The Case of The Spectral Shot: A Bow Street Society Mystery #3

  BOW STREET SOCIETY:

  The Case of The Spectral Shot:

  by

  T.G. Campbell

  All characters in this novel are fictional. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2018 Tahnee Georgina Campbell

  Cover art central image by Peter Spells

  Cover art Bow Street Society Logo by Heather Curtis

  Copyright of these two images retained by Tahnee Georgina Campbell 2018

  Edited by Susan Soares

  All Rights Reserved

  Available on Kindle and other devices

  Dedicated to A.E., K.M., and R.W.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  EPILOGUE

  Gaslight Gazette

  Notes From The Author

  More Bow Street Society

  Sources Of Reference

  PROLOGUE

  DEPARTMENT STORE FROM HELL EXPOSED stated the headline from an old evening edition of the Gaslight Gazette. Upon reading it, Miss Trent’s mind had evoked a buried memory of an account she’d been given at the time. A Bow Street Society member, who’d helped bring about the exposure, had told of a large pot atop a stove. A heavy, pale mixture had been found inside. He, and others present, hadn’t needed to rely on mere suspicion to know what it was.

  The grandfather clock’s Westminster chimes from the hallway brought her back from her thoughts. While the seventh hour struck, she turned over the newspaper and slid it to her guest. They sat around her desk in the middle of her office at the Bow Street Society’s headquarters. Signs of the former owner’s taste could still be seen in the high-grade, dark-olive wallpaper, embossed with a scroll design, and the large, oak fireplace on the far left. While she had the door to her back, her guest had the window to his, its curtains closed against the night. A fire had also been lit, and the gas wall lamps ignited, to repel the cold darkness. To her guest’s right was a filing cabinet containing square drawers the size of index cards. An Improved Salter 5 typewriter sat on the desk in front of him. Had she possessed an inclination toward pettiness, she would’ve insisted upon her usual seat.

  “The case was solved,” she stated. “Justice was served.”

  “It was—as far as the court cared. I still have some qualms about it, though.”

  Inspector Caleb Woolfe placed his large, clasped hands upon the desk and leant forward, causing the wood to groan beneath his weight. Far from being a portly gentleman, Woolfe could nonetheless be described as stocky—solid, even. His shoulders and chest were so broad that, as he’d moved forward, they’d entirely blocked the fire’s light from Miss Trent’s view. Also, despite his slouch, his shadow covered the clerk’s entire form. A musty, damp odour exuded from his fur coat as it was warmed by the fire. Woolfe’s brown eyes peered out from beneath a black, bushy brow as he scrutinised the stoic woman.

  She was in her late-twenties and unmarried—a spinster in the eyes of wider society. Yet, Woolfe knew from experience, she couldn’t be scorned and dismissed so easily. Even then, her dark-brown eyes were fixed on his. Others, he’d found, tended to wander or look to an ear while in a policeman’s presence. Her tendency—no, refusal— to do the same was as intriguing to him as it was repugnant. It, coupled with a slight lift of her chin, made for an altogether defiant countenance—even when no emotion was expressed. On another occasion, he may have admired the curve of her waist, accentuated by her corset undergarment, and her chest above the high, square neckline of her brown bustle dress. Tonight, however, his pride forbade him.

  “What we found in those rooms will haunt me until I breathe my last,” he began in a solemn tone. “Calling them monstrous isn’t enough to describe the absolute horror of what was done to those poor women. You’d agree?”

  “I would.”

  “I thought so, but I’m still unhappy about what you, and your Society, did.” Miss Trent parted her lips, but Woolfe immediately resumed, “The Society interfered with a police investigation, which was bad enough, but something else irks me.” His eyes narrowed, and his tone hardened. “You let a vulnerable young woman investigate a room you knew nothing about without asking for the police’s help. Those same horrors could’ve happened to her if the murderer had come across her there. She would be dead, Miss Trent. What’s more, her remains would’ve been given the same undignified treatment as those of Mrs Roberts and her mother.”

