The man, who had a scar over his right temple and was dressed like a well-to-do farmer, came to an abrupt stop in front of McCord.
“I promise by the Divine Law of God to do all in my power to free and regenerate Ireland from the yoke of England. So help me God.”
McCord, remaining in his seat, waved this away. “You took all the materials from Lombard Street?”
“Aye.”
“We will be united again with our compatriots,” McCord said with a smile. “Soon enough. Then on to bigger plans.”
The Irishman with the scar bowed his head in deference.
“What of the other matter?” McCord asked.
The man shifted his feet nervously. “Sorry, sir, simply can’t find that bloke anywhere.”
McCord had sent messages to all the hotels Simon Camp had listed. The American private detective had told McCord that he planned to switch rooms every few days. The private detective had also given McCord the aliases he would be using at each hotel.
Urgent news on mutual friend Mr. Alighieri, McCord’s messages had read.
It was true. McCord had news that Camp would want to know—according to McCord’s informants, Scotland Yard had detained someone in secret, but at the same time Dolly Williamson had begun having real doubts.
The message, though, was just bait. McCord had been corresponding with some associates in America and became convinced Camp was a dangerous man, prone to changing allegiances at the slightest whiff of profit. The Fenians had too many grand operations under way in the name of Irish freedom. Camp, having been in possession of some of the Fenian communications, had to be removed permanently—whether by poison or the point of a dagger.
Except that the man had disappeared.
“Maybe Inspector Dolly convinced the fool to go back home,” McCord said after pensively studying the flags flapping in the wind over the opposite stands. “Keep looking for him.”
“Should we move ahead with our other plans in the meantime, sir?”
McCord exchanged a heavy glance with his wife at his side.
“Aye,” said McCord. “If you can avoid too many people getting hurt, do so.”
XIX
Christina had been true to her word. She never relented in her attempts to anticipate where the next terrace of Purgatory could materialize in London. She even stopped over at Saint Mary’s to inform them with her regrets that she would not be present for a while. During her visit there, she learned that Ethel had run off from the home. So close to being ready to return to the world, poor soul, lamented the Anglican sister who told her the sad tidings. Christina thought about Ethel’s fears that the distraught new girl, Ruthie, would return to her previous life of desperation, and Christina in turn now feared this heartbreaking fate for Ethel.
Hardly slowing down long enough to sleep, Christina dissected every line and every word of the cantos in which Dante meets the souls purging themselves of the sin of sloth; along the way, she had consulted commentaries on Dante in five languages, even reading her father’s intricate notes that Cayley had organized, flooding her with haunting memories of the professore’s decline. Her latest excursions in London related to one verse in particular. “Purgatory, Canto Eighteen,” she had said to Browning as they sat side by side on a crowded omnibus, “verse eighty-eight and forward. Dante feels himself standing there drowsily, until:
Taken from me was this drowsiness
Suddenly by a people, that behind
Our backs already had come round to us
And as, of old, Ismenus and Asopus
Beside them saw at night the rush and throng
“Then the souls come running at astounding speeds. Ismenus and Asopus,” she continued, “of course refer to ancient Greek rivers, Dante imagining the flow of crowds at their banks.”
So Christina searched out the busiest riverbanks within the city and examined them for any indications that Dante-inspired violence had happened or could still happen. Browning accompanied her to each stop, but she knew he was doing so with increasing reluctance. He thought they were looking for the proverbial needle in the bundle of hay, and she was sure the needle was in their grasp with enough faith and proper application of intellect.
There were usual and unusual interruptions at Tudor House, where she worked on maps of the greater London area. A medium showed up at the door. She came several times a year to Tudor House to determine how much supernatural activity was present, and to listen for signs of Lizzie. Holmes was upstairs at Sibbie’s side trying yet another new treatment, Browning was out completing an errand, and Christina was too polite to turn the pushy woman away. As the medium sat at a table, there were some bumping sounds from below the house that seemed to surprise even the ghost-friendly visitor. Perhaps the dormice or another of the animals had dug themselves a hole beneath the foundation, though the noise seemed more deliberate.
“Have you been hearing these spirit noises often, Miss Rossetti?” asked the medium.
“Spirit noises?” came Browning’s voice from the next room.
Browning had returned at just this time and, incensed by the presence of the medium, threw the lady out of the house. His face became fiery red. He cried after her, a cry years in the making: “Dung-ball of a human being!”
Another interruption came with the return of Charles Cayley.
“I thought you were in the country, Mr. Cayley,” Christina said, her demeanor indifferent. She and Browning were about to cross through the gates on the way to study more locales.
“After our conversation, I realized I could not,” Cayley said, swallowing hard. “I could, but I could not. What I mean to say . . . Mr. Browning, could I have a private word with Miss Rossetti?”
“Of course, Mr. Cayley.” Browning shook his hand and patted him on the back.
Christina led him to the garden, where the peacocks stared glumly at Cayley.
“William did tell me to come to Tudor House, it’s true. But that is only because I first asked his permission, just as I asked yours. If he wished me to distract you from something, as you suggest, well, that was his purpose and not mine.”
