The Dread Men and Other Cases of Nat Frayne: a Nat Frayne mystery, #1

By Richard Quarry

Victorian-era police detective Nat Frayne leans more toward fists and fast dealing than the strict letter of the law. But in these three cases Frayne goes up against adversaries who may be even tougher and slicker.

In The Case of Dancing Kali, the apparent appearance of a murderous gang of Indian thuggees terrorizes London. Frayne, however, follows his own instincts, which lead him into most surprising areas of English society.

When a blackmail scheme turns to murder in The French Medium, Frayne investigates a beautiful mesmerist, who leads him into haunting visions of his dead wife.

The Dread Men sees London invaded by the notorious New York Irish gang the Dead Rabbits. When they move in on Covent Market, where Frayne's parents still sell produce, the conflict between him and the gang leader turns personal.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Richard Quarry
• Release date: Feb 24, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224574643

Book preview

Also by Richard Quarry

a Nat Frayne mystery

The Dread Men and Other Cases of Nat Frayne

The Dread Men

And Make Not Dreams Your Master

Lord Under London And Otther Cases of Nat Frayne

Lord Under London

The Case of Dancing Kali

The French Medium

Perfidious Albion

Further Adventures of Odysseus

Odysseus and the Eye of Odin

Man Of Many Turnings

The Evolved

The Big Empty

Point Of No Return

The Outcasts

Holobrain

Grinder

The God Machine

The Evolved

Standalone

Beer Run

All You Ever Have To Do

Midnight Choir

Geneslide

Blue Dread

The Horns Of Hathor

Flameout

What Rough Beast

Absent From Felicity

The Homecoming of Lucian Wren

Mary's Hell

The Sound of Snowfall

The Fires of Beltane

Devolution Day

Beer Garden

The French Fries of Freedom

Soldier of Discontent

Clearance Sale

The Treasure of the Endless Scrub

Star Mole

Questing Song

Board Games

Miss Kittenses

String Theory

Tea Party

No Boobs, No Kardashians

The Blue Ibis

Soldier of Discontent and Other Stories

Three Cases of Nat Frayne

Richard Quarry

Copyright © 2024 by Richard Quarry

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

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Contents

The Case of Dancing Kali

The French Medium

The Dread Men

About the Author

Midnight Choir

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 process took longer. I believe that in the same way the first gang adopted certain practices of the Thugs to divert suspicion, the second did it to throw suspicion on the first. But not knowing the details of the actual killings, they most likely acquired their knowledge the same place I did. The British Library.

And just how certain are you, asked the AC, that we aren’t dealing with genuine Indian thugs in either case?

Wholly certain, Commissioner, Frayne stated. Consider the strangulation itself.

The victim’s mouth was half-open, the tip of the tongue pressed against the lips, but not actually protruding. Faint stains of red and purple, more pastel than livid, spread nearly from the hollow of the throat to where the neck met the jawline.

Here’s something you don’t see every day. Frayne told the pasty-faced Booker-Hyde. Most chokings are spur-of-the-moment affairs, done with the hands. Which leaves fingermarks. With our earlier murders, the criminals employed a length of rope. Making a bright purple mark on the skin, with considerable abrasions. This fellow died like a lord. Hung with a silk noose. Or scarf, most likely.

He picked up the dead man’s near hand, turning it this way and that. Perfect manicure, he observed. The earlier victims had torn and broken fingernails from fighting the rope around their neck. And pieces of hemp under what nails they had left. As well as slash marks from trying to fend off the razor cutting their face. So the question arises, just what was this chap doing, all the time he was being strangled?

Could it be, said Booker-Hyde, that since the weapon in this case was a scarf, possibly of silk as you say, it left no marks even though a struggle did occur?

Well observed, Frayne agreed. Always play up to the quality, that was the secret of prospering in the Detective Branch. But see here? He ran his fingers over the victim’s forearms. Bruises. But no fingermarks, as one would expect if he was grabbed. I’d say someone was kneeling on his arms. Now let’s take a look — help me roll him onto his side, would you, Booker-Hyde, there’s a good fellow — ah yes. Bruises on the backs of the thighs, as well. That’ll do, Booker-Hyde, ease him back.

Frayne lowered his face to a few inches above the knees. These look like abrasions. Yes, definitely.

He straightened. This fellow was knocked down from behind. First onto his knees. Then pushed forward and down. At least one of the gang knelt on the victim’s forearms, another on the backs of his thighs, while a third strangled him. There were probably more of them in fact, but three at least. Knocked him down and pinned him while he was strangled. More in line with the traditional Thuggee, actually.

