Twincy Quinn and the Eye of Horus Part One (6 page)

Several
constables were outside, checking the lane ways on either side of
the house for clues. I myself would do the same once I was done
here. Meticulously.

I was starting
to get the impression that these kidnappings were far more than I
had feared. I had always appreciated they were organised, well run,
and expertly executed. Yet the more crime scenes I attended, the
more I realised something worrying. This was beyond me. No matter
how carefully and precisely I ran through every clue I could find,
they would lead nowhere.

I felt like I
was dealing with an enemy, a criminal, far beyond anything I had
ever encountered before. Whatever scant information I could gather
at a crime scene would never be enough to help me identify my
target. Just tantalising glimpses, just whispered suggestions.

Finally
reaching the third-floor landing, I gave the banister a pat, tugged
down on my jacket, and nodded to a constable standing outside the
door. I did not have to ask whether it was the correct room; it was
obvious. One glance inside and I could see the china dolls, toys,
and frilly dresses.

‘
We have done our best, sir,’ the constable stood to attention
as I passed. Though the man had a steely gaze, and looked out with
a stiff, squared off jaw, I fancy I heard the note of exasperation
filtering through his tone.

Exasperation I
would soon share. For I did not have to ask the constable whether
he had been successful in finding any clues. One simple look inside
showed no sign of struggle. Nothing, in fact, but a wide-open
window. The bereaved parents had already told the first officers on
the scene that they had not touched their child’s room. They had
left it exactly as they had found it. Untouched save for an open
window.

‘
Right,’ I grumbled under my breath as I scratched at my cheek.
I took several steps over, peering out of the window without
touching the sill. Leaning forward, I checked to see how far it was
to the lane way below.

Quite far.
Entirely too far for a child to jump out, and hope to live. Though
I did not believe I was dealing with a runaway case, I still had to
rule that out.

‘
It’s like the other ones,’ I heard the constable mumble from
outside on the landing.

I did not ask
him to explain himself. It was a sentiment I understood and shared.
It was indeed exactly the same as the other kidnappings I had
recently attended. An open window. No sign of struggle. That was
it. Leaning further out of the window, I cast my glance down the
side of the building, checking for any marks that may indicate
someone had climbed up the side.

Nothing.
Whirling on my foot, I quickly checked the rest of the room. For
rope, for tied up sheets, for any marks on the legs of the bed to
suggest something was secured there and flung out the window
enabling somebody to clamber safely down to the street below.
Again, there was nothing.

Irritation
mounting within, I ground my teeth together. Then I spent the next
30 minutes going through the room as meticulously as I could. Every
scrap of fabric, every mark on the carpet, every dent in the wall.
I catalogued them, I scrutinised them, and I tried to make sense of
what had occurred.

When I was
done, I made my way downstairs, and quietly interrupted the father
in the drawing room. As I knocked softly and entered, it was to the
sight of him in a large leather chair, staring off through one of
the windows, a half-finished glass of liquor resting on his lap. He
had such a distracted look on his face that he didn’t appear to
notice that the glass was tilting in his hand, the liquid soon to
leak out and dribble over his lap and the expensive rug under his
feet.

‘
Sir,’ I said quietly, taking another careful step into the
room, locking my hands behind my back yet again. I came to a rest
behind one of the large leather chairs, and waited for him to
respond.

He didn’t.
Still staring absently out of that large window, he soon let the
glass on his lap tip so much that a trickle of the rich-coloured
liquid escaped down the side and over his lap. He didn’t move, he
didn’t react. Yet eventually he turned his head, shifting his gaze
and head to face me.

‘
Sir,’ I straightened up further, if that were possible. I
genuinely felt as if I were on parade. Yet it was not a reaction to
this man’s social class and standing. Just a reaction to his
palpable misery. ‘I have finished my initial inspection of your
daughter’s room,’ I kept my voice low and I chose my words
carefully.

