The Killing Hand (10 page)

   I lost myself in thought for
several hours, walking aimlessly through London. I did not wish to return home, knowing only far too well that I would drink and think and remain miserable. I walked and visited places. None were inviting in the night, but it swayed my mind from current affairs nevertheless.

   Eventually the taverns began to shut, kicking the drunkards out into the harshness of the night. Precious few remained open, but they were fronts for illegal operations, or dens for pickpockets and thugs. Defeated, I made my way home.

   I resumed my usual practice of making myself comfy beside the fire. I poured myself some wine, made sure the flames were tall and slouched into the armchair. I felt tired, but knew my mind was not ready for rest. Instead I simply supped and watched the flames and made sure to never look away. To look away was to invite thought.

   But thought did creep in, as it always does.
Mere coincidence
, I thought. But I thought more than that, and deeper. Although the situation I was in was both worrying and strange, it was not what dominated my mind. No, that prize went to the house. The house which should not be mine at all. My Father should have been there. It was his house. His life. And there I was doing a pale imitation of him. I knew I was out of my depth, but I never quite realised how much.

   It was the thoughts of my
Father that made me remember the chest. The one Lilly had rediscovered it when cleaning the house upon my return, but had caused us so much pain that we put it aside. The chest contained letters and notes from my parents - as parents do. Simple notes, diaries. I put the wine glass down and went to the cupboard at the bottom of the stairs.

   The chest was as it was, hidden underneath a curtain of coats. I pulle
d it out, huffing at the immense weight of the solid oak chest and coughing from the disturbed dust. Once it was out I had to take a moment to catch my breath and have a swig of wine.

   I knew the moment I opened it something was wrong. I may not be the m
ost attentive of men, but I swear on that chest itself that its contents were not as we left it a month previous. Bills and letters were still inside, but bits were missing. Visual cues I knew I had seen before. What of Father’s diary? The small leather bound book. I had seen Lilly pick it up and put it back in. I had seen my Father write in the damned thing for years. Yet, when I had finally pulled every scrap of paper and receipt from that damned chest, it was not there.

   My mind attempted to rationalis
e the disappearance.

   Lilly probably has it with her.

   When would she have done such a thing?

   It is her hous
e as much as yours. It was her Father’s too. She wanted to read it when she first saw it.

  
She would have told me. I know this. Lilly is always transparent in her actions.

   The disappearance of the diary is of no worry. It will turn up somewhere.

   I sighed. This was right; it was of no benefit to anyone. It was merely a keepsake to the family and nothing more. No stranger would have taken it from this home as it held no monetary value - and there were many more things in the house to steal if that is what one were after. If Lilly did not have it, then it would still be somewhere in the house. But where?

   I returned to my chair, annoyed. I wanted that diary to read now - not later. I was annoyed at its disappearance and at myself for allowing it to disappear.

   It was a long while before my brain stopped thinking about that book. It mentally searched every room of the house. Every memory. It found no trace of it - and when it did not, it started again. And again. It kept going, searching for any tiny trace or clue to its whereabouts, until my drunkenness took over and claimed my mind for sleep instead.

By the time the next meeting rolled round, winter finally had its full grasp on London. The sky was blanketed in dreary grey clouds, signifying eminent rain. It was a downpour by the time I made it to The Flying Knave, which did not help my mood.

   I entered late to
the scene of Harry clutching the copy of The Times and reading aloud the report of Richard Lawrence's murder to the other men, who remained deathly silent and still and clinging on to every detail.

   "Palme
r..." Harry spoke as he finished reading from the newspaper and lowered it. "This was the man you wished to buy out."

   Palmer stared blankly into the centre of the table, not making eye contact. "The owner of Lawrence & Son, yes it was."

   "Killed when travelling home after the meeting..."

   "Such a coincidence."

   "A coincidence indeed," Lucius chimed in.

   "It could not be mere coincidence, surely!" Francis spoke sternly, and I knew all too well of the conversation that was about to follow. "First i
t was Ashdown, then Brewer and now Lawrence. Each within a week of us wanting them out. I refuse to believe it is simply a coincidence. They were murdered in exactly the same way."

   "I hope you are not about to suggest what I think you are about to sugge
st," Lucius scowled, instantly tiring of Francis' argument.

   "But what if they did?"

   "Nobody did anything. All we did was talk. I think you should calm down Francis."

   "Lucius is right Francis," Harry spoke timidly. "I do not believe anyone here wou
ld resort to such a thing."

