by Kat Ross
Dr. Cavendish studied the ceiling. “I’m afraid it came from my office.”
“He was to be kept in total isolation,” Vivienne said, her voice cold. “I thought that was unambiguous.”
“This is a mental institution, Lady Cumberland, not a medieval dungeon.” He puffed his chest out, a primate asserting home turf dominance. “It’s my duty to carry out periodic assessments of my patients. I assure you, he was accompanied by four attendants at all times. I’m not sure how he managed to steal it.”
“No one’s blaming you, Dr. Cavendish,” Barrett said, frowning at Vivienne.
“I last saw Clarence this afternoon. Very briefly, for fifteen minutes perhaps. I asked him a series of questions and received no response. Frankly, I couldn’t say if he even heard me.” Dr. Cavendish paused. “Something rather odd did happen. I was just signaling to Pyle and Stokes to take him back to his cell when he mumbled a phrase.”
“What was it?” Blackwood asked eagerly.
“I can’t be certain, but it sounded like, ‘They’re here.’ That’s all. Then he resumed his catatonic state.”
“They’re here,” the inspector repeated. “Was he looking at anything in particular in your office when he said it?”
“I believe he was looking out the window.”
“Did he have any visitors while he was at Greymoor?” Alec asked.
“None.”
“Do you know how he spent his days?”
“Whenever I looked in on him, he’d be sitting on his bed, hands folded. Staring off into space. We only had one troubling incident, near the beginning of his stay here. The patients are not permitted writing materials of course”—he seemed to remember Pyle and paled a bit—“but that doesn’t prevent them from…communicating in other ways.” Dr. Cavendish glanced at Vivienne with obvious discomfort. “I don’t think it’s appropriate to relate in front of a lady, begging your pardon.”
“It’s all right, Doctor,” Vivienne said in an amused tone. “I won’t be offended. Please go on.”
He took a breath. “Well, he did write something on the walls of his cell. In…” Cavendish coughed. “I’m afraid it was his own feces. Over and over. It was at that point that Mr. Barrett and I agreed he should be kept indefinitely.”
“What did he write?” Blackwood asked.
“A Latin phrase.” He searched his memory. “Pervadunt oculus, I believe it was.”
“They come through the eyes,” Alec said softly.
“I see you know your Latin, Mr. Lawrence,” Dr. Cavendish said approvingly. “I assumed he meant the headaches. Migraines are often accompanied by a phenomenon we call auras. It’s a shimmering light viewed in the peripheral field of vision. They commonly precede onset.”
D.I. Blackwood shot Alec a questioning look. Alec gave him the barest nod.
“Well, you’ve been very helpful, Dr. Cavendish,” the inspector said briskly. “If there isn’t anything else, I think we’re done here for now. I’ll write up your statement. You can sign it later.”
Dr. Cavendish seemed relieved to be off the hook. “Indeed. Such a tragedy. I do hope your men find him quickly. Good day, gentlemen. Lady Cumberland.” He gave a brief bow and fairly scampered off down the corridor, eager to get away from the macabre scene lurking behind Clarence’s half-open cell door. Alec didn’t blame him in the least.
“The morgue wagon is waiting downstairs,” Blackwood said to Superintendent Barrett. “I’ll have Mr. Pyle removed now.”
“Poor Pyle.” Barrett shook his head. “He has three children, you know. I’ll organize a collection for the family.”
“Please allow me to contribute,” Vivienne said immediately, offering him a card. “I…well, we brought him here. I feel responsible.”
“That’s kind of you, Lady Cumberland, but I don’t blame you, nor Mr. Sidgwick. I’ve been superintendent of this asylum for more than twenty years and know better than anyone how difficult it can be to predict human behavior.” He stroked his mustache. “The soul of man is larger than the sky…ah, deeper than ocean or…or….”
“The abysmal dark of the unfathom’d centre,” Alec finished quietly.
“Yes, that’s it! You’re an admirer of Hartley Coleridge, Mr. Lawrence?”
“I enjoy poetry,” he admitted. “Though my soul may set in darkness, it will rise in perfect light. I have loved the stars too fondly to be fearful of the night.”
“Splendid. I’m not sure I know that one. What’s his name?”
“It’s a woman, actually. Sarah Williams.”
“Indeed.” Barrett seemed to lose interest. “Well, I can vouch that the mind is a strange and confounding place. We may never know what drove Dr. Clarence to this unspeakable act.”
“Perhaps. But I still wish to help his family,” Vivienne said, and Alec understood that she would carry her burden of guilt no matter what anyone said.
“I’m sure it will be appreciated, thank you, Lady Cumberland. Shall I accompany you out?” Barrett looked down the corridor, in the direction of the other occupied cells. “They’ve been worse since Clarence came. I can’t fathom why. He kept to himself.”
