Consternation

[Siиdяed]

I got bored. 19th century style police drama fixed that. Enjoy, mock, don't read, whatever. Consternation Chapter 1 - Soulless and Nastily Erotic London, 1831 "Inspector Carter. We're with Whitechapel station." The man in the doorway chewed, thoughtfully. He leant to take in the group stood in the rain. He blinked, slowly. "Didn't know there was a station down Whitechapel way." he said, shifting his stovepipe hat to scratch his head. "We like to stick to the dark. Bloody Hell, move." Carter pushed the man aside and kicked the door. It swung open, ominously. Carter swept in. The man blinked as the other four figures followed. As the last one pushed past, he shouted after them. "If you need anything, just give us a shout." Carter stopped, without turning. "If Whitechapel needs anything from you, we're all buggered." The man blinked as the door swung shut. He looked out into the rain and shook his head. A raindrop fell from the covered doorway and ran down his nose. He chewed for a moment more, and spat. ---- "Keep your eyes on the body." The young man retched. "Which bit, Mr Carter?" Carter stood and snorted. The house was classy. Piccadilly fare. An elegant marble staircase came down to greet the bedraggled police officers that stood sodden and dripping on the hall's red carpet. A gas lantern lay shattered by their feet. Carter let his eyes wander up the staircase until they came to the corpse. It had been a woman. Now it was hard to tell. "Don't they have butchered dollymops in the country, Harry?" The young man shook his head, queasily. Carter grinned. "You'll learn, lad. Jock, get the bint together." The dour-faced Scotsman nodded and went for the stairs. With a hesitation he reached down and shoved the head back towards the naked torso. He turned to fish an arm from the railings. "I didn't expect..." the young man shook his head. "It's fine. I'm fine." "Good." Carter snapped. "If you weren't fine you wouldn't be in the Met. Now get on with it. "Right." Harry nodded, keeping his eyes on Carter. "So we bring in the house's owner and ask questions." Carter shook his head. "It isn't him. This is the third one this week, we found the last two before you arrived. Same style, same victims." "Prostitutes." Harry checked. "So we're looking for a prostitute killer?" There was a silence. Carter stared at Harry through half-closed eyes for a moment. Jock looked up from his work, his arm plastered with drying blood to the elbow. The other two officers looked hesitant behind Carter. "What did they tell you about Whitechapel when they gave you the shove up in Yorkshire." "Newcastle." Harry corrected. "The country." Carter insisted. "What did they tell you the Chapel station did?" Harry shrugged. He looked around at the faces watching him. "Special work. I thought it might be dealing with the riots, or something." Carter grinned, slowly. It wasn't a pleasant grin. "Jock, show him." Harry turned to the Scotsman. Jock nodded and rose. He held the severed head in his hands. Lanky straw-coloured hair came down in knots and streaks, dark blood crusting and sticking until it became a mesh of hair over the bleached white face. The last tendrils of the neck hung trailing from under the shattered jaw bone, skin and muscles limply clinging together, dangling down. Carter strode to the staircase. With one hand he yanked the hair up, holding it back. There was a gentle drip as the jelly-like mess leaked from the woman's eye. With the other he pointed, prodding the limp flap of skin that dangled and twirled from the neck. Harry bit his lip and leant, closer. Two small, neat, near surgical holes had been pierced through the neck's skin. Carter shook it, grimly. "This is what Whitechapel deals with."

[Siиdяed]

