Thus it was that I was escorted through the borough of Whitechapel on a fine fall evening by one of the most deadly women I had ever known.
The experience left much to be desired. Crimson remained as disciplined and taciturn as ever. It was both curse and blessing that she was not more companionable. While the silence and discomfort of her quiet presence were unsettling, to say the least, I was grateful not to hear the cruel chuckle of her amusement, nor endure the disturbing flash of her teeth in what might charitably be called a smile. Needless to say, the stroll to the constable house involved very little conversation and less enjoyment. The one dubious advantage I had was my complete and utter security, if only because there was not a single idiot in all of Whitechapel who would attempt to accost a vampire and her fellow traveler.
It was something of a relief when we finally reached the constable house. The station was open, which was something I had not expected. The constabulary, while an excellent endeavor undertaken by the Prime Minister in former years, had repeatedly failed in its efforts to secure the safety of London’s citizens. A wise citizen, especially one in a regularly dangerous avenue of employment such as my own, did not depend on the peelies to be at the ready when trouble came calling. Such maxims became especially important in a borough like Whitechapel, where the squat little towers did little more than provide the local residents another surface to besmirch with their scrawls.
For better or for worse, it appeared that the crisis in Whitechapel had compelled the constables to remain about their business at a much later hour than usual. The lights glowed warmly in the windows of the small station, and within it the constables appeared to be busy at their work. Their silhouettes cast sudden, fleeting shadows across the street as we approached, and the activity seemed to be rather anxious instead of the dull drudgery I had come to associate with the constabulary of London.
When we reached the doorway, Crimson knocked on the portal with a diffident air. The activity within came to an immediate halt, and there was a rush of motion to the door. Light spilled out upon us as they opened it, and I heard a gruff voice address her. “Yes, woman? What do you want?”
To her credit, Crimson did not appear to be offended by the tone the constable used. She simply turned her emotionless stare on him and responded in a measured tone. “I am here to present an individual in my custody to the Whitechapel Safety Society and the constabulary. I believe that you may have been looking for him.”
With alarming speed, the constable’s face darkened. He sputtered out a response. “Now what’s all this nonsense—”
Crimson’s voice cut him short, her words a dangerously soft purr. “Dear sir, I was told the constabulary would assist me in my hunt. Surely you do not intend to compel me to more drastic measures to fulfill my duty? Such things would, of necessity, be unpleasant.” Her skirts swished as she stepped closer. “I must confess that such unpleasantness might make me…hungry.”
The constable’s blustering melted away before Crimson’s study of his jugular, and he stepped back involuntarily. Her smile simply grew all the more dangerous for seeing his caution. “O—of course we will help you, Ms. Crimson. I simply didn’t recognize you is all.”
“I suspected something of the sort, good sir. Now, if we could come inside?” The constable nodded, and he quickly backed away to clear the door. I, however, remained rooted to the spot, still watching Crimson with care. My recalcitrance must have caught her attention, for she turned her gaze on me. When her eyes met mine, she studied me with a dispassionate stare. “Mr. Kingsley, if you would proceed? The others are waiting.”
I bowed deeply. Of course, I was careful not to bare my neck as I did so; though more knowledgeable than the constable, and more familiar with her personally, I did not intend to take foolish risks. “Ms. Crimson, I must insist that you go first, or at the very least that you accompany me. To do otherwise would be highly impolite.”
When I straightened, I found her still studying me, as if trying to discern the motivation behind my response. The silence between us lasted uncomfortably long until she jerked her head in an abrupt nod. “Very well, Mr. Kingsley. Do not believe that you have an opportunity to escape.” I nodded, and then she preceded me into the constable house.
There I found a scene that I could not have anticipated in any constable house in London. I had heard stories about the deplorable state of the constabulary, but had thus far never had the chance—or perhaps I should say, the misfortune—of having entered one of their sanctuaries. The constable house at Downing and Eastridge did not disappoint my more sordid expectations. Tables and desks were haphazardly strewn throughout the bottom floor of the building, which consisted of one open room. Piles of papers, pens, maps, and truncheons were scattered across every open flat surface, as if few cared to pay attention as to what went where. I could not see into the upper rooms, as there was only one stairwell and it did not face the door, but I could not imagine they were any more orderly than the one already before my eyes.
