The Case of Dancing Kali: a Nat Frayne mystery

By Richard Quarry

As a spate of ritual murder/mutilations spreads across the city, London fears an invasion of Thuggee assassins. Detective Inspector Nathaniel Frayne, however, digs in his heels against tromping around beating confessions out of Hindus the way the newspapers and his superiors demand.

Instead Frayne employs his customary shady methods to investigate an exotic brothel so exclusive its members form half of Debrett's Peerage.

His problem: the last two murders took place only a short way down the street. Dozens of people heard a shot. Dozens of people saw the bodies.

No one saw the killers.

They just disappeared.

And the deeper Frayne digs, the more that becomes just the simplest part of a case that will challenge all the conventional beliefs of English society.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Devray Publishing
• Release date: Jun 3, 2020
• ISBN: 9781386376361

Book preview

1

The Case of Dancing Kali

Detective Inspector Nathaniel Frayne stood at the foot of the two porcelain-topped tables, contemplating the naked bodies lying there.

As you can see, Inspector, said McAndrews, the Divisional Surgeon, not exactly your typical Saturday night brawl. Over rolled-up shirtsleeves he wore a white apron streaked with red. Wiping his hands on a bloody towel, he tossed the towel onto a table holding a torturer’s bonanza of cutlery.

Refreshing, I suppose, Frayne acknowledged. One gets tired of dead Irishmen.

McAndrews adjusted his pince-nez. Then took them off and gave them an irritated look. He’d stained the lens with blood the towel missed.

Care to begin your examination?

All in good time, Doctor. I’m waiting for the Assistant Commissioner.

In truth Frayne was giving his stomach time to stand down. The combination of blood, ammonia, carbolic, and that indefinable smell of death here in the basement of St. Pythias’ Hospital, did not mix well with the gas hissing from jets, their blue flames flaring into yellow mist in the gloom.

He stood rocking on his heels, a square-built, square-jawed man with his hands thrust in the pockets of a dark gray greatcoat worn over a dark gray suit. On his head perched a somewhat rakish black coachman’s hat with flared brim. He sported the mustache common to the Detective Branch at that time, but without the customary sideburns.

Unlike the Assistant Commissioner, who bustled in with his side whiskers flaring like the bow wave of a clipper.

Ah, Frayne. Good fellow. Like you to meet Ashleigh Booker-Hyde. Ashleigh’s my new dogsbody.

He laughed at his own joke, the other two smiling along appropriately as they shook hands. Decked out in a black frock coat and glossy beaver hat, Booker-Hyde stood several inches taller than Frayne, and was built along graceful rather than the Inspector’s more utilitarian lines. He was clean-shaven, blue-eyed, blond-haired, and handsome in a manner that made Frayne wonder if he could find a chance to introduce him to a good hearty roughhouse. His striped tie bore the colors of some private school; Frayne did not mix in those circles enough to know which.

No, truthfully, said the AC, young Booker-Hyde will be serving as my personal secretary. I want to keep a close pulse on this investigation. At the Yard, he told Booker-Hyde, they call Frayne the Mastiff. We’ve put him onto these so-called Thuggee murders that have the press in such an uproar. Well, Frayne, any conclusions so far?

Yes, Brigadier. The people responsible for this are a completely different gang.

The AC was taken aback. What? But I was told — his hands fluttered in the air, trying to gather it all into one single, simple space — strangulation, facial mutilation, all part and parcel of the same pattern, wouldn’t you say?

The same pattern, sir, yes. It did not do to say no to the administration. But in my belief, only to capitalize on the notoriety of the original, and throw off suspicion. If I may?

Frayne moved alongside the mutilated body on the right-hand table. Booker-Hyde trailed at his shoulder, doing his best to appear imperturbable and giving a rather bilious imitation.

The corpse over which Frayne stood was in early middle age, to judge from the fading gold of the hair and the creases of fat beginning to form around the elbows, shoulders, and waist of an otherwise well set-up body. The face itself was no guide because it had been slashed to the proverbial ribbons, and the eyes put out for good measure.

You see how the slashes run straight and long? Frayne pointed out. Virtually at right angles to the bone, for the most part.

Gently he pulled some of the slashes apart to demonstrate. Watching Booker-Hyde strive so mightily to avoid visiting his dinner upon the floor helped steady Frayne’s own nerves.

Now your average man, when having his face cut by knife or razor, generally tries to move it away. Which makes for a ragged cut, with the blade often turning on the bone and curving off. As we saw in the other murders. These slashes, on the other hand, run halfway around the face without swerving from their course. Very deliberate. My conclusion being, these were definitely inflicted after death. While with the earlier victims, the cuts were delivered from the front while the subject was being strangled from behind, leading to a violent struggle.

He addressed Booker-Hyde, now several shades paler than when he’d first entered the room.

Look how smoothly the cuts end. I say, Doctor, could you toss me a clean towel? Thank you. On the other victims, the slashes were not only shorter, they tended to end in a jagged twist. As I’ve seen often before in razor cuts. Here, I’d say the handle of the knife was lifted at the end of the cut. Like slicing a joint. As would be natural if you were, say, kneeling on the victim’s chest. A curved blade, most likely.

I see, said Booker-Hyde, his bulged cheeks rendering the tones hollow.

Now, then, the eyes. Um.

He paused to clear his throat. It would take a butcher to remain unmoved. You see how they’ve been slashed? In the other killings they were gouged right out, probably using the thumbs. And look. Short, shallow slashes. Hurried. Not like the rest of the face. Signs of squeamishness, perhaps? The other lot have stronger stomachs.

Most interesting.

Now the original Thugs, they slashed the faces of their victims to delay identification. They preferred to attack travelers. Without telegraph, photographers, or even much of a functioning postal system, probably many of the victims remained forever unknown. In other words, the reason for the mutilations were functional, not ceremonial. But all the men attacked here in London were, ah, gentlemen. He’d almost said toffs. As were these two.

He gestured toward the table in the corner where their clothes lay piled. "We’ll know who they are by mid-morning, when the families come forward. So the purpose of these mutilations is not to hide the identity, but to echo the original Thugs. But here’s the thing. In the case of the first gang, it didn’t actually take much time because the victims were slashed while still being strangled. With this man, the