Beautiful Freaks (16 page)

He kissed them both before leaving. As soon as he shut the front door behind him, he stopped and pulled out the card from his sleeve
and
took
a closer look.

At first it looked like a standard black and white playing card, although perhaps slightly more ornate than the regular kind. The Queen of Clubs was prettier than usual – her double head reminding him of a portrait he’d once seen of
Queen Elizabeth I
. But on closer inspection he noted there were things incredibly odd about it. The artist had drawn a looped serpent around
the queen’s
slim neck
,
its head swallowing its tail to form an O
urobos, the symbol of eternity. And over her left eye they’d drawn a monocle.

Steptree didn’t like the card
, not
at all. He especially didn’t like the fact that he had found it at the very heart of his home. It felt like a warning
,
an invasion. There was no rational explanation as to how it had come to be there – unless somebody had snuck in
during
the night and left it there for him to find.
‘But then why there?
How often does a chap look under his breakfast table?’

Various, worrying scenario
s dogged him all along his well-
worn walk. It felt as if there were invisible shifts taking place and for whatever reason he had b
ecome an unwilling participant in a game.
Steptree did not want to be a hero; he had no desire to valiantly engage in battle. He had chosen the life he did, solving crimes, because it had been something that occupied his mind, gave him a focus in life. It had always been more about the solving of a problem than any quest for justice
.
That was Chester’s role. He had a fire in his belly for it. People paid Steptree well for his detective skill
s. He
was effective and grief made people generous. 

The bell above the door informed
him that he’
d arrived at the coffeehouse. It was
busy. Brown was already there,
accompanied by Chester
who’
d
happened to be
passing
when he saw Brown sitting in the window. It was a fortunate stroke of luck.

Steptree took a seat and the serving girl came over with a cup of African coffee, just the way that he always took it.
He and Brown had met almost daily here for the five years of their acquaintance. It was a second home to both of them.

“Morning, Steppers,
” Chester said between puffs on his pipe.

Brown
just smiled and nodded his greeting.

“Morning!
” Steptree forced a smile onto his face. He realised he was still gripping the playing card in his hand.
Brown
clocked it and offered him a quizzical look, inviting him to share. Steptree looked at him in the silent communication of close friends. He tucked the playing card into his inside pocket, nestling next to the business card for ‘Evangeline’s
.’
Brown
nodded and it was agreed that they would talk about it later when not in the company of the police chief.

“Good evening last night, wasn’t it?” Chester puffed. “That Heartlock is an interesting fellow, don’t you think?”

“He has a little too wild an imagination for my liking,” Steptree replied before taking a swig of the
sweet
black coffee.

“Aye, but he knows what he’s talking about – be assured o’that.”

“How do you know?”
Steptree asked.

“I’ve been to quite a few of his talks. He has photographs and artefacts that corroborate his stories – and he’s a scientific bloke too. Has a great big science lab at the top of that house. Sad he can’t make the use o
f it now, what with being invalid
.”

“I suppose you can find evidence for a
nything if you look hard enough,
” Steptree retorted cynically.

“Well, we don’t seem to be finding much evidence of late, Sir.”
Brown
uttered and then realised he perhaps had sounded somewhat impert
inent. “Begging your pardon
.”

Steptree and Chester both burst out into a laugh.

“Aye, you be right on that one,
Brown
.” Chester chortled. “You be a dry one alright.”

Brown
smiled, relieved not
to have caused offense.
The three of them sat and discussed the various elements of the cases, each of them jotting down notes and questions into their notebooks. They were sure to keep their voices low, not wanting the strange details of the cases overheard by the other patrons. It felt good to do this, as if they were taking control of the situation – striving towards a logical resolution. They had just allocated their various paths of investigation when a police constable tapped on the window and beckoned the chief out. The matter looked urgent and the young police constable, the one who Steptree recognised
as Phillips
from the tree incident, wore a look of extreme disquiet.

Steptree and
Brown
watched the unfolding conversation through the glass. Various grave nods of the head, shrugs of the shoulder
,
and heavy sighs told Steptree all he needed to know.

There had been another one.

He gathered his hat and his cane, drank deeply from the remainder of his coffee
,
and beckoned
Brown
to follow him. Chester had hailed a passing cab and was already sat in the dark of the carriage awaiting his companions.

11

PLAYING WITH FIRE

The cab dropped them off at Covent Garden. It was busy and it surprised Steptree that a crime should not be discovered until so late in the morning. The market was already heaving with traders and buyers and they had to abandon the cab to carry the rest of their short journey on foot.

Steptree hated the market; it was too full of life, almost seething with it. It always brought to mind the distressing truth that man was nothing more than an oversized insect, scurrying through his little existence.

