They had almost cleared the mess of papers when her cheerful demeanour changed suddenly. Polly stood frozen to the spot, staring at a tatty show poster of some sort on the floor.
“What is it child? What’s wrong?” Midnight scooped up the poster, it was a flyer for a mesmerist show. He read it out loud.
“An evening of mesmerism, magic and mime with Hemlock Nightingale, live at the Old Vic Theatre, every Monday to Friday.” A cold feeling settled in his gut. “Nightingale...Polly do you recognize this man?” The poster had a pen and ink drawing of a showman in the centre, dressed in stripped trousers and dark tailcoat with a curled moustache and pointed beard. Polly gulped and nodded her head.
“He’s...he’s the devil Mista’ Midnight. Please don’t let him get me.” Her bottom lip began to tremble and Midnight scooped her into his arms.
“I won’t Polly. I won’t let him hurt you again.”
He stood up and carried her from the Library, shouting to Giles as he ascended the stairs. The butler came running.
“Giles, we cannot afford to wait for Constable Rowe. Tell Mrs. Phillips she must attended to Miss Polly immediately and she must tell Rowe to meet us at The Old Vic theatre in Southwark. It’s on the corner of New Cut and Oakley Street. Hurry!” Giles didn’t reply. He sensed the urgency in his master’s voice and went to find the housekeeper. Meanwhile, Midnight carried the girl upstairs and tucked her up in her bed.
“Polly, promise me you will stay in your room until I return?”
The girl nodded and scooted down further under her sheets.
“Are you going to find him?”
“I am and I’m going to make him go away.”
“He’s a devil Mista’. He fools people, just like he fooled Mr. Hawksmith.”
And suddenly another piece of the puzzle fell into place.
“The mime artist...” He whispered to himself. Spring-Heeled Jack had been right there under their noses that day at the asylum.
“I knew it was him, I could feel it. Only I couldn’t say nuffink ‘cause me mind wouldn’t work properly. I was trying to scream but nuffink came out. You will catch him won’t you Mista?”
“I’ll catch him Polly, I promise. I’m sorry about the bedtime story.”
“Read it when you come back?” she pleaded.
“I’ll ask Mrs. Phillips to bring it up from the library so you can have it ready for me.” This seemed to please her, perhaps help reassure her that he was coming back. “I have to go now sweetheart. Be good and do as Mrs. Phillips instructs.”
Midnight met Giles in the entrance hall who already had on his coat and hat. He handed his master his outdoor attire and when Midnight had finished buttoning up his coat, Giles handed him his selenite pendant.
“It seems as though the situation called for it.”
“Thank you, Giles. Yes, I’m afraid we’re going to need all the help we can get this night.”
“Then I am glad to inform you Sir that I brought a lucky charm of my own.” Giles patted a lump in his pocket that seemed to Midnight distinctly pistol-shaped.
“That may indeed come in useful tonight. Be careful,” he added.
Mrs. Phillips had her instructions for the constable and she locked the door behind them to await Rowe’s arrival. They hailed a hansom cab and once settled, Midnight began to explain his discovery to Giles.
“I do not know what we face this evening and although I am sure Hemlock Nightingale is but an ordinary human being, I am equally sure there is more to him than meets the eye. I cannot explain how he is harvesting souls, or how he is able to make such extraordinary leaps, the eyewitness accounts of demonic eyes, none of that but I do know why. Father had many books at home on the occult. Because of what I am he sought to find answers, solutions to my abilities, so he could help me lead a normal life...after his death,” Midnight faltered. “After his death, there was not much else for a solitary freak like me to do other than read. There is only one reason that I can think of why Hemlock would want to reap souls and I pray, to whatever deity hears my plea, that he does not succeed.”
They stood on the stone steps of the Old Vic between the two grand columns and peered through the glass panes of the entrance doors, all was in darkness. It was Monday evening so the place should’ve been heaving with theatre-goers expecting to see Hemlock’s show. But a hastily pasted sign on the door announced that tonight’s show had been cancelled due to unforeseen circumstances.
“There’s no one here Giles. We are going to have to break in.”
“Then perhaps we should wait for the police?”
“No time! We need to catch this bastard now. He must know where Mary is. It all fits. Remember Bessie Green, the girl who escaped attack? Her description in the news report mentioned a ‘black-tongued creature’; consistent opium use turns teeth and tongues black. We found the show poster in the box of papers from the Rainbow, which suggests Hemlock was a client. Mary said she made it her business to know everything worth knowing about her clients. She made a lot of money for Wong in that club. There’s no chance she’d disappear and not let her clientele know where she would be relocating to and I could tell Wong was holding something back when we asked about his other businesses. This theatre closed in 1856 and it has never been announced who took over the lease and yet here we have a mesmerist show playing five days a week! There has to be a connection between Hemlock, Mary and Wong and I believe this theatre is the key.” Midnight stopped his ranting at the sound of breaking glass and stared at Giles who had just used the butt of his pistol to smash the window. Giles reached through the broken pane and unbolted the door.
“After you Sir. As you said, let’s get this blackguard.”
