The Churchill Casebook of Curiosities
Book Four: The Mysterious Case of the Severed Hand
Chapter Eight: Obscurum per obscurius
We are not our scars
Obscurum per obscurius
‘Obscure by obscurity’
“Look not into the light
but to that which is illuminated.
Only the blind man
may stare at the sun unscathed.”
Friday 8th August 1879: London
“We have no choice, Silas. The constabulary must be alerted.”
“I agree, Gideon. If for no other reason than to ensure our names aren’t muddled up in Tinsdale’s murder.”
I was slightly astonished that Silas put up no counter argument, but grateful he did not. In fact I felt a great relief: we were holding too much information that would be better served with more minds attending.
My relief, however, was short lived.
“And, I’m sorry Gideon you won’t be a fan of this, but the person we should be approaching is—”
“Yes, yes, I know! But please, don’t say his name.”
“Gideon—”
“No Silas! Of course it must be him. There is no need to discuss it further.”
“He has been with us on each of our endeavours, even witnessing our mirror trick,” Silas mused.
I sighed deeply. “The only thing he knows nothing of is our little adventure down in Brighton.”
“You mean up in Birmingham.”
We climbed the stairs back to Tinsdale’s office, setting it to rights again. “We will tell all, but let’s explain that the door was already broken open,” Silas suggested.
I finally found the courage to discuss what Silas had found. “Don’t you think it strange that the Austrian giant left Mr Tinsdale’s…head displayed like that? Why would he do that?”
“I think you mean the ancient Hungarian,” Silas corrected, “And no, I don’t think it particularly strange. Killers of a particular type like to leave calling cards, or taunts, or perhaps it’s simply a proclivity. After all this is the second head he has removed.”
Mr Rivington Holmes, of course. Two men of the British Museum, beheaded. It beggared belief. How on earth had I ended up caught up in such horror?
The Porter was suitably stricken when Silas gave him the news and requested…Mr Clement…be summonsed post-haste. We withdrew to the grand steps of the Museum, where I espied the woman who had stood near the late Susanna as she eavesdropped. I considered approaching, but thought better of it: we did not want to be also associated with her death. It was curious there was no hub-bub from the night walkers—we could only suppose her body had not yet been discovered.
Our wait was interrupted when a said walker pointed a patrolling bobby our way. Busybody that he was he insisted on know what our business was. Silas surprised me by almost immediately telling him the straight truth: “A man has been murdered in the museum and we await DCI Clement’s arrival.”
“Murder you say! And who might you be, sir?” he said great suspicion.
“I am Dr Silas Hawthorne, sir.”
“And you, madam?”
“Ms Harrow. What is your name, constable?
“Tremaine. Now—you’d best show me what you mean, sir!”
“I will escort you do the scene. You wait here, Gideon,” Silas said
Suddenly it made sense why he had been so open with this Tremaine. “Is this a trick, Silas?!”
But he was gone.
Before long the dreaded moment arrived. Two police growlers rumbled into the square and pulled up in a huff of whinnying horses and gloom. Out of the first carriage stepped my favourite fellow. He looked everywhere but at me, then sullenly approached. “Gideon. What is going on? Who is this Tinsdale, and how did he die?” he said shortly.
Well.
I…
Gods but look at him. Glowering. All man. I felt all a-flutter. Those strong hands, the soft skin of his palm. Then I remembered his treatment of me at the Baron’s house and pulled myself together. “Mr Clement. Isn’t it obvious? We killed him.”
“Gideon please.”
“Well that is what you think, is it not? That is what you always think. That we are somehow murderers who rampage about London taking lives wantonly.”
“Gideon. Let us say that in this instance I assume that you did not kill anyone.”
“Thank you for you generosity,” I said icily. I did not enjoy his over-familiar use of my name, but nor did I feel like arguing the point.
I led him and his troupe up to Tinsdale’s office, observing the statuary along the way. My patter seemed to get on Mr Clement’s nerves. “I see you are not interested. Silas says it is because I am a woman,” I said idly.
“Yes, yes you are, Gideon.”
As luck would have it, Silas and Tremaine were returning from the basement just as we arrived. Tremaine was, understandably, pale and visibly shaking (Silas would later recount his reaction to Blackwood: ‘Good grief. Good gravy! Good god!!'. They both laughed heartily as I scowled.)
Clement they set about extracting our story. Silas did most of the talking, I only added flavour here and there. We stuck to our story regarding the door, and made no mention of Susanna and her tokens, our Hungarian suspect, nor the folder of notes. Everything else was laid out.
