The Guild Chronicles Books 1-3 Read online

  He opened the paper, and there it was next to another article about the plant: a picture of Rose Caldwell walking through Sir Lester Chilton’s front garden with two constables. Even Dolly was caught in the lithoprint standing at the open door, fortunately too grainy to make out his personage. Above the picture was the headline:

  Witch of London Consorts with Metro to Find Phantom Killer,

  Gerald Welsh

  Dolly read on.

  In the early hours of the Sabbath, one of London’s elite was gruesomely slaughtered in his home through an unexplainable mummification. Sir Lester Chilton was found dead on Sunday morning in Belgravia. Metropolitan Police was unwilling to come on the record as to who they think is behind the act. This reporter witnessed Rose Caldwell, AKA Sister Rose, being brought to the scene to assist the police in their investigation. She was a witness in the 1854 Saint Anthony Rectory Fire and defrocked after accusing the Papal See of covering up a demonic possession. This can only mean that a Phantom Killer is perplexing the police, and they require the help of the devout occultist.

  I’ll be Welsh’s phantom killer. His eyes moved to the next article.

  Will Derby’s Conservatives let the Wessex Agreement Stand?

  Wesley Post

  The Baden gaswerks is of vital national interest. Without Luminiferous Quintessence, or LQ gas, the British ironclad fleet, simply put, cannot fly. While our illustrious mechanist guild, headed by top military engineers, is designing a British ironclad air fleet that can keep Emperor Napoleon contained on the continent, there is one chink in that armor: dependence on LQ. The empire is subjected to another tyranny that of the Alchemist Guild with close ties to the Duchy of Prussia. The Alchemist Guild are so possessive of their processes it required direct intervention by her Majesty Queen Victoria to appeal to King Fredrick of Prussia to coerce them to provide a reliable supply on British soil, the concession being a pact to transfer technology as part of the Wessex alliance of mutual defense. How was such a lopsided agreement made? Prussia will learn our mechanical technology, and we get put on the LQ teat of the Alchemists, leaving our national security in the hands of a few privileged Prussians.

  He sensed a shadow behind the paper and lowered it to see a young constable standing at his desk. He was fresh to the uniform, maybe eighteen or twenty, more a clerk than a cop at this point in his career.

  He smiled at Dolly when acknowledged. “Wire-type for you, sir.”

  He took the slip of paper and looked at it, noticing it was from a Mr. Simms at Chilton, Chilton, Owens, and Strathmore, letting him know they could see him at ten AM. The detective had less than an hour to get to the financial district.

  “Constable, run down to the motor pool and tell whoever the duty sergeant is—”

  “It’s Sergeant Smith, sir,” the blue-eyed lad interrupted.

  “Then, tell Smitty that Dolly needs one of his boys, quick around the front to run him over to the city.”

  The young copper turned and trotted away to the motor pool.

  * * *

  10:00 AM, Chilton House, City of London

  Dolly’s steam carriage took him across town from the Yard to the offices of Chilton, Chilton, Owens, and Strathmore, known as Chilton House, a three-story office building that was an icon in the city of London and testified to the wealth and power of the investment bank.

  As Dolly sat in the passenger seat of the paddy wagon, he read through his notes and research he could dig up on Chilton and speculated about the influential merchant bank and the family that ran it.

  Sir Francis’s grandfather, John, had established a business syndicating insurance and finances for merchant shipping. He had the soul of a sailor, and through his readiness to move to where commerce took English ships, he became a trusted source of finance for overseas traders. John Chilton personally started the Hong Kong office and toured the East and West Indies, learning about the risks and rewards of maritime trade. He had two boys, Cecil and the younger Erasmus. Erasmus followed into the family trade, and Cecil trained as an engineer. Erasmus, like his father, concentrated on maritime commerce and later expanded into sovereign finance. Erasmus knew how to deliver higher yields through his intimate familiarity with the industry of a nation, growing the firm to rival the great European financial houses.

