The House of Smoke (aka. The House Of Moriarty) by Sam Christer

Author:Sam Christer [Christer, Sam]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Crime, Thrillers, Suspense, Mystery & Detective
ISBN: 9781405521604
Google: Q54aCgAAQBAJ
Amazon: B010RALV14
Publisher: Sphere
Published: 2015-11-18T11:00:00+00:00

Derbyshire, April 1886

The three days that followed Michael’s death were lost in sombre preparations for what the professor vowed would be ‘a funeral fit to grace the Père Lachaise cemetery in Paris’. I had to wait until the morning of the fourth day to understand what he meant.

Thackeray arrived with the hearse and six black horses, followed by two velvet-lined mourning coaches drawn by four immaculately groomed animals. The sun glinted off the polished wood and brass of the carriages and enriched the myriad colours shimmering in the ostrich feathers that had been fixed high and proud.

The coffin itself was of solid oak and bore gleaming brass handles and a plate with the inscription ‘Never Beaten by Mortal Man’. Six pall-bearers shouldered the box from house to hearse, accompanied by two black-gowned mutes, twenty pages and six feathermen.

The chief funeral attendant signalled to the coachmen and with a collective groan from the idling horses the grand procession began.

No one spoke. The clop of hooves on cobbles was all that could be heard as I walked at the front, along with the professor, Sirius, Surrey and Lady Elizabeth. Three of Michael’s cousins, each as broad and burly as him, had journeyed from Dublin and Cork, and with them were two young nieces, not yet ten years old. Both of the girls constantly shivered from the cold, a lack of sleep and what I imagine was a fear engendered by the horrors of the day.

The route was hilly and circular, passing through the small village of stone cottages where most inhabitants had the common sense to turn out and pay their respects. After about a mile, the procession returned to the southern gates of the Moriarty estate, where the private chapel and graveyard lay.

The startling white headstones and tombs contrasted with the black crepe and silk of the mourners with their long dresses, coats and tall hats, and set against the endless rolling green of the Derbyshire countryside made for a memorable and moving sight.

Once the casket had been lowered on ropes into the freshly dug grave, we all threw earth onto it and said our private goodbyes. As I dropped my handful of soil, I heard Michael’s voice pleading with me to help him die and I struggled to block out the images of him fighting for breath beneath the clasp of my murderous hands.

I walked away, wondering how many people knew I had killed him. How many of them condemned me, or praised me for it.

Back at the house, there was a plentiful supply of ale and cider. A lavish banquet that included ham, pork, beef, pies, cakes and cheeses was laid out in the ballroom, where Christmas functions and summer dances were held.

I ate and drank like this might have been my last night alive, and I was not alone in doing so. The house was filled with those who had known the old wrestler but had been parted over the years.

Among them I found Sebastian the Jew, who had given me shelter back in Manchester.

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