Galvanism and Ghouls

by Tilly Wallace

  He intended to petition both Sir Manly and Parliament to ensure that when an Unnatural committed a crime that would result in a death sentence for a living man, it would be imposed upon the Unnatural, too. Technically the Afflicted were already dead, but he was sure there would be a way to deliver those individuals to the afterlife.

  Wycliff hitched his horse and approached the warehouse with its wide open doors. Barrels, kegs, and crates were being carried down the gangplank of a vessel and into the dim interior.

  “Can I help you, milord?” a man asked as he directed another individual carrying a crate off to a corner of the warehouse. The faint clink of glass came from within.

  “Yes. I am conducting the investigation into the death of Joseph Barnes, and wish to speak to anyone who knew him.” Wycliff peered into the dark, where men moved around placing crates one on top of another as they chatted and laughed.

  The man screwed up one side of his face. “What do you need to know? I knew him. Argumentative bugger, begging your pardon, milord.”

  Wycliff arched an eyebrow. He didn’t care about the man’s disposition, only his physical description. “Did he have any tattoos or distinguishing features?”

  The man screwed up the other side of his face in concentration. Then he yelled to the man carrying the crate, “Larry, can you remember if Barnesy had any tattoos or distinguishing features?” He mimicked Wycliff’s accent.

  “You mean apart from being ugly?” came the response.

  “That’s not helping his lordship here.” The man had a strained smile on his face as he yelled over his shoulder.

  Silence was the answer. Then another voice called, “’E ’ad a tattoo of a boat on ’is arm, down by ’is wrist. Think it was some vessel ’e sailed on as a lad.”

  “The left or right arm?” Wycliff asked as the speaker emerged from the shadows.

  The young man looked constipated for a moment, then he pointed to the inside of his left wrist. “This one.”

  “Left. Thank you, that is all I need.” Wycliff reclaimed his mare and vaulted into the saddle. That solved one mystery—the hand most likely belonged to Joseph Barnes, unless there was some other undead creature with a nautical tattoo. Now he just had to find the rest of the man to verify he lacked a left hand.

  He had asked a Bow Street Runner to enquire where the man’s family had buried him. He consulted the scribbled note and turned his mare in the direction of Bunhill Fields. His gut already told him the grave would be empty, but he wanted to confirm his suspicion.

  The mare was left to graze under a tree. As Wycliff stepped onto hallowed ground, a vibration ran up through his legs and tugged at him. Like a fish on a hook, it pulled him closer to the rows of gravestones and markers. He closed his eyes while it seemed a thousand voices pressed into his skull as he neared. He shook his head until the sound settled down to a low murmur, then continued on his way.

  The biggest hurdle turned out to be finding where Barnes had supposedly been laid to rest. The sexton scratched his head and fumbled in his tiny shed for a worn and dirty ledger.

  As he waited for the sexton to find the entry, Wycliff surveyed the cemetery. Bunhill Fields was fast becoming overcrowded. There were stories circulated of bodies dismembered so that more could be crammed into available space, and of coffins laid directly on top of each other. The ground bore fresh marks everywhere he looked. If he closed his eyes, those snatched from this earth too soon moaned, demanding he find their physical forms.

  “How long ago?” the man called out as he flipped through pages.

  “A month, approximately.” Wycliff worked backward to when he remembered the Runner had said Barnes’ body had been fished from the Thames. They thought fish had eaten his brains, but the culprit turned out to be Rowley, a wealthy heir who wanted canapés to go with his champagne.

  The sexton made a triumphant sound and banged the ledger with his knuckles. “Found him. Joseph Barnes. Northeast corner, plot 132.”

  Wycliff pointed to the shovels leaning against the shed. “He must be dug up.”

  The man clenched his jaw. “We put them in the ground, not take them out again.”

  Wycliff bit back a laugh. The cemeteries of the lower classes were notorious for the comings and goings of their residents. Resurrectionists would dig anyone up if a body was worth a few coins. There was no one to guard their eternal slumber and there should be. He rubbed at his chest as an ache speared through him. “I only need to confirm he is in the grave. The family have concerns about body snatchers.”

