Red Dragon-White Dragon

By Gary Dolman

Atticus and Lucie Fox are summoned to a country estate in remote Northumberland, where a series of bizarre murders appear to centre on the delusions of a madman, who lives alone on the edge of the moors. Close by are the remains of a long-vanished castle, where, local legends say, King Arthur still lies in an enchanted sleep, waiting t

• Language: English
• Publisher: Reynard Press
• Release date: Dec 16, 2015
• ISBN: 9780993420832

Gary Dolman

Gary Dolman was born in the industrial north east of England in the early 1960s. He lives in Yorkshire, with his wife, children and dogs.

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RED DRAGON– WHITE DRAGON

Gary Dolman

REYNARD PRESS

RED DRAGON-WHITE DRAGON

This edition published in 2015 by

REYNARD PRESS

HG4 2NP

First published in the United Kingdom in 2013 by

THAMES RIVER PRESS

An imprint of Wimbledon Publishing Company Limited.

LONDON. SE1 8HA

© Gary Dolman 2013-2015

The right of Gary Dolman to be identified as the author

of the work has been asserted by him in accordance  with

the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act, 1988.

All Rights Reserved

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or be transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the written permission of the publisher, nor be circulated in any binding or cover other than in which it is published and without similar conditions being imposed on any subsequent purchaser.

All the characters and events portrayed in this novel are imaginary, and any similarity with real people or events is coincidental.

ISBN: 978-0-9934208-3-2

Cover: © Gentian Media.

Cover image: © Witthayap, Dreamstime.com – Suns rays.

RED DRAGON-

WHITE DRAGON

Also by Gary Dolman:

The Eighth Circle of Hell

The Satyr’s Dance

RED DRAGON-WHITE DRAGON

Dolman has penned a great novel, which lays an icy grasp around the reader. The period details and language are both spot-on, and the sense of madness driving the murderer on is truly haunting.

-CRIMESQUAD.COM

I was impressed with Red Dragon-White Dragon. Gary Dolman’s novel had just the right mixture of realism and Arthurian legend to keep me guessing at every turn.  And the ending—amazing!  Just when you think you know what’s going to happen, even if you’ve guessed the villain already, there is a huge twist that completely blindsides you.

-THE MAD REVIEWER

I was greatly impressed by this book and would recommend that anyone who likes a great mystery with a historical slant, checks this one out.

You won't be sorry that you did!

-READFUL THINGS

And oftentimes, to win us to our harm,

The instruments of darkness tell us truths,

Win us with honest trifles, to betray’s

In deepest consequence.

-Macbeth, Act I, Scene 3,

William Shakespeare

CHAPTER ONE

_______________

The Edge of the World.

That was what they called this place; this vast, rocky promontory, which lay across the kingdom of Northumberland like a slumbering dragon. It was here the Emperor Hadrian had chosen to build the great wall that marked the very edge of the Roman Empire, making use of the natural barriers of cliffs and crags in his bid to keep out the barbarians beyond.

He stood on the Edge of the World and gazed out over the bleak, rock-strewn moorlands, pinched into ridges and escarpments like the waves of some ancient, petrified sea.

It was to that country he was bound. His work for this day, given to him by the Fates themselves, was done, and he could go back now to his cool and silent vault, hidden deep in the crags and rocks of the Northumbrian fells. There he would tell this tale to his Lady and to Lancelot, his one-time companion-in-arms, as they slept their eternal sleep.

He smiled at the thought of his Lady and felt the spilled blood on his face bristle and crack. She was his love, his only true love, and he imagined kissing her smooth, white brow, taking her limp fingers in his own and telling her of the killing.

Ah, yes – the killing. His smile spread wide and the mask of gore tightened and pulled. With the memory he became aware of the familiar weight of the sword hanging, always ready, at his side. Instinctively he reached down and touched the cold metal. Perhaps his Lady was not his only love after all.

He allowed himself to luxuriate in the recollection of the long, elegant blade sliding so easily into the Gypsy’s body and stilling the heart inside. He remembered how, with the tip of that blade, he had searched out the place where the ribs ended and the soft, yielding flesh of the belly began, how he had sliced deeply into the intricately embroidered waistcoat and watched the flesh beneath it part obediently before the steel. And then, because this was a gift, he had carved open the flesh for a second time and formed the broad ‘X’ of a crux decussata.

