Book One: A Portrait of Death ~ Excerpts
New York
Tuesday 10th September, 1889
7:05pm
The horse drawn hansom cab slowly made its way along the city crescent, the cab’s curtained windows the passenger’s only protection from the worst of the New York weather.
The fog’s oily thickness dulling all sound of the vehicle’s traces as its icy fingers plucked at the exposed neck of the shivering cabby.
There was a sharp thump from inside the cab as the fare indicated their desire to stop. The cab slowed to a halt and a dark figure wrapped in an Ulster, and carrying a Gladstone bag alighted and paid the driver. As the cabby touched his hat and left, their fare paused to look up at the small, well-lit
airship passing overhead, the fog muffling the amplified message about the efficacious properties of Wolverstone’s Miracle Liver Pills. The figure pulled their black felt hat down over their eyes and turned their attention to one house in particular before quietly making their way down the narrow alley that ran to the back of the building; there were many things they had to arrange for the evening ahead, it simply wouldn’t do to have the lady of the house know they were there just yet!
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Without effort, they lifted their victim and went through the door, closing and barring it behind them. Beyond the door lay a tiny courtyard, leading to three small rooms and the stairs to the second floor.
They would miss this place. It had served them well for many years, but now it was time to bring their carefully crafted plans to fruition. Entering the left-hand room, the figure paused in front of a large, ornate iron-bound chest,
covered with carvings of Ouroboros; snakes eating their own tails…the symbol of eternity. Lifting the lid with one powerful arm, the figure carefully placed the corpse into the lead-lined cavity. Taking a deep breath, the killer caressed
the dead face: stroking the curve of the jaw, the shape of the nose and ears, smoothing the hair…
Then the killer rose and began to smooth their own face in the same manner. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, their face was replaced by that of their victim.
The killer groaned as their body adjusted to the height and weight of the corpse in the chest, their spine cracking and shortening as they changed to resemble the object of their many months of study.
The transformation complete, the figure stood in the centre of the little room. Their clothes, now far too big for their new form, slipped to the floor as they looked in the polished brass mirror to judge their final appearance. An exact replica of the shell in the chest looked back. The physical change was always swift, but the memories of their victim would take a little longer to appear in their mind.
They were now perfectly placed for their plans to succeed!
Very little could stop them now—except, perhaps, him!
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9:10pm
Lord and Lady Scott-Brewer sat in the library, partaking of one of their favourite pastimes; namely the character assassination of anyone they perceived as their social inferior. On this occasion it was of course Lady
Ellerbeck who bore the brunt of the onslaught, although “that jumped-up opium-pusher Draycott” came a pretty close second.
Lady Scott-Brewer was bemoaning the loss of three pounds and ten shillings to “that wretched American gel”, regardless of the fact that Lady Ellerbeck had actually been born in Surrey. While she complained, her husband fiddled
with his amethyst cufflinks and looked at the door that led to the Great Hall, trying to work out where the entrance to the servants’ quarters might be.
Lady Scott-Brewer, through some sixth sense brought on by many years of dealing with her husband’s little peccadilloes, snapped sharply, “None of your nonsense tonight, Barty!”
Lord Scott-Brewer visibly jumped. “My dear Rowan, I don’t know what—”
“Don’t lie to me, Barty, I know you!”
Her husband, catching the hard gleam in her eye, turned his gaze on the floor. “I’m sorry, my dear, I – I can’t explain why—”
“I know why,” Lady Scott-Brewer snapped bitterly. “The familial habits of a lifetime!”
She stood up and her corsetry creaked alarmingly as she towered over her thin little husband. He jumped to his feet, looking at her with something approaching terror. “My dear, are you all right?”
Lady Rowan sniffed with displeasure. “I am retiring to our suite.”
Lord Scott-Brewer looked flustered. “But my dear, the supper! It would be unpardonable to retire now!”
Lady Scott-Brewer glared at her husband of nearly thirty years with a look which combined dislike, distaste, and disgust. Many people in their inner circle would have dismissed it as her usual expression when observing her
husband. “I find the offerings of this weekend both dull and unappealing! Why Lady Marmis invited us to endure hideous modern caterwauling is beyond me. Opera at a weekend house party!” Her strident voice made her husband
cringe but she ignored him. Indeed, she continued robustly in the same vein. “I will not tolerate the alleged musicality of that person Sibelius, nor the pagan mewling of that modern creature, Giselle! Kindly inform anyone who asks that I am retiring for the evening.”
