Galvanism and Ghouls

by Tilly Wallace

  A flash of light caught Wycliff’s eye as he worked. Within the cube, the tiny trapped weather system swirled and changed colour. As though someone had poured dye in from above, the soft greys and white became yellows with a splash of orange.

  He grunted in surprise. The thing actually worked.

  Yellow meant a non-urgent matter, but this was tinged with a darker hue. What lay between urgent and non-urgent? Did it mean he was to present himself before the day was out? He needed a distraction, and this gave him the chance to verify the cube worked and this initial change was not merely random. He laid down his quill and rose from the desk. He grabbed his top hat and coat from the rack by the door and strode along the hall.

  The maid emerged from the parlour and on seeing him, squawked like a chicken and shot back into the room. Silly woman had no sense at all. At least Miss Miles didn’t cry out in horror every time she encountered him in the rambling house.

  He pushed through the double glass doors that led to a flagged terrace, and then down the stairs to the lawn. Across from the house were large, roomy stables that had stalls for a dozen horses, but which housed only four.

  “Can I help you, my lord?” the stable lad asked, looking up from where he sat oiling a leather harness.

  Wycliff approached his horse. “Fetch my saddle, lad. I’m off to town.”

  He patted the mare’s nose. His unusual situation allowed him to keep one thing hidden from his creditors’ notice. The horse had been stabled in the cheapest mews he could find and every day he had expected to discover her sold to flesh out a stew. He had barely dared to check on the horse’s welfare, not wanting to risk a debt collector’s following him to the mews, and so had relied on hired hackneys to make his way about London.

  Free of London, he was able to reclaim the valuable horse and move her to the Westbourne Green house. If anyone noticed, he would say she belonged to Sir Hugh.

  He slipped on the bridle while the boy brought the saddle, placed it on the horse’s back, and then buckled up the girth. Out in the yard, he swung himself up into the saddle and put heel to the horse.

  He was dimly aware of Hannah standing at the library window, watching him canter away.

  As he rode down the main road toward London, he let his mind spiral over the surrounding fields. How he had fallen from his family’s once vaunted position. When his father was a young man, their family had been respected by society. The previous Viscount Wycliff had his pick of pretty debutantes to find his bride. Then his father had spiralled into debauchery and taken the family’s name and fortune with him.

  Now Wycliff lived with a mad scientist, a dead mage, and a woman who wore a blood-spattered apron instead of a fashionable gown. At least none of them commented on why he had no valet and made do dressing and shaving himself.

  If he minded his pennies, he had the opportunity before him to wrest his family estate back from the brink of ruin. The first job would be setting aside enough for new breeding stock. A prize bull could fetch an entire year’s wages, but could father enough offspring over time to pay for a new roof on his country house.

  As he cantered down Uxbridge Road with Hyde Park on his right, London loomed before him. A haze sat over the city, created by coal fires from thousands of chimneys. The smoke hung low today and softened the hard edges of the buildings. Traffic became thicker as he approached civilisation. Wycliff pulled the horse back to a trot. By the time he neared the building in Whitehall that housed the new Ministry of Unnaturals, he was forced to a brisk walk by the press of carriages, horses, and pedestrians.

  He jumped to the ground and flung the reins over the horse’s head.

  “Need me to watch ’im?” a lad called from his pose on the front step.

  “Yes.” Wycliff tossed the boy a coin as he handed over the reins. “I’ll not be long.”

  Wycliff pushed through the front doors and waved at the man sitting behind the large front desk. His boot heels rang on the wooden floor as he strode the short corridor to his superior’s office, where he rapped sharply on General Sir Manly Powers’ door.

  “Enter,” the deep voice said.

  Wycliff pushed inside to find the general seated at his desk. Papers were neatly ordered in four piles before him.

  He looked up from the missive in his hand. “Ah, Wycliff. The box works, then.”

  He stared at the cube on Sir Manly’s desk, a twin to his own. Except this one had a square copper token on the top that appeared to seep yellow and a blush of orange into the clouds below.

