A Fever of the Blood

by Oscar de Muriel

  McGray put out the single oil lamp and the room sank into darkness. I could see nothing while I waited for my eyes to adjust. Eventually I made out McGray’s shadow, silently drawing out Nettle’s gun. I cannot tell for how long we waited, but it must have been a good while. Finally I saw McGray turn his head – he’d heard something.

  He stood up very slowly, but halted altogether when we clearly heard wood creaking.

  The noise had come from upstairs, and another creak soon followed. There were measured, careful steps, making their way across the first floor … yet they made the ceiling vibrate.

  McGray went to the door, synchronizing his movements with the noise upstairs, hoping to conceal the sound of his own steps. I imitated him and stood beside him as he turned the handle with the deft touch of a surgeon. He waited for the precise moment and opened the door with a swift, decisive movement. The wood creaked, but so did the steps.

  I drew in an apprehensive breath, and time seemed to stretch painfully until we heard the next step.

  McGray had opened the door only a few inches and I had to crouch to peep through the gap. We were looking into the room where we’d been sitting earlier. They had extinguished the fire, but a few embers still glowed. The pathetic light did not reach across the room, where the kitchen door was completely shrouded in darkness.

  The steps continued, growing louder but also becoming more spaced out; more cautious. Suddenly I felt that it was not the sound alone that approached but something ominous, making the air oppressive.

  Have they poisoned us again? I thought, but all my doubts would soon be cleared up.

  I expected to see the glow of an oil lamp or a taper, but there was none. I expected perhaps to see Mr Greenwood, lurking in the darkness for some gloomy purpose, but he did not come.

  A shudder ran through my entire body when a black shadow finally appeared, a large mass that obscured the entrance and then blocked the dying glow of the hearth. I blinked, trying to make out any features, but when I saw them I wished it had been an actual spectre.

  It was that gargantuan man, as tall and broad-shouldered as we remembered him. The man we’d found in the warehouse, the one who had beaten McGray to a pulp on the road.

  He looked directly at us. I was convinced he had seen us and was gathering strength to thrust himself against us, but after an instant he moved on.

  The man walked straight towards the kitchen, but just before his massive frame was swallowed by the shadows I heard McGray click the gun’s safety catch, and then he kicked the door open.

  ‘I’m pointing at yer brains, laddie,’ said Nine-Nails viciously. ‘Move and yer dead.’

  32

  The man stood as still as stone.

  ‘What the hell are ye doing here?’ McGray demanded, moving forwards. I reached swiftly for the oil lamp and lit it.

  As I illuminated the room we saw the thug’s back, so broad he probably had to twist his waist to pass through doorways, and his beefy arms, thicker than my thighs. I was so glad McGray was armed and back to his senses.

  Nine-Nails howled, ‘Tell us what yer doing here, ye prick!’

  The man turned around, and as he did so he began to laugh. I was expecting the waxed moustache and round face we’d seen in Lancaster, but there was none of that. Instead I saw an entirely new face, dark haired and dark-skinned, with ruddy cheeks, a broad nose and tiny, black eyes staring fiercely at us.

  ‘Who the hell are you?’ I asked.

  I’d never seen that man before in my life, but McGray gasped, so utterly shocked I feared he’d drop the revolver.

  The scoundrel was opening his mouth, but before he could say a word we were attacked from the side.

  A shower of hot liquid hit us, the smell of cheap tea hitting my nose, and the split second we looked sideways was enough for the giant to lift the table and use it to strike McGray’s arm.

  I glimpsed the shadow of an old crone swathed in black, and behind her the slim figure of a younger woman still clasping a large teapot.

  ‘Oakley!’ I yelled. ‘We thought you were dead!’ but then a fist the size of a frying pan struck the side of my head and threw me flat on my chest. The punch had not even been intended, but came from the man’s arm whirling while striking Nine-Nails.

  The oil lamp rolled across the room but did not go out, and from the floor I saw McGray and the giant embroiled in a ferocious battle, throwing fists and chairs, making me think of a pair of fighting bears. A muddy boot landed inches from my face and I had to crawl away on all fours, still dazed by the blow. Then I heard choking and saw that McGray had seized the brute by the neck, his arm tightening around it.

