Compulsion (Asylum for the Mechanically Insane Book 4)

by Sahara Kelly

  “I agree. If I had to giggle one more time, I’d have hit somebody.” Portia audibly ground her teeth. “I don’t mind being part of the intelligence-gathering contingent around here, but at least let me do it with people possessed of at least a little intelligence themselves.”

  Devon laughed, then wisely turned it into a cough as Portia shot him what could well be termed a “speaking” glance.

  “Anyway.” She accepted the glass from Burke and took a sip. “Charlotte and I spent the afternoon at Mrs. Onslow’s millinery. Her niece was there, sorting through things, and once the lights went on in the shop…well it was like a red flag to an assortment of curious cows.”

  Burke winced as he followed the slightly confusing analogy. “Lots of company?”

  “More than we needed.” Charlotte added. “Mostly ladies of Little Harbury who had, or wanted, a hat from Louise herself. She was very good at what she did, you know.”

  “Yes, she was. There were some lovely fabrics in her storeroom.” Portia nodded.

  “But nothing about those twin girls?”

  “No. Not a thing.” Charlotte frowned. “They had a room over at the Dead Boar Inn, but it had almost nothing in it, apparently. What there was…a spare petticoat or two, a couple of baubles…went to Mrs. Clark to offset the rent.”

  Devon shrugged. “Well, that makes sense. The Clarks do quite well from the Inn, but nobody can afford to lose money these days. I don’t begrudge them the chance to make up a few pence here and there.”

  Portia glanced at Burke. “From what I understand there was little to say who they were or where they were from. Nothing at all about the other woman who arrived just before…before that night.”

  Her voice trembled a little at the memory of rooms reeking of blood and the unspeakably terrible sights of savage chaos they’d contained.

  “How about Louise’s accident?” Burke turned her thoughts away from that horror as best he could.

  “Nobody is treating is as anything other than just that. A terrible accident.” Charlotte was there with him, joining him in diverting their conversation. “She was known to walk everywhere regardless of the weather, and it was particularly bad and icy a night or so before they found her.”

  “Do you have any suspicions, Burke?” Devon glanced at the older man.

  “I’m always suspicious of everything, lad. You should know that by now.” He settled himself back in his chair, smiling as Charlotte moved to rest her hip on the overstuffed arm next to him.

  “However, this woman met an untimely death at around the same time her two apprentices were at Harbury Hall. Or at least planning on going to Harbury Hall.” He finished his whiskey. “I dislike anomalies, which I think I mentioned a short time ago. I dislike coincidences even more, but I have nothing but a handful of odd happenings to connect anything.”

  His gaze fell on a thick notebook lying closed on one of the bookshelves. It contained his thoughts on a variety of topics and dated from his arrival at Harbury. It was getting thicker all the time and he’d recently added some notes on gaseous substances, mostly ending in question marks, since he’d not heard anything from London regarding his enquiries. Now he’d have to add a new section on strange head wounds. He sighed.

  “Are you looking for connections to this latest incident? The McCardle business?” Charlotte gazed at him curiously.

  “Possibly.” Burke tugged on his lower lip and stared at the fire for a moment or two. “But for the moment, I can only see one connecting thread between all these events.”

  Silence fell in the room.

  Then Portia spoke. “You’re right, Inspector. The only thing linking all these terrible occurrences is half a mile away.”

  She looked at each of them. “It’s Harbury Hall.”

  *~~*~~*

  The gaming room was glowing with the light of many candles and a few oil lamps strategically placed near the table upon which rested an ornate chessboard. A roaring fire sent its warmth over the colorful Aubusson carpet, and heavy curtains kept the bitter January night outside the luxury of Harbury Hall.

  “Check, I believe?”

  Baron Gerolf von Landau leaned back and reached for his brandy, his gaze on the board and the arrangement of figurines.

  His opponent was doing the same thing, staring at the array of white pawns as his tapered fingers tapped silently on the arm of his chair. With the lighting arranged so well, it was nearly impossible to tell that half of this man’s face was missing.