The constables were little better. Of the eight men visible, five were rather obviously intoxicated and none seemed to show any shame for it. These fine examples of English pride were clustered around a table on the right side of the room. Bottles were kept close at hand, with little mystery as to their contents, and as I watched, two of the constables began to scuffle over a flask of scotch. Their clumsy, drunken movements contrasted sharply with the woman who had escorted me here, and I felt a moment of embarrassment for the reputation of London and the Empire at large.
To their credit, the three sober constables appeared to be at their work, though only the one stationed near the cells to the right of the room seemed to be absorbed in his duties with any seriousness. The other two pawed through the files on their desks with a listless, almost despairing attitude. Even as I watched, one lifted his eyes to stare at the table of drunks, and a hint of longing for that sort of relief crossed his eyes. Then he turned back to the papers with a disconsolate sigh.
The officer who had greeted us at the doorway ignored the rest of his fellows. Still red-faced from the confrontation with Crimson, the constable marched toward the stairs and ascended, his bitter, resentful mutters drifting back to my ears across a sea of ribald remarks and drunken slurs. Having seen his place of work, I could much better understand the poor officer’s disrespectful behavior; even the best of men would begin to lash out in such frustrating conditions.
Crimson did not seem to take special notice of the situation. I supposed that she might have grown accustomed to the display of incompetence, a fact which only worsened it in my eyes. I stepped forward in an attempt to survey the scene and find a place where I might find some refuge.
Almost immediately a map spread across one sparse section of the wall caught my attention. It was clearly meant to represent the borough of Whitechapel in particular, and the level of detail told me that either an expert cartographer or someone especially well versed in the lay of the city had been hired to create it. The markings on it were quickly resolved into an easily comprehended code. Blue marks represented the homes of the Dollmaker’s victims, while green traced the victims’ most frequent routes to stores, workplaces, or the homes of friends. Yellow marked the spots where the victims had last been seen, while red splotches marked where the dolls and letters from the murderer had been found.
As I studied the pattern, something about it bothered me. I frowned at the map until Crimson stole up beside me. “Have you taken up cartography since last we met?”
I shook my head. “No, Ms. Crimson. I am trying to find the killer.” The wrongness of the situation suddenly flooded my brain, and I realized what had been bothering me all along. “There are too many victims here. There are only supposed to be seven or eight in all. Where did these others come from?”
“More importantly, where did they go?” The question came from the direction of the stairs, and I turned to find a man in a plain frock coat and bowler hat studying me from across the room. His bearing was not one of a constable; indeed, his stance and attitude spoke more of a craftsman than an officer of the law. Sharp eyes were set deep in his face, and a broad mustache spread across his upper lip. With a tilt of his head, he considered me, hands locked behind his back, for all the world as if he were some sort of bird inspecting a worm. “That is the real question, Mr. Kingsley.”
Surprise flooded me when he mentioned my name, followed closely by a creeping sense of unease. I bowed to hide both from the constable, hoping my discomfort had not shown too easily. “You have the advantage of me, Mr…”
“Aberforth. Harold Aberforth.” He descended the stairs with a steady, stalking gait. “Your reputation precedes you, Mr. Kingsley. Both Mustang and Mr. Muire speak very highly of you. Mr. Muire’s recommendation speaks all the louder for the position you cost him at Lord Pevensley’s manor, and Mustang’s word is something I have learned to rely on.” He stopped at the foot of the stair, his eyes taking on a piercing quality. “Though last I heard, you had decided not to join the investigation at all. Did Ms. Anderson manage to change your mind?”
There was a rough chuckle and a few whispered comments from the table of drunks. I paused and directed a cold stare at them before I responded. “I made my decision based on a number of factors, Mr. Aberforth, not the least of which was the danger this murderer presents to my own associates.” He appeared to consider that information carefully, and I pressed in an attempt to divert the course of the conversation. The last thing I needed was for the constabulary to catch on to my activities at the warehouse, after all. “Why are there more markings than there have been victims?”
Aberforth’s attention turned back to the map, and a grim expression overtook his features. “Actually, I am convinced that the Dollmaker’s victims are far more than we have listed now. The information we have not released to the public includes several suspicious disappearances well before the first official case was discovered. Each one was characterized in the same way: the victim completely vanishes, and several days later a doll resembling them is found by a close relative or friend. In terms of construction, the materials appear to have been cruder, with no letter attached. Many of these early victims’ families dismissed the dolls as a strange coincidence—at least until the most recent victims were announced.”
