The Last Necromancer

by C. J. Archer

  Seth entered. "Can I get you anything, Charlie?" His smile made him even more handsome, and not for the first time I wondered why he was working for Fitzroy alongside a ruffian like Gus.

  "Tea and cake." Fitzroy's gruff manner wiped Seth's smile from his face.

  Once he was gone, Fitzroy indicated I should sit at the table. I did, and a moment later, as though it were an afterthought, he did too.

  "Now that you've agreed to help, I want to keep you informed," he said.

  "You do? Oh. Thank you. Is there more to what you've already told me?"

  "Not much. I've learned that a man has been calling at all the homes of London vicars and asking after girls living in the same house. Daughters, wards, servants…"

  "I'm sure that went down well. Did he know my name?"

  "I don't think so, but I didn't know it at first, either. Not until I learned about the tragic disappearance of Anselm Holloway's daughter, two days ago."

  "And you investigated further," I finished. "How did you learn the piece of information about the vicar? How did V.F.?"

  He sat quite still, one palm flat on the polished tabletop. I thought for a moment he would keep that secret to himself, but then he answered. "A woman we'd been watching in Paris wrote to him. Her husband had died in suspicious circumstances here in England, and she'd exiled herself to Paris to avoid the police, and us, asking uncomfortable questions."

  "You think she killed her husband?"

  "I think she knew the killer and was possibly present for the murder. I also believe the murderer to be the man she wrote to, this V.F. Her husband's body was cut open and the brain used to—"

  "Stop!" I pressed a hand to my lurching stomach and drew in a deep breath. "So you watched this woman in Paris and waited for her to send a communication. You must have intercepted the letter."

  "I did. She'd written it in code and tried to have an unsuspecting couple deliver it, since the usual postal service would be too slow and unreliable. I intercepted and decoded it. The letter claimed she'd found the girl V.F. was seeking, and that she was living with a London vicar. I don't know how she learned that. I then made sure the missive found its way to V.F's hands."

  "Thereby putting the girl—me—in danger."

  "You weren't in danger because you weren't living with a London vicar."

  "You didn't know that at the time."

  "And I would not have allowed V.F. to capture you."

  "Forgive me for doubting your competence on this, Mr. Fitzroy, but you are only three men, if you include Gus and Seth, and there are many vicars living in London. You couldn't watch them all."

  The fingers on the table splayed wide.

  "Tea," Seth announced, as he entered the library with a tray. Behind him, Gus followed, carrying a second tray laden with plates and slices of cake.

  They set the trays down and began to pour and pass out plates. There was enough for them too. It would seem they were to join us. The household arrangement was odd, and I still wasn't sure whether the two men were supposed to be servants, assistants, or something else. Not friends. Fitzroy certainly didn't treat them as equals.

  "You need a maid," I told Fitzroy.

  "Aye," Gus muttered, as he handed me a plate.

  "Or dress these two in livery."

  Seth had been about to hand me a cup and saucer, but he held it back. "I am not wearing livery."

  "We're not bloody footmen," Gus added, pulling up a chair. He sank his teeth into his slice of cake, scattering crumbs over his chest.

  "Then you definitely need a maid," I said. "And footmen too. Is money a concern?"

  "No," Seth said.

  I arched a brow at Fitzroy, but he didn't notice. He pushed my plate closer to me. "You should eat."

  "I told you, I'm not hungry."

  "Eat."

  "Better do as he says," Seth warned me. "He likes getting his own way."

  Fitzroy shot him a flinty glare that turned Seth's face pale. He cleared his throat and sipped his tea.

  I nibbled the cake to appease them. It gave me time to think anyway. It seemed I knew something Fitzroy didn't—what V.F. looked like.

  "I saw him at my father's house," I said. "V.F. I assume it was he. Father called him 'doctor.'"

  "Doctor?" Gus shook his head as he swept crumbs off his jacket. "If it's the same man we're after, the one who chopped Mrs. Calthorn's husband into pieces, then he don't cure people."

  Fitzroy sat forward. "When was this?"