  “But he didn’t, Inspector,” she pointed out. “Yet, even if he had, she wasn’t alone. Mr Locke and Lady Owston were also present.”

  “Beyond earshot,” Woolfe growled. “You and your Society put Miss Agnes Webster’s life in danger without any thought of the risks involved—”

  “Firstly, Inspector,” Miss Trent interrupted. “The safety of the Society’s members is paramount to me. Secondly, I have the utmost trust in Lady Owston and Mr Locke. They would’ve intervened had Miss Webster not returned when expected. Therefore, your accusations are without foundation. They are also symptomatic of your categorical hatred of the Bow Street Society, and of what we are trying to do.”

  “Which is what, exactly?”

  “Ensuring justice is served for those who ask for it.”

  “And putting your members’ lives at risk in the process!”

  “Enough, Inspector!” Miss Trent stood and glared down at him.

  In a heartbeat, he, too, was on his feet. Towering over her five feet seven inches with his six feet four, he bellowed, “You will listen to me, Miss Trent, and you will listen carefully!” Miss Trent put her hand on her hip but remained silent. “If you and your Society insist on facing danger unnecessarily, you will do so under my terms. You will give me a full list of your members so I, and the Metropolitan Police, can stop them from being murdered, attacked, and robbed. Try to justify what you do as much as you like, Miss Trent, but, at the end of the day, you are all just bloody civilians playing at a copper’s game!”

  “And yet, we are the ones people look to when the police refuse to help them,” Miss Trent retorted as she stepped closer to the desk. Leaning forward, so their faces were mere inches apart, she went on, “Not every case we investigate is a crime, Inspector, and our clients expect discretion with the confidences they grant us. If I were to give such a list, you, and every policeman in London, would hound our members. You would also watch our every move and, maybe, attempt to infiltrate our ranks. The Society has never worked against the police or encouraged its clients to do the same. Yet you insist on treating us like criminals. Unless you treat me, and my members, with the common courtesy we deserve, you shall have your list when I breathe my last.”

  “It wasn’t a request, Miss Trent. You have one day to give me the list, or I’ll come back to tear this house apart.”

  Woolfe shoved his chair aside—sending it over—and took but three steps to exit the room. The clerk stood her ground until he was through the door before following. When the policeman opened the external door, she added, “Do that
. But you’ll find a representative of the press waiting for you.”

  “Are you threatening me?” he threw back with a growl.

  “No, I’m trying to show you what an idiot you’re being,” she replied, her stoic expression returned.

  Woolfe’s eyes narrowed. “One day! Then I’m coming back!” The entire frame shook as he slammed the door. Hearing his heavy footfalls descending the stone steps, the clerk crossed the hallway and pulled the bolt back into place.

  “What woz all that abou’?” a gruff voice—whose accent was that of London’s East End—enquired from the kitchen. Turning, Miss Trent smiled as she looked to the round face of Mr Samuel Snyder in the dim gaslight. In his late forties, Mr Snyder was an older member of the Bow Street Society. His weathered features, calloused hands, heavy cloak, and broad-brimmed hat betrayed his long-standing occupation as a two-wheeler hansom cab driver. Standing in the corridor to the grand staircase’s right, his extended belly, broad shoulders, and broader arms filled the space.

  “Inspector Woolfe being his usual charming self,” Miss Trent replied. Her smile faded as her mind replayed the conversation and she approached her friend.

  The grand staircase had rounded oak balusters holding up highly polished, smooth, oak handrails on both sides. Its steps were covered by a plain, burgundy carpet, while the remainder of the hallway’s floor was a black and white check like a chessboard. A second corridor ran down the stairs’ left, and both led to doors into the kitchen. Four more doors occupied the space, the second on the left being where Miss Trent and Inspector Woolfe had emerged from. The walls were decorated with paper matching the carpet in colour. Its design was a repetitive, embossed floral pattern. Despite the space the room afforded, very little furniture occupied it. The grandfather clock, housed in an oak casing, stood between two doors on the right. A hat stand, complete with umbrella pan, was in the corner to one’s right upon entering the house. These two pieces aside, the hallway was empty.