“Thank you, but we can see our own way,” Blackwood replied. “Good day, Mr. Barrett.”
They made their way back through the cells. Dim wall sconces cast pools of alternating light and darkness. No bright electric bulbs, Alec thought. Not here, in this forgotten place. The usual cacophony of deranged voices accompanied their progress, but it was more subdued this time around, as though the men shared their foreboding.
It was in one of the pools of shadow that he heard a whisper from the cell next to him. Alec stopped, facing the grill set into the door at head height.
“What did you say?” he asked softly.
Ahead, Vivienne and D.I. Blackwood turned to stare at him.
“Alec?” Vivienne called.
He could see nothing beyond the grill but more darkness. Whoever was inside didn’t respond.
“Never mind,” he said.
Alec limped toward them, the iron tip of his cane clacking on the stone floor. Vivienne watched him for a moment, then followed Blackwood to the stairway. Alec glanced back once. The ward had gone quiet again, but he was certain of what he’d heard.
Two words.
They’re here.
Alec retrieved his coat and hat from the parlor. Barrett paused at the front door. “Pervadunt oculus. You’ve heard that phrase before.”
“It was in the Brady report,” Alec said. “He scratched it on the walls of the Beach Transit Tunnel.”
“What in blazes are we dealing with?”
“Not a ghoul.” Alec needed to think. To talk with Vivienne. “Something worse, I fear.”
“It might not be in Dr. Clarence anymore,” Vivienne said. “You should be aware of that possibility.”
Blackwood swore under his breath. “Then how do we catch it?”
Neither of them replied. Alec leaned heavily on his cane. His knee throbbed from all the stairs. For some reason, going down was always worse than going up.
“Well, that’s the problem,” he said at last. “I think we’ll have to get very lucky.”
“I’ll need a copy of that Hyde report,” Blackwood said.
“I’ll have it sent over straight away.”
“Stay in touch. If you come up with something.”
Outside, the rain had eased to a light mist. Alec scanned the grounds as they waited for Henry to bring the carriage around. He could still hear the faint baying of the dogs, but knew in his bones Clarence was gone.
“What do we tell Sidgwick?” he asked at last.
“The truth,” Vivienne replied, lighting another cigarette.
“Those are bad for you, you know,” Alec pointed out. “No matter what they claim.”
Vivienne rolled her eyes. Alec turned away, but a faint smile played on his lips.
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The Thirteenth Gate
Winter 1888. At a private asylum in the English countryside, a man suspected of being Jack the Ripper kills an orderly and flees into the rain-soaked night. His distraught keepers summon the Lady Vivienne Cumberland—who's interviewed their patient and isn't so sure he's a man at all. An enigmatic woman who guards her own secrets closely, Lady Vivienne knows a high-level daemon when she sees one.
And this particular creature is the most dangerous she's ever encountered.
Across the Atlantic, an archaeologist is brutally murdered after a Christmas gala at the American Museum of Natural History. Certain peculiar aspects of the crime attract the interest of the Society for Psychical Research and its newest investigator, Harrison Fearing Pell. Is Dr. Julius Sabelline's death related to his recent dig in Alexandria? Or is the motive something darker? There's no shortage of suspects: a venal wife, indifferent son, jealous colleague, conniving boss, and very odd patron named Lord Balthazar, who Harry's certain is not what he seems.
As Harry uncovers troubling connections to a case she thought was definitively solved, two mysteries converge amid the grit and glamor of Gilded Age New York. Harry and Lady Vivienne must join forces to stop an ancient evil. The key is something called the Thirteenth Gate. But where is it? And more importantly, who will find it first?
About the Author
Kat Ross worked as a journalist at the United Nations for ten years before happily falling back into what she likes best: making stuff up. She's the author of the Fourth Element and Fourth Talisman fantasy series, the Gaslamp Gothic paranormal mysteries, and the dystopian thriller Some Fine Day. She loves myths, monsters and doomsday scenarios. Check out Kat’s Pinterest page for the people, places and things that inspire her books.
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www.katrossbooks.com
[email protected]
Also by Kat Ross
Gaslamp Gothic Series
The Daemoniac
The Thirteenth Gate
A Bad Breed
The Necromancer’s Bride
Dead Ringer
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The Fourth Element Trilogy
The Midnight Sea
Blood of the Prophet
Queen of Chaos
The Fourth Element Trilogy Boxed Set
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The Fourth Talisman Series
Nocturne
Solis
Monstrum
Nemesis
Inferno
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Some Fine Day
Acknowledgments
Special thanks to Jessica Therrien, Eva Thaddeus, Deirdre Stapp, the design team at Damonza and all the wonderful folks at Acorn Publishing. Also to James D. McCabe, Jr. for Lights and Shadows of New York Life, which was indispensable to researching this book.