With this complete denunciation of the weekend’s entertainment, Lady Scott-Brewer swept to the door. As she reached the threshold, she turned and again addressed her husband. “And you know how I feel about alcohol, Barty. Not one drop!” With this final thrust, Lady Scott-Brewer and her formidable bust glided from the room.
As her husband sat alone at the green baize table, he was reminded that he and his wife were not been the only people in the library. Two tables of guests had eavesdropped from a distance, and had decided almost as one that it would be seemly to retire to the saloon to await the supper gong.
As the eight lords, ladies, clerical personages, and assorted others rose from their seats and made their way out of the library, they did not look at Lord Scott-Brewer. It would not have done to acknowledge his presence after
observing such a public set-to with his wife.
As the day guests disappeared, Lord Scott-Brewer sat in thought, staring at his short, stubby fingers. After a few moments had passed and all sound of his fellow-guests had faded, he lifted his head. Anyone who knew him would have been shocked at the change. The timid, henpecked little husband had disappeared, replaced by a sly, cunning man.
He got to his feet and walked towards the bar. With a mutinous expression, he picked up a tumbler and poured a generous double from a cut-glass crystal decanter. Replacing the stopper, he lifted the lid of the ice bucket and used the sharp ice pick to tap off some slivers of ice for his drink. He swallowed a large mouthful of whisky, and as he looked down at the large silver tray with its matching ice bucket and glittering ice pick, a thought slithered snakelike into his mind. Putting down his drink, a smile twisted his face as he lifted the ornate, vicious implement and turned it in his hands to catch the light.
Perfect!
Book Two: Death in the Sound Excerpts
Somewhere in Sydney
16th February
9:30pm
Carolyn Nolloth studied the manicure her maid had furnished her with, picked up the glass vase of pink roses, and flung it at the young woman who stood shaking by the door.
“I said I wanted points, not ovals! Get out, you idiot!” Carolyn swept her arm across the surface of the table, spilling the manicure paraphernalia onto the carpet.
The man standing by the window laughed as the terrified young maid fled. “You do realise that’s another one who will leave? You’re getting through maids like most people get through tea!”
Carolyn smirked. “They need to know their place. If they weren’t so useless, I would keep them longer.” She held her slim, pale hand up to the light. “She didn’t do that bad a job, though.” Turning to look at her lover, she arranged her peignoir to best show her legs and fluffed her chestnut curls. “Well, what do you think?”
Morten Van der Linde smiled. “You know very well what I think!”
Carolyn laughed. “Not about that! About the letter from Octavius: the invitation to my darling niece’s twenty-first birthday!”
Morten moved to the dressing table and caressed Carolyn’s neck. “I think it has…possibilities.”
Carolyn caught his hand and gave him a hard look. “What do you mean, possibilities?”
Morten perched on the edge of the dressing table. “I have a proposition. Think about it before making a decision.”
She narrowed her eyes. “This sounds ominously like one of your plans, Morten. But go on.”
He took a deep breath. Time to strike! “Mereanthy will be twenty-one, yes?”
Carolyn smirked as she turned back to her mirror and smoothed one exquisitely drawn eyebrow. “I just said that, darling. Well done!”
He ignored her remark. “Twenty-one is when she will come into her inheritance from her mother, yes?”
Carolyn’s smirk was replaced with a look of bitterness that twisted her full-lipped beauty into an ugly mask. “My sainted sister! I will never forgive that bitch for cutting me out of her will. After everything I did for her! I even gave my brat of a son Damant’s surname to ensure the sacred family name would continue!”
Morten hid his delight. This was too easy! He took her hand and kissed it. “An idea, my darling ― you might not be keen, but don’t dismiss it out of hand. Mereanthy will be of an age to marry. As far as I can see, there are no suitors
paying court to her in the barren wastes of Milford Sound…and that is where I come in. What say you?”
Carolyn stared at him in silence. “Are you suggesting that we ― that is, you ― court and marry my niece?”
Morten nodded. “We can take control of her inheritance. Then I shall divorce her, marry you, and we will have the money that should rightfully be yours! My dear, what do you say?”
Carolyn looked at him blankly for a few moments, then very slowly, a malicious smile appeared on her face. “Why divorce, when there are so many far more interesting options available?”
Morten stared at her; this was moving in a direction he had not foreseen. “How do you mean?”
Carolyn picked up her hairbrush and lightly fluffed her hair. “She has always been like her mother, going for moonlight wanders on her own, that sort of thing. Perhaps an accident ― in the Sound? An ‘Oh my God she’s gone overboard’ kind of accident.” She leant back in her chair, a triumphant look in her blue eyes. “Well, my dear, what say you?”
Looking at her, Morten had a sudden feeling that despite his extensive criminal experience, in this particular instance, Carolyn had the drop on him.
