Justice Descending

The journey took three hours over rough tracks, the compartment rattling and swaying as dawn broke over the Kent countryside. Violet watched the darkness give way to gray morning light, watched Flanahan review his notes, watched the constables check their weapons, watched farmland and deep woods slide past the window.

When they finally pulled into Ashford station at quarter past nine, the platform was nearly deserted. A single figure waited beneath the gas lamp—a man in his fifties with a graying mustache and the solid build of someone who'd spent his career in rural constabulary work.

"Detective Flanahan?" The man extended his hand. "Sergeant Blackwood, Kent Constabulary. Got your telegram about the Moreau situation."

"Sergeant." Flanahan shook firmly. "This is Mr. Abrams, our crime scene photographer, and Constables Jenkins, Williams, and Porter from the Metropolitan Police."

Blackwood nodded greeting to each of them. "We've had eyes on Blackthorn Manor since Saturday afternoon. Property's occupied—saw lights in the windows last evening and smoke from the chimney this morning. One man visible, tall, dark-haired, moves like a gentleman. Matches your description of Étienne Moreau."

"Good."

Flanahan pulled out the arrest warrant he'd obtained through emergency procedures. "We have cause to believe he's destroyed evidence at his London property and fled to avoid prosecution. I want to move tonight—give him no time to prepare or escape."

"Agreed. My men are staged at the village inn, ready to assist." Blackwood gestured toward the waiting carriages. "The manor's about three miles north. Single road approach, though there's a footpath through the woods that comes up behind the carriage house."

"The carriage house," Flanahan said. "Our informant believes that's where he conducts his 'work.' We'll need to search it thoroughly."

"Aye. We can approach from both directions—block his escape routes front and back."

They loaded into the carriages with military efficiency. Violet found herself beside Flanahan again, the camera case heavy on her lap, Madame Helena's protection charms warm against her chest beneath Bernie's shirt and binding.

The road north wound through deep woods, the horses' hooves loud in the October morning. Through the carriage windows, Violet could see dense forest pressing close on both sides, the kind of ancient woodland that remained dark even in daylight. This was isolated country—the kind of place where screams wouldn't carry, where a man could work in privacy, where bodies could be buried and never found.

Perfect for someone like Moreau.

The carriages stopped a quarter mile from the property, tucked into a clearing where the woods provided cover. Pale morning light filtered through the bare branches overhead as Sergeant Blackwood gathered everyone around a hastily sketched map, marking positions and approach routes.

"Front approach here," he pointed. "Three men with Detective Flanahan. Back approach through the woods here—three men to cut off escape through the carriage house. Mr. Abrams and one constable remain with the carriages as backup and documentation."

Violet wanted to argue, wanted to insist on being closer to the action. But she'd promised Flanahan she'd stay back, stay safe, be a witness rather than a participant.

"Understood," she said in Bernie's gruff voice.

The men checked their weapons one final time. Flanahan caught Violet's eye, his expression serious. "Remember—you stay here. No matter what you hear, no matter what happens, you do not approach that house until we signal it's secure."

"I remember."

"Good." He turned to the assembled constables. "Right then. Let's bring this bastard to justice."

They moved out in two groups—Flanahan leading the front approach with Blackwood and two London constables, while three Kent constables disappeared into the woods toward the back. Violet watched them go, watched them fade into the dense shadows between the trees, and felt her pulse hammering against her ribs.

The constable remaining with her—young Williams, barely twenty—shifted his weight nervously. "Ever documented an arrest before, Mr. Abrams?"

"First time." Violet kept Bernie's voice steady. "You?"

"First time being part of one." Williams managed to make a shaky smile. "Signed on with the Metropolitan six months ago. Mostly been doing beat work in Whitechapel. Never expected to be chasing a murderer to Kent."

"Life's full of surprises."

They waited in tense silence. Minutes stretched. Somewhere in the distance, a crow cawed. The horses shifted in their traces, sensing the tension.