They stepped through the grand entrance into the foyer. The gas lights were off and the place was in total darkness. Shadows pulsed in his presence; they were with him always and this time there was no light source to manipulate.
“I need light, do you have any Matches?”
“No Sir but might I suggest the kiosk?”
“Ahh! Yes, of course they would have some.” He scrambled over to the kiosk and fumbled around on the shelves till he heard the rattle of matchboxes, pulling out a box he lit one of the matches and immediately thought of Polly. The match flared brighter and he focused on its glow, bringing its energy towards him he blended it with his own and the flame grew bigger until he held a swirling ball of flame in his palm. He pocketed the box of matches. The foyer lit up enough for them to make out their surroundings and locate the signs that said, ‘Stalls’ and ‘Dress Circle’.
“Which way Sir?”
“Stalls. He would be backstage in the dressing rooms I think? We’ll make our way to the stage via the stalls and go backstage from there. Stay close to the wall, don’t go down the middle aisle, we need to stay hidden from view and the balconies will mask us hopefully.”
The Old Vic auditorium was beautiful, not as magnificent as some of the west end theatres but Midnight could see past the peeling paint, tatty seats and tobacco stains to what it must’ve looked like in its heyday. It had closed some four years ago but he hadn’t known it had reopened and it was clear that the new owners had not seen fit to refurbish it. Mesmerism and magic shows were cheap sensationalism in his eyes; putting someone in a trance to perform tricks for the cheering crowds. Some mesmerists claimed to be mediums, he knew the veil beyond death was real enough but rarely did one find a medium who could truly communicate with the dead. It was all just showmanship and entertainment. A flashback of the mime artist in the asylum, wagging his finger at him for the intrusion on his performance, caused the ball of flame to stutter in his anger and the shadows called to him. If he had only known then, he could have caught him and poor Polly would...he stopped short.
“Polly!”
“What is it Sir?” Giles whispered.
“The day I found Polly at the asylum, he was there! He was putting on a skit for the inmates but what are the chances Giles? No, that’s too much o
f a coincidence. He was there for Polly. He came back for her!”
“But why Sir? Surely there are a hundred other waifs on the streets he could’ve taken? Why go to the trouble of tracking down one child?
“I don’t know Giles but I’m sure of it. He wanted Polly.” He began making his way toward the stage once more, hugging the wall and dimming the flames in his hand.
“If that is the case Sir then we must prevail this evening and find him.”
“Agreed,” replied Midnight as he clambered up the set of wooden steps to the side of the stage. There were various contraptions and props set upon the boards in readiness for the next show.
“Here. The sign says the dressing rooms are this way.”
They made their way as stealthily as they could, down a flight of stone steps towards the dressing rooms. Giles had his pistol ready. Something about the cold corridor jogged Midnight’s memory. The dressing room doors were locked so they went deeper into the belly of the building and that’s when it hit him.
“Arthur’s here! I remember this from Mary’s memory. This is the corridor they took him down.” A renewed urgency in his step, Midnight hurried to the end where he now knew a bolted door to the cellar was. He sent the ball of flame to the ceiling to light the doorway. It was heavy and bolted just like he recalled. Banging loudly with his fists he shouted for his friend.
“Arthur? Arthur Gredge, are you down there?”
“Sir, the noise?”
“No time! He could be dead already! Stand guard while I break it down.”
“No need sir, stand aside.” Midnight didn’t understand until he saw Giles point the pistol at the padlock. Giles aimed and fired. The blast resounded loudly in the narrow stone corridor but the lock pinged open and Midnight shoved the door aside. He sent the ball of flame ahead to light the way as they descended.
“Arthur? Where are you?” The ball of flame flickered and Midnight had to force back the shadows that sensed his agitation. He could hardly see, even with the flames but he was too distracted finding Arthur to make them brighter. “Help me Giles! He must be here.”
In his haste to help, Giles kicked over a metal bucket and water sloshed everywhere. The cellar was huge and reeked like the bowels of Hell. Scattered around were various old props covered in thick layers of dust, they clearly had not been used in years.
“Over there! Sir, look!” Giles pointed to the far corner where a pale human hand was just visible behind a piece of painted scenery board. They ran towards it. Midnight flung back the stained rug that covered the rest of the body, his heart thumping. Were they too late? Had Arthur perished?
“It’s...Mary!” He gaped at the unmoving body of Chinese Mary and hope of finding his friend alive left him. “I was so sure he was here. I know he was. It’s the same place I saw in...her head. Watch the door Giles!” Crouching over her body, Midnight summoned the shadows and the light from the flames was snuffed out. His sense of urgency to find Arthur, staved off the fear that he might lose control again. He focused hard on the task at hand.
Her memories came slower than before. He removed the remnants of the energy he’d left inside her head that day at The Rainbow, but they were still hard to decipher. The state of the corpse often dictated the quality of his visions and her corpse must be two or three days old but he could still make out the corridor, the door and Kim throwing Gredge into the abyss. He had been right, this was the place. He pushed harder, eager to see more memories in the days preceding Arthur’s capture. A man was talking, he concentrated harder on the vision and it became clearer.
“I’m warning you to stay out of it. It’s none of your business!”
