Blood Bath (Seven Free Jack Nightingale Short Stories)

  Nightingale couldn’t stop himself from laughing. ‘Oh for goodness sake. Maybe werewolves, yes...but be serious...a wereduck? It’s like something out of Wallace and Grommit.’

  ‘Don’t confuse form with power, Mr Nightingale. I believe you once watched Proserpine blast a man’s soul to Hell...what form did she take?’

  Nightingale stopped laughing very quickly. That particular memory wasn’t funny at all. ‘A teenage girl with a collie dog. Yes, I see what you mean.’

  ‘And Lucifuge Rofocale?’ This time Nightingale shuddered. That night he’d come desperately close to losing his own soul and his sister’s.

  ‘A dwarf, a dwarf with a black beard. OK, I take the point. I’m sorry.’

  ‘No need for an apology, but remember that evil may take many forms. Often the most innocent and harmless.’

  ‘So how might I find this witch...or Adept...or whatever she is?’

  ‘I would no doubt be wasting my time if I cautioned you strongly against it? You are once again dealing with forces far stronger than you, and which you cannot understand. Advise your clients to pull down that house, and go back to Australia. It will be better for them.’

  ‘I doubt that they would. I need to lift this curse from them. Will you help me?’

  This time the sigh was longer and deeper. ‘You’re an obstinate man Mr Nightingale, sooner or later I fear your extraordinary luck will run out...but I’ll help you. I have what you need here.’

  * * *

  The MGB was in full working order, at least for a day or two, so Nightingale drove himself down to Sussex. The Graingers had gone up to London for a couple of days to see the sights, at his advice, so were safely in a hotel. He had a key to Duck Lodge and a box containing all the things that he’d bought from Mrs Steadman. Her warnings had once again fallen on deaf ears, especially since Nightingale knew he was facing a witch, rather than the Demons he’d dealt with on previous occasions. His soul would be in no danger. He felt almost confident.

  He smoked a final cigarette outside the house, then let himself in. He headed straight for the bathroom on the second floor. It was a relief not to have to go through the ritual of scrubbing himself clean and drawing the bloody pentagram on the floor, but his preparations still needed to be precise in order to minimise the danger.

  He took out eight candles from his box, placed one in each corner of the room and one in the middle of each wall. That meant one behind the bath, which was a little fiddly but he managed it. Next he took eight small brass dishes and placed one in front of each candle. There was a bag of earth in the box, and he used it to fill each dish in turn. Finally he lit the candles. Everything was prepared. Nightingale took a deep breath and began the ritual he’d been shown. He took out his lighter and the feather, then lit the end of it. He pronounced nine Latin words, exactly as Mrs Steadman had taught them to him, and let the feather burn down until it scorched his fingers. Rather than yelp in pain, he shouted ‘I summon thee’ three times at the top of his voice.

  Nothing happened. Nightingale cursed himself for a gullible fool. What in God’s name was he doing giving credence to this mumbo-jumbo anyway? Then he heard it. A fluttering of feathers, and suddenly a shape appeared in the middle of the room. A brown duck. Despite what Mrs Steadman had stressed to him, he had to fight back the urge to laugh, as the creature waddled clumsily about the room. Who could be scared of a duck?

  He remembered the next step. ‘What is your name?’ The duck quacked. ‘What is your name?’ The duck grew, shimmered and was gone. In its place stood the most striking woman Nightingale could ever have imagined. She was as tall as him, with pale, almost translucent skin, and a glorious mane of red hair hanging down her shoulders and back,

  Nightingale gasped. He noticed, almost in passing, that she was completely naked. His mouth was horribly dry, and he could barely croak the third question. ‘What is your name?’

  ‘My name is Anas Kannard, Jack Nightingale. Could I trouble you for a cigarette?’

  Despite himself, Nightingale reached for his pocket, but he stopped in time. ‘Not just at the moment. I have summoned you, and I have questions for you.’

  The woman looked around at Nightingale’s preparations. She beamed a smile at him. ‘Hmmmm. Blessed church candles and soil from consecrated ground. Earth and fire, and since my element is water, you figure it’ll keep me prisoner. All a bit Harry Potter, isn’t it Nightingale?’

  Nightingale recognised a touch of Irish in her soft voice. ‘I was told you’d try to distract me, but I have questions for you. You must answer.’