  "The day you kidnapped me. I sometimes sit in the garden of my old home." I looked into my teacup, not wanting to see what they thought of my pathetic behavior. "I overheard this doctor ask if there was a girl living there—he even mentioned my name. He must have learned about me having gone missing through neighbors or parishioners."

  "Or via publicly available birth records. Either way, he'd done some research before his visit. What did he look like?"

  I described the doctor as best as I could. "I would recognize him again if I saw him." When I saw him. I had no doubt I would be seeing him again. "I think he gave Father his name, but I didn't catch it."

  Seth set down his cup in the saucer with a loud clank, and Gus stopped chewing. "Why didn't you say so?" Seth said. "Sir? Shall we go now?"

  "Prepare the coach and horses," Fitzroy said.

  Both men ran from the room. Their keenness unnerved me. Neither man had shown much intensity until now. It seemed I'd given them the first true clue for discovering V.F.'s identity they'd had in a long time.

  "Can you learn where a man lives from his name?" I asked Fitzroy.

  "Yes, particularly if he's a practicing doctor. If he's not, there are still ways." He got up and strode from the room.

  I raced after him, almost tripping over my skirts in my haste. I picked them up to keep them away from my boots and caught up to him in the entrance hall as he retrieved his hat and gloves from the hallstand.

  "You're going to my father's house," I said.

  "Yes."

  "And then on to the doctor's, as soon as you can connect his name to an address?"

  "It might take some time to find the address."

  "You may not need me to lure him out after all."

  "Hopefully Holloway will give us the name without coercion, and V.F. will be found easily. If not, you will be required." His thumb and forefinger stroked the brim of his hat, and I suspected he was contemplating saying something else. But then he strode away toward the door, leaving me standing there by the hallstand.

  "Mr. Fitzroy," I called. He paused and raised his brows at me. "Can I come with you? To Father's house, I mean."

  He lowered his hat and faced me fully. "You wish to speak with him?"

  "I…I think so. Yes."

  "You don't need to. I'll get the information from him in my own way, if necessary."

  I suspected his way meant beating the answer out of him. While I wasn't entirely against the idea, I did want to see my father. And speak to him. It was time, and I had a lot of things to say. "If you intend to scare information out of him, I think you may need me. He won't be too frightened of a mere human, but having the devil's maid in his midst will scare the stuffing out of him. Answers too, I expect."

  "Then you'd better fetch your gloves."

  ***

  I recognized the elderly women leaving my father's house with baskets over their arms. They were two of his most devoted parishioners, and a more pious pair never existed. As they passed Fitzroy and me near the front gate, I ducked my head so that I wouldn't be recognized, but I needn't have bothered. They were too intent on their conversation. I caught snippets as they walked away.

  "Poor, poor man," one said.

  "Will his suffering never end?"

  "What has he done to deserve such a life?"

  "Excuse me," I called out to them. They stopped and gave me benign smiles. Neither seemed to recognize me. "Has something happened to…Mr. Holloway?"

  "The house was burgled last night, p
oor man," one said.

  "While he was asleep upstairs!" the other chimed in with a shake of her head.

  "The vicious animal gave him a solid crack on the head too. Poor man."

  I bit the inside of my lip. "Is he all right?"

  "He has a headache, but he's up and about, thank the good lord. And who are you, dear?" She squinted at me. "You look a little familiar."

  "I'm new to the area," I said as I turned away.

  One of the women sniffed at my rudeness, then I listened as their footsteps receded. I glanced up at Fitzroy, only to see him already looking down at me.

  "Are you sure you want to do this?" he asked.

  "Now more than ever." I needed to check on Father.

  The door opened a mere crack upon our knock. Father's face appeared, not the housekeeper's. I'd expected to be taken into a sitting room, where we'd have to wait before seeing him. The delay would have allowed me to calm my jumpy nerves. I wasn't prepared for his skittish gaze to dart between us. It merely flicked over me, as if I didn't matter, and settled on Fitzroy.

  "This is not a good time." He went to shut the door, but Fitzroy forced it open with his shoulder. My father stumbled back and we entered. "Who are you? What do you want?" He picked up a heavy book from the hallstand and held it aloft like a weapon. It was a bible.

