“Nell itches and Tabitha is sick. We all need medicine,” Beth spoke for the other two.
Wycliff assumed Nell was the one scratching herself like a dog with fleas. Tabitha must be the one clutching her middle.
“Which doctor gave you the medicine?” Had there been more in the medicine than something for a sore throat or an itch? A woman who had fallen asleep would be easier to move to another location and, he hypothesised, strangle while unable to fight back.
She shook her head and placed her hands against her ears. “It hurts. My throat hurts.”
“Who, Beth? Who was it?” He wanted to grab her and shake the information loose. But he couldn’t.
“The doctor at the surgery.” She waved one arm in the general direction of the Royal Hospital. Then she fell to the ground and curled up in a ball. The other two women lay on either side of her and covered Beth with their arms, as sobs racked their bodies.
It had to be Sir Hugh Miles. The last man to be seen with Beth. Would he find that Sir Hugh was likewise the last to be seen with the other two? Not that Wycliff could present the word of a dead woman as testimony. Nor would he be getting any more information from her tonight.
The sobs rose in pitch and became wails, each one a slither of sound that hammered into his ears. The dead women resembled one of the mounds puffing smoke behind the crematorium as all three keened and their cries became visible in the chill air.
With no more he could do, Wycliff hurried back to the Miles house, regained his human form and senses, and reached his bed just as the birds roused from the hedgerows to greet the dawn. He fell into a deep sleep and only arose close to midday.
While he slept, someone seemed to have crept into his room and stuffed wool into his ears and rubbed him all over with embers. His head felt worse than a hangover from cheap gin and his skin ached as though abraded with fire. He poured cold water into the basin on his dresser and immersed his whole head. Only when his lungs protested did he emerge from the chilly water and towel his hair. After a shave and a change of clothes, he once more felt normal.
What he needed were books concerning the dead and ghosts to determine if he could elicit more information from Beth’s spectre or the other two attached to her. Ignoring the growl of his empty stomach, he headed for the library.
He pushed open the door without thinking and found Lady Miles deep in conversation with a gentleman, who leaned over the desk and gestured to markers on the map. The man’s mere presence made a ripple flow down Wycliff’s back, as though all the hairs stood on end. That was all it took for him to recognise the lycanthrope, Sir Ewan Shaw.
Sir Ewan looked up with a piercing blue predator’s gaze as Wycliff advanced across the carpet.
“Ah, Wycliff, we missed you at breakfast. Are you acquainted with Sir Ewan Shaw?” Lady Miles gestured from one man to the other.
“By reputation.” Wycliff inclined his torso. “Sir Ewan.”
“Lord Wycliff. Lady Miles said there was a personal matter upon which I might be able to advise you.” The man’s handsome face remained impassive as he regarded Wycliff.
“You are misinformed. I am not in need of advice.” The mage needed to stay out of his business. His residence under her roof didn’t give her an invitation to meddle.
“Forgive me, sir, but I beg to differ.” Sir Ewan took a step forward and then halted. He narrowed his eyes and his fine nostrils flared. “What are you?” He enunciated each syllable clearly.
“An abomination. Or that is what most of society declares me to be. That, and they say I am incurably rude, with no redeeming features apart from my title.” Wycliff clasped his hands behind his back and sucked in a short breath to stand his ground under the inspection. What had the wolf perceived that had escaped the notice of everyone save the mage?
Sir Ewan remained still, but focused, with tense shoulders, as though he coiled his muscles before pouncing. He cocked his head and seemed to peer through Wycliff to what he hid inside. “I am not sure I can assist in this matter. It may be outside my expertise. But Lady Miles knows where to find me should you wish to discuss your particular…case.”
“I can assure you there is nothing to discuss.” He dug his nails into his palms as the lycanthrope continued to hold his gaze. A small voice whispered that he ought to lower his eyes and expose his throat—for only in society’s eyes did Wycliff outrank him—but he ignored it.
