Chapter One

 

Death in the Fog

 

There are nights a man carries with him forever, though he may spend the rest of his days wishing memory were less faithful. For me, it begins not with the girl’s face, nor the blood upon the stones, nor even with Dr Percival Thorn’s quiet certainty that she had not died where she lay. It begins with the fog.

Those who have never met a true sea fog imagine it a harmless country mist. Southampton breeds another creature entirely. It rolls in from the water like an occupying force, swallowing streets, muting lamps, and turning familiar roads into treacherous guesses. Even sound seems reluctant to travel, as though the fog has claimed that too. On such nights, a man sees only what the fog permits. The rest belongs to imagination. Or fear.

It was the ninth day of November 1888, when my ordinary life came quietly to an end.

I had been preparing to retire for the evening when the knock came.

My lodgings overlooked a narrow lane not far from Above Bar Street. They were modest but comfortable enough for a journalist whose income seldom matched his ambitions. A small fire burned in the grate, and I had been attempting to finish an article concerning a dispute between two local shipping companies. It was honest work, though not especially exciting, and I confess my thoughts had wandered towards a late supper and an earlier bed than was my habit.

The knock came again. Sharp and urgent. Not the knock of a neighbour.

I crossed the room and opened the door.

A boy of perhaps fourteen stood upon the step, his cap pulled low against the damp. He looked cold, impatient, and determined to be elsewhere.

“Mr Finch?”

“I am.”

He held out a folded note.

“For you, sir.”

“Who sent it?”

“The doctor.”