  He sported a gash on his temple. The red, angry cut crossed his frown lines. He looked much older than I remembered. His hair was grayer, the lines deeper, and his shoulders stooped. He hadn't been a young man when I was born, but he looked much older than his fifty-five years.

  "Do you recognize me?" I said.

  He looked at me again, and this time he actually saw me. And he knew. The mask of horror that descended over his face told me that. His eyes widened, his lips moved without speaking. "You," he choked out. "You."

  "Me. Your daughter. I've come to—"

  "You're no daughter of mine! Get out! Get out of here, devil's spawn!" He threw the bible.

  Fitzroy caught it before it hit me. "You had some trouble overnight," he said. "What happened?"

  "Wh…what?" Father shuffled backward toward the stairs. His shaking hand reached out for the newel post.

  "We won't hurt you," I told him. "We've come to ask you about the man who came looking for me a few days ago. A doctor. But first…are you all right?" I moved toward him, but he tripped over the bottom step in his haste to get away and landed on his rear.

  I clasped my hands tightly in front of me, stopping myself from reaching out to help him. This man didn't want me to touch him. It was clear from the twist of his mouth and the fear in his eyes.

  "Father—"

  "Do not call me that," he snarled. "You are not my daughter. You don't belong here. You belong in hell! Get out!" He began a prayer as he scooted up the stairs on his behind.

  I bit back tears, refusing to let this man see how much his hatred affected me. I thought I'd given up hope of a happy reunion years ago, but it seemed a flame had flickered in my breast the entire time. I'd promised myself I would never feel anything for him again, and yet here I was, about to shed tears for the pathetic man I wanted to love me.

  "I am your daughter," I whispered, struggling to get the words out through my aching throat.

  He laughed, a manic, high sound that grated on my ears. "You're not. You're adopted."

  I fell back and reached out for something solid to hold on to; to stop myself losing my balance in the suddenly tilting world. Fitzroy's arm was there. His hand on my elbow steadied me.

  "You…are not my father?"

  The old man on the stairs stopped laughing and squared his shoulders. "No. How did you not see it? Your mother was pure of heart. I am the lord's faithful servant. And you are a creature of darkness and death. The lord sent you to us, to test me. I didn't fail. I cast you out, as the devil should be cast out. I removed the ugly cancer from my house and—"

  Fitzroy's fist stopped the vomit of insults. My father's head—no, Holloway's—snapped back. He cried out and clasped a hand over his mouth. Blood seeped through the fingers. He scrambled further up the staircase, away from us.

  Fitzroy followed him, his hands closed into fists at his sides, his shoulders rigid.

  "Don't!" I shouted.

  Holloway had reached the top of the stairs. Fitzroy stopped, towering above him. "The man who was here calling himself Doctor. Was it he who came last night?"

  Holloway closed his eyes and began praying again. "Answer him," I said. "Or he'll kill you."

  Fitzroy glanced at me over his shoulder. I shrugged.

  "You won't be harmed if you tell me his name," Fitzroy said. He kicked Holloway's foot.

  Holloway pulled his knees up and clasped them to his chest. He opened his eyes. "Yes, it was the same man. He wanted to know where you were." He nodded at me. "I told him you'd gone to Hell."

  "You probably won't be surprised to know that Hell looks very much like the slums of London." I felt numb, like I was looking down on the scene from afar. But more than that, I felt like I was speaking to a stranger, not the man I'd called Father for as long as I could remember.

  "His name," Fitzroy prompted.

  Holloway eyed the fists at Fitzroy's sides and swallowed. "He's a doctor. Frank something. I can't recall."

  "His initials are V.F. Is it Doctor Frank?"

  "I told you, I can't recall. It was an unusual name, foreign."

  Fitzroy leaned over and grabbed the front of Holloway's smoking jacket. He lifted him until he was no longer sitting. "Think."

  His eyes widened to the size of saucers. "Frank…Frank-in…star."

  "Doctor Frankinstar?"

  "Frankenstein! That's it. Doctor Frankenstein. First name Victor."