‘
And I suppose you have found nothing,’ the father took a
distracted sip from his glass, hardly savouring the liquid as he
swallowed it down, ‘just as nothing was found when Governor
Fletcher lost his son, just as nothing was found when the
Hendersons lost their two girls last week.’

It took me a
moment, but I gave a stiff nod concurring with his analysis. I did
not want to lie to this man, yet neither did I want to give him
false hope.

‘
Tell me, what chance do I have of ever seeing her again?’ Now
the father looked at me, fixing me with intense eyes. Placing the
glass on the small side table beside his seat, he wiped his fingers
together not looking away from me for a moment.

‘
We will try to do everything we can to get her
back.’

‘
Forgive me, Detective, but you have not answered my question.
What chance do I have of ever seeing her again?’ There was a harder
edge to the father’s words now, his eyes narrowed, his brow
pressing down forcibly.

I couldn’t
answer that question. Or perhaps I could. I simply could not share
my misgivings with the father. To admit to him that I had no idea
who was behind these crimes and no idea what was happening to all
of those lost or kidnapped children, would be a heavy blow. It
would also elicit the attention of the inspector, and I would be
promptly reprimanded for unduly worrying a member of the upper
class.

Yet the worry
was not undue. Though I was not a betting man, I understood the
odds in this equation. There would be little to no chance that the
man before me would ever see his daughter again. A fact that
underpinned the frustration building within me. I was dealing with
criminals far beyond my talents, my intelligence, and my
capability.

Perhaps the
father could see how frustrated I became in that moment, because he
rested back in his chair, clutched a hand down his face, and soon
shook his shoulders in a shiver. ‘Forgive me, Detective, I am
overcome by this news. When my wife and I attended the celebration
for Lord Ridley last night, we did not know that we would be coming
home to an empty house.’ Though the father had let his hand drop to
his lap, he now returned it to his face, clamping it over his
eyes.

I could see
there was little point in questioning this man. Not now. He was in
no state to answer my queries. Instead, I gave a low, dutiful nod,
and excused myself from the room.

As soon as I
was outside, I rested my hands in my pockets, leaned my head back,
stared at the ceiling for a brief moment, and indulged in a heavy
sigh.

Once upon a
time I had not been the kind of man to give up. As a young lad I
had enjoyed the kind of youthful exuberance and naiveté that had
seen me mistakenly believe anything and everything was possible.
Well these ongoing kidnappings were siphoning off the last of that
feeling. I felt as if I were banging my head against a brick wall.
No matter what I tried, no matter what theory I came up with, I
could not compete with whomever was out there abducting these
children.

Finally
marshalling control of my emotions, I left the house, and made my
way into the lane way beyond. For the next hour or so, I checked
every brick, every shadow, every scrap of dust, and every trace of
mud. Frustration now building to such a level I ground my teeth
together and tapped my fist repeatedly against my leg, I finally
gave up.

It was when I
turned, heading across the street, intending to get in a short walk
before I headed back to the Yard, that I saw it.

A scrap of
fabric. Upon leaning down and plucking it up from the side of a
lamppost, I recognised it as belonging to a dress. It was not thick
enough nor sturdy enough to belong to pants, plus though it was
grey, the hue was too feminine to suggest it came from any male
garb.

Turning on my
foot, bringing a hand up to protect my eyes from the bright, early
morning sun, I checked to see how far away the house was from my
current position.

Surely it was
too tenuous to assume this was a clue. The house was a good 100
feet away. Yet as I held on to the scrap of fabric, I found my
thumb pinning into it and trapping it securely in my hand, lest the
errant breeze steal it away from me. After several more seconds of
staring across at the house in confusion, I turned my attention
back to the fabric.

Perhaps it was
gut instinct, perhaps it was barely veiled hope, but I placed it
carefully in my pocket. It wasn’t the first time that I had come
across scraps of fabric close to a crime scene. Never inside,
always on the streets, and always in some kind of alley or lane
way. It probably meant nothing. Yet right now I needed it to mean
something.

