A William Carson Investigation: The blood castle

By Anthony Stefano

London 1889, William Carson, a private detective, is sent by the Director of the Royal Mail to investigate the disappearance of several mail coaches on the London to Brighton route. After becoming involved in a coach accident in the middle of a forest, William comes across an old manor house near a paved road that has fallen into disuse. Can William solve the ghastly mystery surrounding this abode and its strange occupant? Is this place linked to the recent spate of disappearances?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Anthony Stefano
• Release date: Sep 11, 2019
• ISBN: 9781547564224

Book preview

A

William Carson Investigation.

The blood castle

Anthony Stefano

Copyright © 2019Anthony Stefano

Translated from French by Ellen Bain Prior

For Sonia, without whom this book would never have seen the light of day.

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For David, Laurent and Rudy, for all the hours spent brainstorming. I do hope they recognize themselves in this book.

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For Cécile, who, I am sure, prefers the layout of this book to M+9.

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For Lionel,

who had the idea for the cover page.

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Chapter 1: London 1889 – Premises of the Royal Mail.

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London, in late 1889, the world’s most populous city. With its artists and its aristocracy, its wealthy quarters on the one hand and its poverty-stricken ones on the other, these latter the haunt of paupers and the destitute. As usual, the town was still bustling, despite the lateness of the hour. The day was drawing to a close, it was almost seven o’clock in the evening, darkness had fallen and the rattling of carriages along the fog-bound streets could be heard through the windows of a nearby building, its façade blackened by the smoke from nearby factories. And it is here, in early October, on the second floor of the premises of England’s Royal Mail, that this story begins.

— Mr Carson, may I introduce myself.

The speaker was a rather corpulent man.

— Henry Spector

And he shook his visitor’s hand. Spector had a bushy, white moustache and long, grey whiskers. His clothes reeked of the cigar he had just finished smoking, the stub lay in the ashtray on the desk. He sat down in his armchair.

— First of all, I should say that I have heard a great deal about you.

He said, lighting up another cigar.

— I wish we could have met under more propitious circumstances. Please, do take a seat.

Indicating the chair on the other side of his desk. William duly sat down.

— I brought you here to consult you about a rather difficult problem. Will you take a glass of whisky?

— No, thank you, replied William. I don’t drink spirits.

— Perhaps you would like a cup of tea?

— No, thank you, William replied, politely.

— Very well.

The man rose and poured himself a glass of whisky.

— I’ve been the Director of the Royal Mail for the past ten years. We’ve seen some ups and downs, just like everyone else. But now I am going to tell you a rather strange story. In January this year, a mail coach travelling between London and Brighton mysteriously vanished, without a trace. What of that, you may say. It may have had an accident or else simply been stolen. At all events, neither the coach, nor the mail and passengers it was carrying have been found. Three months later, in April, another London to Brighton coach disappeared. Again, nothing further was heard of the mail or the coachman. Until this point, we suspected there might have been foul play from the coachmen, stealing the coaches for some purpose of their own.

With this, the man moved towards the window and gazed down at the comings and goings in the busy street below.

— Last month, my partner disappeared, together with three other men. They and the coach they were travelling in are still missing to this day. Mr Carson, my men are all on edge, rumours abound about bandits, ghosts and a hundred other theories. If this business were to get out and come to the notice of the Queen or the newspapers, I would be out on my ear with nothing left to do but drown my sorrows in some Whitechapel bar. You know what they say about Whitechapel, don’t you, Mr Carson?

William knew all too well. Some months earlier, he had been involved in Detective Abberline’s investigation into Jack the Ripper. All those destitute beggars sleeping rough, people dying in the streets daily from cold or illness. Women slaving all day and walking the streets all night.

— Yes, I know Whitechapel, Sir. I’ve seen it with my own eyes. Why don’t you call in Scotland Yard? asked William.

— Scotland Yard, sneered Spector. Scotland Yard is only interested in murders and bloodshed. Disappearing mail coaches are too banal for them. Besides, I don’t want this affair to become known. My reputation could end up in the mud. Mr Carson, I want you to handle this with the utmost discretion. Do you understand?

William nodded.

— I can’t rely on the police the same way I can on you, a private detective. You have my full permission to investigate freely, to search this building, the coaches and the coachmen. I implore you to find out what has happened to those people and our coaches.

William nodded his agreement once more.

After leaving the premises, he headed to Parliament Street, shivering as he crossed the threshold of Scotland Yard. He felt as though all eyes were upon him. Only a few months earlier, he had still been a police officer himself. Entering, he displayed the letter he had received that morning from Frederick Abberline.

— One moment, please. I’ll tell Mr Abberline you are here.

William sat down on a wooden chair and a few moments later, Abberline came into the room.

— Hello, William, he greeted him warmly. Come this way. I’m glad you’ve come, despite having lost your position. I was afraid you might hold that against me.

— I don’t blame you for that, replied William. I know it was none of your doing. But I am surprised that Warren authorized me to come here.

— Actually, William, Sir Charles Warren doesn’t work with the Police any more. He left some months ago.

— I didn’t know that, said William. Why did you ask me to come here, Sir?

— We have caught him, replied Abberline, in a very

satisfied voice. I thought it right to tell you, since you were so closely involved in this affair and lost so much through it.

William’s heart thumped.

— His name is Francis Tumblety,’ Abberline went on, sitting down at his desk. He picked up a dossier and began reading from it. ‘Irish but spent most of his life in the United States. In the medical profession and is even suspected of involvement in the assassination of President Abraham Lincoln, no less.

— Did he give any reason for the killings? asked William.

— Organ trafficking. He sold the organs to hospitals and universities. A flourishing trade.

— Is he here?

— No. He’s locked up in the Tower of London, awaiting trial, replied Abberline.

— Can I talk to him?

— No, answered Abberline, I’m sorry but that’s quite impossible.

— Does anyone else know you’ve caught him?

— Hardly anyone, said Abberline. ‘We don’t want a repeat of what happened with Montague John Druitt. (Montague John Druitt was wrongly accused of being Jack the Ripper and was later found, drowned, in the Thames.)

— Well, thanks for letting me know, Sir.

— You’re welcome, said Abberline. It’s the least I could do. I’m counting on you to keep this business under wraps.

— You can