  ‘Must I now? Well, we’ll see about that. Anyway, I’m here now, so ask away.’

  ‘What do you want from the Graingers?’

  This time she laughed. ‘Oh dear me, Nightingale...you really are out of your depth here. Do you not know? Well, I want nothing from her, and, as it happens, there’s nothing I want from him anymore.’ She patted her stomach and gave another smile.

  ‘So why not leave them in peace?’

  ‘Oh I shall be leaving soon enough, don’t you worry about that. It was just a little family duty that brought me back here for a while.’

  ‘So, you’re a descendant of Nessa?’

  ‘Well, I can see how you manage to make a living as a detective, Nightingale. Nothing gets past you. A lot of greats would need to go before granddaughter, but descendant will do. And it’s not just her looks that I’ve inherited.’

  ‘I noticed, And it seems you can carry a grudge too.’ She smiled. It didn’t bring Nightingale any cheer at all.

  ‘Well, a curse is a curse, you know. One can’t just let these things slide. They’d have hanged Nessa, given the chance. Still, that was all a long time ago. Now, was there anything else? It’s a little chilly here, and I’m not dressed for an evening out.’

  ‘Yes, I want you to swear to leave this house and leave Richard Grainger alone.’

  ‘Now why on earth would I be doing that? I’ve told you, I’ve family duties to perform. It’s something of an obligation.’

  ‘I’ve got something to offer you in exchange.’

  She laughed, but this time there seemed very little humour in it. ‘Really? You wouldn’t even give me a cigarette five minutes ago. And now you’re offering me a bribe? Am I meant to be tempted by your body? I don’t think so.’

  Nightingale pulled the book out of his pocket and held it up. ‘You know, I’m really not that much of a reader, Nightingale.’

  ‘You might be interested in this, it’s the diary of John Stearne.’

  The name struck home. She stiffened and the smile was gone. ‘That murdering bastard. Why would I be interested in what he had to say?’

  ‘Well, it’s not so much what he has to say, though he does write about Nessa. It’s more what he used as a bookmark.’

  Nightingale held up something red. ‘What might that be?’

  ‘He seemed much taken with Nessa’s hair. I’m betting that this is a lock of it, which he cut off and kept. And Mrs Steadman tells me that a lock of a witch’s hair, unwillingly taken, can be a very powerful charm, especially when used by a descendant.’

  The smile was back, briefly, before Annas dissolved into peals of laughter. This time she seemed genuinely amused. ‘Is that it? By the Dark Waters, is that all you’ve got? Oh dear me, Nightingale, how have you stayed alive this long? Honest, you’re like a babe-in-arms amongst giants.’ Nightingale was beginning to feel that she might be right. This wasn’t going as well as he’d hoped. ‘You’re dealing with power beyond your comprehension and you’re offering me knick-knacks? Sure, I’m beginning to like you, fool that you are. Great-great-granny Nessa’s hair might be quite an interesting thing to put in a locket, but it’s hardly a bargaining tool, or the key to world domination. Still, for all that, you make me laugh, so I’ll do a deal with you. Hand it over, and I’ll promise to leave within a week.’

  Nightingale’s head was starting to swim and her soft voice seemed to be comin
g from further away now. He blinked and shook his head, trying to break the spell. He was sure he was forgetting something, overlooking a question he should be asking. ‘And what about Richard Grainger? You have to promise not to harm him.’

  ‘I never was going to harm the poor soul.’

  ‘What about flaying the skin off him?’

  ‘Pah, that was just me being a little over-enthusiastic. Alright, here you go. I promise to leave within a week, not to come to him anymore, and not to harm him in any way. Good enough for you, Mr Negotiator?’

  ‘How do I know you’ll keep your word?’

  ‘Well now, you’ll not be expecting me to swear on a Bible, I assume. My word’s good, Nightingale.’

  Nightingale still had the feeling that he was overlooking something; it was all a little too easy. Her voice seemed to be making him sleepy again, but again he fought it, took another deep breath and handed over the lock of hair. Her face hardened.

  ‘You know, Nightingale, you need to be very careful not to let your ego get the better of you. You’ve been lucky so far, but you’re dealing with powers you have no understanding of, and very soon you’re likely to end up dead, or much worse. An awful lot of people who come near you have already ended up dead. If you take my advice, you’ll stick to divorce work from now on.’

