Camille

by Tess Oliver

  My eyes flitted to the handkerchief, now stained red with blood. “I was in no danger. I shan’t be careless. We must try.”

  There was nothing more difficult than convincing a man with an abundance of logic and lack of emotion to change his mind. Dr. Bennett seemed resolute in his decision.

  “I’ve been thinking,” I said quickly, “a while back you showed me some cells under a microscope that had dark spots in the center. You called them nuclee something or other.”

  Science always peaked Dr. Bennett’s interest. I knew the man too well. His eyes widened. “Nuclei. Yes Schwann wrote a great deal about them. They are central to a cell’s existence.”

  “Have you studied Strider’s? Are they different than normal? Surely, if they are so important, they must contribute to the transformation.”

  “Naturally, that is where my theorizing went first. But I cannot see any significant changes in the nuclei of his cells. I know there are other structures. I can see the slightest shadows of them through my scope. But my lenses are not powerful enough.” He squeezed my arm. “I’m sorry, Cami. I should never have acted on this with such enthusiasm. The truth is, I’m no closer to solving this than I was four years ago.”

  “Only now we have added emotion to the equation. You and I had never met the victim in person.” My apprehension about this plan had been acute and for good reason. Now we were faced with a grim situation that seemed inescapable. How appropriate. It was not like anything in my life turned out well. I lived in a backward fairy tale. The happy ending started at the beginning, when I was young, and progressed right through to once upon a time there was a girl stuck in an unfortunate existence. My self-pity moment was cut short by an idea.

  “A few months ago, you told me that you believed each cell had a thin membrane, a boundary of sorts, which held together the contents and allowed selected materials into the cell.”

  His face brightened, and I hoped I’d sparked a rekindled interest in his study. “My God, Camille, I had no idea you actually paid attention to my ramblings.”

  I smiled. “I’ll admit some of your topics are too lofty to appeal, but occasionally, I do catch an interesting fact or two. Besides, Dutch is not much for conversation. So what do you think?”

  “About what?”

  “Isn’t it possible that the transmutation takes place across that membrane? What if certain molecules are suddenly allowed into a cell because of the mutation?”

  He rubbed his chin. “You know, Camille, you may be on to something. I would need to borrow a better microscope from the university.” I could almost see a set of gears spinning in his head as he sunk into one of his deep thoughts. “I’ll do it. Can you get the boy back here?”

  My stomach tightened. Today had been such a disaster, and I had no idea how to proceed. I forced a grin. “I brought him here today, didn’t I?’

  “I’ll get the microscope.” He cautiously picked up the handkerchief. “We may make a scientist of you yet, Cami.”

  Chapter 8

  I drew back my drapes in a worthless attempt to add light to my room. A mixture of smoke and fog smothered the streets, cutting short any attempt by the sun to warm the ground below. The people on the sidewalk pinched their coats close to their bodies and tramped through the mist as if moving across a vat of tar. Except for variations in height and width, each figure looked exactly the same. The opaque air made my own quest that much more difficult.

  I dropped the curtain edge and shuffled in my slippers to the wash stand. Even the cold water in the basin could not cool the dreariness from my head. For three days, I’d lurked in places where sewage glazed the pavement, where bone thin children wore only a layer of filth to shield them from the harsh cold, and where haunted, yellow stares dotted the lightless passages. And three days of torment brought me no closer to finding Nathaniel Strider.

  “I’ve laid a plate for you by the fire,” I called to Dr. Bennett from the doorway.

  He was busy buffing the brass tube of the microscope with a cloth. Like a child with a new toy, he’d barely taken his hands off the instrument since he’d borrowed it. “Come see this, Cami.” His fingers motioned me closer.

  I peered into the eyepiece for a moment. Each cell had a distinct outline. I raised my head. “Beautiful. Like a collage of odd-shaped tiles. Are those the membranes you spoke of? The ones that keep the cell in tact?’

  “Yes, but I’m afraid these are cork cells. The boundary around plant cells is much sturdier than animal cells. They are highly visible under this lens.”

