CLARE HAMPSHIRE

CLOUDY AND FOGGY

Lou called. He did the deed – now it’s your turn.

Clare Hampshire enjoyed dedicating her Sunday mornings to committing crimes. It was the only reason why she accepted to get out of bed before dawn had even broken, when it was wet and damp outside, as well as miserably cold.

Still, after the ball on Friday night and now this, the young woman felt more like herself than she had in a while. Going constantly with the flow of her everyday life at the police station had started to rub off on her, and not in a nice, positive way. Clare was a woman who thrived on going against the grain. She needed to question the system, to be on top of things, and not below them.

At the station, all she could do was open her eyes and ears and pay attention. It was valuable to the Serpent Society, thankfully, but the young woman would have lied if she said that she did not miss the action.

This morning, even while she had had to get up much too early for her liking, the simple fact that she had put on her favourite regular clothes, the ones she loved and used to wear back in America, back when she had never set one foot in England, had felt better than anything she had experienced in a long time. Of course, Clare dressed the way she wanted whenever she carried out business for the Secret Society – but she tended to be tamed and tone down even in her fashion, in mere fear that she might come across someone who knew her from the police station.

She had to keep the illusion going, no matter what, and, in a way, she was afraid that it was slowly gnawing pieces off her soul. If that was not already the case, of course.

But this morning, since she needed to be as foreign as she could be, and since all masks were off as the ball had ended – thank the Lord – the young woman could step into her beloved shoes. Those were regular, if not a little worn out, ankle boots. They were comfortable and easy to run in, in case something went wrong and she needed to make a quick exit. Mainly, what thrilled the young woman was the fact that she was dressed in a pair of black trousers with a fitted waistline and ample legs, along with a long coat and a shirt and vest underneath. Her father would have thrown a fit at the sight of her almost dressed like a man, despite the delicate hairstyle she had gone for today, all curls and elegance, obviously ever so flattened by the hat she was wearing, dipped low over her face.

The streets were empty, but Clare felt like she was the Queen of the city at that moment.

But she did not need that feeling to get to her head, though – her duties were not small, and she needed to be focused on the task ahead, as she would only be able to count on herself for now.

After a few minutes of walking by herself in the dark streets of their quiet town, Clare arrived at her destination. It was a terraced house with bright red bricks that she could not see very well in this lighting – in a way, it really did not matter. It was a good size, and the young woman knew that it belonged to only one man at this point. There were no flowers greeting her as she made her way to the front door, and something told her that it had everything to do with the owner’s character, and nothing to do with the season.

Clare glanced back over her shoulder, checking that the street was still empty and quiet – it was. She made sure that no one seemed to be peering from their windows. Again, she did not see anyone; nothing could have been suspected at this moment. The house was pristine. Intact.

No one could have had any idea of the state of it inside.

The young woman turned to face the door once again. She grabbed a paperclip from the inside of her coat pocket, after struggling to find it in the mess inside, and slowly, methodically picked the lock. There was no sound around her to disturb her concentration. She was as much in control of the situation as she needed to be.

And when the lock gave way, Clare smiled faintly to herself. She entered quickly and closed the door behind her.

Inside, the house was as silent as the street, if not more; there was some sort of gravity in the air that was hard to ignore. The smell, too, was something she had not anticipated, but should have. It did not smell like rot nor decay just yet, but death was still very much present within these walls. That, added to the coppery smell of blood, was making her grimace.

After she had located the light, she surveyed the corridor with a critical eye. There was not much damage in here, but still signs of commotion: a vase had been tipped off, the content on the floor between shards of glass that Clare carefully avoided as she moved forward. A few frames on the wall had been disrupted; one had fallen and crashed on the floor, too, but the others were still hanging, though askew.

The wallpaper was a dirty yellow that made the young woman look away, but the rest of that entrance hallway was relatively ordinary. Apart from the few objects that had clearly been manhandled, it could have been anyone’s home. In a way, it was.

The young woman continued making her way forward, until she landed in the living room. This was the place she had been looking for, where things suddenly took a turn and became much more interesting to her.

Just like that, the smell made sense. There was blood on the floor, first a few droplets here and there, then a much larger puddle by the armchair, where the victim’s body had been left in agony. At least, Clare thought so – the man, whose body might still be warm, she thought, even though she would not test that theory, was slumped into his seat with his head slightly tilted to the side, as if resting on his own shoulder. His face had the pallor of death, and his lifeless eyes were still open and fixated on the doorframe, and, for now, her. It felt extremely uncomfortable to be scrutinised by someone who was not part of this world anymore, but the young woman could not find it in herself to feel bad for him.

He had deserved it.

From the neck down, the man was a wreck – that made Clare slightly queasy for a moment, but only because she could almost see the murder unfold before her eyes, and she could not help but imagine herself in the victim’s spot. Again, none of her feelings were actually for the victim.

She did not care about the victim.

