Something rubbed against her boot and Lily jumped, nearly knocking the door closed.
A cat blinked up at her. It mewed loudly, then nudged her leg again.
The footman glanced over at the door. She knew a moment of heightened fear until he turned and hurried on his way.
Once he was gone, she slipped back into the hall. She moved to the back of the house, farther from the warmth of the dining room, and opened another door.
It was dark. The wide French-style windows overlooked the garden. It must be stunning in the summer when they could be thrown open to let in the warmth and the fresh air.
Her eyes, adjusted to the gloom, picked out the shape of a great oak desk, walls lined with bookshelves . . . and a row of file cabinets.
Hartwell’s study.
She stepped inside.
The fire in the hearth had burned down to embers, left to die for the evening, but the room still retained some warmth. Her toes and fingers had thawed since she came inside and were starting to hurt, a tingling pain that she ignored.
She moved to the desk. It was meticulously tidy. Not so much as a drop of ink marred the blotter. A few papers sat in a neat pile on the surface. She scanned them quickly. They were assessments for a property on Hampstead Heath, a mortgage signed in Hartwell’s sprawling hand.
The square footage of the property was enormous. What did Hartwell intend to do with such a space? Was it intended to be a lavish new country home?
There was nothing else on the surface of the desk except for the unusual luxury of a telephone. That it was here and not in a hall where others in the family might have access was telling. The expense of the device was clearly incurred for Hartwell’s use alone.
She tried the drawers. All locked.
She moved to the file cabinets.
There were no locks here. The drawers were packed with files. She opened the curtains, letting a bit more light into the room. She could barely make out the names on the folders. Lily pulled a few at random, bringing them closer to the window and flipping through them. Everything was in pristine order, alphabetized, dated, and cross-referenced.
She felt her pulse jump. There must be something here, but there had to be hundreds of files. Where should she begin?
Boyden, she thought.
She flipped through the B’s.
Nothing.
Heller. McKenney. Durst. Lily looked for the names of all the murdered mediums. The meticulous organization of the rest of the files made it clear that they would not merely have been mislaid. There was simply nothing there.
She fought the urge to slam shut the drawer.
There was one more name to try.
She opened the last cabinet, flipped to the W’s—and finally found what she was looking for.
According to his file, Lieutenant Jeremy Waddington was a veteran of the Royal Army Medical Corps, active during the Boer conflict.
Discharged for medical reasons: malaria
Beneath the typed diagnosis was an additional note in Hartwell’s hand.
Patient is asymptomatic carrier.
Carrier. She thought back to Mrs. MacAlister, wasting to nothing in a bed in St. Bart’s.
Just a lying devil with poison in his blood.
Lily turned the page.
There was a photograph. It was a black and white image of the face of a man she realized she had seen before.
It had been the night of Estelle’s last séance, when Lily had been coerced into opening the door for an early guest—an ordinary man with pale brown hair and a neatly trimmed mustache, the kind of face you felt certain you had seen a dozen times before.
He had been inside her house.
The instinct to run, to drop the file and race back to March Place, was overwhelming. But what good would it do? Estelle wasn’t there to be warned and no authority would believe Lily’s word about the danger she faced. She needed evidence. It had to be here.
She flipped through the rest of Waddington’s file, scanning the pages of notes. One section was underlined emphatically, Hartwell clearly deeming it of exceptional importance.
Patient’s blood exhibits unusual characteristics. Resistant to clotting when mixed. Have yet to find incompatible donor. Possible advanced human characteristic?
The man in the photograph stared out at her, dark brown eyes like shallow pools.
Dr. Gardner had told her that the obstacle to successful human-to-human transfusion was the unpredictable reaction one patient’s blood had to that of another. If Hartwell’s note was accurate, then Waddington was indeed exceptional—someone who could receive blood from any donor without the ill effects that took the lives of others.
She flipped hurriedly through the rest of his chart as a door closed down the hall, a child’s bright tones echoing from upstairs.
She stopped, staring down at a page labeled Record of Procedures.
It was a list of names, dates. A line or two of description.
Mary Ellen Smith. April 4 1909. Donor compatibility test. Successful.
Anna Faucett. April 6 1909. Donor compatibility test. Successful.
Mary Ellen Smith. May 12 1909. Partial transfusion, 1 pint. Successful.
She scanned down the list of similar entries, then stopped at a name that caught her eye.
Mariah Reznik. July 7 1909. Partial transfusion, 1 pint. Successful. Addt. Note:
Transfer of desired donor characteristic observed. Effect duration roughly 3 hours.
Reznik. She searched for the woman’s file, pulling it from the drawer as the sound of clinking dishes from down the hall indicated the end of dinner.
The folder was thick. On the first page, a photograph of the woman had been pasted into place. She was dark-haired, glaring at the camera with such force, Lily felt chilled just looking at her in the dim light from the window.
Race: Jewish
Place of origin: Belz, Galicia
The intake form used as the cover for the file had a field specifically for syphilis, which for this patient was marked None.
