A slight change in direction and genre, just introducing myself to some new characters and a new world.

1877, Thursday 4th October, 11.15pm

DSI Smythe crouched down by the body, its shroud stained by the blood seeping from beneath. He reached out to take the corner of the sheet between his thumb and forefinger and gently lifted it up, revealing the face down corpse. The back was mutilated beyond belief, reminding Smythe of a wild animal attack. The red tunic had offered little protection against what was obviously a frenzied attack, in places, Smythe could see the unfortunate man’s ribs and spine.

“What do we have here then?” he enquired of no-one in particular. Mulholland answered anyway. 

“A Tommy, though there is not a lot left of him. I can’t tell what regiment he is from, but Constable Perkins here,” he jabbed a finger at one of the constables holding a lantern, “reckons that he’s a Flyer. On account of his sit-upons.” 

“That’s good knowledge, Constable Perkins.” Harris offered, then explaining further for DSI Smythe who had turned to look enquiringly. “Light blue trousers, Sir. Only members of the Royal Flying Corps wear them. Dark blue piping, so I would hazard a guess at one of the Dirigible Squadrons based at Hounslow. Have you identified our man yet, Inspector?” He addressed Mulholland

“Constable Higgins had a rummage through his pockets, but he couldn’t find his card.”

“Any witnesses?”

“None, whatsoever. A young moll found him, she went to raise the alarm down at the King’s Head and run into Constable Howard here. Lucky for you, he managed to keep the locals from looking in.”

DSI Smythe stood up, tapping his cane against the side of his shoe, and holding the stained sheet to one side completely. With a look of disgust at how the man had died, he passed the sheet to one of the constables.

“Very well, Inspector. We’ll take it from here. Sargeant, if you could prepare my equipment.”

“Bloody Necros!” muttered Constable Perkins as he turned away. Harris rolled his eyes as he knew far to well what was coming next. Smyth turned to address him.

“Constable! You and I both know that that is not the case. The 1865 Sorcery and Occult Practices Act and the later 1871 Use of Magic in Judicial Enquiries Act, specifically excludes the use of necromancy in any form, for any purpose. It is both illegal and unethical. Once a person has passed away, it is only right that their soul rests in peace, and we, as members of Her Majesty’s Police Force, must toil to uncover the reasons for, methods and perpetrators of their demise. 

“Every member of the Division upon elevation to our ranks, swears an oath not to partake in such diabolical practices. So, please refrain from such petty and insolent remarks.” Perkins looked a little taken aback, his cheeks reddening as Smythe spoke to him. He didn’t shout, that was not his style. He just spoke calmly and with a heavy dose of authority. Harris had been on the receiving end of it a few times, and had felt that he had regressed to childhood, akin to an elderly aunt admonishing him for not washing behind his ears.

“Now, the world as we know it is changing. Just as we are exploring the skies with the use of airships and the like, as our carriages and modes of transport become more mechanized, Magic has become a part of detective work. As with all these changes, you may not like it, but you should accept it.

“Inspector! Thinking about it now, DS Harris and myself may need another pair of hands. I do believe Constable Perkins is volunteering to assist. Would that be acceptable to yourself?”

Mulholland looked crossly at his constable. There was enough petty rivalry in the force as it was, without the need to antagonize those bloody ‘necros’ anymore.

“Aye, but his shift finishes at 2am. We haven’t been able to collect overtime for several months due to the cuts, so be decent enough to bear that in mind.” He turned to go, but added with a look over his shoulder, “Yes, the world is changing, DSI Smythe, but I still don’t like it. Witchcraft and flying? It’s abhorrent.” With that, Mulholland withdrew, along with the remaining uniforms. 

“We’ll open with Elvish Sight.” Smythe offered, it seemed more to himself than his companions. He dug around in his bag and took out a small vial and a spectacle case. Flicking the case open, he took out a pair of half-moon spectacles, which he placed reverently upon the bridge of his nose, and hooked the temple pieces over his ears. He placed his hand through the strap on his cane, so it hung loose about his wrist.

“You suspect an occult perpetrator?” Harris enquired, more for Perkins benefit than his own. He had, afterall worked with Smythe for over a year now.

“Of course. Nothing on this earth could deal those wounds – and then have the temerity to leave him here discarded like mullock. A wild beast would have partly devoured him, not slashed and gashed like this.” Harris kept his eye on the constable as Smythe explained. The young man whitened at the words.

Smythe uncorked the small vial, and tipped some of the powdery contents into the palm of his free hand. Adeptly, he corked the vial and dropped it into his jacket pocket. Drawing in a deep breath, he blew the dust over and around the corpse. Intently, he watched as the myriads of specks floated in the air and settled slowly.

“Faerie dust,” Harris explained to the onlooking constable. “This particular powder will be attracted to anything not of this world, or dimension. The spectacles are made of elvish glass and will help DSI Smythe focus on the evidence.”

“Anything not of this world? What could be not of this world?” Perkins asked.

“You should be praying right now that you do not find out.”

Smythe seemed to pick a few pieces of evidence up with a pair of slim tweezers and deposited them into individual petri dishes. These he placed gently back into the bag and then slowly circled the body, the ivory handle of his cane held to his lips as he drifted in pensive thought.

 “Now for the Candles of Akatos, Robbie, if you please.” Taking a piece of chalk from his pocket, he quickly inscribed four small inscribed pentagrams about the body, one each at the head and feet, with one either side. He muttered under his breath as he did so, just loud enough for Perkins to hear, though the constable heard only unintelligible gibberish. When he had completed the final one, he turned to Harris, who had Smythe’s doctors bag open in front of him. From it, he had retrieved a silver tray and had placed four, short stubby candles upon it. Each candle was dark red, a deep carmine, in colour and was mounted upon a roughly hewn chunk of quartz-like rock the size of a man’s fist.

Harris carried the tray solemnly to Smythe, who took each candle and placed it in the centre of each pentagram. When they were all placed, he crouched down at the head of the body, placing finger and thumb on either side of the candle’s wick and muttered a single word incantation.The wick lit with a lambent white flame, but the light from the flame seemed to shine downwards through the candle into the rock below. He moved to the candle at the feet, and lit that, followed by the final two. The rocks woke with the impurities fused into them millennia ago reflecting light or casting shadows as appropriate to their material make-up. 

With the candles lit, DSI Smythe moved to stand next to Harris. He tapped his cane against his shoe before addressing Perkins.

“Constable Perkins, hold the lantern up, if you please, and keep it steady. I am ready to begin.” He raised the handle to his lips once more, then exclaimed one word, throwing his arms out wide.

“SOTH!” His voice rent the air and the flames of the candles danced high before extinguishing themselves. The rocks under each still glowed with the ambient light, and from each wick a thin tendril of smoke rose into the night air, all four drifting to form a figure that stood between the corpse and the entrance to the alleyway.