“You say you were invited here?” Clement said sceptically.
Silas immediately produced the invitation he had received. Clement scanned it quickly then folded it away into his pocked. “Show me the head,” he demanded. He was clearly in no mood for games, and seemed exhausted. I would have felt sorry for him if he weren’t such a cad.
“I will stay here if you don’t mind,” I said, “I have no wish faint again.”
“You will come with us,” Clement growled.
I stared at him but he was already moving. Obstinate man.
“I don’t care if you have to arrest me, I will go no further,” I said standing on the threshold of the first room of horror.
Clement nodded shortly and entered. I heard Silas explaining the trough of blood, the lack of murder weapon, and eventually pointing the way to Tindsale himself. (I am quite certain that I even heard a sharp intake of breath from Clement. It seemed no-one was immune to the horrors within that chamber).
Before long they emerged, Clement with the unthinkable item tucked into his arms. “A bodyless head, and a headless body,” he muttered.
“Yes, that was not lost on use either,” Silas nodded. “But…it is not the same person.”
Clement stopped and frowned. “What do you mean?”
Silas glanced at me and I gave a short nod.
“I…have reason to believe that the headless body is in face Tinsdale’s superior, a Mr Rivington Holmes.”
“The body without a head…is the supervisor of the head without a body?” Clement said, his face reddening with a (rather fetching) mixture of fury and despair.
Silas quickly explained the missing toes and other evidence, to Clement’s growing frustration. “And you were going to tell me this when?”
“Now,” Silas shrugged. “You are the first and only person we’ve talked to. This is all new to us too, Clement.”
Clement took a deep breath and lifted Tinsdale’s jar. “It would take some skill to remove a head in such a clean manner, would it not?”
“It would,” Silas confirmed. “A very sharp blade wielded with some force and precision. Tinsdale was not a small man.”
“He was a handsome man,” I grumbled, “Strong, with fine pensmanship. If only more men weren’t more like him.”
Clement did not bite. “How long has he been dead?” he continued, starting at Silas.
“Only hours,” Silas said with some certainty.
“Why do you say that?”
“Mr Clement you know very well we were expressly invited here by Mr Tindsale himself this very afternoon. The Porter will attest to that,” I said with contempt.
“You’ve done a very thorough investigation, Doctor,” he noted.
“Well of course I have, Clement. That’s who I am, and what I do.”
“You must know it would be folly for me not to place you squarely in the frame for this.”
“Mr Clement you said we were not suspects!” I cried.
Silas clenched his fists and I knew what was coming. “Suspects? Clement we know each other well enough for you to know that is absurd. Why would we call you here if we were the proponents of this terrible act? You would do well to withdraw your…”
But Clement had already turned and walked away. As I said, he was in no mood. “Tremaine!” he bellowed at the foot of the metal stairway. “Get your men down here! I want Tinsdale’s body found!” He spun back to us. “There must be a quicker way out of here,” he scowled, then stalked off down the corridor.
He was right, there was. “That’s why you’re the investigator and we’re the criminals,” I quipped.
“Mm-hm,” Clement rumbled, most definitely displeased.
Silas caught my elbow. “Give him a break, Gideon,” he murmured, his earlier outburst forgotten.
“And why should I do that?” I hissed.
“Put yourself in his position.”
“I’ve considered putting myself in several positions with him,” I growled, “But none have worked out.” I pulled my arm free and stalked away after his new best friend.
To our surprise Blackwood was waiting for us on the steps, his Club having concluded their heated debate regarding pneumatic piping. “A third suspect for you to arrest Mr Clement,” I said sharply.
“Of course you are here too,” Clement sighed to Blackwood. “Coming along to the station to I suppose?”
“By all means,” Blackwood beamed (not heeding Clement’s sarcastic tone) as Silas started a hasty summary of events.
Our next stop was, naturally, Scotland Yard. I sat next to Clement in the growler, courtesy of some further very obvious work from Silas. “Neither Mr Clement nor I appreciate your attempt at matchmaking,” I scowled. Clement ignored it all, staring out the window clutching a cigarette that burned down without him taking a single breath.
Poor man. All I need do is reach my hand and… Instead, I stared out the other window and regretted the many choices that had led me here.
Blackwood spent the journey examining the specimen from all angles, clearly fascinated. “Cut with a sword, don’t you agree Clement?” he observed to an exhausted glare.
