The Draugr (Midnight Gunn Book 3) Page 4

  Midnight poured himself a large tumble full of his favourite libation—twelve-year-old French brandy—while he waited for them to return. Taking a large sip, he welcomed the heat of the liquid as it travelled pleasingly down his throat, temporarily quelling his concerns.

  Whatever had appeared inside the portal that night must have something to do with the inspector’s troubles. Of course it must. He was only human. He had no special powers, like Midnight, or extra-sensory abilities as did Polly. There was nothing to protect Arthur from otherworldly influences, and he had been exposed to many since making Midnight’s acquaintance.

  Sudden crushing guilt lay like a stone blanket around his shoulders. This was his fault. He had underestimated the effects his dealings with the good inspector would have. He had taken Arthur’s participation in, and acceptance of, his world for granted. The question he now faced was: What should he do about it?

  STONES END

  JANUARY 8TH 1863

  “Years of loyal service, and that’s it? Suspended without pay? Am I hearing you right?” Gredge bellowed.

  “Am I hearing you right, Superintendent,” Robert Branford corrected him. “Sit down, Gredge.”

  “Inspector Gredge,” Arthur countered, which his super parried.

  “That remains to be seen.”

  Twenty years Gredge’s senior, Superintendent Branford was someone of notoriety within the London Metropolitan Police, and deeply respected by his colleagues and his community. Despite the relatively small size of his office at Stones End—M. Division’s headquarters—Brandford’s presence dominated the cramped space like a king in his palace, the well-worn leather of the captain’s chair his throne. He commanded respect without ever raising his voice, and Gredge immediately regretted his outburst.

  He cleared his throat, tugged his moustache, and took a seat as instructed, trying his damnedest to appear outwardly calm even though his emotions were raging.

  Branford raised his dark head from the papers he was signing to pin his subordinate with an appraising look, the briefest hint of concern behind his deep brown eyes. “You have changed,” he stated. “A year ago, you would not have spoken to a superior officer like that.”

  “Why does everyone keep saying that? I haven’t changed at all. I’m exactly the same as I’ve always been. I’m just annoyed at this bloody shambles. You know me, sir. And you know I do not deserve to be punished because some drunk-arsed woman thinks every man in a mac and bowler is a child killer!” Gredge realised his voice had risen an octave again. He blew out a heavy, sharp breath of frustration from between tightened lips and looked at the ceiling, shaking his head in disbelief.

  “You seem very angry, Gredge. And before you interrupt me again, I mean of late, not just this moment. In all the years I have known you and had the honour of working with you, I have never known you to miss a day of work or arrive late… until these last few months. You cannot account for your whereabouts on the estimated time of the murders. Indeed, you cannot even remember what day it is lately. Do I believe you are a killer? I would like to say no, probably not. Am I concerned about your recent conduct? Yes, very much so, and because of this, I must insist you take some time away. A… sabbatical, if you like.”

  “Sabba—! Oh, Hell’s teeth. Just call it what it is, will you? It’s a bloody suspension. You’re taking my badge and my gun, for Christ’s sake!” Gredge raged, incredulous.

  “You know that, and I know that, but no one else has to. However, I do feel that, due to your…” Branford paused, searching for the correct term, “…instability at the moment, you are a threat to yourself and the integrity of this office of investigation. And I certainly cannot have you anywhere near this case until we can positively put you in the clear. You must see that.”

  Gredge pursed his lips, making his moustache twitch. He matched the super’s stare with his own squinty appraisal and then said, “This is bloody Labalmondiere, isn’t it? He’s never liked me. I know damned well this hasn’t come from you.”

  Branford sighed.

  “What the commissioner may or may not have said is not your concern right now. Your concern should be for yourself—as is mine for you. Arthur, you are a good officer and an honourable man, from what I have seen. Take the time out, and let us do our jobs. Take a walk in the park, rest, and get your head straight. Just… make sure to stay in the city. Alright?”