“When you involve my premises, it is! Wong will not be happy. I will have to revoke your membership.”
“Go ahead. You think I care about a silly club? It served a purpose that is all.”
Midnight was viewing the scene through Mary’s eyes. He saw her walk over to her desk and sit down. Then, he got his first good look at Hemlock Nightingale. Without the greasepaint and gaudy costume he’d worn at the asylum, he was the epitome of a gentleman. His way of speaking, dapper attire, pointed beard and perfectly curled moustache, all screamed money. The man was clearly educated. It made no sense why such a person would choose a career in low-end entertainment...unless it gave him easy access to his prey? After all, who noticed when the poor of London went missing? It was only the discovery of the murdered Emeline Rowbotham- the daughter of a wealthy family- that had prompted a full-scale investigation into the attacks.
Midnight probed further.
“Oh Mr. ‘Nightingale’, you have no idea what I am capable of and it would do you well to heed my warning. I make it my business to know everything worth knowing about my clientele,” she rose from her seat and propped her hands on the desk. “For instance; I know Hemlock Nightingale is not your real name. I know you were discredited and removed from the British Medical Association five years ago when...” the vision went black and then jumped forward in time to the very moment of her death- an enraged, laughing Hemlock lunging forward, a paperweight in his hand. Mary, frightened and confused.
“Please, Sir? No! What are you doing?
“Loose ends my dear, I told you to stay out of it!”
“Nightingale killed her,” Midnight told Giles. “She knew things about him he obviously didn’t want known...and when she discovered Miss Rowbotham was dead, she threatened to expose him. Only the blackguard didn’t know I had meddled with her memory. He had no reason to kill her.”
“But, how did this woman learn that this man Nightingale was the killer?”
“I’m not sure yet but there has to be a connection...Mary said something about Nightingale being discredited from the British Medical Association...Miss Rowbotham had psychiatric issues. Mary also said he was using an alias. Giles, we need to get hold of Rowe and find out who, in the last five years, has been struck from the list of registered doctors or psychiatrists, it may give us another lead.”
A noise from the exterior corridor caught their attention. Giles cocked his pistol, the action sounded too loud in the silent dark. Midnight listened, he heard measured footsteps, more than one set, and clipped urgent mutterings. The lack of light prevented him from signalling Giles so he risked a whisper and urged his companion to hold steady in case it was theatre staff. Using the shadows, he focused on sensing the emotions of the people coming down the corridor. He could almost taste their anticipation and unease but something told him they were benevolent in purpose. He whispered to Giles to lower his gun and the butler did so reluctantly.
“Constable Rowe, is that you?”
The footsteps halted,
“Gunn? How...how did you know?” Rowe answered not attempting to hide the surprise and relief in his voice.
“Let us call it practice, shall we?”
Rowe and two other policemen appeared in the cellar doorway with a lantern, filling the cellar with a welcome light.
“Well, did you find anything?” Rowe asked, peering into the gloom.
“The body of Chinese Mary but naught else. Nightingale isn’t here but there’s something you need to know. Inspector Gredge was here, I am sure of it.”
“Gredge? Where is he now?”
“I don’t know but I think we need to contact the British Medical Association...”
“Mr. Gunn, you can tell me on the way.”
“On the way where?”
“Your house Sir. There’s been an... incident and you need to go home. We came here to find you. Your housekeeper told us where you’d gone.”
“What’s happened? It there something wrong with Miss Sally or Mr. Bromley, have they taken ill?”
Rowe shook his head and looked very uncomfortable.
“Not ill...they’re dead, murdered in fact...in your house.”
Midnight felt the cold creep into his chest and extend its crushing hand to his throat as it tightened with dread. He swallowed hard and forced the next word from his
mouth.
“Polly?”
“Missing Sir, we think she’s been taken.”
“Show me the note.”
Rowe passed Midnight a piece of paper.
“It’s a poem Sir, that’s all he left behind.”
Midnight read it.
“My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains
My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,
Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains
One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk:
‘Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,
But being too happy in thine happiness,—
That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees
In some melodious plot
Of beechen green, and shadows numberless,
Singest of summer in full-throated ease.” He paused and flipped the paper over.
“Where’s the rest?”
“The rest?”
“The rest of the poem.”
Constable Rowe started back blankly.
“It’s John Keats ‘Ode to a Nightingale’ but this is only the first stanza, where’s the rest?” he demanded.
“There is none Sir, that’s all he left.”
“That bastard is taunting us! Giles?”
“Yes Sir?”
“Fetch me the Keats collection? Aisle two, third shelf along, second shelf down.”
Giles gave a short nod and scurried off to the library. Rowe stepped to Midnight’s side and read the poem.
“What is it you’re thinking?”
“It’s a message.”
“Well what does it mean?”
“I don’t know yet but I think it’s for me. He has Gredge, I know it, and Polly. He killed Sally and Billy because he didn’t need them and he knew it would keep the police busy. It’s me he wants and he’s using Arthur and Polly to draw me out. This,” he held up the poem, “is a message for me and I must decipher it.”
The Hollows: A Midnight Gunn Novel Page 12
