The Steampunk Detective

Bodies have gone missing from various London cemeteries. To stop the public will go into a frenzy out of fear of necromancy, Scotland Yard hires James Harden, a paranormal investigator.

Friends in High Places

 

The apartment on the third floor of the sixth building on Charterhouse Street doubled as his office. After waking in the mornings, he would lift the bed into its cubbyhole, close the doors to hide it form view, and begin business. By the time he woke, it was usually early in the afternoon and the tea and breakfast that the landlady would have left outside his door would be cold. To deal with splitting headache from his late night drinking, he would have a glass of water or, more often than not, a glass of brandy. Following that, a cigarette would do.

 

     He had started on his first cigarette when there was a knock on the door. In a voice soothed by the brandy, he yelled for them to come in. The door opened, and the land lady ushered in a police sergeant. He was dressed in the standard black uniform of the constables of Scotland Yard. He looked with distaste at the messy apartment, the bottle of brandy, and the stench that one could nearly see.

 

     “Mister James Harden?” He asked.

 

     “Yes Sergeant,” he said, without looking up from a file on his desk. “I am James Harden, you are a member of Scotland Yard, but you are too far away for me to read the name on your badge. I’m going to assume you’re here because you need my help in some case of an odd nature.”

 

     The officer narrowed his eyes, “Yes, I am Sergeant Conner of Scotland Yard,” the last half of his sentence flagged when he realized it lacked the same power when the other man already stated it. “Help would not be the right word Mister Harden, assistance is closer.”

 

     “Assistance, help, look you pay and I won’t give a damn. My land lady, who should kindly excuse herself from this room while I’m working-,” she growled and left, slamming the door shut as she did so. “My land lady does not allow me to live here rent-free.”

 

     The Sergeant twitched a bit as the door slammed shut, “I do not doubt you are a most…” he glanced around once more in disgust, “remarkable tenant, but as you said, I am here to ask for your assistance. My superiors insist that you’re the best in handling…weird cases.”

 

     “If by weird cases you mean dealing with paranormal things, things that shouldn’t rightly exist, then no, I’m the second best. Doctor Charlie Valten is the man you want; he’s a professor at Cambridge if I remember correctly. Which I undoubtedly do.”

 

      “Nevertheless, those in higher places would like you to assist us.”

 

     James took his cigarette out of his mouth, “I’m assuming I’ll be compensated for this. I don’t work for charity.”

 

     “Of course, the Yard always pays its consultants.”

 

     “Okay, but I’m charging extra if I solve the case without you.” James said, smiling a bit at the Sergeant’s annoyed face. No doubt it was infuriating him that the Yard had to hire a consultant at all. “Anyway, give me a briefing. What’s going on?”

 

     “We’ve had a string of grave robberies all across London. Freshly buried bodies have been dug up and the corpses are gone.” The sergeant began to pace, “We’ve checked the backgrounds of the missing bodies, and besides the fact that they were all non-important people, factory workers, craftsmen, people that are not well known outside their immediate community, they have no relation.”

 

     “Are they taken from anywhere specific?” James asked.

 

     Sergeant Conner shook his head, “No, the robberies seem to be from wherever the thief can get them from. It looks like as long as the body is a few days old and isn’t anyone well known, he’ll take what he can get.”

 

     “If this is simple robbery, why come to me? He could be taking the corpses to sell on the black market to doctors or alchemists.”

 

     “Mister James, there are many who allow their remains to be taken by the Royal Academy upon their death. There’s a cash incentive, and numerous men and women take the money and allow their bodies to be brought to the academy after a proper funeral. There’s no shortage of bodies.”

 

     James nodded, “Fair point Sergeant.”

 

     “A grave keeper in Abney Park discovered a dug up grave early this morning. Several detectives and policemen are already on the scene, I have a cab waiting below, if you’ll take the case.”

 

     James stood, “Of course, you’ve peeked my interest, if nothing else.” He walked to his dresser and removed a pistol, “I hope you don’t mind if I go armed Sergeant. My cases usually have an element of danger to them,” he snapped open the cylinder and checked to make sure that it was loaded.

