The Killing Hand (8 page)

   Night rolled further in. A stark line of shadow where the worlds shade blocked the sun stretched across the land. As the streets became darker, the seedy underworl
d began to uncover itself and hungrily roam the streets. I did not know how long I had been walking for when I found myself stood outside a small building, a building I felt as if I should recognise. I stared at it longingly, attempting to place the memory, before realising that it was my old school from when I was only a young child. I surveyed it, mesmerised by how dilapidated it looked since I had last seen it. This was a place I had been taught for many years by aggressive teachers whose only aim was to get you into the workplace. I was fortunate enough to be in a position where I did not have to toil away in the workhouses, for that I was thankful, but still the aim of those men, whose sole goal appeared was to mould you into their perfect image, was not one that I had shared.

   Maybe back then things we
re already going wrong for me. I knew that school was not for me. I knew that the working world was not even for me. That path of life was a decision made by others without consulting my needs or desires. But I had no intention of following that path. I had my own way to go in life. I wanted to be free.

   I want to be free.

  The serenity of my thoughts were shattered by the drunken cries of a man being thrown out of a nearby building. He was slurring his words and barely making any sense, but it was evident that he had caused a ruckus in the establishment. He simply struggled to his feet and stumbled away as if nothing had happened. I stared at the scene as he left. The building he had been forced from was a new one to me, one that I did not recognise. It was not a new building and, like the rest of the street, was dilapidated. Perhaps this is why I did not recognise it. Perhaps, in its prime, it was a grand building of purpose, as opposed to a drinking den. Now that the door stood ajar from the drunkards exit I could hear from within the singing and laughter of both men and women.

   I found myself curious. Peering through the door
way I saw that it was a brothel, full of drunken businessmen who had slipped away from their wives in the hunt for pleasure. I observed, not quite understanding why, but finding myself mesmerised in watching the strange herd. They cheered and whooped amongst themselves, occasionally disappearing into back rooms with various women. They were like unchained animals, acting without fear of repercussion. Doing as they wished. Was this freedom? It certainly sounded like it. But, it scared me. Did they not care for how they looked? For how barbaric they were? Was this the price of it all?

   I want to be free.

   A voice from behind snapped me out of my train of thought. "Yer either in or yer out."

   I swung around on the spot to find a young girl who had managed to creep up behind me. Although young, I could see that her face was worn
. Her expression was stern. It was the expression of an experienced woman.

   I stepped away from the door and apologised. "Sorry, I did not realise. I do not remember this place..."

   "I don' really care," she responded disinterestedly. "Are yer in or are yer out?" She pushed her way past me, opening the door to a horde of cheering men. She glanced back at me suggestively, holding the door open to the warmth of the inside. I could hear singing from inside. Singing, cheering. Men dancing and stumbling around. Enjoying themselves. Being free.

   Was this the price?

It was almost midday the next day, and not to my own wish that I was awoken, but by a loud banging at my front door. It took me several minutes to wake, clea
r my head and rise from the armchair where I had apparently slept throughout the night. The fire beside me had long since burned out, this embers within pulsing like a failing heart. I shook my head as I looked through the corner of the curtains at the striking blue sky, trying to guess what time it was. My body ached and I was only aggravated by the thought of how many mornings of mine had been ruined by someone making an unsolicited visit. I stumbled across the hall towards the front door, all the while the knocking continuing.

   I opened the door to Francis, who thrust a copy of The Times at me without saying a word.

   I cocked my head in confusion. "So you are delivering my newspaper now?"

   He did not appear to appreciate my comment on him becoming m
y new errand boy, merely waving the paper at me instead. I took it and unfolded it to see the heading 'Harvey Brewer Murdered'.

  I cast an eye over the rest of the newspaper. "This is a lucky break for Rufus."

 
  "Read it," Francis demanded.

 
  Flicking back to the front page, I read the piece aloud.

THE TIMES, SATURDAY, OCTOBER 19, 1837

HARVEY BREWER MURDERED – Harvey Brewer was murdered on Friday night by a man dressed in black. He leapt at Mr Brewer from the shadows, stabbing him to death. The commotion brought several residents and witnesses forward, to which the murderer fled out of sight in an instant by leaping almost six feet over a nearby wall. A search was launched for the aggressor – who could not be found.

   "I know what you are going to say," I said as I irritably passed the paper back to Francis. "Allow me to prematurely retort. No, your conclusions are strange and unnatural."