“Over here, Chief!”
A call came from within the gathered crowd.

Chester looked back over his shoulder towards Steptree before
he quickened
his pa
ce to
a
jog. Steptree understood
Brown’s
curiosity
,
and as much as he feared what he might look upon, he felt almost equally excited.

There was a guard of police but
,
unlike the incident in the park, this murder had a whole arena of spectators who were transfixed by the oddity.

Steptr
ee looked down briefly at the burnt
remains of
a human before turning away. With
his hand over his mouth,
he tried to resist
the urge to vomit up his morning coffee. Something
screamed
at him in his mind,
‘Look again! Look again!’

He turned slowly and stared at what had been the face of a gentleman. He knew this by the clothes.
‘
The clothes! Why are they not burnt?’
He turned to
Brown
and saw in his expression that he was thinking the same.

Steptree took a step forward, crouched down beside the unfortunate wretch.
There wasn’t
a single scorch mark on the rich velvets and silks. He beckoned
over
Brown
who
knelt down beside him
.

“What do you make of it?” Steptree asked in a low voice.

“I think it very strange either way, Sir?”

“Either way?”

“Aye, strange if he has been dressed afterwards, stranger if he wasn’t.”

Steptree nodded and let out
an ‘hmm’
of understanding.
The corpse was burnt so badly that it was mainly black. Where it wasn’t
,
bright
,
livid wounds the colour of poppies split through the skin. The lips and mouth of the poor unfortunate had shrunk back with the cooking, and his teeth were now displayed in a disgusting
grin that seemed to be mocking D
eath itself.

“What could have done this?” Chester said, having joined their intimate confab. Steptree noticed the use of the word
‘what’ rather than ‘w
ho’ and he understood more than he cared to dare that the word choice was exactly right.

“I think it’s time to make a visit to Heartlock and get the old boy down to the morgue to take a look at things,” Chester said as he stood and scribbled note
s into his book
.

A
lthough it pained Steptree’s cynicism to say it, he nodded and said, “I think maybe you are right.”

SERAPHINA

THE FIRE ANGEL

The s
tars are pathway
s
through the night.
It is
not the light
that
I seek
,
but the dark
ness
. My heart beats to the velveteen hymn
that the night-
creatures sing
. I look to the
dark side of the moon.

The London
streets are rich pickings; f
ull of fools led by desire. They reek of it. It is a rich, appealing perfume. I lift the crimson silks of my skirts to avoid the fetid puddles of piss and dirt that gather amongst the cobbles. There is little hope for my satin shoes. It does not matter; before the morning comes they will be stained with blood.

The silk of
my gown is flecked with gold
wires and I know when the men turn their heads to look at me, they are reminded of flames. Instantly they burn with desire. There is a power in that. A man’s desire; it makes him weak.

It is clear I do not belong here. I am neither some cheap doxy nor slightly less cheap dolly mop. Neither am I some titled lady, gripping the arm of my heroic lord and master as he steers me through the streets of Sodom and Gomorrah.

Here
,
I am queen. My eyes blaze with promise and my lips speak temptation. In my stocking top I carry a dagger as a warning.

I push open the doors of the night-house and let my eyes drink in the light from the burning chandeliers. Languid, opium-heavy heads turn in my direction and smile. It is her
e I feel my true
transformation, that
I
feel the dragon within
.
I slink towards the bar, parting the way with my long, meandering body
;
my forked tongue licks the air in front of me. M
y smouldering eyes track from side to side.

At the bar a gentleman makes space for me and tips his head. He has a cruel smile, full of confidence. He believes himself to be a predator. He pulls forward a spare champagne bowl and fills it from the bottle in front of him.

I tip my head in thanks, fix my eyes
onto his,
and drink deeply.
‘He’ll do nicely,’
I think to myself.

*

Once upon a time there lived a qu
een. She was beautiful and kind,
virtuous in every way
. B
ut life had been unkind to her
,
and she was imprisoned in the lonely tower of a cruel and vicious marriage to a wicked and self-indulgent king.

Although the King and Queen had been married for nearly ten years,
she was
yet to
produce an heir
. With each passing year
,
the King grew increasingly sullen and unkind to her in the hope maybe bullying her would somehow make her produce a baby. In the last
few
years
,
he
’d even given up on that, no longer bothering
to be in her company
whenever State occasion did not call for it. This was a
fo
rm of relief, but the life of a kingless queen is terribly empty
.

One day as she sat weeping there came a knock at the door of her c
hamber. When she opened it
, it appeared
the knock
had just been
her imagination for she could
see
nobody there
. Just as she was about to shut it, she heard a small snuffling sound at her feet. Looking down she saw to her delight, a basket in which snuggled a baby.