor recounted to me the information that had been passed to us by the Superintendent.

“Now, we know that all the bodies found so far have been within, say, a thousand yards of College Green, correct?”

“I’d say it’s even more concentrated than that.” I took out my notebook and the list of dates and locations.

“May 1st, underneath the Park Street viaduct. May 4th, in the alleyway behind St. Augustine’s Hall. May 6th, Winkler’s Alley, just off Griffin Street. May 9th, under the arches of Harvey’s Wine Cellars. May 10th, slumped against the wall of the Hatchet public house. May 11th, again under the viaduct. May 12th, on the junction of Union Street and Denmark Street. And finally, Miss Clay’s body found off Museum Avenue. Eight bodies, all in an area which, if we take the Park Street Viaduct as our reference point, are within a few minutes’ brisk stroll of each other. The area can’t be more than a few hundred square metres.”

We found Constable Atherton on the intensive care ward. He was bare-chested, the left side of his torso wrapped in bandages. The Professor smiled warmly as he took a stool next to the patient’s bedside.

“Constable. I am Professor Montague, and your Superintendent has asked me to assist in piecing together the events of last night. Could you please recount, in your own words, exactly what happened?”

Atherton gave a wince of pain, and nodded slowly. “Rightly I can, Professor. See, I was doing my rounds when I heard something queer down in one of the alleys. Sounded like a pig snuffling and eating, it did. So I took a walk down the alleyway, and that’s when I saw her. Kneeling down, biting at something meaty in her hands. Wanting to check that all was well, I calls out and she leaps to her feet, stares at me, and screams. You ain’t never heard anything like this, Professor. Chilled me to the marrow, it did.”

The constable shuddered and paled, taking a deep breath before continuing.

“She were starkers, old and wrinkled, and her hair were white as snow. Her skin were dark, might have been blue, and she only had one eye socket… no eye. But what did for me were her fingers… Easily six inches long, and sharp as a razor.

“So she comes barrelling at me, I yells for her to stop, and she drives one of ‘em right in to my chest. Doc says I were lucky that she glanced off a rib and missed anything vital, but I won’t be playing cricket for a while. I hit the floor, she dashes off, and I black out. Next I know, I’m in here.”