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Thursday 7th August 1879: London

Following our morning in the Library, Silas and I travelled to Embankment to collect Blackwood. Though I wished to continue the trail of the Kebra Nagast by visiting Mr Neville’s Caliban Books, Silas reminded me that we owed the CID a statement, and he owed them an autopsy of poor Sanjeev.

We found Blackwood in high spirits. Silas and I covered our findings at the Iron Library, and of Mr Tinsdale’s identification of the Kebra Nagaast from the paper scrap, much to Blackwood’s fascination.

He then reported on his visit to the Club where he had found Basiljet, the chief engineer of the Pumping Station, fuming about the headless body affair. “This is not the result of the workmanship! Nor of a worker failing in his duties, no matter what people say!”

“What idiot would say something like that?” Blackwood sympathised.

“There are a lot of idiots out there, Blackwood!” Basiljet growled.

Blackwood, being Blackwood, immediately set about solving this possible problem. “Shall we draft a statement for the constabulary, making that indisputably clear via facts and figures?” Basiljet was of course agreeable, and Blackwood soon had sketches and tidal charts prepared, and a sternly worded letter for the police.

So he was pleased to join us given our destination and his happily coincided. I, on the other hand, became increasingly withdrawn as we drew near Whitehall Place.

“He might not be there, Gideon,” Silas said intuiting the reason for my agitation, “And if he is he might not be taking the statements.”

“Of course he will be there!” I snapped.

“Well you’re a grown woman, I’m sure you can handle it.”

“I thought I could too, but it turns out I can’t,” I sulked.

---

Our usual path to Clement’s office was blocked by a newly painted sign directing all seeking the Criminal Investigation Department to Great Scotland Yard.

“Is this joke?” I wondered, knowing the Yard to be nothing more than a mud put for horses, piggeries, and the like. “Do you think Clement is doing this to annoy me?”

“Yes Gidon, the entire CID was moved just to annoy you,” Silas deadpanned.

“Well I wouldn’t put it past that man,” I said storming ahead.

We entered the new quarters to find a number of bobbies crammed into rather small rooms—rather a step down from the main MET offices we had previously visited. Silas introduced us and soon we were being escorted to that awful man’s office. As we approached another well to do gentleman exited Clement’s office, glancing and frowning at us for daring to be in the same corridor as he. He jammed his hat on and pushed past without so much as a by your leave.

---

Silas, leading, stepped into the office. “Ah Clement, good to see you.”

I froze.

“Doctor,” that man’s honeyed baritone voice replied.

My knees wavered.

“I love what you’ve done to the place, Clement,” Silas said wryly.

“Very droll, Doctor.”

“Did someone do something wrong for you to end up down here?”

Blackwood followed Silas inside, waving his envelope. “Who do I give this to?”

“Give what?” Clement said, somewhat confused.

“This is a statement from the Artisanal Club.”

“I’m sorry, what?”

He always was cute when he was confused.

“You need to get this to the press,” Blackwood said in his simple way.

“I do, do I?”

I heard Clement unfolding the paper, and a moment continuing. “Let’s…leave this for the moment, if you don’t mind.” He cleared his throat. “Ms Harrow? Please join us?”

I pressed my hand to the wall to steady my nerves and took a deep breath. “No.”

“Ms Harrow—”

“No. I will give my statement to one of your men, if you please.”

Silence, then: “Very well. Sergeant Strange!” Clement called, and a moment later a door was opened and there was Strange. “Please take Ms Harrow’s statement. I will take those of Mr Blackwood and Dr Hawthorne.”

“Very good sir. Madam, follow me if you please?”

---

My interview was very short, bordering on absurd. I gave very little, as Silas had instructed, and Strange, after first growing frustrated, eventually became resigned and gave up. I heard afterwards that Silas had been far more forthcoming—perhaps I misinterpreted his intent. In any case he told them everything, leaving out only the discovery in the bible, the silk cuff, and our belief that the Major had absented himself.

We regathered in the uncomfortable waiting room, where Silas advised he was to immediately perform not one but two autopsies: Sanjeev and…the headless body! Blackwood and I wished him well and departed. Blackwood was happy as he had managed to convince Clement to distribute the letter in the Police Gazette, giving it the imprimatur of authority that the wider Press would be sure to pick up.