  “Shouldn’t you be looking at animal cells?” My words sounded sharp, but I couldn’t help myself. “I’m slinking around the seediest sections of London, while you,” I waved my hand toward the microscope, “while you waste precious time staring at plant cells.”

  His mouth tightened into a straight line like it always did when he was angry. “Camille, I know you’re frustrated. Particularly since your excursions have been unsuccessful. But I assure you, everything I do here has a purpose. There is a significant relationship between plant and animal cells.”

  My shoulders drooped. “Forgive me. These last few days weigh heavily on my mind.”

  He placed my hand around his arm and led me into the hallway. “Science takes time. You mustn’t get your hopes up about saving this lad.”

  The crumbly biscuits I’d made for breakfast stuck to the roof of my mouth. I washed it down with a swallow of tea, flopped back in my chair, and stared at the back of the paper Dr. Bennett held. The day’s obituaries were lined in straight columns down the right side. The names of prominent citizens and business men were listed. The lost race inhabiting the slums of London died without mention or notice.

  As my eyes drifted down the column an idea struck me. “The obituaries! Why did I not think of this before?”

  Dr. Bennett folded down the top corner of the paper and looked at me.

  I leaned forward to get a closer look at the small print. “Don’t you see? I’ve been spending all my time in the wrong places. Nathaniel Strider steals from dead people. He told me himself that there was less chance of getting caught.”

  “Surely, you’re not suggesting a visit to a cemetery.”

  I shrugged. “Only if someone wealthy dies, of course.”

  He shook his head and smiled. “Of course.” He straightened the corner of the paper and disappeared behind it again.

  I read through the list of obituaries. Several merchants and a man who’d spent the last twenty years working for the Treasury Office did not sound promising, but the wife of a successful tradesman, a cotton mill owner, had suffered an acute onset of apoplexy and had succumbed to it while convalescing in her home near Regent’s Park. “Why are there no services listed?”

  “Services for whom?” This time he did not bother to look over his paper.

  “This woman, Mildred Smith.” I poked at the back of the paper. He sighed loudly. “It does not mention where she is to be buried.”

  “Perhaps it is a private funeral for the family only.”

  “What a bunch of burial snobs.” I sat back hard against the chair.

  Dr. Bennett folded the paper in half and placed it on the table. “Not everyone wants a spectacle to be made of their death.” He pointed to an advertisement. “This may be of greater interest to you than poor Mrs. Smith’s funeral.”

  I spun the paper around to read it. “Madame Tussaud’s is offering Londoners free entrance today. How can that be of interest to me? You know I find the place gruesome.” I turned the paper back to him. “Besides, with a free entrance, I can only imagine the caliber of crowd queued up to get in.”

  Dr. Bennett’s eyes peered at me over the rim of his eyeglasses. “Precisely.”

  It took me a moment to realize what his one word response meant. I sat up straight in my seat. “You think it possible?”

  “It says the free admission includes a visit to the Chamber of Horrors. My dear, if it is one thing you can count on the mas
ses for, it’s a profound interest in the macabre. And with the fee waived today, it is a fortuitous opportunity indeed for those with empty pockets.”

  “I’ll head there straight after breakfast and watch for him outside of the place. Mind you, I have no intentions of entering otherwise. A visit to the morgue would be more inviting.”

  I donned my favorite blue-striped visiting habit complete with the large pink sash and matching coat and tried to convince myself that my motive for dressing like a girl had nothing to do with Nathaniel Strider. “I’m leaving,” I called from the entryway.

  Dr. Bennett joined me at the front door. “Here’s some money. Take the omnibus to Baker Street.” He surveyed my outfit. “It may have been wise to dress down today. I’m afraid your stylish wardrobe might draw too much attention.”

  “Little chance of that. Strider has only seen me looking like an oddly dressed boy.”

  “Actually, I wasn’t thinking about the lad. I meant in general. There will be all sorts of characters milling about Baker’s Street today.” Then he gave me a distressed look that I knew too well.

  “I will not get my hopes up, John. I promise.” Of course, I knew it was a lie. I had already convinced myself that this had to end well. I could not bear it otherwise.

