The Churchill Casebook of Curiosities
Book Four: The Mysterious Case of the Severed Hand
Chapter Eleven: Dolorem Ipsum
A veritable tide of emerald
Dolorem ipsum
‘Pain itself’
“How should we measure the glory of our victories but by the weight of our loss.”
Sunday 10th August 1879: London
“What are we doing? We have no plan,” I said to the gentlemen in our growler as we headed for Chelsea to investigate the Rat King’s prophecy.
“How can we have a plan? We know nothing,” Silas shrugged, still bearing the intensely irritating glow of the godfearer who has paid his dues this morning. Thankfully Blackwood seemed entirely unchanged—I guessed God played little part in his peculiar belief system.
“Well the Rat King did say the devil is there. That’s not nothing.”
“That’s allegorical, Gideon.”
“Oh is that so? Much like what you heard this morning?”
Silas stared at me in the way that only he can.
“Well if there are no devils there might still be a giant Albanian,” I grumbled. “We should take precautions.”
“We will not defeat him if he is,” Silas said.
“Silas! How can you say such a thing. We should at the very least be prepared! Blackwood do you have your hammer?”
“I do!” the big lump beamed. “And more besides…” he said opening his ever present tool satchel.
I gasped. “Do you know how to use that thing?” Inside was a large pistol, barely concealed in a cloth wrap.
“Just point and shoot, that’s what others seem to do?”
“Keep that out of sight,” Silas said sternly, “The bobbies won’t look kindly on anyone carrying that kind of thing around London.”
“And what about you Silas? Do you have your special cane?”
In answer the good Doctor raised said cane and flicked his thumb over a hidden mechanism. A sliver of polished blade slid forth.
“Very good,” I said. “And I have my small pistol and a switchblade. Not that either will be of much use I suppose.” Suddenly I was worried Silas was right. As luck would have it we arrived at 16 Cheyne Walk and bluster won out: “Let’s knock on that door!”
16 Cheyne Walk
As Silas went to knock, the door swung open and a rather handsome young fellow emerged, arms wrapped around two waifish women in fashionable Egyptian drop waisted silk dresses. One had a peacock shawl, the other a Chinese fan which she quickly raised to her face as she giggled at our rather more formal appearance.
The young man, outfitted quite charmingly in a soft, turndown collar, emerald green ascot and cutaway jacked (Daphne would have loved this I thought wistfully) gave a mock bow and proffered the entrance. “Come in my friends!”
“Thank you, sir. May I ask—is Mr d’Chartreuse available to receive us?”
“He’s somewhere in there!” the man laughed gaily as the trio departed. “Good luck!”
“Well there’s no point going in here,” Silas sighed. “Shall we head to Devil’s Acre instead?”
“Why Silas?”
“In case you have not noticed, Gideon, a veritable tide of emerald has just poured forth from within. We won’t find anything here beyond d’Chartreuse’s sycophants.”
“Oh come on, Silas. The Rat King wouldn’t have sent us here for nothing. Let’s see what we can see.”
Silas sighed, and proffered the doorway to me.
He was, of course, right.
Simon emerged through a fug of incense, tobacco, and hashish to flop on a couch with a satisfied grunt. He was indeed surrounded by his minions, bohemian women and men in various states of undress and unconsciousness, all of whom were supping on Turkish coffee spiked with laudanum or similar.
Silas gave our weak excuse for visiting (the formalities for the release of sister were underway) and Simon was gracious if vague.
“You seem rather more relaxed that last we saw you,” I observed archly.
“Yes, I suppose I am,” he yawned. “I’m not sure if you are accusing me or happy for me, but either way it is true.”
“By no means am I accusing you, Simon. If I were in your position I would follow precisely the same course,” I smiled. “We will leave you to it, once Blackwood has finished his coffee,” I said pointedly.
Blackwood finished his coffee.
“That reminded me very much of the Asklepieion, just with less segregation,” I muttered as we left.
Silas, barely able to conceal his glee at being right, nodded. “So. Devil’s Acre?”
