The Fire in the Glass

by Jacquelyn Benson

  It made her nervous. She thought of what she’d put the injury through over the last two days. It would serve her right if it was infected. She tried to recall what the symptoms of such a turn were. Her memory refused to cough it up.

  The clatter of an approaching carriage bounced off the darkened windows, sounding loud enough to wake the dead. Lily hovered at the mouth of the alley as a plain but well-kept black coach turned onto the road.

  It was too fine for a hackney. It must be private conveyance, one designed more for function than show.

  She was unsure of the identity of one of the two figures perched on the box. His features were covered by a thick wool muffler.

  The other she recognized. Sam Wu, Mr. Ash’s chauffeur, held the reins easily in one hand, leg braced against the bar, a flat cap turned at an insolent angle on his head.

  As the carriage moved past, Lily stepped from the alley, jogging alongside the vehicle. She tucked her walking stick under her arm, hopped up onto the step and turned the handle of the door. She slipped inside before it had begun to slow.

  “Good evening,” the occupant of the interior said evenly.

  He was a large man, well over six feet, and of perhaps 45 or 50 years. His thick hair and beard were touched with gray. He had the build of a boxer, an effect amplified by the size and strength of his hands. His nose also had the sort of bend that spoke clearly of a past break.

  The front window slid open, Sam leaning down to glare through the gap.

  “It’s quite alright, Mr. Wu,” the man across from her said. “Miss Albright just joined us.”

  The younger man leaned over and spat down onto the pavement.

  “You startled the horses.”

  The glass slammed shut and the carriage resumed its quick pace.

  “Was there any particular reason for the unorthodox entrance?” her companion asked. He spoke with a thick Ulster brogue.

  “No,” Lily replied.

  The carriage rolled past a broader alley than the one Lily had concealed herself in. She spotted the brief orange flare of a cigarette against the darkness. She reminded herself it was almost certainly just some clerk sneaking out for a late night smoke, but felt a bit less foolish about her precautions.

  “Dr. Harold Gardner, at your service,” the stranger said.

  Lily wondered how Strangford knew the doctor, whom he clearly trusted enough to call to assist with a grave-robbing.

  “Is Lord Strangford meeting us there?”

  “His lordship’s up on the box with Sam.”

  Lily recalled the wool-wrapped figure she had seen before jumping in to the carriage and felt a guilty start that she had not recognized him. That he chose to ride on the box, exposed to the chill of the night, instead of sitting inside the carriage was telling.

  “He’s a bit off tonight. Can’t say I blame him. It’s an odd business we’re about. Have you much experience with corpses, Miss Albright?”

  “Some.”

  If the doctor was surprised at her answer, he was polite enough not to show it.

  “There’s none here would think less of you if you decided you’d rather return home to your bed.”

  “We are here tonight at my suggestion. I intend to see the matter through.”

  “Fair enough,” he concluded.

  Lily fought the urge to itch her leg.

  “Are you a medical doctor?”

  “Do I look like a philosopher?”

  “You don’t look much like a physician,” she admitted frankly.

  He let out a hearty bark of laughter.

  “You’re direct. I like that. I might not look the part but I’ve the papers to prove it. A fully vetted assistant physician at St. Bartholomew’s Hospital, at your service.”

  “Are you here to examine Mrs. Durst?”

  “The deceased lady whose final rest we are violating this fine evening? Aye, for whatever good it will do. I’m no pathologist. I work on the living.”

  Was he simply a friend that Strangford had pulled in for this unsavory errand? Or was he was here because he, too, was associated with Robert Ash and The Refuge?

  She didn’t ask. That was none of her business, nor did she want it to be.

  They left London proper, passing into the quieter suburban streets of Stoke Newington. The carriage stopped on a pretty little lane lined with a tidy row of houses, the sort of place where everyone had a back garden for hosting birthday parties and Sunday tea.

  A broader intersection lay at the end of the road. On the far side of it stretched a tall fence of black wrought iron punctuated by white stone columns that looked as though they had been lifted from an Egyptian temple.

