by C. J. Archer
I pulled the edges of the cloak together and knocked. Thinking of past choices was never a good idea. From now on, I wanted to only look to the future.
After shouting at the elderly administrator with poor hearing, I was able to cross the Bermondsey orphanage off my list. Thanks to his excellent memory, he hadn't needed to check his records. No one by the name of Holloway had adopted a little girl eighteen years ago, nor had anyone been asking the same question in recent days.
I visited another two orphanages on the south side of London and received the same answers. Only the Brixton one had received a letter asking about my adoption. As with Mr. Hogan from the Kentish Town orphanage, the administrator couldn't recall the address he'd sent a reply to and he hadn't kept a copy of the letter. He'd claimed it had been written on plain paper bearing no monogram, and the signature had been illegible. Another dead end.
I caught a train back to the city and was about to search for an omnibus heading toward Highgate when I had another idea. I knew my father's name was Frankenstein, so perhaps my mother had listed it on my birth record. I enquired at the post office in St. Martin's Le Grand and learned that the General Register Office was only a short distance away on the Strand. It was located in the North Wing of Somerset House, an imposing building that was more like a palace with an air of stuffy authority about it. I waited for my turn to be called to a desk where a snowy-haired man with a pointed beard peered over his spectacles at me.
He asked me to write down my name and Frankenstein's on a form then passed the form on to a younger man. The poor fellow was already laden with forms and documents, and I was afraid that even one more might see the lot toppling.
"Wait a moment," I called out to him as he went to walk on.
He blinked at me then at the snowy haired man. "What is it?" asked the older man at the desk in a bored monotone. "We're very busy."
"I'd like to make an enquiry about one more birth." I smiled my sweetest smile at them both. The younger man moved closer and returned my smile. The older one grunted, but he handed me a blank form to complete. I entered Lincoln's name in the space left for the baby's name section before I lost my nerve. I handed it directly to the assistant and laid a hand on his wrist. "Thank you so much, sir. I appreciate you waiting for me."
"It could take a little while," said the older fellow.
"Oh."
"Yours are at the top, miss," said the younger man. He winked at me and headed off.
I sat with several other people who were also waiting and instantly regretted my hasty decision to inquire after Lincoln's birth. It had been made on a whim, and not one I felt proud of now that I'd had time to think about it. He would hate me going behind his back again. I hated myself. I resolved not to look at the response.
I had to wait only half an hour before the young assistant came looking for me. He smiled and fiddled with his tie, but I had no inclination for flirting.
"What did you learn?" I asked.
He spread out his hands in front of him. They were empty. "Nothing, I'm afraid. There are no births registered under the name of Frankenstein."
I smiled through my disappointment, but it felt forced, and he seemed to know it too. His own smile slipped. "I'm not interested in the other matter anymore," I told him as I rose. "Whatever you learned you may keep to yourself."
His face brightened. "That's a relief because I learned nothing anyway. There were no babies named Lincoln Fitzroy born in the last fifty years."
I left the registry office and walked along the Strand in a daze. It wasn't the lack of information on my own birth that confused me, since I suspected my mother was trying to keep Frankenstein from me and, as such, wouldn't have recorded his name on the birth entry. But not finding a record of Lincoln was a little more surprising. I'd assumed his parents were poor and couldn't keep him. If that were the case, there should still be a record of him.
I dismissed any further questions I had on the matter. I was glad to have learned nothing useful from my thoughtlessness. The sickening sensation I'd felt in my gut ever since sending the fellow off with the inquiry began to ease.
I caught an omnibus from the city to Highgate. Instead of heading straight home, I detoured via the cemetery. The costermonger and his cart weren't there today, thank goodness, and no other passengers alighted behind me. I was satisfied that I had not been followed and was no longer being watched. It was a considerable relief.
I couldn't find Mr. Tucker, so I sought out the chap with the port wine birthmark. I found him sitting under a tree munching on his lunch. He scrambled to his feet, doffed his cap and tucked his chin into his chest.
"I'm sorry to interrupt you." It was like talking to a stray cat. I had to keep both my movements and voice gentle, soothing. "I hope you can answer a question for me about the grave that was dug up."
He nodded.
"Have you been near there since the body was reburied?"
He nodded.
"Is it still buried?"
Another nod.
"Are you aware of anyone taking an interest in the grave since then?"
"No, miss," he mumbled.
"Thank you. That's all. Please continue to enjoy your lunch."
So it would seem we were right; the captain hadn't wanted to risk digging up Gordon again. Our only way to find the man was at Mr. Lee's—if he paid the den another visit.
***
Despite having the day off, I completed some chores after lunch. Lincoln had returned while I was out and was resting in his rooms, while Gus kept watch at Lee's. It was quite late in the day when Lincoln joined me in the parlor as I rubbed beeswax into one of the tabletops.
"We can get an hour of training in before I head out again," he said.