Me being me found me being quite wrong rather unacceptable. So, me being me, I foolishly became truculent. “You don’t simply walk into Devil’s Acre, Silas,” I snapped. “We can’t go knocking on doors asking people if they’ve seen an ancient Hungarian. They will give us short shrift—or worse.”
“We’re not looking for the Hungarian,” Silas said patiently, “If I recall correctly the Rat King directed us toward the Hell’s Angels.”
I fumed. He was, of course, right again.
“Do you think it’s odd the only people we have trusted are the Rat King and Simon?” I said as we rumbled in the grumbler toward the Acre.
“Criminals, you mean?” Blackwood said. “Not strange, no.”
“Despite the Major’s warning?”
“Gideon the Major has his ways. I have faith he will show up when the time is right.”
“You have more faith than I,” I mumbled. “Perhaps I should join you one Sunday morn.”
Devil’s Acres was an infamous rookery inhabited by the lowest of the low, through choice, circumstance, or bad luck. Victoria Street had been built straight through the heart in an attempt to gentrify the area and provide a channel from the riches of Chelsea to the other riches of Belgravia. Unfortunately for the London planners this attempt had failed miserably, as the Acre simply subsumed Victoria into it’s maw.
Devil’s Acre
We walked up the extremely wide concourse which was busy with carriage traffic despite the street itself being rather empty. This was likely explained by the towering five-story edifices that overhung the street. Only a few decades old, they already looked like they could topple at any moment, and the shop frontages below were either abandoned or boarded. A few brave ‘keepers kept their lights on, but as for what they traded it was probably best left unmentioned.
The first—and only?—structure of note was the roughshod stones of St Margaret’s Chapel. An old catholic church now converted to Anglican, maintained, but poorly.
“As good a place as any to find Hell’s Angels,” Silas mused.
“Angels perhaps, but not those from Hell,” I countered. “More likely the ones you lavish your prayers upon.”
There was that stare again. Silas ventured inside (“Worried about catching fire, Gideon?” he teased when I refused the stop over the threshold) whilst Blackwood and I wandered through the graveyard. Most stones were in a state of disrepair, those few that still stood were ancient with iconography that dated them many decades past.
Silas re-emerged after some time. “The Curate was friendly until I mentioned the Hell’s Angels,” he reported. “That shut him up quick smart, he became quite short, even rude.”
“Let’s ask some of the street beggars,” Blackwood suggested. It was a smart idea. He approached a cluster, dropping a copper into the only one that seemed awake. Unfortunately the excitement of a donation sent the fellow into quite a state, frothing at the mouth and suddenly dropping unconscious before our very eyes. Having received no return on his generosity Blackwood started to reach for his coin before Silas’s hissed ‘tsk!’ made him take the nobler path.
“This is pointless,” I complained again. “This place is a maze and we are unlikely to strike gold randomly. As I have said, there are ways to find out things in this kind of place and this is not one of them.”
“Then what do you suggest?” Silas frowned.
“As you are well aware I have contacts on the street that I can lean on for information. This is a prima facie example of where that approach will bear fruit.”
“Very well then. I shall return to my lunch.”
“What about that place?” a disembodied voice said (I thought it was Blackwood but he was still musing over his lost copper). I looked across Victoria and there stood an outpost of none other than Drummond–Lacey Property Agents. I could have sworn it was not there only moments ago, but I concede my mind was rather addled and distracted.
“Wait here,” I scowled and vanished inside.
I dealt with the over-familiar clerk with a few coins and sharp words, which produced Mr Drummond himself. A portly fellow (he was no gentleman) with sweating pink face (there was at least ten stairs for him to descent), Mr Drummond was a slum lord, loan shark, and protection man of the lowest calibre.
“Mrs ‘Arrow, what a nice surprise,” he smarmed.
“Ms Harrow. Mr Drummond, a pleasure as always,” I lied. “How’s business?”
“None of yours, Mrs ‘Arrow. A man don’t talk of such things.”
“Of course he doesn’t. Well in any case, it turns out I have need of your particular kind of assistance.”
