Hunting Down the Darkness Read online

  “Maybe I should wait here for you,” Owens said looking nervous. Oliver laughed and slapped him on the shoulder,

  “Don’t worry yourself, she’s harmless and I’ll be right along after you.” Owens nodded and made for the door.

  When he was alone Oliver stood in the doorway and watched his temporary roommate amble down the makeshift path between the huts. Oliver hoped that he’d not given himself away to this man, and showed any hint of his true feelings for Alderman James.

  It had been many years since he’d heard that name but he thought of the man and the revenge he so sought quite a bit. It had been Oliver’s own brother Malcolm who had tried to kill the Alderman for making the soldier’s fire on the weavers during their famous strike over the import of French silks. Malcolm had been one of those soldiers and he couldn’t live with the shame of such a cowardly act as he was forced to carry out.

  When his attempt to kill James was foiled, James saw to it that Malcolm was hanged for the crime. Oliver had been overseas at the time and not a day went by since coming back to Ireland that he didn’t think of it. And now, the Alderman was here, ripe for the plucking. He would have no idea anyone associated with his past could be here. Still, there was a strong family resemblance so Oliver thought it best he try avoid being seen by the Alderman. So long as Oliver’s secret remained in his own breast, there was no one to link him to any ill feeling towards the houseguest.

  It would have to be planned, and planned well. Nevertheless, the time to avenge his family had finally come.

  Chapter 7

  Spencer looked out through the window on the enclosed yard below. There, his fellow inmates of ‘Swifts Hospital’ roved about like brainless animals, making noises and investigating the wall and ground beneath them with vacuous eyes and no comprehension. He shuddered at the idea that he was labelled the same as these unfortunates, but when he came here first believing that the Devil stalked him at every turn he supposed it had been warranted.

  Since then, however, a sense of calm had come over him, and the mania that had struck him and led him to confess to the killings around Dublin last year had dissipated day on day with no sight of the Devil in all that time. Though certain of his guilt when finally arrested, Spencer had begun to have serious doubts about his complicity. Long days and nights had been spent thinking it over and seeing how different he was to everyone else who was here. Even most of the staff could be said to be of feebler mind than he felt.

  His trouble was that he held no recollection of committing any murders and yet he knew the horror and fear that was in him at the time, the terror that not only was the Devil actually real but that he had offended him by depicting him in a painting for the ‘Hellfire Club.’ He knew that he had been capable of killing back then, even felt the guilt for the crimes in his heart.

  It was different now, he no longer felt this way. Whatever ill had befallen his mind, he had attributed it to a Devil that in his now more sober state he still believed could not possibly exist. If only there was a way he could be certain that he had nothing to do with the murders. He’d thought about trying to seek out alibi’s for the dates on which the murders were carried out, but though he got the news sheets every day the wardens here did not have access to old ones which had been used to stoke fires at the end of each day. They refused to look any further than the hospital to assist him in his search either, that was not part of their job and nor did Spencer think they would be up to it.

  As it stood, he was still not allowed to send any letters from the hospital either and so far there had been no visitors he could ask assistance. Perhaps if he could persuade one of the wardens to let him write a letter, he could get the information he needed and help clear his name- if indeed he was innocent.

  Deciding to strike while the iron was hot, Spencer rose from his chair, went to the door of his apartment, and looked out into the hallway. There was no one about so he walked down to the end where the office for this wing was located. He tapped on the door gently and waited. There was movement behind the door, someone slow and lumbering moving without ease. A sliding trap opened at eye level and Morgan, a loathsome looking though not unkind fellow stared out at him.

  “What is it, Colonel?” Morgan asked gruffly. He didn’t like to have to vacate his seat for any reason and he was already out of breath with the effort.

  “I wonder if I might be able to write a letter, Mr. Morgan?” Spencer asked in such a way that it seemed as though he didn’t know the rules. Morgan stared at him a moment and then sighed.

  “Inmates are not allowed to write letters,” he said.

  “I understand that,” Spencer said, “But I was hoping in this case you might be able to make an exception?”

  “And why would that be?”

  “To help out your fellow man,” Spencer beamed. Morgan didn’t say anything for a moment seeming unsure.

  “I’ll have to ask the director,” he said in the end.

  “Are you sure you couldn’t just give me one scrap of paper and a quill?” Spencer asked. Again, Morgan paused and Spencer could see that he wanted to agree but was worried he’d get into trouble. “I won’t ask anything else of you, I promise. This will be between the two of us?”

  “How will you get it out of here, then?”

  “That will be for me to figure out,” Spencer answered with a grin. Morgan thought on it a moment more and then leaned away from the opening. Spencer heard the shuffle of paper and then a tear and he knew he was in business. The sheet and quill came out a moment later,

  “Thank you!” Spencer said truly gleeful at this generosity. A small bottle of ink was passed out and Spencer took this too with thanks.

  “This is all you will get so don’t ask again,” Morgan said, “And if anyone asks you didn’t get it from me.”

  “Understood, don’t worry, this is our secret.”

