The Hollows: A Midnight Gunn Novel Read online

  The warehouse was fourth in the catalogue. Midnight noticed the heavies from the East India Trading Company sit to attention. This was it, he gathered his thoughts and readied his armoury. He glanced at Arthur to his left who, up till now had looked decidedly bored but recognising the apprehension of Gunn’s face, leaned forward eagerly. Midnight then looked to his right, Giles adjusted his cravat and bowler, preparing himself for the battle ahead. He gave his friend and master an approving nod and then the auction began.

  Twenty minutes later the tension in the room was palpable, three bidders competed for the win. Midnight kept his cool, not even glancing in his competitor’s direction. After two more rounds the third bidder dropped out leaving him and the big wigs from the East India Company. This is when things got serious- nobody went head to head with East India for long. This group of men represented the wealth of the whole of London; they owned, ran or had stock in almost every large import and export business in the city. It did not do well to challenge their status quo but Midnight did not scare easily. Neither did he have limitless amounts of money, his coffers were full to brimming but they were nothing compared to the seemingly infinite collective wealth of his opponents. He did not favour underhanded tactics but sometimes the cause outweighed the method and the people of London needed this. Polly needed this. In this particular circumstance cheating was necessary.

  Midnight let the bidding continue for another few rounds until the price rose high enough for it not to be too suspicious when his opponents gave up the ghost. He raised his hand and put in his own bid- and then he slowly began to call on the shadows. Nobody but Giles and Gredge noticed the room grow increasingly dim.

  “What are you doing?” Gredge hissed.

  “Winning,” Midnight said simply. The big wigs conspiratorial mutterings quickly turned to arguments among their group. The bloated toads rowing over the prize lily-pad began to draw the attention of the whole room and the auctioneer, whilst Midnight sat calmly and waited. The gavel banged loudly several times as the auctioneer called for order.

  “I say! Order! The bid lies with this gentleman in the left corner,” the auctioneer declared, gesturing to where Midnight sat, “Order! I must ask if any of you intend to bid further, gentlemen please!” He banged his gavel so hard Midnight was surprised it didn’t break. The auctioneer looked so flustered his face was almost purple. Meanwhile the respected gentry from the East India Trading Company were almost to fisticuffs, it seemed none of them could agree whether to continue bidding or not. Other patrons had got involved- attempting to calm the situation down. Most just looked appalled or confused at the ungentlemanly outburst and were chuffing and muttering their disgust to their neighbour.

  Arthur Gredge stared in total wonderment at the scene that played out in front of him. The auctioneer had had enough and slammed his gavel down one last time before yelling as loudly as he could,

  “Sold! To the gentleman in the corner!”

  Midnight nodded and a smile spread across his face. Rising from his seat, Giles congratulated him.

  “Well done Sir! A most entertaining battle and you emerged victorious.” he shook Midnight’s hand vigorously then added dryly, “Who would’ve thought it?”

  “Thank you Giles. The outcome is most pleasing indeed!”

  He turned to face Arthur who stood with both hands on his hips shaking his head like he could not believe what he’d just witnessed.

  “You cheated,” he wispered.

  “Are you going to arrest me Arthur?”

  “I ought to.”

  “But you’re not.” It was not a question.

  “No. I’m not. I’ll never work you out Midnight but I know you must have a bloody good reason for doing whatever it is you just did.”

  “The best reason.” Midnight assured him.

  “Well, I can’t say it didn’t please me to see them lot lose out for once,” Arthur indicated towards the group of now baffled-looking men, “how about you tell me over a pint? No tea, a pint and the truth.”

  “I am rather parched, Arthur. Auctions seem to make one’s thirst insatiable!” He grinned and slapped him on the arm. “Giles, will you join us?”

  “Alas Sir, much as it would thrill me to accompany you for a ‘pint’, somebody must attend to daily chores and Mrs. Philips cannot do it alone.”

