Her heart sputtered as the front door opened, but luckily it was only one of the footmen. As he hung their coats and took their calling card to Lord Rose, she attempted to take a deep breath but was hampered by her corset. Her eyes traveled over the dark wallpaper and heavy wooden furniture. Each surface seemed wrought and worked into an arabesque or Grecian line, and much like her own home in Oxford, it was sumptuous with gilded knickknacks and an ebony angel holding a torch aloft on the newel post of the stairs.
“Lord Rose will see you in the drawing room,” the footman announced before leading them past the stairs and into the rear of the house.
Why did they have to leave the safety of the front rooms? If something went wrong in the parlor, she could run out onto the street, but in the drawing room, there was no easy source of escape. The breath caught in her throat. Standing before the fire was Alastair Rose. In the crystal ashtray beside him a cigarette still smoldered, and for a second, she felt the heat of it on the back of her arm again. For the first time she noticed the thick knuckles of his hand and the power in the veins that popped and rolled as he gnashed out the butt with a final twist. Lord Rose turned, his penetrating predator eyes flickering before fading into rehearsed hospitality. She glanced at Eliza, but she hadn’t noticed.
“Mrs. Hawthorne, Miss Jardine, I am so glad you could come,” he said as he motioned for them to take a seat. “I must apologize for sending you such a hurried invitation, but I wanted to ensure we spoke before your husband— He has discussed the project with you, hasn’t he?”
“Of course,” Eliza Hawthorne replied as a servant carried in a tray loaded with tea and cakes. “Dr. Hawthorne and I do not have any secrets.”
Obviously you do, or you would not have brought me here, Emmeline thought as she took the cup offered to her. It had been hard to feign surprise after Immanuel told her about her grandfather’s contract with the queen to revive her dead husband and how her uncle had inherited it after his death. Her aunt had revealed much less, only stating the prince consort wasn’t really dead and that her uncle and Lord Rose were involved in returning him to health.
“Miss Jardine, are you feeling well? You are very subdued today.”
She didn’t have to look up to know his eyes were boring into her. Could he see her hand shaking as she placed her cup and saucer down? “I’m sorry. I am simply overwhelmed by the possibility of meeting the queen. What will I say? How should I dress? What will be expected of me?”
The corner of his lip curved into a smile. “There is no need to fret, Miss Jardine. I have your best interest at heart. Now, I promise this will be brief.”
Emmeline held her breath as he began outlining the duties that would be required of her. It would be nothing more than reading one of the Prince Consort’s belongings and confirming to Her Majesty that all was well. She had to act, she had to get away before he finished otherwise the trip would be an utter waste and she would have nothing to help convict him. Her eyes trailed to the cup of tea her aunt was refilling while still listening to Alastair Rose. Picking it up, she watched the steam rise from its rim. It might burn, but it would be worth it. With a lurch, Emmeline sent the cup spilling into her lap and onto the carpet. She yelped as the liquid seeped into the layers of her periwinkle gown.
“My dress!” she cried, jumping up from her seat and turning away from her aunt and Lord Rose to keep them from seeing her spread the stain further with her handkerchief. “It’s ruined!”
“Let me help you.”
“No,” Emmeline pushed her aunt’s hand away, “I’m fine. Lord Rose, may I use your powder room?”
“Of course.” He pulled the bell cord, and within moments, the same footman who took their coats reappeared. “Joseph, please show Miss Jardine to the powder room.”
Following close behind the tall young man, the knot in Emmeline’s chest loosened as they climbed the steps. Her eyes darted over each door, trying to discern which would yield what she needed. The footman opened a door at the end of the hall for her and withdrew a towel from the neighboring closet. She gratefully took it, but he lingered outside the door.
The footman wasn’t much older than she was, so she stared up at him through her lashes and whispered with a smile, “Joseph, was it? Joseph, thank you for assisting me, but you needn’t wait for me. I am sure you have much more important things to do, and I can find my own way back.”