  Back in his room, Spencer did a little hop of joy at how easy this had gone. Now he just had to write the letter and then find a way to post it. This is where the first obstacle presented itself. Who could he write to for aid? None of his old friends had anything to do with him anymore and he couldn’t imagine they would come bounding to his side on the strength of a letter smuggled from a lunatic asylum.

  Edwards might come but only for his own curiosity or amusement, Spencer had no doubt of that. That man had a streak in him that was not entirely human, a reveller in misfortune and chaos. He certainly could not be depended on for help to clear his name and that would make a letter to him a waste of time and the precious paper.

  Somehow, while thinking of Edwards his exact opposite in nature came to mind. Someone who was wholly pure and good, perhaps the only person Spencer had ever met whom he could describe in this way. Mary Sommers, she was the only person in the world who might help him. Her goodness would not allow her to do otherwise if he asked, he was sure of it.

  With this idea in mind, he sat down to compose his letter.

  Chapter 8

  Alderman James was shown into the study and he was surprised to find that Lord Stapleton was not alone. Also in the room was a woman, fair of face and of an age that led James to believe she was Lady Stapleton. There were two young people, a girl and a boy he guessed somewhere close to twenty years old, possible twins but he had an inkling the girl was the older. To complete the group another man, not unlike the woman in looks stood by the fire, his elbow on the mantel with a glass of wine dangling lazily in his hand.

  “Alderman James, welcome!” Lord Stapleton said smiling as he paced across the room and shook James vigorously by the hand. The Alderman was a little taken aback by this; it was rare to see a man of his position act in such a friendly way.

  “I’m honoured,” James said bowing slightly.

  “There’s no need of those formalities here,” Lady Stapleton said offering her own hand to James. He took it and kissed lightly on the smooth silk of her glove.

  “Yes, we are all very modern here!” the man by the fire s
aid. James picked up a tone of sarcasm in his voice and he wondered was the man drunk.

  “Don’t mind Uncle Fredrick,” the young man said taking his turn to greet James, “I am Henry Stapleton, and this is my sister, Veronica.” The girl made a gentle curtsy but did not come any closer to James.

  “No, don’t mind me!” Fredrick said sneering at his nephew. James walked over and offered his hand to Fredrick.

  “Alderman James, from Dublin City,” he introduced himself.

  “Fredrick Planter, formerly of London,” the man answered with a theatrical bow, spilling some of his wine on the fireplace as he did. He looked at his now depleted glass and shrugged. “What has you down in dull Waterford?” he asked James.

  “Grim deeds, I’m afraid,” James answered not sure if it was possible this man would not know why he was here.

  “Oh, the peasant’s murder?” he seemed to scoff, “Good enough for him. We could do with a few more going like that, might shake the laziness out of them!”

  “Fredrick, please,” Lady Stapleton said. Fredrick looked at her and shook his head. He rolled his eyes for James’ benefit and then shuffled off to refill his glass grumbling to himself.

  “What can you tell me about the murder?” James asked looking to Stapleton and then taking the rest of them into his gaze in a sweep of the room.

  “Not much,” Stapleton answered, “One of the servants was killed, stabbed to death out by the wall near the stables.”

  “No one saw anything at all?”

  “No one who has admitted to it, anyway.”

  “You think someone may be hiding something? James asked at this.

  “I have no idea,” Stapleton said, “But there is always someone moving about on my land, I imagine someone knows something.” James nodded at this; it wasn’t much use for now.

  “Who was the servant?” he went on with his questions.

  “A man called Thompson,” Lady Stapleton answered, “He was a good worker, looked after the horses and stables.”

  “Married?” James asked.

  “No, and no lady friend either that we ever got wind of,” Henry said. James couldn’t be sure but he thought he saw Victoria squirm a little at this. Could it be there was a scandal here as well as the murder? Thinking it best to talk to Victoria about this in a more private setting, he went on with his questions.

  “Do you know who wrote me the letter, yet?” he asked.

  Stapleton had been surprised when James contacted him and told him of the letter. He had invited James to come down to Wild Boar Hall and said he would find out who wrote the letter in the meantime.

  “I’m afraid we haven’t been able to find that out,” Lady Stapleton answered. “It is not in the hand of anyone we recognise.” James nodded; he’d been expecting this might be the case seeing as it was not the family who had informed him of the murder.

  “This man, Thompson,” James went on, “How did he get along with the other servants?”

  “It’s hard to know,” Stapleton said, “They don’t interact when they are carrying out their duties and we obviously don’t see them up in the village.”

  “You mean the ‘Outhouse’!” Fredrick interjected laughing. James looked at him and then back to Stapleton who shook his head at the foolish behaviour of his brother-in-law.

  “Did you notice any change in him in the lead up to his murder?”

  “I didn’t,” Stapleton said and then looking to his family in turn, “Did anyone else notice anything with Thompson?” Each shook their head in reply. James thought for a moment. It was unlikely the answer to this killing was going to come from any of the family members.