Then—movement ahead. Flanahan and his group reached the manor house, their forms visible against the gray stone walls. The front door stood solid and closed, no windows showing life within.

Flanahan knocked. Official. Undeniable. The sound carried clearly through the October morning.

A long pause. Then the door opened.

Even at this distance, Violet recognized Moreau's distinctive silhouette—tall, graceful, impeccably dressed as always. He stood framed in the doorway, perfectly composed, as if receiving guests rather than police with an arrest warrant.

Flanahan's voice carried: "Étienne Moreau, I'm arresting you on suspicion of four counts of murder. You have the right to—"Moreau moved.

Not toward surrender or compliance. He moved sideways into the house with that fluid dancer's grace, and Violet heard the unmistakable sound of a door slamming, a bolt sliding home.

"He's running!" Flanahan's shout echoed across the grounds. "Around back—cut him off!"

The constables scattered—some forcing the front door, others racing around the manor's perimeter. Violet heard wood splintering. Shouts from inside. The crash of furniture.

Then a figure burst from the back of the house, running toward the woods with impossible speed.

Moreau.

The Kent constables stationed in the woods moved to intercept, but he was faster than they'd expected. He dodged the first man, shoulder-checked the second, and kept running toward the carriage house.

Toward his workshop. Toward evidence he needed to destroy. Or toward some final desperate plan.

Violet's hands clenched on the camera case. Stay back, she'd promised. Stay safe. Be a witness.

But Moreau was getting away. The constables were seconds behind but losing ground, and if he reached the carriage house first—

Then—a scream.

High-pitched. Female. Terrified.

Coming from inside the carriage house.

Someone else was there. Someone alive. Someone Moreau had already taken.

Violet was running before conscious thought could stop her.

"Mr. Abrams!" Williams shouted behind her. "Wait—!"

But Violet was already halfway across the grounds, boots pounding on cold earth, the camera case heavy in her hands. Behind her, Williams gave chase, trying to catch up.

The carriage house door stood open. And inside—

Violet skidded to a halt in the doorway, taking in the scene with a photographer's eye for terrible details.

The space was larger than she'd expected, converted into a workshop that was sickening familiar. Surgical table in the center. Glass jars lined on shelves— empty but filled with formaldehyde. Anatomical diagrams pinned to the walls. Instruments laid out with meticulous care.

A second collection. Already underway. Waiting to be filled.

And on the table, bound but conscious, struggling desperately against leather restraints—a young woman. Dark hair, dancer's build, terror-wide eyes fixed on Moreau as he stood over her with a scalpel in one hand.

Sarah Collins. From the list. The dancer with perfect feet.

"Don't come closer!" Moreau's voice was sharp and dangerous. He pressed the scalpel to Sarah's throat—not breaking skin, not yet, but the threat was clear. "I'll kill her. I swear I'll kill her right now if you don't back away."

Violet stopped. Behind her, Williams arrived with his truncheon raised, then froze at the sight of the blade.

"Mr. Moreau," Violet said, keeping Bernie's voice steady. "There's nowhere to run. The house is surrounded. Every constable in Kent is converging on this property. You're finished."

"Finished?" Moreau's laugh was wild, unhinged. "I'm creating art. I'm preserving perfection. I'm doing work that will be studied for centuries—"

"You're murdering women." Violet cut him off. "Taking parts of them like they're specimens instead of people. That's not art, Moneau. That's butchery."

"You don't understand." The scalpel trembled against Sarah's throat. "No one understands the vision, the precision required—"

Sarah made a muffled sound of terror, her eyes pleading.

Violet's mind raced. Keep him talking. Keep him distracted. Give Flanahan and the others time to reach the carriage house.

"I understand more than you think," Violet said, taking a careful half-step forward. "I've seen your work. Mary Hutchins, Annie Chapman, Jane Stride, Catherine Webb. I photographed what you did to them. I documented every detail."

