The Vanishing of Lord Vale

by Chasity Bowlin

  Stepping into the dirty and grim interior of the warehouse, she was escorted past stacks of crates and barrels and taken to a rickety staircase. Climbing upward, gripping the railing with fear as the steps creaked and groaned beneath their collective weight, they reached the upper level and she was shoved into a small, dark room. There was a single window, but it was so high she’d never be able to reach it. Just enough of the gray light of dawn filtered in to illuminate a dirty mattress on the floor. Turning to look at the door which closed and locked behind her, her eyes were drawn to marks on the back of it.

  Closing the distance, she placed her hand against the door, curving her fingers until her nails fit into the grooves left behind in the wood by someone else who had tried to claw their way out.

  “What on earth is to become of me now?” She whispered the question into the empty room, but knew that no answer was forthcoming. No rescue would be either. How would they find her? How would anyone even know where to look for her? It was impossible.

  Tears threatened. Hopelessness pressed in on her, weighing her down. Elizabeth sank down onto the floor, but she did not give in to the urge to simply sob helplessly. Instead, she examined the lock, the hinges on the door, how securely every board was attached to the one next to it. Whatever it took, she vowed, she would not just give in to whatever fate they had in store for her.

  *

  The carriage thundered over the road, traveling at a speed that was impossibly reckless. Inside, Zella gripped the seat and hung on with all her might as every bump threatened to send her sprawling onto the floor of the hired vehicle. They had not dared take her own coach as she could not be certain which of her servants could be trusted. In the hired vehicle, the curtains drawn tight against the rising sun, they were making a desperate attempt to escape.

  Their only hope was to get away undetected. If he knew they were making a run for it, he would move heaven and earth to stop them. Glancing across the darkened expanse of the carriage, her gaze locked with Dylan’s. Even in the pale moonlight that filtered in through the carriage windows, she could read the tension in his posture. It was evident in the tightly-clenched jaw and the squared straight set of his shoulders.

  “Whatever happens, know that I love you,” she said. “You have given me the one thing I have never had in this life. You have given me hope.”

  She felt Dylan’s gaze settle upon her and, even there in the dim light, she could see the glint of his beautiful smile. From the first moment she had met him, he had been the most beautiful person she had ever seen. In their years together, that had not changed.

  “We will get out from under him,” Dylan vowed. “Whatever it takes, my love, I will set us both free of his grasp.”

  Zella clenched her hands tightly onto the seat as they hit a particularly deep rut in the road. He was making promises that he would not be able to keep. He did not fully understand the power that Harrelson had. Dylan, despite his troubled upbringing, truly could not fathom the kind of evil that her former protector possessed. His inability to appreciate and to understand that kind of darkness of soul was one of the many reasons she loved him.

  There was a part of her that believed they did not deserve happiness. They did not deserve to escape his grasp and start a new life of their own, free of his black influence, not when they had been complicit in robbing so many others of their freedom. She could not allow herself to hope. She could not allow herself to believe, even for a single moment, that they would truly ever get away. If she let herself believe it, and it failed to come to fruition, the pain of that was more than she could contemplate.

  Abruptly, the coach slowed, so much so that she slid from the seat and onto the floor. Her hip connected painfully with the hard wooden trim.

  Dylan rose from his seat and rapped his fist against the ceiling of carriage. “What’s happening?” he demanded of the driver. “Why have we stopped?”

  The driver didn’t answer. From outside, there was nothing but the deafening sound of silence.

  A sinking feeling settled over Zella. She had thought they would at least make it to Brighton, that they might even make it aboard a ship before he’d pull them back into his web. It appeared she was wrong.

  “It’s over. He’s found us, Dylan. There is no escape from him… ever.” She whispered the words into the darkened carriage but the weight of them and of the knowledge that prompted them was overwhelming. The offense would not be easily forgiven, if at all. They would pay dearly and the only thing she valued in the world was the man across from her. She served a purpose and Dylan did not, which meant that Dylan would die.

