Authors: Sharon Joss
Inside his father’s mahogany desk he found his father’s fine gold
pocket watch with the portrait of his mother enameled on the inside, and a few
pound notes and coins. Enough to get him to—where?
Off the island, of course. Out of England. The ferry would take
him across the Solent to Gosport or Portsmouth and from there, Dover. His
father had taken him to Brussels several times to visit his aunt. Surely she
would take him in.
He had no other place to go. The grandfather clock in the entrance
hall chimed ten bells. Time to go.
PART I
ISLE OF DOGS, ENGLAND
TIMBER DOCK
April 15, 1871
On a chill damp night, Captain Ingolf Torkjelson of the 190-foot
paddle steamer
PS Valkyrie
sat alone
in his cabin below deck and refilled his glass from the crockery jug of
aquavit
he kept in the lower left-hand
drawer of his desk. Gimbal-mounted oil lamps lit his cedar-paneled quarters
with a dim glow. He reviewed the last of the figures he’d just entered into the
register and leaned back in his chair.
Tomorrow, the
lading of the ship with wool for the return trip would begin, and in two days
they would be underway, leaving London, this stinking Isle of Dogs, and the
rest of England far behind. With any luck, they’d be back in Oslo in time for
the midsummer celebrations.
Then on to Grimstad, Bergen, and Trondheim.
He closed the leather-bound register and slid it aside, revealing
the navigational chart of the Thames River rolled flat beneath it. The
River of the Dead
, some of the older
captains called it and told of sailing past bloated corpses which littered the
shore. Not that Torkjelson had never seen any himself, but every time they put
into port on the Isle of Dogs an unnatural black mood settled over the crew and
it didn’t lift until they were properly at sea again. There was something about
this place that put everyone on edge.
Absently, his fingers traced the river as it wound around the
distinctive, downward-pointing-thumb of the island, which lay just east of
London and the great Bridge. So close to the city, yet time moved more slowly
here. Isolated by the black waters, the local inhabitants of this flat, sparsely
marshland were a stubborn, suspicious folk, who bore with equanimity the
drenching winds and the Thames's twenty-foot tides.
Some said the island had been named for King Edward III’s hunting
dogs. Others insisted it was named for the bodies of pirates left hanging from
gibbets on the foreshore facing Greenwich, as a warning against the crime of
river piracy. But Captain Torkjelson believed, as did many of his crew, that
the island was named for the poor wretches who lived here. Isle of Despair
would have been a better name; the place was a throwback to the dark ages. Those
who could, tended livestock, fattened up on leased lands where wild grasses and
sedges grew before being slaughtered for market in the Island’s killing fields.
Others grew whatever vegetables they could in the dense peat and clay soil. At
low tide, mudlarks dressed in rags, many of them children, scoured the stinking
flats for anything they could use.
Admittedly, the construction of the three main docks had greatly
simplified navigation of the Thames and made shipments of lumber more
profitable, even as it changed the topography of the island forever. And after construction
of the Millwall dock, more than 600 vessels could be safely accommodated in
port. No longer did Torkjelson need to haul his cargo all the way to London. A modern
series of locks and basins, a railroad line, and five-story warehouses dockside
made for efficient loading and unloading. Ships entered the north import dock
from the east for unloading of their cargo, then moved into the middle dock to
lade the ships with supplies and export, before exiting back into the Thames in
the direction from whence they came. The south dock was used strictly for the
loading and unloading of timber.
This was Captain Torkjelson’s fifteenth shipment of lumber for
England, so he was familiar with the sounds and scents of the docks at night.
In other ports, he might sit in the pilothouse or on deck with the men to enjoy
his nightly
dram
, but not here. While
the docklands were more modern and secure than any other port they called at,
the Isle of Dogs was a dismal place. Night or day, it didn’t matter. Thick,
coal dust-laden fog obscured what little there was to see. So different here
from steaming onto his hometown district of Hammerfest at night, where the
skies were so clear and cold he could see the lights of shore from ten miles
out. A welcome that could bring tears to the eyes of even the most hardened
seaman.
Twenty-foot brick walls surrounded each of the docks, but he made
sure the men paired up when they went ashore on leave here. Outside these walls
lurked desperate men
and
women, any
one of them eager to prey on an innocent sailor in unfamiliar territory. Five
years ago, before the big London bank crash, the neighboring towns of Millwall
on the west side of the Island, and to a lesser extent Blackwall on the east
had been respectable places. They'd been filled with solid, working class
sorts—ship builders, mostly, but iron, glass, and coal workers, too. But
the jobs vanished along with the crash. Those who could, had long since found
jobs elsewhere. The few wretches who remained were either starving or mad.