  Certainly Unwin and Alder would have had no use for a man with his brain already removed, but the teaching schools still needed a steady supply of cadavers for their students. The man with the star turn in the SUSS resurrection challenge could have come from a graveyard such as this one.

  The sexton tossed the ledger on a bench and picked up a dented and dirty hat to cover his balding head. “As you wish, milord. The lads are in that area. They’ll have him up in no time.”

  They picked through freshly turned earth, tufts of grass, and weathered crosses. Most had a number scratched into the base of the wood, to identify who rested there. A few gravestones had flowers in varying degrees of decay placed at the base. The death of the flowers seemed to coincide with the growth of grass over the grave.

  “One hundred and thirty two. Here we are.” The sexton pointed to a patch of earth covered in sparse grass. The cross was newer, and black paint spelling out Joseph Barnes was still legible. A posy of long dead daisies sat at the base of the cross.

  “You two, come here and start digging,” the sexton yelled to two lads who were digging a grave farther along the row.

  The lads exchanged looks, shrugged, and then shambled along dragging their shovels. Their lives were spent either digging holes, filling in holes, or digging up previous holes…the latter for extra coin at night, paid by doctors needing fresh samples.

  “Why this one? He’s been down for a while. Won’t be pleasant.” The lads exchanged looks and fidgeted with their shovels.

  “Because the lord here wants to check on this one in particular, not a fresher one.” The sexton rolled his eyes and muttered something about dealing with dimwits. A sentiment Wycliff shared.

  “He’ll be ripe. Perhaps his lordship could wait in the shed and we’ll fetch him when we’re done?” the taller lad suggested.

  “I assure you I’m quite used to the sight and smell of death. You may begin.” Wycliff crossed his arms. The reluctance of the lads confirmed his suspicions before they even turned a single sod.

  As they scooped up shovelfuls of earth and piled it to one side, Wycliff contemplated how England had changed since the passing of the Unnaturals Act in 1812. That piece of legislation gave such creatures the same rights as every other English subject. It also made them beholden to the same laws. Monsters and demons who had once lived in the shadows, and who had been hunted for their hides, were allowed out into the light.

  While he still believed that any creature capable of committing a horrendous murder shouldn’t be allowed to roam the streets, perhaps he could grant them the same liberties as other men. Let them be presumed innocent until shown to be guilty. Then he would pursue them to the ends of the earth to ensure they were brought to justice.

  Such a loosening in his views would please Miss Hannah Miles. Not that he cared at all what she thought. He couldn’t imagine why he even considered her opinion. His gaze strayed to the brown and brittle daisies at the base of the cross. If he died, who would lay flowers at his grave? Certainly not the debt collectors—they’d be on the business end of a shovel to prise any gold from his teeth.

  It didn’t take long for one shovel to hit something solid. The men moved more carefully, scraping soil from the top to reveal Joseph Barnes’ plain pine box.

  “You sure you want to see this, milord?” the tall lad asked, his gaze darting sideways to his workmate. His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down.

  “Most definitely.
” He was quite enjoying making the two of them sweat from more than physical exertion. The shorter lad had perspiration running down his brow and they hadn’t dug that deep. Barnes was in a shallow grave, either to make him easier to dig up again or because another coffin was underneath him.

  “Getting filled up out here—we need to double stack them. In some graves they are laid right on top of each other,” the sexton said as he glanced at his workers. Then he waved to the taller lad.

  The youth handed off his shovel and hopped down into the hole, where they had cleared a small space for his feet. He curled his fingers around the edges of the lid and made a pantomime show of wrenching it up. Wycliff nearly applauded his acting. With no nails to secure the top, it slid off without any real effort.

  He flicked the lid to one side, where it rested against the dirt, while the others leaned in to see what the coffin held.

  Nothing.

  “Bugger,” the sexton said.

