Requiem (The Penny Dreadfuls Book 1) (2 page)

“Not at this time, sister,” Malachi said. “When I am certain, I will let Father William know what I have found and perhaps he will share it with you.”

“Father William? If you are letting the Father know, it must be important,” Chastity said, reaching for one of the stacks. “Perhaps I should help sort through everything.”

“No thank you,” Malachi said, gently but firmly taking the stack from Chastity’s unresisting fingers. “I prefer my notes to be sewage free.”

“As you wish,” Chastity said. “I shall adjourn to my room then. I’m just down the hall if you need me.”

With a smile, she stood and left, feeling Malachi’s watchful gaze on her back. She knew he wouldn't resume his work until he was certain she was gone. She closed the door behind her and turned away. She was almost to the door when she heard him shoot the bolt.

In her room, Chastity threw her clothing into a chute that would dump them into the heart of the smithy. She then lit the candles around her deep Italian tub and filled it with warm water from the cistern above. When it was full, she slipped in and sat back, letting the imported soap scrub away the scent of the sewers. She was bothered by Malachi’s behavior, but no doubt she would find out what he was researching soon enough.

With a sigh, she sank beneath the water and tried scrubbing her hair clean. Morning would come soon enough.

CHASTITY AWOKE SOME
six hours later to the dull sound of Newgate’s bells far above her. She roused herself and set about getting ready for the day, dressing in a slim fitting skirt and blouse of sapphire satin over a tightly laced corset and light chemise as befit a woman of the upper classes. Though she preferred her pants and breeches to the more restrictive skirts and crinolines, etiquette required her to dress as a gentlewoman when not actively investigating for the Church. Her dark hair was piled on top of her head and held in place with a matching miniature top hat. Dainty leather boots with low curved heels adorned her feet. She had forgone any cosmetics; there was no way to hide her naturally tanned skin. The pale powder that was the height of London fashion made her look like one of the creatures she hunted, something she found unacceptable.

Not one to go about unarmed, Chastity added a small derringer pistol to her wrist-purse and slid her last hat pin, which could be used as a throwing needle, into place.

With her ensemble complete, she exited her rooms and made her way down the hall toward Father William’s office. Along the way she passed the library with its door still solidly closed, the munitions room, the laboratory where several monks were hard at work creating and maintaining the tools used to protect the realm from the encroaching darkness and the telegraph office where Friar Asok was dozing, waiting for any word from the outlying offices or the Vatican itself. At the end of the hall, she paused before Father William’s office and rapped politely. The door was opened a moment later by Father William, chief of the London Sanctuary.

Father William stood nearly seven feet in height, with shoulders broad enough to fill the wide doorway. A bulky grey robe hid his powerful frame as well as the scars he had earned in countless battles with the forces of evil, yet still his size made him seem far more menacing than he was. He looked down at Chastity and nodded, giving her the only indication of a job well done she would receive.

“Enter, Miss MacLeod,” he rumbled. “Brother Malachi has found something I think you will find interesting.”

He stood aside, allowing the much smaller woman to squeeze past and enter the spartan office beyond. Malachi was already seated in one of the mismatched leather chairs, a collection of newspaper clippings spread in front of him on the Father’s desk. He gave her a shy smile and gathered a thick book from the empty chair next to him, offering her a seat.

“Sit down, sit down,” Father William said, closing the door behind them and moving behind his desk to sit in the large overstuffed chair. “Malachi was just getting to the interesting bits, I am sure.”

Malachi opened his mouth, closed it again, and nodded. He sorted through the pile of clippings and lined several of them up side by side. Chastity leaned forward to look at the headlines. The first read ‘Head Found in Thames’, next to ‘Severed Arm Found in Whitechapel’, and finally, ‘Woman’s Leg found in Hyde Park.’

Malachi let her look at them for a moment before speaking, using the tone of voice he usually used to instruct newcomers to the Order.