  “Ever the professional Giles.” Midnight sighed. “Thank you for attending today. Please inform the ever-lovely Clementine, I shall be home for dinner at six-thirty sharp.” Giles nodded and left, leaving midnight and Arthur to wander off to the nearest pub for an ale. As they walked and chatted side by side, Midnight couldn’t help but notice that the day seemed a little brighter and his step a little lighter than before.

  The Rowbotham’s home was grand but gaudy. The family was not from traditional landed gentry but were what people referred to as ‘new money’ and some would declare their taste in decor as vulgar. Midnight cared not a jot how people chose to decorate their houses, grand mansion or slum made no difference to him. A family that grieved for their lost daughter sat before him and grief is a great equaliser. He, of course could sympathise with their pain and he could tell that the Rowbothams’ was heartfelt and genuine. He could also tell that they were holding back. Midnight could sense emotions and he could feel the lies rolling off Mr. Rowbotham’s tongue.

  “She was a sensible girl. She favoured the music halls but only when accompanied by myself and her mother. She would never willingly go there alone.”

  “And you have no idea why your daughter would be in that area on a Saturday evening if it wasn’t to visit a show?” Gredge enquired.

  “None. None at all.” Mr. Rowbotham shifted in his seat.

  “What about this appointment? Last we spoke, you said she had arranged to meet somebody. Have you remembered who?”

  Mrs. Rowbotham cleared her throat which earned her a cautionary look from her husband. Midnight leaned forward in his chair and spoke calmly and directly to her.

  “Your daughter, it seems, was a fine young lady. About to enter the prime of her life, the world at her feet. What a dreadful waste it would be if her murderer remained at large. I can assure you Mrs. Rowbotham, what passes between us in this room is entirely confidential. Arthur and I,” -he hoped the use of first names would put her at ease- “we just want to catch the culprit and see him punished for what he did to poor Miss Emeline.” Midnight saw Mrs. Rowbotham’s face twitch as if she were fighting back tears. He continued his plea, changing tactics he said, “There are others. Alive but very much suffering by his hands- a young child named Polly. She’s around seven years old, a pitiful scrap of a girl. It’s too late to save your Emeline Mrs. Rowbotham but you can help Polly. We just need more information, anything…”

  “Nightingale,” Mrs. Rowbotham blurted out, unable to hold in her grief any longer, “Somebody called Nightingale. She… Emeline, she had trouble. Anxiety if you will. She had trouble coping with the demands of a young woman in polite society.”

  “Dearest, please…” Her husband laid a hand on hers.

  “No. It needs to be said my love. We must bear the shame, it is our fault. We are the ones who thrust her into the limelight, into a world she didn’t belong.” She patted her husband’s hand, dabbed her eyes with a kerchief and continued. “We made enquiries with the doctors in Harley Street to see if anyone could help her. Her mind was unsettled. They gave her medicine to calm her nerves and it worked for a time but then she needed more and more of it but the doctors wouldn’t prescribe it. She began to seek it elsewhere. At first she paid one of the servants to acquire it. We found out and had to terminate our footman’s employment. Then she would take trips out of the house, unaccompanied and sometimes not come back for hours but when she did she was always happy and calm. She would sleep for a long time, and we thought she was perhaps getting better. She started sneaking out after dinner in the evenings and when we challenged her about it she said she’d found a Nightingale- an angel in disgui
se who was helping her. She seemed so happy we… we should’ve stopped her…Oh! What have we done? It’s all our fault!” Mrs. Rowbotham broke down in tears, her husband tried to comfort her.

  “So it was this Nightingale she had planned to meet the night she disappeared?” Gredge asked. Mr. Rowbotham nodded.

  “Yes but I’m afraid that’s all we know, aside from knowing he resides in Southwark somewhere. We’ve searched her room and her belongings for a calling card or anything that might tell us who they are. My wife thinks this Nightingale may be able to tell us something, anything that may put our minds at peace.”

  “Information that would’ve been useful to us at the time of initial investigation.” Gredge said under his breath. Midnight shot him a look and Gredge shrugged.