Consternation Chapter 2 – Justifiable Homicide "I'll tell the guard he can go." Harry said, slowly. Carter didn't turn. The door to the house closed, echoing in the shadowy gloom of the house. Carter growled, slightly, and kicked at the body spread across the stairs. One of the officers frowned, and coughed. Carter looked up. "You think he'll last, Mr Carter?" Carter looked back to the door and shrugged. "He's your new sergeant. My second. He'll have to bloody last, won't he?" "Last one from the country went mad." Jock reminded them. "He let it get to him. Ended up chasing them lads down into that alleyway. Didn't come back." They let this statement hang in the air for a moment, reflecting. "Probably won't happen with this one." "Probably not." Carter snorted and spat. He waved a hand. "Go check the house. Make sure there isn’t some bloodsucking bastard lurking in the rafters. I’ll have a talk with the boy wonder." They left, gradually. Jock lingered, and exchanged a glance with Carter. Carter nodded. Jock was old, Carter realised. In his forties at the least. He’d been with Carter when they’d been real soldiers, not street bobbies for some old bastard down in Westminster. They’d given the frogs a right good kicking before getting sent back to London like good little boys. Jock knew him. War did that to people. Carter felt in his pocket. The reassuring weight of brass was there. The policeman’s friend, even when all London thought you were a sheeny bastard. Knuckledusters. The reminder that the law was law. Carter headed for the door. Time to remind the country gent that ideals were left at the station door. Time to teach him some real policing. ---- Harry Lynton stood, perfectly still, and closed his eyes as the rain soaked him. It beat a steady drumming on the Piccadilly street, splashing in puddles and cascading from rooftops. It had already seeped into his thin leather Wellington boots, which were frayed and open at the toes anyway. He took a slow, deep breath in. Then he opened his eyes. Carter stared at him, inches from his face. Harry jumped. "Stop prancing about and get out of the damn rain. We need to talk." Carter disappeared from Harry’s view. Harry exhaled, slowly, and turned to follow. Carter was sat on the staircase, a bottle in his hand. His dark blue policeman’s coat hung from his figure, the brass buttons all but given up, and his rabbit-skin stovepipe hat sat by his side, balancing a slender gold cigar case. A fat brown example of the contents hung from Carter’s mouth, thick smoke snaking towards the high ceiling. He waved for Harry to sit. "Whoever owns this is whining to some superintendent over at Scotland Yard." he assured Harry, noticing the glance. "It’s a policeman’s right to the odd luxury. Comes with the service." Harry sat, carefully, avoiding the blood that had pooled around them. His coat draped over a crimson puddle and he swore, quietly, brushing it with his fingers. It was sticky. Carter didn't look. He sat and smoked, reflectively. "You got yourself transferred over to the Met for a reason, Harry." Harry shrugged. "The Metropolitan Police are the best in the country. In all Europe, probably. I want to serve justice." Carter looked at him, sidelong. "We get shiny boys like you every so often. Keen, full of ideas about how law should be. Once their face has been rubbed in the shit they either pack it in or run. Won't take long." Harry didn't reply. Carter took the cigar from his mouth and sighed. "People don't like us police, Harry. We're new and it don’t look like we'll last." "Joseph Grantham." Harry said, quietly. Carter stared, bleakly. "Joseph Grantham. First officer killed on duty. Last year. Bastard jury called it fair game." "A justifiable homicide." Harry echoed. Carter nodded. "The police are new, Harry. Whitechapel's even newer. No-one expects us to last. It's up to us to prove the bastards wrong." Harry looked down. His boots were making a grimy pool of blood and rain and filth from the gutter. "You don't do patrols here." Carter said, finally. "Not in Whitechapel station. You don't get Cockney worms holding you under carriages neither. I look after you." "Whitechapel hunts vampires." Harry said, slowly. "We deal with all the scum that the rest of England doesn't know exists. Vampires, whatever." "For three shillings a day." Harry added, morosely. Carter nodded. "Yes." "Could get killed." "Worse things happen at sea." Carter insisted. Harry shrugged. Carter rose. "Some daft sod up in the country..." "Newcastle." "...the country said that you would make a good sergeant for the Whitechapel station. Some poor bastard down here said yes, because he didn't know I was going to kick his head in later for putting some bumpkin in my team. You’re in that team now, Harry. You get to work. So no more buggering about with getting squeamish. There's a vampire in London. It’s going around ripping up our whores. We need to deal with it before anyone gets any the wiser about what a vampire even is. That means you need to put your soft lawful head down and get on with it. Right?" Harry nodded. "Right." "Good man. Go and get Jock and the others. Tell them to dump the prossie in the Thames, and to meet us at the station. There’s a bloodsucker somewhere in my city, and I'm going to find it." Carter looked down at the body. The head had rolled back when he’d thrown it down, and now stared at him, one bloody eye and one gaping socket accusing him, blaming him. He swore and finished the bottle.

