Equal before the blade, p.1
Equal Before the Blade, page 1
Equal Before the Blade
AUGUSTUS DERLYTH: OCCULT DETECTIVE
BOOK THREE
BLAZE WARD
KNOTTED ROAD PRESS
Author’s Note
You will encounter occasional British spellings of things, as the main character is extremely English.
For Stone, the original Derlyth
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Read More
About the Author
Also by Blaze Ward
About Knotted Road Press
Chapter
One
Augustus turned at the sound of a motor carriage approaching. Beside him, Digby stiffened, registering the noise as well.
Fall was in the air, with that first hint of crispness on a damp breeze. They were outside London today. A bit out toward Kent on the southern bank of the Thames estuary, on the estate of a friend of Captain Digby’s who had offered them the place for the week, while that worthy spent time in Paris. Out in the rear of the estate today, enjoying the morning while doing a little physical training.
The automobile had the looks of having come direct from London. Dust everywhere. Must have set out frightfully early to have made such time, as Augustus and Digby had only just completed breaking their fast on the back patio, before retiring out the immense yard to practice.
Or rather, Augustus was practicing, while Digby watched and spotted.
The weapon was an atlatl. A primitive throwing-stick that generally predated the bow in most cultures. Augustus had several versions in his armoury, back in London, but he’d only brought the smallest one with him this week as he wasn’t planning to hunt the sorts of game that required a javelin to bring down.
The motor carriage had come past the manor house, so the driver must have been instructed. Augustus and Digby were in back, where a vast sward could hold large parties or small polo matches, depending on one’s need.
Augustus scowled. He wasn’t dressed for company today. Vacation from business and duty, and all that folderol. Durable pants in a waterproofed grey duck canvas over stout, lace-up boots. A simple white undershirt with a greenish military-style sweater over that. Just not the British military.
He had his wire-rim glasses off to one side, resting on the brim of his bowler, itself resting on the leather satchel Augustus had taken to carrying with him most locations that didn’t indicate black-tie.
In the near distance, a man-shaped target stood. Several darts emerged from the body, but Augustus was still getting the feel for the weapon again after so long. One had to practice, if one intended to hunt.
Gauging the distance, he had time for a final shot, which was just as well, as he as down to only two darts at this point. Augustus loaded one, took his stance, then, snapped an overhead throw. Fifty yards, which was all he was intending to work on today. He would have needed a heavier set to go longer, but again, this was just part of his practice.
Already, he had done some of the basic unarmed forms that Yun Shi Bao insisted on each morning before food or coffee. Later, he would practice with two swords, the one contained in the walking stick he frequently carried in the City, and the other a modern derivative of the sort of hand-and-a-half bastard sword that English Crusaders had carried to the Holy Land.
Digby was interested in learning those forms, which was why he’d come. And found a friend to loan them an unused estate.
The staff had kept their comments to themselves, but Augustus had seen the worry and occasional rolled eyes. It flowed off his back like water.
The dart struck. Low in the belly, but sufficient to kill most people, either directly or after a few days of sepsis, assuming that they could not find an adequate healer of the metaphysical arts.
Augustus had practiced, but he was still barely adequate at stopping a bleed when he cut himself shaving.
Sighing quietly, he turned to Digby and nodded. The giant man—six and a half feet tall—was dressed in a modern-cut suit. Wool against the encroaching fall. Blue lest you mistake him for a banker.
The automobile rolled to a halt perhaps twenty yards away and the driver set the brake with perhaps more energy than was strictly called for.
But then, Augustus strove in all things to match the effort to the need.
He squared his shoulders and considered who might have had the utter gall to call upon him here without any notice. Or invitation.
Not that some folks recognized such things. Augustus had not been born in their circles, so they frequently looked down upon him from the dizzying height of a raised nose.
He kept his growls to himself, even as Digby stepped up next to him.
Fortunately, the first person to exit the vehicle was Lady Claudette. He would stay his temper entirely for her. And she was always welcome, frequently the third portion of their triad that had had so many adventures.
And the second person emerging from the car was also female. Somewhat tall, though not approaching Augustus at five feet eleven. Still towering over Lady Claudette at five foot one on a good day.
The driver appeared male but remained inside the vehicle. Perhaps they had hired him for a single task?
“Greetings, ladies,” Augustus began.
Technically, Digby was friends with the owner of the estate, via business somewhere, but the entire idea had been Augustus’s, to get out of London for a spell prior to possibly departing England entirely for the winter. He was still balanced on a knife’s edge about the topic.
“Augustus Dexter Derlyth, may I have the privilege of introducing you to Ottilie Wolcott,” Lady Claudette replied.
