The Fire in the Glass

by Jacquelyn Benson

  Footsteps echoed across the boards, accompanied by a low, tuneless whistle. Lily clung to the ladder, willing herself to complete silence, close enough to Strangford to feel the warmth of his body through his coat.

  The footsteps passed. She waited, the instinct still prickling. After an eternity, she heard them return, the regular thud of some night watchman making his rounds.

  She waited until he had receded through the narrow arch, then slowly allowed herself to breathe.

  It had been stronger this time. The little pricks of awareness she had felt in the Southwark hospital and in Hartwell’s stairwell had blossomed into something more, a clear and undeniable knowing.

  The drug had provoked something more in her than just the vision on Strangford’s floor.

  It was possible it was merely some lingering fragment of the stuff in her system. She clung to that explanation. The alternative was far less comforting.

  Her father’s voice came back to her, the story he had told in her parlor.

  I remember your hunches.

  “We can move,” she said, keeping her voice even, not wanting Strangford to see how shaken she was.

  They climbed back onto the wharf, making their way quickly and quietly to the rowboat. Lily jumped in, settling the walking stick on the floor. Strangford untied the rope and tossed it down, then stepped in himself and took up the oars.

  He rowed quietly, dipping them expertly into the water and gliding the little craft along the dark river.

  They turned into the mouth of the dock.

  He stopped once they had passed into the protected waters with their milder current. The boat floated before the water side of the warehouse.

  Lily studied the buildings lining the opposite side of the dock.

  The perspective was different. She was lower, at the water level, not perched near the roof of the building. From this angle, there was no way to see the familiar silhouette of Tower Bridge. Nor was there anything distinct about the buildings themselves. They looked like any other riverside block in the city, save for the distinct shape of a hoist suspended from one of the warehouses that bordered the water. The steel crown of it thrust out over the dock while a counterweight of elegant girders arched back over the roof. She felt a familiar pattern in it, could imagine steel jaws and dark wings.

  “We’re here,” she confirmed.

  She looked back at the warehouse, studying the facade. The brick walls extended down into the water where perhaps at a lower tide, the pilings that supported the building might be visible. It was solid save for a set of massive doors at the far end.

  “Look. Up there.”

  Lily followed the direction of Strangford’s gaze. Behind one of the dark windows of the top floor of the building, something flickered—a brief flash of lamplight, there and then gone again.

  There was someone inside.

  “We need a way in,” Strangford noted.

  Lily’s gaze returned to those enormous doors. There were similar openings facing the city’s canals on buildings that had been set over some arm of the water. They were used to allow barges to carry goods directly inside to unload without having to be ported by hand onto to the shore and then transferred.

  She looked more closely at the shadowy space between the bottom of the door and the water.

  “There’s a gap.” She kept her voice low and pointed across the water. “Under the door.”

  Strangford eyed it dubiously.

  “It’s too narrow for me to row us in.”

  “Not if we’re sitting up.”

  He considered the gap, frowning.

  “It’s still rather close.”

  “I don’t see an alternative.”

  “We could wait for the others. Sam could—”

  “There isn’t any time,” Lily cut in.

  She saw him weigh it, two undesirable options. He picked up the oars, rowed them to the far bank of the dock, then turned the boat around, pointing the bow at the doors.

  “Guide me,” he ordered.

  Lily nodded.

  He began to pull, setting aside silence for long, sure strokes of the oars. The boat picked up momentum, slicing across the narrow water.

  “More to the left. There’s still a current.”

  He adjusted course, the doors rapidly approaching. Lily eyed them uncomfortably, the slender black space beneath looking far less generous than it had from a distance.

  They drew closer, the boat moving faster.

  “Now,” she whispered, sliding herself down to the floor.

  Strangford pulled up the oars, then dove down beside her.

  They were tucked into an awkward intimacy, pressed against each other on the angled planks. The boat continued to glide forward, propelled by the remaining momentum of Strangford’s strokes.

  Looking up, Lily watched the bottom of the thick, water-stained doors approach, then pass smoothly over her head. The boat scraped lightly against the wood, bumped up by a low ripple in the water.

  They were inside.

  She stayed low, pressed against Strangford’s body as they continued to drift forward. She could feel his breath on her hair.

  They stopped abruptly, bumping up against an unseen obstacle. The hollow sound of it echoed through a broad, open space.

  Lily felt her pulse jump. She remained still in the bottom of the boat, listening intently for some sign that their intrusion had been detected.

  Beyond the gentle lapping of water against wood, the space around them was silent.

  Finally she rose.

  They were bobbing against the side of a square pool set into the heart of the warehouse. It was open above them to a dizzying height, the rafters just visible overhead.

  Around her, the massive space was largely deserted. A few sacks of rotting flour were piled against one of the walls, a ghostly bulk in the near darkness. With the windows bricked up, the interior was lost in gloom. It smelled of Thames mud and mice.

  She thought of the sturdy new doors set into the street-side of the building. No one would go to the expense of all that oak and brass to protect an empty room.