  “It’s probably a lame horse or a damaged wheel,” Dylan said as he rose to exit the carriage. “He is not all-powerful. The driver is all but deaf. Likely, he didn’t hear the question.”

  She grabbed his hand. “Don’t go out there. Please, Dylan. Whatever you think is happening, I promise you it is more sinister than that. Stay in here. Please. I’m begging you!”

  “Zella—”

  “He wants me… I am of use to him, but you are not. If you go out there, he’ll kill you to punish me. But if I go willingly with him, if I continue to play this macabre game of his, then perhaps he’ll let you go free. I’d rather walk away from you now, though it breaks my heart, than to know I brought about your death,” Zella implored him. “I can’t be Zella Hopkins. He won’t allow it. For the remainder of my days, I will be Madame Zula and he will use me as his procuress. But I will know you are alive. I will know that you are still in this world. I couldn’t bear it otherwise.”

  “I’m not letting you go out there in the dark alone,” he said.

  “I won’t be alone. I’ll never be alone. And as long as he has use of me, I’ll be safe. Let me go, Dylan. For both our sakes,” she begged him. “Besides… I did something before I left the city. It won’t save me, but it may stop him.”

  “What have you done?” he asked, fear strengthening the Irish lilt in his voice.

  “He’s not the only one who can keep records… and I can’t imagine that the intrepid Mr. Mason will not discover our absence. When he investigates our former home, he’ll find what he needs,” she explained, whispering the words close to his ear as she kissed his cheek. “Take care, my darling boy. Find some young pretty thing and have beautiful Irish babies. Please?”

  Zella rose and stepped from the carriage, leaving him staring after her. Just as she’d suspected, another carriage awaited her. Lanterns blazed from it and the coachman wore a heavy, dark cloak that concealed him entirely. As she approached, he nodded at her in acknowledgement. The carriage door opened and the steps lowered. Lifting her skirts, she stepped up and took her seat across from the man who had ruined most of her life.

  “Zella, what a trial you have been of late,” he said.

  “Lord Harrelson,” she acknowledged. “You have been nothing but a source of pain to me from the moment I first laid eyes upon you.”

  He smiled. “So I have. But that’s why we understand one another, Zella. That is why we’ve worked so well together for so many years. Supplying young women, and occasionally children, as well, to discerning men such as myself has been a lucrative enterprise for us both, has it not?”

  “Much more so for you than for the likes of me,” she corrected. “I’ve never done any of this for the money. I did it to save my skin. I know what happens to those who defy you.”

  He drummed his fingers softly on the wooden trim of the window, tapping out a rhythm that set her teeth on edge.

  “You do know, Zella… and that is why I am so very puzzled by this little rebellion of yours. It must be the influence of your young Irishman. They are an unruly lot, after all. It must be corrected,” he mused. “Which begs the question… what to do now?”

  Zella knew what he wanted. It was what he always wanted—to have her crawl before him. For him, everything came down to power, to knowing that he was in complete control and everyone else was simply a pawn in his game. “I�
��ll continue to help you procure them. I’ll never offer you a moment’s trouble ever again… if you let him go.”

  He chuckled. “You are a bold one, Zella, to make demands. But I’ve always admired that about you, along with your penchant for the theatrical. If you hadn’t played such a profitable role in my little organization, I’d be less inclined to be forgiving. So, I have a counter offer. I’ll let your little Irishman go, but you’ll never see him, speak to him, or question me about his fate ever again. You will resume your residence in Bath, though not for long. Recent events have made that location somewhat dodgy for us.”

  “Very well,” she conceded. “Where will we go next?”

  “Wherever I tell you to,” he fired back, and the anger crept in then. He might be offering the guise of forgiveness, but it was evident from that little slip, she would pay for her transgressions against him for a very long time.

  “You have my word,” she replied.