  “Indeed, Sir Manly, a most convenient contraption.” He wondered if they could add more tokens for different messages. Green to notify him when his pay was to be collected or blue for mail.

  “Something unusual washed up from the Thames that the Runners said is more our bailiwick. I believe a crowd has gathered and the fellow who discovered the thing was instructed to keep it contained until someone arrived to relieve him of it.” Sir Manly held out a piece of paper with directions scrawled upon it.

  Wycliff glanced at the paper. He was heading southwest to a stretch of the Thames between Westminster Bridge and Tothill Fields.

  “Report back when you know what it is. While you are there, ask around about this so-called monster on the loose in Chelsea. Can’t have Unnaturals terrorising honest folk. I need you to find whatever it is and tell it to behave or we’ll lock it up.” Sir Manly waved a large hand and he was dismissed.

  Wycliff tucked the sheet into his coat pocket and reclaimed his mare from the street urchin. He turned southwest and fought the traffic swirling around Westminster Abbey. Pedestrians and vehicles thinned out as he approached the edge of buildings that turned into Neat House Gardens. The area was a bustling market garden, being both low-lying and with a high water table. The nearby pastures gave ample access to large quantities of manure to fertilise the ground. Among the many crops grown were cauliflower, asparagus, artichokes, spinach, and radishes.

  Alehouses had sprung up to slake the thirst of the workers from the fields and the area had a reputation for revelry. Wycliff suspected pressure from the city would soon see the demise of the gardens and the land turned into housing. A great loss, in his mind. He preferred open country to the press of bodies around him.

  A small group of people with nothing better to do had gathered on the bank of the Thames, giving away his destination. The water had receded at low tide, leaving a muddy stretch, and a few small boats used for fishing were drawn up to the grassy bank. A man sat upon an upturned wooden box and from beneath his buttocks came a regular tapping noise.

  Wycliff sighed as he stared at the sticky mud. His boots would be coated with the stuff, as would the hem of his coat if he didn’t hold it out of the way. He squelched his way to the seated man and hoped the beeswax on his boots would keep the worst of the moisture at bay.

  “I am Viscount Wycliff, investigator for the Ministry of Unnaturals. What do we have here?” He pointed to the box.

  The man let out an audible sigh. “We been taking turns to sit on it for hours, milord. If it’s not weighted, it drags the box with it.”

  “Let’s have a look, man.” Wycliff gestured for the man to get up. He wasn’t going to peer between his legs. From the noise, it sounded like an angry trapped rodent. A stench came up off the mud and assaulted his nostrils.

  The man rose and the box shuddered along an inch in the mud like a hermit crab dragging its shell. The man jumped back a step. “Told you—only way I could stop it moving was to sit on it.”

  Chatter rose from the watchers. “Bet it’s a cat,” someone yelled.

  Wycliff rested his palms on either side of the box and lifted one side out of the sticky ooze. It wasn’t a cat, not unless it was a bald one, although the object did bear some resemblance to a cat. Long, narrow, and hairless, it was coated in muck but still recognisable.

  It took him only a few seconds to identify the creature.

  It was an arm with the hand still attached. But there was n
o sign of the rest of the body within the small container.

  As he studied the arm, the fingers tapped on the side of the box like a man testing the limits of his prison. Then the fingers dropped to the ground and inched forward, dragging the severed limb behind them. When it butted up against the side of the container, it leaned into the obstruction in a fashion similar to a man who put his shoulder to a heavy load. The limb had been severed below the elbow. The wound didn’t bleed and the arteries and tendons hung like dead worms. The flesh was a dull brownish red, probably from the swim in the Thames.

  “It crawled up out of the water.” The man gestured to a point by the water’s edge. “We were bringing the boat up and thought it were a rat. But rats don’t have fingers, do they?”

  The box moved another inch. Where was it heading?

  The man moved back a step as he waved at the upturned crate. “It ain’t right, innit? Arms don’t move on their own. Ought to ’ave a body attached. That’s why the Runner sent for you and said it were none of ’is business.”

