Hunting Down the Darkness
Alderman James Mystery Thriller Series, Volume 3
European P. Douglas
Published by European P. Douglas, 2019.
While every precaution has been taken in the preparation of this book, the publisher assumes no responsibility for errors or omissions, or for damages resulting from the use of the information contained herein.
HUNTING DOWN THE DARKNESS
First edition. February 7, 2019.
Copyright © 2019 European P. Douglas.
Written by European P. Douglas.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
By the same Author
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Chapter 93
By the same Author
The Dolocher- Alderman James Mystery Thriller Series #1
Shadow of the Dolocher- Alderman James Mystery Thriller Series #2
The Light Beneath the Cauldron- Alderman James Mystery Thriller Series #4 (release date March/April 2019)
Rise of the Dolocher- Prequel to the Alderman James Series
Rattleyard- Supernatural Suspense
Rampike- Supernatural Thriller Suspense
Chapter 1
The letter was short and contained very little information. Alderman James looked over the single thin sheet once more as he sipped his late morning coffee at home on Henrietta Street. Outside a horse and cart clattered over the cobbled street as servants scurried about on errands for their rich masters.
‘Come, help us, please,’ the last lines of the letter read, and James felt it was a female hand. Placing the letter on the table, he exhaled a deep sigh and looked once again outside. James had come to his limits with murder, having seen the Cleaves spree and then the Colonel Spencer killings that followed these. The last thing he wanted now was to get involved in another case like those, and Waterford- where the letter had come from- was very far from his jurisdiction. Surely, someone local could look into this.
And yet.
Getting out of Dublin would be no bad thing for him, James thought. In recent weeks, he had been contemplating a permanent move, back to his birth country of England, and a quiet life on the lands of his family. That would take some planning, some work and a lot of traveling. Perhaps Wild Boar Hall, down there on the Atlantic coast of Waterford would be just the place to get the grime of the city out of his bones, if only for a while.
His eyes wandered back to the letter seeing the expensive paper and the fine handwriting. A woman came to mind again. Still, it could be nothing or perhaps written by a servant on the Hall’s stationary. The letter did say that it was a servant who had been killed on the grounds after all.
“I’ll write a letter to the man of the house,” he said deciding this was the best course of action. If he was wanted, he would get an invitation, and if he wasn’t he would fobbed off. Either way there was no harm in asking. Lord Stapleton was the man, and James could recall meeting him one night not all that long ago. Most likely, at one of the many building openings he seemed to have spent the last couple of years going to.
James recalled Stapleton, if he had the right fellow in mind, as an older man; a little eccentric but perhaps just peculiar in his sense of humour.
Taking up his notepaper, he scribbled a reply he would write out properly on good paper later in the afternoon.
There was a rap on the door and the butler announced,
“Sheriff Dunbar, to see you, Sir.” James rolled his eyes and looked at the clock by the fireplace.
“Show him in,” he said without relish.
“Good morning, Alderman James,” the burly sheriff said entering the room with an armful of papers.
“Good morning,” James replied, “Unburden yourself at the table by the window.” Dunbar nodded and dropped his pile down, losing a couple of scrolls to the floor and bending down to get them just as quickly. He moved nimbly for a man of his size, James thought. “How was the night?” James asked.
“Usual, Sir,” Dunbar replied. “A few tavern fights, a few prostitutes put in the ‘Nunnery’ and such;” here Dunbar hesitated and James felt queasy. Had there been another killing in the Liberties? Was it all starting again?
“What is it, man, spit it out!” he said irately.
“Well, Alderman, Sir,”
“Tell me!”
“There was another houghing, this time down near the hospital,” Dunbar said.
“Disgusting act of cowardice,” James said. Houghing was a method popular of late with so-called Irish Revolutionary’s, whereby the hamstring muscle was severed between the knee and hip joints. It was a very painful and crippling form of attack and if not treated quickly, the poor soldier affected would die from blood loss before long. “Is he alive?”
“Yes,” Dunbar nodded.
“Did he see who they were?” This was too much to ask and James wasn’t surprised to see Dunbar shake his head slowly in reply. “I suppose he would be dead if he had seen their faces,” James mused.
“He’s at the barracks if you’d like to talk to him?” Dunbar suggested. Thinking about it a moment, James dismissed this idea.
“There’s little point in my seeing him. We’ll let him recover and then I suppose he’ll be sent home.”