  Gredge stood and loosened his pistol from its holster. He placed it firmly on Branford’s desk along with his identification badge. He ran his tongue along the front of his teeth and smacked his lips loudly before striding to the door. He had planned on giving it a good old slam in his wake but was surprised to see Rowe waiting outside the door in the corridor.

  His junior’s look of concern made him chuckle sardonically. “Smile, Rowe. You’re about to get a promotion.” Gredge patted Rowe’s shoulder as he turned and stalked away.

  The last thing Gredge heard as he reached the end of the corridor was Branford’s deep dulcet tones. “Come in, Constable Rowe.”

  Gredge was seething. Anger and betrayal flowed through his veins like liquid fire. Ignoring the hails and salutations from his colleagues, he stormed out of the heavy studded oak door of Stones End police station and out into the cold drizzle of the January morning.

  The snow on the ground had receded a little since yesterday, and the smattering of rain and freezing temperatures had turned it crunchy and slick underfoot. Arthur skidded on the stone steps that lead from the entrance to the cobbled street below, nearly losing his balance. He managed to save himself from falling by grabbing on to the thick iron railing of the steps. The icy cold metal burned his hand.

  “Bollocks!” he shouted into the slight wind that now accompanied the freezing rain, the truly miserable day mirroring his emotions.

  Steadying himself, Arthur adjusted the collar of his coat to shield his ears from the biting weather, stuffed his gloveless hands into his pockets, and made his way down the street, allowing the hustle and bustle of the heavily peopled morning to swallow him up.

  Just as the dull dampness of the London smog threatened to erase his hunched silhouette, another taller, slimmer figure emerged from the shadows, encapsulated within the folds of a heavy coat, tweed cap pulled low to hide his face. The figure stared for a moment in the direction the inspector had gone then followed him into the gloom.

  MERITON

  DECEMBER 24TH 1862

  “’Twas the night before Christmas

  When, all through the house,

  Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.

  The stockings were hung by the chimney with care

  In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there.”

  Miss Carmichael paused, waiting for her charge to continue the rhyme. It was one they had been practicing in readiness for Miss Polly’s performance later that evening after dinner. However, the child was not paying attention. Polly’s gaze was directed towards the door that led from the parlour, in which she and her governess were seated by the fire.

  “I do not think he will come, dear one,” Miss Carmichael said, her American accent soft with sympathy.

  “He has to, Aggie. He wouldn’t let us down.” Her gleaming eyes betrayed the uncertainty of her declaration.

  Agnes closed the little red book of children’s rhymes she had been reciting from and reached for Polly’s hand. “Darling, your papa has not heard from the inspector since the day he left Meriton. I highly doubt he will come this evening. Please, do not get your hopes up. Besides,” she said cheerily, “you will still have an attentive audience to entertain. Now, are we going to practice one last time?”

  “Nah. I know it off by ’eart, Aggie.” The little girl shrugged looking downhearted. Polly blew out a frustrated sigh and fiddled with the ribbon on her sleeve.

  “Very well. We still have a few hours before dinner. Shall we finish making the decorations?” The governess rose, retrieved a basket full of crafting materials from an occasional table and jiggled it tantalisingly at Polly. “Let us make our tree the best-decorated tree in the city. What do you say?” Agnes wiggled her eyebrows and grinned.

  Polly couldn’t resist an opportunity to get thoroughly messy with glue and paper and so nodded her head vigorously in agreement.

  They had barely begun when the sound of a bell rang clear and loud from the street. Soon after, a choir of voices in song drifted mutedly into the parlour.

  Miss Carmichael went to the window and exclaimed, “Carollers! How delightful. We rarely get those in New York. Get your shawl, Miss Polly, then run to the kitchen and tell Mrs Phillips and the others, will you? I will fetch your father. Hurry now.”