  It was Cecil that persuaded his brother Erasmus that the Boulton-Watt condenser design would gain acceptance through efficiency and that his brother should be the source of capital for the growing mechanization of the empire. Cecil understood that engine power would replace human power and that machines like the Boulton-Watts steam engine could do the work of twenty men without pause. There had been others who had developed steam-powered engines, but this one was different, with a separate condenser, making it more powerful and efficient than the Newcomen engine.

  Cecil became a founding member of Her Majesty’s Celestial Order of Mechanical Science, commonly known commonly as the mechanist guild. He was conferred the Crystal Gear for lifetime achievement, not because of his mechanical aptitude but for helping the mechanists access the finances for their projects and priming the industrial revolution. The guild helped to organize funding and advance technology by acting as a forum to share theory. By brokering know-how, those in the mechanist guild quickly grasped what worked and what didn’t. They also augmented the mechanical sciences with advancements in metallurgy and precision control.

  Mechanists were masters of creating powered constructs that could operate with precision and increasing autonomy. But behind the mechanical wizardry was the power of the Chilton financial engine. Without their money, the mechanists would still be tinkering in their garages.

  The carriage let out the hiss of bypassing steam as it came to a halt. “Thanks, laddie,” said Dolly to the policeman that drove him over.

  The attending footman opened the carriage door. Dolly stepped out of the car in front of a plain building reminiscent of Palazzo Medici. A uniformed doorman opened the door for the detective to the magnificent interior of the bank. The spacious lobby was all white, black and pink marble. Inside the door were two private security guards.

  Oscar Owens met Detective Williamson in the vestibule. Second generation in the company, Oscar was a partner, just as his father was back when it changed from Chilton Company to Chilton, Chilton, and Owens. He was a corpulent fellow in his later years, jowly with generous side whiskers yet bald. He wore his banker formals with the enhancement of a black armband for the mourning of a named partner. Along with Owens was his personal secretary, again in a black suit and armband.

  “Welcome to Chilton House, Detective Williamson. Let me present Mr. Sims, my personal business manager,” said Mr. Owens.

  “Good afternoon, gentlemen. I wish it were under better circumstances. I hate to be so abrupt but can we start with an inspection of Sir Chilton’s personal office?”

  Owens gestured towards the stairs. "The merchant banking and partners’ offices are on the second floor."

  “If you permit, I would like to interview the staff to get a sense for Sir Chilton’s movements and any interactions last week,” replied Dolly.

  “I will attend to you today and can offer a place for you to run interviews. My assistant will get you that list," Owens continued.

  “Thank you. It would also help if you could provide me a list of employees that worked regularly with Sir Chilton?”

  “Certainly, please follow me, and we will get you settled,” replied Owens.

  The detective followed Owens up the stairwell. The stairway was unlike any office building he had been in, more like an opera house or palace. “I noticed that you have security at the door.”

  Owens stopped mid-stride and gestured to the detective. “While we are a merchant bank, we pride on being full-service for our clients. Besides our merchant, industrial and maritime desks, our foreign account settlement desk has its own wire-type room upstairs. They confirm exchange rates on overseas transactions, and many of our wealthy clients use
our trust management to keep their incomes. We desire to have a variety of currency to settle accounts for our clients and to allow for cash withdrawals. Therefore, vaults and guards are a necessity.”

  “Were guards on duty this weekend?” asked Dolly.

  “At all times,” replied Owens.

  “I should like to speak with the guards that worked on Saturday and Sunday,” Dolly said, thinking to himself they would have seen Sir Francis if he was in the office over the weekend.

  Owens looked to his clerk. “Can you get the schedule to show the detective?”

  “Yes, Mr. Owens.”

  Glass doors separated the stair landing in the lobby from the partner’s wing. Inside the glass doors, the decorations changed from the cold open marble halls to the warm and plush tones of mahogany paneling and thick maroon carpet.

