The Spider: Chapter 14-15

Part 2

Chapter 1-4| Chapters 5-6| Chapters 7-8|Chapters 9-11| Chapter 12|Chapter 13.

The spider is a gothic horror novel set in Victorian England. Recap: Part 1 ended with the seance. After weeks of paranoia and things going bump in the night, Frances came face to face with Mary.

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14 

Autumn in the city had been wet, laden with fog and a still, damp chill that settled in the bone by evening. From the tall red chimneys of the factories, the smoke rose, poisoning mother nature’s sweet breath and staining it with hues of yellow, grey and black. Down on the river, horns blasted as ships rolled in, waiting impatiently for the dockers to unload. The air was thick with the scent of tobacco and burning coal, sinking into the street with a dense, ominous smog. Hordes of dockers and ragged children shuffled down toward the factories and warehouses, barely looking up as they walked.

 Further up the hill, amidst the bustle of bankers and traders heading to their respective places of work, a small urchin weaved his way through overcoats, shoes and trams, missing some of them by a hair. Like a shadow, the boy was gone within a blink, appearing again on the far side of the perilous cobbled street. Some days, he’d stay closer to the crowds and see what he could find in their pockets, but today he was on a mission. Dodging horse droppings, cigarette butts and the trample of boots, eight-year-old Paulie McRae could have impersonated a phantom, he was so swift. No informant had ever been so masterful at such a young age. 

Waiting for the boy on a quiet corner of the street was Inspector Daniel Muldoon, his breath rising before him in wisps of white cloud. He chewed his tobacco pensively, watching for the boy to reappear. His hands were firmly settled in his pockets as he looked out at the rows of sad, brick buildings that occupied his line of sight. When the boy had successfully crossed the street, Muldoon greeted him with a solemn nod. “You ought to get yourself some new shoes, Paulie,” he said, looking down at the boy’s filthy, bare feet on the pavement. 

“Last time I had shoes, me da beat me. He says he needs all me slummy.” The boy handed him a scrap of paper. Muldoon eyed him up and down and noticed the threadbare shirt, torn trousers that he’d long outgrown and shuddered. Winter would be cold. 

Muldoon took the note from the boy and began to open it. “What’s he needing the money for?” he asked, with a raised eyebrow. 

The boy shrugged. Muldoon turned his head and spat the tobacco out onto the damp pavement. Drink, no doubt, he thought, but he said nothing and instead read the note. The boy watched the detective’s face with a keen anticipation, as though he was going to read it out to the illiterate child in the manner of  a bedtime story.

“Thanks, Paulie. Now get yourself some shoes and don’t wear them where your da can see, you hear me?” He tossed a shilling to the boy, who jumped up and caught it gratefully like a circus monkey. 

“Thanks Dooney,” he said, smiling with scattered teeth that seemed too large for his head. Dooney. They were friends now. Muldoon watched him skip off and disappear within the throng of passers-by before he turned away and began to stroll up to Cheapside.  

Standing out on the hill like a warning to all would-be-miscreants was the main bridewell. Muldoon felt that the small, slit windows watched like narrowed eyes in the face of an unsmiling, hostile guardsman. Inside, the corridors of the main bridewell were gloomy and seemingly endless, but luckily for Muldoon, he never had to visit more than one room in the building. 

Waiting for him in the Police Chief Inspector’s office was his unofficial employer, Andrew Gill. Gill had just finished speaking to a young constable in a manner Muldoon and many others recognised as ‘the skinning’. Whoever this lad was, he’d made a fool of himself and Muldoon guessed he had caught the tail end of the reckoning on his way down. Knowing better than to be caught eavesdropping on Gill, he stood back from the door as he heard heavy footsteps approaching. It swung open with a loud shriek and out came a gangly young man in uniform, no older than twenty. His face still held some childlike roundness, but his cheeks were flushed crimson as though Gill had given each one a hard slap. The constable in question, upon seeing Muldoon in the corridor, concealed his embarrassment with a sneer and muttered “mick” under his breath as he passed. 