  The gun lay right next to McGray’s foot. We both must have seen it at the same time, for he kicked it in my direction. I stretched out my arm but I was not close enough. I dragged myself forwards desperately, catching a glimpse of the bully’s face, which was just beginning to turn purple. The very second my fingertips touched the gun I saw the empty teapot flying like a bullet to hit Nine-Nails in between the eyes and smash into smithereens. He shouted, lost his grip and the bully freed himself. As he struggled to breathe, he threw himself towards the gun and managed to push it away before McGray attacked him again.

  ‘Catch those bitches!’ McGray roared, a trickle of blood on his forehead, and I saw the women running to the entrance.

  I could not leave him to the mercy of that beast, but then a thick hand gripped me by the shoulder and pulled me back.

  ‘Do as he says,’ the coarse voice of Mr Greenwood told me, as he hurled himself forwards to join their fight.

  There was no time to think. I ran to the porch, where I found Mrs Greenwood. The woman was shaking as she handed me another gun.

  ‘My husband’s,’ she said, and I grabbed the weapon without slowing down.

  The gelid night air stabbed me, but I had no time to go back for my coat. I heard neighing from the stables and immediately ran there, my feet skidding on the snow, now hardened by the wind.

  The stable door was wide open, flapping in the cold draughts, and I caught sight of the black cloak of the old woman sneaking in. I followed with long strides and the first thing I found was the large carriage we’d encountered before. It had been there the whole time! The women, however, were not in it. Instead, they were jumping on to the tattered cart McGray and I had stolen.

  Oakley, wrapped in a black cloak and hood, was standing on the driver’s seat, leaning over the beer barrels.

  ‘Stop!’ I shouted, running around the carriage and readying the gun, but before I could take a proper aim Oakley had unfastened the barrels and old Redfern pushed them off. The casks fell, rolling towards me, and all I could do was jump aside, but one of them still caught my calf and I fell forwards.

  Oakley let out a mocking cackle, sharp and loud like a raven’s caw, as she whipped the mule mercilessly and the cart darted out.

  I shoved the gun into my breast pocket, jumped on to my feet and then atop one of the rolling barrels. Right before I lost my precarious balance I leaped forwards and miraculously managed to grab the very edge of the cart, my feet dragging on the slush as the wheels rolled into the main road.

  The old woman dug her nails into my arms and I screamed. ‘Damned old witch!’

  I had no choice but to endure the pain as I tried to pull myself on to the cart. The woman withdrew her nails to slap me, freeing one of my arms. I took the chance and hit her with the back of my hand, sending her frail body away. She fell on her back, wailing in pain, and from the reins came Oakley’s even more desperate lament.

  The crone curled up, moaning, and I had enough time to pull myself forwards. I leaped on to the driver’s seat, but Oakley had kept her hooded eyes on me, and before I reached her she struck me with the whip. I ducked just in time to save my face, but the whip did lash my chest, precisely as the wheels bounced over a pothole, and I too fell backwards. I screamed as the entire world whirled around me, thinking that my body would roll out of the cart. S
omehow I managed to grab the wooden surface, my body sticking out over the side, the bushes beside the road suddenly lashing me.

  With wounded leg, whipped chest and scratched arms, I do not know how I gathered the strength to pull myself upwards. I bellowed from the bottom of my stomach, a wild sound I had never uttered before, that made the old woman shrink even more.

  I reached for the driver’s seat. Oakley whipped me again but this time I did not even register the pain. I clutched her wrist, which was surprisingly thin, and it was easy to pull the whip out of her hand.

  She let go of the reins, then started to give me a good beating with her arms and legs and knees. The mule became frightened and began to run erratically, the cart hitting stones and tree stumps, and bouncing so violently we nearly flew off the seats.

  ‘Stop it, you stupid girl!’ I roared. ‘Do you want us all to die?’

  I did my best to contain her, but she was the wildest creature and I only had hold of her right wrist.

  We came to a bend in the road and the entire cart tilted, nearly capsizing, and I felt our bodies sliding off. I thought we’d fall right in front of the wheels, but then the cart wobbled upright again. I could not see the road or even think under the woman’s relentless blows.