I looked back at the map and attempted to count. My blood chilled as the number of victims in my mind climbed sharply. “Why have you kept this hidden? Surely the public needs to know the true extent—”
He laughed. “The public has had quite enough panic already, and enough hucksters willing to confuse the matter. Already we have trouble discerning the real letters from the false—for he sends them to us, you know—and details such as these will help us tell the writing of the true Dollmaker apart.” Aberforth shrugged. “A petty trick and a small advantage, but we must use what we have.”
Crimson spoke, her voice cool. “May I assume, then, that you were not looking for Mr. Kingsley? I heard you would be interested in making his acquaintance.”
Aberforth nodded. “You are correct, Ms. Crimson, though not in the interest of pursuing suspicions regarding the Dollmaker.” The constable turned back to me. “I must admit, Mr. Kingsley, that I was somewhat put out by your tactics earlier today. Your actions alongside Mustang have disturbed several of the local gangs, and their efforts to avoid similar incidents might inconvenience our investigations into their activities later on.”
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My mouth went dry at his severe tone, and I noted a look of satisfaction on Crimson’s face. Still, I mustered my resolve; after all, Patricia’s reputation was also at risk in this matter. “Sir, I hope you will understand that our efforts were solely out of concern for the safety of the citizens of Whitechapel.” Aberforth looked skeptical, and I pressed forward with all the sincerity I could muster. “If we have stirred the hornets’ nest, I suppose that is a consequence we will face in the future. For myself, I would consider it a price well paid if we bring the Dollmaker to heel.” I could see the beginnings of agreement in Aberforth’s expression, and I decided to be more daring. “Besides, it would be a strange constable indeed who takes thought for the comfort of criminals, would you not agree?”
His gaze strayed to the table of drunkards nearer the exit, and his voice became a thoughtful murmur. “It would indeed. Though one must always consider the consequences of our actions as well, Mr. Kingsley.” Aberforth returned his attention to me, and his expression grew stern. “I would appreciate if you—and Patricia Anderson as well—would confine your activities to less disruptive measures. Whitechapel has all the chaos it could handle at the moment, and a war over which group gets to hang you two is a headache I can ill afford.”
I nodded with all the solemnity I could summon, and tried to imagine a way to convince Patricia of that fact. Aberforth watched me for a moment, and then looked to the map with a sigh. “At least your efforts have convinced the local crime dens that their habitats will not be secure until the Dollmaker is found. Several of them have turned into sources of information for us. Their assistance could prove useful in locating the killer.”
Crimson interrupted, her voice harsh. “Am I to understand, Mr. Aberforth, that he will suffer no penalty for his reckless behavior? Between the two of them, Whitechapel was in an uproar! It was even suggested, by none other than your superiors, I believe, that warrants be issued for their arrest.”
Her restrained fury was clear, and I did not wish to see her any more agitated than she was at the moment. Aberforth, however, regarded her with a calm demeanor that I envied, if only for its supreme disregard for his personal safety. “I may be able to weather their displeasure as long as the Dollmaker is found, Ms. Crimson. That concern should occupy the forefront of your thoughts, not the fate of Mr. Kingsley.” Aberforth paused as Crimson clenched and unclenched her fists. “In fact, you may actually consider him to be one of your ever-growing number.” The constable turned a wry smile on me. “You see, we now have nearly thirty official hunters for the Dollmaker, all continuously combing the borough for the murderer. I shudder to think how many unlicensed hunters are lurking about, but I would not mind it one bit as long as this animal is found.”
I felt much the same, though I restrained my response to a simple nod. Any more demonstrable agreement in Crimson’s presence would have been unwise, to say the least.
For her part, Crimson glanced from Aberforth to me, and then back. Then she visibly pulled herself back from the edge of her rage, limiting that furious energy to the merest tremble as she adjusted her clothing and weapons. “I suppose that such lax behavior is no more than to be expected among the London constabulary. It is a mystery to me why I might have considered a more respectable result here.” She seemed to ignore the flush of anger and shame on Aberforth’s face to turn back to me. “My apologies, Mr. Kingsley. I did not mean to impede your headlong rush into anarchy. It was my mistake.”
I inclined my head, determined not to allow her biting sarcasm to find any purchase on me. “Do not concern yourself, Ms. Crimson. I fully understand the necessities of your profession, and appreciate your admirable restraint tonight. My expectation is that this killer may be brought to justice by the combination of our efforts.”