“He resisted, but I insisted—I think it was the tidal flow detail that finally convinced him,” Blackwood beamed. “I agreed to do a flow diagram for him which he said he would be very interested in seeing.”

I was delighted at Blackwood’s delight, so much so that he didn’t notice the dark cloud over my head.

We were interrupted upon stepping out of Scotland Yard by a newspaperman. “Edgar Ellis of the Illustrated London News,” a sharp man with a pencil moustache announced. “Is it true the police are reinterviewing you regarding the sentencing of the Dynamite Gang?”

---

I glanced at Blackwood, not wanting to engage. “What?” he asked, confused.

“So you don’t deny you were being interviewed?” Ellis said in a typically newspaper tricky turn of phrase.

“Just general enquiries,” Blackwood said innocently.

“Are you being charged?”

“No? Tell me—do you know much about the tidal flow?”

It was Ellis’s turn to be nonplussed. “What?”

Blackwood proceeded to start explaining the finer details of the Thames flow and the effect on the locks therein and how the News should publish this information. After a short while Ellis interrupted. “Mr Blackwood, sir, if you give me an exclusive interview regarding the Dynamite Gang, I will do everything I can to bring that about.”

“There’s not much to say,” Blackwood said.

“Oh come now, sir, you were on the scene when the gang tried to steal the Crown Jewels!”

Blackwood merely shrugged.

Ellis rolled his eyes and produced a card. “Well if you should ever change your mind, here’s my card.” He turned to me and doffed his cap, “Ms Harrow,” before scooting off.

Blackwood retired to his neck of London, and I to the Coffee House, determined to finally repay some of what I owed Eunice.

---

At Covent Garden I finally started to relax, the duties around the House distracting my mind and body.

Eunice announced she had chosen her deputy, and I was delighted to hear it was Mrs Harriet Myrtle. “She has a heart of gold and the wisdom of Solomon,” Eunice said. “In her neighbourhood, she is known for her immense warmth and fierce devotion to her family. Her home is a haven of love and stability for her grandchildren: Tina, Ruth and little Walt.”

“A prudent choice, Eunice, you are to be congratulated. Harriet is long serving, and her years will bring authority. Plus her particular talents only improve with age. Her deep entanglement with the upper echelons of London will serve us well.”

For Mrs Myrtle was better known to our clientele as Lillith aka ‘Dominatrix Supreme’, the denizen of the Sepulchre of Sodom. It is said Lillith has the acquaintance of more judges and ministers (both church and state) than even the Queen. She was a fine choice.

---

As Eunice left to give Harriet the good news, I set about another important task: deciding the location of the Velvet Wraith. I had intended to display it to all and sundry in the vestibule between floors, which catches the sun upon occasion, but on further thought decided it would be lost amongst the other more tempting sights our customers seek.

The boardroom was a possibility, as was something as simple as my bedroom. I retrieved it from the basement and carried it upstairs, resting in on the bar for a moment to survey the early visitors.

Imagine my surprise to find none less than Simon d’Chartreuse sipping a coffee at a table by the door! I made a beeline to him, smiling. “Mr d’Chartreuse, what a pleasant surprise!”

“Ms Harrow, it is a pleasure,” he bowed, standing. “Please, join me.”

“It has been some time,” I said, sitting. “What brings you to my Coffee House?”

“I have long meant to visit, having heard so much about it!”

“I think you will find there are many things here to tempt and interest a man such as yourself,” I promised.

“I cannot wait to sample them, madam,” he smiled.

I teased him about his Daphne affair, which he deflected with ease. “What’s a little blackmail between friends,” I laughed.

“And how are your other companions, may I ask?” he said kindly. “The Doctor and that strange smaller man?”

“You mean Blackwood? He who removed Peter Abernathy’s jaw? He is doing well, always working on a project of some kind. He’s a funny one—seems to have some trouble with women, who seem to bring out the beast in him.”

“That’s true of many men,” d’Chartreuse observed.

“Yes, but with Blackwood the beastliness is toward anyone threatening said women. I’ve tried taming him—the Mirror Room —but there’s work to be done.”

“Mirror Room?”

“You must try it. Although I rather think some of the…sharper experiences may be more up your alley, Mr d’Chartreuse.”

He nodded with a twinkle in his eye.