Inside the station Clement finally let his frustrations out. He slammed his door. “You will now tell me everything that is going on. I have no time for your games and evasions. Everything!”
Piece by fumbling piece we told him what we felt we could. It was an ugly explanation, full of obvious holes and frankly absurd coincidences. Clement saw through it all, but such was his state that he could do little more than frown, scowl, and press. So disjointed was our account that he visibly wilted.
It wasn’t until we let slip that we knew who had robbed that Baron that he sat up, suddenly alert. “You know who it was?”
We went quiet, realising perhaps this revelation was a mistake. I glanced at the gentlemen, the nodded quickly. “Yes.”
“And?”
“They’re dead.”
“Who’s dead?”
“His name is Mr Lee Kwon,” Silas explained.
“A Chinaman?!” Clement leapt to his feet and yanked a desk draw open. He slammed a written report onto his desktop. “A dead Chinaman!?”
We leaned in and read what he had produced. It appeared a body had washed up on the Speaker’s Steps at Westminster, a Chinese body. “Have you any idea what happens when an MP finds a dead body washed up as he steps from his launch to enter parliament?” Clement scowled.
“It’s not our fault Kwon washed up there,” Silas countered.
“I don’t care who’s fault it is! Mr Langbrook was most seriously displeased and now I have to find an answer!”
“Langbrook?” Silas frowned. “That seems rather a coincidence.”
“If you mean it suits his agenda for cleaning up the East end then yes, it does,” Clement said. “His prophecy of the wave of Chinese crime coming true at his very feet.”
“Don’t you worry, we’ll talk to him.”
“Oh you’ll ‘talk to him’, will you?” Clement said sarcastically, his anger palpable. “Tell me: did your Chinese friends also kidnap the Baron?”
“He wasn’t kidnapped,” I said sulkily. “Or at least we don’t think he was.”
“That’s absurd Gideon. What on earth would lead you to that conclusion?”
“Stop calling me Gideon, Mr Clement! Just stop! We are most certainly not that familiar!!” I cried, near breaking point.
“The major can take care of himself,” Silas said jumping in to the uncomfortable silence, “As well you should know.”
“And that is enough for you to suppose him safe?”
Silas sighed. “Clement. We have told no-one else any of this, but the Major knew he was in danger. He sent us information that suggested that, and disappeared soon after. And he told us to trust no-one. So you should understand the importance of the fact that we are trusting you with this information.” He continued to elaborate and concluded again that we believed the Major safe (though I remained unsure, I did not contradict.)
“Tell that to St John Mortimer,” Clement scowled, “He is extremely interested in finding the Baron.”
“Who now?” Silas said.
“The Permanent Undersecretary to the Foreign Secretary!”
At this very confused moment a knock came at the door. “Who is it?” Clement yelled.
“Begging your pardon sir,” Constable Bobby said, a look of urgency on his face, “But there’s another!”
“Another what, man!?”
“Another body sir. A streetworker sliced head to belly just outside the British Museum.”
“Out!” Clement spun to face us.
“I can’t do this,” I said softly, dropping my hands to my face.
“Gideon you will tell me everything!”
“All these secrets. I will write it out for you, everything, every detail.”
Clement quickly found a blank page and pushed it toward me. I stared at it. A slate upon which to confess, to lift the burden on my conscience, to tell all and hide nothing. But I couldn’t move. How to even begin. I could barely think.
“So many secrets,” I gasped again, slumping. “I’m scared. People are being killed…and we could be next.” I spoke so softly the gentlemen had to lean in. Before I knew it I was sobbing uncontrollably.
Blackwood hurried over and took my hand, patting it gently. I clutched it for dear life as Blackwood looked over at Clement. “Get over here, you fool,” he hissed.
I heard Clement sigh, but he didn’t move. “It’s late. Perhaps we should take a break, go home, get some rest.”
I stood up immediately and walked out of the room, the world spinning around me in a blur of tears and self-recrimination.
As I fled across the Yard I heard an anguished call from behind.
“Ms Harrow, may I have a moment?”
It was Clement. I stopped on the spot, but did not turn to face him.
“Do you recall, Ms Harrow, the scandal of the detective branch of two years ago?”
I did, of course I did, what thief had not thrived in the chaos of those days. It was a huge scandal, every last one of the top detectives in London in the pocket of a crime lord. Gambling and worse. And every last one indicted, guilty, imprisoned or dismissed in disgrace.