  Nearby, the steel beam of a hoist rose from the water, towering up to the roof of the building. Lily could see the hydraulic engine that powered it resting on the warehouse floor. It looked well-oiled, free of rust. The hook that would haul pallets of goods to the upper floors dangled from its cable.

  The place might look deserted, but it wasn’t. Someone had a use for it. Something was being kept here they were motivated to protect.

  Strangford grabbed the side of the pool and pulled himself out onto the warehouse floor. He held the boat steady as Lily did the same.

  Then he turned the craft and gave it a strong push toward the doors.

  It drifted forward, bobbing its way back out of the building.

  She knew why he had done it. The presence of a rowboat in the pool would be a clear indicator that there were intruders in the building. With it gone, there was less chance that Waddington would guess his hiding place was discovered.

  They could hardly fit three bodies into the floor of it to affect their escape, not with the tide rising. Still, the sight of it gliding away clenched at her, taking with it their only sure means of getting free of this place.

  A wooden ladder was mounted beside the steel beam of the hoist, extending up to the floor above. Strangford indicated it and Lily nodded. She tucked the walking stick into the back of her belt as he started to climb, then followed him.

  Their progress was silent save for the rush of her breath—until one of the wooden rungs snapped under the weight of Strangford’s boot.

  The sound cracked across the space, echoing like a thunderclap.

  Lily froze.

  Perhaps he hadn’t heard it.

  No—it would have been impossible to miss in the heavy silence around them.

  Would he dismiss it as the building settling? Or the machinery of some nearby factory clanging into gear for the morning shi
ft? Perhaps he wasn’t even there anymore. He might have gone . . .

  There was nowhere he would go. Not at this hour. Not with a kidnapped woman in his care.

  Waddington was here and he had heard them.

  Strangford appeared to know it as well. He climbed quickly but quietly up the rest of the ladder, then ducked behind the bulk of a massive wooden crate, motioning urgently for Lily to join him.

  She tucked herself in beside him, pulling the stick from her belt, and waited.

  Like the level below, the space around her sprawled across one enormous room, but it was not empty. The rows of windows let in a soft, ambient light from the street below.

  The floor was a jumble of furniture. Rows of hospital beds stood upright, pressed together like dominoes. Chairs were bound together with rope into tower-like stacks. Islands of rolling carts and tables turned the place into a maze of narrow aisles, lined with things that would move and clang with the slightest bump.

  At the far end of the maze, another set of double doors opened onto a stairwell.

  She put her lips to Strangford’s ear and whispered.

  “Were we heard?”

  “We must assume so.” He considered the shadowy landscape. “If he’s waiting, he’ll do it at the top of the ladder.”

  “And if he isn’t waiting?”

  “It’s easier to fight on stairs.”

  He slipped out of their hiding place and wove his way silently across the floor. Lily followed, keeping her steps light, carefully bending out of the way of the jutting angles of the stacks of furniture. One bump could send some tower toppling, setting off a racket that revealed to Waddington exactly where they were.

  Everything here was new. The wood veneers were free of chips and stains. The metal coils of the beds showed no rust. None of this had been here for very long. It had been purchased and brought here fairly recently, a thought that left her feeling even more uneasy.

  It came to her what united the assortment of furnishings and supplies that surrounded her. This was the equipment one would need in any hospital.

  She had never questioned why Waddington might have come here. She had naively assumed that he was simply a squatter, making the space available to himself. Of course Waddington would never do that. He was far too careful, too deliberate. He would have had to know this location was secure before he would bring another victim here. And he had. He had known it because this was Hartwell’s warehouse, packed with Hartwell’s goods, the furniture and supplies he needed to open up another hospital.

  Her mind flew back to the burnt shell of the clinic, to the horror of the tiled basement and the monstrous operating room. He was going to do it again in some other place to a new batch of women. The evidence of it was all around her.

  Hampstead Heath, she thought, remembering the mortgage papers on his desk.

  Strangford extended a hand. Lily took it, letting him help her over a mattress that had slid out of its pile, blocking their path. Through his black glove, his grip was strong and steady.

  You are so much more than that.

  She set the thought firmly aside. Then they were at the door.

  THIRTY-ONE

  THE STAIRS WERE BROAD, lined with a sturdy iron rail. Narrow windows cut into the brick provided some illumination.

  It felt terribly exposed, that long expanse of metal and concrete extending before and behind her. There was nowhere to dodge for cover.

  She listened for some sign that Waddington had anticipated their route and was waiting for them.

  Her blasted power should be able to show her this. Was it only going to cough up a warning when it wanted to, then skip off when she needed it?

  How long would the effect of the Wine of Jurema last?

  The stairwell remained silent.

  Strangford met her gaze, then tilted his head up. Lily nodded.

  She climbed carefully, keeping her footfalls soft, her body close to the wall. As they rounded the last bend, they saw another open doorway leading into the top floor of the building.

  It was dark.

  She shifted her grip on the walking stick. Strangford glanced back at her and frowned. She knew he was fighting the instinct to tell her to stay behind. Instead of voicing it, he turned and moved to the doorway.

  They slipped inside and immediately pressed themselves against the wall.