“Now now, son,” Muldoon said quietly, “we all have a little Irish in us. Just ask your ma.” 

The young man, predictably cocky and hot-blooded, leapt into Muldoon’s trap like a bated bear. Just as he was about to lunge at the grinning Irishman, Gill blocked him with his large, stout frame. “That’s enough. Lacey,” he growled, “now sling yer hook. You’ve got real work to do or you’re out.” He brought his face closer to that of the young constable’s. “If I hear one more word—”, he wagged a fat finger, “one more word! I’ll be posting those big bollocks to your mother. Now get lost.” 

Constable Lacey, knowing that the purple-skinned glower of Andrew Gill was not to be challenged, lowered his head and slunk away down the echoey corridor. “Muldoon, come in and close the door,” Gill barked over his shoulder. Muldoon followed him into the large, almost-bare office where Gill gestured for him to sit down as he remained standing, lighting his pipe. He angrily puffed once or twice and pulled it away from his mouth.

“Young and stupid. Can’t work with ‘em, can’t work without ‘em. Good legs for catching robbers but God they’re stupid.” He blew out some smoke and furiously puffed again. 

If Muldoon had ever wondered what a bulldog smoking a pipe looked like, he had to look no further than Chief Inspector Gill across the desk for an accurate picture. He smirked. “I’m sorry I missed it.” 

Gill was calming down. Muldoon recognised the decrease in effort in Gill’s smoke inhalation and the drawing out of the exhales. “Go on then,” Gill sighed, “our cellar bodies?” Tobacco smoke seeped out of his nostrils as he waited for an answer.

“Human, sir.” 

“Christ,” Gill said, looking up at the ceiling. “Just what we need.” He shook his head and slapped a large hand down onto the desk. “Even the barrel of babies?”

Muldoon drew a deep breath, “even the barrel of babies,” he said regretfully. “I’m afraid the pickled bodies are the work of a…” he reached into his pocket for the scrap of paper again and opened it, “Glyn and Fisher,” he said. “Both William. Should be easy. They drink in The Corner House on Scotland Road– all the time, actually. I’d be drinking too, mind. They’ve been sending the corpses to Edinburgh to a surgeon there, who’s using an alias. But you’ll love this— John Smith is his real name, would you believe? I’m sure a flying squad can sort it. The address is overleaf.”

“Body snatching. Makes me sick,” Gill hissed, scowling into oblivion.

“Easy work if you can get it. The workhouse doesn’t check who’s buying, they just want rid… these fellas are making a mint. Ten pounds a corpse, allegedly.” He slid the note across the desk, where Gill grabbed it and inspected it with his head cocked to one side. 

“You’re sure? John Smith is a surgeon?” 

“Yes.” 

“Damn. I was sure this one was one for you.” Gill, in his twenty years of policing, had been noticeably horrified by the case. “Poor young Robertson found them. I tried to console him with the old ‘a man couldn’t have done this,’ talk. Turns out I’m wrong. I’m bloody wrong. Christ.” 

“Aye, well, sometimes man surprises you.” Muldoon shrugged and looked about the room at the peeling wallpaper and rotting wood frames of the tall, filthy office windows and wondered how much longer he’d have to stay in the miserable bridewell. Every time he came in, he felt he’d entered a maze. He hated it. In the courtyard downstairs, he could hear the iron doors unbolting as prisoners were sent out for daily exercise. A football slammed against an outside wall, rattling the thinly paned window, shocking his consciousness back into the room where Gill was marching to the window swinging his arms in fury. “I told ye no fucking balls!” he bellowed into the courtyard with a slight waver that only Muldoon could hear. His order was immediately followed by the blow of a whistle and the faint arguing between some male voices below. “Those do-gooders say they need exercise. I say fuck off and let me do my job,” he said, still at the window. Muldoon said nothing and sat back, watching. 