His off-white sweater was soaked with blood, and it was messy to see everything in detail and from that distance, but Clare was trained to be efficient and observant: she counted five stab wounds on his chest alone, all strategically placed so that they would not actually mortally wound a vital organ. The spleen, liver and kidneys tended to bleed quite a lot – those had clearly been avoided, along with any area close to arteries.

This man had felt himself bleed to death.

Lester Green was a son of a bitch, and he would have deserved to die at least ten years ago. The fact that he had finally left the land of the living should have come as a more crushing relief to the young woman, but she always struggled with the idea of celebrating in front of a corpse; it was just distasteful.

Who this man was, what he had done, and the way he had died gave Clare enough hints on who had taken care of that nasty business.

Lou could be ruthless when he had a good reason to unleash his inner beast. But he was never sloppy. To date, the young woman had never walked into one of his scenes and thought that something was off.

If a stab wound was placed here, there was a reason for it.

If Lester Green had bled to death, it was because Lou had wanted it that way. The Serpent Society always ordered who to kill, sometimes even when.

But never how.

A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

They were in control of that part of the deed.

Clare took a deep breath and immediately regretted it. She exhaled with a grimace, before finally tearing her eyes away from the obvious elephant in the room, so that she could examine the rest of the space she would have to work with. Her fingers clenched ever so slightly around the strap of her messenger bag, which suddenly felt heavier.

So far, she still had not moved from the door frame, right there under Lester’s eyes.

She ignored him and continued her mental inspection on the space.

The young woman surveyed the tumbled objects scattered on the floor, in and around the big puddle of blood. She checked the shattered mirror above the mantlepiece, the fire put out – the mirror was still in its place, and the glass holding up, but when Clare stepped forward at last, she saw dozens of her own reflection instead of one.

She looked away and slowly tip toed, as silent as she could, towards Lester Green. She leaned forward, pressing her lips together, and carefully inspected the exposed skin on his face and neck – ever his fingers and palms, although she did not dare touch him. She could not see any trace of a rose, which would lead that crime to yet another of the Society’s long list of bad deeds.

That, in itself, was a good thing. It almost meant that Lou had never been the one who had messed up with Hughes and Wood. To be fair, Clare had never suspected him of such a thing. But it was good that she had the confirmation, at least.

She knew who had killed Lester Green: Lou Walker.

She knew why her friend and occasional mentor had killed him: because Professor Lester Green was a man who abused his young students. And no one ever did anything about it, so it was time that the Serpent Society stepped up to its name.

They were here to avenge those who had been ignored, after all.

So they did just that.

“Right.” The young woman whispered to herself. “Let’s do this thing, then.”

She spun around and checked the room once more. At last, her feet walked her away from the body of that disgusting paedophile, and she went to the mantlepiece first. There, she grabbed the second bouquet of roses she had seen so far and took them away from their vase. They were too fresh, too delicate, too luxurious for the place – Lou might have perversely brought them there, even. Clare left the vase empty, resisting the urge to simply tip it off the edge like she wanted to.

As she crossed the room, she opened her bag and started discarding some of the mess she had been carrying with her from home. A couple of long black hair were left by the puddle of blood – that came from Fleur’s errands. Their professional thief was the best at acquiring the most surprising items out there. The hair was from a young woman that was under the Society’s surveillance for the time being, while whoever was in charge of that mission was trying to determine if she would make a nice ally, a potential victim, or if she simply was not worth either of those ends.

Clare left a business card amongst the scattered envelopes on Lester’s side table – she had snatched that one during Colin’s birthday ball, incidentally. The opportunity to meet Douglas Brown had been too good to pass, and she had not been able to repress the urge to exchange pleasantries with him, until he had given her his card and a wink.

Rosalind had been thrilled.

By the coat hanger, back in the hallway, Clare sprayed a few pumps of a cheap perfume that would lead to no one in particular, this time, but would surely blur the lines further between the crime and the Serpent Society – the point was to get Colin off their back, after all. Any means possible would be considered, just like Mila had reminded her.

But she did spread some face powder in a corner by the front door, and that lead to someone in particular, even if one might consider it to be dust.

When she came back into the main room, her bag a little lighter, Clare grabbed the roses again, along with a few letters from the pile she had just touched. She removed a few books from the shelves that looked interesting, either for the culture or for the Society – that would be decided later – and she paused as she stopped by the entrance again.

Lester Green had not moved.

He looked pathetic.

Pathetically dead.

She did not move for a while, watching how little things had changed in the room, yet some minor details could completely transform the direction that the inspectors would probably take.

Clare smiled faintly to herself, finding the process disturbingly enjoyable. The few hair strands would incriminate Agnes Adler. Depending on Rosalind’s decision about the young woman, Clare would manage to sway the interrogation one way or another – provided that they even spotted the hair in the first place, but she would make sure of it.

The business card would lead to Douglas Brown, and that was already promising to be quite the fun little venture. Brown was a retired officer from the police station and a friend of Richard Bradford’s. The opportunity was too good to pass, really.

The perfume led to nowhere, but the powder was a reminder that Walter Wright, the great actor, was also on their list – truthfully, Clare did not even think anyone would spot that.

