A Stranger from the Storm Read online

  A Stranger from the Storm

  By William Burton McCormick

  Smashwords Edition

  Copyright 2021 William Burton McCormick

  Published by Mannison Press, LLC at Smashwords

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.

  In Memorium

  Adrienne McCormick

  and

  Shawn McCormick

  Contents

  1. – Whistles in the Night

  2. – Murder and Mr. Humble

  3. – A Sporting Man

  4. – Snapping Twigs

  5. – The Watcher in Darkness

  6. – Humble's Errand

  7. – The Hand in Hand

  8. – Jinxsy

  9. – The Draughty Courtyard

  10. – A Hunt in the Fog

  11. – Payback

  12. – The Trouble with Henry

  13. – Get Out and Stay Out

  14. – The Labyrinth

  15. – The Lair

  16. – Deaths in the Underearth

  17. – The Cycle Renews

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Connect

  Odessa

  "City of traditions, legends and memories,

  City of spirits, ghosts and visions,

  City of mines, catacombs and caves…"

  José de Ribas (1749–1800)

  Spanish adventurer, Russian admiral, and founder of modern Odessa

  1. Whistles in the Night

  Odessa, 9 July 1900

  "Tasia, do you hear whistling?"

  "No."

  Fifteen-year-old Tasia looked up from her reading; her sister, Eleni, stood across the room peering through the opened front door into the darkened street beyond.

  "Someone is whistling outside."

  "It's the wind. Close the door, you're letting in rain."

  Eleni ignored her. As usual. Why even speak?

  Instead, Tasia returned her attention to the printed journal in hand. On the front of the English Club's newsletter was the review of their lodging house:

  All well and good. But on the back of the same page was the tempting coupon for a drafting and drawing correspondence course from London. Tasia angled the scissors carefully. No matter how much Mother wanted to save the article, a twenty percent discount was a twenty percent discount.

  Tasia licked her lips. If she could just trim enough to cut out the coupon, Mother would be none the wiser. A bit of margin missing, some trailing punctuation lost… There.

  Tasia put down the scissors, flipped back to the front.

  Hmm…

  Sounds like Welsh.

  "Tasia, come here!" her sister shouted.

  With a few mutterings, Tasia rose from her chair and joined Eleni at the door. Though slightly younger, her sister was taller and blessed with a more womanly shape (a point of great and undeserved pride in Eleni, Tasia thought). Well, appearances aside, Tasia was the elder sibling and she squeezed in front of her sister at the threshold.

  "What is it?"

  "I told you someone was whistling."

  "At this hour?" Tasia squinted into the darkness. The passing storm had blown out the gas lamps and cleared the streets of traffic; now all was still save a light rain rippling through the puddles. In the haze, Tasia could see the glazed silhouette of a man walking to and fro along the opposite side of the street, a tuneless whistle carrying with him.

  The deep soundings of the distant cathedral clock told Tasia it was midnight on the hour.

  "What's he doing?" asked Eleni.

  Tasia watched the figure a moment. The man would take a few steps one way, then turn about and go the other, all the time staring intensely at the building facade above him.

  "He's looking for a street number."

  "He must be a desperate fool to be out in this weather, Tasia."

  "So's Mother."

  "My point exactly."

  Lightning branched through the Black Sea sky, dark clouds glowing like oven coals above. The rumbling came a moment later, the man's whistle drowned out by deep sea thunder.

  His attention turned their way. Tasia pulled the door closer.

  Something in his posture told her that he'd seen them; the man quickly crossed the street, a lurch in his step as he trampled through the flooded gutter.

  "I'll bet you a week of chores he's a foreigner," whispered Eleni. "He doesn't walk right."

  "A limp's not national."

  "You'll see."

  Tasia hushed her sister, felt her stomach knotting in apprehension. Strangers calling so late made her nervous, especially with Mother absent. Especially with that fiend prowling the Slavic Quarter. She gritted her teeth. Still, they could use the money.

