Chapter 1
London, England
April 26th, 1881
Had Henry Asheford ignored his father’s letter, none of this would be happening. He would not have a headache that rivalled Thor’s wrath thumping along his temples. He would not be hurrying about London in a poor man’s disguise, nor would he be meeting the general manager of his father’s wharf for a debt collection at nine in the evening on a dreary Tuesday. He would be at Asheford Hall with a book in his lap and his pipe in hand. But no. For the first time in years, he had been threatened into a job by Edwin Asheford, his bastard of a father who knew how to whip his son into submission.
As he passed beneath a streetlamp, he glanced at his pocket watch. The brass arm was striking eight forty-five.
With a heavy sigh, Henry returned the watch to his jacket pocket, hiked up his collar and lowered his flat cap to shade his visage. Fifteen minutes until his meeting. His chest tightened with discomfort as he urged himself to continue his walk along the Thames.
At this hour, travellers were few. The usual dense fog hung low and thick in the London streets. A cart trundled by, leaving behind the stink of sulphur, horse manure and decay.
Henry buried his nose deep into his collar. He hated this blasted city, filled with myriad stenches and horrific sights. One such sight caught his attention now. He halted in his tracks to peer at it.
Across the river sat a familiar, red-bricked wharf. The golden letters of Asheford Sons were barely visible in the cloudy night.
A pain stirred within his chest.
He had not seen that wharf for many years. In fact, he had not been to London in 1,852 days. He had calculated that number as a distraction on the train to the city that morning. It amounted to a little over five years. By some divine coincidence, 1852 was the year of his birth, and he wondered if it were a joke from God about his rebirth into a new beginning. If so, he did not find humour in it. Given the choice, he’d much rather stay hidden in his tiny world of solitude for another five years, perhaps even for an eternity. It was too late for that, though. He would have needed to ignore his father’s letter, and bad things happened when one disobeyed the written word of Edwin Asheford.
His hand fumbled for his watch again. As he ran his thumb along his grandfather’s initials engraved on the back, the pain in his chest settled like lead in his heart. Yes, bad things did happen, and they would again if he didn’t obey.
He hurried on and made a left turn into a near-deserted street. Here, the light from the gas lamps barely reached the darkened warehouses, and aside from the ghostly wind, everything was quiet as a tomb. A sudden flash of dry lightning illuminated the street. Like a pulse, the blackness left and returned, turning the shadows into ghoulish monstrosities.
He halted in his tracks.
For a minute, he was disoriented. It had been a long while since he last walked through these streets and his head was throbbing. He was sure Berkshire Road was on the corner where he now stood. Had he missed it? He spun around and squinted at the empty shops.
The wooden sign of a butcher’s gently swung in the hollowing wind.
Before the butcher, make a left on Berkshire and follow the road to building 32. Mr. Cooper shall await you for nine in the evening. Do not be late.
As he thought of his father’s written words, he navigated his way back with long, determined strides. The last time he had been summoned by his father, he had been antagonized into taking his heirship role seriously. Since his older brother, Rhys, was dead, Henry had to step in. However, the Asheford heirship was not as simple as maintaining the familial land and marrying to further the lineage – responsibility to take over the smuggling business was also part of the deal. And to put it quite bluntly, Henry had refused. This had caused a monumental falling out with his father.
Despite no direct communication between them for five years, he did not consider his father’s letter out of the ordinary. After all, Henry was responsible for the family estate. That was part of the agreement. While Edwin cared for the family’s London business, mockingly named ‘Asheford Sons’, Henry maintained the land and raised his younger sister, Charlotte, or Lottie, as she preferred to be named these days. Debt collection was common practice, and he maintained this responsibility across the Asheford-owned lands in his home county of Cornwall. On the rare occasion, a small portion of the estate funds came from Asheford Sons directly, effectively crossing into his father’s criminal territory. As far as Henry understood, this was one of those moments.
Still, he was on edge.
Why had he been sent to collect a debt from the general manager of his father’s wharf? This question gnawed at him.
He reached 32 Berkshire Road and paused at the bottom of the steps. Mr. Cooper’s home was a sad-looking place. Crumbling brick walls, dusty windows and front steps caving into themselves; a hazard even to the scattering mice along the edges of the walls.
A strange feeling unravelled in Henry’s belly.
Something did not feel right.
He took out his watch. Two minutes past nine. He was already late—
A rock-solid object plummeted into his groin.
With a muted gasp, he doubled over. He felt something snatch the watch from his palm, but as the figure took its chance to run, Henry grabbed hold of a small arm. There was a child-like cry. The thief dropped the watch to the cobblestone ground and a shattering noise followed.
Despite the ache in his lower belly, Henry strained to hold the thief back. “Christ—” he said. “Will you stop wiggling about?”