  “Do you perhaps have any of Miss Emeline’s medicine left?” Midnight asked.

  “Yes, it’s in her room. I’ll go and fetch it.” Mrs. Rowbotham got up, straightened her skirts and left the room. Mr. Rowbotham looked uncomfortable.

  “You understand,” he appealed directly to Midnight, “being a gentleman of … new social standing is very hard. One must fight for one’s place in polite society, prove oneself both in business and in one’s personal affairs. In my precarious position, I... I cannot afford a scandal.” He didn’t say any more but looked down at his hands.

  “Indeed.” Midnight replied. He didn’t trust himself to elaborate. How cruel this world was that a person and his family could be so petrified of ruin because of their daughter’s struggles. He thought again of the bulbous old toads at the auction and felt even more justified in his actions against them. They were landed gentry like himself but they were worlds apart, still stuck in the trappings of aristocratic etiquette, getting fat on other people’s toils and strife. Mayhap he should tell Mr. Rowbotham not to aim too high for he wouldn’t like the company he would be keeping. But, the loss of their only daughter amid fear of social ruin, was probably indication enough.

  Mrs. Rowbotham returned with a small wooden box. Arthur took it and examined the engravings on the exterior. He opened it and sniffed the contents.

  “Opium,” he stated and passed it to Midnight who also sniffed and nodded in agreement. The wooden box was adorned with curious carvings, Chinese in origin. One in particular caught Midnight’s eye- a tiny double-headed dragon, engraved in the bottom right corner. It was separate from the rest of the design, lost like an insignia of sorts,

  “Arthur, look here. Does this look familiar?” Arthur bent to look and shook his head.

  “Not particularly. What are you thinking?”

  “It doesn’t fit with the rest of the design, I think it’s a mark or a badge, perhaps some club or gang symbol?”

  “Hmm, you could be right. It’s worth a look.” Arthur turned to the Rowbotham’s. “May we borrow this for a time?”

  “If you think it’ll help.” Mr. Rowbotham shrugged despondently.

  “Thank you. Well, I think we have made some progress today. I’ll be in touch. I apologise for the intrusion.”

  Midnight stood up and shook Mr. Rowbotham’s hand and kissed the hand of his wife.

  “I’m sorry for your loss, I truly am and I promise we will find whoever did this to your daughter.”

  Gunn followed Arthur out of the door and on to the street. Gredge turned to Midnight waving the little wooden box in front of him.

  “I bloody knew they were hiding something! Never expected an opium addicted daughter though. At least we have a line of investigation now.”

  “I take it you’ll be hitting the opium dens next then?”

  “You yes, me no. They’ll smell a copper a mile off. If you’d oblige me that is?”

  Midnight wanted nothing more than to put an end to these attacks and catch the fiend that killed Emeline Rowbotham and had hurt little Polly and the others. The contrast between the Midnight that helped Scotland Yard and the reluctant aristocrat that managed his father’s estate was vast. Although fortunate enough to have Money, land and title, he preferred not to sit idle. His wealth merely reminded him that he had much more than others. He was generous with his fortune; always making donations to worthy causes that supported London’s poor. He would often frequent the poorest boroughs in the evening, using the shadows to mask his presence. That way he found he could observe in inconspicuous anonymity. What he witnessed there appealed to his conscience and fuelled his desire to help wherever he could. Something about solving crimes made him feel alive, useful... normal. Midnight agreed to Gredge’s request, much to the relief of the Inspector who nodded back and strode off to hail them a cab.

  Polly’s tiny pale face haunted Midnight, he didn’t know why but that tiny scrap of a child had gotten under his skin. He’d seen many children in dire straits in need of food, warmth and shelter and he’d helped indirectly with hefty donations to orphanages and hospitals, but had never allowed himself to become emotionally involved. What made Polly different? He decided it was time for another visit to St. Thomas’. Perhaps this time he could help her, maybe help them all.