The apex of that cross had gaped wide and beckoned him to the viscera within. It had gaped wide enough for him to push in his hand, wide enough for him to reach into the ribcage and wide enough for him to tear out the heart.

He glanced down to the clod of bloody flesh still grasped in his hand. It was cold now, cooled by the chilly dawn winds. He would wait until he was back with his Lady before he devoured the rest of it. It seemed only right to do so. She would know then, that in this final reckoning, he truly was the victor.

CHAPTER TWO

_______________

Atticus Fox gently drew aside the parlour curtains of Number 16, Prospect Place and gazed out across the Stray – the two hundred acres of open pasture which opened out the very heart of the bustling, fashionable spa town of Harrogate in the West Riding of Yorkshire. Its elegant avenues and walkways were filled with the cream of European and Oriental society taking the ‘Cure’, that curious mix of light exercise and hydrotherapy for which the town was world-renowned. It was a sight of which he would never grow truly tired but in truth, he was bored and he was restless. After all, there was only so much tea one could drink and so much chess one could play.

Tea, Atticus?

He throttled an inner sigh and turned to smile his thanks to his wife. Lucie Fox was already pouring milk from a dainty, porcelain jug into dainty, porcelain tea cups. She glanced across at him as he dropped into an armchair opposite and instantly read his mood.

The Post Office messenger boy has just called with a telegram for us, Atticus. It’s a commission.

What is it? Atticus asked sullenly, Some old dowager’s lapdog has got itself lost down a rabbit hole? Or perhaps a hotel has had another silver teaspoon go missing?

Lucie lifted the lid of the big teapot and inspected the contents.

Neither, Atticus; it concerns a murder.

A murder?

Lucie nodded.

Yes, a murder; you’ll find the telegram on the tea-tray if you’d care to read it.

Atticus, his woes vanished, plucked the slip of paper from the salver and stared at it with an increasingly incredulous expression.

It’s dated today, Lucie: Wednesday, 4th June, 1890. ‘To A. & L. Fox, Commissioned Investigators. From Colonel Sir Hugh Lowther, Shields Tower, Northumberland. Wish to engage your services. Investigation of a brutal murder. Please come forthwith.’

He stared at the paper once again.

A murder! he repeated at last, But why would anyone engage us to investigate a murder? We are only private enquiry agents; murders are constabulary business.

His wife shrugged.

I have really no idea, Atty. It’s a great pity that Colonel Lowther didn’t give us any more detail, other than the murder was brutal, of course.

Atticus drummed his chin with his fingertips as he chased down a memory.

"Now I come to think of it, there was a very peculiar death reported a few days ago – in the Daily Chronicle, as I recollect. It was in Northumberland, on an estate near Hexham. A Gypsy man was found stabbed to death, but not only that, he’d been mutilated and beheaded. The paper was speculating as to whether or not it might have been the Whitechapel Ripper at work again, although I’m quite sure it was not."

He passed the telegram to his wife.

What do you think, Lucie; shall we take up this commission?

She smiled at his expression – like a dog with its leash.

Of course we shall, she said brightly. It is a murder enquiry. How often is it that we get one of those?

Atticus beamed.

"In that case, I’ll fetch a telegraph form and advise this Sir Hugh Lowther that we shall be taking the first train north tomorrow morning. Quo Fata Vocant, Lucie, ‘whither do the Fates call us, eh?"

CHAPTER THREE

_________________

Quo Fata Vocant.

The Fates were calling for him again. They were calling for him from the secret place beyond the Wall, and he could not help but to obey. They would mock him, he knew. They would fling scorn at him and torment him as they always did. But this time, like opiates to the wounded, they would help him too. This time, they would grant him relief from his pain.

They had promised.

Because now was the End-Time. Now, at last, the hour appointed to avenge the abominations of the past had arrived.

CHAPTER FOUR

_____________________

The next day was sunny and bright and very warm for the early hour. It was just half past seven in the morning but already the streets were bustling with the Ailing, who were roused promptly at seven to begin their Cure.

The Foxes’ luggage had been sent-on to the railway station together with their bicycles and Atticus had only his big leather investigations bag and unusually thick, pewter-topped walking cane with him as he and Lucie stepped out into the morning to take the short walk across town.