  Gerolf knew, of course. He’d been a friend of Lord Randall Harbury for several years. But these days, since Gerolf had arrived in England and renewed their acquaintance, the disintegration of Randall’s features had become more pronounced. Now—although he hated to use the word—his Lordship was monstrous in appearance.

  His manners, however, were impeccable on this particular evening, and he merely allowed a slight smile to curve what was left of his mouth as he neatly moved a knight, protected his own King and put Gerolf’s bishop in jeopardy.

  “There. I believe that takes care of the imminent threat.”

  “Damnation. That is quite brilliant. A maneuver I never anticipated.”

  Randall acknowledged the compliment with a brief nod. “I enjoy doing the unexpected. It keeps life interesting.”

  “Without doubt,” agreed Gerolf. He could do no less, since Randall Harbury typified the unexpected—in the worst possible way. He perused the board, mulling over his next move.

  “How are your laboratory facilities, Gerolf? Are you finding them to your satisfaction?” Randall’s tone was mild and casual.

  But Gerolf, cautious and aware of his audience, did not mistake it for an idle question. His response was carefully considered. “The rooms are excellent for my purposes, Randall. Especially the insulation which, the workplace being beneath the ground, is ideal. And your staff, by the way—very efficient.”

  Lord Harbury nodded. “That is good to hear. Several of them have been with us for some time, in spite of our recent…difficulties, shall we say. I made sure to raise their wages at the New Year, because I do believe loyalty deserves rewarding. Would you not agree?”

  “Wholeheartedly.”

  “Good.”

  Randall waved a hand at the board. “Your move, I think?”

  Gerolf’s heart was beating a little faster as he moved his hand to a pawn, ready to sacrifice it for the greater good. But it wasn’t the chess game that had accelerated his pulse. It was the larger game he knew his host was playing.

  And sure enough, as soon as the move was made, the next question came right on schedule.

  “And your experiments. They are progressing well, I hope?”

  Gerolf was ready. He’d been anticipating this inquisition for the last few days and part of him was relieved it had begun.

  “They are. Thank you for your interest. The herbal tinctures, especially, are proving to be most…efficacious when added to the chloroform.”

  “Good, good.”

  Lord Harbury overlooked Gerolf’s slight hesitation with the awkward English words he used.

  “The concentrations here at Harbury seem especially pure, and with them I have been able to induce a tranquility unsurpassed in any of my previous experiments. Once a subject is that calm, then the process of delving into his mind is quite simple.”

  “And?”

  Gerolf paused. This was a dangerous area and he knew one wrong word or comment could cost him dearly. The man across from him held the reins to Gerolf’s groundbreaking scientific research. He was funding it and providing a location for it to continue unhindered.

  He was also the most brutally savage and amoral being that Gerolf had ever met.

  “Thus far, I have progressed beyond any of my work to date. I have valuable research to analyze, and it has been only a few weeks. I am eagerly anticipating the results of such analyses and already developing ways to apply this new information.”

  He paused, knowing that the man with
half a face was hanging on his every word. “There have been…drawbacks, of course.”

  “To be expected. I would talk of omelets and eggs, but perhaps that might be viewed as inappropriate given the circumstances.” Harbury dismissed the “incident” with a wave of his hand.

  Gerolf swallowed. “It was unfortunate, and I hold myself responsible. Rest assured it will not occur again.”

  His host nodded. “We must pay the price for scientific research, must we not? Otherwise how will great discoveries be made? How will our world advance to the next level of knowledge and existence if not for the building blocks scientists such as yourself create, discover and design?” Harbury looked at the chessboard, then stood and shrugged. “It was a good game, Gerolf. I believe we would do well to declare it a draw for this evening. I tire easily these days.”

  “Of course,” von Landau rose quickly. “I will bid you good night.”

  “I trust the new week will see even more advances, my friend. I look forward to hearing about them very soon.”

  The thing that was Randall Harbury turned toward his guest, revealing all the grossly terrible details of his disfigurement.

  The pale ligaments twitched slightly, the surrounding flesh unpleasantly gruesome and flecked with blood. The eye, lacking any lid or brow, stared frighteningly from a darkened socket and there was little left of a mouth to hide the yellowing teeth and the discolored gums.