  ‘You’ll excuse my manners,’ I said finally, and then smacked Oakley’s hooded head very hard.

  She cried out, more in anger than pain, and I had time to grab her. I held her tightly against my chest with one arm, while looking for the reins with the other. The girl struggled and kicked about, but her arms were firmly locked. I was surprised by how small and thin she really was.

  I groped for the reins, and found them dangling very close to my own feet. I brought the cart to a halt, so suddenly the momentum nearly threw us forwards. As soon as the wheels stopped I jumped down, dragging Oakley with me, dumping her on to a bank of snow, bringing out the gun before she could do anything.

  ‘Do not try another trick.’ I gasped for breath. ‘I am so sick of running after you.’

  She crouched miserably, holding her hood with trembling hands, and the most spiteful words came out of her lips.

  ‘You filthy, disgraceful wretch!’

  I heard her clearly, but it took me a moment to take in the sound. I inclined my head and took a faltering step, then stammered, but all lucid words had deserted me.

  ‘How can … How can this –’

  ‘You heard me,’ she growled. ‘Did you not, Mr Frey?’

  I inhaled deeply, not believing my ears, my heart pounding harder than when fighting her on the cart. I swiftly pulled the hood off her face and the girl looked up, tears of rage oozing from those fiery brown eyes.

  The eyes of Caroline Ardglass.

  33

  I had arrested many a high-born person in my career, but never a young lady and her elderly nanny.

  Miss Ardglass was deeply distressed, but I could not risk her doing something reckless again, so I had to make her drive the cart at gunpoint, old Bertha sitting next to her all the time. It was the most awkward ride, nobody daring to speak, and I felt hugely relieved when we made it back to the stables.

  We found the inn in a dreadful state. There were shattered windows, glass and debris all around the porch, and the snow by the main entrance had been kicked about and turned to slush. A long carving fork had been driven into the door frame, right next to a fresh splatter of blood. I feared what we might find inside.

  ‘Ladies first,’ I said, pushing Caroline by the shoulder. ‘And if your minion is on his feet, tell him to behave.’

  The girl sought Bertha’s hand, and they made their sorry way into the entrance hall, their legs shaking.

  Caroline’s voice also trembled. ‘Hello?’

  I heard a coarse male voice and saw a big shadow coming from the sitting room. I tensed all my muscles, but thankfully it turned out to be Mr Greenwood.

  ‘Oh my, the ladies have returned!’ The man was covering his eye with a steak, his shirt was torn and his knuckles were grazed. He saw me aiming the gun at Caroline’s back. ‘I hope they didn’t give you too much trouble.’

  I simply grunted. ‘Where is their man?’

  ‘Oh, we took care of him.’

  Mr Greenwood led the way to the dining room and the mayhem there shocked me. The table was broken in half, two of its legs had been ripped off (possibly to be used as truncheons), there was a huge hole in the diamond-paned window (possibly the result of a flying chair) and there were ashes scattered all over the place (probably flung at somebody’s eyes).

  The huge man – Jed – was sitting on the floor, his hands tied with a leather belt and his dizzy head swaying slowly from side to side. There was a deep cut on his forehead, the blood now wiped off, and with his flaccid cheeks and jutting brow he looked like a sad bulldog. Mrs Greenwood was standing next to him, holding McGray’s gun with an unexpected firmness.

  ‘A job well done,’ she said bitterly, her eyes going from Jed to Miss Ardglass.

  ‘Where is McGray?’ I asked.

  He came in from the kitchen, helping himself to whisky straight from the bottle. Other than fingermarks on his neck and a very slight limp, he looked surprisingly fresh.

  ‘What took youse so lo–’

  He saw the women’s battered faces. Caroline’s cheek was red and swollen, and Bertha was pressing my bloodied handkerchief to her burst lip.

  McGray strode towards me and punched my arm with all his strength. ‘Och! Ye a lady beater now, Frey?’

  ‘Excuse me!’ I yelped, rubbing my sore arm. ‘These women are about as much ladies as I am!’

  ‘That’s what I’ve been saying since I met ye!’