  Polly grabbed her woollen shawl and sprinted through the house to the kitchen. When she excitedly burst through the door—yelling, “Mrs Phillips! Laura! Charlie! Come quickly. They’re singing!” —a tsunami of deliciousness drowned her senses. Polly stopped in her tracks and inhaled deeply. Her eyes closing in sheer ecstasy with the smells of freshly baked pies, cinnamon, sugar biscuits, and mulled cider. “’Cor!” She drooled.

  Mrs Phillips started at the interruption. “Goodness! What’s this now, miss? There’s no point in trying to charm a treat out of me before dinner. Off with you now, and let me get on.” She flapped a floured tea cloth at the young girl, sending a flurry of white motes into the warmed air that floated gently to the floor like snow.

  “Aggie sent me to fetch you. There’s singers outside!” she squealed excitedly, her curls bouncing.

  “Singers? Well, then. Come on. Give me a hand with these pies.”

  Polly scooted forward to grab a tray full of steaming hot mince pies from the rotund cook.

  “Can you manage?” Mrs Phillips asked her, knowing the large tray may
be too much for the girl with her missing left hand.

  She needn’t have asked, though, as Polly grinned and rested the tray on the scarred stump of her left arm, gripping the tray tightly with her right hand. The offending hand had been amputated due to the damage caused by years of poisoning from selling matches on the streets of the city. Yet this bright little bean never let her disability hold her back from doing anything.

  “Off we go then.” Mrs Phillips chivvied Polly along whilst Laura and Charlie gladly abandoned their tasks to follow. Summoning Giles Morgan, the household butler, from his little sitting room with a passing knock on the door—“Carollers, Mr Morgan!”—Mrs Phillips carried on without stopping for an answer.

  Miss Carmichael was waiting at the door, but there was no sign of the master of the house. She approached the cook and Polly as they neared.

  “Has Lord Gunn gone out? I cannot find him in the library nor his study.”

  “Allow me, miss,” Giles offered as he appeared in the hallway doing up the buttons of his tailcoat. Giles smiled at the quintet of excited faces by the door and disappeared through another that lead to the library. Miss Carmichael frowned and opened her mouth as if she were about to speak but was interrupted by Polly tugging impatiently on her skirts.

  “Papa will be here soon. Can we open the door, pleeease?” she begged. “We’re going to miss it.”

  “And these pies are growing cold,” Mrs Phillips added helpfully.

  They opened the front door to a most joyous scene. Berkeley Square was awash with golden light emanating from the myriad of lanterns that surrounded the group of carollers, who were belting out the chorus of ‘Good King Wenceslas’ in perfect harmony. Other residents in the square had emerged from their homes to welcome the singers with offerings of coin for their charity collection box, hot mulled cider, sugar biscuits, and Mrs P’s gloriously plump—and very potent—pies. Delicate snowflakes softly kissed the icy ground, settling on trees and twigs as they fell from the clouded sky, dancing and twirling in the warm glow of the lanterns.

  “Ooo!” exclaimed Polly, eyes bright with wonder.

  A chestnut seller had pitched his cart nearby, and a queue was already forming with people eager to purchase the freshly roasted treats. Neighbours greeted each other and exchanged season’s salutations. Happy chattering and bursts of laughter mingled with the harmonious vocals of the choir.

  “Happy birthday, sweetheart.”

  “Papa!” Polly whirled around to find her father standing behind her on the steps of Meriton House, clad in his best dinner jacket and woollen overcoat.

  Mrs Phillips smiled and offered him the tray of pies, from which he took one graciously. Laura and Charlie had joined the line for the chestnuts, and Giles was taking in the scene, a look of happy nostalgia on his aged face. Polly thought her heart might burst with joy as she slipped her little hand into her father’s big one. The only thing that would make this night perfect was the presence of dear Inspector Gredge.

  Such a merry scene it was that, when Polly glanced up at her father, she was startled to see him staring across the square into an unlit corner, tight lipped and frowning. Following the direction of his gaze, she squinted into the shadows but could not see whatever it was that had caught her father’s attention. She concentrated harder on his person.

  “Papa? What’s wrong? Your colours are all dark.”

