Galvanism and Ghouls

by Tilly Wallace

  The resurrectionists had been uniquely positioned when the French curse struck a small number of noblewomen. Hannah’s father had sought their help to have sufficient brain matter on hand to feed the undead women. Once he had the support of the Prince Regent and the Prime Minister, that enterprise had grown into a legal business. Unwin and Alder supervised the gruesome task of supplying that which kept the wives, sisters, and daughters of peers from rotting. In return, they made a handsome profit on pickled cauliflower.

  “I know, Mother. It is just so sad to see the names inscribed every morning and wonder about those they left behind.” Hannah brushed a hand over the paper, as though she could gather up the memories of those written on the page.

  Seraphina turned a page in the large tome as she searched for the last name. “Because you have empathy, my darling daughter. That is what makes you so extraordinary—your ability to place yourself in the shoes of another.”

  Hannah pushed the book away as though its pages were steeped in sorrow and she could touch it no longer. “Speaking of shoes, I shall need new ones for Lizzie’s wedding. And a dress, I suppose, if finances will allow?”

  “Of course you shall have a new dress for the wedding. We may live a modest life, but we are not impoverished. You shall have whatever you need.”

  “But we are poor, are we not?” Hannah frowned and tried to digest the meaning of her mother’s words.

  Seraphina laughed. “No, we are not poor. We are quite comfortable, due to the careful investments your father and I made over the years with my earnings.”

  Hannah’s world spun on its axis and her mind was tipped upside down. “But we live out here away from London, and I am only ever allowed two or three new dresses each year.”

  “We live here because Hugh and I both value our privacy and prefer to live away from gossiping tongues. And the limit on your gowns was because we wanted to raise a daughter who valued books and learning, not ribbons and frocks.” Seraphina spoke with her hands, and moving pictures appeared in the space between them. A room full of gowns and shoes turned into a library.

  Hannah wanted to ball her hands into fists and throw herself to the ground, crying that it wasn’t fair. She had thought they were as poor as church mice and made do with her old dresses. But if they weren’t poor at all, she could have had the latest fashions, and matching bonnets and ribbons and—

  She leaned back against the window frame and blinked. Her rampant thoughts illustrated her mother’s point. Was she really so vain and shallow a creature that she immediately thought of all the fripperies she could have possessed?

  She banished the unworthy thoughts. “I never knew. I thought our modest life was due to insufficient funds.”

  “A child should never have to worry about being fed, sheltered, or clothed. I am sorry if you were under the impression we were poor.” Her mother’s head tilted, as though she were considering her.

  Hannah pulled the ledger back toward herself and stared at the names. These were children who worried about empty bellies and who shivered in the cold. She had never lacked for clothing, comfort, or sustenance, thanks to her parents. She also had copious amounts of that most precious commodity—love.

  “Perhaps it is just as well that I had no knowledge of our true situation. If you had told me we were quite wealthy, I fear I would have developed a terrible addiction to new bonnets and shoes.” Hannah managed a smile.

  “Now that you are older and have grown into a sensible young woman, I shall speak to your father. It is time you had a larger allowance, with more independence over your wardrobe. Or to purchase fripperies if you so desire.”

  Hannah rushed to her mother, flung her arms about her, and hugged her. “Thank you. I know it seems foolish to desire something beautiful, but I promise not to turn into a vainglorious creature.” As she said the words, the image of Lady Gabriella Ridlington appeared in her mind. Hannah shuddered. No, she would never turn into such a shallow and callous creature just because she could afford a piece of ribbon or a brooch if one caught her eye.

  A gloved hand soothed Hannah’s back. “I am glad that is sorted and no longer weighing on your thoughts. Kitty has written, and advised that the modiste working on Lizzie’s trousseau is only too happy to make your gown also.”

  Excitement trickled through Hannah as she contemplated her dear friend’s wedding. The event was planned for the end of summer and was as oft discussed as the forthcoming royal wedding of Princess Charlotte. Then she remembered the gruesome murder on the night of Lizzie’s engagement party. “Let us hope no unfortunate events mar the wedding.”

