Game of Iniquity, page 4
‘No. Tell me the real reason.’
Alexander cleared his throat before answering, pulling at his bow tie. His gaze shifted from the stage to rest on Gabriel. ‘I desire to be a detective,’ he said boldly.
Gabriel raised his brows. ‘A detective? You just deemed them useless yourself.’ Gabriel knew they were. He tried to hide the distasteful look on his face, but he couldn’t ignore the taste of venom in his mouth when he thought of them. They had done nothing to find his mother’s killer. Instead, they had simply told his father these things happen sometimes and that they should have been more careful. Just another unfortunate event.
‘I wish to make a difference. Be a true detective. Strive for justice, actually make a true effort to solve crime.’
‘Why not just join the police force then?’ remarked Gabriel taciturnly. ‘It would be easier to make a difference there.’
‘No,’ said Alexander, shaking his head. ‘I do not trust them. There is something amiss. I wish to find out exactly what it is and actually solve these murders. Moreover,’ he started with a smirk, ‘at Scotland Yard I would not have the pleasure of your distrustful company. It keeps things rather rousing.’ Gabriel scowled at him. ‘So, that leaves the long-awaited question… shall you join me?’
CHAPTER VIII
New Beginnings
Glints of moonlight spilled in from the window like silver blood. Gabriel let himself fall onto his bed, his muscles burning at the impact. He almost groaned at his own impulsiveness. What exactly had he agreed to? He was fairly certain Alexander was telling him the truth, but somebody like Gabriel could never be too careful. He hadn’t even told him of his involvement. He had never told anybody. He thought about saying no, but then the awaited future flashed before his eyes: days of monotony, of despicable deeds, of hatred and regret and death, and all of a sudden, the investigation seemed like a welcoming prospect. Perhaps it would help ease his guilt. Perhaps it was a chance to set things right. He looked out the window, the outline of the tall houses like shadows around him. Thoughts preoccupied his mind, but he couldn’t form them. They remained in his head like fragments, like shattered glass he couldn’t piece together, like half-truths, never spoken. He lay awake, letting the adrenaline drain out his body, only to be replaced by reviled memories.
‘You have taken it?’ hissed Gabriel.
‘Yes, how else was I meant to buy my drinks?’ slurred Hugo, steadying himself on the railings of the stairs. Beads of sweat glistened at the nape of his neck, red blood vessels visible in the white of his eyes. Gabriel took a hefty step forward.
‘That was the last of the money. Do you have any idea what you have done?’
Hugo scoffed. ‘Father has been spending it just the same.’ He wiped at his sweaty brow and continued speaking in the same despicable, sarcastic tone Gabriel had grown to loathe more than anything. ‘Moreover, I imagined we had more. Guess not.’
Before Gabriel knew it, his hand had moved from his side and struck his brother. Hugo staggered back, his hand clutching his cheek. As his eyes met Gabriel’s, indignation burned within its pupils. Gabriel stared back at him, shocked at the vehemence of his hit.
‘I hate you,’ spat Hugo, before storming up the stairs, not to be seen again for days to come.
Gabriel’s head pounded as he opened his eyes. The sun hadn’t come up yet; he couldn’t sleep like usual. Sometimes he felt like bashing his head into a wall. Splitting it open. Having everything come out. Maybe then the memories would stop. The nightmares, the thoughts. The regret.
*
Alexander didn’t live very far away. Gabriel read over the address he had given him again as he walked. The streets were slowly filling up, more carriages riding past, more people rushing off to attend daily troubles. Alexander lived in Kensington, only a short journey away from Gabriel’s own house.
Gabriel halted before number twenty-five. The house before him had five floors, rising up to the sky like an ancient palace. Owners bustled around the entrance: flocks of colourful skirts, gleaming suits, leather cases in hand.
He knocked on the front door. A few seconds later, a short, old man appeared before him. He had lost most of his hair, his cheeks hollow and his lips naturally pursed.