Harrogate Central Station was a designated ‘floral’ station of the North Eastern Railway. The Foxes stepped onto the east-bound platform, already very warm under its delicate, iron canopy, and Atticus inhaled deeply. His stomach fluttered. That smell: the heady mix of perfumes from the magnificent floral displays overlaying the lingering odours of oil and smoke was the scent of adventure, the precursor to an investigation, and it was nothing short of wonderful.

The hands of the platform clock twitched from 7:54 to 7:55 precisely and they heard the shrill whistle of their own train as it appeared on the tracks of the station approach. It puffed slowly along the length of the platform and then, with a hiss of steam and a clattering of couplings, drew gently to a halt.

The stationmaster, resplendent in silk top hat and tailcoat, stood by a large, brass bell. He peered along the line of glossy, maroon-painted carriages, his hand gripping the clapper-chain, ready to peel the arrival of any important visitors to the town. Atticus took Lucie’s arm and shepherded her through a ribbon of steam and up into an empty first-class compartment.

They changed onto an express train at the busy station at York and duly settled into their seats for the long journey up the East Coast Main Line to the north.

As the train slowly gathered speed through the suburbs and outskirts of the city Lucie pulled a copy of the Lancet periodical from her handbag.

Is there anything of interest in there, my dearest? Atticus asked, opening his own, much larger bag and lifting out a travelling chess set.

There’s an article on modern nursing practice I am especially interested in, she replied without looking up. I know I’ve left the profession now, but I do like to keep abreast of new developments. They seem to happen so quickly these days.

Atticus nodded and turned back to his chess. He had a particular aversion to all things medical and most especially if they happened to involve any amount of blood or gore. In their profession of reuniting errant pets and straying spouses it was, thankfully, uncommon but it was still very much an area he left to Lucie, who by contrast seemed to positively revel in it.

Atticus Fox believed very strongly in the need to keep his brain in first-rate order. It was, after all, the principal tool of his profession. In addition to drinking several large glasses of the iron-rich, Harrogate chalybeate water each day, he often played against himself at chess. By so doing, he was convinced that he was training his mind to be completely objective and dispassionate in all respects. After all, that was what he was obliged to do each time he switched between the black and the white chessmen.

As their train snaked inexorably northwards, the farms and villages of the rural Vale of York began to give way to the chimneys and manufactories of the industrial north-east of England and a dramatic view of the bridges over the River Tyne eventually heralded their arrival into the city of Newcastle. Once there, they changed again, onto the final leg of their journey, the Newcastle to Carlisle railway line, which, Atticus had promised, was to be spectacularly scenic.

Lucie reminded him sharply of his promise as she dotted her handkerchief with French perfume and held it tightly against her nose whilst the train skirted the foul open sewer that was the Tyne. Very soon however, it began to gather speed over the gently-curving iron bridge at Scotswood and the rows of mills and factories, along with their attendant slums, ceased. The stench faded, the vista opened out once again and the train began to climb imperceptibly into the rolling hills of south Northumberland.

It seemed no time at all before they came to the small but bustling village station at Bardon Mill. Just beyond Hexham, this was the nearest point of the railway to their final destination of Shields Tower.

CHAPTER FIVE

_______________

The Fates: Urth, Skuld and Verthandi. Like clamouring ravens they call for the old man’s spirit.

He owes them it, and more – seven times more. He owes it because they have pledged him a gift. It is the gift of his lady, pure and whole once again, and there could be no gift more precious.

But he is bound by honour to give in return, and in return they have demanded a wergild – a man-price – seven times over.

The old man’s life is to be the second part of that wergild.

And lo! He spies him – the old soldier, victor of a thousand battles. He, who once led whole legions of men, is alone now, slumped in his chair by the lakeAlone and palely loiteringAlone and palely loitering.

"He is sleeping," Verthandi cries exultantly.

He cringes. Surely she has woken him.

"By God, you have the luck of the Devil, Verthandi continues, He might be an old dog now but were he awake, he could still teach a young puppy like you a trick or two."

"He certainly taught your woman a trick or two, Urth quips and they both cackle with delight. And his powder charge never went off before even he put the ball in."

The cackles become mocking peals of laughter, a cacophony that grows louder and louder and louder.

"Pay no heed to them." Skuld cuts across them and their laughter ceases. He is grateful. She at least understands how deeply their words cut into him.

"Kill him, she urges, I do not care who he is."

Quo Fata Vocant.