    

“Of course not, though I daresay you will have the police to protect you on the scene.”

 

“It never hurts to be too cautious Sergeant.”

 

James pulled on his favorite waistcoat and slid the small revolver into it. A worn frock coat followed, with his cigarette case kept in one of the pockets. He nodded to the sergeant to show that he was ready, and the two made their way down the stairs.

 

     Outside, as Sergeant Conner had foretold, a black police cab was waiting. They slid into the seats and the driver cracked his whip. As the horse made its way through the cobblestone streets of London, James pulled his coat tighter over him. It was worn and patched, and not near strong enough for the cold august weather.

 

     The gates to Abney Park Cemetery were guarded by two constables, who stopped the coach and required the Sergeant to show his badge before they waved them through. When James questioned the closing of the whole cemetery, the Sergeant explained.

 

     “The citizens of London are a suspicious lot, we let word get out that someone is robbing graves, they start thinking the devil himself is walking amongst us.”

    

“Is closing it completely down the right way?” James asked, “It seems that it’d draw more attention to the place.”

    

“We’re managing to keep the newspapers quiet about it.”

 

James glanced at the graves, “I guess only the immediate residents of the Park are aware of what’s going on,” he smirked, “and I don’t think they’re going to say anything.”

 

     The sergeant frowned a bit at the joke, and didn’t speak again until the cab rolled to a stop. Several policemen stood guard, and detectives were scribbling down notes as they examined the scene. It was rather plain, as crime scenes went; there was a freshly dug grave, but no sign of a coffin or a body. The only evidence that had been a body there was a simple tombstone, mourning the loss of Tom Danfield, beloved father and husband.

 

     Sergeant Conner and James were led to the grave. The sergeant waved James forward, “Go ahead,” he said, “look all you’d like.” James nodded and hopped into the grave.

 

     James was a competent detective, but he was nothing compared to the Yard’s finest. Every bit of evidence he found, from the single bootprint to the tracks from a coach, had already been documented and discussed by the men of the Yard.

 

     “Okay then,” he said, “you lads seem to know everything. What do you need me for?”

 

     “Because Mister James,” said a surly faced captain, who had just arrived, “A seemingly random string of grave robberies must have a reason behind it. You have knowledge in things that very few of us know about, things that may be going on here.”

 

     “What gives you that suspicion?”

 

     “Any professor or doctor could file a request for one the saved bodies at the Royal Academy’s morgue, all of which are in far better shape. However, they must report what they are doing.” The captain glanced at the empty grave, “If a man is forced to dig up bodies, it means he does not wish to be open about his activities.”

 

     “And if he isn’t open about it, that means it is something unsightly, you have a fair point captain.” James thought for a moment, “Well, he used a cart to have the body moved, so the man could be placing them anywhere. Have the grave robberies taken place outside of London?”

 

     “They have not; all have been here in the city.”

 

     “Then he’s most likely based out of here, how many have been stolen?”

 

     “Sixteen.”

 

     “Dear God, sixteen missing bodies and the people are still being quiet about it?”

 

     “We’ve done everything we can to keep the newspapers quiet. People are starting to notice the police presence in the graveyards, but they I doubt they’ve realized just how many have been taken.”

 

     James pulled himself out of the grave and wiped his hands on the grass of the cemetery. “Okay, so let’s see. Bodies have been taken from multiple London cemeteries. They are pretty fresh, which is the preferred state for…” James fell silent, “experiments.”

 

     He ran his hands through his hair, “Okay, so this may be a rogue alchemist, someone who isn’t endorsed by the Royal Academy, hence why he has to steal the bodies.”

 

     “What could he be using the bodies for?” Conner asked.

 

     James closed his eyes and thought for a few minutes. “Sergeant Conner, would you kindly have the cab take me back to my apartment? I have a few things I’d like to research before I begin to make any assumptions.”

 

     “I’ll head back to the Yard,” said the Captain, “see if anyone’s seen anything else weird today.”