  As he passed in range of the house lamps, their visitor came slowly into focus. A tall fellow dressed in a dark overcoat, he had a roundish face with thick white curls sprouting beneath a pleated cap, the tangled hairs trailing down his cheeks into bushy sideburns. There was something reflective in those cheeks that caught the light, casting a faint halo about his face as he approached.

  The man slowed at the doorstep, seemingly slightly befuddled. "Do you speak English?"

  "We both do," Tasia said, ignoring the victorious nudge from Eleni.

  "Excellent." He nodded towards the sign in the window. "I see you have a room to let. May I?"

  "Of course." Tasia ushered the man inside, pushing her sister back to give their visitor room. He was thoroughly drenched and carried an odor of summer sweat with him. As he hurried up the steps, Tasia could see his limp was more pronounced than she'd thought.

  "Are you injured?"

  "I turned my ankle on these mud troughs you call streets." He grimaced. "I'll elevate it tonight to keep the blood from it."

  Such a thick, throaty voice, she thought. English or Scottish perhaps? Certainly not Welsh…it was so hard to know their accents.

  Inside their parlor, Tasia lit the oil lamps to take a better look at their guest. He seemed about fifty, more than a little worn, with the thick hands of a working man. But as he turned towards her, Tasia felt her eyes widen in horror. From each corner of his mouth stretched a wide scar reaching nearly to his ears, a ridge of pink-white skin cutting through his sideburns in the hideous facsimile of a smile. Tasia was at a loss for words.

  But her sister wasn't: "That seems painful."

  "Eleni!"

  She shrugged. "Well, it does look painful."

  Their guest was not amused. "It was excruciating, young lady. And if I'd opened my mouth to scream my face would have split apart." He shook the rainwater from his cap. "Fortunately, I'm not a man who screams."

  He kept an eye on Eleni. "Are you a woman who screams?"

  "No."

  "Good. Some do." He hung his cap on the hat peg. "Now, who should I speak with about a room?"

  Tasia stepped forward, still unnerved. "You can talk to me. I'm the eldest."

  "Ah, but you look about the same."

  "I'm a day older."

  "A day?"

  "Yes." Tasia brushed the creases from her skirt. To business…"We can't actually—formally—give you the room until Mother returns. Her rules, you know. But you can wait in here until she arrives. It won't be long."

  "At this hour, I should hope not." He wandered tow
ards the rear of their parlor, taking in the warmth of the little room. "Are there any other lodgers?"

  Out of the corner of her eye, Tasia saw Eleni earnestly mouthing "Yes, yes. Say 'yes'" behind him.

  "No," she said, enjoying Eleni's reaction. "At present you have the full choice of rooms."

  He snorted. "Well, let's have a look then." Without hesitation, he opened the door to the room beneath the stairs and disappeared inside.

  "Be our guest," snapped Eleni, exchanging surprised glances with Tasia.

  Tasia trailed the man to the doorway, unsure she wanted to follow further. The bedroom beyond was the largest in their house, which meant it was the smallest in most homes: A floor of uneven boards without a rug, a thin bed smothered beneath a Tartan quilt in the corner and nearby, a dwarf-sized door to the only private bath they had. And in the center of the far wall was a grand storm window complete with cushioned sitting step and flowered oriental curtains, the house lamps shimmering through the pane to cast fairy sparks off the wet stones of the courtyard beyond. Tasia caught her reflection in the glass. She looked nervous and young.

  "This will be perfect," he said with clear satisfaction.

  Locking her arm around Eleni's, Tasia reluctantly stepped inside. "The ones upstairs are cooler in summer."

  "No. This is the one I want. How much for a fortnight?"

  "Again, Mother does—"

  "I thought you were the eldest?"

  "As the eldest, I obey the rules. And it might be best if you waited in the—"

  "Certainly." He sat down on the bed and began to fiddle with the strings on his boots. "We can discuss this in the morning."