And are you willing to stake your reputation, said the A.C., that neither of these villainous gangs are actual Thugs? Because if you’re wrong, the press will crucify us.

Wonderful. Men like the AC were always trying to force you into some promised outcome. So if failure resulted, they could always slough it off on you. That’s why the Brigadier was paid eight times Frayne’s salary. That, and being born on a country estate rather than in St. Giles.

I stand by my theory, sir.

And what about the second fellow? asked the Brigadier. He looks to have been shot.

Indicating that he came along unexpectedly. Must have been a great disappointment to these villains. Because they went to a great deal of trouble to ensure the deed would be carried off quietly. Then spoiled it with a bloody great gunshot. Brought the constable running from two blocks away. From his notes, the second victim fell no more than fifteen feet away. There were at least three of the gang, probably more. Why not swarm him? Strangle him, cut his throat, whatever. Why make such a noise?

Any suggestions, Frayne?

Not at this point, sir. But it is an interesting detail. As for the wound itself….

He went over to the second table, Booker-Hyde following closely. Frayne was impressed by the imposing hole in the center of the corpse’s chest, and the amount of blood still leaking out the back, though death had occurred nearly two hours before.

That couldn’t have done him much good, he observed. "Here, lend me a hand again, would you, Booker-Hyde? Let’s get him rolled over onto his — bloody hell!"

Beside him Booker-Hyde retched.

The man’s back had suffered an eruption. A bloody mash close to the size of Frayne’s not inconsiderable fist was surrounded by ridges of ragged flesh in which splinters of ribs or spine could be seen.

What did that? Frayne marveled. A shotgun? But that’s one hole, no separation of shot. Unless whoever shot him put the barrel right to his chest first. He eased the corpse back. But there are no burn marks. Damn — your pardon, sir. I’ve never seen a wound like that.

I have, said the Brigadier, not without a certain smug satisfaction. In Ethiopia. At Magdala, among other places. What you’re looking at, gentlemen, is some kind of lead bullet — quite a large one — with a wooden plug in its nose. A number of weapons could produce a wound like that. But I think as good a guess as any would be the .577 Snider.

Military rifle, sir? asked Frayne.

Just so. Snider-Enfield, Mark III. Replaced by the .450 Martini-Henry now, of course. But I can tell you, I saw any number of men shot with the .577, and they damn seldom needed another.

Most grateful, Brigadier, said Frayne. I’ll take it we have that riddle solved. But can you see any gang of thieves hauling such a cannon around London? Likely they cut it down in barrel and stock, as I’ve seen done with shotguns. Be a beast to shoot, I’d think.

Indeed, agreed the Commissioner. But look here, Frayne. I’m not trying to tell you your business, but the Snider-Enfield is just the sort of weapon that might be brought from India. They were still being issued to native troops even after our army went to the Martini. There must be thousands scattered through the Empire. Easy enough to smuggle one in. Even accepting that there are two gangs at work — which I’d prefer we keep under our hats for now — you yourself said these poor chaps bore the marks of an actual Thuggee murder. Should we not at least keep an open mind?

Indeed we should, Commissioner, Frayne agreed fervently. I assure you, no possibilities shall be overlooked.

I am under no illusions as to the villainy of the London underclass, the Brigadier went on. Still, the sort of savagery we see here does rather smack of the Oriental temperament, does it not?

Most assuredly. And well spotted, if I may say so. Frayne made a show of taking his gold-plated watch from his vest pocket. Goodness, is that the time? Nearly four. If you will allow me, Brigadier, I would very much like to visit the scene of the crime before daybreak and the accompanying traffic.

Of course, Frayne, of course. Ashleigh, would you be so good as to accompany the Inspector? This could well be a feather in your cap, assisting in the successful outcome of a case of such widespread public concern.

I thank you for the privilege, sir.

"Only Frayne? Do be certain it is a successful outcome. Understood?"

My word on it, Brigadier.

By the time Nat Frayne and his well-bred companion Ashleigh Booker-Hyde got to Wellington Street, between Covent Garden and Drury Lane but some way to the south, the sun had not yet poked through the typical brown mist of an autumn London day. Nevertheless a dense host of workers shuffled along shoulder to shoulder in rough woolen coats and long mufflers.

