Shadows Fall Away

SHADOWS FALL AWAY

Kit Forbes

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The author makes no claims to, but instead acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the word marks mentioned in this work of fiction.

Copyright © 2014 by Kit Forbes

Shadows Fall Away by Kit Forbes

All rights reserved. Published in the United States of America by Month9Books, LLC.

No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Published by Month9Books

Cover designed by Morgan Media

Cover Copyright © 2014 Month9Books

SHADOWS FALL AWAY

Kit Forbes

Mark Stewart

Of all the things I expected to do over the summer, staring at dead hookers hadn’t made the list.

I stuffed my hands into my pockets and gave the body a closer look. Behind me, little gasps of shock and a few “oh dears” echoed. I didn’t see what the deal was. Yeah, it was gross, but kind of interesting the way the woman had been slashed and displayed.

Her intestines were pulled up towards her right shoulder. Another length of her guts had been cut off and placed in the space between her body and left arm to make it look as if she cradled a baby. And on the slick cobblestones, arranged with the precision of someone with OCD issues, were three small black metal buttons, a thimble, and a mustard tin.

A mustard tin. Crap. If there’d been any doubt, the fact I could identify the stupid little prop meant I’d spent way too much time under house arrest with nothing to do but read the Victorian murder mysteries Mom wrote.

”The details never cease to amaze me,” my mother’s aunt Agatha said when she’d made her way through the crowd.

The way her face glowed as she studied the scene, you’d think she was a kid on Christmas morning, not some chick a few years older than dirt.

“If you ask me, they did a shit job on the color of the blood. Real blood looks grungier on streets like these once the air hits it.” I’d been dragged to ride along to real murder scenes with my dad. I knew this stuff.

Agatha rapped me on the chest with her fan then adjusted her Victorian style dress. “Mark! Hasn’t that mouth gotten you into enough trouble, young man?”

“Yeah, yeah.” I moved away from the fake corpse to let the other partygoers have their peek.

Should’ve told Judge Craig to blow me and pissed her off enough to give me a real sentence I could serve and be done with. Instead, I’d been counseled and community-serviced half to death and exiled to my travelling aunt so I could “think things over and get on track before I turned eighteen.” Now I was stuck in London at a gathering of Jack the Ripper fans, looking at the recreation of Jack’s victims in a wax museum.

I glanced at the sign next to the exhibit listing the names and dates of the Ripper’s victims. Old news. Who really cared? Dumb question, Mark. Of course Agatha would care. And feel the need to enlighten everyone within earshot.

“One at the end of September, two a month between August and October, and the final murder in November 1888…”

For me, her voice soon turned into that
waaah waaah waaah
of the invisible adults in the Charlie Brown cartoons. Were these people hanging onto her every word complete idiots? They’d been at the conference; they knew the grisly details from the freaking program book. Hell, even I knew the main details courtesy of A Stray Lamb in Whitechapel, my mom’s biggest seller. It’d been turned into a made-for-cable movie and graphic novel, which had been pretty cool. Of course, I never actually told anyone I thought it was cool.

Making sure Agatha was otherwise occupied, I stepped away and snagged a glass of champagne from a passing waitress. After I downed half of it in one gulp, I looked around to see if there was anyone at this thing who hadn’t walked with the dinosaurs. Not likely. The other attendees were all dressed in ridiculous-looking period clothes, too. I tugged at the vest of my own rented suit. I even had to lug around a bowler hat to wear outside because Agatha had insisted on “authenticity” for this costume party.

Calling this a party was debatable. It certainly didn’t live up to my idea of a party. No music, no dancing, and I seriously doubted there was a wet T-shirt contest in the planning stages.

This entire conference thing had been a pain in the ass. Most of it, anyway. I suppose I hadn’t really minded some of the forensic lectures Agatha insisted we attend. And I had to admit I sympathized with the frustration in the original investigating officers’ notes, one of whom, ironically, had been a distant relative of my dad’s.

But the interesting panels were long over and this closing “gala” in the wax museum was lame. Beyond lame. I tossed back the rest of the champagne and ditched the glass right before my aunt turned the corner

“I can see you’re determined to be in a surly mood,” Agatha said, tracking me down once more. “I don’t want to be the one responsible for bringing the wet blanket to the social event.”

“Meaning?” I hated her habit of making incomplete statements and expecting me to understand them.

“Meaning,” Agatha replied, “we are leaving.” She turned and headed towards the exit, nodding to numerous friends and acquaintances on her way out.

Outside, I pulled an old-fashioned watch on a chain from my vest pocket, another concession to “period authenticity.” I checked the time, then listened to make sure the old thing Agatha had brought from home was still running. I didn’t trust its accuracy and was seriously missing my confiscated cell phone. As if in response to my doubts, Big Ben’s confirmation of the hour sounded in the distance. Okay, so the watch worked for now. I tucked it away.

