“A shilling? When you haven’t even a sixpence to scratch with? No, your future has already been decided, if your prodigal habits are anything to go by. And here it is: certain penury for you, my dear.”
“Well, I daresay that crystal gazer would disagree with your dull predictions.” Milli was thoughtful a moment and then brightened. “I’ve always had a strange inkling that I’d someday marry a prince, live in an old castle, and be divinely rich.”
“If you keep prattling on about Madam Strange and her silly name, I should not be surprised if she turned you and your maggoty prince both into toads. Or worse.”
Milli gave a sniff. “What could be worse than that? I should hate to be a toad. How is one to enjoy one’s castle if one must live as a toad?”
They continued in silence for a moment, Milli muttering about toads and princes whilst Emma watched the saturnine faces of passing pedestrians. She nimbly avoided the rank mires of horse ordure that had yet to be swept from the street. “London is a dreary place, isn’t? I can’t wait to go home and breath the country air again.” Emma felt as though her very lungs were coated in soot and sewerage.
“Back to Little Snoring?!” Milli was aghast. “Emma, you cannot be serious!”
Their sleepy village certainly was aptly named, for nothing exceptional ever truly roused the place to wakefulness. But what the parish lacked in excitement it certainly made up for in quaintness and crisp fragrant air and…well, she was sure some other delightful commendation would occur to her later. At any rate, Little Snoring wasn’t rife with snobbery and sooty air, that was the point. “Milli, I assure you I am quite serious about missing home.” It was not as if she would find a husband here.
“Well, not I,” Milli replied with warmth. “I might petition our uncle to keep me here indefinitely.”
“I daresay your petitions will fall on deaf ears.”
To that, Milli gave a good humored snort and changed the subject.
A subject Emma barely followed, for she had become aware of a twinge along her spine. The twinge of an unwelcome gaze.
An absurd notion. She shook the sensation off at once and refused to look about her. Who in heaven’s name would want to watch her? Plain Emma Rose of Little Snoring? Nobody. She gave vent to a self-deprecating snort and allowed Milli’s chatter to distract her from her strange fancies, and from the gnawing certitude that something very wrong was afoot in London.
Chapter Two
Exsanguination
My dear Mary,—I have decided to take the veil. What do you think of my becoming a nun? Does the priory have an extensive library? Yours affectionately,
Emma.
When Emma entered the breakfast room, after changing into a long-sleeved pale green dimity, she was greeted by the footman, Reid, standing at the door. The Haywoods were already seated at the table, her uncle with the London Gazette under his nose and her aunt chewing absently on a buttered roll, perusing the Lady’s Magazine.
Her uncle acknowledged her entrance with an impatient grunt and pulled his pocket watch from his waistcoat. It was exactly five minutes past the hour, which meant that Emma was only five minutes late to the morning meal. Unfortunately for the ladies, though he had suffered a marked loss of his hearing, he had forsaken none of the punctiliousness and discipline instilled in him during his tenure as a lieutenant in the British Artillery. “I suppose your sister has had no success in the urgent matter of selecting a morning gown and now keeps herself upstairs, hmm?”
“You may suppose that, uncle.” Emma raised her voice far above what was normally considered genteel or necessary so that he might hear her. She smiled at Reid as he placed a mug of warm chocolate on the table for her.
“I might venture to Wakefield’s Vaults on Fleet Street,” said Mr. Haywood, scanning his newspaper. “Old port and sherry at reduced prices, hmm. Well, that’s a matter of course when merchants go out of business.”
Emma offered no reply, well aware that her uncle expected none. She liked her uncle well enough, but she was rather more fond of Aunt Sophie. It was really too bad the old dear was so terribly flighty. Her aunt, irrespective of company and conversation, would ofttimes stare off as though she’d gone to sleep with her eyes open, a habit that quite vexed her husband. That was doubtless the reason they seldom exchanged more than a single word—he too piqued to gain her attention and she too timid of voice to overcome his deafness. It seemed to Emma a poignant espousal of both comedy and tragedy, and she often wondered if that was what marriage was: tragedy lightly seasoned with comedic divertissements. Her aunt and uncle appeared tolerably satisfied with their arrangement, so who was Emma to fault or pity it. Her own parents were nothing if not comfortable in the tedium of their own peculiar satire—Father adored Mother from behind his precious encyclopedias, and the thick smoke of his brierroot pipe, and she was always far too busy chewing the cud of her neighbors foibles to notice her husband’s distraction. They were happy enough in their situation, as were her aunt and uncle.