‘Mr Ashmore,’ he said by a way of greeting. Displeasure bore the sour features of his face, sporting a permanent displeasure towards the world. Before Gabriel could respond, Alexander appeared behind him, looking as though he had been running.
‘Cyril, I had thought I said I would be welcoming Mr Ashmore.’
Cyril turned to face Alexander, his features softening only a fraction. ‘My apologies, Mr Wakefield, I just did not believe it right for the master of the house to greet his guests at the front door.’
Alexander smiled uncomfortably. ‘Alas, I am here now. Mr Ashmore and I shall be perfectly fine.’
Cyril nodded as he took a step back, positioning himself against the wall, his hands folded behind his back. Gabriel cleared his throat, shifting by the door. Alexander’s gaze fell on him.
‘Oh, my apologies; do come in, Mr Ashmore.’
Gabriel entered the house, walking into the foyer. A great staircase stood to the left of him, composed of gleaming oak. A large Christmas tree stood beside it, adorned with red jewelled baubles and tinsel. The sight of it sent a sharp pain through Gabriel’s chest. Portraits of stern-looking men decorated the walls on the right, their golden frames contrasting against the red wallpaper. Alexander noticed his observation.
‘My great grandfather,’ he said. ‘He insisted on these ghastly portraits.’
‘Yes, they are indeed quite ghastly,’ said Gabriel dismissively.
Gabriel saw Cyril’s expression out of the corner of his eye, and despite thinking it not possible, his features had soured even more.
‘He was equally horrendous himself,’ said Alexander, rubbing his chin as he looked up at the painting. Harold William Wakefield, the engraving beneath said. A narrow-faced man with large, bushy eyebrows and wrinkles lining every inch of his face. Two grey eyes under sagged lids burned lividly, shooting the painter a glance of the greatest displeasure. ‘He lived an unnaturally long life, so I had the misfortune of being acquainted with him for quite a while. Do not take it lightly when I say he haunted me in my nightmares.’
‘Well, good he is now only a portrait.’
‘Yes, although at the moment, I am contemplating whether I should just take it down. Prevent it causing even more misery.’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘Perhaps I could replace it with a dashing one of me.’
‘I believe that shall make the matter worse.’
Alexander laughed heartily, contrasting against Gabriel’s monotony. ‘Ah, pity, I had imagined myself quite flamboyant on there. And, Cyril, do not look at me like that. You knew him yourself; he was unequivocally awful.’
Cyril’s pursed lips moved from side to side before he finally answered. ‘It would be improper to lie, Mr Wakefield, yet I do not wish to cause disrespect to the dead.’
‘Are you afraid he shall hear you?’
Cyril’s thin lips quirked up at the ends, only for a fraction of a second, before returning to their usual displeased appearance.
Alexander led Gabriel to a grand study, in which bookshelves lined most parts of the spacious room. A rush of warmth spread through his bloodstream at the sight of them. He looked around: to the right, a roaring fireplace with two leather armchairs before it, reflecting its hues of amber and scarlet onto the polished wooden floor. Above them, a mezzanine, filled with even more books. Right before him, large paned windows looked out onto the street, and finally, a large oak table in the centre of the room, the type which Gabriel imagined medieval kings utilised when planning elaborate wars, with various papers and pens spread upon it.
‘How large is your book collection?’ asked Gabriel as he walked amongst the shelves, carefully sliding his fingers over the spines. He couldn’t help but feel a certain dislike towards Alexander and towards this room. It was obvious it was used frequently, most probably being the place where his family gathered. Gabriel could tell from the scratches upon the wooden flooring beneath the table, the many armchairs spread around various corners of the library, the worn-down spines of the books.
‘I am afraid I have not counted. I believe it should be exactly a thousand, if nobody has stolen one, of course. This study also serves as the main library.’
‘Main library?’ asked Gabriel as he pulled out a leather-bound book. The work of Tennyson. ‘Are you implying there is more than one in this house?’
‘Yes. The second one is located on the upper floors.’
‘God, no wonder you are so stuck up. Portraits of dreadful dead great-grandfathers and multiple libraries.’