 

     Sergeant Conner nodded, “I’ll have Charles accompany you back Mister James. He’ll stay with you in case you discover anything.”

 

     A short weasel faced cadet appeared instantly at James’ side, grinning. James rolled his eyes and slid into the carriage, Charles at his side. The driver snapped his whip and the horses hitched to the cab began to walk.

 

     The drive back to the apartment was rather uneventful. While Charles constantly peppered James with questions about his work, James reviewed the things in his mind. He didn’t have much to go on, the thief had been very careful about not leaving many tracks or evidence, whoever he was, he was damn good. James had begun to suspect that he man had done some form of police work; usually criminals committed some fatal error or another at the crime scene. Usually leaving a large enough clue to set the Yard on the right path to their arrests, but this had been the sixteenth robbery, and there was very little evidence.

 

     A breakthrough came that night, when James was pouring over one of his books. His apartment had several bookshelves, each filled with tomes about the occult and supernatural things. He had emptied out a fair portion of his library, searching through things alchemists or mages may do to dead bodies. He had begun to have a handful of sneaking suspicions, but he was not sure until Sergeant Conner barged in just before midnight, chest heaving.

 

     “Mister James, Charles, please come quickly!”

 

     James instinctively went for his pistol, “What’s wrong Sergeant?” He asked, once he had calmed down at the sight of a Yard officer bursting into his apartment. He couldn’t resist a snide comment to the officer though, once he had regained his composure. “You find your competency yet?”

 

     The other man seemed too intent to care about the insult, “There’s been a murder in Whitechapel.”

 

     “I don’t doubt that,” James said, “dodgy place it is. You can’t go walking a meter before you’re accosted by a w***e or a beggar, although I think they may be the same down there. God knows they’ll do anything for a copper.”

 

     “Mister James please,” Conner said, “the corpse was…thoroughly mutilated. When I heard about it, I ran for you, in case this case may be related to the grave robberies.”

 

     James glanced at Charles, whose face had gone white, and then to his book. He reread a passage quickly and stood up, pocketing his pistol. “You may be right Sergeant, we best hurry.”

 

     The three of them were packed tightly into the police cab (the same that had arrived earlier), but it made the ride a bit warmer as they passed through the cold streets. When they passed the gateway into the slums of Whitechapel, they could immediately see groups of starving children and thugs eying them from alleyways. The sight of the Yard’s symbol on the side of the cab sent them scurrying away though. No one messed with the police in Whitechapel.

 

     The crime scene was one of the many shady alleyways in the Whitechapel district. A line of police blocked the entrance to the alleyway, covering any viewing of the body. Sergeant Conner had to argue for five minutes just for the men to allow James through.

 

     A ring of detectives circled the body, and one glance was more than enough for Charles, who ran and began to hurl up his dinner. Mutilation was not the correct word to use. The lady’s throat had been ripped open, and there were large gaps in her flesh. Close inspection of her body showed that teeth marks could clearly been seen in the pieces of skin that were attached.

 

     Conner held a handkerchief to his mouth, “My God…that’s…disgusting.”

 

     James knelt down to the body, inspecting her corpse. The marks were from teeth, that much he was sure of, but it wasn’t simple biting. It looked as if her assailant had ripped hunks of her out, like he was eating her. James gagged a bit, “You’re right Sergeant Conner, it’s disgusting, but I fear that I had my suspicions.”

 

     “What do you mean?” The sergeant seemed a bit annoyed, “You mean you knew what we were dealing with?”

 

     James stood, attempting to wipe off the blood that had gathered on his knees when he knelt down. “I didn’t know, but I had an idea.” He gave the corpse one last glance, “Now I’m pretty damn sure what we’re dealing with.” He looked back to the sergeant, “You said that there was a witness?”

 

     Sergeant Conner nodded and led him to a sobbing lady. She kept her back to the body and only seemed to cry harder when James and Conner approached.

 

     “Mam,” Conner said, “I’m Sergeant Conner and this is Mister James Harden. I’m aware that you’ve already answered the Yard detectives’ questions, but if you can, I’d like for you to talk to Mister James.”