“Madam,” Augustus bowed his head to the woman, who reciprocated.
“And Captain Digby,” Lady Claudette continued.
Again, the polite nod. Not exactly frightened, but certainly off-kilter somewhat more than the long transit from London in a motor carriage would normally induce.
“Let us retire to the main house,” Augustus offered, noting that the estate’s principal butler had appeared just outside the rear door, watching. And moving their direction, likely for instructions.
Again, the driver remained behind, so Augustus stepped close to the stranger and offered her his elbow. After a surprised moment she took it, allowing him to study her closer.
Dark brown hair. Fair skin. Emerald eyes that seemed to be filled with wit and pain mixed equally, if one could be so bold or so crass. Well-enough dressed, in a lovely green skirt to just above her ankles, and a matching jacket, over a white shirt with a bit of starch but not enough to fill the air with a miasma of modernity.
Digby was escorting Lady Claudette in a similar manner, but that was normal enough in most circumstances.
The butler approached. Diffident hadn’t described him over the last few days, so Augustus wondered what threats had been leveled by the owner and host, as this fellow was polite enough.
“Would tea on the back porch meet your needs, sir?” he asked.
Augustus turned to Madam Wolcott, as he would presume that her presence was the driving factor to this event.
She nodded, perhaps surprised that he would offer her the option to command. She gave off an air of one used to serving without complaint, as many of those not lucky enough to be born wealthy often were.
Digby had inherited a certain amount of wealth from his antecedents and built upon it with shrewd investments. Augustus had come from good yeomanry stock before making a small fortune in certain endeavors that were generally not to be discussed in polite company.
Lady Claudette, of course, was the youngest daughter of the Duke of Montmorcy, one of the wealthiest peers in the realm. She had never wanted. Would never.
Wolcott nodded to him. Augustus nodded to the man. He was off like a cannonball.
They moved to the concrete slab immediately adjacent to the house. He and Digby had had their breakfasts here each of the last several mornings, though it looked as though the weather might finally be turning into autumn.
Still, he got the ladies seated, then allowed Digby to stand while he put himself between the women.
Finally, they were down. The tea arrived at that moment, already steeping.
Then they were alone. Whatever else Augustus might say about the staff, they knew how to be invisible and silent until he needed them. And that had been a large factor in choosing this place.
Augustus studied Wolcott for a long moment, then pointedly turned to Lady Claudette. Not ignoring Wolcott, but also not forcing her to step up and speak in this company, unless and until she felt the need.
Lady Claudette, after all, had felt it was important enough to drive to Kent this morning to see them.
“To what do we owe the joy of hosting you ladies this morning?” he asked, only mildly sarcastic, as his manners precluded anythi ng more robust regardless of how little joy he expected.
It was his vacation time, after all. Or something. Augustus didn’t actually have a job, though he invariably referred to the supposed—and utterly imaginary— firm of Ward, Atwood, and Bittington, for whom he theoretically worked as an Acquisitions Agent.
Augustus made it a point to never give their home office location in the same place twice. Most recently, he had referred some chap in Lancashire to Pretoria, just to make the fellow go away.
Lady Claudette had dressed in a manner similar to Wolcott. Skirt and jacket, unlike her occasional sartorial forays into androgyneity.
“There have been some quiet developments in London,” Lady Claudette replied, her voice hinted at emotions normally foreign to her. Hesitancy, which was rarely her signature. Fear, perhaps? Something. “As Claudette Faulkner, Journalist, whispers came my way. Upon investigation, it appears that certain things are currently being suppressed by certain news outlets, for reasons that have not yet been made clear. I continue to inquire.”
Augustus nodded.
Extremely brilliant woman, if a touch full of herself at times. Nothing she’d said had had any value whatsoever, which hinted at things she was as yet unprepared to explore.
Considering some of the things she had said and done in her few adult years, Augustus narrowed his eyes. He wouldn’t go so far as to call it a scowl, but perhaps a near cousin.
He waited. Perhaps a touch indignant, but she had interrupted his week off and his archery practice.
“There appears to be someone or something loose in certain neighborhoods of South London,” Lady Claudette continued when it became clear that he would outwait her. “A spree killer, though at present the bobbies have not gone so far as to link several murders, in spite of evidence.”
“Another fan of the Ripper?” Augustus asked drolly.
They came around from time to time. Badly-minded men—almost always men—who were fascinated with the Whitechapel Killings of Augustus’s youth. Unsolved then just meant that they preyed on the feebleminded today, or those seeking thrills.
“He might be,” Lady Claudette nodded sober now.
Augustus let that guide him, also turning serious. These two women had sought him out, with all the effort that such an act had entailed. He turned to Wolcott now.