  “I shall concoct a spell to ensure everyone behaves.” Hannah couldn’t see her mother’s face, but she could hear the humour sparkling in her voice.

  With matters settled, they returned to work until the last name was notated as an O for ordinary in the ledger. Hannah put the book away on the shelf. “What’s next for today, Mother?”

  Seraphina waved a hand and the enormous and heavy mage genealogy book rose into the air and snuggled itself into a spot on a high shelf. “Next we have a stack of intelligence from Sir Ewan Shaw. His men are most diligent in trying to track Afflicted persons in France.”

  With the genealogy book moved, a map now appeared on Seraphina’s desk. Mountains, trees, and tiny buildings grew from the surface as Hannah watched. Towers denoted the location of each French mage. Minuscule shadow people represented the Afflicted they had found. So far they were an equal distance from each mage. They had hoped they would cluster around the person who had created the French curse.

  Hannah picked up the sheets of paper from Sir Ewan. “I’ll read through and call out locations.”

  It was early afternoon when a sharp rap at the library door made both women look up. Mary had a soft and quiet knock. Only one man would bang on the panels like a debt collector.

  Viscount Wycliff opened the door and took two steps into the library before halting. His black hair was more dishevelled than usual, the bottom of his coat and boots were coated in mud, and from him wafted a fetid odour.

  “I’ll not disturb you overlong, Lady Miles, as I am coated in muck from the Thames. But I wonder if Miss Hannah could be spared to assist me?” He held up a sack that squirmed and wriggled.

  “Whatever do you have? It’s not a kitten or a puppy, is it?” Had the horrid man scooped up some poor creature stuck in the mud? Although if he had brought it home, he was most likely rescuing it, not dining upon it.

  He held the sack at arm’s length. “No. It’s a rather lively limb that needs to be contained until Sir Hugh can inspect it.”

  Hannah set aside the ledger and rose to her feet. “There are a number of suitable boxes in Father’s workroom. Excuse me, Mother.”

  “You know where I will be, Hannah.” Seraphina waved a hand in the air and the markers on the map began a slow dance around each other as she rotated the terrain.

  “If you will follow me, my lord.” Hannah led the way down the hall to the small staircase that linked her father’s basement laboratory with the rest of the house.

  In the large laboratory, Hannah surveyed the empty containers stacked on a shelf. “Does it require air holes?”

  “No. Nor does it want anything with a lock it can reach from inside.”

  Hannah glanced at the sack, more curious than ever now to see what lay within. She selected a metal box that was rectangular in shape and possessed an external lock. “This should keep the item secure until Father has time tomorrow.”

  She placed it on the table and opened the lid. Wycliff put the entire sack, with the mouth still drawn, in the bottom. Then he closed the lid with a clang and held out his hand for the lock and key.

  A curl of disappointment worked through Hannah as she passed him the heavy lock. She wanted to see what it was. “Father won’t return until late tonight, but I’m sure he will be eager to see what you found first thing tomorrow.”

  Wycliff grunted as he locked the object inside a
nd dropped the key into a pocket in his waistcoat. “Until tomorrow, then.”

  4

  Hannah’s father was in a fine mood when he descended the stairs the next morning. He wore a broad grin and hummed a song under his breath as he filled his plate from the hot dishes waiting on the sideboard. “Good morning,” he said to the occupants of the room.

  “How was the meeting, Papa?” Hannah asked as he took his seat.

  “Brilliant! The discourse was wholly invigorating. Reverend Jones has an intriguing theory that the Afflicted continue to be animated because a residual piece of soul hides within them.” Sir Hugh sliced his sausage into equal parts before loading up his fork with sausage, bacon, and potato.

  “Still trying to prove that his God had a hand in our condition?” Seraphina held an empty teacup in a gloved hand.