‘Not any more than you,’ countered Alexander. Gabriel ignored him as he walked back towards the table, leaning forward to examine an annotated map of London. Alexander moved towards him. ‘Ah, that is the map upon which I have plotted all the murders.’
‘Any pattern?’ asked Gabriel. He kept his tone casual, although within his mind, a storm was raging. What if somehow the killer framed him? Gabriel knew nobody would believe somebody like him, even if he contested his guilt.
‘No,’ sighed Alexander. ‘The locations in which they were killed appear tremendously unsystematic, and so do their manner of deaths. The first victim,’ Alexander pointed at an area around Temple, reading the annotation, ‘Thomas Graham, was pushed out of his own window, breaking his neck. Samuel Hall had his skull bashed into a wall in Whitechapel. Quite horrific and rather difficult. The medical examiner stated the killer must have done it about five times for the victim to actually reach the point of death.’
‘God,’ muttered Gabriel.
Alexander pointed to Marylebone. ‘Lewis Robinson was strangled by his own tie, in an alleyway right next to a pub named the Anchor. Rather a feeble way to go, but alas.’
Gabriel scoffed. ‘Is death by tie not adequate enough for you?’
‘I think death by tie would fail to suffice for anyone.’
‘Yes, you are quite right. How dishonourable of the victim for allowing himself to die in such a manner.’
Alexander continued, ignoring Gabriel’s remark. ‘And the last victim – one very familiar to you – Nicholas Ward, was stabbed in the neck. None of these locations or manners of death correlate to one another.’
Gabriel nodded, clenching and unclenching his fists by his side. ‘Thus, all of them male, with only their blackened veins in common. What about their professions? Social lives?’
Alexander shook his head. ‘Nothing. I have already conducted research relating to it. All unskilled labourers, with only their class in common.’
‘Well, perhaps that could be of some importance.’
‘That they are all of the working class?’
‘Yes,’ answered Gabriel, leaning onto the table.
‘So, you believe it plausible our killer may have a certain… aversion to those of lower classes?’
Gabriel snorted. ‘If you could call murder an “aversion”. What about the crime scenes?’
‘I have been to all of them and have found nothing to link anybody to the murders. Whoever killed these men left behind no evidence, except for the knife on the body found last night.’
‘There is your first lead, then.’
‘Well, there is a slight problem with that. The knife has been taken into evidence.’
‘I am certain you can bribe a Peeler to give it to you.’
Alexander leaned back on his chair. ‘I tried. It appears they have been given strict orders to hide it away. But,’ started Alexander, holding up a finger, ‘before you lose all hope and re-evaluate your choice of participation, we do at least have one lead. The blackened veins. Caused by none other than that new opium variant named Erebus. Even samples were found on two of the victims: Lewis and Thomas.’
Gabriel’s jaw clenched. Of course, he’d know of the Erebus.
Alexander continued. ‘Our killer has targeted obvious drug addicts. A horrible one at that.’ He met Gabriel’s hard gaze. ‘Have you ever tried it?’
Gabriel frowned. ‘Of course not.’
‘I have heard that those indulging in it never truly recover. Some say it tastes of sugar and death, a rather—’
‘Quit wasting our time with inconsequential matters,’ snapped Gabriel. Gabriel remembered the first time he had been in contact with the Erebus. He had never indulged in it himself, of course, but he lay awake at night staring at the silky, black powder.
Alexander raised an eyebrow. ‘You are rather rude.’
‘And you are rather vexing.’
Alexander shot him a glance of dislike, before continuing, his voice less animated than before. ‘It is plausible our killer may have a sort of vendetta against it.’
Gabriel’s heart was beating loudly in his chest, yet his expression remained a statue of stillness. A shadow moved in the corner of his eyes, then it disappeared again. What was he doing? It had been foolish of him to come here. Smoke rose from the table. Gabriel blinked. Alexander was pouring himself tea, his lips moving incoherently.
‘Pardon?’ asked Gabriel, swallowing away the tension in his throat.
