Jonathan Barnes - The Somnambulist

But still the Somnambulist stood firm. The other man ran roaring toward him and, like some especially ferocious javelin-thrower unable or unwilling to let go of his spear, thrust the blade deep into the giant’s belly.

The Somnambulist looked down at the wound, his face a picture of mild curiosity, looked up again and smiled. His would-be assassin gazed back in disbelief and then in real terror as, without betraying the slightest outward sign of pain, the Somnambulist strode forward, thrusting himself further onto the sword to reach his attacker. Expecting his quarry to fall at any moment, the man kept tight hold of the hilt but still the Somnambulist came relentlessly on, unstoppable as the sword slid smoothly into his belly and emerged unstained on the other side. The man held tight until the Somnambulist was almost upon him, when, shrieking inchoate curses, he let go of his weapon and ran in terror from the scene.

Disturbed by the noise of the rumpus, some of the opium slaves started to stir in their sleep, a few shambling to their feet, mumbling and howling confusedly. Yiangou squealed in frustrated rage and barked an order to his remaining servant. Foolishly, but with admirable loyalty, the man ran at the Somnambulist and buried his sword in his back. The giant swatted him easily aside and, still unflinching, plucked both blades from his body. Just as at the Theatre of Marvels, the swords were clean of blood. Moon walked to his side.

“Thank you,” he gasped. They turned to face Yiangou. “Now. Who the devil told you to do that?”

Numbly, the Chinaman shook his head.

“Mr. Yiangou,” Moon said reasonably, “you said someone had told you to expect me. All I want is a name.”

Yiangou seemed terrified. I can’t, Mr. Moon, I can’t.”

“Very well. I’ll just have to ask the Somnambulist to be gentle with you. But as you’ve seen, he’s not a man who knows his own strength.”

One of the pipe smokers, a whiskery fop who had hitherto lain silent, suddenly lumbered to his feet and yelled something unintelligible into the air. Startled, Moon and the Somnambulist turned toward him, but as they did so Yiangou saw his opportunity and took it. He ran, vanishing from sight almost immediately, disappearing deep into the warren of his establishment. The Somnambulist set off in pursuit but Moon called him back.

“No good. Yiangou knows this place far better than us. I fear we’ve lost him for tonight.”

The Somnambulist seemed disappointed.

“Are you all right? That must have taken its toll even on you.”

The giant frowned.

“You don’t look well. I think we should get back.”

They left the opium wrecks behind them and headed home, looking forward to the broth Mrs. Grossmith had promised to prepare for their return, but as the coach drove into Albion Square, they saw Detective Inspector Merryweather waiting on the steps outside their lodgings. He stood next to Speight, evidently uncomfortable in the vagrant’s company, even if the latter seemed in the midst of lively conversation, talking loudly and gesticulating at his perennial sandwich board.

SURELY I AM COMING SOON

REVELATION 22:20

“Gentlemen!” Merryweather called out as the pair descended from the cab.

“Inspector.”

“What have you been up to this time?” he asked, eyeing their torn and bloodied appearance.

“Solving your case,” Moon replied, a little tartly.

“It’s bad news.”

The conjuror sighed. “Go on.”

Merryweather drew himself up to his full height and paused dramatically.

“Well?” Moon was in no mood for theatrics.

The inspector swallowed hard. “There’s been another one.”

Chapter 7

As the coach sped back into the city, Merryweather explained it all.

“What was his name?” asked Moon. He seemed alert again, re-energized, whilst the Somnambulist, exhausted by the battering the night had already given him, had begun to drift off into a pleasant doze.

“The victim’s name is Philip Dunbar. Wealthy. Like Honeyman, an only son, an idler and a wastrel. Like Honeyman, he fell from the tower.”

“The same site?” Furious, Moon clenched his hands into fists.

“Dunbar was lucky.”

“Lucky? How?”

“He survived, Mr. Moon. He survived.”

Philip Dunbar lay close to death. He may once have been a handsome man but now it was almost impossible to tell — teeth smashed, face ruined, he writhed helplessly on the bed, its sheets already stiff with sweat, blood and urine, more like some shattered beast than a young man whose whole life had stretched uncomplicatedly before him only hours earlier.

“How long has he got?” Moon asked.

“Doctor says it could be any time now. Frankly it’s a miracle he’s still with us at all.”

Dunbar thrashed about, muttering indistinctly.

“Poor devil’s delirious. From what we can make out he says he was attacked by some sort of creature. A kind of ape, he says, its face covered in scales.”

“Scales?”

“The doctors have given him a hefty dose of morphine. We can hardly blame him for getting a little fanciful.”

“Anything else?”

Keeps talking about his mother. Said he’d seen her.”

“His mother?” Moon gave the policeman a curious look.

“First person a chap calls for, I imagine, when he’s in a spot like this.”

Dunbar shouted again, the words more distinguishable this time. “God be with you.”

“What?” Moon seemed almost alarmed. “What was that?”

Shuddering, the man struggled to sit up. “God be with you,” he muttered. “God be with you.” He let out a feeble moan and fell back into bed, silent but still breathing, the cord which tethered him to life frayed and worn.

Merryweather sighed. “He’s too far gone. Sooner it’s over for him now the better.”

Mon turned and walked away. “I want to know when he dies.”

Merryweather protested. “You mustn’t take this personally.”

“There’s a pattern here. Why can’t I see it?”

Outside, the Somnambulist was still dozing in the coach. The driver shivered on top.

“Take us home.”

The man nodded.

“Inspector?”

“Mr. Moon?”

“I want to see Honeyman’s body.”

“I’m afraid the family had it cremated last week.”

“Cremated?”

“I’m sorry.”

Moon frowned. “I’ll be in contact again soon.”

“You realize we’ve got to stop this,” Merryweather insisted. “It has to end.”

Moon told the coachman to drive. “Give me time,” he called out. “Give me time.”

Philip Dunbar passed away an hour or so after Merryweather had wished him a speedy death, screaming out his agony to the last. Regrettably, Moon’s response was to throw himself back into the coils of degeneracy. Two days later, he returned to the house of Mrs. Puggsley.

Deliciously exhausted, he lay stretched out on a couch in the reception room, his modesty covered only by a woman’s filmy dressing gown. Mina, the girl with the beard and the vestigial limb, placed a lit cigarillo between his lips and shimmied demurely from the room. The procuress beamed and rubbed her hands together in delight. “I trust Mina proved satisfactory?”

“Admirable. She’s quite become my favorite.”

Sitting around the room were three other girls, former favorites all, and at Moon’s remark they affected distress, pulling mock-disgusted faces. One of them, a pinhead named Clara, crawled across to him and began to softly stroke his neck. Moon tossed her a few farthings and she gamboled happily away.

“Must be a slow night for so few of your girls to be working.”

“Oh it is, sir. It is. You’ve been our first john all evening. Point of fact, it’s been a rather slow week.”