  Sir Hugh swallowed a large mouthful and gestured to his wife with the empty fork. “To give the man his due, his faith has been sorely tested these last few years and he is digging deeply to explain why the dead still walk. He believes that a religious ceremony to expunge the fragment of remaining soul and reunite it with the rest will result in permanent death.”

  Viscount Wycliff watched the exchange in silence, his eyes moving back and forth as though he observed a tennis match.

  “By a ceremony do you mean some form of exorcism?” Hannah asked, trying to ignore the wraith in the room—who most certainly required an exorcism to remove him from her life.

  “He avoids giving it such a label. Doesn’t want to risk offending his wealthy patrons by implying their wives and daughters are possessed of demonic spirits.” Hugh winked at his daughter.

  Seraphina set down her cup. “And has he found any volunteers among my kind who wish to have these supposed fragments of their soul reunited?”

  Sir Hugh loaded up his fork for its next journey to his mouth. “No. But I am going to call upon Lord Jessope and ask if we might attempt the ceremony on Lady Jessope. She is the most devout among the interred and prays constantly to be forgiven for her sins so that she might enter Heaven. Poor thing, I think she would be willing to undergo any trial to be united with her God.”

  Seraphina gave a most unladylike snort. “Well, if you don’t mind, Hugh, I might be absent when Reverend Jones waves the holy water. I don’t want to be inadvertently exorcised. I still have much to do here before I go quietly to my grave.”

  “Never fear, my love. We will conduct the ceremony at his church in Chelsea,” Sir Hugh said.

  “What of Doctor Husom and Lord Charles Dunkeith? How do their studies advance?” Hannah asked. Had her father asked if she might attend the meeting today? It would be more beneficial to see and hear first-hand rather than relying on his accounts.

  Her father swallowed a mouthful before replying. “Husom is quite convinced the answer lies in the application of galvanism, whereas I think Lord Dunkeith has a more sound approach with his investigation of restorative potions.”

  “Two very different approaches. Did you ask if I might attend today?” Hannah stared into her tea and pondered the advantages to being born male. No one told a man he couldn’t do something because it might be unseemly.

  “I did indeed, and I said how beneficial it would be to have my very able assistant present. You will be pleased to know, Hannah, that the gentlemen agreed that you might accompany me.”

  “Thank you, Papa!” Hannah leapt from her seat and kissed her father’s cheek. As she retook her chair, Viscount Wycliff cast her a withering glance that made her wish she might instead dissolve into the upholstery. “I’m sure listening to the lectures in person will prove most edifying and we will be able to discuss their findings later.” She lowered her tone and concentrated on her boiled egg and toast.

  “Husom and Dunkeith are two quite fascinating chaps, and I am sure, given that we all take such different approaches, one of us must surely stumble upon success. What do you think, Wycliff?” Sir Hugh directed his attention to their newest resident. “Do you think the movement of the Afflicted a mechanical process or a spiritual one?”

  “I shall leave such contemplations to men more learned than I. I am only concerned with what the Afflicted do, not how.” Having made his remarks as brief as possible, the viscount fell silent again and let conversation flow around him.

  “A practical approach, my lord.” Hannah decided not to let the interloper bother her, and braved a comment direct to the man. Her parents’ presence at breakfast made her bolder. It did help that her mother could immolate him on the spot if necessary. “Papa, Lord Wycliff has something that requires your attention after breakfast.”

  Sir Hugh’s eyes sparkled with interest. “Of course, my lord. Today’s session doesn’t start until mid-morning. What do you have for me?”

  Wycliff laid down his cutlery. “An item currently in a locked box. It is a limb discovered on the bank of the Thames yesterday that is, for want of a better word, lively.”

  Sir Hugh’s brows knitted more closely together. “Lively? That sounds most fascinating. Will you join us, Hannah?”

  “If Mother does not mind a change to our usual plans. We go through the Unwin and Alder ledger after breakfast, but today we must not be tardy for the lectures.”

  Seraphina waved her hand. “Go with the men, Hannah, to look at this lively limb, and then to the boring old meeting with your father. I will hear your thoughts when you return.”

