The Infernal Realm

By Lee Moan

A killer on the streets of Victorian London

A detective hellbent on stopping him

A doorway to another universe . . .

The Infernal Realm is a fast-paced detective thriller which takes Inspector Joshua Darknoll on a terrifying journey into the uncanny, where everything he thought he knew about the world—about reality itself—is turned upside down.

As he pursues the murderer through a strange, labyrinthine version of London, Darknoll faces a terrible choice - stopping the madman or finding his way back home to the woman he loves . . .

The first volume in The Darknoll Chronicles

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lee Moan
• Release date: Jun 28, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311179913

Lee Moan

Lee Moan grew up in the English seaside town of Torquay, birthplace of the 'Queen of Crime', Agatha Christie. He now lives in the neighbouring town of Paignton. His stories have been published in numerous magazines including Hub, Dark Recesses Press, Murky Depths, Jupiter SF, Twisted Tongue, as well as contributions in the Permuted Press anthology Best Tales of the Apocalypse and Anything But Zombies from Atria Books. 'The Infernal Realm' is the first volume in a new steampunk mystery trilogy entitled "The Darknoll Chronicles". He is hard at work on the second volume. Visit the Steam-powered Typewriter Blog at http://leemoan.blogspot.com/ for more details and all the latest news.

Book preview

LONDON, 1896

The hansom cab emerged from the mist like a wraith. The horses’ hooves clattered on the waterfront cobbles, startling a flock of gulls perched along the tall iron gates. With a sharp tug on the reins, the driver brought the geldings to a halt.

Here you are, Inspector, he said. Deptford wharf.

Darknoll opened the cab door and climbed down onto the creaking boards of the jetty. He shivered as the harsh wind penetrated the thick fabric of his overcoat. A fine spray from the water brushed against his cheeks with a tenderness he found unsettling. At the far end of the pier, a group of dark figures moved about in a shifting screen of grey mist.

Murder, is it, sir? the driver asked. Nasty one, I’ll wager, judging by all them bobbies.

Darknoll glared up at him. Thank you, driver, he said.

The young man wilted under Darknoll’s gaze and shook the reins, leading the cab away without another word. Darknoll watched the hansom vanish into the swirling fog, the sound of hooves fading to an echo.

A tall figure emerged from the mist. Sergeant Lampshire. His deputy had sent the cab to collect him at his home, just as he was about to set off for dinner with his best friend, Walter. It had been a long time since their last meeting, and Walter would be deeply disappointed at his absence.

Evening, Inspector. Apologies for sending a taxi to collect you, all the police carriages are out on duty this evening. It’s an eventful night I’m afraid to say.

No matter, Darknoll said. I only hope this is worth my while.

Lampshire did not answer immediately. He pulled up the collars of his overcoat and looked back the way he had come. I . . . think you should take a look for yourself, sir.

They walked down the jetty together in silence. Out on the river, obscured by the low-lying mist, a tugboat sounded its horn, a mournful cry in the darkness. At the end of the pier, they found several constables in greatcoats bearing portable lanterns. They peered out of the mist with the gaunt masks of ghosts.

Lying on the boards at their feet was the body of a young woman, her face painted in a manner commonly associated with prostitutes. A quick examination showed no signs of bruising around the face or neck. The victim was fully clothed, her arms and legs splayed, positioned in such a way as to resemble an X. Darknoll found no tethers binding her hands or feet. The handle of a knife protruded from her chest, the blade buried up to the hilt.

Who discovered the body? he asked.

The wharf master’s son, Lampshire said.

He’s been taken into custody?

No, sir, we sent him home with his father.

Darknoll’s eyes flashed. Why?

Because he’s eight years old, sir.

Oh, I see.

We took statements from father and son, Lampshire said, but they knew very little.

Darknoll scanned the surrounding area, the edges of the jetty cloaked in seeping mist. On the boards around the body patches of rainwater glistened.

The boy didn’t touch anything did he?

He says he didn’t. He looked as pale as a nun when we spoke to him, poor lad. Lampshire leaned over, hands on knees, to address the corpse directly. Well, somebody has done for you, young Henrietta, haven’t they? You’ll be sleeping with the Devil himself tonight, won’t you now?

Hold your tongue, Sergeant, Darknoll said. Have some respect for the dead.

Respect? Lampshire said, with a snort. She was a whore, sir. The only thing she respected was money for you-know-what.

All the more reason to pity her, Sergeant. Now, let that be the end of it.

Lampshire stared at him, his body tensed, ready for a fight. Darknoll ignored him, indicating the dead girl.

So, Sergeant, what do we know about the child?

Lampshire took a long time to answer. Henrietta Swan, he said eventually. Darknoll noted the tightness in his voice. Twenty-one years old. She worked the Portland district. Word was she would do anything for any man if the price were right. And she liked the rougher kind.