  Mutters rippled through the crowd. Dead bodies shouldn’t move. Except they did, as people had learned with the appearance of the Afflicted and of vampyres in England. Wycliff leaned closer to the arm. There was something odd about it, quite apart from its being independently ambulatory.

  “Has the rest of it washed up?” Wycliff asked.

  A rough line of stitches encircled the wrist—two edges sewn together like a rip mended in a sail. Perhaps the owner worked around machinery, had lost the limb in an accident, and had it sewn back on?

  “We ain’t seen nothing, ’ave we?” the man called to his companions on the bank.

  “No one’s passed by and asked if we’ve seen ’is arm,” one wit retorted.

  “Do you have a bag?” Wycliff cast around. There was no point carrying the thing in the box when it could crawl out.

  Someone on the bank tossed down a hessian sack. Wycliff shook it out and held the end open with one hand. He wrapped his free hand around the end of the stray arm and flipped the limb into the sack. He drew tight the string and knotted it. The arm thrashed around like a feral cat caught in a trap.

  Somewhere out there was an Afflicted or vampyre missing an arm and a hand. If the limb was trying to return to its owner, would it work like a compass needle to find the rest of the body?

  Wycliff reached into a pocket and extracted a card. “If you find any more of it, let me know. Have you heard of the monster prowling these parts?”

  The man’s eyes widened. “Blimey. Do you think it’s part of ’im?”

  Wycliff surveyed the gathered people. An assortment of fishermen, washerwomen, and the unemployed. They all looked prone to believing flights of fancy and scuttlebutt. He doubted he’d find any information of value from them.

  “I would have to see this monster to ascertain if he is missing a limb. If you spot anything, contact me at the Ministry. There will be a reward in it for you.”

  The man grinned and exposed the gaps of missing teeth. He touched the brim of his cap. “Will do, milord.”

  Wycliff picked his way back through the mud to the bank. The horse snorted at the squirming sack. Wycliff couldn’t blame the mare; he didn’t like it, either. He was loath to tie it behind his saddle in case the hand could free itself. In the end, he decided to hold it to the side and ride with the reins in one hand.

  Sir Manly wanted him to inquire about the Chelsea monster, but that would have to wait until he divested himself of the limb. He wouldn’t put himself out on the strength of a drunken rumour and he had sown the seed of reward money with the man who had discovered the limb. That should do the work for him.

  He had an awkward ride back to the Ministry headquarters, holding the sack out to one side while also ensuring he didn’t knock any passers-by in the head with it. He crossed the floor, aware he tracked in mud with each step, and knocked once more upon Sir Manly’s door.

  “What was it? Some sort of rodent, I presume.” His superior officer looked up from his paperwork.

  Wycliff held out the sack. The movement was less pronounced now, as though the hand had worn itself out trying to escape. “A severed limb that wants to be reunited with the rest of its body.”

  Bushy grey eyebrows drew together. Sir Manly leaned back in his chair and the ornate swirls and curls in his moustache rose up and down as he ground his teeth. “Well. That’s something new. Take it to Sir Hugh and then inquire at the hospitals as to whether they’ve seen the rest of it.”

  Wycliff bit back a retort that it wasn’t his job to find bodies missing limbs, if someone had been so careless as to misplace their arm. Instead, he gave a stiff bow. “As you wish, sir.”

  3

  After breakfast, Hannah and her mother adjourned to the library. More names had been inscribed overnight in the ensorcelled ledger that resided with Unwin and Alder. Each day the unseen staff wrote the names of any donations received for processing and sale to their elite clientele.

  Hannah called out each name and Seraphina looked it up in the mage genealogies to see whether the deceased was an aftermage. Hannah hoped soon to have enough information to begin a trial, separating the Afflicted into two groups. A small group would be fed only aftermage brains, to see what effect the trace of magic had on their cursed bodies.

  “Found her—fifth generation,” Seraphina called.

  Hannah wrote the notation A5 next to the name. A wave of sadness washed over her as she gazed at it. The donor had only been twelve years old. A life cut short by either illness or injury. Were parents waiting for their child to be returned to them so she could be buried? Or had the girl died alone with no one to mourn her passing, her small body relieved of its most valuable asset and slipped into an unmarked pauper’s grave?