  ‘I’ll consider it. Ok, you can go. I’m told I need to make a breach in the wall of earth and fire for you to leave.’

  Her eyes flashed fury at him. ‘I can go? I can go now can I? As if you and your joke-shop conjuring tricks could keep a Magus of the left hand path here against her will? You need a lesson in manners Nightingale.’ Every candle in the room blew out at once, there was a flash of lightning which singed Nightingale’s eyes and all the air was sucked from his lungs. His chest hurt. A lot. Every breath was torture, but not to breathe was impossible. He took small shallow breaths through his nose, and after a while his chest seemed to ease. He opened his eyes. It was daylight. He was lying in the bath, naked. He looked down at his chest. It was covered in blood.

  With a huge effort he sat up, and nearly vomited with the pain. He reached for a tap and managed to turn it on, running cold water over his feet and then the rest of him. There was a towel draped over the side of the bath and very gingerly he wiped the blood from his chest. The same scratches he’d seen on Richard Grainger’s chest, though probably not the result of over enthusiasm this time. Three sets. Two slanting, one horizontal, to make a giant A from throat to waist. They were going to take a long time to heal. ‘That definitely could have gone better.’ It was the devil of a job to get himself dressed and drive back up to Bayswater. Every movement sent flames of agony through his chest and once or twice he nearly passed out. A less obstinate man might have called an ambulance, but then Nightingale was never renowned for taking the prudent option. He collapsed on the sofa and tried not to move.

  Later he made a call to the Graingers at their hotel in London. ‘Mrs Grainger? It’s me. I’ve dealt with the problem, you have my word for it that there’ll be no more nocturnal visits to your husband.’

  ‘Thank God, what on earth was it all about.’

  ‘You know, I don’t think you’d believe me if I told you. Just enjoy your new home from now on. I’ll be in touch.’

  He took Monday off but was back in the office on Tuesday, when Sarah Grainger called. ‘Just to say thank you once again, Mr Nightingale. The whole house seems to have a different feel to it now, so much calmer. Richard still seems shaken up by it all, a little vague, but I think he’s starting to get better as the scars heal. He’s even talking about using the bathroom again. You’ll send us an invoice, of course. Oh, and the duck pond’s getting more use, that duck’s had her babies. Seven little ones I counted this morning.’

  ‘So that was what she was after,’ mused Nightingale.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Nothing Mrs Grainger,’ he said quickly. ‘Glad I could help.’ Nightingale lit a cigarette and gazed out of the office window. He shook his head. ‘So much for The Case Of The Demonic Duck.’ Jack owed Jenny dinner and he was a man who always paid his debts, especially to women who reminded him about them for three solid days, so he splashed some of the cash he expected to receive from the Graingers on a fairly pricey Thai that Thursday night.

  Naturally Jenny had to drive, since he wasn’t any too good at staying off the beer when he ate out. It had to be Thai beer since the restaurant didn’t do Corona, but Nightingale liked to think he was flexible in dietary matters. Just so long as the world didn’t run out of Marlboro. The food was great, the company was better and it was just after midnight when she dropped him outside the Bayswater flat. ‘Tell you what, Jenny, we’ve had a pretty good week and there’s not much on. Why don’t we take tomorrow off. Go home for the weekend or something.’

  Jenny grinned. ‘Well I don’t care what they say about you, you’re my favourite employer. See you Monday, Jack. Take care.’

  Nightingale staggered upstairs, got his key in the lock at the second attempt and made for the sofa, by way of the fridge. A final beer and a cigarette seemed the ideal way to end the day, and he could look forward to a lie-in the following day. Or, as it turned out, not. The phone was ringing in his dream, except he soon began to realise he wasn’t dreaming. He was still on the sofa, so staggered over to pick it up. The mantelpiece clock said nine-fifteen. ‘Jack?’

  ‘Robbie? What do you want at this time of night?’

  ‘Jack listen. I need to know what the hell you did with the Graingers?’

  ‘Me, nothing. Why? What’s happened to them?’

  ‘Not them, Jack. Her. Sarah Grainger. She’s dead, I’ve just been told about it.’

  ‘Dead? How, when?’

  ‘I dunno, I’ve just heard about it. But I need to know what happened.’