“As you wish. Lady Miles, a pleasure as always.” Sir Ewan bowed to the dead mage. As he turned to leave the room, he passed close to Wycliff, his gaze flitting sideways. “I have one piece of advice to share,” he murmured. “If you don’t make peace with it, it will destroy you.” Then he continued on his way.
Wycliff waited until the library door had closed behind him. Only then did he let out the breath he had held while the lycanthrope appraised him.
“Sir Ewan is collecting intelligence on the French Afflicted. He brought me news of five more.” Lady Miles gestured to the forms made of ash that wandered the map of France.
“Have you told him what you know of me?” Anger flared hot inside him. The mage had no right to reveal his secret.
“No. As I told you before, your secret is yours alone to reveal. But I did suggest to Sir Ewan that you might have something in common. Apparently I was mistaken. Is there anything else I can help you with?” Her tone was light, and try as he might, he didn’t think she mocked him for not taking the offered assistance.
“I wish to read any books you might have about the dead. Ghosts in particular, and those aftermages who can commune with them.” Séances and talking to the dead were popular amusements. Perhaps someone with the gift of clairvoyance could obtain more than he from Beth and the women who had been dismembered.
“An interesting topic. I have several books on the subject.” She wheeled herself away from the desk and to the middle of the room, where she faced the wall that held her books on magic, myths, and legends.
Lady Miles held out one arm and her finger ran through the air, as though she perused the shelves. Periodically she would stop and tap the air, and a book would slither from between its companions and drift down to Wycliff.
He held out his arms and before too long, he had a stack of some seven books. “Thank you, Lady Miles, that will be sufficient to make a start.”
Back in his study, Wycliff set the books on conversing with the dead to one side. Then he gathered all his papers about his investigation and shoved them into a satchel. In the afternoon he would meet with Sir Manly to discuss his progress.
In his mind he kept seeing the woman sewn together like torn fabric. Doctor Husom had ascertained that none of the limbs were Beth’s. Wycliff now knew who else’s had been used—those of Nell and Tabitha.
Nell Watts had been a washerwoman, and immersing her hands in hot water all day had given her a terrible rash up her arms. Tabitha Chant had been a prostitute who had complained of stabbing pains through her stomach. Both had attended the charity surgery at the Royal Hospital to find relief from their ailments. Neither were seen again.
The autopsy had found that the hyoid bone in Beth’s neck was fractured, something that occurred in cases of strangulation. The monster hadn’t just patched together pieces from the deceased, but was possibly committing murder to obtain those pieces. Unless he found the torsos and necks of Nell and Tabitha, he couldn’t say whether a similar fate had befallen them.
Which raised another issue: Where were the rest of their bodies? Did the unknown surgeon sort through his specimens and only use those that met certain criteria? Their remaining parts could have been consigned to the crematorium and no one would ever know. Especially if a known surgeon placed the remains on the cart to be disposed of.
Another image was burned into his mind—the ghost of Beth, clawing at her throat, saying it hurt, saying the doctor had given her medicine that made her sleepy. Nell and Tabitha attached to her by ephemeral ribbons. None of which he could tell Sir Manly without revealing how
he was able to find and speak to the shades.
On a single sheet of paper Wycliff had written his short list of suspects, compiled after discussion with Miss Miles. A list that included all those men known to be working on a cure for the Afflicted, and who possessed some degree of medical knowledge.
At the top of that list was the name Doctor Peter Husom. A surgeon who experimented with galvanism to animate the deceased.
Below that, Sir Hugh Miles. The last person to be seen with Beth and who had quietly disposed of a man’s torso with a kicking leg.
Both names caused him discomfort. He worked with these men. Both had provided crucial evidence to aid his investigation. Doctor Husom would surely be unlikely to provide proof of murder if it had been his own hands wrapped around the woman’s throat. Or had he acted solicitously to remove himself as a suspect?
Two more names on his list were less likely—Reverend Jones and Lord Dunkeith. For the sake of completeness, they needed to be raised as possible suspects before he dismissed them.