  “As if it’s worth anything,” he scoffed. Lifting his walking stick, an item that was more than purely decorative as it concealed a wicked-looking blade, he tapped on the ceiling and the carriage lurched forward. “My men will follow him… wherever he goes. If you think to betray me again, he will die for it. Is that understood, Zella?”

  She didn’t speak, couldn’t get any words past the lump in her throat. Instead, she gave him a jerky nod and dipped her chin to her chest in order to hide her tears. He’d only enjoy them, and they were not for him. They were for her and her beautiful man and the future they’d almost had.

  As the carriage rolled into the darkness, she left Dylan and any thoughts of either freedom or happiness in her wake.

  *

  The carriage moved at a snail’s pace, the wheels rumbling quietly over the cobbled streets as they approached Madame Zula’s house. The day was breaking across the town. The bustling of day servants from their homes to their places of employment had just begun. But given the hour, the upper floors of most houses were still silent, the upper classes lying abed as they recovered from parties and balls from the night before.

  The townhouse that had housed Madame Zula was quiet, however, with every window dark and shuttered. It was obvious that it was empty even from the outside. Houses that were uninhabited had a look and a feel to them.

  “They’ve gone,” Middlethorp stated matter of factly. There was a hint of frustration in his voice, but only that. The man had a masterful ability to conceal his feelings.

  “It isn’t a surprise. I still say we go in. There may be something they’ve left behind that will provide more information about their scheme and, perhaps, even a direction of where Mary might be. Fenton was the muscle, Madame Zula the lure… but I can’t help but think she’s a more integral part of the operation than he is. After all, anyone can do what he does,” Benedict mused.

  “True enough,” Middlethorp agreed. “I take it you have experience as a housebreaker, then?”

  “No. But I’m fairly certain you do,” Benedict countered as he headed down the stairs to the servants’ entrance. It was more shielded from view and their attempts to gain entrance would be less likely to garner attention.

  The other man smiled as he followed Benedict down while he retrieved a small case from inside his waistcoat. The slim, leather sheath opened to reveal a series of tools. “I might have gone where not invited a time or two.”

  Benedict watched him open the lock with surprising speed and ease, seriously putting to question the number of times Middlethorp had reported. “Clearly. What, pray tell, are we looking for here if it’s glaringly apparent that Madame Zula has made off like a thief in the night?”

  “Answers,” the older man replied cryptically as the door swung inward. “How she might be connected to Harrelson, how they select their victims, where they take them afterward… how they communicate with one another.”

  Following him into the darkened hall, Benedict surveyed the surroundings that were discernible in the dim light that filtered through the curtains. It wasn’t much, just the impression of dark furnishings and heavy fabrics. Whether it was more or less depressing in daylight, he could not guess, but he supposed it was effective in setting the tone for Madame Zula’s work.

  “You check down here,” Middlethorp suggested. “I’ll go upstairs.”

  Benedict nodded his agreement and began searching each room methodically. The drawing room held nothing but an assortment of macabre decor. What had once been a dining room was obviously used for larger mystical gatherings based upon the heavy cloth draping the table and the continued array of terrifying objects d’art. Jars full of macabre and strange items shared space with crumbling texts and bone carvings that made him wish to be anywhere else.

  The small study that was just off the transformed dining room was another matter entirely. There was a large and heavy desk, littered with papers. On the corner of it, were a candelabra and a tinder box. Striking one, the soft glow that fell over the room showed how dire the state of disarray was. But placed neatly in the center of the desk, wrapped in a pretty bow, was a ledger and a sealed letter atop it.

  Benedict didn’t open the letter immediately, saving that to be shared with everyone. Instead, he flipped open the ledger. There were a series of dates and addresses. Occasionally, they were accompanied by a name or a single word or short description. Blond, brunette, short, no more than fourteen—the descriptors painted a terrifying picture of precisely what he was looking it. Flipping to one of the last marked pages, he found the date of the first attempt to abduct Elizabeth. The initials “E.M.” had been scrawled next to the date.

  “Good God,” he whispered. There had to be hundreds.