“Very well,” Christina said, remaining stone-faced but softening her tone. “I’m afraid I don’t have time to spare today for pleasantries, Mr. Cayley. I am truly sorry you had to call off your trip.”
“Miss Rossetti, I didn’t have to call it off. I wanted very much to go—but with you. I realized, as I prepared my valise, I had no interest in going anywhere without you.”
“I . . . don’t understand.”
“That’s just it. Of all the women I know, Miss Rossetti, you do understand me. I am perfectly content with my translating. I always have been. But I can be more than content—I can be happy—with you by my side. I think you might feel the same. Are you unwell, Miss Rossetti?”
Christina felt light-headed, rising from the bench and holding herself against it. She could not breathe. She could not think about this now.
“Dear Miss Rossetti, I didn’t mean to—”
Christina explained that she could not tarry longer—she had urgent things to do.
Browning asked what happened, what Cayley had said that had so upset her. But she would speak only about what they needed to find to help Gabriel.
They reached their fourth riverbank location of the day. Christina examined the area through Browning’s opera glasses and studied the nearby bridge, over which a mass of people flowed.
Browning let out a sigh, his impatience finally becoming so great that he could no longer play his assigned part. “My dear Miss Rossetti, we have been going from place to place for days, without a clue or guide, lost in a maze of obscurity.”
“Remember, Dante does not understand the true meaning of Purgatory until he does.”
“Dante is not in London! I am greatly concerned about your well-being, too, the longe
r you keep at this. Please, could you put down that pencil so we might speak sensibly about this?”
Christina was sitting on a bench transcribing her observations of the area around the bridge into her notebook as he made his plea. “Mr. Browning, we may speak about it, but I must not lose time. At risk of losing my unlivable politeness, please do not attempt to change my mind by stomping around in the style of an ogre. Do one thing or the other, only do not become ridiculous.”
At first stunned into silence, Browning then launched into his argument about the ridiculous probability of their finding worthwhile new clues, about how they could be more useful elsewhere, and so on—the fact was, she tried to listen but not for very long. She remained fixed on her purpose, looking for any particulars that could match well with Dante’s cantos. She pressed her eyes against the lenses of the pocket-size binoculars.
“Hold your tongue! Look!”
Browning accepted the opera glasses. Weaving through the crowd on the bridge, there was a man running at full speed. In itself it would not have been too peculiar a sight in the rush of London, where the meek were often too afraid to go on sidewalks for fear of being knocked down. But this man was crashing into other people, weaving around them, tripping and jumping right back into a run—as though he could not stop.
Christina called out to Browning to follow. They darted into the crowds, dodging and sliding away from people, trying to get close to the running man.
“Heavens, Miss Rossetti,” Browning called, “do you see?”
Christina did. Moving closer, the man’s face came into view. It was A. R. Gibson, the eccentric patron of Gabriel and Hughes. Gibson was rumbling in their direction as they struggled to reach him. Soon they found themselves on either side of him, running to keep up with his pace as he rounded onto the sidewalk. He wore his long, shiny coat with the velvet collar.
“Miss Rossetti and Mr. Browning,” Gibson said, panting hard as he spoke, “what a gratifying satisfaction to meet you here!”
“Mr. Gibson, we know what’s been done to you!” Christina called. “You must stop!”
“But I cannot!” he replied, fear in his voice. His eyes misted with tears. “I hope you do not think me rude.”
“Who did this to you?” Browning asked.
Gibson gave a chilling laugh. “Don’t you know?”
“Please, Mr. Gibson, you must speak to the police so that they know my brother did not commit the other crimes. You must tell them what has happened to you and how! Let us help you!”
“Why, Miss Rossetti,” said the runner, losing so much of his breath that he had to stop speaking, “you do not . . . why, my dear woman, don’t you understand . . . and if I stop . . .”
Christina, transfixed, collided with a pedestrian and fell to the ground; Browning tried to stop her fall and tripped and tumbled down with her. By the time they regained their footing, neither could catch up with Gibson, who accelerated to what seemed an impossible speed. Out of breath and strength, they yielded, first Browning, then Christina. They had found the punishment of the Slothful. Now they had lost it. And lost Gibson.
Two young men, their long, flowing coats fluttering in the wind, appeared and kept pace right behind the runaway patron, who turned down another street, out of sight.
“Stop, in the name of the queen!” one of the new pursuers yelled, holding up a glimmering emblem. The other one blew a whistle hanging from his neck.
“Detectives,” Browning cried to Christina.
She considered this as she knelt on the ground and fought to catch her breath. “How could they have known?”
Browning contemplated this, his mind turning back to the similarly rapid appearance of Scotland Yarders at the death of Loring, before his face darkened with anger.
* * *
—
A chime rang out in the detectives’ corridors. “Wire in!” the telegraph operator called. Dolly burst out of his office, and Branagan ran over from his desk. “It’s two of the detective sergeants you assigned the other day to recommence shadowing Miss Rossetti,” Branagan said after a quick glance at the transmission. “They were spotted giving chase to a man who appears unable . . .”
“Yes? Yes?” asked Dolly.