Judging by the way he hung his head on the way back to his seat, Gill seemed devastated.  “All right, but God it’s a bad one. You can see why I thought…?” he drew some more smoke from his pipe and blew a plume of grey clouds into the room via his nostrils and waved a hand dismissively. “Well there’s something else that might interest you anyway. I don’t think it’s one for us.” He rested the pipe in the corner of his mouth and leaned over the desk, his large body towering over Muldoon. “Do you have many dealings with ghosts, Muldoon?” 

“Not really,” he shrugged. “They’re usually harmless. Who’s ever been killed by a ghost?” He shrugged again with a half laugh. “Demons, sure, I’ll take a look. Ghosts, though?”

Gill was less than impressed with Muldoon’s dismissive tone. A deeply superstitious man, Andrew Gill did not enjoy ghost stories, nor did he partake in making light of them. He tried again. “What about possessions? Exorcisms, that kind of thing?” 

“I’m no priest, sir. Anyway, I didn’t think you’d be needing my services much longer.” 

“Why’s that?”
“I told you, I don’t deal with general crime. You know that, sir.” He wasn’t sure why he called Gill sir. It was just what they were used to. “And I’m no priest.”

“No,” Gill felt himself becoming annoyed with his slippery contractor, “but you are a Catholic and your kind deal with… all that.”

“All that?” 

“Yes, Muldoon. Weird shit. You deal with weird shit, and there’s been a lot of it knocking around. I can’t afford to let you go just yet.” 

Daniel Muldoon, lead detective: weird shit, he thought, looking up at Gill who was still thinking. 

“Look,” he said, sitting down in his seat, finally. “This is a sensitive case I’ve got. I’ve had a woman here, a Mrs Mckinnon. She says she’s concerned for the welfare of her mistress, who hasn’t been the same since they had a little seance and the bloody thing went tits up.” 

Muldoon crossed his legs. “Is that so?” 

Gill opened a drawer and pulled out a case file. He slid it across the desk to Muldoon who reluctantly opened it. Inside was a family photograph. His eye was drawn first to the fair-haired beauty standing beside a taller, dark-haired man. In front of them was a little girl, looking up at the lens with large, clear eyes. “Just showing you the woman because she doesn’t look like that at the moment.” 

“What happened to her?”

“That’s for you to find out. Mrs Mckinnon brought these in with her statement. The men at the desk weren’t very kind to the old lady, naturally, what with her saying her mistress is possessed and all, but she knows my housekeeper and managed to get it all to me. I don’t deal in the supernatural, but you do. I promised I’d send someone.” 

Muldoon leaned back with a furrowed brow, closing the file. “This all seems a bit… domestic, don’t you think?”

Gill said nothing. He puffed on his pipe, glaring at the Irishman. Muldoon sighed. “Where’s this woman then?” he asked, realising this was not optional. 

Gill smiled. “Percy street. Number five. I get the impression that the sooner you go, the better, to be honest. Try and speak to her doctor as well. Her name is Frances Bryant, but you’ll be dealing with Mrs Mckinnon.” 

“You don’t think she’s just ill? Hysteria? There’s always room in—” 

“No. No I don’t,” he said gravely, leaning forward. “From what I’ve been told,” he said in a quiet voice, “it’s one for you.”

15

Muldoon rang the bell and waited. Turning to look out at the street, it was picturesque, like the illustrations he’d seen on postcards in the post office; it felt a far cry from the slums and high streets he frequented. He pulled his collar closer to his neck, as though disguising himself from potential onlookers. Deciduous trees along the street were thinning out, wearing laced crowns of red, gold and green. The air, still with a lingering mist, felt warmer in the mid-morning sun as it glistened on the wet pavement before him. The sound of a click and a creak snapped him out of his observation. 

At the door was a small, thin young maid with a sickly pallor. She looked up at his dark, towering figure and said nothing. Realising that he would have to speak instead, Muldoon cleared his throat and introduced himself. “I’m Detective Muldoon. Here to see Mrs McKinnon, if I may.” He flashed a small card. 

