McLeod sat down beside her, and offered her his hip flask.
“Dr McLeod, someone gave matches to Andersen, someone who wanted to distract us for just long enough to reach Reade.”
She took a long swig, hardly noticing the peaty fire in her throat.
“Ye did your job, lass.” He took the papers from her, folding and organising them into a neat bundle. “The hangman won't get paid this time, but I doubt anyone else will care.”
“You probably won't get paid either. I never really finished my assessment.” It seemed an absurd thing to say.
“There'll be others, lass. Many others, I'll wager.”
A thin light shone through the great arches of York Railway station, the sky beyond leaden with cloud. In the shadow of a tall brick column, away from the busy platforms, stood an innocuous-looking man with a slight paunch. As trains thundered past beyond, he peeled away a set of whiskers, disposing of them down a nearby open drain. Half moon glasses followed soon after, along with his shirt collar and an almost empty matchbox. He buttoned a newly-starched collar in place, turned his jacket and took his customary round spectacles from their case.
Augustus Walton was dead, if such a word could be used for a man who had never lived, and Edwin Dry stood in his boots.
“Your fee.” said the woman who had been Felicia Walton. She passed him a thick manila envelope. “It is in bonds, as agreed.”
Mr Dry took the envelope, and placed it inside his jacket.
“Do you not want to check the amount?” she asked.
A moment's silence, and then the woman sighed. “Of course you don't. I would be a fool to cheat you.”
“It has been,”he said, “An interesting commission.”
“Do you…” She moved aside her black veil, showing hard eyes, red-rimmed. “Do you think that Reade might have escaped justice, if I had not engaged you?”
It was a moment he disliked, when clients sought his opinion, his views on their choices. Such over-complication.
“The doctor was unsure, when she spoke to me. I did not care to wait and see if the wind changed. My time is of value. The deed is done, and you have whatever satisfaction you sought, in the manner you sought.”
Rain began to patter on the station roof, rain which promised winter soon. Laura Tallboys stared at the sky. She felt nothing. Mr Dry was gone, and she tried to imagine that she could make out two small angels in the shapes formed by the clouds. But they were not there.
Tomorrow, she thought, I will weep.
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ABOUT THIS STORY
I hope you enjoyed reading A Loss of Angels. It forms part of a cycle called Tales of The Last Edwardian, a series of crime and psychic detective stories covering the start of the twentieth century and (eventually) on into the twenty first.
The settings follow from my love of early psychic detectives such as John Silence and others, and my pastiches of the work of the Edwardian writer William Hope Hodgson, author of Carnacki the Ghost Finder. As well as the short stories, at least two novels will be included. Both Dr Alice Urquhart and Mr Dry will return.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
John Linwood Grant started writing dark fantasy and crime fiction some years ago. A career in health research interfered with this, but now he's back. Six foot tall, good-natured and with his own beard, he and his partner rescue lurchers and longdogs. There's a lot of walking involved. And chicken carcasses.
Please visit me at greydogtales.com and find out more about my writing (and longdogs).
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