Thread: Consternation

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."