  “It would seem he has got away on you. It is so troublesome these days, with the dead refusing to stay put in their graves,” Wycliff drawled.

  “Do you think he’s one of those dead people like some of them toffs and he wandered off?” The shorter lad’s eyes lit up as he leapt on a possible excuse to explain Barnes’ absence.

  Wycliff knew how a cat felt at play with a mouse. There was something satisfying in tormenting a lesser creature. “Oh, I don’t think that is the case here. Neither the Afflicted nor vampyres tend to bother with filling a grave back in. To whom did you sell him?”

  The sexton went red in the face. “Now look here, milord, we’re not body snatchers, you know—”

  A wave of Wycliff’s hand silenced the man. “Of course you are. Although given the fact that Barnes had been in the river, I’m not sure who would have wanted him. I don’t care that you earn extra coin, I am merely trying to track what happened to him. Tell me where he went and we’ll say no more about it.”

  The two lads stared at the dirt-encrusted toes of their boots.

  “You can either tell me or I will be here every night until I discover who it was. I expect my prowling the perimeter might cause a sudden drop in your nocturnal business.” The idea settled something deep inside him. These dead deserved peace just as much as the nobles with their fancy mausoleums. But he couldn’t be in multiple places at once. While they had no respect for the dead, these were human criminals, not Unnatural ones. The Runners could deal with them while he pursued his quarry.

  “Newt Thackery,” one of the lads burst out.

  The other elbowed him so hard in the middle the lad doubled over and had to grab his shovel to stay upright.

  Wycliff narrowed his eyes at the shorter lad. “Who is Thackery? A doctor?”

  “No.” He rubbed his stomach and glared at his comrade. “More like a delivery person. Told him we had a fellow pulled from the Thames with half his head missing and he was right interested, he was.”

  Most surgeons and students thought themselves too good to deal directly with the grave diggers. An intermediary was not unexpected, although it would draw out his chase. “Where would I find this Newt Thackery?”

  The lad with the sharp elbow sighed. “Chicken’s Run Inn. But we never told you nowt.”

  Wycliff stared at the lad, wondering how miserable he might make his day. If he were in a particularly foul mood, he could start pointing to recent graves to discover how many others were vacant. In London, death was a profitable business—from the sanctioned practices of Unwin and Alder, down to those on the fringes of the law demanding fresh bodies or cheaper brains.

  Then he decided on expediency and turned back to his mare. The dank odour of death drifted from the damp soil and tickled his nostrils. He tried to hold his breath to stop inhaling the scent of decay and misery, but it permeated his body. A shudder ran over his skin as the voices whispered to him. Some angry, some taunting, others demanding.

  “No. I do not have time. Leave me alone,” he muttered as he took the reins in hand.

  The Chicken’s Run Inn was situated toward White Chapel in the sort of area where murder, theft, and rape were commonplace occurrences. Wycliff kept his wits about him. War had taught him that a blow never came from the direction from which you expected it.

  Men missing limbs held out bowls and begged for coins. Some had crude signs saying they were war veterans. Too many men had given everything and come back to nothing. Others watched him ride past from darkened alleys, no doubt calculating the value of his horse, tack, and worn coat.

  Let them try. They would find him prepared for any skirmish and in the mood to bloody his fists in a fight. He found a lad with cunning in his eyes and dropped a coin into his filthy hand to hold the mare’s reins. Wycliff promised another coin if the horse was still upright when he emerged from the tavern. With his depleted finances, the way he was spending coin couldn’t continue. He would submit an expense claim to the Ministry of Unnaturals and Sir Manly could either pay it or find himself another investigator.

  He walked into the Chicken’s Run, dropping his shoulders and lowering his eyes. At least he hadn’t dressed like a toff today, and it was no stretch to say he was down on his luck. He lived with a dead mage and a mad scientist—if anyone needed a quiet drink to drown their woes, it was he.

  “Help you?” the barkeep asked.