 

     Her tear streaked face nodded and James thanked her.

 

     “Now, can you tell me what happened?”

 

     She tried to calm herself, but only marginally succeeded. “Me an’ Janice usually work thi’ street together, fer protection. Earlier there was’ a man tha’ was walkin’ down tha’ street, but he was walkin’ all weird like. Jus’ draggin’ his feet alon’, and headin’ straight fer Janice. She walked up ta’ ‘im, like she would any man, but she caught a look at ‘is face and screamed. I ‘urried ta’ see, but she was runnin’ down tha’ alleyway, and ‘e was tryin’ ta catch ‘er.”

 

     She took several more breaths to calm herself once more, “I saw ‘er cowerin’ in tha alleyway, and ‘e jus’…started…” she broke into tears once again.

 

     James placed a hand on her shoulder, “Shh, shh. It’s okay. You

said that he was walking slowly?”

 

     She nodded, “Y…yes, ‘e like he was ‘avin trouble walkin’.”

 

     “Did he say anything?”

 

     “No, I didn’ ‘ear anythin’.”

 

     James thought for a moment, “Did you see where he went?”

 

     “No, once ‘e attacked ‘er I ran as fas’ as I could fer ‘elp.”

 

     “Is there anything else that you can remember? Anything at all?”

 

     She shook her head, “No, I’m, I’m sorre.”

 

     “Thank you,” James said, “Sergeant if I could have a word.” He walked away the Sergeant, his voice dropping low so they wouldn’t be overheard. “I suggest you take her into custody.”

 

     “What? You can’t possibly believe she had something to do with…that?”

 

     “No, but if she spreads word about the victim getting mutilated, people may start protesting faster than you have anticipated. Besides, she may be able to regain her composure and remember something if she’s under the care of the police.”

 

     “Fair enough Mister James, but I don’t like the idea of-“

 

     “My God men, I came as fast as I could.”

 

     James and the Sergeant whirled around; the surly faced captain had arrived. He was red in the face and breathing heavily.

 

     “I was taking a walk and hurried the moment I got the news.”

 

     James examined the captain; his jacket seemed as if it had been hurriedly pulled on. Whitechapel is an odd place to take a walk, particularly this time of time. Perhaps an esteemed captain of the Yard saw a w***e? James thought, smiling a small bit at the thought of an officer doing such a thing. “It’s good you’re here Captain, the body looks positively mangled.”

 

     “The assailant did not go after the witness,” the sergeant said, “it could be possible he’s still in the area.”

 

     The captain nodded, “Well, I’ll rally some lads and see if we can’t track him down.”

 

     “Ah captain,” James began.

 

     “Yes?”

 

     James wiped off a bit of white residue from the captain’s shoulder, “Be careful out there. Whatever we’re dealing with, it isn’t a God-fearing man like us.”

 

     “Understood Mister James.”

 

     James turned to Conner, “Sergeant, I hope that working for you gives me passage into places that are normally closed this time of night.”

 

     “Whatever do you mean Mister James?”

 

     “I need to get into a library, now.”

 

     The Sergeant appeared ready to deny his request, but seeing the urgency on James face, he decided to go along with it. They hopped in the cab (dragging the sickened Charles along), and rode out of Whitechapel. Not long after, a librarian standing watch was forced to unlock the doors, light a handful of candles, and glare at the three of them. Eventually, he realized the glaring was having no effect, and marched away.

 

     James had Charles running across the library. He wrote down multiple subjects that he required books and maps of, and Charles would rush off, only to appear later carrying the requested item. The sergeant decided to not interfere with James’ job, and fell asleep in his chair.

 

     James busied himself with atlases, records, and all manner of books. He had a fair idea of what kind of beasts they would be finding, but the problem was finding them. He had few clues to go on, but with a tad bit of luck, and his expertise, he could possibly solve the case before any more graves were robbed or prostitutes killed.  

 

     Conner, asleep in his chair, was woken when James jumped up and screamed in joy. He jerked awake and fell to the floor of the library, groaning a bit. James leapt to the fallen man and placed a map in front of his face, “My good Sergeant, would you kindly grab as many men as you can and bring them to,” he placed a finger on the map, “this location. I suggest they be highly armed as well, we’ll probably

have a fight.”