  CHAPTER 11

  I traced the letters on the headstone with my fingernail, from top to bottom. Loving Mother to Charlotte read the final words, right beneath Devoted Wife to Anselm. She had been loving toward me, but she had not been my mother. I'd accepted it immediately when Holloway told me. Perhaps it was the numbness of shock, or perhaps I'd given up thinking he cared for me long ago. But now, sitting on the grass near my mother's grave, I felt like my chest had opened up and I was bleeding over the ground.

  She'd loved me during her lifetime. I'd felt sure of that. And yet what if she'd lived to see me perform my necromancy as he had done? Would she have continued to love me regardless, or would she have called me names and cast me out too? A mother was supposed to love her children unconditionally, no matter what they did, but perhaps adoptive mothers didn't feel the same degree of love.

  It felt so strange, sitting there, as I'd done so many times before, and yet this time I felt more alone than I ever had. I used to have her memory for warmth, the feeling that I had once been loved. But now, I wasn't entirely sure of that love. It was like mourning her loss all over again. Fighting tears, I scooped up a handful of dirt and sprinkled it over her grave.

  Something moved behind me. I sprang to my feet but it was only Fitzroy, standing as still as the angel statue marking a nearby grave. I quickly turned away and dashed my damp cheeks with the back of my hand.

  "You made a noise," I told him. When he didn't answer, I added, "Just now, you made a noise as you approached. Usually I don't hear you coming."

  "I know," was all he said.

  "How did you know where to find me?" I hadn't told anyone where I was going upon our return to Lichfield. Seth and Gus had dropped us at the front door and then taken the horses and carriage to the stables. Fitzroy had said something about speaking to Cook. I'd wanted to visit my mother's grave, so I'd just walked out. It wasn't until I'd arrived at the cemetery that I'd wondered if he would assume I'd run away.

  "I asked a grounds keeper for directions. He boasted that he knew the location of every grave. Seems he knew this one."

  "I mean how did you know I'd be at the cemetery?"

  "A guess."

  I looked down at the headstone and the words Loving Mother to Charlotte. "S
he was ill for a long time and stipulated what she wanted on her headstone. It was completed before her death. Before I…displayed my true colors. I'm surprised he didn't have another one made. One that leaves off that line."

  "Headstones are expensive."

  "His won't say Loving Father, of that I'm quite sure." I pointed down at my feet. "He bought the plot next to hers when it became clear she wouldn't survive. Their headstones will be side by side, but they won't match now. It'll look odd."

  He didn't respond, but I hadn't expected him to. I was rambling, trying to fathom what it all meant for me. A few hours ago I'd had one living relative who hated me. Now I didn't even have that. I wasn't sure if I was better or worse off. I supposed nothing had changed. I was still on my own.

  "Historians will wonder about the discrepancy in years to come," Fitzroy said.

  I blinked at him. What an absurd thing to say. Yet he was right. It would be confusing for anyone unfamiliar with the story. I smiled, despite myself.

  "If you want to stay longer, I can wait," he said. "You shouldn't be out alone. Not while Frankenstein is after you."

  "He wouldn't know where to start looking."

  He arched one brow and glanced at the headstone.

  "Oh. Yes, of course. I wasn't thinking." I rubbed my forehead. I felt exhausted, despite doing nothing all day. It would seem learning one was adopted was a trying experience. "I'm ready to go now." I walked away from the grave and did not look back.

  "Luncheon will be ready upon our return," Fitzroy said, as we walked through the cemetery gatehouse.

  "I'm not hungry."

  After a moment, he said, "Cook will be offended if you don't eat."

  "Cook knows I don't have a large appetite. And since when do you care if he's offended or not?"

  We passed the costermonger's cart, the one I had been caught stealing from. The scruffy fellow watched me from beneath his hat, a frown on his face. Surely he didn't recognize me now. I frowned back and he quickly set about rearranging a pile of wilting lettuces.

  Fitzroy and I walked back toward the house in the sunshine. It was a pleasant day, although clouds crowded on the horizon. I found it difficult to appreciate the sun, however. My mind still felt like it was stuffed with cotton wool.