&
nbsp; “Yes, Sir.”
James thought about the life this soldier would have now back wherever he came from. He would be permanently crippled, unable to do most work, and his army pension wasn’t going to get him far, especially if he has a family to support. This grim idea was the last straw for James' recent melancholia.
“I’ll be going away, down to Waterford for a few days,” he said, “Perhaps longer.” Dunbar nodded, unsure how to respond to this, out of the blue, as it was. “You can write me at Wild Boar Hall if you need to, but please only do so in an emergency. I would also ask that you not divulge this information to anyone else. I wish to be as undisturbed as possible while I am away.”
“I understand, Sir,” Dunbar said eyeing his piles of paper.
“We’ll get through half of this,” James said following his worried gaze, “and you can either go through the rest yourself, or they will wait until I get back.”
All the time they went through the paperwork and Dunbar talked through the cases and his endless reports on nonsense, James was thinking of the sea, seeing the blue and hearing the crash of the waves. It had been a long time since he was at a truly wild coast and he was looking forward to it. He’d heard of a new lighthouse down in the area of Wild Boar Hall and was keen to see that too. Despite the fact that he was going down to investigate a murder, the very idea of leaving Dublin already had him happier than he had been in many months. He found he was actually eager to get going- the next morning would see his departure.
Mullins tasted blood in his mouth and he wiped at it with his bare forearm seeing the red tinge smeared in the hair there. He smiled, the little bollocks was fast, he had to give him that. Truth be told, Mullins didn’t think the lad would even be able to lay a hand on him before the fight was over.
The sailor spat at Mullins’ feet and said something in his native tongue, gesticulating at him.
“Save your breath, sailor,” Mullins said, “I haven’t a clue what you’re saying.” As he spoke this last word, Mullins swung his huge right arm in an arc towards the man’s face. The sailor ducked and easily avoided the blow and cracked a fist hard into Mullins’ exposed ribs. It was like rock hitting against him and the wind was knocked out of him. General laughter went up from the man’s shipmates and a smile came over his face.
As Mullins struggled to regain his breath, glad the sailor wasn’t following up with more punches; he was hard pressed to recall what they were fighting about.
“You’ve done well, lad,” he said standing to his full height and drawing in a lungful of misty air, “But I think it’s time we stopped playing around.” The sailor looked to his mates as if for a translation of what Mullins had said but shrugged shoulders were the only response.
Mullins walked towards the man, no swinging arms or legs this time, all he wanted was to get hold of him and then he would do the damage. He gripped the man by the shoulders and squeezed hard pushing him backwards. The sailor looked at him with some confusion but very quickly went back on the offensive. He lifted both hands and jabbed short range, impossibly hard punches into Mullins abdomen. In his shock, Mullins let go of him and felt the cracking shatter of a rock-like uppercut drive up through his face. His knees buckled and down he went landing heavily on the wet ground.
Cheers rose up around him and in his bleary vision, he saw the shape of the sailor parading around with his hands in the air. Mullins tried to get up but his body was not co-operating with him. He rolled on to his back and looked up at the masts of the ships by the riverbank, pain rearing up everywhere he’d been hit. This was not the way it was supposed to be, it made no sense to him at all. He wasn’t supposed to be the one flat out on his back.
People were leaving now that the spectacle was over and the sailor came over and looked down on him. Mullins looked back at him but felt nothing. The man looked him over once, nodded to him and then walked away with his mates. Soon it was quiet and it was as if Mullins was completely alone in the city.
“What kind of fuckin’ display was that!” a mocking voice rose up, and one that he knew all too well.
“Fuck off, Muc!” he said weakly, sitting up now and looking to where the voice had come from.
“A tiny little French sailor, half the size of you, putting you down on your arse?” Muc laughed walking towards him.
“I’ve been drinkin’” Mullins said but it came out as weak as the excuse it was.
“So what, that should be making you more vicious,” Muc said, “I’ve seen you around a few times of late, blacksmith, seen you fighting. You’ve won the others but not because of any skill on your part. This little frog was the first decent fight you’ve had and he put you out like a baby.”
“I don’t care,” Mullins said getting to his feet, and it was true.
“You should care,” Muc said, “The next time you could be dead.”
“What of it?”
“I see,” Muc said with disgust. Mullins glared at him,
“You see what?”
