The Gravedigger & The Ghoul's Gold Part 2

Inspector Davren enters the scene of a most mysterious murder

Part 1 can be found HERE

Davren stared lovingly at the mattress calling his name before being snapped out of his reverie by the infernal pounding on his front door. With a huff, he turned on his heel and headed downstairs, yelling at the top of his lungs. “I hear you, I hear you. The damnable Devil hears you.”

He threw open the door in time to reveal a police officer, arm raised to knock once more. The bobbie removed his helmet and gave a small bow. “Begging your forgiveness for the lateness of my visit, sir.” He raised his head, eyes shining brightly below thick ginger eyebrows. “Inspector Davren, sir, we have a situation that requires your unique skills.”

Narrowing his eyes, Davren looked the man up and down, taking in every detail. The hair, perfectly styled despite sitting under a helmet, the bright shine of the buttons and badges on his uniform, the small glimpse of a handkerchief rimmed with a dark tartan sticking out of a pocket, and the shoes, far shinier than they should be for the filthy streets of London. He also recognized a brogue that the man so skillfully tried to cover. “What is your name, my good man?” Davren asked.

The policeman bowed again. “Constable Ra..Robert Marshall, sir.”

“With a nimble step to one side, Davren made space for the man to enter. “Please do come inside. I shall need to quickly dress before we make haste to the scene. You may fill me in on the details while I make myself presentable.”

Helmet now tucked under his arm, Marshall stepped inside and closed the door behind him. Most gracious, sir.”

Davren stepped into the living room, which was dimly lit by one lamp barely clinging to life. He slipped of his nightgown and began to quickly dress in the day’s clothes that lay strewn around the room, waiting for his housekeeper to return them to their proper place.

“Shall I…” Marshall mumbled, averting his gaze from the semi-nude inspector.

“Before you begin let’s dispense with the folly, shall we?”

“I’m not sure I…”

“My good man, you are not entirely who you present yourself to be. Hmm? You are Scottish, most likely from Glasgow, but the slight lilt in your brogue and your exemplary appearance suggests you were a military man. Black Watch in Edinburgh is my guess. You call yourself Robert, but you prefer Rab. You hide your accent for reasons I can only assume.”

“Very good, sir. My people are not quite as welcome on this side of the border,” Marshall said, allowing the brogue to loosen a little.

“You speak of the aristocracy, the toffs. Idiots, all of them.” Almost fully dressed now, Davren wheeled around and twirled the ends of his handlebar moustache. “One should never hide their true nature to appease others. Now tell me about the case.”

Clearing his throat, and without aid of notes of any kind, Marshall spoke quickly. “Two bodies in the Gilded Goose. One beaten to death by blunt trauma to the head. The other, well, the other is the issue, sir. It appears as though his chest exploded.”

Davren grinned, seemingly enchanted by the grotesque details. “Exploded, you say? How interesting. When did this happen?”

“Mere minutes ago, sir. I have a couple of good men barring entrance to the establishment.”

“Excellent, then let us tarry no longer. Lead the way.” Davren reached out and placed a hand on the policeman’s shoulder. “And please, call me Alexander.”

Marshall placed the helmet back on his head, all business. “My true nature commands order and respect, sir. A respected gent told me I should never hide my true nature.” A small smirk touched the corners of his mouth.

“Touche, Rab. Let’s make haste to the Gilded Goose.”

As Marshall spoke to the two officers guarding the door, Davren surveyed the bar, which was now empty save for the bodies. The sawdust on the floor had soaked up most of the blood from the barber, but chunks of grey matter circled the ruined head like rune stones.

Stepping over the body, Davren hopped nimbly onto the bar and peered over to the other side. The barkeep lay on his back, mouth wide open as though in mid-scream, his chest torn open wider than his fear-induced maw. Davren frowned, trying to make sense of the scene. It was then that he noticed something bright in the dead man’s hand.

Marshall stepped behind the bar and knelt beside the corpse. He fished out his handkerchief and used it to pluck the coin from the hand, which was also going stiff from rigor mortis. He dropped the coin on the bar, sigil side up.

“Interesting.” Davren said, leaning in closer to examine the coin. “Tell me, Rab. Why did you use your kerchief to lift the object? Hmm?”

The Scotsman stood straight, almost to attention, “Seems to me, sir, that the last two men to touch this coin are now stone-cold dead. I like being ground side up, sir.”

Davren clapped his hands together, the sound muffled by his leather gloves. “Excellent, my good man. Now, do you have any ideas as to the origin of this particular piece of gold?”

“None, sir.”

“Then allow me to bring you up to speed, if I may.” Davren hopped off the bar and lifted the coin. “The sigil shown on the front belongs to the Order of the Configured Lament.”

“The con-what, sir?”

“A rather grandiose name, I agree. The Order of the Configured Lament are practitioners of the dark art and mysterious magick. When one of their own reaches the heightened level of death, they are buried in unmarked graves with such coins.” Davren flipped the coin over and showed the markings on the other side. “This one is inscribed with 1987 and Cenobita Hellrpist. That would be the cunning devil’s name and the year of his proposed resurrection.”

“Are you suggesting he will return from the dead, sir?”

Davren looked toward the open door of the bar as screams and police whistles filled the air. “More than that, old chap. I am suggesting he has already done so.”