  Lord Harbury was a nightmarish apparition, and he was aware of it. He used it to good effect, knowing full well that Gerolf would depart with that image burned into his brain.

  “Good night, Gerolf. Sweet dreams.”

  Exchanging a brief bow, the scientist left, aware of the manipulation, even admiring it on a certain level. Thankfully, his field of expertise was the human mind. He knew what Harbury was doing, and why. He had quickly learned the man’s tendencies to toy with those around him, especially those—like Gerolf himself—who were considered worthy playthings.

  All that knowledge was well and good, but it still couldn’t make Harbury anything more human, because the man was a monster both on the outside and on the inside. He had no barriers, no moral compass or guidelines.

  He would kill anyone in his way, and if he could mutilate them first, he was even more satisfied.

  Gerolf did not want to be mutilated or killed, but he was in a very risky kind of partnership with this madman.

  If he couldn’t deliver on Randall’s request—he’d better have a plan to escape Harbury Hall, or his life would be forfeit.

  The Baron found himself trembling as he reached his quarters. It was bothersome and he would need some quiet meditation to soothe his anxieties. This wasn’t an imagined terror, though. Not something that one could set aside gradually, like a bad dream.

  No, this was real. This monster existed, and the threat he posed to Gerolf was every bit as real.

  The proof could be found in a room on another floor; broken, battered and viciously marked by her husband who had carefully carved one word into the soft white skin of her back.

  Whore.

  Chapter Two

  Portia peered around the heavy door into the kitchens that were part of the first level beneath Harbury Hall. In her guise as Mary Jones, maid, she’d befriended several staff, foremost amongst which was Mr. ‘Enry, the cook.

  “Mary, lass.” The cook beamed from ear to ear and beckoned. “Come to the fire and warm yourself. ‘‘Tis good to see you lookin’ so chipper again.”

  She smiled and crossed the room, bending to give the portly man a big hug. “’Tis lovely to see you too, Mr. ‘Enry. I was hopin’ I might be in time for a cuppa. And maybe a biscuit or two? Nobody makes ‘em like you do.”

  “You know ‘ow to sweet talk a body, that’s fer sure.” He laughed, his body shaking in his well-worn chair. “Go on then. They’re in the tin on the shelf, like always.”

  She walked to the pantry, casually glancing around as she crossed the large room. There were only two cups on the table, and one next to Mr. ‘Enry.

  She came back and poured herself tea with the ease of one who had performed that homely chore many times. “It’s quiet. Used to be a bit noisier after elevensies.” She glanced over the rim of her cup. “‘Twas nice, hearing the voices of a morning.”

  He sighed. “After that…business, well we lost a maid. ‘er dad came for ‘er and I can’t say as I blame him. Another lad went up t’Hall. They never got us replacements.”

  She frowned. “What about the scientists?”

  “Only got one at the moment, and ‘e don’t need much since ‘e’s got rooms in the main ‘ouse. Then a couple of the patients passed when it got real cold. Down to eight now.” He turned his face away from her toward the fire. “’Tis not a good thing, Mary girl. Not a good thing, all this dyin’. They oughta let those poor lads down there go. Go ‘ome to whoever might be left to welcome them.”

  “They are getting food, though, right?” Portia gulped at the thought that if not for her, Devon would be one of them. She knew how emaciated he’d been when he’d escaped.

  “Oh aye. We make sure of that.” He leaned toward her. “Even made sure they was warm. Got some extra blankets down there for ‘em without making much of a fuss ‘bout it.”

  She touched his arm. “That was good of you, Mr. ‘Enry.”

  He shrugged. “Each one is somebody’s lad, Mary. If I ‘ad a lad I’d like to think someone would do the same for ‘im if needed. Like that Inspector took care of you.”

  She nodded. “I agree. It was good to have him here when…” she paused, “well, you know.”

  “And now that nice Mrs. Howell. You’re taken on as her companion then?”

  “She’s very kindly asked me to stay with her, yes.”