Darknoll assessed the victim once more in light of this. Studying the girl’s painted face, he felt a sudden bolt of empathy, a deep and abiding sorrow. He imagined a mother, a father, an older brother, perhaps, all of them heartbroken and praying, daily, for this young woman’s redemption. Perhaps, even near the end, she never suspected this night would be her last . . .

Emotion rose up inside him but he shook it off immediately.

And what do we make of this? he asked, indicating a strange diagram drawn around the victim’s body—a large circle with twelve branches leading from it, each branch capped with a smaller circle. Darknoll crouched down and examined the fine white powder used to create the image. He dabbed it with his right forefinger, sniffed it, then put a tiny amount on the tip of his tongue.

Salt, he said. Sea salt.

Lampshire indicated the diagram. What do you think, Inspector? Constellation, perhaps?

It looks like no constellation I’ve ever seen. He pulled out his notebook and quickly sketched the image. Approximately five feet away from the body was a second identical diagram. It was much smaller and at its centre was a smoked glass jar with a lid. Darknoll walked over and sketched it, trying to maintain a sense of the ratio, in case the size and distance should prove to be important. Do we know what’s in the jar? he asked.

Blood, Lampshire said. Quite a lot of it. The jar is almost full. I would say three, maybe four pints.

Darknoll walked back over to Miss Swan’s body, looking over her face, skin as pale as snow. Then it’s almost certain the blood belongs to our victim.

Yes, Lampshire said. I would go along with that.

Have we examined the murder weapon? Darknoll said, pulling a leather glove over his right hand.

No, sir. Lampshire gestured at the circle surrounding the body. I didn’t feel comfortable stepping into that circle. The whole thing reeks of witchcraft to me.

Do you believe in all that, sergeant?

No, but . . . you can never be too careful, sir.

Darknoll tried to suppress a smile. My, sergeant. Next you’ll be telling me you believe in faeries.

Lampshire did not reply, his lips pressed into a thin white line.

Darknoll stepped inside the circle, taking care not to disturb the line of salt. He crouched down at the girl’s side, leaning over to get a good look at the handle of the blade.

Stone, he said.

What’s that, sir? Lampshire asked.

The handle is made of stone, which suggests the blade is made of stone also. One solid piece. It looks old, very old, but . . . there’s a very fine crosshatch pattern on the handle, and . . . small diagrams carved into it on both sides. A gate, and— He leaned over to examine the image on the far side —some kind of creature, hard to identify. Very smooth stone carving, though, very refined. Impossible to tell if this is a genuine ancient blade or if it’s been fashioned like an ancient blade. Darknoll sat back. Beautiful work.

You sound impressed, Lampshire said.

Not impressed, sergeant. Curious. The killer has gone to a lot of trouble. Either they have hunted down a very rare type of ancient dagger, or they have employed a modern stone smith to make it. Whichever is the case, it suggests incredible premeditation, an extreme level of obsession, dedication . . .

He let the thought trail away. Each fragment of evidence helped him to form a clearer picture of the killer and, in particular, the killer’s mindset. Already, he did not like the picture that was forming in his head.

Everything all right, sir? Lampshire asked.

Darknoll did not reply. He noticed the buttons of the victim’s blouse were undone, both sides folded back over each other. Dark splotches of blood were visible through the fabric.

Was the victim found like this? Buttons undone?

Yes, sir, Lampshire said.

Darknoll reached over and gently lifted away the sides of the blouse until her entire chest area was exposed. The stone dagger had pierced her heart, partially mutilating her left breast. Despite the fatal injury, there was only a small amount of blood around the entry wound, now dried to a dark crust. Darknoll leaned in again, noticing another bloody mark just visible beneath the fabric of the open dress. He unfastened some more buttons to reveal a shape cut into the skin just below the sternum, hard to identify in the poor light.

You, he said to one of the nearby constables. What’s your name?

Thacker, sir.

Hold your lantern above me, Thacker. I need light.

The young constable shuffled forward, holding the lantern directly above the corpse. At the same time, half a dozen other beams of light fell on the area surrounding the body, creating an intense, almost ethereal glow to the scene. The dead girl looked almost angelic.

Darknoll examined the ornate symbol carved into the skin. Three wavy lines crossed through by a single jagged scar.

He unfastened the remaining buttons to reveal more symbols carved across the girl’s stomach.

Dear God, Lampshire said.

Darknoll pored over the other symbols—a cat’s head with a solitary eye in the centre, a triangle with a star above it, a crescent moon. There were twelve in total, covering the torso in a rough circular pattern.