Crimson’s eyes narrowed. “Perhaps, Mr. Kingsley, but I hope you will pardon me if I trust more in my own work than yours. Good night to you.” She withdrew, gliding past the raucous drunkards with queenly disdain before she stalked back out into the night.
Which, unfortunately, left me in the unenviable position of an investigator—one who might or might not have undertaken tasks of questionable legality in the past—alone in the midst of a constable house full of officers. Even if there were not some small amount of professional rivalry between us, the constables did not normally look favorably on someone who did not have to conform to their actions, nor share in their indolent behavior. As I was a chief example of everything they disliked, I endeavored to make a quick break from the situation entirely. I addressed Mr. Aberforth.
“Sir, your kindness has been considerable toward me, and I do appreciate your timely help. Unfortunately, I will now need to return home in order to prepare for the coming day. If you will excuse me.” Aberforth nodded agreeably, and then turned to consider the map once more. His study grew intense, as if the world had faded from his view, and I judged it an opportune time to retreat to the doorway. I had reached it and turned the handle when Aberforth next spoke.
“Mr. Kingsley, I hope to meet you again tomorrow.” I glanced up and found him looking at me from across the room. “And be cautious on your way home. The man we chase…this animal will fight when he is caught. Be careful.”
With that and no more, Aberforth turned back to his map of carnage and death. I left the constable house and made my way to the tube station. Given my previous experience, it should be no surprise that I exercised considerably more caution in my journey. Aberforth’s warning rested heavily on my mind, as did the danger presented by so many amateur bounty hunters roaming the darkened streets.
Whether due to my increased awareness or the lateness of the hour, I managed to reach my home without any further obstacles. There I struggled up the steps of my habitation and fell into a deep sleep upon my bed.
My rest, unfortunately, was rather short lived. It felt as if I had barely closed my eyes when the pounding began. Still blurry from lack of repose, I sought to ignore the continued assault, but the volume quickly escalated until I was compelled to stagger down the stairs. I opened the door, and Patricia stormed in.
She stood in the front room, carbine slung over one shoulder and a booted toe tapping the floor in impatience. I bobbed in a half-bow, somewhat inhibited by my incomplete awakening. “Ms. Anderson. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
Patricia answered my question with an incredulous arch of her eyebrow. “I believe you promised me a plan, didn’t you, Hector? Don’t tell me you stayed in Whitechapel instead of coming up with a plan like you said you would.”
Something of my reaction must have showed on my face, for she sighed and gave me an exasperated look. “Really, Kingsley, you’d think you would know by now that I could handle a night in that sort of situation. Why didn’t you want me with you?”
At a loss for what to say, I shrugged and closed the door. “I apologize, Ms. Anderson. I will strive to keep it from happening again. Is there any way I can make it up to you?”
“I’ll let you know, Hector.” She smiled in a way that I found quite discomforting, but she flopped down onto the nearest seat with a relaxed air. “Fortunately, you are not the only one who decided to stay a little longer on the trail. I took my own spin around Whitechapel last evening, and I think I’ve hit on something that might help us.”
My mind flashed back to the incidents I had experienced on my own journey last night, and the numerous marks on Mr. Aberforth’s board. “That seems rather risky, Ms. Anderson, especially considering the nature of our quarry. Are you sure that was wise?”
“This from the man who was doing exactly the same thing?” She chuckled to herself. “Fine, if it will make you feel any better, next time I’ll take someone else with me. Maybe Billie would be kind enough to provide me with an escort.”
The muscles along my back tensed, and I had a conscious struggle to keep my hands relaxed instead of closing into fists. “I hardly think that situation would be entirely appropriate. Not considering—”
“Well, next time you’ll just have to escort me yourself then, won’t you, Hector?” The tone in her voice warned me to set the matter aside. I remained decidedly against the possibility, as any gentleman would be, of course, but there would be little point in discussing it with her while she remained in such a disagreeable mood. As I fought down the tide of anger and frustration, she swung her legs up and off the seat and stood, brushing a bit of dust from her long overcoat. “Now, are we going to lounge around all day, or can I show you what I discovered last night?”
My day had not begun in a very satisfying manner, and my misfortune continued when we reached the Whitechapel tube station. Patricia wove through the crowd in the easy manner that only those who are obviously heavily armed can assume, while I struggled to follow in her wake. As might quickly be assumed, not many gave me the same wide berth and consideration they gave Patricia, as my own weaponry was rather more concealed and subtle. It still irked me, however, to be ignored and placed in such contempt by the crowds around us.