  It was the gate of Abney Park, the final resting place of London’s iconoclasts and dissenters. Beyond it was a wilderness of dark, leafless trees and crumbling stone.

  Dr. Gardner climbed out of the carriage, crouching to fit his massive frame through the door. He turned and offered her his hand. His grip was strong but gentle.

  The itch flared again. Lily shifted, grimacing, but kept her hand on her walking stick.

  “Something wrong?”

  “A twinge in my leg,” she replied shortly.

  “It’s just the wound healing.”

  Lily’s attention sharpened. She looked to the big man beside her as Sam hopped down and moved to tend to the horses.

  “How do you know that?”

  “Cuts like that always itch like the devil.”

  “That isn’t what I meant.”

  “No,” he replied evenly. “I don’t suppose it was.”

  The figure on the driver’s box stepped down, tugging aside the muffler to reveal the poetic lines of Strangford’s face.

  “Miss Albright.”

  “Lord Strangford.”

  “You have met Dr. Gardner?”

  “She has,” the doctor replied.

  Strangford said nothing more. An uncomfortable silence settled in.

  Ahead of them, Sam stood beside the bay mare that made up the left side of his team. He leaned in close to her, murmuring in her ear. The horse snorted in reply, her breath fogging in the cool night air.

  The chestnut beside her whickered, harness jangling as it shook its head.

  Sam stepped back from the animals.

  “I suppose you want me to see if I can manage the lock?” he asked.

  “If it isn’t too much trouble,” Dr. Gardner replied.

  “If trouble was stopping us, we’d all be home in our beds,” Sam retorted with a quick but unmistakable glare at Lily.

  He walked to the end of the lane, shoulders slouched, hands tucked into his pockets. He crossed the thoroughfare, then stopped at the wrought-iron fence. He leaned against it and pulled something from his pocket.

  Lily caught the flare of a match and realized the driver had lit himself a cigarette.

  She felt a flash of irritation that he would take a break for a smoke while they all stood in the cold, waiting to get on with what was sure to be a time-consuming and unpleasant task.

  She glanced over at Strangford. She could see the tension in the line of his mouth, the iron set of his jaw. It was there because of her.

  Then she heard the sound of laughter.

  A couple turned the corner, walking arm-in-arm and a touch unsteadily. They strolled past Sam, casting only a cursory glance at where he stood taking a draw.

  They passed. He tossed the cigarette down, ground it under his boot, and moved to the door of the squat little lodge at the end of the gate.

  He worked quickly. Within a minute, she saw him push the door open. He peered inside, then pulled it closed and jogged back their way.

  “He picked the lock,” Lily said with surprise. “How does he know how to do that?”

  “Our Mr. Wu has a wee bit of a checkered past,” Dr. Gardner replied.

  “That’s it, then,” Sam announced as he returned.

  “We need some sort of watch,” the doctor pointed out, looking to Strangford.
“That place is a jungle. We’ll have no way of knowing otherwise whether someone is coming.”

  Dr. Gardner was right. Abney Park was spread over acres of heavily wooded wilderness—good cover for what they had planned, but also a situation that would make it hard to know if a threat was approaching.

  “Sam?” Strangford asked after a moment, a note of apology in his voice.

  It wouldn’t be enough, Lily thought. Even if she and Sam watched from opposite directions, there would be more angles than two sets of eyes could possibly cover. The cemetery was a jungle run through with crisscrossing paths.

  Sam rubbed his hand over his face, looking tired.

  “Suppose it’ll have to be rats, then,” he said.

  “Couldn’t you make do with birds?” Dr. Gardener asked.

  “There aren’t many out at this time of night and they’re less organized.” He nodded toward Lily, eyes narrow. “Is she going to start screaming?”

  “No, she is not,” Lily retorted flatly. She met his gaze evenly, daring him to contradict her, though inside she felt far less steady. Rats? What did any of this have to do with rats?

  He shrugged.

