Shadow of Hecate

By Adrian Scott

an old jewish man is murdered in 1800's sydney by a gang of thugs, and his wife, a witch, uses her familiar, a large dog, as a murder weapon to slaughter one by one the gang. blood runs free in the streets, and a journalist is left in the middle of a mystery he cannot unravel...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Adrian Scott
• Release date: Aug 23, 2011
• ISBN: 9781466119888

Adrian Scott

I have been writing short stories since 9 years old, changed to writing novels 4 years ago. in that time, I've written 69, now working on my 70th; thirty-one of which have been published in the US by Renaissance ebooks and Publishing by Rebecca J Vickery. I am also publishing on Smashwords. Society of Vampires volume 1, published by Rebecca J Vickery, Publishers, US; has also been forwarded by Rebecca to Francis Ford Coppola for consideration as a movie. So it's all go at the moment. I have three daughters, all of whom I regularly see. My wife of 31 years, Penny, passed away on March 17, 2011. I live in a retirement village in Caboolture Queensland with my dog, Scamp. He is my main critic and friend.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

September 24th; 1836: The old man walked slowly along the footpath, taking his time for the night was cool, and there were three miles to walk before he reached his home in Summer Hill on the outskirts of Sydney Town.

He was a Jew, and his name was Solomon Grabbiere. Emigrated from France with his wife two years earlier, he came to this new land seeking a life far from the racist attitudes of Europe. Jews were frowned upon, looked down on, and ostracised from society, but this new land promised hope for a life offering equality, and fairness.

He walked through the valley of Haymarket and began the long climb up the slope taking him out of the city and into the surrounds, where his wife, Rebecca, waited in the little three-room bungalow they bought in the western suburbs.

It was eight-thirty at night, and Solomon needed to come into the town for a doctor’s appointment. The doctors who emigrated to this new land still preferred living in the city to living in the suburbs, because there were the hospitals, and a greater number of patients, in the city.

He walked slowly, leaning heavily on his cane, for he suffered from arthritis in one hip, the right leg slightly shorter than the left, making walking a thing of difficulty for him. But he did not complain; it was a small price to pay in this new land where they could start a new life.

The ostracism came in France, not only because of their Zionist beliefs but also because Solomon’s wife was known as a healer, and regarded by the church and by a large segment of Paris society as a witch.

He passed Sol Levy’s tobacconist and turned left, up along the Colonnades towards Pitt Street, which would take him straight through to the inner suburb of Summer Hill, and home. He smiled at the crowd of young people gathered on the footpath outside the ‘City’ Hotel, drinks in hand, laughing and joking loudly, skylarking on the footpath in front of him. He had just drawn abreast of the hotel when the batwing doors swung suddenly open, and a youthful figure, tall and broad-shouldered, was propelled backwards through the doors, to land on its shoulders on the filthy footpath outside the hotel.

"An’ don’t come back til yer learn ta behave!" the publican’s voice shouted at the figure painfully rising to its feet. Then the batwing doors closed again, and the sound of the drinkers inside the hotel faded slightly.

Solomon wended his way through the group of youths on the sidewalk, all gathered about their leader, the one ejected from the hotel. There were sharp words spoken, words of anger and frustration, and muttered curses, and then the group set off in the same direction as Solomon Grabbiere, through the Colonnades and out into Pitt Street, towards the next hotel, fifty yards away on the right.

Then one of the group noticed the Jew’s skullcap on the back of his head, and the laughter and shouting of obscenities rose. The big, broad-shouldered youth who was tossed out of the hotel ran after him, grabbed him by one shoulder, and laughingly demanded money.

But Solomon carried no money. He spent his last sovereign on the visit to the doctor’s that afternoon. Apologetically, he told the youth.

But this was not good enough. All Jews have money. Everyone knew this. So where was his?

"C’mon, ‘and it over!" the tall, broad-shouldered youth said, and a fist was raised in Solomon’s face.

He backed away, hands upraised before the pale face, denying there was any money, showing, by pulling out one trouser-pocket, it was empty. Yet still the youth continued to pester him, shoving him with one hand until Solomon’s back was pressed hard up against the high stone-block wall behind him.

Then another, shorter youth approached, dancing forward on the toes of his worn boots, and threw a punch, taking old Solomon in the stomach and causing him to double over, gagging.

The blow brought about a sudden change in the group of thirteen youths. They became animals, wild things, running in and surrounding the old Jew, sending fists flying into his unprotected face and body until he dropped, bloodied and half-conscious, to the footpath.

The leader stood back and stared at the body for a moment. Then he sent a toe-cap crashing into the ribs, followed it with another, and suddenly the rest of his group were kicking, kicking, kicking, until Solomon’s aged body moved no longer.

Laughing and yelling excitedly at the terrible deed they had committed, the group moved on to the next hotel, and continued to drink on into the night.

A patrolling soldier found the body of Solomon Grabbiere at two o’clock in the morning, when a light fog obscured the street, and all was quiet.

The old man, dead for some time, was beaten to death in a brutal and sadistic fashion, most likely for money and for the fact he was a Jew.

An old letter in his pocket bore a Summer Hill address, and after the body was taken away to the morgue, a constable went out to the address to inform the old lady who lived there by herself - except for a large, black Alsatian dog, her only companion.