With a nod, Joseph disappeared down the stairs. Turning on the tap, Emmeline wet the cloth and blotted her dress. The stain wouldn’t come out anyway, but she knew she had to make a show of it. Carefully closing the door behind her, she tiptoed down the hall and opened the first door. The curtains were drawn across the windows, casting the room in near darkness with the sallow rain pattering beyond the panes, but there was no mistaking Lord Rose’s bedroom. Emmeline’s pulse quickened. At one time she would have given anything to be beneath the dark, silken canopy of the Gothic bed, yet now she was ashamed of those forbidden feelings. How could she have ever been in love with the man who killed her mother? She quietly shut the door and darted over to his dresser. Opening each drawer in succession, she found nothing but clothing and books, which she quickly put back when she realized what they were. Where else could he hide something?
Looking up into the mirror, her eyes fell on an armoire tucked behind the heavy canopy. With a soft click, the door swung open to reveal a hodgepodge of equipment and clothing. Heavy sweaters with leather pads for climbing hung beside his red devil costume, and sitting below them was a pair of worn climbing stilts, a wooden chest, and a strange contraption. It was the size of sewing machine but resembled a set of metal lungs. Tugging the cord at the top, Emmeline pulled the rubber-coated wire until a plate with spikes slid into her hand. She turned it over in the dim light. As she brought it closer, she stifled a gasp. The end was tipped in blood. It had to be the device he used, the one she saw Immanuel killed with. If only it was small enough to take with her, at least then she could ensure no one else would be harmed by it. After returning the trigger to its proper place, she lifted the lid of the chest.
The box was divided into sixteen cubicles with nine empty slots. Carefully lifting a jar out of its cubby, she stared into it. At first it seemed empty, but something shimmered within. Her hand grew warm as the wisp of blue light drew closer. It flattened against the edge, and before Emmeline’s eyes appeared the ragged form of a woman. Through her thin face and the dark outline of her curly hair, she could make out Lord Rose’s bed, but there was no mistaking that it was Katherine Waters. Her wide, colorless eyes seemed to be staring through her when finally they locked onto hers. Goosebumps swept over her arms and neck as Katherine’s lips moved to form words she couldn’t understand even though their meaning was clear. Release me. Emmeline stared down at the lid. She could tear it open and let her out, but he would surely notice and know exactly who did it. As she moved to return Katherine’s vessel to its place, something caught the light.
Reaching in, Emmeline pulled out a ring with a purple stone. It had to have belonged to her. She slipped it onto her finger. If she couldn’t take the jars or the machine, she could at least bring back Katherine’s ring. After placing Katherine back into the ossuary, she lifted each jar in turn to see if anything was hidden beneath them, but when she reached an empty slot, she found a familiar vial on a chain. The empty glass was decorated with gold and silver leaves curling up its length before reaching the cap where it was engraved in Latin.
Emmeline froze as a board creaked outside the door. The light filtering in from the hall was broken by two thick legs. She looked into the armoire, but it was too full for her to climb in. Soundlessly closing the doors, she flattened against the wall behind the curtain and slid to the floor as the knob jiggled in its plate. Her heart pounded as she wiggled under the low frame of the bed, silencing her squeaks of panic by biting her lip. Light streamed in front of the bed when the door finally opened and the man walked in. She flinched with each heavy step while he l
umbered only inches from her face, moving past the bed and over to the armoire. The breath hitched in her throat as he threw back the bed-curtains and then the drapes. He knew someone was in there. Covering her eyes with her arm, she held her breath and waited. The man opened drawers and doors, circling the bed until finally his heavy tread retreated out the door. For a long moment, Emmeline lay in the silence, waiting for the tattoo of her heart to slow. Sliding out on her belly, she stood and brushed the dust from her hair and dress. With trembling fingers, Emmeline opened the top of her gown and slipped Immanuel’s amulet over her neck before buttoning it.