  ‘Don’t even start, Nine-Nails.’

  ‘No wonder he was left at the altar,’ Caroline added.

  ‘I was not left at the –’ Then I snorted, my patience gone. ‘Never mind. Shall we ask the delightful ladies how come they have been following us the entire bloody time?’

  ‘They threatened us!’ Mrs Greenwood barked, showing her teeth. ‘She told us to send you away or we’d never see our children again! The evil little witch.’

  Bertha went red. ‘Don’t ye talk to my lass like that, ye auld cow!’

  Both women burst into cursing and slander, until McGray raised his arms and hollered from the pit of his stomach: ‘Quiet!’

  The yelling did stop, but they both went on murmuring spiteful things at each other. McGray picked up the only two chairs that were not broken and offered the seats to Caroline and Bertha.

  ‘Sit down, ladies. I knew it was youse when I saw yer war dog, Jed. He’s a character in Edinburgh – everybody kens Lady Glass keeps him handy to deter her well-earned enemies.’

  That sentence seemed to wound Miss Ardglass deeply. She was already distressed, but those words completely crushed what little strength she had left; the girl frowned, sobbed and burst into tears.

  ‘Serves you well, you little witch,’ Mrs Greenwood mumbled.

  McGray snatched the gun from her. ‘Oi! Go get us some tea.’

  ‘But …’

  ‘Now!’

  Mrs Greenwood walked away, Bertha watching her with a smirk. McGray drew a handkerchief from his breast pocket and gave it to Caroline. She was about to wipe her tears, but then she sniffed the cloth and had to toss it aside.

  ‘As conceited as ye,’ he told me. ‘Now, Miss Ardglass, I guess it was ye who set me on fire on the road.’

  ‘Yes, I had no choice. You were in our way and would not move.’

  ‘And it was yer bloody carriage at Skerton Shipyard the other night.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What the hell were ye –’

  ‘And it was us who set fire to the corridor in the inn,’ she snapped, ‘to get into your room and retrieve my father’s photograph before you two paraded it all over Lancaster.’

  ‘Wait a minute,’ I said, taking off my jacket, still damp with the tea Caroline had thrown at us. ‘I’d rather you tell us your story from t
he very beginning – and your father’s. Spare no detail, please.’

  ‘It all started around six months ago,’ Caroline said, all of us staring at her – even Hannah, the young maid, who was pretending to sweep up the glass and splinters. ‘My father had one of his spells of lucidity one night and he came across a strange book in his bedroom; it was full of notes written by that new nurse, Miss Oakley. Those pages are unique, Mr McGray. They were witchcraft notes, but they were not written in Grimorium.’

  ‘Grimorium?’ I asked.

  ‘Aye,’ said McGray, with an enviable light of understanding in his eyes. ‘For centuries witches have written in code. When they write a potion’s recipe and say add eye of newt or toe of frog they don’t really mean that.’

  ‘Indeed,’ Caroline added. ‘They might mean mercury salts – or copper sulphate to tint their fires green.’

  ‘Did Oakley’s notes have a cipher?’ Nine-Nails asked, with an almost academic interest.

  ‘No, Mr McGray. As my father told me at some point, not a single witch has ever written down a cipher to the code. It is almost an entire language, but it exists only in their heads and they have passed it on for generations. Witches are not allowed to register their knowledge in anything other than that encryption, but Miss Oakley must be a very inexperienced witch. She broke the rules and left all that knowledge exposed in plain English. When my father found that book he realized the witches had been performing … works on him.’

  She covered her mouth, a deep frown etched into her otherwise smooth skin.

  ‘Works?’ I repeated, but again McGray was a step ahead. He looked shocked.

  ‘They turned him mad! Didn’t they?’

  Caroline nodded anxiously.

  ‘My father had a long time to read those notes. Pimblett must have been the one who started it, putting nasty herbs and mind-altering powders into my father’s food and drink. And when he was moved to the asylum the nurses went on. They didn’t want him dead; they only wanted him mad – they’d use ground cacti and fungi to make him see things, or turn him violent, herbs to stupefy him, sometimes chemical powders or foxgloves to keep his body weak and docile … They controlled him like a marionette for years!’