The following pages were covered with extensive notes of treatments and procedures inflicted upon the woman in Hartwell’s elegant, unhurried hand.
July 29, 1909. Partial transfusion 1 pint, Lt. J Waddington. Donor characteristic transfer, effect temporary.
August 12, 1909. Partial transfusion 1 pint 8 oz, Lt. J Waddington. Donor characteristic transfer, effect temporary.
August 19, 1909 . . .
The list went on. August 30, September 10 . . . effect temporary.
Subject grows recalcitrant, Hartwell noted.
Mrs. MacAlister’s words echoed through Lily’s skull.
They kept coming back for her . . . she weren’t having none of their purpose.
Near the end of the file, a more elaborate comment, scrawled as though in a moment’s inspiration.
Indications are that partial transfusion yields only partial transfer of the desired characteristic regardless of methodology. Could complete transfer yield permanence?
Lily stared down at the words on the page as the pieces started to fall into place in her mind.
The Society for the Betterment of the British Race, Hartwell’s eugenics club—an organization devoted to harnessing the powers of heredity to direct the future evolution of humankind.
Heredity was slow. Human generations took a long time to grow to maturity. Even if he was successful at Parliament with his marriage bill, Hartwell’s vision would take centuries to come to fruition.
The Carfax Gallery. The crowd of admirers surrounding Hartwell, gushing about his research—about the revolutionary potential of discovering that human blood could be classified into types.
Dr. Gardner’s voice, rumbling across the confines of a darkened carriage.
If there was a safe way to transfer blood from one person into another, a great many lives we currently lose could potentially be saved.
The portly toothpick maker on Bury Street outside the warm glow of th
e gallery, a rune gleaming on his lapel.
And that is exactly what our future promises if we are bold enough to grasp it—a race of noble heroes.
What if there was a shortcut?
If Hartwell could discover a means of transferring desirable traits from one body into another that did not require breeding . . . he could reshape the world in his image in no time at all.
The audacity of his goal was shattering, rocketing through her with all the horror it implied.
Hartwell’s interest in blood wasn’t about saving lives. It was about controlling the future of the human race.
Lily fought to close the circle, to complete the nightmarish picture forming in her brain. According to Mrs. MacAlister, Hartwell had become obsessed with Mariah Reznik. Waddington’s file showed that once she arrived at the hospital, the other transfusions stopped. What desirable characteristic had a poor Jewish woman possessed that made her the singular focus of Hartwell’s interest?
The ability to see and hear the dead.
Her charisma.
Hartwell was searching for a way to steal it from the woman gifted with it and bestow it on another.
But it hadn’t worked.
Partial transfer yields only partial transference . . . could complete transfer yield permanence?
Complete transfer.
She snatched up Waddington’s file again, flipping to the list of procedures at the end. She scanned to the bottom of the list.
The last entries were dated from within the past month, long after the destruction of the Southwark hospital.
D. Stokes. Feb 19 1909. Complete transfusion. Addt. Note: Transfer of desired donor characteristic duration 2 days.
D. Stokes. Sylvia Durst had lived in Stoke Newington.
A complete transfusion, draining a woman of her entire stock of blood and pouring it into the veins of another.
They had done it because she had something they wanted, a power they thought someone more worthy should carry.
The person herself—all her memories, her dreams, her wholeness—was discarded, left behind like refuse. What was one woman’s life weighed against the potential to exalt the human race into a higher state of evolution?
Dora Heller, Agnes McKenney, Sylvia Durst, Annalise Boyden, Mariah Reznik . . . they had all been deemed expendable in the name of a greater purpose—their power harvested and granted to someone Joseph Hartwell deemed more worthy.
And he’d recorded it here in black ink.
B. Belgrave. Feb 22 1909. Complete transfusion.
B. Belgrave. Annalise Boyden, Belgravia. The date of her death was marked down on the page. He’d merely disguised the name.
It was proof. Evidence.
And it changed nothing.
He would deny it. Claim the records were related to other patients, that the dates were coincidence. Lily checked for files on Stokes or Belgrave. There were none. The lines that offered such damning proof to her would easily be brushed aside by others less inclined to doubt the integrity of one of Britain’s foremost men of medicine.
She looked to the desk, looming in the darkness, hiding its secrets behind locked drawers.
Before she could second-guess the decision, she stalked over to the fireplace and pulled the poker from the rack of tools.
She moved to the first drawer, wedged the tip into the crack at the top of it, and broke it open.
A sharp crack echoed off the high walls.
She froze, listening with heart-thudding intensity.
Feet pounded across the floor upstairs, the sound of children racing down a hall. Lily could hear the strident tones of a nurse calling after them, trying to round up recalcitrant charges.
There was a distant clink of silver dinnerware.
She pulled the drawer open.
It contained only a single page, which she lifted to the pale light that spilled in through the window.
The paper felt thin in her hand. At the top was an address.
War Office, Whitehall, S.W.
The message was brief.
We thank you for bringing this research to our attention. The Secretary agrees that this line of inquiry is potentially of profound value. Your continued work is encouraged. Please notify us of any progress.