[Siиdяed]

Consternation Chapter 3 – Investigations and Action Harry Lynton coughed, stepping carefully over a discarded scrap of paper to stand beside the rough chalk board. Smoke shrouded the room, the last of Lord Wentworth's cigars burning a slow death, clamped between Carter's chipped lips. Harry waited for the buzz of conversation to die down. He looked to Carter. Carter nodded. He turned. "The first prostitute to be killed was found on the Old Kent road. No witnesses came forth. Woman mid-twenties, no identification. Mutilated body, two piercings found on the neck." Harry raised an eyebrow. Carter shrugged. "Sounds about right. We chucked the body, same as always, but that's pretty much it." "Right." Harry hesitated. He gripped the grubby chalk-end and, with painstaking care, wrote the words First Victim, A Prostitute, Two Piercings, As Found. He stopped. "Found? When was the first one found?" Carter shrugged. "'bout Monday." "Yeah." one of the officers nodded. "Sounds about right." "It were Wednesday." Jock said, quietly. There was a low hum of debate. Carter swore, and rose. He slammed his fist down onto the wooden desk. The debate stopped. "If you gents are done Sergeant Lynton can finish his chalk drawing and we can go kick some heads in until we get answer as we always do." Harry stood, silent, and then shook himself. "As found...by the police at Whitechapel station." Carter grunted his approval. Harry continued. "Second victim, again a prostitute, again mutilated and again with two piercings to the neck and again with no witnesses to the attack. Body found and reported by the Bow Street runners last Friday, Whitechapel didn't recover the body." "They said they didn't have it. Mind you, them Bow Street runners..." the officer shrugged. "What?" Harry frowned. "Well...not real policemen, are they?" Harry sighed. "They have as much authority to do what they do as we do. We're all working for the law." Carter snapped his fingers. "Wrong. Whitechapel has my authority, my law. Difference." "What's happened to Whitechapel?" Harry looked around the room. At least twenty faces looked back. Bitter, bored, tired. Men working for a city that didn't love them. He ran a hand through his cropped hair. Carter snorted. "We're alone. Rest of the Metropolitan police don't know about us, rest of London doesn't care for us. But we still go to work. Still keep shit from the streets. That's what happened. Now get on with it." Harry nodded, slowly. He wrote on the chalk board, frowning as he etched out the letters. The room sat in appreciative silence as he worked. Second Victim, Also A Prostitute, Also Two Piercings, Found Friday. He stepped back. He thought for a moment, and then added Old Kent Road to the first victim. "Where was the second one found?" Carter shrugged. "London. Somewhere. Didn't worry too much where." Harry turned. "Well, what if there was a pattern between where they were? Work out where the...vampire...is working from? If it is a vampire, that is." Carter grinned, suddenly. "You don't think it's a vampire?" Harry thought about it. "No." "Someone playing silly buggers, then? That it?" "A delusional killer. Insanity of some sort. Possibly an immigrant from Europe, maybe. Not a vampire." "You'll learn." Carter grinned, and clapped his hands together. "Right, if that's done we can get moving. Jock, I want you to take Nolan and Cavanagh to King's Cross. Talk to the bints. See if they know anything. Osborne, take half the team and walk the streets." "And look out for a man in a cape?" Harry coughed. Carter glared. "And keep law around my city, but if you do bump into bloody Dracula, take his details." The men filed out, nervously. The others followed, when it became apparent there were no further orders. Harry and Carter stood, facing one another. Harry blinked. He looked back to the board. Third Victim, Also A Prostitute, Also Two Piercings, Piccadily. He stared at the letters, intently. Trying to make the web of connections that ensnared a criminal. He shouted when Carter grabbed his head and thudded it into the board. "Don't question me in front of my men." Carter hissed, and let go. Harry swore. Carter sat, the cheap wooden desk creaking as he did so. He reached into his shabby police-issue swallowtail coat and pulled out a flask. He drank it, bitterly. Harry swore, quietly, and rubbed his forehead. "I let you do your shit all over my doodling wall and you go and throw it in my face. I'm trying to make some room for your ideas." Harry stared, blankly. "What? You didn't let me finish! We didn't accomplish anything! None of what I said got used!" Carter blinked, stubbornly. "No. That's because it was a waste of time. Half the lads here can't even read." "It's a requirement to recruiting!" Harry shouted. "Not