"Then you saw the artistry. The perfection of it." Moreau's eyes were bright and feverish. "Each piece was chosen specifically. Eyes that saw beauty, a tongue that sang, hands that created, a heart that felt deeply. I preserved them at their peak. Made them eternal."

"You murdered them." Another half-step. "You took their lives, their futures, everything they could have been—"

"I gave them immortality!" Moreau's voice rose. "They would have aged, deteriorated, lost the very qualities that made them perfect. I saved them from that degradation. Preserved them forever."

Behind Moreau, Violet saw movement in the carriage house shadows. Flanahan, silent as death, approaching from the back entrance. He caught her eye, made a small gesture—keep talking.

"And Sarah Collins?" Violet asked, nodding toward the woman on the table. "What quality does she possess that's worth taking her life?"

"Her feet." Moreau's gaze turned almost tender as he looked down at Sarah. "Perfect arches, exceptional flexibility, decades of training visible in every tendon and bone. A dancer's feet are works of art in themselves. I've been studying her for months, waiting for the right moment—"

"You were starting a new collection." Violet took another half-step. Williams mirrored her movement on the other side. "Four pieces wasn't enough. You were going to keep killing."

"Of course." Moreau said it simply, as if it were obvious. "Art is never finished. The pursuit of perfection is endless. Each collection teaches me more, helps me refine my technique. In time, I would have created something truly transcendent. A complete gallery of perfect specimens, preserved forever at the height of their beauty."

His eyes shifted to Bernie, standing by the workbench with camera in hand. Something changed in his expression—recognition, calculation, cold fury.

"But you," Moreau said softly. "You and your photographs. You've complicated everything, Mr. Abrams. From the moment you began documenting my work, recording my theater, questioning my methods. I should have dealt with you that night when I came to your studio. Should have added you to my collection when I had the chance."

He smiled, and it was terrible.

"Perhaps I still can. A photographer's eyes, perhaps? So keen, so observant. They would make an excellent addition—"

He moved.

Fast as a striking snake, Moreau lunged across the workbench. Not toward Flanahan or the constables at the door, but toward Bernie—the photographer who'd been documenting his work, who'd invaded his theater, who'd ruined everything.

The scalpel flashed in the morning light.

Violet saw it coming but couldn't move fast enough. The blade drove forward, aimed directly at her heart with the precision of a man who'd performed this motion four times before, who knew exactly where to cut to kill quickly and cleanly.

The impact drove her backward. She felt the blade strike her chest, felt the shocking force of it, felt herself falling.

Then—nothing. No pain. No tearing. No wet heat of blood spreading across her shirt.

The scalpel had struck the iron plate in her left breast pocket.

Moreau stared at the bent blade in his hand, confusion flickering across his elegant features. "What—"

Violet moved.

All the rage of four dead women, all the grief of spirits who'd trusted her, all the fury at this man who'd turned living people into art—it channeled through her in a surge of pure adrenaline.

She grabbed Moreau's wrist, twisted hard the way Artie had shown her after too many nights walking home alone through Whitechapel. The scalpel clattered to the floor. Her other hand came up, drove the heel of her palm into Moreau's nose with every ounce of strength she possessed.

Blood sprayed. Moreau stumbled backward, hands flying to his face.

"Now!" Flanahan roared.

Williams and two Kent constables rushed forward, grabbing Moreau's arms, forcing them behind his back. The theater director struggled, his elegant composure shattered, blood streaming down his face, but three men were too many. Steel handcuffs clicked into place.

Flanahan was at Violet's side in an instant. "Bernie—Christ, are you—"

"I'm fine." Violet's voice shook. Her hand moved to her chest, felt the iron plate through the fabric of her vest. Warm. Still warm, as it had been when Helena gave it to her. "I'm fine. He didn't—the blade didn't—"

She couldn't finish. The shock was setting in, her knees going weak. Flanahan caught her elbow, steadied her.

"Easy. Just breathe. You're alright." His blue eyes searched her face. "That was stupid. Incredibly stupid. You were supposed to stay back."