 

     Sergeant Conner yawned and rubbed his eyes, “Wh-what?” He read the name, “Duncan’s Flour Warehouse? Why would we go there?”

 

     “Because,” James said, snapping the book shut, “I believe I have pinpointed the location of our thief.”  

 

     “And how exactly did you find this out? Might I remind you even the Yard’s detectives haven’t the slightest idea.”

 

     “You can remind me, but you must also remember that your colleagues do not understand the paranormal, nor do they have the evidence that I have.”

 

     “And what evidence do you have? Have you withheld anything important?”

 

     “Well not official evidence per say, but something that has given me a damn good hunch.”

 

     “And what would that be?”

 

     “No time Sergeant,” James said, “call us a coach, and make sure it’s filled with armed policemen. We’ve got a warehouse to storm.”

 

     The warehouse that James spoke of was located in Whitechapel, only several blocks from where the body of the prostitute had been found. Sergeant Conner had worked quickly, and had managed to procure two coaches of constables. They drove to the abandoned warehouse that James had found in one of the atlases and began to file out of the coaches.

 

     A handful of the men took up positions all around the warehouse to ensure that no one fled, while the rest formed up just outside the door. James removed his pistol from his vest and followed the sergeant. One of the constables knocked furiously on the door, announced their intentions, and kicked it open.

 

     They immediately found two men who had thrown themselves to the ground and who were begging for mercy. They were dressed in patched clothes, and judging by their accents, they were hired goons from within Whitechapel itself. Most likely paid to move the bodies and any heavy lifting, they wept and sobbed as two constables slapped pairs of irons on each of them, the rest of the officers hurried past.

 

     The undead waited for them.

 

     There were eight of them, and each one wore the same clothes that their loved ones had buried them in. They glanced at the officers with blank faces, showing no recognition at the Yard’s black uniforms or the badges. They smelt meat though, and fresh blood. They began to slowly drag their feet to the officers, who were far too shocked at the sight of the living dead to make any moves.

 

     James lifted his pistol and fired, the bullet ripping off a slice of one of the dead’s cheek. “Aim for their heads and they’ll fall quick enough.” A second round tore off a jaw, but the thing didn’t even flinch. By his third shot, a few of the policemen had gathered the courage to raise their rifles and fire.

 

     With a steady volley of bullets hitting them, the mob of undead began to stall. When one’s head exploded in a storm of blood and bone fragments, the body slumped down. Encouraged by the fact that the things could be put down once more, the rest of the officers joined in on the shooting.

 

     Lead bullets raked into the line creatures, and a handful more fell to the ground. The rest didn’t care though; they continued their slow, ominous march all the same. James emptied the remainder of his cartridges into one that had gotten dangerously close and began to walk backwards. “For God’s sake don’t let them touch you!” He barked, “They’re damn strong!”

 

     Since he seemed to be the only man who was shouting orders, the officers followed them. They backed up slowly, several of them loading more rounds into their rifles as they did so. Unfortunately, one was too focused on reloading and one of the undead caught him. Cold, dead hands swiped out and grabbed him by the neck. He screamed as the dead man’s nails drug across the skin, warm blood pouring from the wounds like a scarlet waterfall.

 

     Sergeant Conner shot the thing with his revolver and it promptly fell to the ground, the wounded policeman with it. One of the Yard boys hurried and began to drag the man and get him away from the rest of the undead before they caught him. By the time he got behind the line of policemen though, the rest of the undead had been dealt with. All that was led was a pile of headless bodies at their feet, just a mass of cold skin and all too visible veins.

 

     Several of the constables dropped to the ground, their chests heaving. They were shaken by the sight, sure they had all heard of the powers of alchemy, but never had they seen what the forbidden branches of the magic could truly do. James glanced at the bodies, “Whoever made these was only an amateur.”

 

     “What do you mean?” Conner asked weakly, in too shocked a state to resume any form of banter between them.