Between the pools of light came only a dim impression of ant-like bustle, outlined by the jiggling small fires of the coffee-stall keepers as they headed for their pitches with their smudge-pot fires already lit and swinging from yokes across their shoulders. Vehicles ranging from donkey carts to farm wagons rattled down the center of the street, their iron-shod wheels deafening against the paving stones. Cries and curses came from the drivers, answered in the same spirit by the pedestrians they endeavored to push further to the side.

Four-thirty in the morning, and the air was as clean as it was ever likely to get. The dung had not yet piled up in the streets, the factories were not yet smoking, and the only scent to trouble the air was that from the knackers’ yards, where dead horses were boiled down through the night because the law prohibited them from assailing London with their odor — rather like eel chowder gone quite badly off — during the day.

Constable McCready waited by the spot, bull’s-eye lantern in hand. He reported having been walking Tavistock Street, south of the Flower Market, when he heard a loud, sharp noise. Though he did not immediately associate this with gunfire, such being rare even around St. Giles, the sound was urgent enough to set him running. Turning north onto Wellington, he lost track of where the noise had come from. He proceeded north at a steady walk, pausing to shine his lantern down the small lanes and alleys running off to either side, some of respectable enough brick lodgings, more leading into the twisting maze of slums where even life-long residents could get lost. He saw no one.

Finally the constable saw two shapes lying on the walkway of a side lane. Running up, he found the dead men and immediately dashed off to the nearest box to call in.

That face, he told Frayne, his voice shaken, I’ve seen some things, I can tell you. But never nothing close to that. And the blood!

McCready shone his lantern on the dull stains still visible in the worn macadam near the center of the lane, which was too narrow to feature sidewalks.

Taking the lantern Frayne looked around for bootprints, toe-heavy to show the gang making their escape. Nothing. Unusually for autumn, the last week had seen mist and fog, but no rain that, mixing with the ever-worn surface of the macadam, produced a notoriously sticky mud known as licky that even when thin could preserve a bootprint.

The lane offered few places for concealment. Since Covent Garden had been rebuilt with a great wrought iron roof back around ‘60, and the Floral Market constructed in imitation of the Crystal Garden, islands of brick row houses such as this were sprouting amid the flaking clapboard mews with eight people to a room and one privy for seventy lodgers that had long dominated St. Giles.

But the lane was not so prosperous that the three and four-story brick buildings lining it featured granite arches above the windows, or more particularly, ornate covered stoops that would provide ample hiding places. As well, no steps led down from the street to basement apartments. Several of the doorways were recessed just enough to conceal a man.

One. Not three or four.

While Frayne had a low opinion of the perspicacity and industry of the average London footpad, he had considerable respect for their ability to disappear. But they’d have their work cut out staging an ambush in such a street, unless they stood right out in the open and the victim walked straight into their midst.

Nobody was that stupid. Not in Holborn, not at two in the morning.

And the second victim? He came upon the scene a few moments after the first was already dead and having his face sliced. He’s a toff too, quite likely an acquaintance, for here they are on the same street at the same time of the evening. He sees several men — in the darkness he might not know how many — performing dastardly deeds. His fighting spirit inflated by drink, he rushes forward to do battle. Straight into a bally .577 Snider.

That still nagged at Frayne. Why lug around such a cannon, even cut down in barrel and stock? Saying you thought you might actually have to shoot someone, it was still night and day between doing it with, say, a .320 Enfield #2 and a .577 Snider. A small pistol would more generally wound than kill, but still stop most men in their tracks because having been shot once, with anything, most men turned averse to doing it again. The Snider, on the other hand, was a hanging matter. Guaranteed.

Nor would it make flight any easier.

McCready, he said. Does this lane have a name?

Not a proper name that I know of, sir. Everyone calls it ‘St. Cecelia’s because the Sisters run a charity house. Just up there, sir, next building down.

What sort of house?

Raggedy school, sir. For girls.

Ah. Now there’s a picture to conjure with, said Frayne, unable to contain himself. A dozen urchins sweeping out and swarming over the first victim, while a couple more hoist the barrel of a Snider-Enfield over their shoulders with a third standing ready at the trigger. Probably need a buttonhook to reach it, at that.

Booker-Hyde stared at him.

Very well, constable, what else goes on in this lane?

Which I’m not sure what exactly you’re referring to, sir.

No? Well, no matter. Booker-Hyde, would you be so kind as— He stopped. Look here, old fellow, can I call you Ashleigh? Being a social inferior, even though of