I glanced out the window. The sun's final rays cast a sepia glow over the front garden. It would be dark soon. "Not today, if that's all right with you. I want to talk instead."
He rested a hand on the mantel. "About?"
"About the ministry."
He drew in a breath and let it out slowly. "Very well. First, tell me how your investigations went this morning."
I told him which orphanages I'd visited and what I'd learned from them, as well as at the cemetery. I didn't mention my detour to the GRO. "The captain hasn't been back to Thackery's grave."
"We'll find him at Lee's or one of the other opium dens," he said. "Not the cemetery."
"You're very confident, but I don't see how you can be. You can't possibly watch all the opium dens in London. There are only three of you."
"I've paid each proprietor a substantial sum to report to me if a man fitting the captain's description shows up and doesn't partake in smoking. I'm confident my money will bring results."
I smiled. "You've thought of everything."
"I know how these operations work."
"How? You said you knew Lee's…" I couldn't meet his gaze anymore and returned to polishing the table.
"You want to know if I smoke opium."
I shrugged one shoulder. "It crossed my mind."
"I have."
His answer startled me into looking at him again. "Oh. I see. Well."
"Don't you want to know more?"
"I don't want to pry."
"Yes, you do." Despite his accusation, he didn't sound angry or offended. "You have a curious nature."
"Some would say nosy."
The corner of his mouth lifted. "I would rather you asked me questions directly instead of others. That way you'll be sure to get the right answer."
If he wanted to answer at all. "Very well. How did you end up becoming an opium addict?"
"I wasn't an addict. I experimented with it as part of my studies when I was younger."
"You experimented with it?" I echoed. "How does one experiment with opium? And to what end?"
"I smoked it five times over five weeks to study the effects."
"Why?"
He shrugged. "Why not? It's just another piece of knowledge, and kn
owledge is necessary in my position."
"When you put it like that, it sounds quite innocent. I think of opium smoking as a sordid habit that lures desperate men."
"It can be, if one partakes too often. As Gordon Thackery did, by his own admission. An addict is not a pretty sight."
"I've seen men coming and going from a garret in Bluegate Fields, near where I once lived. We all knew it was an opium house. I'd often see the same men on street corners, begging for money that they would spend at the garret later that night. There was such an air of hopeless about them, as if they were caught in a web they couldn't escape. It was awful."
"That's generally how addiction works. It's difficult to break free once it digs its claws in."
"You never felt the pull of the opium when you experimented? You never wanted to partake more than once a week?"
He shook his head. "Like you, I'd seen what it could do to a man. One of my tutors showed me the addicts like you describe."
"That's an odd thing for a tutor to do. What was the subject he taught?"
"It didn't have an official name. I called it Slums and Scums Studies, but not to my tutor's face."
I laughed. "How many tutors did you have?"
"Twenty-two, but not all at one time. Over the course of several years, I might have three or four different tutors for the same subject."
"Your lessons were private?"
He nodded.
"No other children joined you?"
"No. Why?"
"I'm merely curious." It confirmed my theory that he must have had a lonely childhood. "Were they stuffy old men?"
He paused before answering. "Not all."
I frowned, wondering why he'd paused. And then it dawned on me. "Do you mean to say you had women tutors too?"
Another pause. "Only one."
"What subject did she teach?"
"Women."
I almost choked on my tongue as I tried not to laugh. "Women?"
"I had little to do with females at that point, so the general decided I needed to learn more about them. Since there was only a crusty old housekeeper living at the house, he employed a woman to tutor me in all things feminine. How they behaved and thought, their weaknesses and strengths. I learned a lot from her."
"So it's thanks to her that you're the charming man you are today?"
His eyes narrowed. "She did her best. It's not her fault I was already sixteen and set in my ways by the time she took on the task."
"She must have done something right," I said, finishing off the cleaning.
"Is that so?"
"Lady Harcourt certainly finds you appealing."
"Does she?" he said idly.
I wondered what else his female tutor had taught him. How to please a woman intimately? Or had that task fallen to Lady Harcourt, or perhaps an earlier mistress? How many had this handsome, intriguing man taken to bed?
I wiped my greasy hands on a clean cloth and screwed on the wax tub lid. I tried not to think about his lovers. Being aware of Lady Harcourt was quite enough.
"Are those the only questions you had for me?" he asked.
"No. They weren't even the questions I intended to ask. Thank you for answering them. I appreciate your candor." I bit my lip, acutely aware that he was watching me and that as his maid I had no right to ask him anything about his private life.
"I want you to feel comfortable here," he said, placing his hands behind his back.
"I already do."
He indicated I should sit on the sofa so I sat, being careful not to touch the brocade fabric with my hands. He sat on an armchair opposite. "Go on."
"Tell me about the ministry," I said.
"I thought I already had."
"You've told me what its purpose is now, and why there is a committee, but not its history. You all seem to have quite different opinions about ministry business, and what to do with people like me, and I thought understanding the ministry's past will help me understand its present."