Eventually Darknoll sat back on his haunches, staring into the wall of mist. This confirmed his earlier fears, that this was more than just another ordinary murder. He had not seen anything like this since the Whitechapel murders.

He opened his notebook and quickly sketched the symbols.

I told you this was witchcraft, Lampshire said. I’ve seen something like this before, in the East End back in ninety-two. Animals with their organs cut out. Weird symbols painted in blood. Black magic. He backed away slowly, shaking his head. He realised then that everyone was looking at him. Bloody mumbo-jumbo if you ask me.

The sound of clinking glass filled the silence as the heel of Lampshire’s shoe connected with the glass jar resting on the boards. Lampshire froze and looked down. The glass jar tottered for a few frozen moments, before settling back on its base. However, it was than that he noticed the real error. He had inadvertently disturbed the ring around it. The salt line was broken. He looked up at the other men, horror flashing in his eyes.

Before anyone could respond, a loud inhalation shattered the silence, followed by a piercing scream.

Several men cried out in shock, their lanterns swaying wildly back and forth, as they searched for the source in blind panic.

A hand flailed out and grabbed the lapel of Darknoll’s coat. It took a moment for him to register that the hand belonged to the girl. Her eyes were open and staring, filled with panic and naked terror. She was trying to pull herself up into a sitting position, but she ended up pulling Darknoll down towards her.

"Cass-ku nuo-shi!" she stammered. "Barra-nokk! Vestanji!"

A thousand thoughts rolled through Darknoll’s mind, every one of them obscured by his shock and confusion. He was looking at a girl who, until a moment ago, had been stone cold dead at their feet—now that same girl was looking into his eyes and screaming.

Oh God, her eyes.

He had never seen such fear.

She can’t be alive, he kept hearing himself say. She has a dagger in her heart. She can’t—

Help me, she said, her face an inch from his. Her breath smelled like cold meat. Please help me. I’m so frightened. I can see them. Dark shapes. Beyond the silver sea. Monsters. Oh God, it’s so dark . . . so cold.

What’s happening? the youngest constable was saying, hysteria rising in his voice. What’s she saying? I thought she was dead! I thought she was dead!

Quiet, Thacker! someone barked.

Help me, pleeeeeease, the girl screamed. Then her eyes fixed on the handle of the dagger protruding from her chest. The dagger! Oh God! The dagger . . . is . . . in . . . my . . . She trailed off, sobbing, choking. Her grip on his collar relaxed.

Darknoll recovered his senses, grabbing the girl’s hand. Henrietta, he said hurriedly. Henrietta, listen to me. Everything will be . . .

A horrible gargling sound in her throat. She was slipping away.

What was he going to say to her? Everything will be all right? He couldn’t bring himself to say that. The girl was dead.

What could he say?

A moment later her other hand smacked against the boards and her eyes fluttered closed. Darknoll stared at her still form for a long time, his head filled with a dull, muted buzzing.

The sound of waves lapping against the wharf struts filled the silence.

Sir?

It was Thacker, the young constable. Darknoll looked up and found tears in the young man’s eyes and a pained, questing look on his face. He needed reassurance, answers.

Sir, what just happened? he said. I-I-I don’t understand. What just happened?

Darknoll stared at him for a long time and then looked at Lampshire. The sergeant’s features were blank, his eyes fixed on the dead girl’s body. He sensed Darknoll’s eyes upon him and shook his head, for once at a loss for words.

2

The street lamps were burning bright when the cab finally arrived in Rackham Road. For most of the journey, Darknoll had sat staring at nothing, his senses numbed by the events of just a few hours ago. He knew it was late, but refused to look at his pocket watch. The midnight hour was not far away.

As the cab rolled to a stop, Darknoll glanced out at the Sovereign Restaurant. The lights inside were low. He would not be surprised if his friend had departed a long time ago. He prayed that was not the case. He had not seen dear Walter in many weeks now and he chastised himself for neglecting him so often. In this harsh city, Walter was the only true friend he had.

He stepped down from the cab onto the pavement, paid the elderly driver, who tipped his hat and wished him a good night. As the cab pulled away, Darknoll took a deep breath. He approached the entrance and slipped inside. There was no maitre d’ waiting for him, and all the waiters were congregated around the kitchen doors with arms folded and a collective look of exhaustion on their faces. A brief scan of the restaurant showed that the last few patrons were readying to leave. His heart sank.

Joshua!

He followed the voice to find his friend seated in a booth behind him. Walter greeted him with a wave and broad smile, no hint of disappointment. Relief flooded through him. The last thing he needed after a troublesome evening was an uptight friend.

Darknoll marched over, Walter greeting him with a firm handshake.

Walter, he said, I cannot apologise enough. I was called to a crime scene just as I was preparing to leave the house.