  “Fair enough. You lot wait here.”

  He walked across the lane, stopping at the dark, narrow gap of a sewer grate.

  Then he whistled.

  It was a strange sound, low in tone. Lily felt an involuntary shiver tickle across her skin. A long minute passed.

  Then the rat appeared. He peered out of the sewer grate, black eyes like tiny stones in his face. A long tail whipped back and forth.

  Sam crouched down and started speaking. His voice was far too low for Lily to make out any words, just the murmur of some unsettling conversation—one that the rat appeared to be listening to.

  Sam stood and the animal slipped away, darting into some bushes at the edge of a tidy little front garden.

  He pulled his driver’s gloves from his pocket, tugging them on.

  “The next move up will be the alpha,” Dr. Gardner explained. He had come to stand near her, enormous frame looming at her back. He spoke like he would to a startled horse, tones even and soothing, and Lily wondered why, exactly, he expected she might be about to bolt.

  A new rat emerged from the sewer.

  It was a large creature, big enough to have to squeeze to make it through the bars of the grate. It saw Sam standing at the curb and hissed, baring vicious teeth.

  Lily was not generally afraid of rodents, but this creature was unsettling, even when viewed from the far side of the road.

  There was a moment’s pause as the combatants took measure of each other. Then Sam took a quick half-step forward.

  The rat darted at him, aiming for his ankle, and Sam’s hand flashed down, pinning the animal to the ground.

  It screeched in rage and fear, scratching and nipping at his fingers.

  Lily realized there were other rats present at this scene. Black pebble eyes shone from all around them—under the neatly trimmed hedges, atop the freshly-painted fence posts. They were watching the drama unfolding by the sewer grate with rapt attention.

  The rat under Sam’s hand whipped its tail back and forth furiously, hissing with rage.

  Sam leaned in, increasing the pressure of his grip, and hissed in return.

  Lily felt an uncomfortable urge to run across the street and break it up. She forced herself to stay still.

  The tail continued to whip, lashing at Sam’s wrist. Then it went still. The rat lay limp under his hand, black eyes staring up at the driver, unblinking.

  Another long moment passed before Sam opened his hand and stood up.

  The large rat flipped to its feet and scurried away, disappearing into the sewer.

  The others—the owners of those myriad eyes shining in the darkness of this quiet suburban street—remained where they were.

  “This is likely to get a mite unpleasant,” Dr. Gardner warned quietly.

  “You mean more unpleasant than it has been already?”

  Strangford stepped up beside them, his profile highlighted by the glow of the street lamp at the top of the lane. His voice was low.

  “They have to touch him to accept him as king.”

  The shadows around her began to shift. Sleek brown bodies darted from the cracks in foundations, from bins and barrels. Lily saw them racing to and fro, writhing through the grate into the sewer and back out again. Behind her, a bay laurel rustled. She stiffened as a trio of rodents darted out across the street.

  Others followed, coming from every direction, dozens upon dozens pouring into the tidy street of this quiet, sleeping neighborhood. They converged on Sam and, to her horror, began to climb up his body.

  Claws dug into the wool covering his legs, hauling their thick bodies up the length of his coat. He held out his arms and rats scurried along them, clinging to his shoulders, dislodging his cap. The man was barely visible under the mass of writhing animals.

  The mass thinned, more of the beasts gathering at his feet. Sam looked down, rats still clinging to his shoulders, and spoke, the words too low for her to hear.

  But not for the rats.

  They stared at him enrapt, their focus complete and unblinking except when they turned and focused their gaze on her and the others.

  Their eyes glinted.

  They heard him, she realized with a rush of horror and wonder. He spoke, and the rats listened.

  Waves of them surged across the road, up the Egyptian columns and over into the cemetery. Others skirted the fence, scurrying up onto rooftops or branches.

  Sam bent down to retrieve his cap. He placed it back on his head and walked over.

  “They’ll watch,” he reported. “One of the blighters tugs at your leg, make scarce.”

  “Thank you,” Strangford replied.