Hiding his unease behind a well-practised and charming smile, he wandered over to the bell pull and tugged it. After a brief wait the butler arrived, and Morten looked at Carolyn. “Champagne to celebrate, my dear?”
Carolyn nodded at her butler. “See to it, Marshall!”
The butler bowed his head and left the room as the two began their plans for the seduction, marriage, and murder of Mereanthy Ozanne Damant.
The Snug
10:10pm
Thorne looked at the piece of paper in his hand. How much would Aquilleia remember of them? Everything…or nothing? He turned back to the little bar and with a grimace ordered another whisky. Vasily, who was now permanently
manning the large selection of drinks, noted his expression and poured him a double.
As Thorne knocked his drink back in one, a hideous scream suddenly exploded from the deck above, the noise flooding through the small room like a malignant wave.
An unnatural silence descended as the guests gaped at each other like gaffed fish. Thorne choked out an oath and dropped his glass as he and Vasily turned to face the door to the port-side deck. They were quickly joined by Elliott, Colten, and a white-jowled Thornton.
As they made their way towards the door, Desdemonia and the two stewards appeared from the kitchens. Vasily held his hand out to his wife and spoke in an authoritative voice. “Stay here. Trevenniss, Callahan, stay with the ladies. The rest of you gentlemen, with me.”
The five men headed out as the screams continued, each piercing shriek seeming to redouble its efforts in an attempt to convey the suffering of its owner.
Giselle stood up and made to follow. Merry looked up, her eyes huge in her pale face. “Where are you going?” Her voice held a note of hysteria.
Giselle knelt by her chair. “I think it’s your Aunt Carolyn. Where is her cabin?”
Merry took a deep breath, attempting to marshal her thoughts. “Through the snug onto the deck, up the stairs, turn immediate left…it’s not the cabin before you, it’s to the left of that, just before the store cupboard.”
Giselle squeezed the girl’s hand. Josephine moved to sit closer to the young girl, who clutched at her.
Giselle gathered her skirts and turned to leave. As she did so, she caught Lady Carlton-Cayce’s eye. The Scandinavian beauty held her glance as Giselle continued on her way to Carolyn’s cabin.
As she swept up the stairs, she could hear the screams beginning to weaken. She walked faster, but before she reached the top of the stairs, she heard Elliott’s voice calling to someone. “It’s lye! Vinegar! For the love of the Gods, we need vinegar!”
Colten suddenly appeared, thrusting her aside as he ran down the stairs towards the kitchen, his usual dry demeanour supplanted by one of utter horror.
Giselle reached the first deck and found Thornton Rust gripping the rail, his well-rehearsed blustering manner forgotten as he vomited over the side of the boat. A feeling of dread consumed her as she approached the open cabin door
where a silent and shaking Sir Wesley stood, his eyes desperately averted from the hideous scene in the room beyond, but his ears could not block out the sounds; Carolyn’s screams had lessened in strength but had become more
unsettling: wet, rasping sobs that were far worse to hear.
As Giselle reached the doorway she took in the broken lock and splintered wood that showed it had been locked from the inside before being forced.
Thorne appeared from within the room, his face deathly pale. He grasped her by her wrists; his green eyes blazing with a violet light as his otherness fought to control his shock at what he had witnessed. His voice, usually light and
sardonic, was low and harsh. “No, Giselle ― don’t go in!”
As they stood in the doorway, the moaning sobs ebbed into a hideous, gurgling rattle.
Deathly silence filled the air, then suddenly, O.D’s shaking voice. “She’s dead, thank God, she’s dead!”
London
An Evening in September
1900
Piotr Rose tipped a shilling to the young girl who had reunited him with his topper and coat before turning towards the door of his club and the chill autumn air of the bustling street beyond. He paused on the threshold and
inhaled ― the scent of burning coal was a favourite of his; it was the smell of movement and industry.
His son Simeon joined him, hastily wrapping his scarf around his throat. “I’m sorry, Father, Mr Reynolds was rather insistent about knowing the rates for purchases made before the close of business today.”
Piotr settled his hat on his head and screwed his monocle in with a little more force than was necessary. “I trust you weren’t too generous with your figures?”
Simeon laughed as the two men walked back to the main road to hail a hansom cab, weaving between the assorted pedestrians, vendors, and bawling paperboys whose collective clamour, odour, and constant movement embodied
Piotr’s ideal of the true essence of a city. “Not at all ― I remembered his attempt to buy the goldsmiths we were in talks with, and without a word to us!” Simeon shook his head at the memory. “I gave him the full price. He tried to barter, but I insisted. Carat for carat, he is unknowingly willing to pay us five percent over the usual…but only for blue and yellow diamonds of greater than two carats per stone.”
