Dark Gothic, Tome 4: His Wicked Sins

Chapter 1

Stepney, London, January 15, 1813

Crimson splatter painted a gruesome landscape on the pale walls of the Black Swan Tavern.

Parish constable Henry Pugh picked his way around the stiffening corpse, taking note of the arc of blood that splashed far and wide and the congealing pool at his feet. Dark and glossy, it reflected the flickering candlelight and colored the air with a cloying heavy scent, both sweet and sour.

He had never seen so much blood.

But then, today was Henry's first day with the Shadwell Police Office, and he had never before seen foul murder.

Outside, on the cobbled street, the night watchman called out the time. Half past midnight.

Raising his candle, Henry squinted at the floor, noting the bloody footprints that moved along the hallway. Then his gaze slid back to the dead man, William Trotter, the landlord of the Black Swan. He lay on his back, sprawled over the steps that led to the taproom, eyes wide and staring, face twisted in a look of surprise. From all appearances, he had been attacked from behind, likely never knowing the identity of his assailant.

Bits of brain and bone speckled the landlord's clothes, the wood of the step, the wall at his side. His head was bashed in, and his throat slit for good measure. Rivulets of blood wended down the stairs and across the floor, merging and puddling a small distance away.

Henry squatted low. The stink of human refuse slapped him, and he reared back, appalled to witness such ultimate humiliation. Death was neither kind nor dignified.

An ugly thing, this. An ugly thing.

The coalheaver, Jack Browne, a lodger here at 34 New Gravel Lane, had run to summon Henry when his banging and ringing failed to rouse Mr. Trotter to come open the door. On hearing the tale, Henry had expected that Jack was locked out for the night, and the Trotters gone to bed of an early hour as was their custom. Mrs. Trotter was insistent upon that, and lodgers, most of them sailors taking a room for a short while, knew that should they come late, the door would be barred against them. Odd, for a tavern to keep such hours, but that was the way at the Black Swan.

Henry's benign suppositions had proven bitterly untrue. Before him lay Mr. Trotter's savaged remains. He'd not be answering the door this night, or any other. This man who had laughed and joked and drawn ale just hours past was cold and dead now, his life snuffed in a manner that was purely evil. Henry's shock at discovering the body had been so great that he had barely managed to hold his composure and instruct Jack Browne to fetch more men.