  “Do you give your permission for me to go and talk to the servants in their village as well as around the house?” James asked.

  “Yes, yes, of course,” Stapleton said, “Make the place your own; nowhere will be off limits to you.”

  “Why don’t you tell him the history of the house before he decides to roam about?” Fredrick said but this time he was not ignored.

  “I think that would be a good idea,” Victoria said, “It’s only fair he knows the full story.”

  “Oh, don’t be so dramatic,” Stapleton said and then addressing James said, “The house has had some dramatic moments in its history and as a result some fantastic stories have sprung up about the place.”

  “I would be very interested to hear this,” James said, “You never know what might be of use in an investigation.”

  As he spoke, he could see Lady Stapleton shift uneasily; it was clear she did not like the history of the house and her body language led him to believe she put some stock in what was said. It was beginning to look like James might uncover more secrets here than who the killer of the servant could be.

  “I suppose you better tell the story, Fredrick, you are the only one who can do its outlandishness justice,” Stapleton said.

  “Oh, how wonderful to be in demand!” Fredrick said wistfully but he stepped forward into the firelight all the same to begin his tale of Wild Boar Hall.

  Chapter 9

  Edwards had been meaning for a great many years now to pay a visit to Wild Boar Hall. The house had a history that tied in nicely with the Hellfire club and there had even been a small offshoot of the club- albeit under a different name and guise- in the area around it. What better opportunity to go than right now. There was a murder to investigate- that was always interesting- and there was also the chance to disrupt the life of Alderman James once more.

  Edwards, though not all that ruffled, disliked the way James discarded him as soon as his uses were expired. He understood exactly why James did this; the constant hedonism and rankling amoral talk was enough to drive any God fearing Christian from his company, but it jarred all the same. Edwards also had to admit that there was rarely a dull moment around James once a murder had been committed; and there had been no shortage of them over the last few years.

  Sitting down at his desk, he took a clean sheet and penned a letter to Lord Stapleton, introducing himself and saying how interested he would be in seeing the famous house. He mentioned Alderman James as an aside to let Stapleton know they were on friendly terms and then asked outright if it would be possible to come in the next day or two as Edwards would soon be leaving for London on business for a few weeks and the opportunity might not come up again for some time.

  When he finished the letter, he rang the bell for a servant. When the man came, Edwards said,

  “Get me a rider to bring this to Waterford. I want it to get to the house before nightfall.”

  “Yes, Sir,” the servant responded and then left with the letter.

  When he was left alone once more, Edwards sat and looked into space thinking on things. It felt like it was time; he’d felt it for days now and was holding off until he was sure. Did it matter that James was not in the city right now? No, in fact, it was probably better that he wasn’t here right now. He would miss the start and the newfound parlay he had with the people would be lessened by this very fact.

  Despite what James thought of the people of Dublin, Edwards knew better. They were lazy, feckless and would turn on you as quickly as look at you if things were not going their way. They lived a harsh existence and they in turn were harsh because of it. The Alderman would be coming back to people asking where he was when the killings began.

  Edwards walked down the hall to his library and as expected, he found Steven Olocher sitting at the desk reading. The young man looked up, Edwards saw how much more filled out, and muscular the boy was now that he’d had a year under Edward’s wing. He looked more like his hated murderous father every day and as he’d done many times these last months, Edwards smiled at the idea that someone would recognise his father in the boy at one of the attacks and the rumours of ‘The Dolocher’ would start all over again, only this time with some credence.

  “What are you reading?” Edwards asked.

  “Heaven and Hell,” Olocher answered.

 
“Ah, Swedenborg, what do you think of him?”

  “It difficult to tell. He seems to say that no one sends anyone to either heaven or hell but himself.”

  “That’s what I took from it; you don’t agree with that idea?”

  “I don’t believe in either heaven or hell,” Olocher said.

  “Of course not,” Edwards smiled. “Well, there’s no harm in reading and educating yourself on what others believe.”

  “I suppose not,” Olocher nodded grimly.

  Edwards looked at him a moment, trying to imagine the much smaller and frailer boy once known as Scally. When he’d been the blacksmiths apprentice no one would have ever thought to place a book in his hands. Now he had been through all of the important texts of the last hundred years and more before that. He was strong and smart and had a brain in his head doing more than taking up space in his skull.

  “I think it’s time,” Edwards said. Olocher looked at him with a mixture of surprise and eagerness on his face.

  “Really?” he asked to which Edwards nodded. “Who?”

  “None of the main players yet,” Edwards answered, “I think we need to build a legend around you before we get on to that.”

  “Who then?” Olocher asked standing up and coming from behind the desk.

  “Someone insignificant.”

  “When?”

  “Within the week. I want to find someone tomorrow and study them, work out your opportunity and then strike.”

  “I won’t let you down,” Olocher said.

  “I know, but we must be sure that the first one above all goes flawlessly. No one must see you study your prey; no one must ever know how it happened.”

  “I’ve been trained in all of this; I know what to do, Sir.” The tremble of excitement in the young man’s voice was barely concealed.