Lord Under London: a Nat Frayne mystery

By Richard Quarry

When a methane explosion in the London sewers spews forth a much-mangled body,  Detective Inspector Nat Frayne finds an ancient Hunter watch still tangled in the bones. It identifies the corpse as an aristocrat who disappeared in mysterious circumstances nearly a century ago.

Or does it?

The find sets off a spectacular round of litigation between branches of the family, to the delight of the press. Even better, more corpses keep turning up. Freshly killed this time.

When his superiors order Frayne to clear up the case at once, there is nothing for it but to leave the light of day once more behind.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Devray Publishing
• Release date: Jun 2, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393287094

Book preview

This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

LORD UNDER LONDON

First edition. June 2, 2020.

Copyright © 2020 Richard Quarry.

ISBN: 978-1393287094

Written by Richard Quarry.

Lord Under London

Richard Quarry

Contents

Lord Under London

About the Author

The French Mesmerist

Lord Under London

Nathaniel Frayne could not prevent his lips from curling inward against the stench. But exercising the restraint his years in the Metropolitan Police had taught him, he managed not to be too obvious about wrinkling his nose. The sewer scrubbers who’d brought the skeleton out from the Fleet Ditch still wore their rubber hip waders and baggy black oilskins, and the odor they carried up with them was foul in a peculiarly penetrating, almost personal way, even for a life-long Londoner.

If Frayne showed any sign that the stink might be too much for him, the scrubbers would gloat. There wasn’t much love lost between workmen and the Peelers. So Frayne hid his distaste with a shiver and pulled his overcoat tighter around as if his only discomfort was the wind whipping in gusts up from Blackfriar’s Bridge.

Fortunately, though he’d been called out to view the skeleton fished out of the Fleet this morning, this wasn’t any case he’d likely get assigned to. Because whether he was looking at murder or misfortune, it had happened a long time ago.

You could see that much just from the scraps of clothing still entwined about the bones. Ragged as they were, and well coated with slime, they clearly came from a different time altogether. Last century, at least. He’d only ever seen clothes like that in illustrations. Like George III maybe, with less gold and embroidery.

Next to Frayne young Booker-Hyde, for all his toffee-nose heritage, exhibited less concern for maintaining his dignity in front of the working class. He was more engaged in not showing everyone what he’d had for breakfast that morning. He clapped a handkerchief over his long aristocratic face, even paler than usual, and from the way his eyes fluttered Frayne feared he might fall over.

As well he might. Skeletons in general were hardly appetizing, but this one was downright repulsive. Bare bones might have gotten rinsed off some when dragged through the foot or so of water above the sewer slime. But this chap had died in his clothes, and the tattered remnants had snagged a most noisome coat of brown slime during their journey through the Fleet. The nasal assault was further augmented by the fire-belching stacks of the London Gas Works a little ways upriver, which added an appallingly sulphurous sweetness to this riot of decay.

Explosion got reported last night, the foreman told Frayne. Rattled the windows in the Royal Hotel some, but didn’t break nothin’. Methane, most likely. Don’t happen much as it used ter, but it ain’t unknown. Wasn’t enough crew on hand to do nothin’ about it. So we went in for a butcher’s first thing. And found ‘im.

He nodded his chin toward skeleton lying on planks thrown across a couple of sawhorses. A coat with the one surviving collar looking long enough to reach the ear, though limp and disheveled now, had gotten twisted around the bones. The front ended just past the breastbone, and though the back was pretty badly chewed up, in life it might have reached to the back of the knee. The color was hard to judge. Either brown, or it had been in the sewer long enough to take on such a shade. Yet with a touch of gold still remaining, if little more than a suggestion.

Below the coat the bones sported a thick waistcoat in what appeared to be a wave pattern, though hanging in shreds. The black pants were scarce more substantial than strands of seaweed waving in the Thames, but a leather strap was still buckled about the left knee. Below the buckle protruded a short length of what might have once been white hose.

What do you think, Ashleigh?

Frayne knew it discomfited Ashleigh Booker-Hyde to be addressed by his first name by a social inferior. That’s why Frayne did it. To his credit, Booker-Hyde did his best to espouse egalitarian ideals, but once a toff, always a toff.

Booker-Hyde lowered the handkerchief from his face. The scrubbers tried to hide their grins at his scrunched features. Before Beau Brummel, certainly, or there’d be more black. The coat material doesn’t look to be as thick as you’d expect back around the time of Fielding and Johnson. I’d guess between 1770 and 1800. Quality. The clothes, I mean, he added hurriedly, to avoid giving offence.

Thank you, Ashleigh. Most enlightening.

Frayne told the two constables to carry some buckets of water from one of the iron pump stands used to fill the water sweeps on the adjoining Farringdon Road. Then had them slosh the rags and bones as clean as possible. Meanwhile he had the foreman, Roughleby by name, fetch him a pair of gloves.

Delicately as he could, more for his own sensibilities than respect for the dead, he patted the corpse down, squeezing the loose fabric. He did not want to leave this for the morgue because objects of any value had an odd habit of disappearing en route.

He found three guineas of an older type in a tiny pocket he didn’t know was there till he felt them. Then from what remained of the waistcoat he extracted a gold watch with elaborate floral engraving on both sides.

Quality, all right. Pocket watches were relatively cheap these days, but Frayne, who’d gained a bit of knowledge scouring pawn shops for stolen items, knew that back then they were prized possessions, admired more for their appearance than their rather dubious ability to keep time.

Rinsing the watch off in another bucket of water, Frayne laid it on