  “Hannah? Next name?” Her mother’s voice cut through her maudlin thoughts.

  “Sorry. I was just thinking of the lives lost and how they ended up in Unwin and Alder’s ledger.” Only three names had appeared overnight. Three individuals whose families, or those who had found their bodies, were compensated for donating a specific organ for wealthy Afflicted to dine upon. Not that the families knew the brain was removed. To explain the tidy row of stitches in the scalp, they were told it was a type of phrenology study and that measurements had been taken of the deceased’s skull.

  “Ah. Pondering the fragility of life?” One wheel on the bath chair squeaked as Seraphina rotated to face her daughter.

  The dead mage was draped in cream silk today. A veil covered her face and long gloves were tucked into the cuffs of her sleeves. Embroidered cream flowers adorned the hem of her dress. A single orange rosebud was tucked behind her ear—plucked for her by Sir Hugh before he departed for the day. Apart from the flower, her mother appeared almost to be a marble bust.

  Hannah traced the name on the page with a fingertip. “It doesn’t seem fair. A young life gone to sustain that of a wealthy woman.”

  A soft chuckle blew out Seraphina’s veil. “Now you are sounding like our newest resident. Are you adopting his views?”

  Hannah shuddered and stuck out her tongue. “Banish the thought, Mother. Besides, I doubt Viscount Wycliff loses any sleep pondering the lives of the poor that are cut short. He seems rather preoccupied with finding fault in his superiors.”

  “Hannah, that is a particularly uncharitable remark. You have not walked his journey and should not presume to know his intentions.” Her mother’s tone bordered on sharp.

  Hannah stared at the book and swallowed her words. Her mother was right. She had not lived the viscount’s life to know the obstacles he faced. There was something about the man that rubbed her the wrong way and she could not help disliking him. Perhaps that was easier than the alternative—what if she liked him?

  The horror. Imagine her mooning over his sharp visage across the table every morning.

  “Sorry, Mother. There is something about him that makes me uncomfortable.” What madness had made her mother extend to him the
invitation to live with them? If her mother wanted more excitement in her life, they could have moved closer to London.

  “Think of him like the porcupine. It may be covered in sharp spines, but if you are brave enough, you might find it quite soft to stroke.” The wheel squeaked as Seraphina moved closer. She reached out and took Hannah’s hand. “Do you know your greatest gift?”

  Hannah blew out a sigh that made a wayward lock of hair dance away from her face. “Either Father’s obstinacy or your curiosity.”

  Seraphina laughed. “You have both, that is obvious. But no. Your gift is your empathy. You have a concern for others that allows you to better understand them. Apply that gift to the viscount and you might be surprised at what you find.”

  “What if I don’t like what I find?” The man already made her feel like a chicken left alone with the fox. What if on closer examination she found him to be a ravenous wolf? The shiver down her spine was tinged with something else.

  Excitement.

  “If you make a genuine effort for the rest of the month and still cannot tolerate him, then I will have no choice but to turn him into a goldfish. We will release him into the pond where he may live a happier life.” Seraphina patted Hannah’s hand.

  “He would have a short life if the birds spotted him in the pond.” Hannah would try. Perhaps in the attempt to understand him, she might learn more details of the campaign that had seen his regiment slaughtered. The idea of unravelling the tragic secret of his survival (she was quite convinced it would prove to be terribly tragic) perked her up. “Whatever motivates him, it doesn’t make me feel any more comfortable about the young lives cut short who end up in this ledger.”

  Her mother wheeled herself back to the desk and the enormous genealogy book that recorded the seven generations of each mage family. “Bear in mind the Afflicted are not responsible for those who die in London. Illness, injury, and age are the three reapers who snatch people at all levels of society. We do not send forth invisible assassins to feed our hunger, Hannah. It was the enterprising Messrs. Unwin and Alder who were enlisted by your father to harvest what the deceased no longer needed, and present it in a form acceptable to the Afflicted among the ton.”