Chapter 1

My name is Claude Commins. I am a detective. However, I do not investigate cheating wives or corrupt politicians; I investigate things that go bump in the night.

How I began in paranormal investigations is a long tale. Something took my spouse from me. May was my whole world, and now they're gone. I've been chasing leads ever since.

It's a terrible racket, looking into the dark and creeping things. Most people would never admit they believe in ghosts and goblins, never mind consult a detective about it. And the police? They aren't interested in solving the stranger side. I know because I was one once. Now I work for myself, meaning most months, the bills go unpaid. This month being no exception.

-

I'm in my office, feet up on the desk, a book in hand, when a beautiful brunette in a pale blue dress and hat saunters in.

I stand, smile and motion her to one of the tatty chairs across from my desk. She takes a seat, crosses her legs and brings a cigarette out of her bag. She looks me over and strikes a match before I can hurry open my Zippo. I can't tell if she enjoys what she sees or is just sizing me up.

Feeling awkward, I sit down on the edge of the desk. "What can I do for you, ma'am?"

-

"Someone is trying to kill me," she says.

"Why would anyone want to do such a thing?"

"That's what I want you to find out."

I chuckle. "Of course. I don't believe we've been introduced yet."

"Marie ala Mode."

I clear my throat; It's suddenly hot in here. I resist the urge to put my finger in my collar and tug. "And why is it you believe someone is trying to kill you?"

She doesn't answer immediately. She shudders almost imperceptibly, though I pretend not to notice. I wait for her to answer.

-

Finally, she says, "I'm part of a burlesque show, Mr. Commins. I've just become the headline act."

I am curious at the way her face pinches as she admits this, but I respond with, "Call me Claude," and throw my left leg over the other, knowing she is about to elaborate.

She nods and takes a breath. "Okay, Claude. As I said, I'm now the top dancer—the reason we sell tickets. That's why someone is trying to kill me. Only, not by any ordinary means. You see, the other headliners have all died."

"How is that?"

Marie shrugs. "Different ways. Georgette was run over by a carriage, and Angelique fell out a sixth storey window."

"Forgive me, but they sound like a pair of unfortunate accidents," I tell her.

"That's just what the boys at the station said." She stands and paces the floor. "But you don't know all the details. Georgette was paranoid about crossing traffic. It was practically a phobia of hers. She had a brother, see. He was trampled and killed when Georgette was only ten. It stuck with her."

"That sort of thing always does."

"There's no way Georgette would have walked into traffic without looking first."

"Did either of them take drugs? Or drink, perhaps?"

She shoots me an exasperated look. "Just because we're dancers doesn't mean we're all boozers, Mr Commins."

"I was only asking the question. Which you have yet to answer."

"Georgette liked to hit the bottle, but she wasn't drinking that night. I know that for a fact; I was with her but fifteen minutes before she died. George hadn't touched a drop. And Angelique, she was straight-laced. A good lass. She fell out a hotel window that doesn't open. Just fell right out. Even the police couldn't explain it."

-

I lay my right arm under the other elbow and stroke my moustache. "Now that is suspicious. Did the police look further into this?"

She snorts. "In a city like Roford? A couple of dancers show up dead, no one cares. The police put it down as accidents."

"They aren't particularly open-minded about this sort of thing," I agree. "What do Georgette and Angelique's deaths have to do with you? What makes you believe that you are next?"

"Bothe were headliners," she says. "Both had my part before they died. Someone or something killed them, Claude, I just know it. Won't you help me?"

"I am always willing to help a lady in need."

"thank you, Claude. I wasn't sure who to turn to."

I shrug. "It's what I do. Of course, there is a small fee."

"Oh?"

I motion to a corkboard with a range of prices for my services.

Her brows go up, but she nods her head and hands me a coin.

-

I nod my head in gratitude as I take it and turn to the real business. I say, "So did Georgette and Angelique have any enemies? Jealous ex-lovers? Money problems?

Marie only shakes her head.

"What about you? Have you any enemies?"

"No, but there is this one bloke..."

I gesture for her to continue. "Go on."

"He's a regular at the club, comes in every Friday night. Kind of a quiet man. He asked Georgette for a date a couple of times."

"Did she accept?"

"Of course not," Marie almost laughs. "He's a real creep."

"In what way?"

"He never looks you in the eye, but he's always looking. Kinda like he's undressing you with his eyes."

"It's a burlesque show," I chuckle. "I wouldn't imagine there would be much to undress."

Marie narrows her eyes at me.

I clear my throat. "Do continue."

"He's young and pale with dark eyes. He has a tattoo on his hand with one of them demon stars."

"A pentagram?"

"Yeah, that's it."

-

Now we are getting somewhere. This young man could be an occultist of some description, worshipping a forgotten evil god. The girls may be blood sacrifices, though most of those old evils prefer virgin blood. He may be worth looking into. I ask, "You wouldn't happen to know where this man lives?"

"No, but he'll be at the club at eight o'clock."

"Wonderful. That will give me a chance to see the rest of the clientele.

"Thanks for taking my case, Claude. I'll see you tonight?"

"I'll be there, darling."

-

Marie closes the door behind her, and I jump over the desk back into my chair. I lean back and stack my feet back on the desk. There is a better than average chance it is all mere coincidence, but I would not say I like the sound of this young man with a pentagram on his hand. Either way, I will find out come eight o'clock.

I open the novel I'd been reading before Marie came in and try to find where I left off. Before I have the chance to do so, the cuckoo clock on the wall chimes. A little door at the top opens, and the wooden bird pops out to tweet.

This is no ordinary cuckoo clock. In fact, I was told it was extraordinary when I acquired it from the mysterious merchant a few years prior. I thought I had been swindled, but I have come to realise that this clock has a sort of premonitory power over time. In summary, it's a warning system. The chime means there is some unfriendly visitor on their way. I hurry to the window to look down at the street and spot my landlady hobble up the building's front steps. I am two months behind on the rent.

-

Wasting no time, I take my coat from the rack near the door and retrieve my revolver from the desk drawer before unlatching the window. A cool breeze floods the office and riffles case notes on the desk. Mrs. Marsden raps on the frosted glass window pane set in the office door.

"Mr. Commins?" The door muffles her shaky voice. "You are two months late with the rent. Again."

I dive out the window onto the fire escape and carefully close the window whilst mouthing my apologies before climbing down the rusting ladder to the alley. I drop the last few feet to the asphalt and scare away a cat that had been nosing through the rubbish. The tabby goes streaking down the alley. I take after the cat and make a run for it.