Piotr nodded thoughtfully as he dodged a wily young street urchin who had spotted them from the other side of the street, and had fixed his bright eye upon the elderly man’s fob watch. Piotr slapped the boy’s groping, inexpert hand away and tossed a penny to him. “Practice, young man! Everything works better with practice. Better luck next time.”
As they continued down the street, Piotr checked the time on the ornate little watch that had caught the urchin’s eye. They had left their club at the usual time and would be home before eight o’clock; his daughter, her husband, and
their young son would be joining them for dinner that evening, and both he and Simeon were under strict orders from his wife not to be late. He tucked the watch back in its pocket and turned his attention to the business at hand.
“How many carats in total?”
Simeon paused as they fought their way through a jostling crowd outside a theatre. “He wants a minimum of four hundred carats in blue and one hundred carats in yellow.”
Piotr’s monocle popped out of his eye. “What on earth does he want that many diamonds for? A tiara?”
His son shrugged. “In truth, Father, I don’t care. He can glue them to his mistress and present her to the Prince of Wales as a birthday gift if he wishes, so long as he informs His Royal Highness that the gems came from the Rose
Diamond Company!”
Piotr chuckled. “As you say, my boy, as you say!”
Both men laughed as they stepped into the main thoroughfare, and made their way towards the rank of waiting hansom cabs.
They were halfway across the wide, busy road when a covered carriage, seemingly without a cabby at the helm, suddenly appeared at the end of the street, scattering pedestrians as its four black horses thundered directly towards the two men.
As the warning shouts grew louder, Piotr and Simeon turned, but the carriage was upon them. Screams erupted from the horrified witnesses as both men were struck by the careering carriage. Their bodies were thrown through the air like rag dolls before landing with sickening thuds by the kerb.
As people gathered around them, Simeon painfully turned his head to look at Piotr, whose sightless eyes gazed past his son’s face. “Father…”
Several hundred yards down the road the carriage slowed, and made its way down several side streets until it came to a halt at Euston train station. As the sweating horses steamed in the chill September air, the traces that led from their bridles into the curtained cab slackened, as the person within dropped the reins they had threaded through the carriage wall to give sufficient privacy to carry out their murderous work.
After a pause, the rear door opened and the figure responsible for the outrage stepped down from the cab. Without a backward glance, they made their way towards the waiting train that would take them home.
The Drawbridge
10:35am
Luci was already on his second coupe of champagne when Cornelius and the others arrived. He greeted them with a smile worthy of a host and gestured expansively towards the groaning table. “Superb spread, my dear Cornelius! Ami, my darling, thank you so much for the invitation. I ran into some old friends and thought they might like to meet up with the old gang, as it were. Araby, Alistair, Perry, Sebastian ― I’m sure you remember the Pepperbelles,
Felix and Fern?”
Araby’s jaw clenched as she looked at the brother and sister who had been the cause of some of the more unpleasant memories of her early years at Cove Castle.
Tall and bony, with thin blond hair, pointed features, and judgemental eyes that gave one the sensation of being glared at by a malnourished and ill-mannered ferret, Felix Pepperbelle was the island’s querulous, aspiring firebrand. Fully equipped with delusions of both artistic and political adequacy, he was a dedicated and vocal proponent of anything that would not only upset the applecart, but fling it, along with its contents and driver, into the very river of history and replace it with his shining vision of the future…
which revolved around his hitherto-unrecognised artistic genius and unsurpassed political intellect.
He was clad in an uninspiring but expensive set of khaki-coloured tweeds that he had purchased from Savile Row and roughened on a cheese grater to make them appear well worn. His ever-present flat cap was perched at what he
believed to be a jaunty angle. He ran his thumbs along the edge of his pockets as though they were braces, and bestowed on the assembled group a smile that sat oddly on his pursed and disapproving face. “Morning, morning…and
how is everyone on this bright and hopeful day?”
Cornelius gave what could only be described as a lack‐lustre response as he cast his eyes back to the castle. What was keeping Merric? Dealing with this sort of thing was something the reluctant lord was simply going to have to get
used to…and he could damn well start with the odious Felix and his execrable sister, Fern!
The aforementioned Fern, the elder sibling by a few minutes, while not nearly as tall as her brother, was equally as bony. Her oxblood day outfit, though expensive, was quite badly fitted, designed as it was for a woman several inches taller and with rather more curves than sharp edges. Her over-jacket bunched in unbecoming folds around her armpits, and her bustle appeared to be on a par with the backs of her knees, lending her quite possibly the most peculiar shape ever inflicted on the female form. With her scrawny neck protruding above her ill-fitted jacket, her bulbous eyes that glared myopically at the guests, her total lack of chin, and her bustle scraping along the floor behind her, she gave the appearance of a goose preparing for war.