“Daphne has been having trouble with his dogs so we have not seen him of late. And Doctor Hawthorne is as studious as ever. Though I discovered he was married and that came as rather a shock. But I’m sorry, Mr d’Chartreuse, this is of little interest to you.”

“No need to apologise, Madam, it was I who asked after them. Speaking of which, I hear you and your companions have had a spot of trouble recently?”

“Oh yes? What have you heard?”

“Only that your friend has gone missing.”

I was momentarily panicked, fearing d’Chartreuse had somehow got wind of the goings on in Birmingham. How was that possible?? “Missing? I do not know what you mean. We had a nice visit, toured the surroundings, and returned to London with nothing amiss?”

d’Chartreuse looked disappointed. “Madam. If you will not be honest then I have misjudged our friendship.”

“Friendship? Mr d’Chartreuse I barely know you, and have not seen you for some months since the Abernathy affair. Now tell me, what have you heard?”

“That he is kidnapped, after a home invasion,” d’Chartreuse said keenly.

Oh my god. I was flustered at my mistake but managed to recover myself. “Kidnapped? I should hope not. We have no evidence of that. How did you learn of this?”

“Word on the street, madam, is quite insistent.”

“Your little green birds have been busy,” I smiled, regaining my calm.

d’Chartreuse stared at me, then settled back. “Well madam, it has been a pleasure.”

“Before you go, Mr d’Chartreuse, there is a question I had been pondering, and remarkably I had even pondered seeking you out to ask it. And then here you were! I think fate demands that I ask it.”

“I would be happy to oblige, Madam.”

“You are a student of the holy scripts, I understand, having penned a book countering their word,” I said. His face gave nothing away, so I continued. “There is a verse I have heard repeated recently, and I wanted to know your take on it. Do you know Proverbs 21:8?”

“Proverbs…Madam, I am afraid I do not. It is not my habit to memorise every verse.”

“Let me recite it for you: ‘The way of the guilty is devious, but the conduct of the innocent is upright'. Tell me, what does that mean to a man such as you?”

d’Chartreuse frowned, then sighed. “Madam is seems quite clear. Those that follow the devious path must work harder, whilst those that do not find an easier path.”

“Are you a follower of the former, Mr d’Chartreuse?”

He leaned forward intently, locking eyes with me. I felt a light breeze and shivered as his look held me and darkened, his green eyes refusing to release me. And when he spoke it was as if wrapped a web around my thoughts and a spell over my emotions, drawing me ever deeper:

“Did you know that the adversary from the Book of Job was never meant as more than a literary device? A counter to the arguments presented; taking on the role of the sceptical reader? This kind of device was quite common at one time and can be seen in the writings of Plato and in the Kebra Nagast as well as the Bible.

It was only as a result of interpretations by literal minded readers that the adversary became associated with the Shaytan Iblis and later conflated with He who gave up heaven for our free will—our Lord Lucifer.

But, what if there is a true antagonist, more than just a counterpoint to God’s word, an absolute antithesis, so at odds with all creation that it lies completely outside the Judeo-Christian pantheon—any pantheon—all pantheons; an agenda so oblique to any conceivable human desire or temptation that there can be no adherents, no believers, no congregations, no cults? A force that must orchestrate its manoeuvres in the blackest of night; that must act with such subtle manipulations that not even the cruellest and most wicked of men become aware of its true intentions?

What then? How would we counter such a force? How could we even be sure that we worked against it and not into its hands?

Against such a foe we would all be on the same side, n’est-ce pas?"

I was dumbstruck. I am not even sure I heard him speak, but his every word was scarred into my memory. I felt a great and inescapable chasm opening…and then d’Chartreuse released me.

“What…what was that?” I gasped.

“Just idle thoughts, Ms Harrow, idle thoughts,” d’Chartreuse said quietly as if nothing had happened.

“I…you mentioned…do you mean to say that you worship a false idol? A ‘literary device’?”

“You misunderstand me, madam. I said that my lord Lucifer was conflated with the literary device of the adversary by lesser minds.”

I didn’t understand, but nodded, for there was a more pressing question: “You mentioned another book—the Kebagast or something similar?”

“The Kebra Nagast,” d’Chartreuse corrected. “Just an example of creating an antagonist for illustrative purposes.”

