“I heard you went to Oxford,” Adam began cautiously as Immanuel moved to the next case. “What branch of science did you study?”
His voice came as soft as if he was in a library rather than in a nearly empty hall. “I am studying evolution along with the other sciences.” He was about to keep reading the information tag when he spotted the red-haired man looking at him expectantly and realized the conversation was lapsing back into silence. “What do you do, Mr. Fenice?”
“Nothing as glamorous as science or Oxford. I am an accountant. I also am the co-owner and bookkeeper for my twin sister’s prosthesis and automaton business.” When the German’s eyes flickered with interest, he continued, “I am the odd one out. I have no creative abilities, but I do appreciate the arts. Hadley is the artist and inventor in the family now, but she takes after our father and late-brother. We lost him last winter.”
Immanuel looked up to see Adam’s countenance dim with the shadow of melancholy. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
“He was sick for a long time.” A stifled, dry chuckle escaped his lips as he turned toward another case. “I feel so hardhearted saying this, but it was almost a relief when he died. I hated seeing him ill and knowing he was never going to get any better.”
“I understand, but you shouldn’t feel guilty. Even when you are the one who is ill, you feel the same way. Death often seems like the better option than suffering.”
“You would know better than any of us, wouldn’t you, Mr. Winter?”
They unconsciously caught each other’s gaze, and the unspoken phrases passed between them again. Adam noted the subtle sag of regret at the corner of Immanuel’s eyes as if he had confided too much in the accountant. They fell into silence as they passed specimens and dioramas of beasts in jungles of paint and paper. He watched Immanuel glance at the contents of the cases and move on without the fervent interest that had come with the spark in his smile. As they passed a man with a cigarette pressed between his lips, his companion stumbled.
Immanuel’s heart raced. Something was wrong. His body buckled as the tobacco embers seared into the thin flesh of his spine. With each quickened breath, the glass in the cases around him seemed to grow closer and the air thinner. He tugged his collar away from the flushed skin of his neck as he swallowed hard.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Fenice, but I cannot stay here any longer,” he blurted, darting toward the nearest hallway.
The urge to get out was stronger than any instinct he could remember. He would surely suffocate if he couldn’t get out of the museum. The stones would rise up and wall him in, sealing him behind glass for all eternity. Rounding the corner at the end of the hall, he froze as he met the unforgiving mortar and stone of a dead-end. He wheeled around with eyes wide and glistening. When Adam finally reached the corner, the scientist’s breathing was coming in shallow, ragged gasps, and his eyes seemed to take in everything but see nothing.
“Mr. Winter,” he called as the other man paced in the tunnel with his hands cupped around his face like blinders. Without thinking, he put his hand on the panic-stricken man’s arm, but even though he saw it was him, he whipped it away in alarm. Adam kept his voice as soft and calm as a mesmerist’s. “Immanuel, I will get you out. Just follow me, and I promise we will be outside in a few minutes.”
He couldn’t remember how long it really took to get back to the throngs of people on the street outside but following the henna-haired head through the transepts and wooden galleries until they reached the nave seemed to drag on for hours. Immanuel drew in one lungful of crisp air after another until the trembling in his limbs subsided. Somehow in the mobs of people bustling to the natural history museum and the Victoria and Albert Museum he could breathe easier than under the great steel roof. Adam stared at him as the color finally ebbed from his cheeks and his light eyes lost the wild edge imparted by fear.
“Are you all right?” Mr. Fenice asked as he slowly drew closer to keep the crowd from coming between them but made certain not to touch him. “I mean, really all right.”
He opened his mouth and closed it, glancing back at the lumbering museum that only a minute earlier seemed a tomb. “You must think me mad after that nonsense. I— I lost my head. I am so sorry for causing such a fuss. It won’t happen again, Mr. Fenice.”