 

     “A good alchemist, well versed in necromancy, could have made these much more resilient and disciplined. One wouldn’t have escaped and attacked a Whitechapel prostitute.”

 

     “Is that what happened?” Conner seemed willing to take anything James said at face value at the moment. The detective briefly considered asking for an increase in pay, but thought better of it.

 

     “It is, the man knew very little alchemy, considering he could only raise ghouls. They go after human flesh you see, which explains we only found eight of them. Besides the one or two failed experiments he no doubt had, the rest were used for feeding. And ghouls are very weak anyway; there were much more dangerous things he could have

conjured.” James sighed, “But I suppose he wanted them weak.”

 

     “Why would he want them weak sir?” Charles piped up, voice cracking. James had nearly forgotten he was there, but judging by his smoking pistol, he hadn’t been idle.

 

     “These were all part of a plan of his. Unleash a handful of them into some section of the city and get everyone riled up. He’d ride in with you lads and cut them all down. If he controlled them just right, not a single one of his men would be harmed. He’d be a hero.”

 

     “Why would he ride in with us sir?”

 

     “Well Charles, him yourself.” James pointed to the end of the warehouse, where a table and books containing forbidden alchemical spells lay. Standing by the table, without his jacket, was the surly faced captain.

 

     “My God!” Sergeant Conner seemed to finally come to his sense. “You must be mistaken!”

 

     James shook his head, “As I told you, summon a handful of weak undead, set them loose, perhaps even knock off your superior. You ride in and save the day, you’re a hero, only a fool wouldn’t promote you.”

 

     They approached the captain, who glared at them. He had apparently decided against any form of resistance, and held out his hands for the manacles. As an officer was placing them on, he looked to James, “How did you know?”

 

     James smiled, “Thought you would never ask. I had the idea that someone was raising the dead once I found how many bodies had been taken. The attack in Whitechapel confirmed my suspicions. And, when you arrived, red in the face from running, I knew. Why would you be in Whitechapel? More importantly, why would you be so close? Sheer dumb luck? Or were you already here, in a warehouse, working, when one of your little beasties escaped. Quite brilliant if I may say so.”

 

     The captain nodded, “But there are many abandoned warehouses in

Whitechapel, how’d you figure out here?”

 

     James pointed to the captain’s jacket that had been tossed aside. “Alchemy’s sweaty work; you take off your jacket when you’ve got long incantations. When you arrived on the scene of the woman’s death, you had a bit of flour on your shoulder.”

 

     Sergeant Conner glanced around, the sign above the door plainly read ‘Duncan’s Flour-The best in London’. “Ah, a flour warehouse, there’s got to be piles of the stuff still left around.”

 

     “Very observant Mister James,” the captain said, “you should join the Yard, I think they’ll need a replacement for me.”

 

     “I don’t know normal evidence,” James said, “I would not have seen the flour as significant if I didn’t figure it was someone in the Yard.”

 

     “Oh? How’d you figure that?”

 

     “Too clean, just a foot and a wheel print? That’s police work there.”

 

     The captain nodded, “Fair enough then Mister James.” He sighed, “I suppose I’ll face the noose for this.”

 

     “I can’t say I disagree.” Two officers led the captain away, leaving James and the Sergeant alone.

 

     “Sergeant Conner.”

 

     “Yes Mister James?”

 

     “I had assumed, based on his cooperation back in Abney Park, that the captain had hired me, but that is apparently not the case. Who was it?”

 

     Sergeant Conner shrugged, “I cannot say I know sir, word just came down straight from the House of Lords.”

 

     “Friends in high places,” James said.

Author's Note

One of my earlier attempts at the Steampunk genre.

Reviews

[O'Drama]

Enjoyed the story. I was looking for steampunk fiction when I stumbled on this piece. The detective reminded me of Sherlock Holmes for some reason, probably because the story was set in London. The first thing that came to my mind as I came across the line in the story about someone robbing the graves, was zombies. The plot was simple, without any major twist and turn, but I enjoyed it. Thanks for sharing this story with us.