  "Sir, if I could ask—"

  "Look at this," he said with disgust. "The laces are fraying and the leather is coming apart. If I'd known your streets were torrid rivers, I'd have brought a pair of Wellingtons."

  "You are English, then?"

  "A Londoner." He pushed the boot off his swollen ankle, the sole landing with a wet plop on their slanted floor. The man let out a great sigh, smiling briefly. "How is it you both speak the Queen's language?"

  "Mother has—had—friends in the mining industry. Our house is filled with Welshmen every season on their way to and from the coal camps near Hughesovka."

  "Has been since we were babies," added Eleni.

  "Well, if you learned the English language from Welsh miners it's a miracle you can speak a word."

  Eleni crossed her arms, spat out: "Twll dîn pob Sais."

  Their guest scowled at this remark, returning such a hard stare over that jack-o-lantern grin that Eleni's face drained of all color. "I'd be careful, my rude young Miss, I've spent enough time in Pontypridd to know the less flattering Welsh phrases. You could lose more than a lodger should you persist."

  There were several moments of stunned silence before Tasia found her wits. "I'm sure my sister simply mispronounced something more complimentary," she said, ushering Eleni out the door. "We'll let you rest undisturbed until Mother arrives."

  "A wise choice."

  Tasia shut the door behind them. "Are you mad, Eleni?"

  "I think he just threatened me."

  "No. He's simply angry because you keep insulting him. Really, where are your manners?"

  "My manners close at ten o'clock. After that, you get what you get." She marched over to the chair near the lamp and took a seat. "He should be thanking us. In this weather? At midnight? With that scar? He's lucky we ever opened the door."

  "You could be a better hostess."

  "Well, perhaps it's because I'm the baby?" She rolled her eyes. "'A day older?' I'm tired of hearing you say that every time we have a guest."

  "Well, it's true." Tasia pointed up the stairs. "Go look at the certificates in Mother's letter desk. 'Anastasia Ioannou Karadopoulina born 21 September 1884. Eleni Ioannou Karadopoulina born 22 September 1884.' One day's difference."

  "Just because Mother had you at a quarter to midnight and me at five after."

  "Oh, and what a day it was…a marvelous Sunday." Tasia laughed, twirling the violet ribbon in her hair. "If you'd only been born on the Sabbath like me, instead of being a dreary Monday baby."

  "Monday's when work is done, not that you'd—"

  That husky foreign voice boomed from behind the backroom door. "Ladies, could you cease your shouting? It is the dead of night after all."

  "Certainly, Mister…Mister…?" Tasia lowered her voice to a whisper. "I don't even know his name."

  "He hasn't paid a kopek and he's telling us what to do." Eleni propped her chin in her palm. "A peculiar fellow in every way."

  Tasia shrugged. "He's English. They're all like that. World-spanning Empire and such."

  Eleni stared at that closed door for several moments, a pensive look on her face. "You know, Tasia, he has no bags."

  "Yes…peculiar."

  "That word keeps cropping up, doesn't it?"

  There was the click of a latch and the welcome rush of fresh air as the front door opened. Mother stepped wearily inside, a frail, curly-haired lady with far too many lines in her face for forty. Soaked to the bone, her dress hung limply from a tiny frame as she fought to close her stubborn umbrella. The way she let their "Room to Let" sign slip to the floor, Tasia knew exactly how things had gone at the harbor.

  "Mother," Tasia said, smiling. "We've good news."

  "Are you both all right? You haven't been out, have you?" Her face was white as the seawall.

  "We're fine, Mother."

  "What's wrong, Mama?" asked Eleni, rising from her chair.

  "Didn't you hear the whistles?"

  Tasia glanced at her sister. "Whistles? We only heard—"

  "Police whistles." Mother fastened the door bolts, heavy metallic clanks as she made sure they were secure. "There was a murder, not an hour ago."