“You don’t need to apologize. Something must have scared you very much.” Immanuel’s damaged eye pinkened as he chewed on the edge his lip with his eyetooth. Adam flashed a magnetic grin that showed off his ivory teeth and waved his gloved hand before changing the subject. “You must stop calling me Mr. Fenice, only the people whose accounts I handle call me that. Please, call me Adam.”
“Adam,” he began hesitantly, his hands shaking as he tried to stuff them in his coat pockets, “is there anywhere we can go where I can clear my head?”
“Hyde Park is right up the road if you would like to walk about.”
Immanuel nodded and ambled beside him, passing through the crowds milling between the museums and gardens of the Royal Horticultural Society. He was happy to have his clear eye facing the road to keep him from stepping off the curb, but as they went on, he had to quickly apologize each time his shoulder collided with those of the men and women passing on his left side. Out of the corner of his eye, Adam caught the sneers and indignant glares, especially when their stares met his cracked cheek.
“Hold on.” He waited for Immanuel to stop walking and moved to his other side, shielding him from the unsympathetic crowds. “I do not mind being bumped.”
A faint smile, barely perceivable even to his companion, crossed his lips. He couldn’t see Adam Fenice at his side except for the occasional pop of red or blue, but when he stepped out of line, he felt his arm brush against his without repercussion. Steamers and horse-drawn carriages rolled through the gates of the park and down its cobbled paths out of sight. Immanuel marveled at the massive beasts as their muscles slid beneath their burnished coats. He couldn’t recall when he had ever seen a horse in Berlin, except in statues or when farmers brought their produce or animals to market, but he had never been so close to one. England had been one of the last countries to relinquish the horse from its duties, but they still remained near the parks as a nostalgic reminder of the steam-less past.
Even though the leaves had decayed and only the bronchial skeletons remained, the park still hummed with life. Vendors peddling roasted chestnuts and drinks to warm passersby from the cold called out while ladies in muffs and fur or wool coats strolled in clusters or on the arm of a husband or brother. A group of young boys sprinted past the dawdling amblers with hockey sticks raised and skates slapping against their shoulders.
“Can we go ice skating?”
Adam’s head snapped toward his companion as his mottled eyes followed the raucous children through the trees. “Of course, but are you sure you are up for such an exertion?”
“No, but I should like to try.”
Following the wild shouts of the boys, Immanuel and Adam wound their way through the manicured lawns and around the mercurial waters of the Serpentine until the artificial pond that surrounded the bandstand appeared. Children zipped across the ice as quick as water-striders while men and women glided around the perimeter, merging on and off the ice with ease. Adam smiled at the happy couples laughing arm-in-arm as he left Immanuel sitting on a bench and went to rent two pairs of skates from the stall nearby. When he returned, a pretty young woman with a heart-shaped face and dewy eyes was talking to the German, and while he was polite about giving her the time, he fell silent long enough that she returned to the women she was skating with.
After wordlessly buckling the blades’ leather straps to their boots, Immanuel and Adam clattered onto the ice. Immanuel teetered unsteadily as his ankles wobbled and his arms pin-wheeled, but he stayed on his feet. With a smile, he pushed away from the edge and drifted into the throng with his friend out of sight but always protectively on the left. Each lap loosened his thoughts and chased away the panic. Soon,
the sky grew whiter with each slow circuit around the pond, and by the time they passed the boys playing hockey in the far corner again, the cold seared Immanuel’s face and constricted his ribs. He clopped over to the edge and stood still, hoping his breath would return. His companion followed close behind with the weight of guilt settling in his stomach.
“Before you ask, I am fine. I just need to catch my breath, but I will join you when you come around again,” Immanuel explained with a raised hand to Adam’s protest. “Plus, I think you would ice skate much better without me slowing you down.”
