Dawn in the Mists - The Dark Breaks: The Evynsford Chronicles, #3

By Julianne T. Grey

Things seem to be at their tipping point in Evynsford, as the final pieces are revealed in a drama of shadowy intrigue which has played out across the lives of those dwelling within that sequestered hamlet.

An organization, one which has manipulated and maneuvered the very existence of the community, has shown its hand, whose fingers reach toward the very souls of the people dwelling on the cold shores of the Irish Sea. Rumors of experimentation, subterranean repositories and grand plans to make “better men” circulate around Evynsford, but still so much remains in the shadows. If only a keen investigator could drag things into the light…

However, such a man seems to be busy at the moment, with his recent marriage and his time away from the Constable Offices of Preston being spent erecting a new schoolhouse. No leads have been chased down, no evidence scrutinized, no prisoner interrogated, but for all this, Inspector Eldermann has never been happier. Perhaps Eldermann has given up the chase, lost in the wedded bliss he has found in the arms of the former Miss Regina Hollferd. Yet that which moves in the dark will not be denied and Arthur Eldermann has stood in its way for the last time.

When news comes that the only captured member of the organization, the Seraph, has begun talking of dire events to come, Eldermann is drawn back within the web, though things have already been set in motion. Even if the Inspector can uncover what lies ahead, there may not be enough of Evynsford, or himself, to save.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Imaginarium Press Publishing
• Release date: Apr 9, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386107828

Book preview

Prologue: Who Used to Teach Me

Her Majesty’s Prison Preston had stood in the Saint Matthew’s area of Preston for nearly two centuries, holding many a disgruntled soul. As industry expanded across England at the turn of the century, Preston – once merely a small town – found it coffers and boundaries swelling as cotton mills sprang up everywhere. Soon the need arose for a larger and more modern place in which to put the cantankerous rabble of the mills, many of whom bent their ear to the words of a particular German political theorist. And so the prison underwent extensive renovation, and was only just completed in 1895. Now the grim brick construction stood upon Church Street, just a morning’s stroll from where Saint Matthew’s church stood. A more cynical soul might have noted that such a placement was too keen a statement to the restless proletariat that the bourgeoisie must have planned it so.

Take thy complaints to God Almighty on bended knee, it seemed to say, one hand open to the steeple and the other pointed to the prison yard. For if thou should bring them in another manner, this shall be your new house of worship.

For all that, the workers of Preston who flocked to the mills night and day, seemed to be as recalcitrant as ever. Amidst the secret meetings, public rallies and simmering threat of strikes, the freshly refurbished HMPP kept a steady diet of communist sympathizers and general miscreants. The cells were nearly always crammed with more inmates than they could reasonably hold. Cells which, even after the reform and reconstruction, were meant to hold a single inmate suddenly saw themselves packed with two or even three convicted trouble-makers. Such overcrowding ensured that the inmates were perpetually ill-tempered and prone to bouts of belligerence, the masculine territorial instinct stretched to its breaking point. Such violent outbursts becoming expected, those men charged with keeping order in the prison were notoriously heavy-handed. Whether out of self-preserving cruelty, mere human pack mentality or some combination thereof, when the guards moved upon an inmate, offending or otherwise, they did so with superior numbers and uncompromising force.

Thank God for HMPP, more than ex-convict with redward leanings was known to have remarked. Af'er the beatin's I took there, how could I e'er be scared o' some ol' strike breakers or those daisies from COP?

All such radicalization and musings on cause and effect aside, HMPP was a place where a man could expect nothing but a cramped, battering stay in the accommodations afforded by her Majesty in Preston, without exception.

Only now there was an exception.

The constable overseeing the delivery of the exceptional man had insisted that the man be kept separate from the others. His own cell, his own time in the yard and even his meals to be eaten alone with only the guards standing watch. The constable intimated that this was for the safety of all involved

The Warden made all assurances, even showing the constable the inmate’s cell, where it was promised that this special prisoner would be kept away from the others. Yet when the constable, his compatriots and their wagon rolled out of HMPP’s gates, the Warden looked the man over once and laughed.

The prisoner was lanky and had come to HMPP with a skull knobbed and nose off-kilter from strong blows to the head. His dark hair hung limply about his battered face and he walked with a defeated man’s slumped posture, his large hands held before him, and those were bandaged as though they had been cut or burned, perhaps both. The man even had one arm splinted, for goodness sake. The man seemed harmless enough, and the Warden was not a man who particularly cared for the rough-mouthed constable and his high-nosed airs of directions from the Inspector. This was his prison, and therefore the Warden did as he saw fit, and so he saw fit to apply the rule of no exceptions.

Two dead inmates and one sourly injured guard later, the Warden saw fit to follow his special instructions, and exceptions were made.

For his part, the special prisoner did not seem to notice the change in his routine. He still slept, ate and walked the yard with the same forlorn posture, but now he did all this alone. He paid no heed to the inmates in general, and the two men he had slain were merely passing annotations in the seemingly empty scroll of the man’s attentions. His limbs still moved as though he were clapped in irons every single moment of the day, and his vacant eyes never once betrayed the bitter sorrow which bent his head and leadened his feet. As the weeks passed into months, the guards fell into the monotony of the singular task of the man’s care. If unmolested, the man was an easy enough charge, offering neither lip nor even the slightest resistance to being led wherever. Indeed, so far as any could tell, though the man would respond to whatever direction given, he had never spoken to a single soul. The special prisoner ate, walked the yard and sat in his cell – that was all. The watch became lax over the special prisoner, and it could be wondered that such a dangerous creature did not attempt some form of escape, but still his routine and demeanor did not change.

And