The Hand of God's Shudder

In 1900s England, anything is possible. Follow Ander Royce as he deciphers the uncertainty and mystery of recent murders, rapes, and fraud. A gritty tale that involves twists, turns, and a possibility for anyone and anything to die. Part one.


1. The Light of Darkness


Rocked, slumped, plummeted. Imagine the feeling of death in the blink of an eye. To think of the world crashing before you, successful or not as a person, is much a scary thought. Sharing a common bond of existense is fact. Detective Ander Royce has seen it all before; homicides with each detail planned down to the last second, badly planned murders, manslaughters and even rape. Ander, now in his mid-thirties, took each case he received with a different approach. The experienced detective was a man of few words, but a man of wisdom. Royce, as he thought most in his profession should, thought handling a case was quality over quickness. He knew where to find the clues, and Ander was more intelligent in his thought process. The detective only stood as tall as five-feet, no more or no less. Slightly overweight, he had a thick stubble under his chin, always seemed to be pondering of something in his mind, and had thick red cheeks that made his deep blue eyes flutter with light.

England in the early 1900s is a time of oppurtunity, Royce always reminded himself. Behind his fake smiles and laughs, he truly never liked his profession. Though his spirit lifted after discovering a murderer on a big case, and after the Whitechapel press devoted a small page in the back of the newspaper, no-one truly cared of Royce's safety or interest. Of course, he never expressed his discontent due to the thought of being called selfish. Ander was not an easy man to read, and he knew it. He happened to be enigmatic and silent, virtues of man who usually had something to hide. Royce was no perfectionist by any means, but he knew that he was a decent individual with as many flaws as the average human. Just wait for it, he said to himself, I'll be known one day... Ander never could of imagined how right he was.


                                                         CHAPTER ONE: BETWEEN THE LIGHT OF DARKNESS

Slunked deep in his desk chair in his small and dim office, Ander was annoyingly woken by the feverish bell on his inexpensive wrist watch. He grunted, adjusting himself in his chair, fumbling with several buttons on the clock to stop the sound. As if on key, senior inspector Orville Hedington entered with his lavish looking maroon waistcoat, confident stroll and tapering trousers with the faintest smell of alcohol. He carried a medium-sized suitcase in his dominant hand.  Hedington, now in his early sixties, was visibly aging; his short, greasy hair made him physically look like a begger, though his style of fashion told a different story. His thick, near white whiskers of a moustache nearly covered the bottom of his nose and the tip of his upper lip.

Lazily, as if Orville had no care in the world, approached Ander's desk with not even a mutter, throwing down the briefcase and began to pivot his foot, before Royce initiated small conversation. "I thank you kindly for the case, sir."

Hedington grinned before pointing his shaky finger at Ander, as if offended by the statement. "It's your job, lad," Orville stated adamantly. He left the office with no further words. 

Ander must have pondered on Hedington's reply for more than an hour. Sitting in the small, poorly-litted room with a dusk scent, he came to the hopeless realization that this was his future. Was this all there was? He realized he was over-analyzing the whole situation, and lightly began to stroke his stubble. He gave a pitiful sigh and nudged the locks on the briefcase, wiping away some muck from his desk to clear room for the papers. Beginning to remove the contents from the suitcase, he quickly reviewed each page as he set them down on the desk. Organizing the grim pages by importance, he rubbed his thumb over several before grabbing the information on the case, viewing:

"Gertrude Myrtle, native of Hertfordshire, United Kingdom, aged twenty-four, was found dead in the backyard of 4, Hanbury Street, Spitlafields, Tower Hamlets, laying in a pool of blood with a four-inch blade in her left hand. Lester Newton, neighbor, fifty-two, discovered the body at approximately 6:23, leaving to go to work. He expresses his concern and has no clue on why Gertrude would be murderedghtful, elegant, homicide, police, det. London Metropolitan Police suspect no foul play, yet request assistance of experienced detectives to come to Hanbury and investigate."

He gave a long pause after reading the details of the alleged suicide, evaluating how he would go about proceeding the case. Suicide? He questioned the authenticity of the claim, knowing that it would be more uncommon than not to be dead and still have a blade in hand. He leaned back on his chair, swinging his legs over the table. This is foul, he knew. He was going to find out what really happened to Gertrude.


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