He buckled the satchel and headed for the stables, hoping the ride might clear his head and allow the clues to make sense. By the time he trotted up the street in Whitehall, his mind seemed clearer—not that he liked the picture he constructed from the clues he’d gathered.
Standing in front of General Sir Manly Powers’ desk, Wycliff had the satchel over his shoulder and the papers in his hands. As though giving a report on a recent battle, he began to read from his notes, starting with the hand that had crawled from the Thames. He moved on to his search for the rest of Mr Barnes, a secondary Afflicted, and the body snatcher’s vague description of the “large medical man” who had taken delivery of the corpse.
Next he narrated the appearance of the woman found in Chelsea. He briefly covered the fact that she was dead, but pointing and muttering, and that the doctor had ascertained that none of the attached limbs were hers. He raised the cases of the missing women in the Chelsea area, in particular the two of a similar appearance to Beth and his belief that their limbs had been attached to the woman they had discovered. He speculated that their bodies might never be found if their parts had been burned.
Wycliff reached the end of his notes and folded the papers in half. “The woman, Beth Warren, was last seen with Sir Hugh Miles at a charitable surgery in the grounds of the Royal Hospital. She had gone to see a doctor about a sore throat. Doctor Husom found the woman had been strangled and then dismembered.”
Sir Manly grunted and the ornate moustache, this week with whorls of ascending size, rose up and down. “Dreadful thing to do to a woman.”
“Two others, Nell Watts and Tabitha Chant, also went to the charitable surgery to consult a doctor and were never seen again.” Unfortunately, no one remembered them or knew who had been in attendance on the days they had gone to the Royal Hospital.
“Three at least? A true monster, all right.”
“There is one more matter of concern.” Wycliff shoved the papers back into the battered satchel.
“Spit it out, man,” Sir Manly said.
“Doctor Husom revealed that two weeks ago, a man’s leg and torso had been discovered, and the leg was kicking at anyone who approached. Sir Hugh dealt with the matter, but he has not made any mention of it to me, despite his knowing it might be pivotal to my investigation.”
Sir Manly tapped his fingers against the leather inlay of the desk. “That’s not like Sir Hugh. Why would he not mention the leg, especially if it matched the hand that was running through the mud?”
“Why indeed?” Wycliff had his theories, but what he needed was more evidence—and to pin the large man down to extract some answers. Sir Hugh had dealt with the matter all right: by keeping it to himself. His silence on the discovery spoke volumes. “We must ask if his secrecy implies culpability? He, presumably, destroyed the stitched-together torso that was found. He was the last known person to see Beth, although I have yet to ascertain if he treated Nell and Tabitha. He is known for his experimental surgical techniques. However, I have not yet ascertained whether Sir Hugh uses the cart bound for the crematorium.”
Sir Manly continued to tap on his desk what could have been a secret message in code, for all Wycliff knew. “Tread carefully, Wycliff. Sir Hugh is well known.”
“So well known that the scandal sheets have speculated for some time that he may be the Chelsea monster. While such gossip is not evidence suitable for presenting before a magistrate, what we do have is rather compelling.” Even more so if he let it be known that Sir Hugh had given Beth a draft that made her sleepy.
“Let’s review it again. Leave out nothing, no matter how small.” The tapping stilled.
Wycliff held in a sigh. It would be a long afternoon. If he wanted a warrant to find more evidence, he needed to craft a most compelling case from what he had available.
18
Hannah found dinner that evening unexpectedly quiet. Lord Wycliff had not returned from London, and rather than feeling relief at his absence, Hannah kept glancing at his empty chair with a wistful air.
“I will ask Cook to leave a plate on the stove. He may be hungry when he returns,” Hannah said as they finished their meal. Her father chuckled and exchanged a look with her mother. Hannah rolled her eyes. Her concern was merely to ensure that their boarder was fed; there was no need to read more into her actions.
To ward off further remarks, she grasped the handles on the bath chair and pushed her mother into the front parlour. There, Seraphina played a game of chess against an invisible opponent—a mage in Germany. Her father adjourned to his study, writing up his notes about the latest batch of mice they had infected.