“Do you now? Well than you’d best come upstairs.”
Several puff-filled minutes later we were seated in his shabby office. “Now then, ‘ow can I ‘elp?”
“I’m after some information about some of the denizens of your tuft,” I smiled.
“Oh yes?”
“The Hell’s Angels, to be precise.”
The look on his face told me he knew just what I meant. “‘ell’s Angels, is it?”
“What can you tell me about them?”
“Bunch of do-gooders,” Drummond spat. “Hand outs and the like.”
“For the less fortunate?”
“That’s the kind of thing. Mind you they pay their dues, so I have no beef with them.”
“And where are the residences which those dues pay for, Mr Drummond?”
“Ere and there, ere and there.”
“Where, precisely?”
“Abbey Orchard, Mrs ‘Arrow.”
“Thank you, Mr Drummond.”
“What business is of yours anyway?”
“As you should know I am not accustomed to know knowing what is going on in the street,” I said, “But I find these Angels to be something I had not been aware of.”
“Some say there’s more than that you’re not aware of, Mrs ‘Arrow.”
“Do they now,” I said, miffed. “And who might ‘they’ be?”
“Never you mind.”
“Laundry mistresses, perhaps?” I smiled trying my best to control my temper.
“Could be,” he said with a horrible grin. “Either way, Mrs ‘Arrow, I don’t want trouble. They pay there way and I don’t want me boat rocked.”
“Rest assured I mean to cause no upset to your delicately balanced empire,” I assured, standing.
“And Mrs ‘Arrow?”
“Yes?”
“You owe me a favour.”
I inclined my head. “I look forward to hearing from you soon, Mr Drummond.”
The peculiar intersections of the various Abbey Orchard streets lay at the centre of the maze. We ventured down the ‘main’ branch, watched very closely by throngs of urchins, youths, parents, beggars, street-men and women, and everything in between. It was the densest part of the slums and we stood out like flowers on a grave. Only Blackwood fitted in with his workman’s attire, but even he was too big and strong for this place.
“A charity would be just the thing to hide a nefarious Albanian operation,” I explained to the gentlemen. “People will turn a blind eye when they see ‘good works’ being performed. So be wary.”
We looked out for any sign of said Angels, but there was only filth, tenements of wood and brick cobbled together, and the humans London would rather forget. Silas and I lost Blackwood at some point, only realising when he whistled us back.
“I talked to an urchin—Ernie was his name,” Blackwood explained.
“Because he likes to earn?” Silas smirked.
“Exactly!” Blackwood said innocently. “After a little negotiation he gave me directions to the Hell’s Angels.”
“He what? How much did you pay?!” I burst out.
“I started with a penny—‘mighty generous’ he said—and mentioned the Rat King had sent us here. He didn’t seem to care about that, but he’d seen you two all ‘la-di-da’ and wanted more.”
“How much more?”
“Sixpence and a ha’penny.”
“Cheap at half the price,” I smiled.
“Even then he was holding out. ‘You sure you know what you’re talking about?’ I asked. “‘You sure you know what you’re doing? Think you’d make it to the end of the street?'”
“He’s not wrong there,” I said. “This place is not safe for the likes of us.”
Blackwood scoffed. “Safe enough. I told him I liked my odds and he seemed to enjoy that. Then he said ‘If I were you I’d take a left, another left, a right, and a left.'”
“Well done, Blackwood,” Silas beamed. “A lead at last.”
We followed Blackwood’s clue, taking a left into the next sidestreet. If anything this was even worse than Abbey Orchard, dark, smelly, and ominous. Doors slammed as we approached and strange groans echoed. We took a left, and a right, and finally a left, and the further we went the less safe I felt. People started abusing us from the upper stories, accusing us of paedophilia and more. “We might live in the dirt but you lot ‘av dirt on yer souls,” was one of the more charitable claims.
“We are walking into a mugging,” I whispered. Blackwood and Silas seemed blissfully unaware of the danger, until the passage ahead was blocked by a gaggle of gangly youths.