  “I need to pay someone a visit,” Miss Trent announced.

  “I’ll take you on my way ‘ome, since no work’s come in,” Mr Snyder replied as he passed her.

  “No,” she snapped. The cabman turned and, shifting his head to the side, regarded her with surprise. Sensing his confusion, Miss Trent explained, “I’ll be fine, Sam, but thank you all the same. Besides, it’s still early. We can’t afford to have a potential client walk away because there was no one home.” She smiled. “Do you mind staying here while I’m gone? I should only be an hour.”

  “Nah, course I don’t,” Mr Snyder replied and unclasped his cloak to drape it over the handrail’s end.

  “Thank you.” Miss Trent gave his arm a gentle squeeze.

  “Best make myself a cuppa, then,” Mr Snyder remarked and disappeared back into the kitchen. Miss Trent meanwhile returned to her office and, taking her usual seat, plucked a black, curve-lipped cylinder from a set of prongs. These prongs were in turn attached to a long, narrow, wooden box mounted on the wall to the left of the window. In the centre of the box, at the front, was a non-adjustable, black cone. As a result, Miss Trent had to lean forward to speak into it as she pressed the cylinder to her ear.

  * * *

  A light drizzle started when Miss Trent crossed Trafalgar Square. Puddles from an earlier downpour reflected the occasional gas lamp or splashed hurried pedestrians’ feet as they disturbed them in the pitch darkness. The familiar outline of St Martin-in-the-Fields’ church tower also served as a beacon against the cloud-enshrouded sky to Miss Trent who was headed toward it.

  Depicted in a painting of the same name by William Logsdail in 1888, St Martin-in-the-Fields was a well-known landmark. Distinctly Corinthian in style, one critic upon its completion described it ‘as though Wren had gone to Italy.’ Six pillars stood at the summit of stone steps, leading from St Martins Lane below, to form a portico. Above it was an impressive pediment depicting a carving of King George I’s coat of arms, the reigning monarch at the time of the church’s completion in 1726, and its churchwarden. It should also be noted St Martin-in-the-Fields’ parish still includes both Buckingham and St. James Palaces, as it did back then. This royal connection did not stop at the façade either. A separate pew, adjacent to—and on the same level as—the first of two raised galleries, was reserved for the monarchy. A second, on the altar’s opposite side and adjacent to the other gallery, was reserved for the Royal Navy. At the time of Miss Trent’s visit, it was adorned with a plethora of naval flags.

  As she passed under the pediment, through the open doorway, and into the nave proper, the sounds of her feet echoed. An effect fashioned by the acoustics which were, in turn, created by the nave’s open-plan design and tunnel-vaulted ceiling. The ceiling being, arguably, the most striking feature within St Martin-in-the-Fields because of its highly decorative gilt and painted plaster by Artari and Bagutti. Pillars, identical to their external counterparts in style, framed the pews on the ground floor. These pews were separated by a wide, central aisle, and faced the altar at the far end. To the right of the altar was a magnificent pulpit. Meanwhile, the galleries—an important feature of Georgian churches—lined the edges of the church’s interior, looking inward toward the pews. Containing pews of their own, these galleries were accessed by a set of stairs at their far ends, whilst their dark-wood, panelled facades were periodically separated by the pillars. Brass chandeliers, bathed in the light of their own candles, hung from the ceiling by chains. Though beautiful, their light wasn’t adequate to fully illuminate the space. Thus, the church was strewn with shadows which danced in the flickering candlelight. The brilliant white of the pillars and ceiling continued to glow, however, creating the illusion of warmth where there was none.