 
  He read the article to himself again as if there were something he missed. "You do not think there is anything strange about this? Nothing at all?"

 
  "Not really. A wealthy gentleman is attacked in a dark alley, sounds like a typical London night to me. Happens all the time."

 
  "The timing is uncanny. Do you not think...?"

 
  "Uncanny is your assumption. You believe Rufus crept out and clawed the poor sod and proceeded to leap over the equivalent of that new Marble Arch? I highly doubt it. It seems a bit too much of a stretch. You and I both know Rufus is spineless when it comes down to it."

 
  "And what of the very man Palmer said he wanted dead actually dying the next day?"

 
  "Fat man Palmer? He gets out of breath tying his shoelaces and struggles to climb the stairs, never mind chasing after business competitors."

 
  Francis folded the newspaper and tucked it under his arm. "I am still sceptical. It does not settle right with me. Both men were murdered immediately after their names were mentioned in the meetings and were killed in very similar ways."

 
  "Forget about it. Can I go back to sleep now?"

 
  "Eric, it is presently..." Francis pulled out his pocket watch. "11am."

 
  I did not appease him with a response, instead maintaining a cold serious stare.

 
  "Very well," Francis responded upon realising his argument was a lost cause. "I suppose I will see you at the next meeting then."

 
  I bid Francis goodbye and closed the door on him and the world. Despite having every intention to return to bed, Francis had reminded me of the time and of my duties. After dressing in my work attire, I set off toward my company - if only to keep up appearances.

   As I walked through the streets Francis' reasoning played heavily on my mind. The man seemed so erratic compared to usual and I found it surprising that such an article would shake him u
p. Thinking there was something I had missed, I bought a copy of the newspaper myself on the way to the office, studying the article once again as I walked – and nearly colliding with several people in the process. The article read exactly as it had the first time, no hidden clues. I concluded that Francis' reasoning was irregular. Yes, the situation was coincidental, but that was all there was to it: mere coincidence.

   Gilbert looked up at me as I entered the office, his gazed following me across the roo
m until I took the seat at my desk. "Apparently your realisation that you are my brother-in-law has given you the mistaken belief that you can turn up to work as and when," he sniped as I made myself comfy at my desk.

   "I had a rough night," I said, offe
ring no further excuse.

   He grunted
– a sign that I was not off the hook. He would return the favour somehow, finding a way to try and teach me a lesson for my lack of punctuality. He returned to his logbook, which he was already halfway through, scrawling away as if he had purpose. I laid the newspaper on my desk, staring blankly at the headline. I still could not see what had made Francis so rumbled; his conclusion seemed to be based on mere coincidence as opposed to factual links.

   "Have you seen th
is?" I asked, angling the article towards him.

   Gilbert lowered his spectacles, glancing over them and studying the paper. "Brewer? He got what was coming to him in my opinion."

   "You knew him?"

   "He ran Green Union over on Portland Street. You know the bank? Bit of an aggressive man, did not make many friends with the way he ran things."

   I looked back down at the paper. "What of the way he was killed?"

   "How do you mean?"

   "The strange figure in the night. They make it almost sound like a wild animal. Sounds like the same type of attack that happened to Charles Ashdown."

   "Journalists," he stated bluntly. "They will join dots that bare no relevance on one another. Those two murders were
simply opportunist attacks that the media has dressed up for public consumption."

   Gilberts reasoning reflected my own, and were the exact argument I had stated against Francis. Perhaps the newspapers were not to be trusted and that logic should be the
only method upon which to my draw my conclusions. I wondered, if Francis had not read the report, would he still think the two murders linked? I tried to shake the thought and get into my work, however Francis' paranoia played heavily on my mind throughout the day. What if the two murders were more than mere coincidence? What if I had entered into something that I did not truly understand?

   I chuckled. Now I really
was
thinking like Francis. Perhaps it was too much thought that had undone him. When one stares at a picture of dots for so long, they will eventually start to join them whether there are links or not.

   The next few days passed slowly and with little event until it came round to the night of the next meeting. We all gathered at The Flying Knav
e as per usual, the bustle of conversation amongst us about the coincidence of the two murders.

   Francis was the last one to join us. He charged in, throwing the copy of The Times onto the table. "Two murders in as many weeks," he spoke as he pointed at
the newspaper as if nobody was aware. "Each one named in these meetings." It was obvious to me that Francis had done yet more dot joining. He was now frantic, as if resigned to his own belief. He had certainly been staring at the article for far too long.