“We’re going back to the hotel, right? The guy who wanted to look at that old journal of Dad’s is meeting us at seven.”

Agatha dug her talons into my arm as if to prevent me from running off. “Did I forget to tell you?”

“Forget to tell me what?” I sighed like some pathetic emo kid and hated myself for it.

“George called when you went to the men’s room. He’s rescheduled for nine. We have over two hours at our leisure.”

I perked up. “I guess I could hang out in the hotel lobby or wait for him in the bar.”

“Hotel bar? I think not, young man.” Agatha turned and led me to the left. “Between the conference schedule and the rain, we’ve been cooped up in the hotel for three days. I plan to enjoy one of my last nights in London with a lovely stroll in the park.”

I glanced at the sky. “It looks like rain.”

Agatha gave me a playful jab in the ribs with her fan. “This is London, silly boy. It always looks like rain.”

“I just don’t want to take any chances.” I patted my stiff suit coat. “If this guy is interested in the journal, I’d just as soon not get it soaking wet. I’ll never hear the end of it if it’s ruined.” She didn’t need to know why the thought of a storm really made me twitchy.

“George will be interested,” Agatha said. “He collects anything connected with Jack the Ripper. The diary of a Police Inspector involved with the investigation, even if it doesn’t touch on the case itself, will be of great interest to him. He’s a bit of a queer duck. But then,” she laughed, “aren’t we all?”

“Speak for yourself.” I fidgeted with the old book tucked in my pocket and glanced at the sky again.

“Oh, give it to me, then.” Agatha held out her hand to me. “You act as if you’ve got the Crown Jewels in there and you’ll attract attention.”

“Attract attention? Like we’re not already attracting attention?” Still, I pulled out the slim leather-bound volume and handed it over.

“Keep the letter,” Agatha said as she removed an old envelope from the book before tucking it into her purse. “George might be interested in that as well but I want him to focus on the diary.”

I tucked the letter back into my pocket. “Okay. Dad just thought this letter from Inspector Fraser would explain how he ended up with the journal.”

Agatha patted my arm. “If necessary, yes, it does provide a solid provenance. But I hardly think it’s required in this instance,” she said. “It’s not as if he reveals the identity of Jack the Ripper, or details any suspects. You’ve read it…”

“Nah. My mom did, obviously. I guess my dad did.”

“You guess he did? Your father wasn’t at all interested in the historical perspective it offered on the investigation or on his own heritage?”

I shrugged. “Nope. He said he dealt with enough modern day crazies to care much about this one. I see his point. Reliving all that old crap is a waste of time if you ask me.” Aunt Agatha gave me a long hard look. That obviously hadn’t been the best thing to say to a professor of history.

“The study of history is
never
a waste of time.” She tugged on my arm again. “Now, let’s take our walk before it
does
rain. We’re only a few blocks from Regent’s Park. We shall return by way of Baker Street. That should amuse you.”

“Baker Street? Sherlock Holmes was no more real than the guy in my mom’s books.” I pried myself loose from her grip. “And, anyway, if you think I’m walking around in public in this ridiculous get-up, you’re crazy.”

“You, young man, should be interested in something more than getting drunk with your loutish friends and racing cars through the streets like maniacs.” Her voice filled with contempt. “You dismiss both history and fiction out-of-hand as if they have no lessons to teach. It was the fictional Sherlock Holmes—or more precisely, his creator Sir Arthur Conan Doyle—who is credited with first proposing many ideas that later became standard police procedures, such as preserving a crime scene—”

“Aunt Agatha, shouldn’t you be hitting my dad with this? He’s the cop in the family.”

She rapped me again with her fan. “You’re just like him, you know. Hardheaded as the day is long. You’re both thoroughly incorrigible.”

I grinned. “It’s one of my best qualities.”

Agatha cracked a smile, but she wouldn’t be dissuaded from her goal. “As far as our ‘crazy get-ups’ are concerned,” she said, “I’m sure the people in this area have seen far more oddly-costumed characters in the past fortnight.”

“I guess.” I recalled the science fiction fans we’d seen while checking into the hotel for the conference. Knowing I was in a losing battle I let Agatha place her arm through mine to resume the walk. “If Darth Vader and some green-skinned babe with purple hair and not much else to cover her can hail a cab in broad daylight, I guess I can deal with wearing the funny suit for a quick walk to amuse my doddering old aunt.” I should have anticipated the very un-doddering whack in the head she gave me with her fan. “That’s child abuse, you know.”

“I think you look quite the handsome young gentleman.” She totally blew off the abuse comment. “This suit becomes you. It makes you rather mature and dashing.”