Hannah was engrossed in Mansfield Park and the life of Fanny Price when the front door rattled under the force of someone banging upon it. Hannah nearly dropped her book in fright as the vibration caused a painting on the wall to bounce.
Seraphina tutted under her veil as she considered her next move. “Probably someone in urgent need of your father, and who thinks anyone living in the country must be hard of hearing.”
Hannah glanced at the clock sitting on the mantel. Nearly nine. Too late for a social call, which left someone requiring the well-known surgeon.
“I’ll go,” she said to her mother as she hurried to the door. The banging continued at regular intervals.
Mary appeared in the hall and glanced at the front door. “Who is it, do you think?”
“I shall answer that question once I open the door.” Hannah worried about the maid. Having Viscount Wycliff in residence appeared to have affected her nerves. Mary crept about the house as cautiously as a chicken learning to live with a fox.
Hannah pulled open the front door and froze on the spot. At least six men in bright red uniforms with white braid clustered at the door, bathed in the soft glow from the ensorcelled lights attached to the underside of the porch ceiling. The soldier who had been banging stepped aside, giving way to his commanding officer.
“In the name of the king, miss, we are here for Sir Hugh Miles.” Remembering himself at the last moment, the officer removed his shako as he addressed her.
A military matter. No wonder the men were in such a hurry. She only hoped it wasn’t an escape from the Repository, although that would require both her parents. “Of course. I shall fetch him.”
Hannah didn’t have to venture far. The noise had drawn her father from his study. “There are soldiers here for you, Papa,” she said.
“I shall need my bag, Hannah. Would you fetch it, please?” Her father buttoned up his waistcoat as he approached the door.
“Sir Hugh Miles, you are hereby placed under arrest for the murder of Beth Warren and for committing crimes against God,” the officer read from the warrant in his hand.
“What?” Hannah glanced from her father to the officer. “This is preposterous. My father has done no such thing.”
Seraphina wheeled herself along the corridor. The brave soldiers on the porch recoiled at the sight of the veiled m
age. Some shuffled to stand behind the others and the cluster of men contracted into a tight red ball. “What is going on here?” she demanded.
“It would appear these men are here to arrest me for murder,” Hugh answered his wife.
“You can all go away. You have the wrong man.” Hannah crossed her arms and stood between her father and the soldiers. No one was removing him from their home if she had anything to say about it.
Large hands settled on her shoulders from behind. “These men are only doing their duty, Hannah.”
Hannah spun and threw her arms around his expansive middle, resting her head on his chest. “No! They cannot take you away. Mother, surely you will stop them?”
Seraphina rubbed her hands together and sparks leapt between her fingers. She whispered under her breath and formed the sparks into a large sphere that spun between her palms. The soldiers muttered among themselves and most shuffled away from the open door. One brave soul stepped into the house, his rifle clutched in his hands, his knuckles white and his eyes wide.
“Sera,” Sir Hugh growled at his wife, “you will not use magic against these men. I will not be gone long. Truth will prevail.”
“What is this commotion about?” Wycliff appeared in the foyer, still wearing his overcoat and clutching his top hat.
Hannah glared at him. “You! This is your doing! These men are here to arrest my father.”
“That is ridiculous. I have just come from Chelsea, where I have been gathering more evidence. No decision was to be made until tomorrow. Who issued the warrant?” Wycliff tossed his top hat on the sideboard and held out his hand.
The officer passed over the piece of paper and the viscount scanned the contents. “Contrary to what you believe, Miss Miles, this is most assuredly not my doing. I presented the evidence I have gathered to Sir Manly today, and he then directed me to continue my enquiries in Chelsea. I have been seeking anyone who last saw two other missing women. I was also assured that no action would be taken until I had spoken to Sir Hugh.” He looked up. “This warrant was signed by Lord Ashburton, the magistrate.”
Galvanism and Ghouls Page 16