  Obviously attempting to fill his vehicle to capacity, the omnibus conductor stopped at every corner to coax patrons inside. By the time we reached Baker Street, my face was pressed against the cold window pane. My biggest worry was having to climb over the laps of all the strangers sitting beside me. The sidewalks were crowded with people, and as we neared the wax museum, I could see a queue already forming. Then as the buss jerked to a halt, I spotted his tall frame in the sea of visitors.

  My shock and the violent motion of stopping squirted me across the aisle and into the lap of the stout man across from me. “I am profoundly sorry,” I stammered as I pushed myself upright. He grunted and straightened his waistcoat. The door opened and I plowed over the rest of the patrons and exited with cheeks hot from embarrassment. The morning was off to a splendid start.

  The crowd had doubled by the time I’d reached Tussaud’s. Strider stood halfway through the queue. Reluctantly, I joined the end of the line. It seemed I would have no choice except to enter the museum. Perhaps if I passed him inside, I could work up the courage to plead my case once more. But I dreaded the whole scenario having to creep through dimly lit passageways squeezed between strangers while being stared at by the effigies of late monarchs. With so many visitors, and such poor lighting, it was entirely possible that Strider and I would not even cross paths.

  The forest of heads provided the perfect barrier. Strider’s height allowed me to keep track of his whereabouts and my lack of it made me nearly invisible.

  Through a gap in the crowd, I spotted two girls standing next to him. He spoke animatedly to them, punctuating his phrases with that bloody smile of his. They stared at him raptly as if they stood alone with him on the sidewalk rather than crushed between jabbing elbows and unwashed bodies.

  “Well, what ‘ave we ‘ere?” A voice drawled behind me. I decided to ignore it. “That’s a smart little outfit you’re wearing, Miss. Come for your free day at the museum, ‘ave you?”

  Why had I not listened to Dr. Bennett’s warning about my wardrobe? I focused on the heads in front of me.

  I felt a tug on the hem of my coat and could no longer disregard the comments. I swiveled around. “Please, do not touch me,” I said curtly. By their brown, weathered faces and the musty smell of their clothing, I surmised they were barge workers taking a break from a day on the river.

  One of them tipped his cap and tilted his head. “You’ll ‘ave to excuse Johnny ‘ere. “He’s got trouble keepin’ his hands to ‘imself.”

  Johnny’s mouth pulled to a sneer. “That’s right. I’ve a terrible time controlling these hands.” He held up his blister covered fingers. The lines in his palm were crusted with black dirt.

  I turned back around and scooted forward. A few heads parted and I scanned the bobbing parade of caps and hats for the wavy black hair. I spotted Strider just as he’d leaned over to kiss one of the girls on the mouth. It felt as if my stomach filled with lead cannon balls. To make matters worse, the two wretches had now moved up to flank me on either side.

  “Seeing how you’re all alone, Miss, Johnny and me, thought you might be needin’ a couple of escorts. It can get scary inside, we’re told. With all them skewered French heads and all.”

  I moved forward without answering them.

  “You think you’re too good for us? Is that it?” One of them snarled at my back.

  I blinked hard to keep my eyes from watering. After the humiliating scene in the omnibus and the kiss in front of me, having these two louts taunting me was too much. The throng of people shifted forward as the doors opened. I slipped between several women and tucked myself into the first cranny I could find out of view of the two barge workers. I glimpsed ahead. Strider had already gone inside. Like a school of fish being swept by the current, the entire crowd washed into the museum.

  A murmur rolled through the spectators as they wandered into the richly appointed throne room where kings and queens of the past could eye their subjects with eternal disgust. Aside from the historical costuming, the displays held little interest for me. Dr. Bennett had brought me two years ago, and I could not rid myself of the creepy feeling that the displays were not wax at all but rather mummified corpses made to look like sculptures. We’d cut the visit short after three steps into the Chamber of Horrors. We had, after all, our own horrors to face on the moonlit streets of London.