The maid barely looked at it, nodded and opened the door wider. “Th-the kitchen, sir.” She looked down at the floor with long, pale eyelashes and waited for him to step through, which he did– quietly. The house was still. He looked around, taking stock of the beautiful grandfather clock in the hallway, stuck on the incorrect time but still ticking. Where’s the wake? he thought, absorbing the bleakness of the house: even the parlour palm beside the staircase looked sad. The maid said nothing and continued to look at the floor as he removed his hat and held it in his hands. “I’ll show you the way,” she said, closing the door silently with a click. 

Muldoon, impressed by the grandeur of the tiled hallway overall, wiped his feet slightly on the mat and followed the black and white waif toward the back kitchen. As he passed the stairwell, something in the corner of his eye flickered. He turned to see a door of one of the rooms slightly open. Behind the door peeked a little blonde head that disappeared almost as quickly as it came before someone hurried over with a loud shush and firmly closed it. Immediately after, the faint tinkling on a piano emanated from the newly closed-off room. He smirked again: music lessons. 

He turned his attention back to the maid and followed her down a dark passage to the open-doored kitchen, where a small, grey-haired lady was hard at work kneading bread on the table. She stopped as soon as Maggie entered and waited, smiling encouragingly. 

“D-d-detective…” Maggie stuttered before letting out a deep breath, “Muldoon.” 

Violet Mckinnon looked up at the tall man behind her, smiled and nodded, “thank you, Maggie. I’ll take it from here.” Registering the polite dismissal, the girl spun around as fast as she could and scurried out of the room. 

“Rather a jumpy one,” Muldoon remarked, standing at the far end of the room. He found a brass hook on the wall and placed his hat on it, returning his hands to his deep, black pockets. Mrs Mckinnon fiercely wiped her hands on her white apron and marched over to the inspector. 

“I’m Violet Mckinnon, Detective. Thank you for coming.” 

He released a hand from one of his pockets and shook hers. Puffs of white flour rose into the air as he let go. “I’m sorry,” she chuckled, “I was baking bread. Let me put the kettle on and we can speak some more. Would you like tea or coffee?” 

“Coffee please. Black.” 

He watched the old lady busy herself with cups and crockery. “It needs to prove anyway,” she said, layering a cloth over the bowl where the dough sat balled and waiting. “I’ll just sort this out and I’ll be right with you.” She arranged the kitchen with a grace he’d never seen before, and seemed happy in her work. “Please sit down, Detective… Muldoon, wasn’t it?” she asked as she placed the kettle on the stove and lit the flame. 

“Aye,” he said, removing his heavy woollen jacket and placing it on the back of the chair. He pulled it out and sat down. “Chief Inspector Gill sent me, as you probably know.” 

She rested her hands on the sink and looked out of the kitchen window for a moment, turning her face slightly to talk, “I didn’t know if anyone would come,” she said in a quiet voice. He could sense the relief in her words as she spoke. “It’s been… it’s been weeks. The doctor can’t help— he just gives her… medicine or so he calls it. The medium can’t help. Mrs Larkin– that’s my mistress’ mother— is beside herself. It’s a right ungodly mess.” She turned to face him, finally. “Mrs Bryant…” she shook her head, “she didn’t even want to do a seance, you know? Her mother suggested it.” Her eyes were twinkling with the emerging dew of emotion as she wrung her hands on her apron again. 

“Why was that?” 

“Frances— Mrs Bryant— she said she could see something in the house. Well, rather, feel something but her mother convinced her to…” Violet Mckinnon looked toward the door and having decided that no one was there, returned her gaze to the detective, “you know, contact the dead?”

She had piqued Muldoon’s interest with the mention of seance. “What happened next?” he asked, leaning back in the chair. 

Violet Mckinnon was just about to speak when they were interrupted by the shrill scream of the kettle. The housekeeper jumped out of her skin and laughed slightly, placing her hand on her chest. “Things have been so tense. I’m rather jumpy. Just let me get the coffee on and we’ll talk some more, Detective.” 