  “That’s a good thing, lass. After what ‘appened, you’re better off anywhere but ‘ere.”

  “I miss you all, though, Mr. ‘Enry.” Portia realized it was the truth. These were honest folk making a living. The terrible secrets lurking beneath Harbury Hall were none of their doing. “Is there any word on her Ladyship?”

  He stared at the fire for a few moments, as if gathering his words. “Nay. Nary a word from t’ Hall. Just that she’s not spoken. She’s better, in ‘erself, I’ll warrant. Good food and good care. ‘er maid’s a solid lass and there’s women from the village bringing ‘er the best of their kitchens. Dunno why. We can cook for ‘er just as well ‘ere.”

  “I know,” she soothed him. “But there’s fresh chickens in the village, and good smoked meats. We buy from them, don’t we?”

  He nodded.

  “So this is a chance for them to show her they care about her in the only way they can.”

  “I suppose.”

  She patted his shoulder. “But I’ll warrant there are no biscuits anywhere near as good as yours. Did you send some over?”

  He looked at her. “D’you think I should, lass? Should I? I been thinkin’ I’d like to do summat from us, but t’Hall might not be likin’ it…”

  “I’m sure they’d be very pleased. Any time the staff show attention or respect…well, it’s got to be a good thing, hasn’t it?”

  Mr. ‘Enry looked at her, a slow and appraising surveillance, as if he was seeing her for the first time.

  “Mary, I’ve long wondered where you come from, but as you know we keeps to ourselves, and don’t pry into the lives of others. But I’m gonna say that you’re as fine a lady as any I’ve met. Don’t care what your real name is, although I’ll bet me last groat it ain’t Mary.” He grinned then. “You got a warm ‘eart and a good mind. And whatever you’re doing ‘ere, I don’t wanna know. I’m just glad to know you, lass.”

  “And I you, Mr. ‘Enry.” She daringly leaned over and touched his wrinkled cheek with her lips. “Harbury needs more like you.”

  He colored a little at the unexpected caress, but shrugged off the compliment. “I just does me job.”

  She crunched a biscuit and made an exaggerated mo
an of pleasure. “And you do it so well.”

  He chuckled as she’d hoped. It must be difficult for him to work under these circumstances, but every kitchen needed an anchor and for the time being, the Harbury laboratories had Mr. ‘Enry.

  “So what do you know about the scientist that’s left?”

  “Not much.”

  “No strange machines, no shipments of exotic creatures? No purple rabbits running loose?”

  “Gawd, no.” He blinked. “Purple rabbits? Lawd above, girl. I gotta ‘ope we never get that far with them experiments. Fair put me off my favorite stew, it would.”

  She smiled. “Agreed. So he must be a quiet researcher, then.”

  The cook thought for a minute, then nodded. “You’d be right there, lass. ‘e did have a few boxes of stuff when ‘e arrived, but since then, naught but a bushel or two of dried ‘erbs and such.”

  “Any odd noises?”

  “None I’ve noticed. Barely even a smell of him.” Mr. ‘Enry frowned. “But then again, he’s a furriner.”

  “Really?” Portia sipped her tea, memorizing every word.

  “Yes’m, really. And not only that…” he turned his head and stared at her, “’e’s got a title to boot. Some kind of aristocrat, I’m thinking.”

  “Goodness.” Portia tried to look impressed. “Well, perhaps he’s a friend of his Lordship’s, then?”

  “Mebbe. One o’ the lads ‘eard either Robert or Arthur call ‘im Baron something. And seein’ as ‘ow ‘e’s got rooms in the big ‘ouse then yes, I reckon ‘e’s got some kind of connection at least.”

  “Hmm.” Portia thought over the assumption. “Perhaps he’s German. Although there are a lot of countries with Barons.”

  “Wouldn’t know, lass. ‘e’s no bother for us. We don’t even need to cook for ‘im much. Just a fresh loaf of bread now and again and the occasional breakfast. Likes his sausages, he does.”

  “The way you cook ‘em, I’m not surprised.” Portia finished her tea. “But I must go, I’m afraid. Can’t stay here gossiping, much as I’d like to.”