   Francis threw his arms up in a fit of rage. "Whether you believe that or not is irrelevant. These murders have taken place and all of the victims have been men named in this very room. Furthermore, all attacked by the same vi
cious figure. You keep using the term coincidence, but I am in the belief this is not an attempt to explain the situation, but to lift the blame from any one man in this room."

   "Francis is right," Rufus
hummed, still scanning over the article in the newspaper. "The situation cannot be mere coincidence, but I cannot understand why it would happen all of a sudden?"

   Harry said something, but I do not catch it, his soft voice lost under all the shouting and arguing.

   Francis said, "They were both wealthy and influential competitors. The very men in this room admitted they would be better off without them."

   Lucius busied himself with shuffling the cards ready for the game. "Put the thought away, Francis. Yes they were thorns in our sides, but we could
still exist with them present."

   "Too much of a coincidence
– I assure you."

   Lucius, apparently beginning to bore of the arguments once more, began to deal around the table, missing out Francis. We began to play cards, taking our turns quickly, some o
f us eager to win, others just eager to get it over and done with. The roof was silent save for the soft clap of cards against table. It was not long before Rufus emerged triumphant.

   "Well done Rufus, you have become good at the game recently," Lucius congratulated. "Have you been practicing?"

   "Something like that," Rufus mumbled as he collected his pairs together.

   "What will it be then?" Lucius asked, making no attempt to hid
e his desire to end the night. "Who is your target this week?"

   Rufus' stare was stony. He gazed into the table, avoiding eye contact with any of us. "I will not choose a candidate."

   "For God's sake," Lucius snapped as rolled his eyes and let out an obnoxiously loud sigh as he dropped his remaining cards down to the table. "What is your problem?"

   "If I say a name
– that man will die. I will not do it."

   Lucius scowled, picking up his cards more and ignori
ng Rufus. "Rufus has bowed out, apparently influenced by Francis' preaching’s. In the interest of time, I suggest we continue our game until we have a victor worthy of adding to our cause. Do I hear objections?"

   There were no objections, only silence. W
e all cautiously picked up our cards once more and continued to play. I did not want to play - and I suspect some of the other men did not wish to either - but we were all too afraid of what was going on around us to say otherwise. Rufus remained at the table for a brief moment, still glaring into the centre of the table as if it were the source of all the problems of the world. Eventually, he picked up his drink and stumbled from the room in resolute silence, swaying as he shuffled towards the door. Harry made quick work of the remaining game, although by his fearful expression I could tell that this was not intentional.

   Lucius spoke once more "It appears your standards are slipping, gentlemen. What will your decision be, Harry?"

   Harry squeaked. "Gareth Jenkins, of Jenkins & Co. He has been posing a threat to me for some time." Upon finishing his sentence, he stood and quickly began to don his coat. "I say we are done for the night."

   Lucius swilled wine about in his mouth as he contemplated Harry's
decision. "It is possible they will sell. I will let you know the outcome next week. For now, it appears the night is done."

   Sensing Lucius' irritable mood, we all quickly emptied our drinks and stand to leave. As Francis and I passed through the foyer
I caught a glimpse of Rufus, slouched over the bar, who managed to spare me a faint smile as he saw me pushing my way through the crowd. He made no attempt to invite me over.

   We exited into the cold street. Palmer brushed past us, giving us a slight nod
and taking his leave into the night. Harry did the same, running off behind him.

   "I cannot remember the last time you actually won a game!" I heard Palmer laugh as Harry crossed over and into the street beyond.

   Francis and I were alone in the street, with only the distant echoing of footsteps to accompany us. We began to walk, unified, but without speech, our expressions saying everything that we could not place into words.

   "Why do you keep attending?" I eventually asked, after the question had mu
lled around in my mind for too long. I knew Francis had his wife to look after, but as he opposed the meetings so much I wondered how far he could let it go before it finally crossed the line. "You object to their actions and purposes, and now the outcome. Why not just stop attending?"

   "I would have if I had known such a thing would happen, but now I fear it to be too late. Do you not see? Rufus was foolish to storm out. If we are indeed correct and a killer is working in favour of the group, the last th
ing I would wish to do is make myself the next target. By all means, I will question and disagree, but as long as I benefit the group monetarily then I do not believe I am in danger. If we are correct however, then Rufus has made a terrible mistake. By leaving, he has become a liability to the group. If he refuses to partake in any further business with the group, I do fear that actions may be taken against him."

   "You believe that someone would do such a thing?"

   "I would hope not. I would hope that the person behind it would think better than to do such a thing." Francis grimaced. "But... If they have the audacity to murder strangers outright, I can only wonder if murdering their friends would not be far from their reach.'