  “Polly the match girl, Sal the barmaid, Charlie Fenwick who worked as a costermonger, Billy Bromley from the rope yard and Laura Carter, she worked down at the White Hart and lived in Southwark with her Mum and two sisters. Those are the only ones left.” Gredge ticked names off his list and shook his head. “What a bloody waste.”

  “Of lives or of potential leads?”

  “Bloody hell Gunn, I’m not totally unsympathetic you know. Of course I mean a waste of life… although you have to admit, it’s a damn shame you never got another stab at getting some information out of the others before they popped their clogs.” Arthur sighed and blew air out of his pursed lips. “Now we just need to chase up this bunch and see if the families will allow us access…if they aren’t dead already.” He added.

  “May I see?” Arthur handed Midnight a few documents. They were stood in the outer corridor of the ward at St Thomas’ with the discharge papers the Matron had given Gredge. Two of the female patients had passed away since their last visit and the remaining victims were either with family or being ‘left to rot’, as Midnight saw it, in various institutions for the mentally disturbed.

  “Carter and Fenwick have gone home to family, lucky they had someone to claim them really. Bromley, Sal and the girl have gone to the All Souls Asylum.”

  “Polly is in an asylum?” Midnight grabbed the remaining documents from Arthur and studied them, frowning. “I thought she was going to an orphanage?”

  “Well, one would assume nobody would want to adopt a virtual corpse,” said Arthur dryly.

  “We’re going there, now!” Midnight thrust the papers back at Arthur and strode off at a determined pace down the corridor. Arthur followed,

  “I suppose we are.”

  As the carriage pulled up outside, Midnight craned his head out of the window and was met with a terrible sense of foreboding. The battered sign out front read All Souls Pauper Asylum in black with bronze lettering. The huge iron entrance gate stood tall and grim amid a great brick wall that surrounded the property.

  The two colleagues alighted the carriage and Midnight gave the cabbie instructions to wait here for their return. The rusting iron gate creaked loudly as it swung laboriously open, allowing them to enter. They walked up a sweeping dirt driveway towards the front door of a once grand-looking house but which now stood in a sorry state of disrepair and neglect. Midnight could tell immediately that this establishment was vastly underfunded, running on bare-boned charity from however many benefactors they could muster sympathies from for the poor people of London. His stride lengthened, his determination to get to Polly and the others as fast as he could was foremost in his mind. Arthur had to jog to keep up with him.

  “Slow down! What’s the rush? It’s not as if they’re going anywhere is it?”

  “This isn’t right. I need to see them, now!”

  Midnight rapped hard on the wooden entrance and the door opened to a smilin
g woman in her mid-forties, dressed in plain black with white apron and cap. Bits of wispy greying hair stuck out randomly from under her cap, her cheeks were slightly flushed, giving her a flustered appearance.

  “Can I help you gentlemen?”

  Arthur stepped forward, “Detective Inspector Gredge of Scotland Yard Ma’am, we’re here to see three of your patients.”

  “Oh. I see. I suppose you’d better come in then.” She stood to the side to let them in, “Which patients are you wanting then? Only we’re ‘avin a skit in the common room see and I’d hate to disturb ‘em. Poor beggars don’t get much entertaining.”

  Midnight was first through the door. He looked around briefly as if deciding which way to go as Arthur spoke to the attendant.

  “We need to see a young amputee by the name of Polly, a woman of around twenty years old called Sal and an older gent; Billy Bromley. They were all transfers from St Thomas’ earlier this week.”

  The woman nodded.

  “Ah yes, I remember. Mr. Bromley and Miss Sally, that’s what we call her, are upstairs in their rooms and the little Miss is in the parlour there enjoying the skit.”

  Midnight didn’t hesitate, he headed straight for the parlour in the direction the woman had pointed.

  “I suppose I’ll be going upstairs then?” Arthur shouted after him but he got no reply. He indicated to the woman, whose name was Annie, to show him upstairs and left Midnight to find Polly.