With a final sigh, Adam glided back to the whirlpool of skaters. Immanuel stood with his arms crossed as he watched his dapper friend move as fluidly through the crowd as if skating was his natural gate. He tipped his hat to the young ladies he passed, who greeted the handsome stranger with grins and giggles. With snow clumping at the ends of Immanuel’s filigree lashes, he watched Adam Fenice pivot with a flick of his heel. Gliding backwards, he rounded the corner and leisurely wove his way toward the bench. Immanuel stepped back onto the ice to join him when a little rubber disk skidded between them. By the time he saw the flock of children coming, it was too late. The others were caught in the revolving swarm of skaters, but two broke through with their sticks at the ready. One of the boys darted out of the way as Adam approached, but the other stayed to shoot the puck across the ice.
As Adam’s back collided with the child, he spun around and caught his skate on the wooden hockey stick. He stumbled forward, his legs skidding out from under him, as Immanuel reached out to catch his arm. The scientist’s feet slid back, but when the other man’s full weight hit him, his blades lost traction and slipped under Adam’s. They landed in a heap on the ice; their hats escaped the twisted limbs and floated down gracefully beside them. Adam froze on top of his friend, fearing he had snapped one of the man’s ribs, but when he looked down, Immanuel was staring up at him with wide eyes. His ink-stained irises dilated and his breath quickened but not in panic as it had in the museum. The accountant exhaled as a chill rippled through his body, teasing each strand of hair on end and stretching his pupils to darken the surrounding blue. The condensation of their breath smoldered as a tingling more mystifying than the one that stopped Immanuel’s heart ran between them. Several pairs of skates were clattering toward them, so Adam climbed onto his elbows and knees before pulling himself up and then his companion. Immanuel clamped the derby back to his head but couldn’t hide his burning cheeks. They skated to the nearest bench and began unfastening the leather straps of their skates.
“Are you all right? I didn’t mean to land on you,” Adam whispered. “I hope I did not hurt you. James warned me not to tax your system, and instead, I squashed you.”
Immanuel looked into his new friend’s worried eyes as they researched his body for any sign of injury and couldn’t help but laugh. Out of all the things to happen, he had never expected that. The silent chuckles rocked his body as he gave up on the buckle wrapped around his ankle. He laughed so hard tears came to his eyes and burned his cheeks, but it only made the redhead’s brows peak higher and his eyes grow even wider with concern. When the German covered his mouth and let out a string of lively, carefree giggles that culminated in a snort, Adam couldn’t help but join in.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. You must really think me mad now.” He dabbed at his eyes. “It is just that I was dreading this day out more than anything, but it has turned out to be the most fun I have had in years.”
“Really?”
Immanuel nodded. “I have not had much fun since I came to England, and I honestly never thought I would find a friend. With all of this,” he replied as he motioned toward his eye and chest, “I never expected anything good to happen anymore.”
“I know you have a hard time seeing out of that eye, but do you think it will get better with time?”
“Dr. Hawthorne says it should heal a little, but it will never be what it once was. I wish the scar would go away. It makes me look… seedy.”
Adam’s lips and mustache curled into a grin. “I think it makes you look mysterious.” When the eye under the scar lit up, he added, “If you are still feeling up to it, we could walk to Covent Garden and get dinner. There is no way you can come to London and not have real fish and chips.”
“I would like that very much.”
Chapter Fourteen:
An Old Friend
For the first time since his fever broke, Immanuel awoke not thinking about brick walls or autopsy notes. The view of Wimpole Street from his window was no longer daunting and tainted with unknown danger. Instead, the world outside was filled with color and life, and he couldn’t help but grin as he dressed and made his way downstairs even if his body ached from the fall. At breakfast, he ate with Emmeline and the Hawthornes, cleaned his plate, and made conversation rather than sitting there like a mute as he had done for nearly a week. When James and Eliza asked about his day with Adam Fenice, his face lit up. They gave each other the eye and smiled at his altered demeanor, knowing their plan had succeeded in drawing the real Immanuel Winter to the surface. A shrill bell resounded in one of the backrooms of the house and brought their conversation to an abrupt end.