The woman hadn’t gone pale. She’d been thus since they arrived. He could see it in her eyes. Nervous. Frightened, but not of him. Of something.
She nodded to the unasked questions, so Augustus was willing to accept things on the face.
“Given the state of tabloid journalism,”—he turned back to Lady Claudette—“especially the more lurid bits into which you occasionally descend to muckrake, why has it not risen to a level of cacophony in print?”
“Because there are no bodies,” she replied simply. “Simply women disappearing, never to be seen again.”
He grunted.
“And the police and other authorities have not pressed?” he asked, noting that Digby had remained perfectly silent through all this. “Not spread their sentiments across the evening broadsheets? Why is that?”
“Because nobody important has been bothered,” Wolcott spoke now, her voice firm but quavering, though it sounded more like rage than terror. “Only certain women. The kind that those men only miss for certain reasons, and who are afterward considered replaceable.”
Augustus turned back to her and studied the woman in greater detail.
Housewife, he would have said, but something stayed that judgment unspoken. Certainly, she was better dressed and spoken than women of the East End that he had occasionally interviewed for some case or curiosity.
Or visited, professionals obviously generally being a better choice than amateurs.
He noted her clothing in closer detail now. Not threadbare, but perhaps something a middle-class housewife would have let go by now. Worn and tired.
He considered England as it stood today. On one hand, a rising Roaringness mirroring the Americans, though without the silliness of Prohibition. On the other, the immediate aftermath of the Great War had taken some of the shine off the British economy. Stagnation in many quarters, as the Americans and Germans had continued investing in modern equipment for their factories while the British had generally not. Coal reserves had been depleted to the extent that they were actually importing the stuff these days, Newcastle be damned.
Middle and upper-class folks had not noticed, but they were also busy indulging in what might be classified as unadulterated hedonism; drinking, smoking, and generally carrying on.
It was only the lower classes that seemed to be bearing the brunt. As always.
Ottilie Wolcott, for instance. He noted that she had removed somewhat worn gloves upon sitting, placing them in a pocket and revealing hands with no ring. Worn hands, more like his in that way than Lady Claudette’s.
Augustus took all that in at a glance, then reflected on her words.
Nobody important had been bothered.
“I wish to clarify, madam,” he said delicately. “Without giving offense, as you see. The folks that might have caused the authorities to take greater notice of such killings would be toffs? Well-bred chaps? Or at least wealthy enough?”
She nodded, eyed hooded now in a way that almost answered the rest of his questions, but he felt that it was necessary to press his case anyway.
“And they have not, suggesting that all the victims—all the presumably-female victims—were perhaps of a certain socioeconomic status? Perhaps of a given occupation?”
Again, the nod. It would be rude to ask her if she were a prostitute. And it might yet be necessary.
He would softy assume such for now, and turned his attention back to Lady Claudette without asking, though he could almost taste the surprise emanating from Wolcott.
“How did you get involved?” he asked her. “If the bobbies and the pennysheets aren’t baying?”
“I have contacts,” she said evasively, a gentle nod suggesting that Ottilie Wolcott might not have always been such. Or perhaps had descended unfortunately from other places. “They reached out to me when no others would take them seriously.”
Augustus nodded.
The men in charge were all of a type. An ilk, if he could be so crude. Eton to a fault. Matching ties and pinstripes. Haircuts and mistresses.
They did not sully themselves, save when they perhaps developed a taste for the bawdy that brought them down to other neighborhoods, as it were, to indulge.
“No bodies found?” he clarified to nods. “And yet both of you are convinced?”
Again, nods. Augustus drew a breath.
“Why me?”
Digby was really more the paladin type. Defender of the Faithful, and all that, though Augustus was almost entirely certain that the man had never taken it upon himself to visit such a woman, or a den of such iniquity.
He had known no woman’s touch, as far as Augustus knew, since his beloved Gladya had died while he’d been away in the trenches of France during the war, coming nearly on a decade ago.
Augustus wasn’t too proud. All women were exactly as beautiful as they decided they were when they awoke each morning. And any woman could be utterly interesting as a person, should she choose to be and were one to find the right topic to engage her mind.
He didn’t suppose, however, that most Englishmen shared his sentiment.
Lady Claudette had brought a small bag with her. A purse, he supposed, though it was rather formless, rather than the satchel he’d left over with his archery equipment.
The glasses were occasionally necessary for reading words, not souls.
His friend reached into her bag and pulled out a cloth. Gray, with a fine women pattern that came off a Jacquard machine of some sort. Perhaps French. More likely American, as England had fallen dreadfully behind and wasn’t catching up.