"He came at me." Violet managed to pull air into her lungs. "What was I supposed to do?"

"Not break his nose, for one thing." But there was something almost like admiration in Flanahan's voice. "Though I can't say he didn't deserve it."

Moreau was still struggling against the handcuffs, his voice thick with blood and fury. "You ruined it! My collection was perfect! Four pieces, each one chosen specifically, each one preserved at the moment of their greatest beauty! You had no right—"

"Shut up," Williams said flatly, tightening the handcuffs another notch.

Violet looked down at the floor where the scalpel lay, its blade bent from the impact against blessed iron. The same blade that had cut out four hearts, four perfect pieces for a madman's collection.

Her mother's iron plate had stopped it.

Helena's voice echoed in her memory: *It saved her life once, in Warsaw, before she came to London.*

Now it had saved Violet's life too. Protected her the way Leah Abrams had protected others, the way the old traditions protected those who carried them.

Body and spirit both.

Violet's hand moved to her left breast pocket, felt the warm metal through the fabric, and sent a silent prayer of thanks to a mother she barely remembered and a fortune teller who'd known exactly what protections to give.

Violet ran to Sarah Collins, already pulling at the leather restraints. "You're safe now. You're safe. We've got you."

The dancer sobbed, her whole body shaking as Violet freed her hands, her feet, helped her sit up on the table. She was dressed in a thin shift, her feet bare—prepared for surgery but not yet cut. Not yet reduced to a specimen.

They'd arrived in time.

"It's over," Violet said gently, pulling off her own coat to wrap around Sarah's shoulders. "You're safe. He can't hurt you anymore."

"My feet," Sarah whispered. "He was going to take my feet. Said they were perfect. Said I should be proud to be part of his collection."

"They're still yours." Violet squeezed her hand. "And they always will be."

Flanahan hauled Moreau toward the door, the theater director still raving about art and perfection and vision that no one understood. The Kent constables took custody, dragging him toward the waiting carriages.

"Document everything," Flanahan said to Violet. "Every jar, every diagram, every piece of evidence in this workshop. We need a complete record."

"I will." Violet was already moving toward her camera case. But first—she turned to Sarah. "Can you walk? We need to get you to a doctor, get you examined, make sure—"

"I can walk." Sarah's voice was shaky but determined. She stood carefully, testing her weight on those perfect feet that Moreau had coveted. "I can walk."

Williams escorted her outside, wrapping her in blankets, murmuring reassurances. Violet watched them go, then turned to survey the workshop with a photographer's clinical eye.

The evidence was overwhelming. Samples, studies, preparations for future acquisitions. Sketches of Sarah Collins's feet from multiple angles. Surgical notes detailing planned incision points, preservation techniques, display methods.

And in the corner, another shelf. More jars. These ones older, darker.

Violet moved closer, dread coiling in her stomach.

The jars contained specimens that predated Mary Hutchins. Older work. Earlier victims.

How long had Moreau been doing this? How many women had died before he started his "collection" in London? How many bodies were buried in Kent woods, reduced to pieces in jars, preserved forever in service of one man's twisted vision?

"Mr. Abrams?" Flanahan stood in the doorway. "Are you all right?"

"There are more." Violet's voice came out hollow even in Bernie's register. "Earlier victims. This workshop has been active for years."

Flanahan crossed to the shelf, studied the jars with professional detachment that couldn't quite hide his horror. "We'll document everything. Identify what we can. Give families closure if possible."

"Some of these are so old." Violet touched one jar carefully. The label was faded, the handwriting unmistakably Moreau's: Subject 3 - Eyes - 1887. "He's been killing for at least eight years."

"Then we stopped him before he could get to ten." Flanahan's scarred face was grim. "That's something. Not enough, but something."

They worked through the night, Violet photographing every angle while Flanahan inventoried evidence and the Kent constables secured the property. The Coroner arrived at dawn, carefully packing the jars for transport to London where they'd be examined, catalogued, hopefully identified.