I was unsure if I had succeeded in feigning no knowledge of said tome, but pressed on. “And it too has a false evil? A ‘conflation’ as you put it?”

“Indeed, madam. It is a religious text of the Abyssinian people, but I know little more beyond that. As I said, just an example to reinforce my speculation.”

He was lying, of that I was certain. He knew precisely what it was, and I suspect was fishing to see if I did too. “It seems more than speculation, Mr d’Chartreuse,” I smiled. “I felt quite overcome!”

“Then I shall take no more of your time, madam. Thank you for the fine coffee,” he said standing.

“Leaving so soon? You must return to sample our wares further: promise me you will.”

“It would be my pleasure, madam,” he said doffing his hat.

As Mr d’Chartreuse departed, he happened to see the Wraith standing proudly atop the bar. He raised his eyebrows and turned to me. “What a wonderful specimen of Cymbidium Coerulus Rex.”

“Pardon? A specimen of the…?” I said, blankly.

“The Blue Raj Orchid. The Indian varieties were all the rage at last year’s show; the Blue Raj was the real belle of the ball. A bit passé now of course. I’m curious why you didn’t go for one of the new varieties from this year’s show. Oh well there’s no accounting for taste.”

And with that he was gone.

---

Friday 8th August 1879: London

I rose early determined to get our investigations back on track after the CID detour. d’Chartreuse’s spell still rattled around in my head; for a short while I wondered if his voice was the same that had greeted me so ominously in my opium stupor. However, on consideration, whilst his voice did take on a peculiar timbre it did not resemble in the scale of its gravitas the voice of I heard in that opium fuelled nightmare.

I summoned Eunice, asking her to direct Harriet to obtain a specimen of d’Chartreuse’s ‘Blue Raj’ from the flower markets. If he spoke true, and was not performing another of his subtle tricks, then the flower should be easy to find. And I was intrigued: was the Velvet Wraith nothing special? Or had the powers it contained been somehow introduced to London already in a modified cultivar? The mind reeled at the possible disaster that could ensue if so.

I must remember to tell the gentlemen.

---

The cab took me first to Silas’s surgery, where I stamped my feed and frowned until Mr McRae finally relented and went to fetch the Doctor. Before he appeared I caught a glimpse of Mrs Hawthorne (I still reel at the thought) and had to quicky hide myself to avoid an uncomfortable scene.

Silas finally appeared. I thanked McRae (teasing him that Eunice has spoke very highly of his…size) and we headed off to see Blackwood.

On the short journey Silas told me he ‘had a quiet word to Clement.’

“A quiet word regarding what, exactly?” I frowned, guessing what was coming.

“Merely that he should sort things out with you.”

“Silas how dare you!”

“Yes that was Clement’s reaction too,” he grinned. “Something about ‘appreciating my candour but it really being none of my business’.”

“Well precisely. That was quite out of order, Silas.”

“It makes it very difficult for everyone,” Silas said, “Something Clement agreed with wholeheartedly. I suggested he pay you a visit—”

“SILAS! Enough! I don’t want to hear any more!”

---

At Blackwood’s we each explained what we had discovered in the interim.

I briefly described my surprise visitor, focussing mostly on the strange mention of the Kebra Nagast. “I feel certain he knew more than he let on,” I explained.

“That seems obvious,” Silas agreed. “d’Chartreuse is not a man to drop a hint like that without a hidden purpose.”

“He seems remarkably well informed,” I concurred. “He knew about the Baron, though I mistook that for Chamberlain for a few moments.”

“You didn’t tell him anything did you?” Silas said with some concern.

“Of course not.”

---

Blackwood spoke next, describing how he had interrogated the Pumping Station staff (‘all fine and upstanding men’) regarding the body. There was no sign of any foul play, and he had soon made a bond with Mr Drinkwater (a wholly appropriate name, I must say) who was pleased to be able to pontificate with someone just as obsessed as he was about the huge gothic Victorian apparatus. They were soon poring over outlet diagrams, tidal flow charts, and the like.

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It was determined that the body must have arrived at the Pumping Station via the Grosvenor Canal, which snakes through London for many a mile. The body itself had been trapped in the iron gratings of the Station between the hours of midnight and 5AM, the flood tide raising the body until it caught.