  2. Murder and Mr. Humble

  "Another murder?" gasped Eleni.

  Mother nodded as she took a seat near the window. "On Avchinnikov Lane in the Slavic Quarter."

  "That's not four blocks from here."

  At the back of the room, Tasia turned up the lamps, chasing grim shadows to the corners. It did little to lighten her mood. "Was it the Specter?"

  "I don't know, probably. It was an infant this time." Mother placed a hand to her temple, clearly drained by the ordeal. "I was coming up Yevreiskaya Street and there was a crowd gathering at the entrance to Avchinnikov. It's just a little side street, and the police were keeping everyone back. It must have happened only minutes before." Mother took a slow breath to calm herself. "I ran into Mrs. Tabatskaya, she'd been there since the first whistle."

  Eleni knelt beside Mother, gently taking her hand. "What did she say? Do they know anything?"

  "The baby's mother walked in on the killer in the nursery, found him smothering her child in his arms. Oh, it would be horrible." She looked over to Tasia, still lingering at the back. "I guess the mother screamed and the fiend dropped the infant dead to the floor and fled out the window. The monster fell a full story to the alley and disappeared into the storm."

  Tasia glanced at her sister. "Poor woman, can you imagine?"

  "Did she get a good look at him?"

  "Mrs. Tabatskaya couldn't say. The mother must be hysterical."

  Tasia suppressed a shudder. "It's hard to believe something like this could happen so close to home."

  "They've penned off the streets to the Slavic Quarter." Mother caressed Eleni's cheek as if to reassure herself that her own children were safe. "Have you seen Spiro?"

  "No, Mother. His shift ends at dawn."

  Something half-remembered stirred in Tasia's mind. "We've a lodger, Mother. An Englishman."

  "A lodger?"

  "In the large bedroom."

  "Really?" She smiled weakly, welcoming the change of topic. "Well, that is a turn of fortune." Mother rose from her chair. "What time did he arrive?"

  "About midnight."

  "He's got a hideous scar, Mama," whispered Eleni. br />
  Mother arranged her drenched hair, peering into the looking glass perched on the bookshelf. "Eleni, it's not the body that matters but the soul."

  "Well, his soul better be pretty good."

  With an unsatisfied mumble, Mother finished at the mirror and walked to the door beneath the stairs. She pressed an ear gently against it. "Is he still awake?" She glanced back at her daughters. They shrugged.

  "Has he paid?"

  Tasia shrugged again. "I didn't know what you wanted to charge him, Mother." She dropped her voice to a murmur. "He is English."

  Mother considered this a moment, gave a cerebral nod, then knocked on the door with three quick, professional raps.

  The reply was immediate: "Enter."

  Mother opened the door, their lodger visible inside. He did not repose on the bed as Tasia expected, but instead sat on the cushioned seat at the window, his bad foot propped on a stool. He'd placed the room's oil lamp on the floor nearby, Mother's shadow stretching across a brightened floor, the ceiling receding into darkness.

  "Forgive me for not rising, Madame, but my ankle seems to be stiffening."

  "Of course." There was a hesitance in Mother's voice. Standing behind, Tasia could not see her face, yet imagined the reaction. The adult, professional veneer painting over the horror. The scar, Mother. We warned you…

  "I'm Maia Karadopoulina, proprietor. Do you need help with the foot?"

  "None required. Thank you."

  Tasia came around to Mother's side, gaining a clearer view of their new tenant. He had thrown his overcoat over the bedpost and sat in a gray and threadbare waistcoat, a loosened avocado necktie the only decoration. Across his knee lay a leather-bound journal, a worn pencil in his left hand. The lamp underfoot reversed the shadows on his face, pooling light in the recesses of his brow and under his chin. Tasia thought of children playing at ghost tales over the fire. It did little to hide the scar, she thought, a ghastly white smile stretching through the darkness.