“You’re still pining over that woman.”
“Watch what you say, Muc, I’m recovering quicker than you think and could be ready to go again any second.” Muc scoffed at this,
“I wouldn’t embarrass myself fighting you in the state you’re in now,” he said.
Neither of them said anything for a time.
“Come on,” Muc broke the silence, “I’ll walk home with you; I’ve had a long day myself.”
Mullins was exhausted and didn’t argue, he would be glad to see his bed this night.
They walked from Temple Bar west along the quays. The water on the river Liffey was calm and here and there glistened with lamplight from some of the moored ships. It was chilly for the time of year and the damp of his clothes made him shiver.
Kate was on his mind now, unavoidable as Muc has brought her up. She had been his wife, she still was in the eyes of the Church, but in an attempt to free Mullins from gaol, she’d done the ultimate harm to a marriage. She’d gone to bed with that animal Edwards in exchange for his freedom. It didn’t matter that he had been innocent and would surely have gotten out anyway. She didn’t see this and it had ended the happiest time of his life almost a year ago.
“You should lay off the drink for a couple of weeks,” Muc said intruding on his thoughts. Mullins nodded. “Why don’t you come over in a day or two and I can put you through your paces, get you back in shape again. I’ve never known you to carry your dinner around with you like this,” Muc said patting Mullins slightly swollen belly. Mullins pushed his hand away but felt his fleshy body and knew he’d put on some weight.
“Maybe,” he said.
“Dublin will soon need all its fighting men in good shape,” Muc went on, “You should be fit and ready for when that time comes.”
“You involved in the rebellion now?” Mullins sneered, “Any fight will do for you, wont it?”
“I can’t say you’re wrong there,” Muc smiled and they walked on towards their homes.
Chapter 3
The bright light of the morning stung the eyes of Mr Edwards as he greeted the day from the doorway of Madam Melanie’s brothel. It had been a long night and though he had slept briefly, it was his bed he was most in need of right now.
“Wake up, you lazy lump!” Edwards said banging the side of his carriage with his cane—it was always nice to give it some use outside of it being fashionable.
“I’m over here, Sir,” the driver said walking over to the carriage from the wall where he’d been leaning as he waited for his master to emerge.
“To home, and don’t stop for anything, you hear?”
“Yes, Sir,” the driver answered holding the door open.
As the carriage moved swiftly along the streets, Edwards sat back and felt sleepy as he tried to recall something of the previous night. It had started, as it so often did, in the Hellfire Club house on Francis Street, but they had moved on early enough but he couldn’t for the life of his remember
where. He’d woken in Melanie’s and knew at once where he was, but his only company in the room were two prostitutes who slept soundly as he got dressed and left.
Leaning forward, Edwards pulled up the shade to let some air in and have a look at the city on this fine morning. They were almost at the river now and would be passing back over to the more upmarket North side in a few moments. He gazed at the people on the street not recognizing anyone.
The river was busy and many ships were coming up from the bay, forming a long line as far as Edwards could see. He saw one ship leaving against this tide and it made him think briefly of Doctor Adams and his night-time flit to England. Getting away with murder like that. Edwards made a note to write to his London contact and check on the good doctor; so far, there had been no reports that he’d been up to his old ways over there.
This thought, in turn, made him think of Colonel Spencer, the man who had taken the fall for all those murders committed by Adams. Spencer had been a member of the same Hellfire Club as Edwards but had been driven to madness by the image of the devil following him everywhere he went and a large painting of the devil he’d created that was so life-like it was enough to make anyone nervous.
Spencer was in the asylum next to Stephen's hospital in the ‘curable lunatics’ section living in relative comfort compared to the rest of the unfortunates in that place. Edwards wondered if he would ever snap out of it and understand that he hadn’t killed all those people after all. One of his last acts before being arrested was to try to burn the painting where it hung in the old hunting lodge on Montpellier Hill in the mountains overlooking Dublin city. Though the building had burned to the ground, save the stone edifice that remained, the painting had somehow come out of it unscathed, a fact that only Edwards knew at that time. It now hung in his home, in the room his houseguest, the young Steven Olocher occupied.
As the carriage approached the house, Edwards saw that Sheriff Dunbar was at the door talking to one of the servants.
“What does this weasel have to tell me?” Edwards wondered aloud and then to the driver said, “Pull up at the front door!”