  A handful of parishioners were dotted about the pews, and a clergyman tended to the altar. No one paid heed to Miss Trent as she climbed the steps to the right-hand gallery and walked along the front row of pews. Sitting in its centre, she released a deep breath and watched the exhaled steam as it faded.

  Ten—tedious—minutes passed. During which two more parishioners hurried through the portico and shook their umbrellas. The pitter-patter of rain against the stained-glass windows provided a calming, rhythmic melody in the near silence of the church.

  Miss Trent pulled her coat closed as a harsh shiver shot through her. Sighing, she turned her thoughts to the warm stove that awaited her at Bow Street. Becoming lost in her thoughts, she didn’t notice someone entering the gallery until she heard the pew behind creak. At once reminded of a certain inspector, she stole a glance over her shoulder. The glimpse of brown eyes and moustache was enough to expel her panic. Settling back against her pew, she smirked at her foolishness.

  “You shouldn’t have contacted me,” the newcomer’s soft voice stated, sending a steam cloud past her face.

  The clergyman, having finished whatever he’d been doing at the altar, climbed the pulpit’s steps and shuffled some papers there. Though minor, the rustling echoed around the church as if it were waves against rocks. Nonetheless, Miss Trent took the opportunity to muffle her whisper, “I had no choice. Inspector Woolfe came to the house tonight and demanded a full list of the Society’s members.” The clergyman coughed, but no sound came from behind her. “Did you hear what I said?”

  “When does he want it by?” the newcomer enquired after a pause.

  Miss Trent turned and stared at him.

  He was in his early thirties, but the weight of exhaustion showed in the dark circles beneath his eyes. A knee-length, black coat was worn over a brown, cotton suit with matching waistcoat and tie. Upon his short, neatly combed, brown hair sat a bowler hat of the same colour. A starched, Eaton collar peeked out from beneath a hand-knitted, burgundy scarf, whilst his complexion was fair.

  “Please tell me you’re not seriously considering giving it to him,” Miss Trent said.

  “I didn’t create the Bow Street Society to undermine the police, Rebecca,” he replied as he took in her incredulous expres
sion. “Rather to supplement it, however indirectly, when the public’s confidence in Scotland Yard and its divisions wanes. Corruption and deception are already rife within the Metropolitan Police. Therefore, the Society—and its clerk—mustn’t be seen to be falling into the same bad habits by intentionally obstructing those officers who have proven themselves trustworthy and dedicated to their work.”

  “Even when those same officers wish to destroy the only group people turn to when they can’t approach the police because of the same—often open—corruption, brutality, and prejudice you speak of?”

  “Is that what he told you?”

  “He didn’t have to, Richard. He despised the Society’s part in solving the Oxford Street case, so now he wants to make sure it doesn’t happen again by giving his colleagues its list of members. He told me he wanted to ensure none of our members were attacked, robbed, or murdered, but he also said he had plenty of arguments against us getting involved in a police investigation at all. He even accused me of putting Miss Webster’s life at risk by sending her to investigate the room during the Oxford Street case.”

  “Her life was put at risk,” he pointed out. “Granted, the outcome of the case was beyond anyone’s wildest expectations, but the Society, including you, must acknowledge and respect the potential for dangerous situations during the course of investigations.”

  “I make damned sure none of our members are put into situations they can’t handle, or which might unnecessarily put them into harm’s way, Richard. You founded the Society, but chose me to run it, remember? While you are passing judgements and observations from the safety of your ivory tower, I am accepting commissions and managing cases under constant threat of exposure by Woolfe, our members, and even you. You always insist on meeting in public despite knowing we could be seen by a patrolling policeman or someone who knows you as a chief inspector of the Yard. I need not remind you of how disastrous that would be—for our future and the Society’s. If you wish to lecture me about respecting, and acknowledging, the potential for danger, then, I suggest you look at yourself first.”