The Haywood’s townhouse was rather a humble affaire compared to the grander homes along the fashionable streets of London, far from boasting Grosvenor standards, but they were still and all very comfortably situated. They had never been blessed with children and, despite her uncle’s gruffness, Emma believed he rather enjoyed the company of his nieces, for all he considered Milli’s unpunctuality a fatal flaw.
Mr. Robert Haywood had, on retiring from the army, become a tradesman and had done very well for himself. They dined regularly with their neighbors and never wanted for invitations to soirées, much to Milli’s delight. Except that delight was rudely suspended today, for they were engaged to dine with the Stapletons this evening.
Emma sighed, her shoulders slumping imperceptibly, as she thought about their social engagement. The Stapletons were, like her aunt and uncle, an older couple—even their sons were old and married—and sadly there was never a guest at their dinner table who wasn’t on the very verge of caducity. Emma was reconciled to the prospect of a long and stultifying evening at the loo table. She imagined that Milli was already contriving an excuse that would consign her safely to her bed all night—a mild case of dyspepsia, no doubt.
As if her thoughts had summoned the minx, Milli suddenly flounced into the room in a handsome white muslin. Her arms were covered by sheer sleeves, and her chest and neck were demurely contained in observance of morning dress etiquette; though, if one were to consult their uncle on the matter of ladies fashion, it was his opinion that modern styles were tending towards extreme indecency. Their uncle deplored the dearth of fabric that stood between the flesh and the cold, and what little there was was sheer besides, to say nothing of the low necklines.
Mr. Haywood’s silent disapprobation, incited either by the state of Milli’s undress or the lateness of her arrival, was, at length, disarmed by his niece’s happy chatter. He unfolded his brow with a sigh and continued reading his paper. That venerable brow, however, was not to remain smooth long. He shook his head and gave a grunt of worry as his eyes flew across the paper.
“What is it, my dear?” his wife asked, uncharacteristically startled from her daydream. “Is something amiss at the Stock Exchange?”
He ignored her, whether by design or distraction, and continued reading diligently. After breakfast was concluded, he shut himself away in his library. It was only his youngest relation that did not find his behavior curious.
“Confound this noxious London weather!” Milli set her chocolate aside with a feigned grimace and a delicate arm thrown dramatically across her brow. From beneath this porcelain arm she peeked woefully at her aunt and sister. “I don’t feel at all well, you know. I think I ought to stay abed tonight.”
“Dyspeptic, are you?” Emma offered an uncharitable smirk. “How shall the Stapletons bear your absence, my dear?”
Their aunt merely nodded her understanding as Milli valiantly extricated herself from the breakfast table and glided from the room with a stamp of pain etc
hed upon her thespian brow.
“I shall have Jenkins prepare a negus for her,” said Aunt Sophie, twisting her hands together.
“Do not trouble yourself, Aunt.” Emma gave her aunt’s hands a reassuring pat. “I shall see to it myself.”
Her aunt smiled, grateful, blissfully ignorant of Emma’s true objective which was to ignore her sister’s malingering.
Soon afterwards, her aunt left the house, confidant that her convalescing niece was in good hands. She was off to pay a morning call to their neighbor. Emma wasted no time in ambushing the poor housekeeper. In covert accents, she inquired after the ‘ghastly business’ she’d overheard yesterday morning in church.
“Well, miss…” Jenkins averted her gaze uneasily as she paused, her face tightening with dread. “You see, there were two murdered bodies lately discovered on Wood Street. Two young women!”
“Why, that’s not half a mile from here!”