  A slight rattle fell across the silence that filled the hall, Lily’s back brushing up against a shelf loaded with ceramic basins.

  The sound was small, but she still stiffened against it, feeling terribly exposed.

  This level was different from the ones below. Where those had been vast and open, this was a warren made up of tall shelving units and stacks of wooden crates. The shelves and stacked boxes extended far above her head, creating tight alleys and small rooms that made it impossible to see more than a few yards ahead. The place was a labyrinth.

  A narrow hallway stretched before them. The contents of the boxes on either side of it were scrawled on labels. Linens, Lily read on the nearest one. Doz flat sheets, doz pillow cases, quilts (5).

  Strangford led the way. Lily wanted to pull him back. After all, she was the one with a weapon, though the narrow confines of this space severely limited her ability to wield it properly.

  They moved past a shelf stacked twelve feet high with chamber pots, bundles of mops and brooms, crates of gauze and plaster. Their path twisted, turned into dead ends, doubled back on itself. All the while, she listened for some sign of Waddington. There was nothing, the silence broken only by the thump of her heart against her ribs, the rasp of her own breath.

  It didn’t matter. She knew he was somewhere in the darkness, stalking them. A man who could slip into homes undetected, linger there in some shadow, then emerge to steal the blood of a sleeping occupant—he would be careful. He would wait until he had a full grasp of the situation before he acted. He would get the measure of the obstacle he faced and proceed thoughtfully, deliberately to thwart it.

  Hartwell’s superhuman was gifted with the both the caution and the ruthlessness of a snake.

  They passed another alcove, a narrow space lined with jars. They were full and Lily could make out some of the names on the labels. Iodine, mineral spirits, rubbing alcohol . . .

  Carbolic.

  Ammonia.

  Something glimmered in the glass of the arrayed rows of jars—a sliver of lamplight.

  Strangford put out his arm, warning her back. He eased forward, Lily following. They turned the corner and she found herself looking down a narrow hall formed by stacks of crates, ending in a wider space illuminated by the glow of a paraffin lantern.

  They stopped short of entering it, backs pressed against the crates, keeping to the last bit of shadow as they peered into the room.

  Lily had seen it before.

  Shelves lined the space, glittering with glass vials and jars, racks of tubes and pipettes. In the center of the room lay a table, a prone figure arranged on its surface.

  Estelle.

  A fall of white gauze obscured the lower half of her face, suspended over her nose and mouth by a metal rigging clamped to the side of the table. A canvas strap crossed her chest, holding her in place.

  She was very pale and very still. A needle protruded from her neck, attached to a rubber tube pinched shut by a metal clamp.

  Waddington had made everything ready for the next stage of Hartwell’s research—for draining Estelle’s blood from her body, using her own living heart to pump it into Waddington’s veins.

  There was no sign of the doctor.

  Strangford pushed forward. He moved to Estelle and sniffed at the gauze.

  “Chloroform,” he said softly, meeting Lily’s eyes across the table. The gauze was the mechanism Waddington was using to keep Estelle anesthetized.

  Strangford plucked it from the rigging and tossed it aside. He worked at the straps that secured Estelle to the table.

  Lily’s instincts prickled.

&
nbsp; She looked around. The room was still empty, still silent, but something would soon be here. Something dangerous.

  She adjusted her grip on the walking stick—not too tight, staying loose and flexible, just as she’d been taught.

  Strangford paused with his hand over the needle in Estelle’s throat, then backed away, joining Lily by the shelves.

  “I can’t take the needle out,” he whispered. “I don’t know what would happen if I did.”

  Lily couldn’t answer. For all she knew, it would leave an open wound in Estelle’s neck, sending her blood pouring onto the floor. She wasn’t a doctor. The only doctor here was a killer.

  She glanced back at the table. Estelle looked pale and terribly still. She seemed older than she ever had to Lily before, the lines on her face deeper and more harsh.

  Then the sense of threat abruptly peaked.

  The awareness was sharp, screaming through her. She grabbed Strangford by the arm and hauled him into a run just as the shelves behind them lurched forward and came crashing to the ground.

  Glass exploded. Lily felt it pelt against her back. She heard Strangford curse and looked over to see him put a hand to a bright red gash in the flesh of his cheek.

  She looked over at the table. Estelle had been spared the brunt of the impact, though her caftan glittered here and there with tiny fragments of broken vials.

  Strangford rose, the broken glass sliding from his back and tinkling against the floor as it fell.

  She turned. Where the wall of shelves had once been, Waddington stood looking at them.

  His brown eyes were cold. They quickened with recognition when he looked at Lily.

  He reached into his lapel pocket and pulled out the shining silver blade of a scalpel.

  “Get Estelle,” Strangford ordered. He stepped forward, his boots crunching on the glass.

  Lily felt a quick burst of fury. She was the one with a weapon in her hands and therefore far better equipped to deal with a man with a knife—though the thought of avoiding that sharp, shining blade turned her stomach. But there was no time to protest. Waddington had hopped onto the shattered remains of the shelf, crossing it quickly and surely. Then the two men were upon each other.