As he drained his glass of the cardamom-flavored liquor, a
stealthy tread sounded on the boards above him. He paused, questioning whether
he’d heard rightly.
There it was it again. This time, the thrum of bare feet ran directly
overhead.
No alarm raised, but he’d learned long ago to trust his intuition.
He slipped on his watch coat and pulled his woolen cap down over his ears, then
stepped up through the companionway to the deck.
He stifled a cough as he reached the acrid murk on deck. With the
lumber unloaded, and the decks swabbed clean, the
Valkyrie
'
s
broad teak deck
now gleamed with all the elegance of a ballroom dance floor. At the forecastle,
some fifty yards away, Halvorson sat hunched over, his body a vague silhouette
in the lamplight.
Something about the sailor’s posture didn’t seem right.
Torkjelson moved across the deck, his boots clomping loud in the
sudden stillness. “Everything all right, Oskar?” He coughed, a wracking bark
that wrenched the air from his lungs. How could people stand to live here?
Oskar stirred, but didn’t answer.
Captain Torkjelson frowned and stumbled on the slick deck. “Halvorson,”
he choked. He could not catch his breath. The fog was getting thicker. Grittier.
Blacker.
When Halvorson finally turned, the sight of him sent Torkjelson to
his knees.
In the thin glow of lamplight, Halvorson’s eyes glowed beneath an
unnatural blue film.
Frantically, Torkjelson scrambled backwards on the slimy deck,
noticing that the seaman’s shoes were gone. Not only that, his feet were
huge
. The thing coming toward him wasn’t
Halvorson—and it was growing larger with every step
It wasn’t even human.
It loomed over him, its fetid breath cold as the grave.
“
Draugr
!” Torkjelson
gasped.
Impossible!
Feared creatures
of ancient legend, the captain had no doubt that this
thing
somehow possessed the body and soul of his first mate.
It grabbed him by his throat; its bloated fingers a chalky blue. Huge,
clacking teeth.
If it bites me, I’m done
for.
His lungs screamed for oxygen.
Got
to get away!
His limbs refused to move. He felt as if he were swimming
against a powerful current.
Must warn the
others!
The last sound he heard was a low, deep chuckle.
Cubitt Town Station House, ISLE OF DOGS
APRIL 16, 1871
Inspector Roman Greenslade stepped outside the Isle of Dogs Police
station house, into the grey dampness of Manchester Road. Although well past
mid-morning, a heavy layer of coalsmoke and soot kept the watery sun at bay, enveloping
the island in a shroud of permanent dusk. The damp air smelled of the Thames and
raw sewage, while two blocks away, the screaming cries of gulls reached a
crescendo. Their shrieks informed him better than any messenger that the first
of the fishing boats had returned with the day’s catch.
As he waited for the new recruit to join him, Roman fiddled at his
teeth with a sterling silver toothpick. Tipped at one end with a tiny ruby, the
folly had been a gift from his father, Padraig, back in the days when they
still spoke to each other. Back before the war.
A later start this morning than usual, because he’d spent the better
part of the morning explaining the new man’s duties and helping him get settled
into the upstairs dormitory. Normally, one of the other constables would show
Stackpoole his patrol beat, but Supervisor Wickes had asked him to take the lad
under his wing for the first few days, as they were so very short-handed and
attracting and keeping good men was so very difficult. The Isle of Dogs was
regarded by most as the worst station assignment in the London Metropolitan
Police.
Not because of the crime, although they had more than their fair
share of thefts and vandalism. Rather, it was the island’s dire poverty and
general air of wretchedness, which most found too depressing to tolerate for
long. That, along with the foul weather, barren landscape, and a well-earned
reputation as being the most haunted of London’s suburbs.
The last two recruits hadn’t lasted a month, and the one before
had transferred out at the first opportunity. Neither Mrs. Loman’s excellent
cooking nor the newer station house had been enough to win them over. Most of
the new recruits either wanted a posh assignment like Highgate, or the rough
areas, like Wapping and Whitechapel. Even with the new recruit, the station was
still down a man.
Constable Owain Stackpoole stepped outside the stationhouse,
closing the door carefully behind him. He was a plain sort, with the pale,
sullen face of a Welsh farm boy. A bit on the doughy side, he said he’d come to
London for better wages. The Isle of Dogs was his first assignment, and he’d earned
a five-guinea bonus for agreeing to a two-year stint on the island.
Almost immediately, he wrinkled his nose in an expression of
distaste.