  “Ale.” He slid a coin across a gritty counter. He glanced at the scattering of patrons, most huddled in groups of two or three. Only two men sat alone in dim corners. “I’m looking for Newt Thackery. I’m told he can help me procure something I require.”

  The barkeep narrowed his eyes and stared at the man behind Wycliff’s left shoulder. “You one of those medical types?”

  Only if one employed a very expansive definition of the word medical, in that he was familiar with injuries and how to kill a man. “Yes. Can you point me in the right direction?”

  The barkeep gestured to a table against the far wall. “The big chap playing cards by himself.”

  “Much obliged.” He picked up his drink and crossed the floor, aware all eyes followed the stranger.

  “Thackery?” Wycliff placed his beer on the table and dropped onto the hard seat. He tried not to think what stains might be attaching themselves to his breeches. Tomorrow would be spent compiling his expenses and scrubbing his clothes.

  “Who wants to know?” The man didn’t look up as he turned a card over and moved another to the discard pile.

  “I am informed that you are an enterprising man. I wish to send some business in your direction.” Wycliff glanced around him. He trod a delicate line to elicit information from the man without instigating an all-out brawl. Though he was confident he would emerge victorious if he had to employ his fists to learn what he needed.

  “I don’t conduct business with strangers.” More cards were dealt from the pack.

  “You took delivery of something from Bunhill Fields. A unique specimen with half his head bashed in. I want to know who paid you for him.” The hairs on the back of Wycliff’s neck lifted as shadows moved closer.

  Thackery shook his head. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I’m not leaving here until you tell me. Maybe I’ll send a message to the Runners I know to come join me for a drink.” They probably wouldn’t come, since he didn’t exactly have any friends among them, but Thackery didn’t know that.

  “You have no friends here.” Thackery leaned back against the wall.

  “I have no need of friends.” There was something on his side, however, that no one else in the room had.

  Wycliff reached deep inside himself and prodded his darkest secret. He had told Lady Miles he wanted the thing wrapped in chains and dropped in the deepest part of the ocean, but events had changed since that day. That which lurked within him might yet prove handy.

  The beast simmered close to the surface today, roused by the visit to the graveyard. He let the dark flow through his veins and with it came heat and the f
aint whiff of sulphur. When he felt it surge up inside him he looked up and met Thackery’s gaze.

  The larger man sucked in a breath and pressed himself into the bench. “What are you?”

  “A nightmare that neither of us wants unleashed. Tell me what I need to know and I’ll leave as quietly as I arrived. Otherwise no one will walk away from here.” The thing inside him set fire to his blood and the ale steamed in the mug in his hands.

  Thackery dropped the handful of cards to the table. “I don’t know his real name. He called himself Smith, but you could tell he was lying. I didn’t care. His coins were real enough.”

  “Describe him.” Wycliff gritted his teeth. Having woken his torment, he now had the difficult task of shoving it back into the locked part of him. The beast was growing belligerent and would no longer go quietly to the darkest corner. He had thought that letting it out to run on a moonless night would satisfy it, but letting it free had proved to be a mistake.

  “Not much to tell. I never got a good look at him. Said he was a doctor. Had a particular interest in any bodies I could procure that had head injuries and their brains missing.”

  A doctor trying to find secondary Afflicted? “What did you do with the body?”

  “I took it to Chelsea, met Smith in a field where he had a cart. I loaded the corpse on, got my coin, and never saw him again.” Thackery relaxed as he observed Wycliff’s gaze return to normal. He picked up the cards and began to shuffle.

  Wycliff slid a coin toward the man. “You’ve been most helpful.”

  A doctor in Chelsea? He recalled the SUSS meeting and those present. He had a good idea where he might start with his enquiries.

  8

  Hannah was quiet as she walked to the library, pondering the sight of the hand battling to escape so it could continue some unknown journey. How odd that she felt more sympathy for a small part of a limb than she did for all of Viscount Wycliff’s ominous person. Why did she have such difficulty putting herself in his position? If she could answer that, truthfully, she might get to the bottom of why the man bothered her more than a burr under the saddle annoyed a horse.