14th October
It would appear that Mr Dickens and Miss Nightingale may have discovered a most singular lead in this baffling series of disappearances. A commonality that seems to link the three missing Members of Parliament. Although as to what nature of business could draw three upstanding gentlemen to such a place, I would rather not entertain the thought.
For the present at least, I have chosen not to share this information with the Home Secretary and Scotland Yard. Sir Richard has been quite insistent that there is nothing of suspicion about this matter, almost too insistent. Indeed, this very afternoon he visited the palace personally, in order to rather wilfully dissuade me from pursuing any investigations of my own. He spoke with a bluntness that was really most vexing. Had it not been for the fact that I consider Sir Richard a loyal friend and confidant, I would have called his tone disrespectful at best. The whole affair is really quite extraordinary.
It is with great anxiety that I await the return of Mr Dickens and Miss Nightingale and what news they may bring.
Victoria R.
Mr Crackit flipped open the gold cover of his pocket watch. The black hands stood out sharply against the pearl-white face, twenty past five.
The sky over Cadogan Square bled a deep blood-red, its colour staining the white stone-pillared balconies and the majestic brick houses with the same fiery hue.
“Not long now, Mr Sikes,” he said to the large man standing beside him. “Look at them all scurrying back to their houses.”
Mr Sikes gave a gruff laugh. “Just like the fat little rats that they is, Mr Crackit.”
The pair stood motionless in the shadows of the trees. They watched as a dull blue carriage came to a stop across the street. The footman stepped down before releasing the carriage step. A gentleman in a top hat and black coat got out first before helping a dark-haired lady in a deep blue velvet dress to the pavement.
A sudden flash of light, a glint of the fading sun reflecting off a knife blade caught in the corner of Mr Crackit’s eye.
“What do ya reckon, Mr Crackit?” said Mr Sikes, snatching the knife out of mid-air with one hand before adding it to the two that he already held in the other. “Two toffs, three knives and about twenty yards. A couple of shillings says I can drop the pair of them, an extra bob or two if I can get the driver as well.”
Before Mr Crackit could answer, and with remarkable agility for such an oaf of a man, a single flick of Mr Sikes’ wrist sent the knives spinning through the air, one after the other. Just seconds later, the gentleman and lady collapsed forward, the handle of a throwing knife protruding from the base of each of their skulls.
The driver barely had time to turn around before the third knife struck him through the eye socket.
“Not too bad, even if I does say so myself, ah, Mr Crackit?” the big man said, rubbing his filthy hands together in glee.
“Very good throwing, Mr Sikes,” Mr Crackit replied. “Just tidy that up before the bluebottles show up and start buzzing around. We really don’t have time to deal with their meddling tonight. The boss is paying us to just watch, not to get the place all excited. We need to figure out who’s poking their nose in where it’s not wanted. Perhaps later, if you’re lucky, you might get the chance to chop that nose off.”
“No harm in a little light entertainment before starting work, though, is there, Mr Crackit?” the big, bearded fellow said before stepping out onto the road and striding towards the crumpled bodies.
Mr Crackit’s nose twitched as a faint scent tickled his nostrils. The charred bitterness of coal smoke was the first thing he always noticed, but that was quickly followed by the sharp, metallic tang of blood and the delightful sweetness of death and decay.
The shadows coiled and writhed, twisting into deformed, bent shapes, slithering like serpents around his feet. He watched as the first tendrils of The London Fog crept around the corners into Cadogan Square. They reached forward, feeling their way like the dirty orange-brown arms of some monster from the stories he told to frighten small children.
Mr Crackit glanced down at his watch once again. The hands spun wildly in opposite directions.
A smile crossed his thin face — if that twisted snarl could ever really be called a smile.
The London Fog settled over Cadogan Square, a thick, suffocating blanket. The buildings twisted and groaned. The magnificent red brickwork darkened to a deep soot black. The perfectly uniform rows of windows skewed into impossible angles. The iron railings hissed and thrashed like vipers pinned at the neck. The very buildings seemed to come alive, leaning forward over the square.
Most people feared London by Dark and the things that came to life when the sun went down. They would run to their homes and bolt their doors when The Fog settled. Had Mr Crackit ever feared it? He couldn’t recall a time when he had. He couldn’t remember much from the days before the Rat King had saved him and Mr Sikes from the greed and corruption of London by Day. Saved him and his brother from a life of endless toil in the orphanages and workhouses, an eternity of licking the boots of well-to-do toffs, and, he had no doubt, a messy end dancing the hangman’s jig from the scaffold at Newgate Prison.
This was his home.
Miss Nightingale pressed the white lace handkerchief to her face. As she breathed deeply, the cold burn of camphor infused spirit stung her nostrils and bit at the back of her throat. It was the scent of surgical purity, a necessity against the swirling filth of the miasma that now churned around her feet and the stench of disease and decay that hung heavily in the air.
The deep orange gloom grew thicker as she stepped into Cadogan Square. The large townhouses loomed over her, silent and menacing, their shadows stretching out towards her. Their windows, dark and vacant, turned to watch her like large, empty eye sockets. The brick walls pulsed back and forth with a silent, rhythmic beat, as if the stone itself were breathing.
Shadows moved in the murk. Creatures scurried around her silently. Never coming close enough to identify, but always there.
Miss Nightingale shivered, pulling her black woollen shawl tightly around her shoulders.
Ahead, something moved in the gloom. A huge, hunched shape, a creature far too big to be a man. It moved slowly, dragging what she could only assume was a human body, into the warped, twisting trees in the middle of the square. Another careless soul, out too late and claimed by London by Dark.
Her head snapped around, the breath hitching in her chest as a hand landed on her shoulder.
“Don’t fear them, Florence,” Mr Dickens said softly, looking her in the eyes. “They feed on our negative emotions. It makes them stronger. Bear them no thought and they cannot hurt you.”
“Don’t be absurd, Mr Dickens,” she said, pulling sharply away from his touch, although her voice trembled slightly more than she had intended. “Whatever these… things are, they require far more than our mere thoughts to nourish them.”
“My dear girl, your science and logic might work in London by Day, but I should have thought you had seen more than enough to know those rules do not apply here.” Mr Dickens strode alongside her. His walking cane tapped out a steady rhythm as if he were out for a Sunday morning stroll in Regent’s Park.
Miss Nightingale pressed the handkerchief more firmly to her face.
She glanced back up the street. The creature had gone, dragging its poor, unfortunate prey off to wherever these things dug their dens.
Stepping forward, she came into step with Mr Dickens. The universe worked to rules and logic; that was the way of all things, and this place, no matter how grotesque, could be no different. There had to be reason to everything.
If Mr Dickens wanted to believe in fairy tales, that was his business. She knew better.