He watched the housekeeper pour boiling water into the coffee pot and seal it with the blue glazed lid. Coffee-scented steam sailed out of the spout and into the cool morning air of the room, invading his nostrils and sharpening his senses. She brought it to the table and laid out the matching blue cups and sugar bowl. “You said no milk, was that right?” 

“Aye. No milk.” 

She nodded and sat down directly opposite. “They did the seance in the end. Poor Mrs Bryant hasn’t been the same since. She says… she says she saw Mary at the table.” 

“This table?” 

“No, the one in the drawing room. They had the seance in there and it was— I mean, I wasn't there but Mrs Larkin said it was awful. Mary, you see— Mary is this ghost they’ve been trying to contact. First the glass smashed everywhere and Mrs Bryant started talking nonsense… like she was possessed.” Mrs Mckinnon poured the long ribbon of silky brown liquid into both cups and pushed one toward Muldoon, who took it gratefully. He admired her steady hand considering the topic of conversation. “I’ve never seen her so,” Mrs Mckinnon seemed to look beyond him as she spoke, “so very different. Like she’s not really here.” Her lovely sharp eyes permeated through the crescent shaped spectacles on the end of her nose as she spoke to him. “She’s not the same, Detective.”

“Who do you think is possessing Mrs Bryant?” Muldoon asked, sipping the coffee. It was fine coffee, and if it hadn’t been made clear to him already, he was in a wealthy woman’s house; she only drank the best. As though she could read him, the housekeeper said “Mrs Bryant is ever so kind. That’s how I know something isn’t right… but as for what or who is possessing her?” Violet Mckinnon brought her eyes to inspect his face. Although like many men, his face bore the scars of smallpox, she thought he was handsome, if not in a gruff way. His ice-blue eyes cut through her like steel as she studied him. “I don’t know,” she said. “That’s why I asked for help.” 

“Would it be possible for me to see Mrs Bryant?” he asked calmly. 

For the first time since meeting Mrs Mckinnon, he could smell fear. Her grey eyes looked away, unsure where to go next. “You could… I suppose. I mean, you’ll have to, eventually, will you not?” Muldoon felt heavy in the chair. Gill had been the same; he wasn’t simply acting out of respect– he had been afraid when he said it’s one for you. Violet Mckinnon’s words had hit him with the same magnitude. 

He nodded slowly. “I could interview the others first, if that’s better?” 

Violet Mckinnon brought her hand to her mouth and shook her head. “I don’t know,” she said. 

“Perhaps I could explore the house first, then?” 

“Of course. Could you wait here while I let Mrs Larkin know?” 

“Yes.” He sipped some more coffee. “I’ll wait.” 

Violet Mckinnon returned to the kitchen a quarter of an hour later. “Mrs Larkin is with my mistress in the master bedroom. If you need to see the room, you’ll have to give her fair warning. Mrs Bryant sleeps a lot, you see, and we don’t want to disturb her.” 

“How much is fair warning?” he asked, raising one of his thick black eyebrows. 

Mrs Mckinnon shook her head, “a day?” 

Christ, he thought. “I’ll take a look around the ground floor and the other rooms, but I’ll have to come back to see Mrs Bryant's room tomorrow. Is that going to be all right with Mrs Larkin?” 

The old lady thought for a moment. “Tell you what, I’ll come with you when it’s time to go to the first floor. I’ll ask Mrs Larkin on my way up.” 

Muldoon began to roll his sleeves up. “Very well. May I begin in the basement?” 

“Oh, that’s mine and Maggie’s quarters. Do you need to be going in there?” 

“It’s the whole house, Mrs Mckinnon…” he said, looking at her searchingly. She relented with a nod and a smile. 

“Of course. I’m sorry– this is the first time—” 

He raised a hand. “Say no more of it, Mrs Mckinnon. You’re not the first to have found a paranormal investigation a little unsettling.” 

She seemed taken aback by his straightforwardness. “Is that what we're calling it? A paranormal investigation?” 

“Well, you said it yourself, Mrs Mckinnon, in your letter, did you not? It’s not one for the regular police.” He stood up from the table and looked at her expectantly. “How do I get downstairs, then?”