I suspected as much, Joshua. They both sat down and Walter poured them both a glass of sherry. I am only sorry that you missed a wonderful meal. Duck a l’orange with the most delightful sauces.

Sounds glorious.

It was indeed. If you like, I could ask the waiters if they can bring out some cold meats before the kitchens close.

Darknoll shook his head. Thank you, Walter, but you needn’t worry. The scene I have just left has completely killed what appetite I may have had.

Walter’s expression turned solemn. Oh dear. A nasty case?

Darknoll drank deeply from his glass. I’m afraid so.

Are you at liberty to discuss the details?

Walter, I know I have discussed certain aspects of my work with you in the past, matters I would never disclose to others, but I fear that if I told you the details of what happened tonight you might think I am losing my mind.

Walter studied Darknoll’s face. Murder?

Darknoll nodded. A young woman. A prostitute. We found her down at Deptford Wharf. But it was the manner of her death, Walter . . . Darknoll sipped the sherry again. Already the potent drink was making his head fuzzy, a sensation he welcomed.

Walter gripped his arm. Joshua, if you wish to say no more, I completely understand.

Darknoll stared into the glass, the dark red liquid stirring up unwanted associations. Walter, I pursued a life in policing because I wanted to understand the world, understand mankind. But after a day like today, I find myself completely and utterly bewildered.

I don’t know how you do it, Joshua. I am only glad that it is your vocation and not mine. I find my career in the law offices harrowing enough. He grinned. Hats off to you, sir. They clinked glasses and downed their respective drinks.

After placing his glass back on the table, Walter looked around the restaurant, clearly distracted by something.

Is everything all right? Darknoll asked.

Yes, yes. I’m simply . . . waiting for someone to return to the table.

Someone?

Walter flashed his biggest smile. Joshua, I confess I had another motive in arranging to meet you tonight.

Oh, really?

Walter shuffled closer, his face aglow with boyish glee. Joshua, something wonderful has happened. It appears my bachelor days may soon be over.

What are you saying?

Joshua, I’m saying I have met the most wonderful young woman. Remember the last time we spoke and I told you I was seeking a nanny for my niece?

Darknoll nodded.

Well, I found more than a nanny in the young woman I appointed. Joshua, she is everything I ever dreamed of. What is more, I am so certain of our suitability . . . I have asked her to marry me!

Darknoll laughed. This was truly startling news. Both he and Walter had been committed bachelors for years now, and no woman had ever lived up to his friend’s unreasonably high expectations. Walter, I . . . I am so pleased for you. Astonished, but very pleased.

At that moment, a shadow fell across the table. Walter spied the approaching figure first and shot to his feet.

Joshua, he said, I would like you to meet my fiancée, Louise Parker.

Darknoll stood up to greet the young woman but as their eyes met, he was struck with a sudden overwhelming bolt of paralysis.

The world around him stopped, as if everything in creation had suddenly blinked out of existence. Even Walter seemed to fade away into the shadows.

The eyes staring back at him were not the eyes of a stranger. They were eyes he had known all his life, eyes now set in an older face—a beautiful woman’s face.

Louise? he said.

Joshua? she replied.

The silence stretched out.

Walter, whose happy grin remained frozen on his face, looked between the two of them with mounting confusion. His smile faltered.

You . . . you two know each other? Walter asked.

Yes, they said together. They both laughed. They continued to stare at each other. Louise blinked several times, looked at Walter for a moment and then looked back.

I can hardly believe it, she said. Joshua . . .

Walter made a strange noise deep in his throat. The silence, and their lack of explanation, was clearly making him uncomfortable.

Walter, Louise said. Joshua and I grew up in the same village—

Malden, Darknoll said.

Louise smiled. Yes, Malden, she said. We were . . . great friends. We haven’t seen in each other in . . . how long?

Twenty years, Darknoll said.

Twenty years, Louise echoed, shaking her head.

Walter watched his fiancée’s face closely, and when the silence grew too great again, he fixed a smile on his face. Well, this is wonderful news! he said, filling three glasses. A double celebration! Our engagement and a friendship reunited. He raised his glass over the table.

Darknoll managed to break eye contact long enough to find his own glass and pass one to Louise. She took it with a grateful nod.

This is surely meant to be, Walter said. To love and friendship!

Darknoll finished his glass and placed it carefully back on the table. It was hard to determine if the sudden wave of delirium storming through his head was the result of the sherry or this unexpected meeting. Louise sipped her sherry before sitting at the table. Walter and Darknoll resumed their seats.

Walter cleared his throat noisily. Joshua missed our wonderful dinner because he was attending a crime scene this evening. Joshua is an inspector in our fine police force.

Louise looked at Darknoll with genuine admiration in her eyes. How wonderful, she said. You always said you wanted to . . . save the world.