in Whitechapel!" Carter straightened, suddenly, knocking the desk backwards. It clattered to the stone floor in the silence that followed. "If we want to solve this..." Harry began. Carter cut across him with a sneer. "We don't. In the country..." "Newcastle." "...in the country you might have the luxury of playing detectives but here in London we have to be a bit faster than that. Crime doesn't sit around waiting to be solved. We prevent it, quick, and get our shillings from Scotland Yard like good little bastards. We're going to do this my way. Jock will make sure the whores at King's Cross don't make our lads falter in their line of duty. He'll also get the answers we want from them, assuming the stupid bints know anything. Osborne and his lads will keep their eyes on the city for us. You and me will be going down to visit an old friend of mine who might just happen to know something about a vampire in the city while the rest of the lads watch the station. Understood?" Harry stood, silently. The chalk had broken in his hand. Carter faced him, impassive, cigar smoke wreathing itself around his head, choking Harry. He nodded. "Yeah. Understood." "Good." Carter clapped him on the shoulder. "You'll fit in fine." He turned and left the room. Harry stood for a moment more, and then kicked a chair. ---- "His name's Macleish. Owns a drinking hole...here." Carter stopped at the top of the narrow, soot-blackened stairway. Harry squinted into the gloom. "Under the street?" he wondered. "I'm guessing it isn't a family establishment." "More the family, if you follow my meaning." Carter agreed. "Most of the big gangs in London drink here every so often. Rest of the time its low-life drifters who don't like to be disturbed." "How can he help?" "Macleish knows everything that happens in the dank underbelly of this city. Knows about the bloodsuckers when they show up, too." "London's had vampires before?" Harry frowned. "How come we don't hear about it?" "Because we don't want you to. No-one wants to know about the shit we deal with in Whitechapel." "I need to be filled in." Harry sighed. "Later." Carter snapped. "Right now all you need to know is that Whitechapel was made to deal with the special kind of scum, like vampires, and that there's one of these bastards on the loose cutting up whores." "Fair enough." They descended into the gloom. The drinking hole wasn't big. It was poky, crowded, and stank of sweat. Carter pushed his way past a man with a ferret-like face, and shouted. The shout went ignored. A man tripped, and spilt his drink down Harry's shoulder. Carter swore. "Place isn't usually so...police! Move!" He pulled his badge and held it up. The room fell silent. The people around them made space. Carter adjusted his coat. "Better. Now, where's Macleish..." There was a scrape as the chairs in the room were pushed back. Men were getting up. Harry grabbed Carter's arm. "There must be thirty men in here, Carter." he hissed. Carter shrugged him off. "That's Mr Carter." A bottle shattered as a man broke the end, moving into a fighter's stance. There was a click as a pistol's hammer was pulled back. Carter began to edge back. "Macleish might not be here after all, lad. Might be best if we head back to the station..." "Peeler scum!" The gunshot echoed, and Harry shouted. A man squealed, his pistol clattering to the floor as the lead shot buried itself into his hand. There was a metallic ring and then an explosion, the cocked hammer falling and igniting the powder. The pistol fired, and the crowd jumped as one, shouting. Carter raised the pistol and squinted. He blew the smoke from the barrel and twirled it, once, before sliding it back into the holster under his arm. "Not a bad shot at all. Shame I was aiming for the face, really." The room froze as men started thinking. Carter thought quicker. "Out, out, out!" Carter grabbed Harry around the belt and threw him towards the door. Harry tripped and ran, the crowd behind crashing over furniture as they followed. He reached the top of the stairway and stopped, gasping. Carter appeared beside him. "Macleish not there." Carter shook his head. "No." "They were?" Harry gestured his head towards the stairs below. "People that don't like peelers." Carter nodded. "Run back. Get Smith, tell him to round up the lads. We're busting this place now." Harry nodded, and sprinted down the street. Carter turned, breathing heavily, as men began to emerge from the gloom below. He put his fists together. Brass glittered on both. He grinned, wanly. "I'm Inspector Carter of the Metropolitan Police. I think most of you recognise me. You just made a bastard of a mistake..."

[Lord Toaster]

this does not excuse the murder of Anti-heroes.

[Siиdяed]

Psh, it's far easier to write than Anti-Heroes.