“Lemme g-go—”
Eager to put the thief in their place, Henry shook them firmly by the shoulders. To his surprise, it was a small boy.
The boy was no older than eight. He had tousled mousy-brown hair, a hole-ridden jacket and large, wild eyes that scanned Henry’s face with a pitiful expression, tugging at his sympathy.
Tears filled the boy’s eyes. “Please, sir. I d-do not have any bread. My mum d-died three days ago and I must feed my sister. She’s only little … only little.”
A thickness swelled in Henry’s throat at the boy’s stutter.“You shouldn’t be thieving at night,” Henry said sternly.
“But we’re starvin’.”
Henry softened his grasp on the boy’s shoulders. A sob story always plucked at his heartstrings. Damn his sense of morality. “What is your name?”
“L-Lewis.”
“You say you are caring for your sister? May I ask how old she is?
“Four.”
“And you are?”
“Seven.”
“Seven?” Henry exhaled sharply. Younger than I thought. “You are both orphaned? Where is your father?”
“I d-don’t know … I don’t know.” Lewis shook like a leaf. “We have no one.”
Henry swallowed before he spoke; it was an all-too-familiar story. “Lewis, you are very brave. Very brave, indeed. There is nothing more courageous than being all alone and having to care for a younger sibling.” He reached for his coin purse. “Do me a favour, Lewis. I will give you money on account that you promise to stay out of trouble.”
Lewis’s eyes widened. “Money? D-do you mean it?”
Henry extracted a handful of coins. “It would be rather difficult for you to care for your sister if you were caught and punished for stealing,” he said, holding out his palm. “Promise me to never do such a thing ever again.”
“I do.”
“You must say the words.”
“I p-promise to stay out of trouble.”
“There’s a good lad.” Henry cracked a smile and handed the boy a sum equivalent to a couple of years of child labour. That should keep him off the streets for a while longer. “Make sure to hide that sum well and spend it wisely. Perhaps you can even treat your sister to a toffee or two.”
Lewis gave a gap-toothed smile. “You’re v-very kind, s-sir. May God bless you.”
Henry patted Lewis’s shoulder. “Off you go, quickly now. Take care, Lewis. Remember the promise you’ve made.”
As the boy ran down a narrow alley to his left, Henry picked up his watch from the ground. The commotion had snapped the chain from his waistcoat. Furthermore, it had left a jagged cut in the glass across the watch’s face, obscuring the painted scene of a starry night sky.
He exhaled sharply.
The sight made his headache throb harder. The watch had been a memento of his late grandfather. A great shame that it broke like this, but he supposed it was expected. Things always went awry when dealing with his father’s matters.
Henry dragged his stare away from his damaged watch to peer at the looming building before him. God only knew whether his meeting with Mr. Cooper would have the same shattering outcome.
***
Henry scrutinized the dim entrance of 32 Berkshire Road. One lonely gas lamp hung above the foot of the staircase. It sputtered in flickering flashes, probably on its last drop of fuel.
A sense of dread overwhelmed him as he proceeded up the creaking staircase. According to the letter, Mr. Cooper’s apartment was on the second floor, Number Five. Henry hoped none of the tenants would leave their apartments now. Despite the scheduled meeting, he preferred to avoid prying eyes and not because he was a gentleman in a poor area; prejudice was not a trait of his. It was more a case of not wanting to be publicly associated with Asheford Sons, hence his discreet attire.
Upon reaching the fifth door, he wasted no time in knocking.
A potent silence followed.
While waiting, Henry glanced around the cramped, narrow hallway. The lamp from the entrance hall barely reached the second floor. When no one answered, he knocked again, more forcefully.
The door creaked open.
Nothing but darkness seeped from the gap.
To say a chill took hold of his body would be an understatement. It was like he had been doused in freezing water. Why the devil had the door willingly opened? He did not want to pry but his fingers were already pushing at the door, urging it to reveal its secrets within.
With a louder creak, the gap widened, and a blackened room came into view. From this angle, a flickering light could be seen in another room beyond.
Something compelled him to step inside.
He quietly shut the door behind him. “Mr. Cooper?” he called out. “I have come to discuss the debt owed, as per our scheduled meeting.”
Again, silence.
He glanced around the room.
Smaller than his kitchen pantry, clutter marked every inch of the space. To his right, a hidden fireplace, covered in pots and pans hanging from rusty nails in the wooden frame. Next to it, a table with dirty dishes, and a bundled wad of soiled clothes beneath it. Above, laundry on a string attached to the opposite wall. To his left, a few cupboards, and a dresser with more bits and bobs. The once-white walls were filthy with black soot and the place stank of spilled beer.
He inched his way across the room. The floorboards beneath his boots groaned and heaved with every step. Upon entering the inner room, he froze mid-stride.