Sarah Collins gave her statement to Sergeant Blackwood, her voice growing stronger as shock faded into anger. She described how Moreau had approached her after a performance, praised her dancing, offered to examine her feet for "potential stress injuries." How he'd invited her to his country house for the weekend, promised her rest and specialized treatment. How she'd arrived yesterday to find the carriage house workshop, had realized too late what he intended.

"I tried to run," she said. "But he's strong. Stronger than he looks. And fast. He caught me, drugged me, tied me down. Told me I should feel honored. That my feet would live forever in his collection."

"They will," Flanahan said gently. "But attached to you, mademoiselle. Where they belong."

As the October sun rose over Blackthorn Manor, Violet stood in the carriage house doorway and watched constables load evidence into wagons. Moreau sat in one of the carriages, still handcuffed, staring at nothing with eyes that seemed to see only his ruined vision.

The dead would have their justice. The living had been saved.

The wheel had turned.

They returned to Carter Square as the autumn afternoon faded into evening. Violet climbed to her tiny room in the studio, finally peeled off the binding corset and Bernie's disguise, and collapsed into bed still wearing her chemise.

She slept for twelve hours straight, dreamless and deep.

When Violet finally woke, pale October sunlight was streaming through her window. Tuesday morning. The world felt different somehow—lighter, as though some terrible weight had been lifted from the air itself.

She dressed slowly in her own clothes—a simple skirt and shirtwaist, no binding, no false beard, no Bernie. Just Violet, alone in her room, feeling the absence of the four spirits who'd haunted her thoughts for the past week.

They were gone. She could feel it. Mary Hutchins, Annie Chapman, Jane Stride, Catherine Webb—all of them had moved on, released from their vigils the moment Moreau's handcuffs had clicked shut. Justice delivered. Promises kept. Their stories told, their murders avenged, their pieces recovered for proper burial.

Downstairs, she found Artie and Madame Helena at the worktable, the morning papers spread between them.

"GRAND GUIGNOL KILLER ARRESTED," the Times headline screamed. "Theater Director Charged with Four Murders—Gruesome Collection Found in Kent Workshop."

Artie looked up as Violet descended the stairs. "You're alive, then. Was starting to wonder if you'd sleep through till Wednesday."

"Barely alive." Violet's voice was rough from sleep. She moved to the tea kettle Helena had already set to boil. "What do the papers say?"

"That Detective Flanahan of the Metropolitan Police, with assistance from the Kent Constabulary, apprehended the notorious murderer Étienne Moreau at his country estate." Helena read from the paper with theatrical precision. "That evidence recovered includes preserved human organs, detailed journals documenting the crimes, and a list of intended future victims. That Moreau will stand trial at the Old Bailey for four counts of murder."

"They mention Bernie at all?" Violet asked.

"Crime scene photographer B. Abrams provided crucial photographic documentation," Artie read from a different paper. "That's it. One sentence."

"Good." Violet poured tea with shaking hands. "That's exactly how I want it."

The morning continued in quiet domesticity—tea and toast, newspapers read and discussed, the ordinary rhythms of life reasserting themselves after a week of murder and spirits and danger. But underneath the normalcy, Violet could feel something shifting. Settling. Finding its new shape.

Around midday, a knock came at the door.

Artie answered it, then called up: "Violet! It's Detective Flanahan."

She found him on the doorstep, still in his work clothes, looking tired but satisfied. He nodded to Artie, then focused on Violet—no Bernie disguise, just herself in her ordinary clothes.

"Miss Abrams," he said formally. Then, quieter: "Violet. May I come in?"

She stepped back, let him enter the studio. Artie made himself scarce, retreating upstairs with a knowing look.

"Moreau's been formally charged," Flanahan said without preamble. "Four counts of murder. The Crown Prosecutor says it's the strongest case he's seen in twenty years. The journals alone would be enough to convict, but with the physical evidence, the photographs, Mademoiselle Beaumont's testimony..." He shook his head. "He'll hang. No question."