It always surprised Roman how much overlanders hated the stink of
the place. Born and raised here, he rarely noticed it, except perhaps on those
warmer days of summer when the reek reached truly eye-watering proportions. He
smoothed the front of his wool coat. “You ready, then?”
A tight smile. “Lead on, Inspector.”
He’d been called on to investigate a problem at the docks this
morning, but decided to begin Stackpoole’s first patrol with the very worst the
island had to offer. He headed west, toward Stebondale Street, an eight-block
swath of misery and derelict buildings. The area was a haven for more gamblers,
thieves, prostitutes, and mudlarks than anywhere in or outside of London.
As they patrolled the street, Roman automatically scanned the
upper floors of the brick storefronts lining the street, searching for
movement, open doors or broken windows that might indicate that squatters or
thieves had gained access. He pointed out the most dangerous areas to Stackpoole,
paying particular attention to those which weren’t safe to enter, even in
daylight.
With the station house
less than two blocks behind them, Stackpoole already seemed a bit glassy-eyed
and green about the gills. He kept a white-knuckled grip on his truncheon.
“Look smart now, lad.”
Roman pulled the constable away from a sudden cascade of night soil emptied
from a chamber pot form a window above.
He
won’t last the year,
Roman predicted.
They made their way past a cluster of surly drunks and emaciated
beggars huddled together for warmth on the boardwalk outside the Builder’s
Arms. Not one coat or blanket between the dozen of them, they wore the tattered
uniform of the destitute—mud-clotted rags.
By way of example, Roman paused to kick at the feet and legs of
the sleeping beggars piled up against the buildings. “Get on with you, now. All
of you, go on.” Feeble arms and legs stirred in silent protest.
The expression of disgust on Stackpoole’s wide freckled face
wasn’t just from the smell. “Aren’t we going to haul them in for vagrancy?”
“Oh they’d love that.” Roman shoved the toe of his heavy boot into
the drunken backside of one of the men he recognized. “Move along, McGann, you
old dragsman. Drunk tank’s full. You can’t sleep here.”
The grizzled old fellow grunted and lumbered to his feet--glaring
up at them in that peculiar hunch-backed way of his. His thick-skinned cheeks
glowed red from drink and windburn. “Rather than harassing a perfectly innocent
man, why don’t ye do something about finding that dognapper? Thems valuable
dogs.”
“Yes, I imagine so. Don’t
give me that look, Finn. I know what you use them for.”
“You’ve got it wrong, Inspector. Thems not fightin’ dogs, they’re
me wee little pets. Raised them from blind little beggars, I did.”
In some ways, Finn reminded him of his own father, Padraig, who
also had a soft spot for dogs, horses, and whiskey. Years ago, Finn and Padraig
had served together in the original Bow Street Horse patrol. When the Met
Police absorbed the patrol, Finn stayed on until the drink took him over, but
Padraig hated the politics and left after only a year, and bought the Iron Arms
pub in Blackwall, which he still owned. Drunk that he was, Roman always found
Finn to be the more reasonable of the two.
“Those dogs didn’t get scarred up from sleeping by the stove.”
“Now why would ye say something like that? Them’s me only support.
I got no way to pay me debts wi’out Digger and Jiggsy. Somebody took ‘em and
you gots to find ‘em. Probably up in some Limehouse pet shop by now.”
Just like his own father, Finn had an unreasonable mistrust for anyone
who wasn’t an islander. Roman waved him off. “Right. I’ll keep my eye out for
them. Move along.”
They waited until Finn and the rest of the group rounded the
corner. Roman knew better than to think they’d find somewhere else to sleep;
they’d return to the boardwalk just as soon as he and Stackpoole moved on.
“You think someone really stole his dogs?” Stackpoole asked.
“No. They’ve probably been eaten. This is the
distress
, Stackpoole.” He stretched out his arms expansively. “We’re
right in the bloody thick of it. After the bank failure, the shipyards closed;
the whole island went belly up. It’s why we have so many vacant buildings to keep
after. More than half of the people who live here are either on the dole or
starving. Those who can work have left already. The rest are stealing or doing
whatever they can to get by. There’s no hope here for them. They’ve got
nothing. It’s not that I’m unsympathetic but I can’t fix it, and neither can
you. We’re here to protect property, prevent crime, and keep order. Life on the
island isn’t for everyone.”
He noted Stackpoole’s determined nod, and the tension he’d felt
all morning began to ease. Not a coward then, just first-day jitters. He
supposed he’d been just as tense when PC Billings escorted him through his
first rounds seven years ago. It didn’t matter that he’d grown up here, and
knew most of the residents; once he’d become a policeman, they treated him as a
stranger. He was no longer one of their own.