  Owens led the party down the hall to the partners’ suites. The hallway was lined with oil portraits of the partners, starting from the original founders up through contemporary partners. Sir Francis's likeness was draped with a black shroud. Between some of the portraits were offices of key executives.

  The hallway ended in a set of double walnut wood doors that Sims opened to let the group into the partner suites.

  Club chairs occupied the public space for waiting customers. Getting upstairs to meet a partner was the first challenge. The next line of defense was the three desks of the personal secretaries. Two had gentlemen seated at them that stood at attention when Owens and the group entered the room.

  Owens gestured to the shorter of the two men standing at attention. “This is Mr. Healey, Sir Chilton’s assistant. Mr. Healey, may I introduce Detective Sergeant Williamson of the Metropolitan Police. He would like to talk with you and look over Sir Francis’ office.”

  “Yes, Mr. Owens,” The man only looked up when he spoke. He was visibly upset, and his eyes were red and watery. He glanced at Dolly. “I am here to serve, Sir.”

  Owen’s continued. “Detective, this is Mr. Chalkley, He is the clerk for the other partners that have offices down the hall. Gentlemen, please make the detective comfortable and aid him. Allow him to use the boardroom for his examination of the staff."

  Owens then excused himself. “Detective, I have affairs to attend to downstairs.”

  “I appreciate the accommodations Mr. Owens,” replied Dolly. He turned to Healey. “Can I start with a walkthrough of Sir Chilton’s office?"

  Dolly was reviewing the office of Sir Francis with Healey when there was a knock at the door.

  Mr. Sims entered the boardroom with a worried look on his face.

  “Detective, we need you in the vaults.”

  Sims ushered Williamson past a small cluster of clerks and bookkeepers huddled and talking in hushed tones. They were looking towards the rear of the lobby. They passed through the dark wood railing that divided the general lobby from the space where clients met clerks to handle routine transactions like withdrawals. The two men double-timed it down a large center aisle that led past the six desks in two rows and ending in the back of the main hall. The grand hall was filled with the echoes of the two men’s clipped steps on the marble floor.

  An archway in the marble wall revealed stairs leading down to the vaults. The top and bottom of the stairs had wrought iron gates that were opened. Dolly followed Sims down the stairs and through the gates. The vault area was cooler due to its location in the basement of the bank. The stairs ended in a landing that had a solid marble wall with a brass sign that read “Chilton House Vaults” and additional brass gates to the left and to the right were both open.

  “Detective, this way,” Sims guided Dolly to the right, “This is the partners’ vault.”

  Mr. Owens was sitting on a chair, sweating profusely, having some kind of attack. His tie was loose and his collar undone.

  Dolly looked at Owens. Unable to catch his breath, he just pointed at the vault.

  The huge steel vault door was open. The interior walls of the vault consisted of a myriad of different sized doors for lock boxes. In the center of the room was a simple wooden counting table, and on the floor, were two dead guards.

  Dolly stepped into the vault to get a closer look. Two guards both shot in the chest. Between the bodies was a Lancaster pistol. Dolly picked up the four-barreled pistol and opened the breach. The receiver lifted the four brass cartridges out of the barrels, and he saw that two of the Adams .45 caliber cartridges were discharged. The boys never stood a chance. Dolly looked out the vault. “Sims, call the London Police.”

  No footprints in the blood. No one had been in the vault since the shooting.

  He stepped just once in the large pool of blood to look across the rest of the vault. He surveyed all the lockboxes. Three were open. Two lower ones that could hold a sizable container were empty. A smaller one, about waist-high, contained ledgers and papers. The contents had an even spray of dried blood and flesh fragments from the exit wound of the victims.

  Dolly made his way back out of the vault to Owens and crouched down to ask him a question.

  Owens spoke. “The guards—I came—I came down to the vaults to retrieve my papers…

  and found them.”

  “Get a doctor,” bellowed Sims.

  Dolly looked at Owens, smiled and put his hands on his upper arms, “Mr. Owens, take deep breaths. You will get through this.” Dolly turned to Sims. “He is in shock and a state of hysteria but unharmed.”

