or—’
He heard a soft chuckle come around the edge of the booth. ‘Stories . . . The underworld does love its little fairytales, doesn’t it? All part of the business of
reputation.’
Warrington noted that was not exactly a complete denial of the rumours. He felt something roll and flip lazily in his stomach. ‘Indeed.’
‘It does my professional reputation no harm at all, George, for little folk tales like that to proceed me. Keeps a client on his guard.’ The newspaper rustled. ‘Rest
assured, I’ve been satisfied with the outcome of my business dealings thus far.’ That soft chuckle again. ‘One way or another, my clients always settle up.’
‘Well, I’m certain there will be no difficulty agreeing on your fee.’
He seemed to ignore that. ‘So tell me, George: what’s this all about? I’m assuming there’s somebody you wish me to locate, someone you wish me to deal with. But what
is the motive? Tell me the “why”.’
‘This is a sensitive area. It could lead to some sort of a scandal which we really can’t afford to happen right—’
‘Ahhh, a politician, is it? Someone’s been naughty?’
Warrington was hesitant to give too much away. ‘Perhaps one might say . . . careless.’
‘A woman?’
He said nothing. Which was, perhaps, to the voice around the corner, everything. ‘I think at this stage, it’s best for us if I keep our briefing to the person we’d like you to
deal with.’
A long pause. Long enough that he was beginning to wonder if he’d caused the Candle Man to be offended.
‘Of course,’ he said finally. ‘Why don’t we begin, then? Tell me who it is you’re after, George.’
CHAPTER 15
26th September 1888, Holland Park, London
A nightmare. He was watching them hack the young man to pieces. The first few strokes of the tamahakan buried deep through pale skin into
gristle and bone, and caused the tied up young man to scream. A pitiful, shrill scream like a child’s. The others joined in, a dozen of them, swinging and hacking, the wet cracks of
impact quickly lost beneath somebody else’s wailing voice.
He could see another pale body tied up on the ground next to him, naked like the young man. A woman, older, kicking, flailing, screaming with tormented anguish as if every blow was landing on
her. The young man’s mother. He knew that somehow, even before she started screaming her agony for him.
The young lad’s own shrill cries had already stopped. The ferocious onslaught of rising, falling blades was beginning to wane now.
There were a dozen bronze-skinned men standing over the now motionless corpse, dabbed with chalk-white paint across their chests and faces; dark charcoal smears around their eyes made them look
a little like sun-bleached skeletons that had come to life. They had worked on another couple of bound prisoners before the lad. He could see their tattered remains, barely recognisable as human
cadavers now, just bloody lengths of butchered meat. From the end of one of them he could see a long blonde tail of matted hair; from the other, a pale and recognisably feminine shin, ankle and
foot, unblemished, unspotted with blood. As if it belonged elsewhere.
He struggled against the twine binding that lashed him in a seated position up against a wooden stake. There were others, another three of them, tied up on the ground and desperately wriggling,
squirming, knowing the same fate awaited them.
Why am I not on the ground with the others?
Why am I sitting up?
They want me to watch.
One of the chalk-white figures turned towards him then, holding something bloody in one hand. The savage stepped slowly towards him, holding it closer so that he could see it better. The thing
in his hand lurched and twitched, reminding him of a mouse he’d once caught and tossed into a cloth bag; the cloth twitching, lifting, dropping, as the mouse scurried around in blind panic
inside.
It was the boy’s heart, still shuddering with post-mortem
He heard a soft chuckle come around the edge of the booth. ‘Stories . . . The underworld does love its little fairytales, doesn’t it? All part of the business of
reputation.’
Warrington noted that was not exactly a complete denial of the rumours. He felt something roll and flip lazily in his stomach. ‘Indeed.’
‘It does my professional reputation no harm at all, George, for little folk tales like that to proceed me. Keeps a client on his guard.’ The newspaper rustled. ‘Rest
assured, I’ve been satisfied with the outcome of my business dealings thus far.’ That soft chuckle again. ‘One way or another, my clients always settle up.’
‘Well, I’m certain there will be no difficulty agreeing on your fee.’
He seemed to ignore that. ‘So tell me, George: what’s this all about? I’m assuming there’s somebody you wish me to locate, someone you wish me to deal with. But what
is the motive? Tell me the “why”.’
‘This is a sensitive area. It could lead to some sort of a scandal which we really can’t afford to happen right—’
‘Ahhh, a politician, is it? Someone’s been naughty?’
Warrington was hesitant to give too much away. ‘Perhaps one might say . . . careless.’
‘A woman?’
He said nothing. Which was, perhaps, to the voice around the corner, everything. ‘I think at this stage, it’s best for us if I keep our briefing to the person we’d like you to
deal with.’
A long pause. Long enough that he was beginning to wonder if he’d caused the Candle Man to be offended.
‘Of course,’ he said finally. ‘Why don’t we begin, then? Tell me who it is you’re after, George.’
CHAPTER 15
26th September 1888, Holland Park, London
A nightmare. He was watching them hack the young man to pieces. The first few strokes of the tamahakan buried deep through pale skin into
gristle and bone, and caused the tied up young man to scream. A pitiful, shrill scream like a child’s. The others joined in, a dozen of them, swinging and hacking, the wet cracks of
impact quickly lost beneath somebody else’s wailing voice.
He could see another pale body tied up on the ground next to him, naked like the young man. A woman, older, kicking, flailing, screaming with tormented anguish as if every blow was landing on
her. The young man’s mother. He knew that somehow, even before she started screaming her agony for him.
The young lad’s own shrill cries had already stopped. The ferocious onslaught of rising, falling blades was beginning to wane now.
There were a dozen bronze-skinned men standing over the now motionless corpse, dabbed with chalk-white paint across their chests and faces; dark charcoal smears around their eyes made them look
a little like sun-bleached skeletons that had come to life. They had worked on another couple of bound prisoners before the lad. He could see their tattered remains, barely recognisable as human
cadavers now, just bloody lengths of butchered meat. From the end of one of them he could see a long blonde tail of matted hair; from the other, a pale and recognisably feminine shin, ankle and
foot, unblemished, unspotted with blood. As if it belonged elsewhere.
He struggled against the twine binding that lashed him in a seated position up against a wooden stake. There were others, another three of them, tied up on the ground and desperately wriggling,
squirming, knowing the same fate awaited them.
Why am I not on the ground with the others?
Why am I sitting up?
They want me to watch.
One of the chalk-white figures turned towards him then, holding something bloody in one hand. The savage stepped slowly towards him, holding it closer so that he could see it better. The thing
in his hand lurched and twitched, reminding him of a mouse he’d once caught and tossed into a cloth bag; the cloth twitching, lifting, dropping, as the mouse scurried around in blind panic
inside.
It was the boy’s heart, still shuddering with post-mortem
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