They reached the end of Stebondale and turned north onto
Manchester Road, the major thoroughfare for the east side of the Island. The
horse traffic was heavier here, but, but rush hour was over, and at this time
of day, foot traffic was light.
“The island is split into three beats. Millwall on the West,
Blackwall on the East, and Cubitt Town, the Air Fields, and the horse Ferry to
the South. The only access on and off the island is the main road, which rings
the island above the high-water mark. On the east, it’s called Manchester Road,
but in the south and on the west side of the island, it’s just Ferry Road.”
The road led them north. Behind a row of close-set houses facing
the river, Roman nodded to the great man-made bay ahead of them.
“Technically speaking, it’s the construction of the docks that
separated us from the mainland. This is Blackwall Basin, which serves as the
entrance lock for all ships entering the docks. From there, it’s like a giant
loop. The ships proceed west into the Import Dock, where they offload their
goods directly onto the trains. Once they’re unloaded, they exit on the west
and the canal turns them around heading east, where they enter the Export Dock,
where there’s also a railroad spur there to deliver goods for lading.”
Stackpoole whistled. “That’s a right lot of area to cover, eh?”
“Not at all. We don’t patrol inside the docks; they’ve got their
own private security force.”
“If the docks are outside our responsibility, what’re we up to
then, Inspector?”
“Ah, professional courtesy. They sent a runner this morning,
asking for assistance. It doesn’t happen often, unless they run into something
unusual, then they’ll request the presence of an officer.”
Roman turned west, leading the way across a set of train tracks,
along the well-worn footpath leading toward the tall brick security wall ahead
of them. This part of the island was as devoid of grass and trees as a desert,
home only to warehouses, tall ships, and the occasional scream of a steam
locomotive whistle. There were no shops here, no markets, not even a stray
handcart vendor. Even the rows of houses facing the river seemed to have turned
their backs to them. The walls loomed ominously above them, shutting out the
spring sunlight.
Stackpoole drew his attention to a knee-high tumble of black
stones surrounded by white pebbles piled up beside the road. “That what I think
it is?”
“Aye. Fae cairns. To
keep the wraiths and shades away. We’ve got more than our share of
superstitious folk and magickers living here, Constable. There’s the herbalist,
Mrs. Walker, several gypsy families, a retired wizard, and even one of those
Chinese fellows who sticks needles into you for a cure, if you can believe it.”
“Um, wraiths?”
Roman shrugged. “Ghosts. Spirits of the dead, what have you. There
used be a gallows on the docks in Blackwall where they hanged river pirates. And
another across the river below Greenwich. There’s more than a little bit of
magick in the land here. Especially in the south marshes. Farmers swear that
the grass here can fatten the thinnest sheep, or cure the sickest horse.”
“What about the wraiths, then, Inspector?”
“They can’t hurt you. Most people can’t even see them. But some
are more sensitive to magick than others. The islanders who’ve lived here the
longest tend to cling to the old ways. If you’ve an eye for it, you’ll see subtle
signs everywhere you look. At the peak of eaves on barn, or runes carved over
doorways, or those little piles of stones.”
The color had drained from Stackpoole’s face.
Roman gave him a mirthless grin. “You’re not superstitious, are you,
constable?” It was easy to forget that outsiders didn’t experience the island’s
magick in the same way. He’d grown up with wraiths, ghosts, and fey cairns of
power. It wasn’t that he liked it—just the opposite. Contact with even
the smallest bit of magick left an invisible residue on his skin that
instinctively made him want to wash it off. It was just something, like the
smell of the place, he supposed, that he’d learned to live with. No one raised
on the island thought anything of it.
The other man scrutinized the empty landscape. His upper lip
trembled. “Can’t say as I’d be happy to meet a ghost out on the road some
night.”
“That’s what your lantern is for. To be honest, the biggest risk
to your safety is from getting run down by drunks or hooligans racing carriages
down Ferry Road at night. Not many come out here. It’s too far from the pubs,
and those walls,” he nodded to the security walls ahead of them. “Those walls completely
surround the docks. Nowadays it’s what they call a
closed system
,. No way in or out except through a pair of locked
gates. Not even the police can get inside without a man to let us in. The
Company manages all their own security, so unless there’s call for assistance,
you’ve nothing to worry about.”
#
Two guards in military uniform greeted them at the stout Iron Gate
at the west entrance of the Export Dock. The blue woolen tunics they wore were
similar to those worn by the Metropolitan Police, but the collar was trimmed in
red, and the trousers bore a wide red stripe running down the outside seam. To
Roman’s mind, the gold braid around the cuffs and the double row of brass
buttons down the front made them a bit grand for patrolling the docks.