Her brother’s most devoted supporter, and his equal in pettishness, Fern also lacked social ability, decency, tolerance or politeness ― and the less said about her table manners, the better!
Cornelius gritted his teeth and glared at Luci, who took a sip from his glass and smiled back in his easy, charming manner. He knew full well the depth of the reciprocated feelings between the Pepperbelles and Cornelius. His smile
deepened; this should be an interesting morning!
Cornelius scowled. Hopefully they would be gone before the snow began; he had no desire to offer those two pontificating wretches a room for the night!
As he opened his mouth to speak, the nasal whine that passed for Fern Pepperbelle’s voice suddenly broke the silence as she guffawed loudly, her large teeth giving the visual effect of a braying donkey. “Alistair? Luci, I actually thought you said Alistair! Good joke there!”
Cornelius glared at her. “And why would you think it funny, Miss Pepperbelle?”
She looked at him incredulously. “Oh, I say ― after what he did? And then lacking the courage to admit it and running off like that…I always knew he was a bad lot; a murderous, capitalist—”
She almost doubled over as her brother elbowed her in the ribs with extreme force. He smiled in a distinctly obsequious manner at Cornelius. “What my sister was going to say was that we haven’t seen Alistair for many years—”
“Then your wait is over!” Cornelius, his face almost purple with rage, pointed a trembling finger at Elliott. “This is Alistair Burgoyne. And in answer to your sister’s revolting display of ill-bred, ill-mannered malice, there was never any
proof that Alistair attacked or murdered anyone! In fact, there is rather more evidence to the contrary!” He stared down the now slack-jawed siblings before him. “I have had enough of both you and your sister, Felix. Neither of you will
ever be welcomed here again, nor will either of you receive any form of hospitality from this family while I live! Begone, you greedy, sanctimonious, grasping wretches! Begone, or I shall practise my archery skills on you!”
Felix gaped at Cornelius and turned to look imploringly at Luci, who instead raised his glass with an expression of extreme enjoyment. “Well, Felix, Fern…it would appear that we have just seen hoist and petard made manifest! It has been long in coming, but it was a beautiful thing to witness! Do not wait upon the order of your passing, my dear Pepperbelles; the path to the village lies before you!”
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The Garden
11:25pm
In the damp, dark undergrowth by the mausoleum, Veronique slowly woke. The black Labrador whimpered softly as she blinked away the blood that had run from the deep wound into her brown eyes. In the dim light afforded by the snow, she made out the crushed shape of the lamp Thorne had been carrying; she sniffed at the ground where he had fallen and found a second scent…a scent of leather, and cruelty, and pain; a scent she remembered all too well from days long past. Realising what had taken Thorne, Veronique sat beside the lamp, threw back her head and howled.
She stood slowly, her legs wobbling as she made her way back and forth across the clearing, her nose pressed to the ground. Another scent, of sadness tinged with alcohol; another of pride and paper; and yet another…the scent of a terrified child.
Veronique stood still; her dark nose still pressed to the chill ground. She remembered when they had caught the creature in Astraea, and what she and the others had found…what it had done to its victims…
Growling, she turned back to her search. She paused at another scent she recognised: the scent of death. She followed it to the dark side of the mausoleum, where she discovered the body of Leander’s nanny, Harriet Marshall.
Veronique pressed her sensitive nose against the young woman’s cold hand, then sat down with a thump as a wave of nausea hit her. Turning her head slowly, she saw the narrow beginning of the stream that turned into Horseman Falls.
Veronique padded to the water and dipped her head into its chill depths; the blood from her wound was washed away as the coldness of the water helped ease the pain in her head.
Taking several laps of the bitterly cold stream, Veronique moved back to the last place she had seen Thorne. Her eyes were clear now, her manner calmer, as she paced along the ground, following the scent to an old door that was not quite closed. Veronique worked her nose into the narrow gap and forced the door open.
As she entered the passageway beyond, she caught Thorne’s scent. With a faint wag of her tail, she followed it into the dark.
This sounds like an excellent series.
ReplyDeleteI like the cover art, synopses and excerpt, this sounds like an excellent book and series, a must read for me. Thank you for sharing the author's bio and books' details
ReplyDeleteReally lovely cover art-- I can't wait to give this series a read! Thanks so much for sharing.
ReplyDelete