  “You look as if you’re ready to cast up your accounts.”

  Benedict looked up to see Middlethorp standing casually in the doorway. “I very well may. Did you discover anything upstairs?”

  Middlethorp shrugged. “Half-empty drawers, discarded gowns. All the jewelry is gone which is a sure sign she doesn’t mean to return. I take it you’ve found something more interesting here?”

  Benedict held up the ledger. “If this book represents what I believe it to, the breadth of this evil is beyond anything I’ve ever seen. There are hundreds of dates, locations and descriptions in here. There is one that corresponds to Mary’s disappearance and one that corresponds to the attempted abduction of Miss Masters. How could so many go missing without raising a hue and cry?”

  Middlethorp shrugged. “Because he chose women that were alone in the world… widows, orphans, those who had no one to miss them when they were gone. I’d be curious to know what your sister said to them when she came here for her ‘appointment’.”

  Benedict found himself curious about the same. “There is a letter, as well, but I haven’t opened it yet.” Passing the letter to Middlethorp, he watched as the other man broke the wax seal.

  “If you’ve found this letter then I have fled. I do not expect to escape him unscathed and this evidence I’ve left behind is yours to do with as you please. I’d rather swing at Tyburn for my crimes than to continue in his service any longer, though I doubt it will ever come to that.” Middlethorp paused in the reading for a moment, letting that ominous statement resonate.

  “If you haven’t managed to identify him yet, then please allow me to illuminate you. His name is Lord Wendell Harrelson and he has been responsible for every bit of misery that has befallen Lady Vale. I was a young girl when I was sold to him by my own father. I was his unwilling mistress when he orchestrated the invasion of Lady Vale’s home in search of the book where he kept all his evidence of others’ crimes.

  He had used blackmail to restore the fortune of his family and continued to use it to supplement the income from his estates and support his lavish lifestyle. Lord Vale took that book from him and left him with nothing. When his attempt to retrieve it went awry, rash decisions were made that would alter all of our lives irrevocably. Fenton Hardwick decided to get rid of the boy in what he saw as a
more humane fashion and sold him. But the sale of Lord Vale’s son to a wandering couple inspired Harrelson to a new stream of revenue—the peddling of flesh. Whether it is providing children for couples who cannot have their own or providing women and girls to men who would abuse them, he is without scruples.

  He has Mary Mason and will no doubt be turning her over to her purchaser very soon. As for Miss Masters, that is a different matter. I am given to understand that Miss Masters was asked for by name, by someone from her past. The women are typically held in a warehouse near the Kennett and Avon canal… if not there, look on Harrelson’s estate. There is an abandoned salt mine on the property that he has had converted into a series of cells. I cannot be certain in which of those places Miss Mason is held, but you will find her in one of them.

  You need not worry about seeking justice for Harrelson or for me. I will see an end to us both.”

  Benedict digested the information. “We need to go to the warehouse first. It’s closest and as they wouldn’t have time to reach the estate before daybreak, it’s the most likely location for them to have taken Miss Masters. It is probably too much to hope that we will find Mary there, as well, but I pray that I am wrong.”

  “No doubt you are right on the first count. It’d be much harder to explain hauling an unwilling woman around in daylight hours. Perhaps we will be lucky and locate your sister, as well.” Middlethorp’s expression hardened and he blocked the door. “But before we leave here, I need the truth about you. Who are your parents?”

  “I don’t know. If you are intending to ask whether or not I believe myself to be the missing Viscount Vale, the answer is simply that I no longer know. A week ago, I would have found it laughable. Two days ago, I found Lady Vale to be pitiable and potentially mad. But at every turn, I am confronted with more coincidences than I can comfortably deny,” Benedict answered honestly. For the entirety of his life, he’d imagined that he’d been unwanted, a foundling tossed out to be picked up and carted off by the Masons. That was the version of events they had given him, at least most of the time. Invariably, the truth and the story changed to serve their purposes. That version had been the kindest they’d ever offered.