Blackwood then interviewed the master of the Canal, who was somewhat less forthcoming and highly suspicious of Jack (not helped by Jack introducing himself by saying he was working with the police. ‘The rozzers you say?’ the fellow had said accusingly.) He was worried about being shut down over the body, but Jack managed to talk him down as he so often can, disarming him with more tidal flow talk. Eventually he determined that, alas, there were no tariffs collected on the Canal on the night in question, as the flood tide meant the lock was open to all.

Undeterred, Blackwood spent some further hours monitoring the travel of an empty barrel along the Grosvenor to confirm his theory. He was nothing if not thorough, I must say.

---

Silas was next, explaining in gruesome detail his autopsy findings.

Sanjeev was simple, if tragic. Stabbed from the front, inexpertly and likely in defence, before several more precision blows came from behind and above (suggesting the assailant attacked from the stairway). This was all consistent with Silas’s initial speculation at Thorntonheath, so he soon moved on to the second body.

Pulling back the sheet he was met with a most chilling sight. “A Caucasian man—so it wasn’t our missing friend Lee Kwon—who had been filleted from neck to groin, clean cut through several organs and ribs in a single slash,” he reported in rather too much detail. “It appeared to me that an autopsy had already been performed. But the attending scribe promised me the body had been found in that condition.”

“You mean he was already opened up?” Blackwood said with a frown.

“Precisely. A very sharp blade applied with a lot of force. It reminded me of a katana strike, though I could not be sure. The body had been in the water at least a week, as evidenced by the necrosis and fish bites. But it gets worse.”

“Worse?” I paled.

“I’m sorry Gideon, but the details are important. His head had been removed in only a few blows, most likely with the same blade. I’m afraid to say that the beheading occurred only after the fileting.”

I gasped and turned my face away, trying to dispel the horror of what Silas was saying.

“He had been tortured, and I found more evidence of the same. His fingers were all broken, and there were rectangular burn marks on his torso. He was also missing two toes from one foot, the big toe and adjacent, but they were old injuries—”

“My god!” I cried, “It was Rivington-Holmes!”

“Exactly my deduction too, Gideon,” Silas said grimly.

“Our Mr Tinsdale told us Mr Rivington-Holmes had retired from the exploration game after being bitten by a scorpion and losing two toes!” I exclaimed to Blackwood, who was slightly confused for we had omitted this (at the time of telling) seemingly inconsequential detail.

It was an incredible, and incredibly disturbing, revelation. Someone had so wanted to lay their hands on the seemingly deeply accursed Kabra Nagasat that they had kidnapped and tortured, in a most violent manner, Mr Rivington-Holmes. Which also meant…

“We have to find the Baron!” I gasped. “If they were willing to do this to Mr Rivington-Holmes, he is in far greater danger than even he might realise!”

“I’m sure he can take care of himself, Gideon,” Silas assured me.

“He was tortured and then beheaded!” I cried.

“It’s not that uncommon,” Blackwood said matter-of-factly.

“What are you talking about?! This is London, not Napier’s expedition to the wilds,” I spluttered. “We must immediately turn our attention to finding him before it is too late!”

“He escaped the manion on horseback, Gideon, we know that,” Silas protested.

“We do not know that Silas. We hope, but we have no proof beyond some gumboots and muddy footsteps to the stables. It is speculation, not proof.”

“It is good enough for me,” Silas said firmly. “Though I must correct you on one thing—there were no footprints in the mud outside the Major’s house, of a one legged man or otherwise. None-the-less all evidence points to an escape to the stables, the nearest point of safety, and from thence on horseback.”

“That’s not good enough, Silas. We must focus on finding him immediately.” A horrible thought struck me. “Do you think it could be d’Chartreuse who is behind all of this? The torture you describe, particularly the way the cut was made, sound almost ritualistic, and we know d’Chartreuse is very interested in ritual.”

“I do not think it is his style,” Silas said, and I wanted to agree.

“So where do we start?” Blackwood asked. “How do we find who might have contracted Lee and Kwon?”

“I would say with d’Chartreuse,” I said, “For he seems to know more than we do, and he has ears all over London.”

“I don’t think that is a good idea,” Silas frowned.

“Nor do I,” I sighed. “However there is one man in London who knows everyone in the game, and not a rat is trapped but he knows it.”

“The Rat King?” Blackwood guessed.

“Worse: Micky Two-Feet.”

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