“Blackwood?” I hissed urgently, “Get your hammer out.”
“This will work better,” he said, drawing the pistol.
Before we could blink the youths were gone. Blackwood grinned but I felt sick to my stomach. This was foolish, and we were the fools. Before I could voice my worries Silas called from the other end of the alley (he had wandered away unbeknownst to us). We hurried back (or I did, Blackwood sauntered like he was the king of the hill!).
“I think we took a wrong turn,” Silas said. “Come this way instead.”
Readers, he was right. Again. For the second time he was barely able to hide the ‘I was right’ smile.
A narrow passage way ended with what could only be our destination: an ornate, pale-green metal door stood at the far end. The street was impossibly clean, and the door more ornate than anything we had seen.
We approached cautiously to find confirmation we had indeed finally succeeded: the door was christened by a keystone on which was carved an unmistakable symbol.
The sigil of Saint Justina, the very same as we had found clutched in Susannah’s dead hand!
“Finally,” I said softly, “Now we really do need a plan.”
As I spoke Blackwood rapped on the door. “Hello!”
I almost screamed. What was he doing? “What are you doing!” I hissed. “The Albanian might open that door!”
The door swung open and I held my breath.
It was a nun.
A nun!
From behind her came the sound of life, people talking happily, pots and pans clanking, warmth and light. “Good day to you, how can I help?” the nun said warmly.
“Do you mind if we have a quick chat?” Blackwood said, getting straight to business.
“People normally ask for a quick meal,” the nun smiled, “But you don’t look the type. Please, come inside, we are just preparing the midday meal.”
We followed her into a lovely old church building, worn stone floors and arched ceilings. The passage opened into a dining area abutting a kitchen, where nuns prepared food and the less fortunate ate hungrily at sturdy wooden tables. “Please, sit and enjoy.”
“I would rather help,” Blackwood declared, rolling up his sleeves. He walked to a sink of dirty crockery and set to work.
“Most kind of you sir,” the nun beamed.
“We have heard many good things about your work,” I said. “And we might like to offer some financial assistance. Who would we talk to about that?”
The nun looked surprised, but pleased. “The mistress would be best. She’s in the Chapel. Would you like to see her now?”
“If that would not be inconvenient,” I smiled.
We followed her into a small chapel where a service was just concluding. At the alter stood a woman in full habit who must be said ‘mistress’.
We sat on a pew in the back row. “I have an idea,” Silas said softly. “I think the medallion might have been Susannah’s, not the killer’s. If we present it here perhaps that will help.”
“I agree,” I whispered. “It might be a token or key that grants us further access. But perhaps do not mention Susannah directly?”
Silas nodded and hushed me as the woman was approaching us. “Thank you for receiving us, madam,” he said formally.
“Of course. How can I assist?”
“Well, we…”
“Are well out of place,” the woman finished, not unkindly.
“Indeed. We have something we would like to show you. We came across this, and wondered if it belonged here?” Silas produced the chain with both the Saint Justica and Pope Innocent XIII chimes.
The nun took the chain and studied it briefly. “Where did you find them?”
“They belonged to someone we knew.”
“And you’ve come to return them?”
Silas glanced at me then nodded. “We think you may be able to assist us in some capacity. These were clutched in her hand at the last,” he added, without explaining further.
The nun met his gaze. “Perhaps you should come with me.”
“Are these the good guys or bad guys?” I whispered to Silas as we followed her.
“Good, I hope.”
“I don’t think they are,” I hissed.
She led us to small office where she closed the door behind us. I was becoming increasingly nervous. What were we walking into? And could we walk out of it?
“I hope it’s not unfortunate for you that this has led you here,” she said sternly. “It may be that this unfortunate event is to the detriment of not only ourselves but you also.”
I felt a creeping cold. “Why would this be unfortunate for us?” I managed weakly.
“This is not how we planned it but now I suppose there is nothing for it,” she answered, not answering.
“W-w-hat do you mean?”
“Please follow me,” she said, opening a door that revealed a long set of stairs descending into darkness. She started down, eagerly followed by Blackwood and Silas.