  After breakfast, Hannah followed her father down the stairs, with Wycliff at her heels and breathing down her neck in the confined stairwell. She reminded herself of her mother’s words. She had not walked his path. What had he seen or done that made him bristle like an upset porcupine?

  Beneath the ground in the usually quiet workroom came a steady rap tap tap.

  Sir Hugh frowned. “Is that the limb tapping?”

  “I said it was lively. At least we know it did not escape overnight.” Lord Wycliff lifted the metal box from the shelf and carried it over to the stone autopsy table.

  The gentle tapping from within reminded Hannah of a moth banging on glass, trying to reach the light.

  Her father donned a canvas apron over his clothes.

  “We will need some way to restrain it once it is removed from the box. It has a tendency to scuttle,” Lord Wycliff said.

  “Straps, Hannah, and I’ll fetch the tongs.” Focused on the box, Sir Hugh rubbed his hands together like a child expecting a marvellous present.

  Hannah fetched two leather straps that could be fitted into slots in the table and used to secure the patient upon whom her father worked. She threaded the straps through holes in the stone and laid the ends out, ready to be buckled around whatever the box contained.

  Her father selected a pair of tongs. His eyes were bright with interest as he nodded to the viscount. “Ready when you are, my good fellow.”

  Wycliff produced the key from his waistcoat pocket and fitted it to the brass lock. The tapping within fell silent when the lock clicked. He gestured Sir Hugh closer and then lifted the lid.

  “It has managed to escape the sack,” he muttered as he pulled the empty bag out and tossed it to one side.

  Her father reached in with the tongs and extracted a wriggling, squirming…arm.

  Hannah prodded herself into action. When her father placed the arm over the two positioned straps, she tightened one buckle at the end of the forearm, and the other over the wrist.

  Secured on its back, or rather, with the inside of the forearm exposed, the fingers wriggled and curled into the palm, trying to reach the end of the leather that held it in place.

  Hannah fetched a bowl of water and washed the remaining mud from the limb. It wriggled and twitched as she wiped it clean and then rubbed it with a towel to dry it off.

  “How extraordinary.” Sir Hugh put down the tongs and picked up his magnifying glasses. “Given the degree of animation, I assume this was severed from one of the Afflicted.”

  “That is what I am hoping you can deduce.” W
ycliff stood at one end of the table. “The rest of the individual has not yet been found, assuming he was also in the Thames. It is entirely possible only the arm was thrown into the water.”

  Hannah peered closer at the forearm and hand, taking in details with an artist’s eye. It certainly hadn’t belonged to a woman, having the larger and coarser appearance of a man’s appendage. The forearm was covered in dark hair. The hand was broad, not unlike those of her father, and the palm bore several callouses from physical labour.

  Male Afflicted were extraordinarily rare and she shuddered to think another with an uncontrollable appetite like that of Mr Rowley might be loose in London. Albeit this one was missing an arm. That at least would slow him down and make him instantly identifiable.

  Sir Hugh examined the severed end and picked up a pair of long-nosed tweezers to pry among the tendons and nerves. “The wound is relatively fresh—there is no sign of decay. Interesting, Hannah, that the nerves appear inactive, in contrast to the activity exhibited by the hand and fingers.”

  “He has suffered a recent injury, judging by the stitching.” Hannah pointed to the wrist and the large crosses of catgut. It was indelicate work, not at all like her father’s neat stitches that any seamstress would be proud to call her own.

  The limb reminded her somewhat of a large spider. The fingers tried to free the forearm that kept it trapped. It curled and spun and tried a different approach but couldn’t bend far enough to grasp the buckle.

  As she continued her own examination, Hannah noticed the tattoo on the inside of the wrist. It seemed to be a sailing ship, or rather half of one. One sail and what could have been a prow, stopped at the stitching line. Odd that the rear of the small vessel did not continue on the other side of the stitches. There did not seem to be any flesh missing that might have erased part of the tattoo.