It did not really matter. The point was to confuse the investigation team and involve some other bad seeds from the city. If she could get the police officers to do their job of getting rid of all the bad ones in one go…

Why not try?

Clare chuckled to herself. But as quickly as the laughter had bubbled off her lips, it died down – she truly wanted this to work, truthfully. Colin had no business with the Serpent Society, and the young woman was slowly understanding that she was doing this both to protect her fellow members and to protect him. He would run straight to his death if he decided to take on the entire Society by himself.

He was clever, he was witty, he was resourceful – yes. But that would mean nothing against killers and murderers. Because Clare was not trying to pass them as saints or saviours. They were no such people. They were following orders to protect and avenge individuals who have been forsaken by justice.

But they were not saviours.

If Rosalind heard words of Colin Bradford, the son of the city’s Chief Superintendent, pocking his nose into their business, she would have no qualms in ordering one of them to kill him.

And Clare did not want that fate for him.

He did not deserve it. And she did not deserve to feel that way, but her heart was a machine of its own, and she had no control over it. She wanted him safe. She had reasons for it, apparently, beyond the fact that he was innocent – she wanted him safe.

The rest of her feelings did not matter for now, and maybe forever. So for now, she would tamper with a crime scene if it was her only way to get to her goal.

Maybe, that way the Society would get the upper hand once more; the future victims would not have any clue on them of the identity of their murderers, and everything would go back to the way it was supposed to be.

When had “normal” turned so bloody?

At long last, Clare stopped moving to assess her work. She was quite certain that no one would suspect that two people had come to the scene of the crime before the police. Surely, the young woman and the rest of the investigation team would be summoned here first thing tomorrow morning, but for now it would stay like that and gather dust.

“Not bad.” She whispered to herself, slowly walking backwards towards the door.

She double-checked every corner she had touched. There were no snakes, no insignia, no sign of her and her people.

Clare did not risk leaving an imprint behind either – the members of the Serpent Society either wore a ring with their symbol, or had it tattooed on their skin, if not both. The young woman belonged to the inked category. It had felt safer at the time, and it was proving her right at that moment.

She did the same thing as she walked back into the entrance corridor, until she was sure that she had left nothing behind. Even the sole of her boots was inspected – they were as wet as when she had come in, but remained bloodless, which was all that truly mattered.

Finally, she used her sleeve to use the doorknob and went out into the cold morning air. It was still dark outside, but hopefully the sky would lighten at some point. Still, even as her attention was elsewhere, Clare noticed at once that she was not alone – a figure was waiting on the other side of the street.

Casually, as if to nothing, the young woman closed the door behind her and locked it back the way she had unlocked it, before coming down the three steps. She passed the gate and closed that door too.

From one side of the street to the other, Lou and Clare exchanged a long look. The young woman was not quite sure that they were actually looking into each other’s eyes, but the tension was still impressive. It almost made her miss the fact that her friend was not alone at all, actually.

When he stood straighter and away from the wall he was leaning against, she noticed the second person by his side. And when he crossed the street to come closer, Clare recognised the small and delicate gait of Fleur.

In the great game of Life, Fleur Lewis could have been given the role of innocence and played it to perfection. She had that ability to spin every narrative to her benefit, and she looked perfectly innocent and pure, with her porcelain skin and large blue eyes, her short golden hair that made her look infinitely younger, and her small frame.

No one could have imagined that she was one of the most brilliant thieves in the city – the reason why Clare had most of her evidence to plant the scene of the crime with earlier, actually.

“Hi, you two.” The young woman started as they came close enough.

“Good morning, Clare.”

Lou wrapped an arm around her and gave her a warm, comforting side hug. Clare had two older brothers, and Lou’s embrace always reminded her of them, no matter how different they were. She hugged him back, her arm around his waist, before she smiled at her other friend there.

“Hi, Fleur.” She smiled faintly.

The blonde smiled back, quietly. “Hi, there. We thought we’d come and pick you up after we’re all done with our job.”

“Thanks.” She nodded, then glanced up at Lou. “Nice work.” She told him.

Between him and his boyfriend, Robin was the scary one. But Lou was the vicious one, and Clare was reminded of this simple fact when he grinned. It was genuinely nightmare-inducing, and the young woman knew that her friend was enjoying every single of that effect on her.

“You, too.” He eventually replied.

“Should we go?” Fleur’s small voice brought them back to the moment at play.

“Let’s.” Lou nodded.

Clare looked at them both. “Where?” She asked.

“To get breakfast.” The thief replied, smiling simply and honestly. “We’ve all been up for hours. Crime whets my appetite.”

The way she could just get away with saying the most outrageous things was always a strange, inspiring thing for Clare, and she could not help but laugh gently.

“I agree.” She even admitted. “Where do you want to go?”

“Oh, we’re going home.” Lou hooked his arm with hers, and then did the same with Fleur, who chuckled softly. “Robin promised that he would get us pastries.”

Fleur almost purred.