“These are all within the last three months. The first article is from the Times, the second from the Daily Telegraph and the final is from the Morning Post,” he said. “The Yard has opened an investigation, but as you can see from the articles there are three different inspectors assigned to the cases.”

“Why is that?” Chastity asked, puzzled. “It would seem if there are dismembered bodies in the city, they are related in some manner. There cannot be three monsters with the same taste running about.”

“I tend to agree,” Malachi said, gathering the clippings. “Scotland Yard, however, seems to think otherwise.”

Chastity nodded and turned her gaze to Father William.

“Even though it seems the Yard is wasting resources, I am not certain what this has to do with the Order of St. Raphael,” she said.

“Malachi believes these crimes may be related to a similar series of murders that occurred some years ago in Ingolstadt,” William said. “The killer was never found in those cases, though he left more than enough animated corpses to strike terror into the populace.”

Malachi bounced in his chair like a child at Christmas. “Indeed! The local newspaper reports a severed hand walking through the library on four fingers! It took the constabulary ages to catch and destroy the wily little devil!”

Chastity stared at William for a moment, then half turned to look at Malachi.

“I’m sorry, are you saying the human body parts found in Ingolstadt were able to move on their own?” she asked.

“According to reports, yes,” Malachi said. “The implications are fascinating!”

“Malachi’s excitement notwithstanding, if someone in London is attempting to replicate the Ingolstadt experiments, then the crime definitely falls within Church jurisdiction,” William interjected, dampening Malachi’s enthusiasm.

Chastity folder her arms and arched an eyebrow. “I assume I am being briefed because I am investigating the case?”

William nodded and turned to the chalkboard behind him where he wrote “Severed Head” in the empty box next to Chastity’s name.

“With your success with Arachnea last night, you are the only operative not on assignment or in the infirmary,” he said. “I suggest you start with the latest crime scene, which I believe was a severed head found in a bag floating down the Thames. The Times article says a Mr. Marlow Locke found the bag yesterday afternoon. Start with him and see where the investigation takes you. I expect you to keep me apprised of any developments, otherwise you are on your own.”

Malachi handed a slim barrister’s file to Chastity and said, “This is everything I have found so far. Maybe you can piece the jumble together and find a lead or three.”

Chastity took the file and stood. Father William dismissed her with a nod while Malachi gave her a serious look and said, “Good luck, Chastity. The Swiss never found anything and two of their best investigators went missing during the investigation. I would be upset if the same happened to you.”

Chastity smiled back. “Don’t fret, Malachi, I shall start at once and not leave you…upset.”

She turned and left, closing the door behind her and leaving the two men to speak in hushed tones.

She returned through the passageways to her room, where she left the thick file. She would peruse the contents later, if time allowed. For now, time was of the essence. She packed a small notebook, her press card, and the latest article, then climbed back up to the sacristy and left the church. She stepped out into a bright London morning for once free of the ever-present fog that clung to the city like lichen. A coach was waiting not far away and she was able to hire it to take her to Mr. Locke’s lodgings on Surrey Lane. The coachman helped her down just shy of eleven o’clock and she offered him a three shilling tip.

“Why so much, Miss?” he asked with a crooked smile.

“Would you be so kind as to wait?” Chastity asked. “I have business here, but will need a ride after. I will pay you three more upon my return.”

“Six shillings for a ride, Miss? I shall be here when you return, aye.”

Chastity handed him her parasol and walked up the short staircase to the building indicated as being the home of Marlowe Locke. The red brick structure stood three stories high with the first floor occupied by a pub that was still shut for the night. The location was one of the better addresses on this end of the city and the young investigator was surprised Mr. Locke was able to afford the rent. The Times article had suggested he was a fisherman who sold his products from the back of a cart, which should put him firmly within the impoverished of the city.

With her curiosity piqued, Chastity passed the entrance to the public house and continued down the short green-painted hallway to a narrow spiral staircase. She climbed to the second floor where she found three apartment doors. She knocked on the one labeled “M. Locke”, and waited for a few heartbeats before a strong voice called out, “Who’s there? I won’t talk to any more news people!”