  Knowing that he could not ignore her knack for reading auras, or ‘colours’ as she liked to call them, he was forced to answer her. “I am not sure, little one. The shadows were bothering me for a moment.” He gave her shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “It is likely nothing, just me being overprotective again.” Midnight looked down at her and winked, noting that the concern did not leave her. “Ahh! Here is your Miss Carter back with more treats!” That worked.

  Laura Carter, Meriton’s housemaid and Polly’s favourite champion since she had belted someone ‘right in the mush’, as Polly had told it, approached the small gathering with a beaming smile and offered the little miss a dip in the treat bag.

  “Mind your fingers, now, miss. They’re hot.” The young woman and Charlie offered up their bags of delicious Christmas fare to each of their colleagues in turn.

  “Sir?” Laura shyly enquired of her master. “Would you like one?”

  “Thank you, Miss Carter. Very kind,” Midnight replied, managing to keep from looking directly at his employee.

  Polly scrunched up her nose in unabashed disappointment at the stilted exchange between her two favourite people. She had been so excited to visit Scotland, and was keen to see the rebuild and refurbishment of the castle her father had purchased for them as a summer retreat, but she could not help her frustration at the monumental—at least in her eyes—and decidedly unwelcome changes in behaviour the trip had wrought upon those she held most dear—including the inspector, of whom she had grown quite fond.

  How taxing being a grown up must be. They seemed to her to always be harried and in a mad rush hither and dither, worrying about all manner of unimportant things. Like laundry and rules. There were no such concerns in her previous life as an orphan. She had sold matches on the streets of London in order to buy herself a bit of stale bread or leftovers from the costermonger’s cart at the end of the day’s trading. And if she were lucky and earned enough, she might afford a bed for the night by the hearth of the dockyard bawdy house. In a moment of nostalgia, Polly recalled the blissful relief of a night by the warm fire in the company of Madame Le Blanc’s ladies. On the odd occasions that she could afford it, a kindly, motherly woman named Sophia would make her up a bed from old blankets and feed her a hot bowl of soup. Which was especially welcome on the harsh winter evenings, when sleeping rough in the doorways of shops and warehouses posed the question as to whether or not she would wake up at all the next morning. Many of her old pals had perished that way. Polly gave an involuntary shiver.

  “Are you cold, Miss Peeps?” Midnight asked, using the nickname he had assigned to her on account of her unbound curiosity and penchant for peeping around corners to ‘observe’ people without their knowledge. He adjusted the shawl that hung loosely around her shoulders to cover her more effectively. “Perhaps we should go inside now? I’m sure Mrs Phillips will be keen to get on with the dinner.”

  The staff took their cue and turned back towards the house, Polly being the only one to protest at having to leave the frivolity in the square.

  “Five more minutes, please, Papa?” she pleaded, giving him her best smile but to no avail.

  Midnight guided her towards the entrance, and they stepped inside. He gave the square a final once-over and shut the door. Something was decidedly off about him this evening, Polly decided, and she didn’t like it, not one bit.

  JOURNAL ENTRY OF D.I. ARTHUR GREDGE

  DECEMBER 24, 1862

  What is wrong with me?

  I went to Meriton this evening full of contrition and with the intention of fulfilling my promise to Miss Polly to attend her birthday dinner. When I arrived in the square, it was full of people revelling in the spirit of the season, and I became so inexplicably angry! So much so that I could not for the life of me force myself to take another step. I hid in the darkness like some malevolent, envious creature.

  He saw me. I know he did. And I wanted to rip out his eyes.

  Where has this sudden and uncontrollable rage come from?

  The last thing I recall is his piercing stare as he spotted me hunkered against a wall like some snivelling rat. It is clear now that I am no longer welcome at Meriton House. Should I have made my presence known at his door, he would surely have turned me away.

  I am home now and writing this entry as I cannot remember how I arrived here. One moment, I was ankle deep in snow and gutter mulch in Berkeley Square, the singing grating heavily on my nerves, and the next, I was here.