By the time we reached the place Patricia wanted to show me, I was feeling the effects of my lack of sleep the night before. Whatever pleasant feelings or sublime joys the late-morning light might have given me had long since been buried beneath the pains of travel, and the building resentment I felt toward the people of Whitechapel and the world in general. When Patricia finally came to a halt, I silently gave thanks for small favors and collected myself enough to study the situation.
The building was one I had not seen before. It was styled in the vein of an ancient Roman temple, with fluted columns and a series of stone steps leading up to the entrance. Pale in the light of the day, the entire edifice seemed entirely out of place amid the great, crumbling tenements on either side. Chains were wrapped around the handles of the door, turning their once-fine knobs into mummies of iron. Words had once been painted in the rock above the doorway, but the color had faded to a shade of its former brilliance and the message was impossible to decipher.
I spent a few moments studying the strange building. What Patricia could possibly have found interesting about it was not apparent to me; though many qualities graced my friend, an admiration for architectural styles was not among them. She had busied herself with some small piece of equipment that she held in both hands. As I watched, I tried to determine what exactly Patricia was planning. My civility made war with my curiosity, a tidal flow and ebb which my inquisitive nature eventually won. “Ms. Anderson, may I ask what you are doing? It appears that this building has been long abandoned.”
“That’s right. It’s been empty since before the Dollmaker started his little games.” She wrestled with the object in her hands, giving it a frustrated jerk. “It occurred to me that if our little murderer has been hiding bodies, he might be putting them somewhere abandoned. Somewhere people wouldn’t notice.” A satisfied grin spread across her lips and she straightened. With a confident swagger, she started toward the closed doors, the object held loosely in one hand.
Rather than the deadly weaponry I would have expected Patricia to carry, the device had the shape of a pair of large loppers, with the handles jointed as if to allow the entire contraption to collapse into a condensed form. At the fulcrum of the device was no simple hinge with a screw. Instead, a squat cylinder ran through the place where the handles joined, and the fact that it was encased in brass told me that more than likely, the Distillation was involved.
Whatever it was intended to do, the artisan had taken the time to craft it well. It was delicately engraved along most of its length with various patterns, most of which seemed to denote wind flowing toward the blades at the end. The blades themselves seemed abnormally sharp, as if the tree branches they had been fashioned to cut had been made of iron instead of simple wood.
Given that it was Patricia who commissioned the device, I coughed lightly and took a step back. “Ms. Anderson, may I ask where you obtained those loppers?”
She chuckled as she mounted the steps, the device still swinging in one hand while the other held her carbine. “You’re not the only one who pays Daniel for the occasional bit of equipment. It should let us inside this place to see if our murderer has been using it as his body dump.” Patricia reached the doors and paused to set her carbine to one side. “The shears will make quick work of this stuff.”
Before I could protest, Patricia opened the loppers and set the blades against the wrapped chains. They glimmered in the sunlight, bright against the dull, rusted metal of the restraints. Patricia leaned forward and twisted a knob, apparently activating the device. Then she applied pressure, squeezing the handles together as if she meant to shear straight through the chains.
To my surprise, the blades bit through the metal as easily as if the doors had been wrapped closed by parchment. The severed ends of the chains sprang away from each other as the blades squeezed shut. Patricia deactivated the device, pried the blades apart again, and set them around the next chain.
The process continued for some time until the last of the chains fell away. They revealed a worn and beaten door with drooping, bent handles. Patricia kicked the chains away from the foot of the door and carelessly tossed the shears in my direction. I caught them with only a moderate level of fumbling, and watched as she picked up her carbine. Reason sought a voice, and I reluctantly gave it one. “Ms. Anderson, there must be dozens, if not hundreds, of abandoned buildings throughout Whitechapel. What could possibly have brought you here?”
“Oh, that’s easy, Hector.” She kicked at one side of the doors. The door swung open with an agonized groan. Patricia leveled her carbine at the musty, dust-filled darkness which now lay revealed. Her words came in a whisper more intense and alive than her normal tone. “This is the only one that used to be a doll shop.”
With that she slipped into the doorway, her weapon still held at the ready. I paused as a bolt of wariness struck through my formerly peaceful heart. Then I braced myself and followed her, drawing my pistol as I did so. Grim clouds had gathered in the formerly bright sky above, and a roll of distant thunder heralded my first steps into the unknown.