Chastity raised her voice to be heard through the thick wooden door. “Mr. Locke? My name is Chastity MacLeod. I am not with any news service, I’m with Newgate Christ Church. May I have a few minutes of your time?”

The door opened a crack and a man peered out with one bloodshot eye. “The church? What does the church want with the likes o’ me? I’ve done nothin’!”

Marlowe Locke turned out to be a middle-aged man with close-cropped grey hair and an anemic mustache clinging to his lip like an old fungus. He was dressed in a loose cotton work shirt with grey trousers held in place with matching braces. A small pipe was clenched in what few teeth still remained in his head and he smelled of an odd mixture of tobacco and fish.

“Good morning, Mr. Locke,” Chastity said with a warm smile. “May I come in?”

Marlowe looked Chastity up and down before opening the door to his apartment. Chastity entered past him and moved into the single room beyond, which seemed to be the entirety of Mr. Locke’s home. The apartment was almost bare of furnishings, containing only a small wooden table, a potbellied stove that belched heat through its red-glowing door, a pair of chairs that had seen better days and a small bed. The rest of the room was occupied with piles of discarded clothing, fishing gear, and stacks of old newspaper, the latter likely used to wrap the fish Mr. Locke caught to make his living.

Behind her, Marlowe closed the door and latched it before walking into the room. Chastity noticed he walked with a pronounced limp and by the dull thump of his gait she reasoned he had lost his left leg some years before. She watched him take a seat at the table beneath the window, his hooded eyes looking at everything except the young woman standing in the middle of his home.

“What can I do for you, Miss MacLeod?” he asked. His voice sounded hoarse from smoking.

Chastity again smiled, trying to put the aged fisherman at ease. “I read the article in the Times about the object you found in the river yesterday,” she said. “My church would like to help identify the body so the remains can be given a proper burial and the soul laid to rest. I was hoping to ask where you found it and perhaps obtain a physical description of the victim.”

Locke nodded and extended his left leg out in front of him, rubbing just above his knee as if it pained him.

“I would like to see the poor lass get a right proper burial,” he rasped. “No one deserves what was done to ‘er. I’m not sure what good a description would do ye, though.”

“I am a rather good artist, if I do say so myself,” Chastity said, waving her small notebook. “If you allow me, I will try to sketch your description until you are satisfied with it, and then use the rendering to identify the victim.”

“You can draw what I tells ye?” Locke asked.

“If you will allow me, yes,” Chastity said. “May I sit?”

Locke waved Chastity to the chair opposite him. She sat under his watchful gaze and tried not to be irritated at the look in his eyes.

“Let us begin. First, where did you find the remains?”

Locke cleared his throat and leaned forward to watch Chastity write.

“Like I told the Blue-Bottles yesterday, I says I was peddling fish near Billingsgate Market. Them posh bastards won’t let a fisherman like me in, so I leaves me cart at the end of Fish Street. The morning was warm so’s I decided to set a spell on the wharf, watch the water and try a cast er two. I was resting me crabshells an’ I kept hearing this noise, like a thump against the pegs below. I looked down and saw burlap floating in the water at the edge of the wharf. I used one of me poles to fish it out and that’s when I found the...the girl.”

Chastity made her notes about the location before asking, “Was there anything written on the burlap?”

“Aye, though just a couple o’ letters,” Locke said. “A J and an M.”

Chastity added that to her notes and frowned.
“Mr. Locke, I have to ask you the hard questions now. Can you tell me what the victim looked like?”

Locke took a deep breath and sat back in his chair, watching Chastity for a moment. When he spoke, his voice cracked and was barely above a whisper. It was evident the event had bothered him more than he wanted to admit.

“T’was a young girl,” he said. “The lass couldn’t have been older than you. Her skin was pale and she had short blonde hair, like it had been cut right orf.”