Striding forwards, he pulls a broad ribbon of silk from his pocket.

CHAPTER SIX

_____________

When Atticus and Lucie Fox alighted onto the platform at Bardon Mill, they stepped down into a bustle of industry and a mass of people going about their daily business just as they had been in Harrogate. They were, perhaps, a degree less fashionable, a little less affluent than their counterparts to the south but what they lacked in sophistication was more than compensated for in the warmth of their faces, in the cordiality of their smiles and in the richness of the backdrop of the South Tyne Valley.

A tall, strikingly handsome man in the uniform of a footman complete with felted top hat and, despite the heat of the day, a great, black cape-coat stood waiting for them on the platform. He lifted his hat and looked enquiringly in their direction. Atticus tipped his own in response and took out one of their thick, embossed calling cards. He said, Mr and Mrs Atticus Fox of Harrogate, and the footman bowed smartly, clicked his heels and took the card respectfully between his white-gloved fingers.

The required protocols being satisfied, he cleared his throat and read: ‘A. and L. Fox, Commissioned Investigators,’ then twisted the card slightly to read the smaller, italicised script beneath: "‘Quo Fata Vocant.’"

Looking up, he grinned as he translated easily: Whither the Fates call.

Atticus was both taken with the footman’s reading of the Latin in his broad and lilting Northumbrian accent, and taken aback by the ease of his translation.

You speak Latin very well, he remarked.

The footman laughed. He had very white, very even teeth.

"Aye, well I really don’t, sir, begging pardon. My father didn’t think it worth the penny a term it cost to learn Latin and Greek at the Bobby Shaftoe. That’s the school in the next village, Hayden Bridge, where I did my letters. No, sir, I’ve served a time in the Northumbrian county regiment, the Fifth Regiment of Foot, and by coincidence Quo Fata Vocant was our regimental motto."

He laughed again.

Welcome to Hexhamshire, Mr and Mrs Fox. My name is James and I’ve been sent by the Colonel, Sir Hugh Lowther, to fetch you back to Shields Tower. Follow me, if you please.

He bowed again and then led them across the railway tracks to a large square of open ground adjacent to the stationmaster’s house. There, a glossy black carriage stood aloof from the carts and waggons of miscellaneous freight that filled the yard. It was harnessed to a team of four perfectly-matched bay horses, whose sleek coats were curried to perfection. The coachman, dressed identically to their escort, stood in his seat and raised his top hat as they approached and several onlookers turned to see who the important personages might be.

That is taken from Sir Hugh Lowther’s coat-of-arms, I presume?

Atticus nodded towards a large and crisply detailed crest painted across the lacquered panel of the carriage door.

It’s the Lowther family crest, yes, sir, replied James, pinching the brim of his hat. He pulled the front of his cape-coat to one side and bared an identical device embroidered on the breast of his jacket. It was a white dragon. The Colonel uses it for his household livery too.

Dragon, passant, argent, murmured Atticus.

I beg pardon, sir?

White dragon, passant – it’s the heraldry of the crest. Do you see that the dragon is walking to the left with its right forepaw raised? One cannot live in Harrogate and not be completely fascinated by the subject of heraldry.

Lucie coughed suddenly.

The motto is interesting too, Atticus continued: "Magistratus indicat virum – The office shows the man."

He grunted, considering the words.

I’m not sure I wholly agree with it, though.

No, sir, said the footman.

After a moment Atticus said: "James, we have come all the way up from Yorkshire today. We’ve been sitting for hours in all manner of cramped railway compartments, so while we recover ourselves, he glanced back to the still-stationary train, And whilst we wait for the porter to fetch us our bicycles, pray, what can you tell us about Sir Hugh Lowther?"

The shadow of what might have been panic chased away the laughter from the footman’s face. He hesitated.

I’m not at all sure it would be my place to make comment about the Colonel, begging your pardon, Mr Fox.

Oh, come now, James, Lucie purred, My husband isn’t asking for your opinion of Colonel Lowther, only for a little bit about him as a gentleman. It would be a great help to us in our enquiries.

James regarded her dubiously, but his resolve had clearly broken.

Aye, well…I suppose as you’ve asked me directly, and as my orders are to render you every assistance, I could try.

He stood straight and tall, almost as if he might have been back on the regimental parade ground at Spital Tongues.