With a heavy
breath that pushed solidly at my chest, I turned sharply on my
foot, patted down my jacket neatly, and finally headed back to the
house.

I had barely
been gone five minutes.

Yet that was
all it had taken. Upon my return, I faced something new. Something
unexpected. And something that returned my hope to me.

Twincy
Quinn

Don’t ask me
how, but I had done it. Travelling all night, running until the
heel of my boots had given way and fallen off in a ditch, I had
caught up to the suitable.

After a
ferocious battle, where I had commandeered a cart, commanding the
horses to race until the cart all but disintegrated behind their
frantic sprinting, I had defeated the suitable.

Then, after a
night of travelling, I had returned home to London. The child in
tow.

And now I
returned her. Staking out the house, I carefully made my way
forward, waited until all the police had moved away, and then
encouraged the child with a soft pat on her shoulder.

I waited in
the shadows of an alleyway until I saw her walk up to her house,
and then I disappeared, back up to the roofs. My natural home.
There I stood and there I watched.

Though I
hadn’t slept, and though I hadn’t eaten for several days now, I was
not tired and I was not hungry. As I crossed my arms in front of my
middle, turned my head to the side, and watched the child trundle
up the steps of her home and walk into the open front door of her
house, I smiled.

It was rare to pluck somebody back from the hands of
the
suitables
, it
was rare to claim a victory over Doctor Elliot Esquire, yet I had
done just that.

Taking a step
back, and always ensuring I was in the shadow of one of the tall
buildings that stretched up to my side, I indulged in one more
smile before I turned away. Skirts flaring behind me, I made my way
forward. Time to head home. And yes, I had a home. Filled with
people like me, urchins and escapees from the doctor.

As I turned, I
allowed myself one brief smile, though it was not warm enough to
reach fully up to my cheeks. Still, at least it was there. At least
today I had gained a brief victory.

A gust of wind
caught my hair, throwing it over my shoulder, such that my fringe
flicked frantically against my eyes. And then I pressed myself into
a run.

Before I did,
I let out a silent prayer for the girl.

Michael F.
Stanford

I couldn't
believe my eyes. Turning the corner from the lane way around the
house, my footfall uneven as I clasped my hands behind my back and
stared at my shoes, I looked up when I heard a slight choking
sound.

What I saw was
something impossible.

The child,
Jennifer, the girl that had gone missing. The girl I had resigned
myself to believe was now gone, to whatever realm into which all of
the children had disappeared, a realm a simple policeman such as I
had no hope of ever returning them from.

But she was
there.

On the
doorstep. Dressed in the very same nightgown her governess had told
us she had been wearing last night.

The door had
been opened, and I watched her walk up the steps, lick at her lips
nervously, peer her head in, then pause. As I rushed forward, I saw
her angle her head up, her gaze flicking around and settling on the
rooftops on the other side of the street.

My back
itching with sudden nerves, I twisted my face to follow the
direction of her gaze.

I saw
something. I swear I did. A flash of fabric, grey against the
mottled black and brown slate roofs beyond.

Then the child
turned. She whispered a single word, ‘daddy,’ and with that she
fled into the sanctuary of her house.

What happened
next transpired quickly. Rushing in after her, placing a hand on my
slack jaw, and trying to work some confidence back into my
expression with my thumb and forefinger, I rushed into the drawing
room just as the child did.

It took
several seconds for the father to react. That deadened gaze he held
as he stared over the half empty contents of his crystal tumbler
was hard to shift. Then his child walked straight in front of
him.

And he broke
down. Throwing the glass to his side, and letting it smash against
an expensive bookshelf full of rare tomes, he pushed himself from
the chair, and plunged down to his knees. Lips shaking, eyes
filling with hot tears, he brought his arms around and pulled her
into a hug.