  The younger man nodded, then cast a quick glare at Lily before moving back to the horses.

  He clearly knew who was responsible for bringing them there that night.

  What had she just witnessed?

  She had heard of snake charmers before and carnival types who claimed to be able to hypnotize bears or lions, but she had never known of a rat charmer.

  Was that all it had been? Some sort of carnival trick?

  She looked over to where Sam stood by the horses. The bay was nuzzling his neck, threatening to dislodge his cap again. Sam stroked her neck. He whispered something to her and the animal snorted in reply.

  Was it only rats?

  She thought of Ash’s words in the quiet gloom of the reflection room.

  You are not alone, Miss Albright.

  She had been struck before by how Sam failed to act as one would expect of a household servant. Perhaps that was because he was, in fact, something more.

  Another member of Ash’s menagerie.

  She glanced over at Strangford, wrapped in shadows and silence, then to Gardner, the doctor who had so easily guessed at the presence of a wound on her leg that was currently buried beneath layers of tweed and linen.

  Were all of them charismatics?

  “We’ll need the light,” the doctor said.

  Sam unhooked one of the carriage lamps. He snapped a shutter into place. Only the faintest glow leaked through the seam in the tin.

  “Keep it closed until you need it. The glare’ll give you away right sharp, rats or no rats.”

  “We defer to your expertise in the matter,” Dr. Gardner replied, taking it.

  “Let’s get to it,” Strangford cut in, his tone uncharacteristically short. He turned and started across the road.

  Lily and Dr. Gardner followed him along the gates of the cemetery. Pale tombstones were just visible through the gaps in the wrought-iron fence, wrapped in the cloak of a night-dark forest. It was as though this stretch of suburban sprawl had cracked open, revealing a sliver of the world of fairy-tales. Not the pretty ones, but the sort where the witch eats the lost children.

  “Hold,” Dr. Gardner warned. Lily stopped, following his l
ead by stepping back out of the light. The racket of carriage wheels echoed off the silent houses and a moment later the vehicle itself came into view—a tired hackney pulled by a saddle-backed old mare.

  It passed near enough that Lily could make out the holes in the driver’s gloves from where she stood close by Strangford and the doctor, veiled in the shadows from an overhanging oak.

  When the last resonant clatter faded, Strangford stepped out of the darkness and led them the rest of the way to the lodge.

  It was built in the same pseudo-Egyptian style as the columns of the fence, though the effect was compromised by the broadsheets pasted to the exterior. An advertisement for skin cream half-covered a polemic about the end of the world.

  It was another paper that caught Lily’s eye, a notice of a lecture on “The Glorious Future of Mankind”, sponsored by The Society for the Betterment of the British Race.

  Before she had a chance to think better of it, Lily’s hand flashed out, grasped the peeling corner of the broadsheet, and tore it from the wall. She crumpled it into a ball.

  “I take it you aren’t a supporter of eugenics,” the doctor commented from beside her.

  “Are you?” Lily asked.

  “I believe it to be one of the most dangerous ideas I have ever heard,” he replied simply.

  Strangford put his hand to the knob and the door opened.

  It was a small space and cluttered, a desk and chair run up against several heavy file cabinets, walls covered in papers set into them with pins. There were muddy footprints on the floor and a pair of work gloves, stained with earth, on a shelf by the door.

  Lily tossed the crumpled broadsheet into an overflowing wastebasket.

  Dr. Gardner opened the shutter of the lantern, releasing a thin beam of light.

  “What’s the name of the woman we’re unearthing this evening?”

  “Sylvia Durst,” Lily replied. “She would have been interred here three or four days ago, at the most, based on when the coroner’s report on her death was in the newspapers.”

  “Four days, eh? Good thing we’ve had cold weather,” he replied blandly.

  Strangford went to the file cabinet, yanking open the drawers and searching through them. Dr. Gardner ran a finger across one of the few inches of the desk not covered in papers. It left a line in the grime and he made a noise of disgust.