“Unable to stop,” Branagan finished.
Dolly’s eyes widened. “It’s the fourth.” He ignored questions about the meaning of his comment. “Take me to them, Branagan!”
They hurried into the carriage, and Branagan brought their horses to full speed, heading toward the coordinates contained in the wire. Carriages and omnibuses cluttered their routes, and Dolly, cursing all London, ordered the constable to stop. The detective then unlatched one of the horses and continued on horseback. Branagan rushed to do the same. Soon both were galloping through the streets, steering around obstacles, human and otherwise.
Branagan pulled his horse next to his superior’s. “What did you mean, the fourth?” he called out.
“The next terrace of Purgatory, the fourth of seven—Pride, Envy, Wrath, Sloth . . . The Slothful are made to run around without stopping, until rid of every bit of laziness.”
“Another Dante Massacre? Impossible. It can’t be, Inspector. We have Rossetti. We have him. If there is another Dante murder, that means he is not the one . . .”
“Not now!” Dolly cried.
They careened through the streets until they reached the commotion of a group of plainclothes detectives and uniformed constables—totaling half a dozen by this point—giving chase to the fleeing man. In just a few minutes after they joined the pursuit, the runaway was twice nearly flattened by conveyances in the street and almost tumbled into a sidewalk excavation. His pursuers, meanwhile, were hindered by the array of obstructions. Gibson was not merely moving rapidly. His pace seemed inhuman.
Shouts and screams flew from every direction. Dolly called out orders to the police officers. Onlookers screamed out pleas and insults at the running man. The man himself cried out that he could not stop. The cluster of horses and men reached the entrance of a railway tunnel. The runner hesitated just long enough that he was surrounded by his pursuers.
Finally, Gibson stopped. His heavy breathing turning into a frosty steam in the air, Gibson whispered, “Forgive me.”
A faint smile played on the art patron’s lips. It seemed he was about to say more, when his whole body shuddered, his eyes rolled up into the back of his head, and he collapsed onto the street. Dolly and Branagan rushed to his side, as other policemen kept the crowd of observers away.
Dolly caught his breath, wiping away a layer of perspiration.
“He’s dead,” Dolly said, first to himself, then announcing the same to Branagan and the others. He examined the man up and down his body before his eyes landed on his boots. “Pull those off. Now! Pull them off now! Carefully, Branagan.”
(Around that time, Christina and Browning caught up with the scene, watching from a perimeter of bystanders.)
Branagan followed Dolly’s gaze to the deceased man’s boots, but they would not budge. Dolly ordered the other men away, then nodded at Branagan.
The constable removed a pocketknife from his coat and sliced the cords that fastened the boots to the man’s legs. Slowly removing one of the boots, Dolly peered inside it at a snarl of needles and wires.
XX
The detectives and the scientists they’d brought to Scotland Yard from Oxford and Cambridge huddled around the boots to marvel at the design. They proved to be remarkable and sinister inventions that would be studied by experts for years to come.
An arrangement of razor-sharp needles were positioned in such a way to pierce the flesh deeply as the foot moved down, and provide relief when the foot was raised. They made the wearer run. Inside the hollow parts of the boots was a complex series of wires, charged in advance by some kind of battery, poised to deliver a jolt of electricity if the motion of the
mechanism stopped for more than a few seconds, a more powerful jolt the longer it stopped—a jolt that proved fatal when Gibson was finally forced to halt his run by the police.
To stop moving meant death.
Repercussions from Gibson’s death came swiftly. Many of these, unsurprisingly, concerned Dante Gabriel Rossetti. Dolly was not persuaded that the latest events necessarily vindicated his prisoner, but the authorities were used to Dolly standing aside from popular opinion. The fact remained that Gabriel had been inside a cell when this latest Dante death was perpetrated. Dolly was now as alone in Scotland Yard in his belief in Gabriel’s guilt as Christina had been days earlier believing in her brother’s innocence. Or had Dolly ever been as convinced as he’d appeared? Truth was, something had not sat well with Dolly since the elation of an arrest subsided, and was further worn down by his irksome interview with Alfred Tennyson.
Christina established an encampment at the police station where Gabriel was still held. Dolly and Branagan, as well as other police officials, tried to persuade her to stay at home to wait. Dolly claimed Gabriel was refusing to eat and that the excitement was not helping him. “When I do decide to leave,” she said with steel in her voice to Dolly and Branagan, “it will be with my brother on my arm.”
Browning followed Christina to Scotland Yard. He was concerned about her. In addition to the fact that she had hardly been sleeping—a few minutes now and again for the last week—she had seen A. R. Gibson die before her eyes; Browning had looked away at the last moment, but she had not. She appeared emaciated. Perhaps Browning was right that she had been worn down more than ever by the latest turns of events, but Gabriel’s imminent release, certainly, had to lighten her spirits.
The intensity of the situation consumed her, and it also gave her that glow, that energy, that tended to take people by surprise. Browning, trying unsuccessfully to coax her to get rest, found himself holding her by the hand, and locked onto her eyes, so serious and bright. There was something heroic about her, like a figure out of a fairy tale wrapped in fire.
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