“Very shocking circumstances too—very unnatural.” Though Jenkins had lived in London since her girlhood, there came into her accent a hint of the teutonic forest whence she’d come so long ago, plainly bespeaking her wild agitation.
“Unnatural?”
“Ay, miss. There’s talk of…exsanguination!”
“Exsanguination!” The word felt unnatural on her own tongue, viscous and coldly metallic as it hung in the brief silence that followed. It was not a word one often heard, and yet the horror it implied was strangely atavistic. The sound of it alone disturbed her flesh.
Jenkins grew pale and anxious under Emma’s wide stare, so Emma cleared her throat and gently urged the old woman to continue. “From the workhouse, I believe they were.” Jenkins wrung her hands. “Bless my soul, Mr. Haywood would chase me from this house if he knew what a long tongue I have!”
“Nonsense, Jenkins, you know he shall keep to his library until one o’clock. You mustn’t worry that I shall give you away.” It was, in any event, only a matter of time before Emma herself became aware of these horrible matters by some other means. She was nothing if not determined. “Do go on, please.”
“No, miss, I had better not say another word. It’s all quite monstrous! Not at all suitable for young ears.”
“I wish you would continue at once. I am no benighted young schoolgirl, you know.” In fact, six-and-twenty was hardly ‘young’ at all! She was old enough now to don a spinster’s cap, for pity’s sake.
Jenkins, apparently, was inclined to agree, for she quickly capitulated with a sigh. “Mr. Chapman—he’s a chandler on Wood Street—said he caught himself a glimpse of one of the bodies; watched them cover it up and all. It was him that told old Sarah, next door, that he might never sleep again for fear of seeing such horror, miss.”
“Yes, yes, go on. What horror?” Later, she would chastise herself for her ungodly morbidity.
“Gaping wounds! Eviscerations!” The words hissed out between the housekeeper’s teeth like an evil gust.
Emma caught her breath, the dread dragging at her flesh like a cold, grasping bog. “That is very shocking indeed! What is to be done?”
“Whatever is to be done had better be done soon, for these slayings were not the first of their kind, miss, and I wager they shall not be the last.”
“How beastly!”
“There’s talk of a curfew now, miss. I daren’t go out at night on my own.”
“No, indeed, Jenkins.”
“Seems the work of bogies or vampyres, if you ask me.” The housekeeper was clutching her crucifix with white fingers. “My mother, God rest her soul, told me stories from the Black Forest, when she was a girl—”
“Likely a mad butcher,” said Emma, sparing the housekeeper’s superstitions little heed.
“Pardon, miss?”
“Never mind. Thank you, Jenkins, that will be all.” Emma watched the housekeeper escape from the room, giving the library door, behind which her martinetish uncle was ensconced, a very wide berth.
Bogies indeed! They did not disturb Emma in the least. The superstitions and pantry-politics of old women, particularly those borne across the North Sea, were very easily flouted. But there was no denying or ignoring the bizarre circumstances of the Wood Street murders and the maniac that was stalking the streets of London. It was something out of a gothic horror. And though she enjoyed reading about murderous monks and dark abbeys, there was nothing romantic about the reality of two dead women found mutilated so close to her uncle’s home.
Returning to her room with a waxen countenance, Emma added deranged murderers to her list of crimes and grievances against London. Fortunately, she and her sister would be returning to Little Snoring after the season, where lady killers and mad butchers were not so rampant. And notions of bogies and ghouls were even less so. She just wished she could stop imagining the torsos of those women, empty and gaping.
Perhaps she would write to her cousin and inform Mary of her intent to join her in the convent, where she would be forever safe from night predators. It was a fact well accepted that monsters could not tread upon hallowed ground. Nothing could be safer than a church.
Grimacing, Emma then imagined the prioress’s gasp of horror as the old woman discovered Emma’s collection of unsavory books. Of course Emma would not go anywhere without her books. Heavens, how shocked the nuns would be! Did they sustain themselves on missals and scriptures alone or did even the prioress herself harbor a secret cache of contraband literature? She thought not. Perhaps Emma was better suited to the sordid company of Sufi palm-readers and crystal-gazers, for she would rather risk the inimical streets of London than part with her beloved novels.