Cracking the door just far enough to see down the hall, she confirmed the man who sought her was gone and stepped into the hall. Emmeline could hear her aunt and Lord Rose talking as they had before, though the conversation had turned to their Christmas holidays. At the top of the steps, she took a moment to smooth her dress and flatten her hair where it caught under the bed’s frame. She pulled out her handkerchief and trotted down the stairs, but as she reached the angel with her torch raised, she looked down at her hands. The ring was gone. For a moment, she thought about running back upstairs and scrambling under the bed to find it, but it was too risky after being nearly caught the first time. Immanuel’s necklace would have to do. Taking a deep breath, she let out a huff of frustration and stomped back into the parlor, still fussing at the stain with her handkerchief.
“Ruined! Absolutely ruined!” she cried as their eyes fell upon her.
“Don’t worry. I am sure the washerwoman can get it out,” Eliza replied as she eyed the stain. “She has gotten much worse out of my clothing.”
Alastair Rose cleared his throat. “As I was telling Mrs. Hawthorne, your part in the project is a simple one. All you must do is read something that belonged to Prince Albert and assure Her Majesty that everything is all right. Can you do that?”
It really wasn’t a question. When she looked into his eyes, she saw the mesmeric stare of a predator, daring her to defy him. She wanted to ask what if the object told her everything was not all right, but she dared not. “Of course.”
Chapter Thirty-Two:
The Horrors of Mortimer Street
The steamer chugged down Mortimer Street, passing façade after façade of bland, red brick. Adam's eyes trailed from the piece of paper to the brass house numbers. The night before Hadley stuffed it into his hand after returning from dinner with Lord Sorrell. With a hissing lurch, the cab stopped only a few feet beyond the shabby intersection of Mortimer and Cleveland Street. The once well-tended Ionic columns and weathered bricks had been overtaken by ivy. In the winter cold, the leaves had fallen away leaving only creeping veins from which sallow icicles clung. The naked windows were coated in grime as was the moldering, peeling door. Turning to the man beside him, Adam watched his companion’s breath quicken.
“Is this the right place?”
Immanuel’s eyes stayed locked on the cold brick beyond the steamer window as he whispered, “I don’t know. I was unconscious when I was brought in and blindfolded when I left.”
Seeing a tremor pass through his companion’s hand as he curled inward against an unseen force, Adam’s heart sank. He kept one eye on the driver and put his hand over Immanuel’s. “Stay in the cab. I am going to take a few photographs and come right back.”
Cradling the his late-brother’s boxy Kodak under his arm and slinging the tripod against his shoulder, Adam stepped onto the pavement and kept his head down as he made his way to the front door. The street was oddly quiet. The midday sun was bright enough to chase away the chill, yet no one was milling on their porches or struggling to hail a steamer. An occasional careworn laborer or grey man clad in dark wool hurried down Cleveland Street but no one paid the man with henna hair any mind.
Adam leaned into the door, ready to throw his weight against it, when the knob easily turned in his grasp. It had not even been locked. As he stepped inside and shut the door, he listened in the stillness for any signs of life but heard only his heart beating in his ears and the gurgle of the steamer idling outside the door. Walking through the front rooms, he confirmed the house was empty save for the cloaked furniture. His eyes trailed to the stairs, but Immanuel and Emmeline both agreed neither had gone upstairs during their confinement. In the hearth, the ash from numerous fires had been left behind, mixed with half-burnt paper. Prodding the singed bits of wood and parchment with the poker, Adam could faintly make out long, loopy writing, but the pieces were so small, he couldn’t tell if they pertained to Immanuel or Emmeline at all. He was about to leave when a larger fragment appeared beneath a coating of ash. Brushing it off, he held it up in the dim light. Claudia Leopold Rose. Adam could not place the name but stuffed it in his pocket anyway. Emmeline knew more of the lowlife’s affiliations than he ever would.