"Well, first off I should say that Sir Hugh Lowther is a British officer in every proper sense of the word – a very fine and valiant, first-line soldier and the colonel of the ‘Fighting Fifth’. That is the Fifth of Foot, ma’am, or the Northumberland Fusiliers as they’re called these days. He has fought with the greatest honour all around the Empire, just like his father and his grandfather before him, and I can truly say that he’s the bravest man I have ever known.

I served with him myself. That was back in the fifties, during the Indian Rebellion.

He paused, a smile lingering on his lips, lost suddenly in his own recollections.

And I could tell you a right tale or two about that.

I imagine so, said Atticus.

Sir Hugh is all but retired from the army these days though. He has been since his father, Sir Douglas Lowther, fell ill a twelvemonth or so ago. Sir Hugh is his only son, you understand, and he had to take over the estate. He also has interests in a number of coal mines and iron works across Northumberland and he owns one of the biggest tanneries in Hexham. As you might imagine, he is a rich man; he’s a very wealthy man indeed.

Shields Tower is a large estate? Atticus asked.

Aye, sir, very large, several thousand acres in total, mainly tenanted out except for the home farm, which is called Shields Tower Farm. Sir Hugh isn’t especially interested in the management of the estate and he leaves the running of it pretty well entirely to a land steward, a gentleman by the name of John Lawson. Besides, with all his other interests, he’s much too busy. I declare, we see less of him now than we did when he was away fighting with the army.

Does he have any family? Lucie asked, A wife or children?

Oh aye, Mrs Fox, aye he does. He has a son; Master Arthur, or Master Artie as we all generally call him, a tall, strapping young gentleman of twenty-one, and a very beautiful daughter; Miss Jennifer, who is Master Artie’s younger half-sister.

Half-sister, so Sir Hugh has been married more than once?

James nodded.

Yes, ma’am, he’s been married twice now. Lady Igraine, the first Lady Lowther, vanished one day from the Great Whin Sill. That is a high ridge that stretches right across the county as far as the coast at Bamburgh. It was around a year after Master Artie was born. She was presumed to have got lost and perished on the moors, though they never found her body.

In spite of the heat of the day, he shivered under his coat.

It can be terribly bleak up there, you know. There are supposed to be wolves on the fells…and worse.

 His gaze drifted past them, towards the steep hillside beyond the village, and he shivered again.

Atticus and Lucie glanced to each other and waited in respectful silence until James’ thoughts returned once more to the here and now.

Sir Hugh married a young widow-woman soon afterwards. Lady Victoria Lowther died in childbirth whilst bearing Miss Jennifer.

Oh poor Sir Hugh; how very unfortunate he’s been, Lucie cried, Losing not just one, but two wives. I’m very sorry for him. But Lady Igraine, what a beautiful, romantic name that is.

Aye it is, ma’am, it’s a very beautiful name for a very beautiful lady. We all utterly adored her. I myself had the honour to serve as her footman in my younger days. She was vivacious and charming and full of passion, with never a day of sadness or a day of sickness in all of her short life.

It’s a very unusual name too. Atticus said, Arthurian, unless I’m very much mistaken.

You’re quite right, Mr Fox, it is. You see, there are a great many old legends about King Arthur and his Knights of the Round Table hereabouts. Sewingshields Castle, up on the moors not far from here, was the site of one of King Arthur’s castles and his final resting place. Many people locally are named for characters from the Arthurian tales and Igraine was the name of King Arthur’s mammy.

That’s it, Atticus exclaimed, Igraine was the wife of King Uther Pendragon, King Arthur’s father.

Which is why Lady Igraine Lowther named her son Arthur I imagine? Lucie added.

Exactly, Mrs Fox, she insisted on it by all accounts, even though Sir Hugh wanted to call the lad Douglas after his own father and the Colonel usually gets his way. But Arthur did seem so natural and fitting.

Didn’t Sir Hugh’s father mind?

Not at all, Mr Fox; Sir Douglas adored Lady Igraine too and with him she could do no wrong. He thought her the most beautiful woman in Christendom.

He chuckled.

He always used to say that she was lovely enough to eat.

His broad grin froze.

"Aye and he was right too. Lady Igraine was born here, in Bardon Mill village, but she left to become an actress and a dancer in Newcastle. That was where Sir Hugh first met her – in the Theatre Royal there. She was very beautiful, with long auburn hair and a kind of wildness, a bit o’ mischief in her