“Ah, Mr. Porter must be here.” James Hawthorne left his plate for his laboratory but stuck his head back into the dining room while cleaning his glasses. “Mr. Winter, if you are up to it, I would greatly appreciate your assistance downstairs.”
As Immanuel nodded, Emmeline cried, “Why did he get to go out with his friends? Why does he not have to stay inside all day and do lessons?”
“He is studying at a university, and you could do the same if you applied yourself. Then, you wouldn’t need lessons. Today I am going to teach you about a woman’s legal rights,” Mrs. Hawthorne explained between the clinks of soiled dishes, “so one day you will be able to decide what to do with your inheritance.”
“Isn’t that what a husband is for?”
Immanuel excused himself and hurried down the hall to escape the fray that he knew was about to erupt in the dining room. Descending the creaking steps of the cellar, he rounded the corner only to find a pale, fleshy body deposited on the marble table in the center of the room. James Hawthorne was donning his apron and gloves when he made it to the dead man’s feet. For a moment, he wondered how the man arrived without being wheeled through the house until he noticed that behind the table and the apothecary shelf was a narrow hallway just wide enough to admit a gurney. The man’s stomach arched toward the ceiling and eclipsed the doctor on the other side. Across his mottled, mauve skin were wiry brown hairs that covered him like a threadbare sweater. Immanuel tried to suppress his disgust at the hairy, morbidly obese man but ended up grimacing as a puff of noxious gas escaped the man’s orifices.
“His family members suspect foul play,” James began as he waved away the smell. “I suspect the only foul that killed him was the goose his foie gras came from.” The doctor migrated over to the antiseptic steamer drawers that held his tools and artfully arranged the blades, saws, and forceps onto a tray. “Have you ever performed an autopsy before, Mr. Winter?”
“I have sat in on one and conducted one with a group of students but never on my own.”
“This time I will have you watch. You can take notes for me. It will be easier for you to read your own handwriting than mine when you transcribe them.”
Immanuel nodded as he picked up the portable writing desk and watched the doctor carve into the corpse’s chest with a scalpel. Within moments, the flesh and fat were peeled back and the organs exposed. The young scientist averted his gaze as Dr. Hawthorne gnawed through the man’s dense ribs with a bone saw. After a final snap, the front of his chest was removed, and the dignitary finally lay bare and ready to be explored. James called out descriptions of the whole thoracic and abdominal cavities before diving into the autopsy with his scalpel. With a few flicks of his wrist, the brown, slimy fish of a liver was unceremoniously plopped on the scale. The doc
tor continued to call out measurements and observations for his assistant to jot down as he moved through the cadaver.
“Ah, here is the culprit!” he cried as he reached the hollowed bottom of the man’s ribcage. “Mr. Winter, come take a look and tell me what you see.”
Putting the ledger aside, Immanuel stepped toward the table, but as he approached, the toe of his shoe caught on a hose. His hand landed squarely on the corpse’s arm when he caught his balance, and suddenly the acetone-laden laboratory was gone. At his fingertips was not a corpse but a plate of treacle tart topped with a dollop of clotted cream. Immanuel looked up from the dessert of shortbread and cinnamon and locked eyes across the table with a beak-nosed woman. She smiled sedately at him like a bird-of-paradise as a thin, grey lock broke from her tight coiffure. The fire crackled nearby in the dining room as the scent of tea and coffee mingled with the butter from the tart’s crust. His stomach suddenly tightened but quickly rushed away, and he was finally able to pull his hand from the man’s chilled arm. Immanuel shook away the image of the wifely woman only a few feet from him and gazed into the patient’s cavernous corpse. At the bottom was a pool of congealed blood beside an artery that had blown open to reveal the interior of its muscular tube.
“An aneurism?”
“Precisely. Mark down that the cause of death is an aneurism of the aorta.” James watched his protégé dutifully record every word. “You came highly recommended, Mr. Winter.”
The Winter Garden Page 10