“It is only in this last year that we have been rebuilt under Dolly Williamson’s leadership,” Clement continued, drawing closer. “If I were to be associated with…if I were to be seen in the company of a known criminal…”
I shuddered, my shoulders tensing. A known criminal. That was what I was. That was all I was. How could this be happening?
“Gideon. You know what that would do to the branch, fragile as it is and with that scandal still so raw. But not to my career—to hell with that!” he said passionately, and I felt his breath on my neck. I reached a hand to my shoulder and felt his hand settle over it. My body relaxed for the first time in far too long, the warmth of his flesh enveloping mine. This slightest touch curing so many ills.
“You must believe me, Gideon! This is not what I want, but I have a duty. Not to Williamson or any of those but to my country. I cannot let it be betrayed again. We have a duty, a sacred duty.”
His breath upon my neck. His pulse. His heat.
Silence fell as we stood together under the night sky. Then my head dropped. There was nothing for it. I gently squeezed his hand, the closest to a hug we would ever have. After an eternity I released my hold and walked away.
I heard his footsteps, returning to his church, then stopping at the doorway. I turned. “Edmund?”
His eyes lifted to meet mine, wet with tears.
“I will be waiting.”
He nodded sadly and walked inside.
Gideon did not turn, but simply placed her hand upon her shoulder.
Blackwood told me later that he and Clement spent a long hour steadily drinking, numbing Clement with stories of Abyssinia. Before long Clement turned his mind to…me.
Me.
Clement blathered on about his file on me (now that is something I should like one day to see!), to which Blackwood responded by defending my honour, as only he could. Some complicated story involving noughts and crosses which proved Clement had nothing to worry about. “Our scars and reputations don’t make us who we are,” he told Clement, the kind of surprising wisdom that Blackwood conjured out of nowhere.
“Yes it does!” Clement insisted. “She has a house of ill repute! A second story business!”
“I’ve seen mirrors, people cut in half,” Blackwood said. “There are far worse things.”
“I lie awake at night thinking about those mirrors,” Clement nodded in his stupor.
“So do I. I’m going to lay a trap to get that person,” Blackwood declared, strangely sober.
“What person? Foedemere is in Broadmoor?”
“They tried to steal the Crown Jewels!” Blackwood scowled, his outrage bested only by Clement’s own. “We should have hung the lot of them!” he cried.
“Exactly! I’d happily build the scaffold!”
“I wanted to pull the lever,” Clement confessed conspiratorially. “As arresting officer I have the right!”
“As do I, because they almost killed me,” Blackwood reminded. “But I wouldn’t mind sharing the pulling. Or we could use electricity….that would be quicker,” he mused.
Clement paled. “You need to go home now,” he declared suddenly, “Because I’m going to have a vomit.”
I had failed to notice Silas quietly passing Clement and I during our tête-à-tête, but I found him standing outside being assailed by that pest Mr Ellis. “Here for the Belgravia Butcher, Mr Hawthorne? How is it related to the Dynamite Plit? Are you persons of interest? Why have they let you go?”
Silas, to his credit, gave a simple ‘no comment’ to each unsubtle attempt.
“So you’re not denying it’s related to the Dynamite Plot?” Ellis probed.
“No comment.”
“But you’re arrested, am I correct, again?”
“Mr Ellis do I look like I am in remand to you?” Silas mocked as he hailed a cab.
“So you’re assisting with enquiries?”
“I’m always available when Her Majesty’s CID requests my help.”
“So you’re here at Her Majesty’s pleasure?” Ellis said, quick as a whip.
“No I am not.”
At this juncture I slapped Mr Ellis as hard as I could, sending him reeling in shock. I nodded at Silas and climbed into the cab he had called, leaving him to find another.
“The Golden Dragon Laundry if you please.”
Silas made his weary way back to his home, and his family. Lucky man.
“Have you found your Baron?” Hana asked.
Silas shook his head. “Just more murdered people.”
“When will it end? Tell me you’re not making this worse?”
“I certainly hope not, my dear.”
Blackwood’s evening was to have one last surprise.
Upon returning home he closed the door to find a lamp suddenly ignited, and sitting comfortably in an arm chair was none other than Mr Eziah Cyrus, the Rat King himself.
When Blackwood related this to Silas and I my immediate reaction was surprise that Blackwood was still smiling and seemed to have all his appendages. The Rat King does not often visit without leaving a reminder of his passing. Then I remembered this was Jack, and Jack has a way of bamboozling even the worst of men into submission.