  I wandered into one of the less traveled pathways and pressed myself against the wall. There had been no sign of Strider, and I hated to admit that I felt relieved. The morning had gone so badly, all of my confidence had faded. It occurred to me that I’d been better off waiting outside. He would have to leave the place eventually, and I could wave him aside and speak to him. Inside, with the rush of people whirring through the chambers, it would be nearly impossible to converse with him. And I had no idea how he would react when he realized I was following him again.

  A woman clashed shoulders with me, and I stumbled, nearly pitching headlong into the stampede of feet. I caught myself, and as I straightened, I saw his face. I was sure he hadn’t seen me, and coward that I was, I ducked under a rope spanning the doorway to a dark room. There was a sign dangling on it that I had not had time to read, but I was quite sure it said NO ENTRANCE. I only needed to stay tucked away long enough for him to pass. Then I would head to the exit, wait outside, and see how long my resolve lasted.

  I backed further into the deserted room when two figures climbed beneath the same rope. I had been spotted. But not by Nathaniel Strider.

  “Well, if it isn’t Miss High and Mighty.” Johnny licked his lips as he drew closer.

  I tried to push past him, but his friend’s arm shot out and caught me. My foot stomped down hard on his.

  “You witch!” He dropped his arm to grab his injured foot.

  I raced deeper into the lightless room and a scream caught in my throat. A row of decapitated wax heads impaled on large spikes lined the wall. But the trailing footsteps terrified me more than the ghastly display. I tucked myself into the blackest recess of the room and tried to quiet my breath. My legs were shaking wildly.

  “Gotcha!” Johnny’s grubby hands grabbed me around the waist. “Can’t hide in the dark with that white, pussy cat stripe in your hair.” The smell of his breath sickened me.

  My scream echoed off the walls, and his filthy palm tightened around my mouth.

  “Johnny, look what I found. Bring the wench over ‘ere.” I kicked and squirmed but his arms were too strong. He picked me up like a bag of feathers and followed his limping friend.

  From the corner of my eye, I could see the roped doorway. But when I saw what had interested the man, the room began to sway, and I felt close to fainting. The guillotine, a historica
l relic of Madame Tussaud’s earlier life in France, stood tall against the back wall of the room. The polished blade hung high over the apparatus. A basket with a wax head finished off the execution scene.

  My mind focused long enough for me to have one coherent thought. “I have money,” I blurted. “I’ll give you what I have, if you let me go.”

  “Let’s ‘ave it then,” Johnny began groping my midsection to find my coin purse. I struggled to get my arm free and swung my elbow into his nose. He threw me to the ground, but before I could get up, his friend had hold of my hair. He yanked me to my feet and dragged me to the guillotine.

  “I’ve always wanted to see how this thing worked.” His words barely registered as my thoughts scrambled to wake myself from this nightmare. My hair was twisted around one of his hands, and he held my two wrists with the other as he shoved me to my knees.

  The floor and the room moved in a wavy pattern. I hoped I would lose consciousness before hearing the blade release. My mind froze and the memory of my father’s death crawled up to make its last appearance before being blackened forever. And through the blur, I saw my father’s face and a small hand holding a pistol. Then I heard the noise, the guttural roar I’d heard often before. I could no longer discern between real life and my memories. There were yells of pain and someone screamed in terror, but it had not come from my mouth. That much I could sense.

  Suddenly, my hands and hair were free, and I collapsed forward. Two glowing eyes moved toward me. I rose to my feet and stumbled backward as the blood began to return to my head. Strong hands caught me but I no longer felt scared. Arms covered in a sailor’s coat pulled me against a hard chest.

  I cried into Strider’s shirt. Murmuring voices filled the empty room. I lifted my face and saw the two men lying unconscious on the floor across the room. I peered up at Strider. His face was bloodless, his lips snow white. When he let go of me, my heart sank low in my chest. He twisted back and looked at the two men on the floor. One of them stirred. Then Strider’s face whipped around, and his wild gaze held mine. His chest heaved with breaths as he opened and shut his hands as if they pained him. No doubt, the transformation from man to wolf must be excruciating.