Old boot-treads cut through the layers of dust, carving a path into the kitchen. Stopping at a decorative panel in the wall, he drew back the door. The sour smell of long-spoiled meat and vegetables drifted from the dumbwaiter, but as Adam slammed the compartment shut against the nauseating odor, his eyes trailed to the footprints that veered around the corner and down the steps to the servant’s quarters. Emmeline said she had been held there, and much like the floor above, the rooms below had been deserted long ago. The main chamber was empty, but one door stood open with its knob embedded in the plaster. Hesitantly, he walked past the other dumbwaiter hatch and the empty bathroom. Stepping into the bedroom, his eyes fell over a pair of torn lace and boning wings. A trail of smashed clockwork parts lay scattered across the floor, mingling with sheets of paper and penny dreadfuls that trailed from an overturned armoire only to slip through a hole where the floorboards had been removed. Beside the bed on the far wall, dates tumbled down the plaster in harsh scratches.
Adam set the camera up a few feet into the door to capture the torn wings from Emmeline’s costume as well as the graffiti and missing boards. Putting as much of the room in focus as possible, he snapped the shutter and cranked the film to the next available frame. Emmeline Jardine had been held there for nearly a month, and now he saw why she did not suffer nearly as much as his companion. The room was practically as well furnished as his, and apart from the mess and what happened below, it seemed like any other bedroom. As he carried the camera back into the hall, his eyes fell upon the window above the toilet. Had anyone guessed at the horrors happening in that house? With the neighbors only feet away, could they hear Immanuel’s piteous cries each time Lord Rose landed a blow?
Beneath the boards, where even light didn’t dare enter, Immanuel spent months at the mercy of a madman. A part of Adam wanted to collect his camera, return to the safety of the cab and leave with some semblance of innocence, but he had to know where Immanuel was kept. It would give him some insight into the horrors he suffered and give a backdrop to the nightmares he refused to speak of. Maybe if he saw it, he could be able to help. Adam scanned the floor of the servants’ hall for a trap door or anything that would lead to the cellar, but as he was contemplating slipping between the boards in Emmeline’s room, he spotted the closet under the stairs.
Reaching into his coat, he withdrew a taper and a book of matches. With his free-hand, he held the flickering candle as he opened the door and stepped into the fetid air. Keeping his elbow against the bare timber wall, Adam crept down the stairs. The air and shadows closed in as the bricks and crooked planks shifted under his weight, threatening to send him and the camera to the bottom of the shaft at the slightest misstep. Growing nearer to the open cell door, Adam’s eyes and nose burned from the reek of ammonia while his throat jumped in revulsion at the overpowering stench of sewage and copper.
Standing at the threshold, he stared into the darkness just beyond the flame. A few faint rays drifted from the missing boards, illuminating the makeshift shelves at the end of the dungeon and the penny dreadfuls that had escaped Emmeline’s chamber. His shoes sunk into the dirt and offal as he swept the light over the bricks where a trail
of handprints and smears clawed at the grout before falling back to the floor. Stepping further into the shadows, his light fell over a broken plate half-buried in the muck before coming to rest on the remnants of a chair. Its dismembered body lay in ruins amongst the refuse, splintered, cracked, and spattered with blood. Adam set the camera in the doorway and clicked the shutter. As the flash erupted from the pan, he saw the room in daylight with its trails of blood and filth streaking the walls and maggoty food strewn in the corners.
How could anyone have done this to another person, let alone Immanuel? Adam’s chest tightened as rage climbed up his throat and tensed his lips into a tight line. Immanuel had done nothing to deserve this. His eyes trailed back to the handprints. How long had he fought to break free before finally being resigned to the idea that he would never get out alive?
What would he do if he saw Lord Rose before him now? His molars ground together at the thought of having him at his mercy. If given the chance, would he hold the nobleman’s own cigarettes to his back until the flesh incinerated, or would he lock him away and force him to live in his own feculence? He swallowed hard and sighed, watching the specter of his breath dissipate into the aether. Exacting revenge would do nothing to help Immanuel and would only show him that his lover and his tormenter were more similar than either would care to admit.
A board whined behind him, but when he whipped around and nearly snuffed out the wick, Immanuel’s ashen face peered around the edge of the doorway clutching a stack of penny dreadfuls. “Immanuel, you didn’t have to come in. I would have returned in a few minutes.”
The Ingenious Mechanical Devices Box Set Page 50
