The Parliament of Blood by Justin Richards Page A

carefully put down the fragment of glass and turned to look directly at Eddie. ‘Oh, Eddie,’ he said. ‘I am afraid that death is a part of life. Especially for the young and the vulnerable. Fever, poverty, violence, bad luck. Whatever the cause, it is sad, but it happens.’ He reached out and put his hand on Eddie’s shoulder. ‘And I am sorry for your loss, I truly am.’
    Eddie shook off Sir William’s grip. ‘Weren’t fever or plague or nothing,’ he protested. He hadn’t realised it until now, but: ‘It was my fault. I asked him to find that carriage and he did. And then he turns up down by the river, with the blood drained out of him like all the others.’
    Sir William was shaking his head sadly. But as Eddie finished speaking, the old man was suddenly still and alert. ‘What did you say?’ he demanded.
    â€˜I said it’s my fault.’
    â€˜No, no, no. Drained of blood? Like all the others?’
    â€˜That’s what I said. But you’re not interested, not in Charlie. He’s just another poor kid who died of bad luck to you, isn’t he?’
    Sir William was staring intently at Eddie. ‘This may be very important,’ he said seriously. ‘Tell me everything you know, right from the beginning.’

    Bodies mysteriously drained of blood were exactly the sort of thing that Sir William Protheroe thought his department should be investigating. But the hearsay and gossip passed on by young Eddie was hardly reliable evidence and probably stemmed from unsubstantiated rumour.
    Nonetheless, Sir William wrote a short note to the duty sergeant at Scotland Yard and asked Eddie to deliver it. Eddie was less than impressed, until swayed by the promise of a ha’penny.
    Sir William expected to hear nothing for several days, perhaps even a week, and then a reply probably by third-class post denying any knowledge of such things. So when the Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police himself turned up that same evening to tell Sir William that there was absolutely no truth whatsoever in these stories, he suddenly became much more interested.
    â€˜So, forgive me Sir Harrison, but you came all the way here – on a Sunday no less – to tell me in person that these rumours are not worth my time?’
    Sir Harrison Judd’s eyes narrowed. ‘There have been some unexplained deaths recently,’ he admitted. ‘But no more than usual.’
    â€˜And some of these poor unfortunates have been drained of blood?’
    â€˜One always expects some blood loss when there is murder involved.’
    â€˜Not with poisoning,’ Sir William pointed out. ‘But the murders were committed with a blade then?’
    â€˜That is yet to be determined.’
    â€˜And how many not-at-all unusual murders involving the loss of blood are we discussing, Sir Harrison?’
    â€˜
I
am not discussing any,’ the Commissioner said sharply. ‘If and when we need the help of your rather unorthodox methods, Sir William, we will ask for it.’
    Sir William smiled. ‘And I shall of course be delighted to oblige. Just as soon as that time comes.’ He stood up and reached across his desk to shake Sir Harrison’s hand. ‘I appreciate you taking the time to come all this way not to ask for my help.’
    â€˜Yes, well, that wasn’t the only reason,’ Sir Harrison admitted.
    â€˜Oh?’
    â€˜I also came to see a member of your staff. Mr George Archer.’
    This was a surprise. ‘Really? And may I ask why?’
    â€˜I would like him to identify a body. Someone he knows, or rather knew, quite well I understand.’

    George visibly paled when asked to attend the mortuary. Sir Harrison would say no more, and Sir William told George to take as long as he needed – certainly he did not expect George to return to the Museum today.
    â€˜I shall look after Mr Blake and make sure he gets back to