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Don't let Gillingham upset you. His is one opinion among several."
"I know. And he doesn't upset me." Not anymore.
He leaned back and sat very still. He was often still, whether sitting or standing, as if conserving every ounce of energy and storing it for later use. "The ministry grew out of an order that has existed for a long time. It was renamed the Ministry for Peculiar Things when I became its head."
"Things?" I chuckled. "Who thought of that name?"
His lips drew together. "It was more recently given its current name The Ministry of Curiosities. Prior to my taking over, it had been dormant for many years, with no leader and only a committee to remember its function and pass on information about it from generation to generation. And to store the archives, of course."
"How old is it, precisely?"
"Perhaps a thousand years. No one is certain."
"Good lord. It's been in existence all this time? That means people with supernatural abilities have been around for just as long, or there would have been no need to harbor them."
His gaze drifted away. His hands shifted ever so slightly on the chair arm.
"What is it?" I asked. "What aren't you telling me?"
He seemed surprised that I'd picked up on his cues. "The order wasn't originally formed to find and harbor those who knew magic, but destroy them."
I drew in a breath. "People like me?" I whispered.
He nodded. "The order thought anyone who performed magic, as they called it, was unholy, unnatural."
"Like Anselm Holloway does."
"A thousand years ago, the church declared all supernatural people abominations against God, and that put a price on their heads, so to speak. It gave ordinary folk free reign to burn witches, lynch necromancers and anyone else who displayed magical abilities. The order grew from those times of persecution here in England and, for hundreds of years, it thrived as it hunted down anyone accused of witchcraft."
"How awful," I whispered.
"Yes and no. Not everyone has a good heart and conscience like you, Charlie. Magicians and witches have been known to cause great harm. They're people, after all, and as with any group of people there are good and bad. Some did terrible things. The order, however, didn't discriminate. Good and bad supernaturals all fell victim to their form of justice. Innocents were persecuted alongside the guilty."
"So…magicians and witches are real," I said carefully.
"They are. You're one."
I scoffed. "I'm a necromancer. It's hardly magic or witchcraft. I can't change into a bat, or turn you into a frog. I can only do one thing, and it's only moderately useful."
"From what I've read in the ministry archives, that still qualifies you for being a witch. Most witches and magicians seemed to have a specialty, only one trick they could perform. I found no records of turning anyone into a bat or any other animal, but I did find accounts of mind control, changing one's own appearance, speaking to ghosts, that sort of thing."
I shook my head slowly, not because I didn't believe him, but because it was so fantastical. It was difficult to understand the scale of what he was telling me. "Why do we know nothing about witches and magicians now? Well, except for me, that is."
"I've observed others who possess strange powers. They're not hard to find, if one listens to rumors and talks to the right people. I expect they keep to themselves for precisely the reason you did—fear of reprisal. Society would ostracize them at the least, and hurt them at the most."
"I suppose so." Holloway had tried both ostracizing me and hurting me. He'd succeeded at the former and only failed at the latter thanks to Cook and his meat cleaver.
"The order accounted for many, many deaths of supernaturals in those early centuries," he said. "Times have changed drastically, fortunately. You have nothing to fear from the ministry. No one wants to eradicate supernaturals now."
Except, perhaps, Lord Gillingham. "The others wanted to exile me."
>
"Exile is not death."
"No," I said drily.
"And I won't let that happen to you, unless you wish to relocate to a tropical island paradise."
I smiled, despite myself. "Lichfield will do nicely for now."
"I'm glad to hear it." His rich, deep voice washed over me, and my smile broadened. He blinked once, then looked down at his lap where his hands bunched into fists. The tender moment was over so quickly, I wondered if I'd misread him this time.
"Why did the order become dormant?" I prompted. "Did it destroy so many supernaturals that few were left and it was no longer needed?"
"That's one theory, but it's more likely it suffered the same fate as the Roman Catholic church here. It was closely tied to the faith, so when England navigated the Reformation in the sixteenth century and ousted Catholics, the order fell into disarray. It was forgotten by everyone but a few who kept the records and stories alive. A handful of caretakers were appointed in each generation, passing on the information to their sons, who would pass it on to their sons, et cetera."
"The current committee members are descendants of the original caretakers?"
He nodded. "I had no choice in their selection. No one did."
"You said sons. What about Lady Harcourt? Does she not have brothers?"
"Lady Harcourt's late husband was the committee member. He didn't pass on the information to his sons, but to his wife. She doesn't know why, but it's possible he didn't trust his sons to be discreet."
Having met Andrew Buchanan, I could see why he thought that. "Why didn't one of the generations resurrect the old order and put it to use again? Why wait until now?"
"They were waiting for me."
I raised my brows.
"Apparently there was a prophecy, spoken by a seer in the mid fifteen hundreds. She foresaw the long years of the order's dormancy, which would come to an end in this century, when a new leader was appointed. She gave particular details about him." He held out his hands, palm up. "It turned out to be me."