In this case he achieved this by giving Cyrus everything and more. Not because of threats, or pressure, or blackmail, or in fact anything. It was simply that Blackwood was an honest man, and when asked a straightforward question he gave an equally straightforward answer.
And so it was over several cups of tea (for the Rat King was not one to succumb to so simple a trap as liquor) that Mr Blackwood told Mr Cyrus everything. When we expressed surprise, he explained: “He wanted to know about the ‘new player’ in town who wasn’t following the Queensbury Rules. So I explained what we knew. He was surprised about Tindale’s beheading,” Blackwood added matter-of-factly.
“Surprised?”
“He said he understood the first was for deidentifying the victim, a common technique apparently. But leaving the second in a jar he couldn’t explain. The only things I didn’t discuss was the Baron, the lady” (and here he meant me) “and the Crown.”
“You told him of Mrs Pan?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“d’Chartreuse and Susanna?”
“Yes.”
“Innocenti? The Bulgarian?”
“Hungarian,” Silas quickly corrected.
“Yes. Everything, as I have said.”
We were stunned. “But Jack…why did you spill everything to the Rat King, but withheld it from Mr Clement?” Silas pressed.
“He is the police.”
“Yes! They’re the good ones?”
“We are not our scars,” Blackwood said, harking back to his conversation with Clement. Silas and I exchanged glances but there was nothing for it. Blackwood would do as Blackwood did. “He thanked me profusely for my ‘insights’, but it was just the facts. As a sign of his appreciation he even offered to give up the prison warden who had set upon me in our incarceration. But I told him there was no need, unpleasant as it was that man had a job to and he was merely doing it.”
“Jack you are a very interesting man,” I said shaking my head.
“He did seem taken aback at my lack of interest in revenge,” Jack shrugged. “Oh and he had a note from Mr Two Feet—my weapons are ready for collection.”
Collecting his hat, the Rat King paused. ‘One more thing, this note left for you beneath your door.’ He proffered the folded leaf of paper. ‘Give my regards to Mr. Two Feet.’
Mrs Pan greeted me, stepping up from her Mah-jong table. She knew exactly why I was there.
“I want exactly what you gave me last time, Mrs Pan.”
She nodded as she led me downstairs, turning to look back at me. “I have asked around, and I must say I am taken aback, perhaps even a little hurt, Ms Harrow, that you did not explain to me your other line of business.”
I frowned. “I had assumed a woman of your reputation and means already knew which is why I said nothing. So maybe it is I who should be disappointed.”
“Perhaps we both are, Ms Harrow,” she smiled.
“I hope to be in your good graces rather than bad, Mrs Pan. Together we could achieve great things in this town.”
But first I had more immediate concerns to address.
The shocking descent, breathtaking, familiar and welcome.
…through pain, through fear, through thought…
…ebbing on the edge of life, one effortless shrug from the abiding inky abyss…
…a cold that is not cold dissolves my body, I am void and without form…
…in the darkness he whispers; his voice older than time, ever-present, always close, familiar and forgotten, comforting as oblivion. To hear it is to lose my mind. The words as they are spoken, consume the listener, caressing, devouring.
Yet in destruction I am remade in pain; finding form in fear, substance in shame.
The pipe’s final treachery is that eventually it must return a soul ill-prepared for corporeal existence to a body ill-equipped to shepherd it.
“Wake up!”
Mrs Pan stood over me, her face far too close for polite intercourse.
“You go home now Gideon Harrow.”
It wasn’t a suggestion, Mrs Pan didn’t make suggestions. Obedience was the only prudent course of action. Despite an almost overwhelming somatic reluctance to do so, I marshalled my remaining dignity and extricated myself from the hospitality of the Golden Dragon.
Outside I hailed a mercifully proximate hansom and with a gracelessness which in other circumstances I might have found to be a source of embarrassment, instructed the driver to get me the hell out of Limehouse.
The rising sun and waking city heralded the inexorable tide of reality and the clattering of the cab on the endless cobbles rattled loose a fragment of something, perhaps something I had read; a page of Faust or something from Simon’s infernal book, though in truth I don’t recall having read either. From whence it came I cannot be sure, but the words were etched in flame:
“There are cracks in these old walls through which, from time to time, voices may be heard. Attend closely for they speak of the Glory of Kings.
There are riches to be had by those who dare seek them. The bold need only look to those places where it is forbidden to do so.
Are you such a one as would live in darkness or would you know the light?"