She listened emotionlessly as the constable explained what took place only hours earlier: her aged husband was beaten to death by one of the gangs of youths frequenting the area, and left lying on the footpath, to die alone and covered in his own blood.

Rebecca Grabbiere was taken in the police wagon to the morgue in the basement of the Dawes Point Hospital to identify the body. Yes, it was her missing husband, Solomon.

The constable offered his condolences, placed a comforting hand on the aged shoulder, and drove the old lady back to her pitiful little dwelling and her dog.

It did not take long for the constables to arrest and question the gang of youths responsible for the death. They kept Solomon’s gold Star of David in their possession, said they found it on the footpath. But they denied laying a hand on the old Jew.

Taken before a magistrate, they pleaded not guilty, and because there were no witnesses to the crime and the youths themselves all denied doing such a terrible thing, they were released and allowed to go on their way.

They walked out of court on Thursday morning, laughing and skylarking, pleased they were not found guilty and assigned to one of the work gangs of prisoners in this city of prisoners.

And as they left the courthouse, they passed an old Jewish woman standing on the footpath with a large black Alsatian dog on a leash, - a dog, staring at each one of them intently, but not growling.

Whether they knew the old lady was Solomon’s widow was never known. But she studied every face passing, watched their antics, their joy at getting away with killing the only man she ever loved.

Then she turned and walked away, set out on the long walk to Summer Hill alone, to a house no longer holding the comfort of Solomon’s presence, his smile, his loving face, and his warm touch.

And there she lived alone, except for ‘Hecate,’ her dog.

CHAPTER TWO

October 24th; 1836: Paulie Watson was the leader of the gang of thirteen youths. They were not unusual for Sydney Town, for the city was populated by several gangs, who spent their time at the local hotels getting drunk, and causing trouble, assaulting people, stealing, fighting, and occasionally spending time at Her Majesty’s Pleasure in Long Bay or Parramatta Gaol for their sins.

Their names do not matter except in the context of this story. Neither does their history, for it varied little from the histories of other gangs. The major difference between Paulie Watson’s gang and other gangs, however, was it was Paulie’s gang who murdered an old Jew one night in September for no more than a gold Star of David he wore around his neck, and which the gang later pawned for drinking money.

Eric Sawtell, editor of the Sydney Herald, first learned of Paulie Watson’s gang and of their crime on the morning of their trial and, like most of the rest of Sydney Town, knew of their guilt although it could not be proven. One only needed to look at their behaviour, their thumbing their noses at the law as they left the courthouse, to know they were, in fact, guilty.

But no court in the land would convict them. They would go on their way, laughing and joking, having gotten away with a brutal and cold-blooded murder, and think no more of the terrible thing they had done.

But old Rebecca thought of it often, especially in the dark hours in the middle of the night, when the wind howled around her bungalow in Summer Hill and the night was dark, and no stranger walked the streets.

She thought of it every day of her life, right up until the time she died a short time later, alone and unmourned, and went to join her husband in the land God promised them, far from the pain and suffering of the everyday world.

But strange things were to happen before she died, things never explained, never understood, except by those who understood witchcraft and the Black Arts, who concocted potions and cast spells – and wreaked vengeance on those who wronged them.

And the first of those strange events was the death of Paulie Watson himself.

It happened late one night, when all the world was dark and Paulie was drunk and wandering home alone from the hotel where he and his gang usually drank.

His gang separated and went their individual ways, home to the places where they lived, and he walked alone along George Street, intending to turn up Market Street and follow MacQuarie Street out of the city and through Victoria Cross to the mean little hovel where he dwelt with his wife and baby son.

Paulie was a mean, brutish, violent man who often struck his wife or swore at her, or cursed his son for crying late in the night, who came home drunk practically every night and made the lives of the two people he should have cared most about nothing short of Hell.

He staggered along the street, past the shops with their window displays and their locked doors, past the great park on the left, out towards Victoria Barracks where the Army was headquartered, singing loudly to himself and sipping from a bottle of rum he stole from the hotel before leaving it.

He did not notice the dark, four-footed shadow following a few yards behind, silently, making no noise on this cold, windy night, but with its eyes firmly fixed on the stumbling figure ahead, until Paulie paused to relieve himself in the gutter outside the Rivoli Theatre.

As Paulie struggled to refasten the buttons on the front of his trousers, the shadow came in low, moving fast, too fast for Paulie to follow, and took him low down on the left leg, knocking him off-balance and sending him crashing to the footpath.

As he struggled to climb up off hands and knees, cursing loudly all the while, the dog took him by the throat, sank its great canines deep into the larynx, and held on until the body slumped to the footpath, all life gone from its huge frame.

Then it set about savaging the body of Paulie Watson, tearing into his hands and face with a savagery almost beyond belief.

When it was finished, and turned away down a narrow alleyway and started on its way home, it left behind a torn and bloodied body that was unrecognizable.

Sawtell saw the body the morning it was discovered, took down the few particulars the investigating constables could give him as to what happened, and wondered why a dog would tear into a human being with such fury most of the skin was torn from the face and hands.

He wrote out his report for the Sydney Herald¹, and it was accompanied with a woodcut print of the body lying on the footpath, statements from the constables, and reports of sounds of growling, snarling, and screaming in the night from residents living in the area.

Paulie’s wife came down to identify the body, and stood tearlessly at