“Why would we follow you down there?!” I cried, “Your words were threats!!”
She, of course, did not answer, vanishing below.
“Coming Gideon?” Silas asked, seeing I was frozen in place.
“What are we doing?” I whispered, a deep panic rising. “The Hungarian Horror lies below!”
Silas did his best to allay my fears. “Jack has gone down and I hear no cries. We should refer to him as the canary in a coalmine,” he smiled, “Or a good luck charm?”
I gritted my teeth, and almost, almost, uttered a quiet prayer.
We emerged into a vast crypt, dimly but thoroughly lit. Lines of raised tombs lay in the centre of the rooms, along with many flush to the floor in the olden style. It was astonishing: a hidden chamber of the long dead below the worst streets in London.
“Do you mean to bury us in one of these,” I said weakly, but was again ignored.
Even more surprising were the dozen or so nuns in full habit sitting at small desks. They appeared to be poring over newspapers and letters, taking notes studiously and ignore us utterly. Blackwood observed a few and reported back that they were all referencing sensationalist articles about peculiar happenings. “Why are you obsessed by the papers,” I hissed, “They are planning to kill us!”
Blackwood thought otherwise, and Silas was happily studying the tombs. I, instead, was shaking in my boots.
“This way, if you please,” our instructress instructed once we’d had our fill of wonder.
We rounded a corner to find a long wooden table at which sat a large, sombre woman in dark religious garb.
And.
And.
Was that…
No.
Oh god.
Oh. My. God.
Baron Churchill!!!
“Gentlemen, Ms Harrow,” he said in his infuriating way, as if the past several weeks had never happened.
I shot a look at Silas who, for the third time today, was looking very pleased with himself. ‘I told you so’ was all but scrawled across his beaming face.
“Good to see you sir,” Blackwood said as he drew a chair next to our no-longer missing benefactor. He too acted as if nothing were amiss: situation normal, all under control.
Silas was equally at ease, even delighted. “Tell me one thing before we get started,” he said, “Was Susannah one of yours?”
“She was, Doctor, as you correctly surmised,” the Baron smiled as Silas took his seat.
I felt myself going faint. I spun on my heel and hurried out of sight, leaning against and ancient pillar for support and heaving in deep breaths. I was in a shock state, unable to process. One moment I had feared our end at the hands of a mythic Bulgarian, now we were about to sit down for a meal with the very man who had set us on this accursed course.
“When you are quite ready, Ms Harrow?” his pompous voice demanded from the other room.
I stomped back into the room, dragged a chair loudly and plomped down with my arms folded angrily across my bosom.
“May I introduce Grand Canoness Christina,” the Baron said indicating the solemn woman at the head.
“Your eminence,” Silas said with a bow of his head. He was good at this.
“And you’ve met Arch Vigilant Agnes,” Churchill nodded toward our earlier interlocutor.
“Your grace,” our learned Doctor said respectfully.
Arch Vigilant?? Who were these people?
As if reading my thoughts, Blackwood spoke up. “You know, sir, that you are wanted by the Foreign Office?”
“Wanted? For what?”
“For colluding with the Papists.”
The Baron could barely contain a smirk as he glanced to his female companions. He turned my way. “It seems Ms Harrow your nose for things has led you to me, for good or ill,” he drawled.
I had had enough of this play acting. “Where have you been! We have been running all over London trying to find you, following a trail of bodies left in the wake of an Ancient Hungarian and now—”
“Ancient Hungarian?” he interrupted.
“And now we find you sitting in the lap of luxury, and more laps beside I am sure,” I added, perhaps unwisely, glaring at the ‘nuns’. “Whilst we have been in fear of our lives! And why did you send us the accursed elephants!!”
Hardly the most relevant question at this juncture, I will concede. In my defence, my blood was up and I could barely think through the red.
“To keep them safe, as I said,” the Baron shrugged.
“But why! We almost tore them apart trying to find out what they meant!! But they are just elephant parts!!!”
“On the contrary madam, they are anything but…”