"Good." Violet felt no triumph in it, just a quiet sense of completion. "And the victims? Their families?"

"Notified this morning. The preserved... the pieces will be returned to their families for proper burial once the trial concludes." Flanahan pulled out his notebook and consulted it. "Mary Hutchins's mother wants to thank the photographer who documented her daughter's case. Annie Chapman's brother asked if the photographs could be kept private—he doesn't want his sister remembered that way. Jane Stride's landlady said she'd suspected something terrible had happened. Catherine Webb's sister..." He paused. "Catherine's sister asked if you'd attend the funeral. When the time comes."

Violet's throat tightened. "Yes. Of course."

"I'll let them know." Flanahan tucked the notebook away. "There's something else. Captain Morris wants to offer Bernie Abrams a permanent contract. Official crime scene photographer for the Metropolitan Police. Regular salary, priority access to cases. He was... impressed with the work on this investigation."

"That's..." Violet tried to process it. A permanent position. Regular income. Security. Everything she and Poppa had worked toward. "That's extraordinary."

"You've earned it." Flanahan's blue eyes were serious. "Your photographs were crucial evidence. Your observations helped direct the investigation. And your..." He hesitated. "Your gift gave us information we could never have obtained otherwise. Even if I can't put that in official reports."

"Bernie will accept the position," Violet said quietly. "With gratitude."

"Good." Flanahan moved toward the door, then paused. "And Violet? About your gift. About the spirits. I won't pretend I fully understand it. But I've seen enough now to know it's real. And valuable. So, if there are other cases, other murders where the dead might speak..." He met her eyes. "I'd welcome Bernie's assistance. Officially and otherwise."

Something warm unfurled in Violet's chest. Partnership. Trust. Acceptance of all of who she was, even the parts she usually had to hide.

"Thank you, Patrick."

"Thank you." He tipped his hat. "For everything. For seeing what I couldn't. For helping bring justice to four women who deserved better than they got."

After he left, Violet stood at the window watching him disappear into the Tuesday afternoon crowds. A permanent position with the Metropolitan Police. Regular work documenting crimes, helping solve murders, bringing justice to the dead who couldn't speak for themselves.

It was what Poppa would have wanted. What her mother, with her gift for speaking to spirits, would have understood.

Violet touched the iron plate in her pocket—she'd kept it with her, unable to quite let it go yet. Her mother's protection. Helena's wisdom. The old traditions that had saved her life when Moreau's scalpel struck.

Body and spirit both.

"Well?" Madame Helena called from upstairs. "What did the detective want?"

"A partnership," Violet called back. She turned from the window, looked at the studio around her—the cameras and backdrops, the tools of her trade, the space where Bernie existed and Violet could be herself. "And I said yes."

That evening, as the October sun set over Carter Square, Violet sat at Poppa's desk—her desk now—and pulled out the ledger. Bernie Abrams, Crime Scene Photographer. Permanent contract with the Metropolitan Police, beginning November 1st, 1895.

She wrote the details in careful script, adding the projected income to the accounts. Enough to keep the studio running. Enough to pay Artie properly. Enough to build something lasting.

Outside, London settled into evening. Somewhere in the city, the four women's families were beginning to plan funerals. Somewhere in a cell, Étienne Moreau awaited trial for his crimes. Somewhere in the world beyond, four spirits rested at last, their vigils ended, their justice served.

And in a small studio on Carter Square, a young woman who was sometimes a man sat at her father's desk and planned for a future she'd earned with photographs and courage and the dangerous gift of speaking to the dead.

The empty chairs would always be there. The spaces left by those who died too soon, the absences that could never truly be filled.

But Violet Abrams—and Bernie Abrams—would be there to witness them. To document them. To make sure the dead were never forgotten.

To make sure justice, however slowly, always turned.

The wheel had completed its revolution.

And tomorrow, there would be new work to do.

END OF BOOK ONE

CAMERA MACABRA: THE VIOLET ABRAMS MYSTERIES