   Francis made a valid poin
t. With so little information, it would be hard to tell exactly what action would be taken. Was it a member of the group? Was it someone external, contracted in to carry out our deeds? Why did someone begin doing such a thing without consulting us? After all, including men such as myself or Francis seemed risky, each man in that room knew us well enough beforehand. Perhaps it was a mistake. Perhaps it really was coincidence.

   Confused and worried by the matter, I decided to visit James the following day.
As I knew he was already looking into the previous murder case I had hoped that he would be able to provide me with some detail, no matter how minute, that would help me to settle my mind on the matter. Being the most well-known detective in London, it was natural to assume that if these murders were linked then he would be aware of the details.

   When I arrived at the police station past midday, the place was a flurry of activity. Officers ran through corridors, bellowing orders to one another. I introduc
ed myself at the entrance and made my way to James' office, where I stuck my head around the door.

   "Busy?" I asked, standing aside for several officers as they pushed past me.

   He looked up at me without smiling, quite obviously rushed off his feet. "Yes – I have been hit with this Jenkins murder case. Did you hear about it?"

   "Jenkins case?" I asked, shocked,
yet now resolute in understanding that this was no mere coincidence. I had not expected such swift action to be taken.

   "Almost identical to
the other murders as far as I can tell - similar method of attack, similar description and similar target. We have absolutely nothing to go on though; there is nothing of interest that links the four victims together."

   On on
e hand this relieved me greatly, for if James had been able to link the murders then it would have only be a matter of time before he could work out a motive and possibly lead him to the group. Still, if James had found nothing, then that would mean the killer would be able to continue uncontested. There was a brief pause before curiosity got the better of me and I had to probe to see how far off the mark he was. "Nothing to link the cases at all?"

   "Nothing," he shook his head and ran his fingers through his hair. "I do apologise,
Eric, but I must ask you to leave. I will visit you when my schedule permits and we shall talk further?"

   I nodded and took my leave. The underpinning knowledge that the murders of The Hudson Group were not going unnoticed lingered on my mind and I found
myself pondering a thought that I only now realise are the thoughts of a sinner: how far could the group go before they would be exposed? Or more so, how far would we go?

   I exited back into the street and made my way to the nearest paper vendor to find
the article reporting the murder. There was much interest surrounding the vendor and, upon purchasing my paper and reading over it, I could see why.

THE TIMES, SATURDAY, OCTOBER 30, 1837

STEEL JACK STRIKES AGAIN! – Steel Jack, the creature able to jump to staggering heights and attacks people with elongated claws, has attacked once again in London. This time killing Gareth Jenkins, owner of Jenkins & Co. Steel Jack was seen jumping in the neighbourhood of Lewisham, before attacking and viciously murdering Mr Jenkins. Witnesses reported that his dress on this occasion is described as that of a gentleman, with the somewhat startling addition of a wide strip of scarlet down the back of his coat. Underneath, he exhibited a human body in a suit of mail, and with a long horn, the guise of Lucifer.

   "
The guise of Lucifer
," I uttered to myself as I read over it. Such nonsense! And of the reports of this creature – Steel Jack – no doubt a design of the media to sell more. All they were doing was muddying the truth and causing mass panic.

   I returned home, paper tucked under my arm, lost in thought of how strange the situation had become. Perhaps this was the killer's intention, to act and dress in order to cause confusion. Perhaps, perhaps.

  
A mere coincidence.

   Everything was mere speculation
– including the media, whose only form of information was that passed down by others. The only words I could trust were those of the police, and I would wait until James visited me to make my conclusion on the matter.

   I spent the next few days working and worrying - often turning up to the office late and retiring to my bed inebriated. On the third day I awoke well into the afternoon, having forgotten my duties once more, and I stumbled downstairs only to notice a s
lip of paper that had been stuffed underneath my front door. Confused as to the manner of delivery, I picked it up and read it.

"Meet me at my house, tonight. – Rufus."

   The letter was perplexing. I put it down on the coffee table as I sat down to tie my shoes. Rufus reaching out to me was strange; we had never been the closest of friends in past, only occasionally joining each other in drink and idle chat, but never anything more.

   I decided to put it to the back of my mind until the night rolled arou
nd. I finished dressing and proceeded outside to buy the paper as usual. Unsurprisingly, the death of Gareth Jenkins continued to dominate the front page. Such bizarre details as being gutted by claws were included in the autopsy, and of further tall tales of this '
Steel Jack
' breathing fire and leaping into the sky. I found it preposterous how, in the space of one night, the report had suddenly changed from the description of a gentlemanly dressed figure to the devil himself and only further affirmed my mind that the media was orchestrating part of the confusion for its own profit.