In the centre, facing the back wall, was a man in a chair. Wearing a brown shirt, grey waistcoat and oddly bare-legged, the man sat as rigid as a board with his head slightly drooping downward between his wide shoulders. He was facing a narrow, waist-high bookshelf, on which a single candle flickered in its holder.
An instant chill went through Henry.
“Mr. Cooper?” he asked.
No response. No movement.
The flutter of anxiety in his chest suffocated him. Something was very wrong. Before his courage could give way to fear, he willed himself to walk around the man to confirm what he thought to be true.
As the man’s face came into sight, a startled gasp escaped Henry’s lips.
Open-mouthed, as if stuck in an endless scream, Mr. Cooper glared at the wall with wide, glassy grey eyes. His skin was pale, almost translucent. Although there were no immediate signs that marked his fat body to indicate the cause of death, one of his hands had stiffened into a claw in his lap. Between his fingers was a written note.
Henry blinked.
The man is indeed dead.
Not quite understanding, Henry blinked again. His gaze flicked between the dead man’s face and the note he held. It was almost too coincidental, as if it had been planned for Henry to discover such a ghastly sight.
Then, it struck him.
His father’s insistence that Henry collect this debt, otherwise, he would pay a visit to Henry’s sister. The unlocked door of Cooper’s apartment. The single light source of a flickering candle, a signal fire, guiding him to the discovery. And the note in the dead man’s twisted grasp … yes, yes, this had Edwin’s wickedness all over it.
With a nervous hand, he pulled the note from the corpse’s grasp.
It read.
This is what happens to squeaking rats, son.
The room began to spin.
As Henry swayed to the side, the note slipped from his fingers and drifted down between the corpse’s bare feet. He was quick to steady himself with a palm against the bookshelf. The piece of furniture slid harshly to one side, unbalancing him and sending the candleholder plummeting to the floor. The candle rolled toward the wall, its flame seeking to set ablaze whatever it touched.
“Christ,” Henry exhaled.
Quickly bending down, he reached for the candle. As he took hold of it, his fingers brushed against something hard. He craned his neck to get a better look and saw that his hand was in a crudely made hole in the brick wall and there was a … briefcase? His hands were already ahead of his mind. They pulled out the case, hoisted it onto the bookshelf and promptly stuffed the candle back into its holder. Luckily, the flame had not been snuffed out by the fall.
Cooper had been labelled a rat, so his father must suspect the man of doing something against the company, and if Cooper was killed for it, evidence of his wrongdoing must have been found. Questions flooded Henry’s mind. Had Cooper stolen company information? If so, who was he giving it to? A rival gang or, perhaps, the police? More horrifically, why did his father want to send Henry this message?
He popped open the oak-coloured case.
It was full of documents and illustrations of a device drawn by a familiar hand.
Before he could make sense of it, a voice in the hallway caught his attention. His head swivelled toward the door, then to the corpse. Good God, he was rummaging through a dead man’s belongings after having trespassed. Secrets or not, he had to leave at once. He slammed the case shut, took hold of its handle and hurried to the door.
As he laid a hand on the doorknob, a knock came.
A chord of terror struck Henry’s heart.
“Mr. Cooper, it is Clarkson. Are you awake?” said a man’s voice from the other side of the door.
Henry’s breath quickened. He made to step back but remembered in time the creaky floorboards.
There was another hammering knock. “Mr. Cooper?” the man said, then groaned. “Wyndham, stay by the door. I will check on the bastard. I only hope it’s not another one of his ruses, or by God, we put a stop to this investigation.”
Henry clenched his teeth. He refused to go down for a crime he had not committed.
The door heaved open.
With a quick swing of his arm, Henry smacked the man in the head with the briefcase. There was a shout. Startled, the man fell against the doorframe onto one knee. Henry barrelled his way out. As he reeled around the corner, he came face to face with the second man in the hall.
“Stop him!” a roar came from behind.
The second man grasped Henry’s forearm. Hectic fear rippled through him and he pushed the man toward the staircase. They collided against the wall and there was a moment when their eyes met, but footfalls from behind sent a fresh shock of panic through Henry. Without thinking, he threw himself, along with the man, down the flight of stairs.
They tumbled all the way down and came to a hard stop against the wall. The man took the brunt of the fall and Henry jumped to his feet. He hurried to the staircase, held onto the railing and swung over the banister to the next flight of stairs below. Just as he landed, the gas lamp in the entrance hall went out in a crackling puff.
Darkness permeated the building.
Guided by the distant glow of a streetlamp outside, Henry hurried down the remaining steps and burst through the entrance door. Rain was now plummeting from the sky, creating a hazy curtain of mist and slick, wet ground. Angry shouts were coming from behind.
With a dead man’s secret in hand and eager to disappear from this wretched place, Henry sprinted into the murky depths of the London harbour, all the while cursing himself for not ignoring his father’s letter in the first place.