Was it possible that Milli had the right idea? Perhaps she too ought rather stay home with her books and her sister this evening. No, that wouldn’t do—her uncle might overlook one malingerer in his midst, but he would not suffer two. At all events, there was every chance the Stapletons’ dinner party might be canceled now, what with a mad butcher thrashing about town, so there was likely no need to envy Milli her feigned dyspepsia.
Emma endeavored to forget about vampyres and bogies, or whatever aberration had fetched up on these shores from the Black Forest. She opened her book to the scene of Antonia’s imminent ravishment. There now, this was better occupation for the mind. It was this vicarious pleasure bound within the black and white safety and fragrant comfort of ink and paper, in which she preferred to lose herself. In fact, the only danger Emma felt herself in the way of was dying an old spinster, buried beneath dusty old tomes, her fingers black with ink. Certainly not a victim of exsanguination! After all, only beautiful young heroines faced monsters in the dark.
Chapter Three
Gypsy Fiend
Dearest Emma,—I think the effluvia of London horse leavings has caused you to take leave of your senses. The life of a traveling tightrope walker, or explorer of Egyptian tombs, would befit you better than vespers and veils. Do take care, Cousin, the London streets sound positively treacherous. God bless you and your mucky boots,
Mary.
They had gone to the Stapletons’ after all, and it had been decided that they should dine early and return home at sunset, in light of the murders. Before they’d set out, her uncle had finally seen fit to enlighten his womenfolk about the ‘unpleasantness’, woefully understating the gravity and violence of the crimes. No doubt for the sake of their delicate sensibilities. Poor man, did he honestly imagine women incapable of discovering from their neighbors and servants, if not the papers, all there was to know?
It was not until after the small party retired to the drawing room that the conversation, much to her uncle’s disgust, degenerated—his word, not Emma’s—into talk of death and the macabre, and from there into the supernatural. The evening from that point onwards was rather lively, despite such morbid topics, and Emma was exceedingly disappointed when her uncle suddenly announced that it was time to depart. On any other occasion she’d have been only too happy to rush away, but this evening was unlike any other.
/> “What an ungodly night,” said Mrs. Stapleton, drawing back the drapes and peering fretfully into the gathering fog and twilight. “So frightfully dark already. I daresay, I shan’t sleep a wink tonight.”
Mr. Haywood’s mouth flattened at the remark. “Yes, well, that is because you were all so determined to speak of nightmarish things.”
Mr. Stapleton joined his wife at the window. “Hmm, rather too dark to walk home, Haywood. Fog’s thick enough to chew on.”
“And thick enough to conceal a killer,” said his aged mother, the wobbling candlelight throwing long shadows over the many folds in her face.
Mr. Stapleton, nodding at his mother, offered the Haywoods his carriage. The mixture of fog and black London smoke had completely blotted what little indigo light remained in the west.
Emma’s uncle, however, ostensibly flouting the notion of danger, promptly and politely declined the kind gesture. After all, he declared, the townhouse was not so very far away and the walk would do well to clear their heads of all the nonsense. Aunt Sophie merely acquiesced with an unenthusiastic nod and a wary glance out the window.
“I insist,” said Mr. Stapleton. He then turned to give the order to his footman, but the servant promptly reminded his master that the carriage had yet to have its axle repaired. “Ah, yes, I quite forgot.” But he smiled, appearing determined to see to it his guests were conveyed home in safety. “I believe my neighbor has a hansom he can spare. I daresay you’d all squeeze in nicely.”
“Never mind that,” said Mr. Haywood, impatient, “it’s early yet and we could do with the walk.” He then gave his wife and niece a bolstering grin.
We? Emma turned a dubious glare towards the blackness pressing at the window. There was no ‘we’ here. She decided her uncle must have a rat in his pocket, for she and her aunt certainly were not inclined to take that deuced walk.
Winterly (Dark Creatures Book 1) Page 2