  The guard interjected, “I was escorting Mr. Owens as that is the procedure when anyone comes down into the vaults. I was standing at the gate when he performed the combination. He asked me to help him open the door as it mighty be heavy for the old man. That’s when we saw them, Jack and Freddie, just lying there.”

  One clerk chimed in, “They were the weekend guards.”

  Sims added, “This vault is the private vault for the partners. Only full partners have the combination.”

  “Let’s have order,” Dolly boomed out. He thought the best he could offer until London arrived was to get the chaos under control. He turned to the guard. “You are on duty, sir, and need to get the vaults cleared of all these people. This is a crime scene.”

  The young man took the cue. “Alright, alright, all of you upstairs,” he said, waving his arms as if he was herding children off a playground.

  All Dolly could do now was wait for the London police to come. Chilton House was their jurisdiction. He reached down and untied his boot on the foot he had placed in the blood. No need to track blood all over the crime scene.

  Today would be a long day.

  3

  Tuesday, the 8th of June

  10:00 AM, Waltzing Pelican

  Dolly was set to meet Keane at the Waltzing Pelican at ten am. He grabbed a carriage to a nearby neighborhood, then strolled to the tavern from there. He learned it easier to blend into the public walking than driving.

  The air in this part of the city was acrid and gritty. The four smokestacks of the gaswerks billowed exhaust from the boilers and gas crackers across the river from Woolrich. Below the haze of smog was the largest London industrial estate made up of the industries supporting Lloyd & Sons Mechwerks, the Baden Gaswerks, and the London Airship Works and Aerodrome.

  Lloyd and Sons owned the aerodrome and were awarded the contract to construct the HMS Victoria, the empire’s first air-dreadnought. The hull had been laid three years ago and now the world's largest ironclad airship was to be christened in less than a year by Her Majesty.

  Dolly’s British pride swelled when he peered up to see the activity on the colossal ship resting in the construction scaffolding. The ship dominated the skyline in this part of the city and that was a feat considering the scale of the mechwerks and gaswerks. His plan was to meet Keane, get his report, then walk the perimeter of the Baden Gaswerks before his meeting with Commander Michael Penfold, the engineering liaison to the Her Majesty’s air service and the commander of the project.

  The young police officer was in admira
tion of what this modern world of industry was producing. In his lifetime, he had witnessed his countrymen tame the power of steam, send messages over wires and tap into the eldritch elements. He took one more glance up, watching the workmen rivet and solder a hundred feet above his head before stepping into the dimly lit Waltzing Pelican.

  The Pelican was a shift bar. It was convenient to the industrial estate and ranged from the extremes of empty to full based on the changing shifts at the adjacent mills and factories.

  Keane was standing at the bar. He was a tall man and looked bigger in his glen plaid suit. For the past few days he had been milling about the crowd that were congregating at the front gates of the works.

  Dolly sidled next to him but acted as if he did not recognize him, facing forward at the racks of bottles and the tap handles. Keane smelled sweaty and of tobacco smoke.

  “Well, what do you make of it?” asked Dolly.

  “What I make of it is this. I’ve been up all night watching the plant while you were sleeping in the cozy cottage of yours.”

  The barkeep came up to Dolly, “What you having, mate?”

  “A pint and a pickled egg,” Dolly threw a coin on the counter, “and a beer for this grumpy fella here.”

  As the bartender turned aside to pull a draft. Keane spoke, “There’s about seventy-five to a hundred bodies around the gates. I noticed two Marxists there stirring people up,” Keane continued in a mocking whining tone. “It’s the same old bollocks that the guilds are running the working man out of a living. None of the fellas are the type to take pay for this. They're true devotees of the struggle for the common man shit.”

  “Any of your Fenian brothers?” asked Williamson.

  “Not that I could see, but there was no shortage of Irish in the mob.” Keane changed the subject, “I heard you paraded that faithless witch through Belgravia.”