  Robbie was a good friend, but there were things that Nightingale didn’t tell even those closest to him. ‘Nothing. He had some sort of bad dream, I went down to look into it, but there seemed to be nothing in it. What state’s he in?’

  ‘I dunno at the moment, I’m trying to get more details, but it’s not my case and I don’t want Chalmers hearing your name. It has a tendency to upset him.’

  ‘Robbie, look, as soon as you find out anything, could you let me know?’

  ‘I’ll try Jack, though chances are you’ll find out more from the Press. This one looks nasty.’

  Nightingale gave brief consideration to driving down to Sussex, but abandoned the idea pretty quickly. For a start he still felt pissed, and then there would be no chance of the Sussex Police letting him take a look around. Instead he took a cab to the office, not that he had any idea what he was likely to achieve there either. As the day passed, he pieced together details of the death, some from radio and TV, others via Robbie’s hasty phone calls. It was the cleaners who’d discovered the body...but then it always was, unless there were dog walkers or joggers which seemed unlikely in a second-floor bathroom. Sarah Elizabeth Grainger was discovered at around eight o’clock lying in a vintage bath, which was full to the brim with a mixture of water and her own blood. It appeared that she’d been stabbed multiple times, though death probably occurred due to the torn veins in her wrists causing her to bleed out.

  The police were very anxious to interview Richard Gordon Grainger, husband of the deceased, who was missing. The public were warned not to approach him as he was considered dangerous. It was beginning to make some sense to Nightingale. So much so that on the Sunday he paid a visit to one of his less reputable acquaintances, a Mr Perry Smith. As usual, it took a while to get past Perry’s security, but the man himself didn’t seem displeased to see him. He tore himself away from his video game for long enough to listen to Nightingale’s request.

  ‘What you need that for man? Better a sawn-off.’

  Nightingale demurred. ‘I’m planning on a little hunting.’

  ‘OK man, whatever, I owe you one for that nonce. T-Bone, equip the man.’ Perry returned
to manipulating his video-game controller with one hand and his escort’s spectacular right breast with the other. Impressive independent co-ordination skills in Nightingale’s opinion.

  Inside five minutes, Nightingale left Perry’s place of business with a long package, which he placed in the boot of the MGB.

  He left it until Tuesday to drive down to Duck Lodge. If anyone had asked him, he would have been obliged to confess that it did seem a little foolhardy to show up at a murder scene with a shotgun, but nobody asked. Nightingale rarely gave a great deal of thought to his decisions, they just seemed to take over as if he was running on rails.

  It appeared that the police had seen all they needed at Duck Lodge, since the place was deserted. The gates were wide open, but there was nobody around, which was hardly surprising at six fifteen in the morning. Nightingale took the long bag out of the boot and walked up the drive. He looked out over the duck pond which seemed devoid of life. No great surprise, it seemed Annas was a woman of her word. If only he’d listened to those words more carefully.

  ‘What you doing here?’

  The sudden interruption to his thoughts made Nightingale drop his bag. Behind him stood an old man who seemed a stranger to both barber and tailor. A name sprang into his memory. ‘George?’

  ‘Mr. Cartwright to you. And who might you be?’

  ‘Nightingale, Jack Nightingale. I knew the Graingers a little. Thought I’d come down and pay some respects.’

  ‘Hah! Not many people bring a shotgun to pay respects with. Thought you might shoot some duck, I’ll bet. Somebody should have.’

  ‘The thought occurred to me. But there don’t seem to be any about.’

  ‘No, nor there won’t be for a long time. I saw them go on Friday morning.’

  ‘Friday?’

  ‘Yes, about this time. I always gets an early start. I saw them all fly off. Nine of them.’

  ‘Nine?’

  ‘Yes, the mother, seven chicks and the male. Funny it was, I’d never seen the male before that morning.’

  Andrew Peters discovered Stephen Leather’s thrillers in the early ‘90s and has been enjoying them ever since, particularly the ones set in the Far East and the newer Jack Nightingale series. This Blood Bath story was written early last year, the day after Stephen posted his cover art, and in response to some daft comments on Facebook from one or two unimportant people of the Northern persuasion. It was great fun to write, but he never expected it to see the light of day until 70 years after Stephen’s death. He also wrote 10 books and 3 Kindle novellas of his own in 2012-2013, none of which plagiarise more famous writers (well, not so blatantly). Find out more at https://www.facebook.com/Andrewpetersstories