   Idly lifting up the paper, Lucius gave the newest article a brief uninterested stare before muttering to himself. "I must say, it is certainly... interesting."

   "It could not be coincidence, surely! First it was Ashdown, now Brewer. Each within a week of us wanting them out."

   "Pah, tosh," Palmer jeered between mouthfuls of wine. "If it is not coincidence, what are you suggesting?"

   Francis was silent for a moment, running his hands through his hair before managing to muster a response. "It is awfully queer as a coincidence. Someone must have a dealing in this."

   "I do not believe a single man in this room has neither the courage nor the finesse to go out gutting their competition by night," Lucius responded resolutely.

   "Speak for yourself Lucius!" Palmer grinned. I was not quite sure whether he was being serious or not. "But you are right; the risk of doing such a thing makes no sense. Why risk a hanging?"

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

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

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

   Lucius bellowed over everyone. "If we are bringing coincidence into the fray, what of our newest addition? These events have only just happened within weeks of his joining."

   It took a second before I realised that Lucius was referring to me. Although I knew Lucius' accusation was unfounded, I choked up in surprise, barely expecting such a blunt accusation. I found myself unable to give a response that would free myself of the allegation. After all, what evidence would I have to put forward? Eventually, I managed to compose myself. "And what would I benefit from the murder of competitors not related to myself?"

   "The removal of these men has allowed us to take over their estates and absorb their finances with little resistan
ce, increasing our personal wealth."

   "Maybe you do conspire in these events," Palmer grumbled in the brief second he managed to pull himself away from his drink.

   "It is ridiculous and baseless to suggest that I am resorting to murder to increase my own wealth."

   Lucius sneered. "Your financial situation is no
longer a secret to this group, Eric. Had I realised you were not solely in control of your families assets, perhaps I would not have invited you to these meetings in the first place."

   "Every
man around this table has a financial motive," Francis cut in, defending me.

   "Perhaps some are hungrier than others," Palmer continued.

   "Need I remind you it was your target that was the first to die? You are as suspect as any man in this room," Francis retorted, and I found myself relieved at him coming to my defence.

   Lucius grunted, "We are arguing over whispers, baseless accusations of a paranoid man. I do not wish to hear any more about it."

   There was a cold silence in the room as Lucius stopped speaking and everyone came to their own conclusions. Beside me, Rufus had slipped back in his chair, sweating profusely and repeatedly taking gulps from his glass. It was only upon observing him that I realised that he had not actually spoke since entering.

   "The men are dead through no fault of our own," Lucius concluded when nobody else spoke. "We should be thankful-"

   Francis spluttered. "Thankful!? You cannot be thankful that someone has been murdered!"

   "Quiet Francis, you are no more a white knight than I. All I am stating is that none of us are at fault here. What has happened has happened. We should accept this."

   Harry spoke, his voice barely matching the angered bellows of his companions. "What if we did cause it?"

   Tired of repeated inquisition, Lucius angrily snapped as if he were disciplining a child. "Shut up Harry," he irritably scowled as he slid the cards across the table towards him, causing them to spill out. "You deal."

  The room remained silent at Lucius' outburst as Harry arranged the cards, shuffled them and eventually dealt. We all scooped up our cards and began to focus on the game instead of bickering over events we could not change. For the most part we played in silence, taking our time between turns and rarely making eye contact with one another. The ability to hear my own thoughts and concentrate on the game rather than the squabbling of grown men unable to control their temperament had become a novel occurrence.

   Unfortunately, it was not long before Harry could not help but to speak again. "...what if another person dies?"

   Lucius laid a matching pair on the table. "There is only one way to find out."

   The room remained silent and I wondered why nobody con
tested Lucius. Perhaps it were because the weight of what he was suggesting had not yet sunk in. Or possibly because nobody wanted to accept what could possibly happen as a result of this meeting. Perhaps, it was because some of the men in that room really wished to see if it would happen.

   Palmer broke the silence with a cheer as he laid his final pair down on the table, bragging to himself about his victory. His gaze moved around the room, mocking each of the losers, until his gaze met Lucius and he fou
nd the confidence in his speech to be gone. "Richard Lawrence," he spoke quickly without hesitation nor glee. "Of Lawrence and Son."