‘I said, the most obvious lead is, therefore, the Erebus. We ought to find out if there are any peculiar connections between the victims and the drug that go beyond addiction.’
Gabriel let out a controlled breath. ‘What about the victims’ personal lives? Their family members or friends may know more. Perhaps they were threatened prior to the incidents.’
Alexander took a sip from his tea. ‘Yes, I believe that is a good place to start. Although, I must mention that it appears as though the killer, whom there might as well be multiple of, has selected these individuals in a completely unsystematic manner in regard to personality, with the only connecting element the Erebus.’ He rubbed his temples with his fingers. ‘Anyway, I could be wrong. We shall have to see.’
‘Jack the Ripper’s victims were chosen unsystematically, too. Perhaps our killer merely enjoys the act of murdering people,’ stated Gabriel, as nonchalantly as he could.
Alexander rose from his chair, his hands clasped behind his back as he moved towards the bookshelves. He stared intently at it, as if the answer to the investigation would present itself on the spines of the books. After two full minutes of awkward silence, in which Gabriel contemplated simply leaving, Alexander turned to face him, eyes shining brightly. ‘Thomas Graham’s wife.’
Gabriel frowned. ‘Excuse me?’
‘A Peeler had told me how the first victim’s wife had been making quite a scene at Scotland Yard. If anybody would be willing to talk to us, it’d be her.’
Sweat dripped down the nape of Gabriel’s neck. The room felt hot, too hot, as if the roaring fire would reach out and devour him whole. What if Graham told his wife about him? What he looked like? What he sounded like? Would she recognise him? He wiped his forehead. He’d be playing with fire. All it would take is one word, and then they would lock him away. An easy victory for the government, at a time when they so desperately needed success. They wouldn’t even think twice about it.
He couldn’t risk it.
‘We ought to get started tomorrow,’ said Alexander, leaning upon the edge of the table.
Gabriel blinked, swallowing hard. ‘No. I cannot participate in this foolishness.’
Alexander frowned; his eyes filled with the surprise of disappointment. ‘Pardon me?’
‘This is a waste of time. You are not a detective, nor am I.’ He marched towards the door. ‘I refuse to spend my time entertaining your imprudent fantasies.’ And with that, he slammed it shut.
CHAPTER IX
A House of Woe
Mist obscured the front door, making the edges of the frame blur and fall away. Gabriel entered the house, taking off his coat, and then he paused. The usual silence, the absolute silence that enveloped the house in its entirety, was absent. He already felt the annoyance prickle at his nerves, making his skin itch.
As he moved through the foyer and into the archway of the parlour, he noticed an orange flicker on the wooden floors. He looked up at the figure sitting on the sofa, head in his hands. He did not need to see a face to know who it was, he had known it ever since he stepped foot in the house.
‘Why are you here?’ asked Gabriel coolly. Hugo didn’t stir.
‘It is my house as well,’ he answered. He then looked around the parlour. ‘No Christmas tree?’
Gabriel’s nails dug into his palm. His brother’s return was nothing less than a nightmare to Gabriel, a sick dream he could not wake from. He tasted a bitterness in his mouth, a bitterness at the fact he had neglected them all. Hugo then turned around, and Gabriel noticed a fresh scratch on his cheek. The blood upon it was a vivid scarlet. ‘Had a scrap?’
Hugo gritted his jaw, hesitating before answering. ‘Father,’ he muttered.
‘Nothing you do not deserve,’ stated Gabriel, turning away from his brother.
‘He isn’t himself, Gabriel!’ exclaimed Hugo from behind him.
Gabriel halted. ‘He has not been himself for three years now.’ He turned to face Hugo, who was now stood by the doorway. ‘But you wouldn’t know that now, would you?’
‘I do—’
‘This is nothing new,’ hissed Gabriel. ‘You decide to show up after a whole year, with the expectation everything would miraculously be normal again. Well, everything has only gotten worse, and you are not helping. On the contrary, you are making things worse. Now depart.’
Hugo sighed heavily, before speaking again. ‘I miss it, Gabriel,’ he said in a quiet voice.
