Episode 12. Invader (4)
“What on earth is ‘that’?”
“Oh, you wouldn’t want to know.”
He chuckled and then kicked the approaching butler. I was somewhat shocked. As someone from a country where elders are respected, seeing an old man kicked was unimaginable to me, even though I appeared to be a 19th-century lady. What was more shocking was how easily the old man was flung away, and what startled me even more was that his body shattered into pieces upon impact. My discomfort was finally resolved. It was natural that I couldn’t read anything from it. The butler wasn’t human; he was a highly precise automaton mimicking human form!
Through the broken leg, I saw round joints and connectors like those of a wooden puppet. The broken lower half clattered and began to chase us with its arms.
“For God’s sake, they’re all puppets!”
“I know. They’re called automatons. I didn’t realize you were this slow to catch on.”
As we ran, I began to run out of breath, and soon the front door came into view. What should we do now? This was a residential area, and there were few people around in the evening. Hardly any carriages were passing by. We had limited stamina, and if we kept running around the neighbourhood, we would surely be caught by those things.
But then Liam Moore, with a bright smile (a smile I found ominous), suddenly pulled me and threw me over his shoulder. I didn’t have time to question his actions. I knew well enough how to react in such situations: I clung tightly to his coat.
＊ ＊ ＊
When I opened my eyes, the sharp, cool London night air greeted us. I quickly realized we weren’t in Hallenden because I could hear the Thames River nearby. We were in an alley between Bailonz Street and Blemich Street, about two blocks from 13 Bailonz Street.
Liam Moore was sitting on the ground, waiting for me to get up. His tie was disheveled, and his hair, except for a part of his bangs, was in disarray. I didn’t need to look to know I looked just as bad.
“How was it? Fun, right?”
Liam’s grey eyes curved into a smile. I always found myself speechless at his shamelessness.
“Are you crazy? Is that what you want to ask right now?”
As I rubbed my tailbone, I swore never to get involved in Liam Moore’s audacious investigations again. But I knew that resolve wouldn’t last long. We looked at each other’s dishevelled appearances and burst into laughter, then got up and returned to the office at 13 Bailonz Street.
Lucita kept her promise. Her letter was in the middle of the living room. I didn’t know how she got in despite the locked door, but her skill was impressive. Liam opened it with a paper knife, read it, and handed it to me with a satisfied smile.
It was written in elegant, plain handwriting.
[The Brothers of Turc, a cult active in London, seeking ‘sacrifices for the end.’ Cutting off the head was to confuse the investigation, an attempt to divert suspicion, which failed. ‘High priests’ attending the gatherings bring the sacrifices. There are likely more kidnappings and murders unnoticed. Check the East End or slum areas near the docks for missing persons. Request cooperation from S.Y. The sacrifice is almost complete. The missing part is the heart. Ritual location: Big Ben. Does that girl have a lover? Waiting for a reply. Next gathering is tonight at midnight, near Old Paradise Gardens. Follow the people. The password is ‘Star.’ Good luck.]
“How on earth did she get this information?”
I exclaimed in near-admiration as I read the sprawling words.
“Lucita is quite adept at these things. It’s fair to say that people of this type fear Lucita.”
The puzzle pieces began to fit together. They beheaded victims to make it look like a series of murders and drew the media’s attention. Finding bodies in the East End wasn’t surprising. Sadly, children and vagrants die daily in the unseen parts of London. Missing people often go unnoticed until their bodies are found weeks later. The notion of a gentlemanly England is a laughable tale, with only those desperately trying to hide the dirty underbelly of London. Like hoping the other side of a coin isn’t heads…
Two hours remained until midnight. Liam Moore quickly scribbled a note and handed it to me.
[Old Paradise Gardens, need backup, L.M.]
Anyone recognizing this signature would assist us. Finding a lead on this frustrating case in just two days would be thrilling news.
I immediately changed into neat clothes. We didn’t have the luxury of arguing at the entrance of Scotland Yard. Our division of labour usually worked this way.
Liam Moore left first for Old Paradise Gardens, promising to send a signal if there was trouble.
“Stay safe, Jane.”
“You too.”
I replied.
＊ ＊ ＊
[Whitehall Place 4, PM 22:35]
Saved. Good.
Lately, I’ve felt like I’m adapting too quickly to this situation, as if I were born in the 19th century. My behaviour and speech are becoming old-fashioned. Everything around me feels like a swamp, a sticky, heavy mire called London. Beneath that dreadful swamp lurks something ominous, ready to drag people down. So I consciously tried to act like a 21st-century person. Resist, resist, to protect myself.
I deliberately opened my inventory to check the items inside. A pistol, which was in my inventory but actually strapped to my thigh. It’s easy to spot someone hiding a gun inside their coat by the way one side of their walk is weighted down or the gun clinks. I paid attention to such details and walked as elegantly and regularly as possible.
Aside from that, there were a veil and a parasol. These would come in handy later, so I’d explain their use in due time.
Now, I was arguing at the entrance of Scotland Yard. I regretted not dressing as a man, as the officer blocking me was obstinate and dim-witted. He repeated like a parrot that it was late and I should go back instead of bothering others.
“I have to go inside!”
I finally shouted in frustration.
Insisting on entering Scotland Yard past ten at night, with only off-duty personnel and night patrol officers around, was unreasonable, I knew it. But as time passed during this argument, the ritual might end quickly, and we might miss them. My impatience grew, and my voice rose. I couldn’t hide my irritation.
Of course, these incidents build my reputation bit by bit… but some things are inevitable, like the sun rising and the moon setting. This was one of those inevitable things.
“What’s going on here?”
A miraculous voice came at that moment, and I couldn’t help but welcome it.
I didn’t need to turn around to know who it was. It was a form of confirmation. Since his previous death was undone, this man would be alive as long as I didn’t go to Hyde Park.
Turning my head, I saw a man with his hands respectfully behind his back, bowing slightly. His face, relieved of some fatigue, was brighter today, without the unkempt beard. He looked pleased to see me but bewildered by the arguing officer.
“Is something the matter?”
Oddly enough, I thought of the man desperately trying to protect me in the past when I saw this face. Yes, Inspector Henry Brixon. This pathetically devoted man.
“Inspector Brixon!”
Brixon smiled gently and nodded to me.
“It’s been a while, Miss Osmond. What brings you to the Yard at this late hour?”