The signature at the bottom was smudged, unrecognizable.
A line of type at the bottom of the page, however, was perfectly clear. The neat black letters struck like knives.
Copied: P.M., Ld. Torrington
Lord Torrington. Her father.
We thank you . . .
The telephone rang.
Lily froze.
The jangle of the bell sounded wildly and unnaturally loud in the stillness of the room.
Should she answer it? Was there some other way to silence it?
Footsteps clipped down the hall. No time.
She shoved the memorandum in her pocket, snatching up the fireplace poker along with Waddington and Reznik’s files. She closed the desk drawer as much as she could, the bent lock preventing it from shutting completely. She ducked behind an armchair on the far side of the study, tucking herself into a ball and going as quiet and still as she could.
Hartwell wore his evening clothes. He touched a switch at the door and an electric light flared to life. The glare was blinding after the time she’d spent reading in the near darkness.
He sat down at the desk and picked up the receiver. The bell silenced. In the quiet that followed, every noise seemed larger than it should, from the creak of Hartwell’s weight in the chair to the regular thud of her heart in her chest.
“This is Kensington 603,” he said. “From the Borough exchange? Yes, I’ll take it. You can reverse the charges.”
There was a pause as the call was connected. Lily glanced past Hartwell to where the desk drawer still hung slightly ajar.
“You have her? Good. What’s her status? That’s unfortunate but I did foresee the likely necessity. What did you inject her with? I would wait until after five to ensure that she’s fully metabolized it. Stabilize her with chloroform until then. Yes, we’re moving forward as discussed. You know where to set up? No, the new property isn’t ready yet. The warehouse will do. You may run the initial protocols. I’ll be over at dawn.”
He hung up the receiver.
“You may as well come out,” he said evenly.
Lily stood. There was little point in continuing to crouch behind the chair.
Besides, it was easier to run or fight on her feet.
“Was that Waddington?”
“Lieutenant Waddington, please. He is an officer and deserves the according term of address. Whom have you collected?” He glanced toward the files she held in her hand.
“Mariah Reznik. And a file on Lt. Waddington that includes references to several murders.”
“You must be mistaken.”
“You disguised the names but not the dates. It’s clear enough.”
“Is it, though? Clear enough.”
He seemed unperturbed by Lily’s possession of the files.
Because he was right. There was nothing clear about her evidence, nothing he couldn’t refute should she try to bring it to the attention of the law.
“What is clear is that you have broken into my home. Which makes you a thief, Miss Albright. I am afraid my patience for your antics has run rather thin, so I am not inclined to overlook this latest violation. Alastair!”
He barked the name at the opened doorway and a footman came running. His eyes widened at the sight of Lily, in her scarf and trousers, standing in the study.
“Go to the station and speak to the inspector on duty. Tell him we have caught a burglar in the house. Now.”
The footman cast her another surprised look before dashing off to follow Hartwell’s instructions.
“The police? Aren’t you going to turn me over to your thugs in the Mint?”
“That was you? I suppose I should have guessed as much. You’re lucky you weren’t killed.”
&n
bsp; “Luck had nothing to do with it.” She felt the anger rise in her. “You will be called to account for this.”
“There is nothing to account for. I am a scientist engaged in research with profound implications for the future of our empire. Of the entire human race.”
“And what are the lives of a few women weighed against that grand aim?” she snapped in reply.
“The presumption that every life is of equal value will do little to advance our species. Quite the opposite. We may fail to recognize that, but you can be assured that other nations will. We cannot afford to be left behind. Do you wish to sit down? The station is only a short walk away. The inspector will be along momentarily.”
He examined the broken lock on his desk, making a brief huff of disapproval. Lily waited, tense and still, the poker and the files clutched in her hands.
“You paid a visit to Westminster today. I presume his lordship must have been less than convinced to aid you or you wouldn’t have been so desperate as to attempt this foolishness. He is rather consumed with legal troubles related to his legitimate child at the moment. It is unsurprising he has little time to spare for a bastard.”
She looked to the desk, to the other locked drawers. Had she chosen the wrong one? Perhaps another had the incriminating evidence that might bring Hartwell down.
No. There would be no proof. Hartwell was too clever for that. She accepted it now, the truth settling over her.
This was a mistake.
She recalled the carbolic scent of the hall of St. Bart’s, Dr. Gardner’s quiet assurance.
When we are asked for aid, we give it.
She thought of Strangford standing among the bare lime trees.
There is nothing you could ask of me that I would consider an imposition.
She hadn’t asked—not Strangford, or Gardner, or Sam or Robert Ash. She had plunged forward alone, unwilling to let anyone else put themselves at risk . . . though was that the truth? Had she been trying to protect them? Or had she been driven by her own fear of emotional entanglement and the potential for pain, betrayal and disappointment that letting herself care for someone entailed?
There was no point answering that question. It was done. She had blown her chance to get the evidence she needed and in doing so, had given Hartwell an incontrovertible power over her. He could remove her from the game. And he would.
The Fire in the Glass Page 39
