And yet, here she was, with Holmes, sitting in Memsa’b’s study, drinking tea and nibbling cakes with Amelia—who was describing in more detail what it was like to have her visions, quite as if those visions were merely frightening and unpleasant, rather than the harbingers of potential doom. She could hardly believe Amelia’s calm; the girl was almost a different person from the one she had first met.
“It’s like a door, opening and shutting again,” Amelia explained. “Now that I have . . . some experience at this, I can tell you that I can feel when it is about to open, and ready myself. It’s not immediate, the vision doesn’t immediately follow the sensation. The vision comes perhaps ten minutes later, but no more than that.”
Holmes looked to Nan, who shrugged. “I would think, given what I have watched John and Mary do, that opening the portal into this world takes some preparation. That might be what Amelia is sensing.”
Sherlock nodded, and Amelia continued. “Memsa’b and I have been taking notes, and I have been drawing pictures. They aren’t very good,” she added shyly, handing them to Holmes who examined them closely, then passed them to Nan.
“You are too modest,” Holmes said. “They are quite good. And they are certainly identical to that place in which we found ourselves last night.”
Though she had only used a pencil, Nan thought that Amelia had caught the essence of the place perfectly. The dead trees, like skeletal hands clawing at the sky, the broken buildings like piles of empty-eyed skulls. There were hints of creatures lurking in the ruins, but nothing easy to identify.
“Yes, I thought that was you in the first vision I had last night,” Amelia said, matter-of-factly. “I recognized everyone except you, Mr. Holmes. I actually had two visions last night. The one where you entered that strange world while a wonderful creature with a glowing staff kept the entrance open for you, and another, later.” She bit her lip, and paled. “I saw you enter, and arm yourselves, then I saw that poor old man run to you and die. Then you all went further into that world, and I couldn’t follow. I can’t seem to move past that entry-point in my visions. I was in the vision until you all returned, supporting poor Selim, and then after you came back through, the vision ended.”
“You said you had a second vision, later?” Holmes prompted.
Amelia nodded. “Not very much later, either. I had just awakened from the first and was about to call for Memsa’b when the second began. It did not last very long, but by the time it happened, something had already carried the body of the old man off. Other than that, it was quiet. When it ended, and I awakened again, there was a great deal of bustle going on outside my room. I opened the door, learned from one of the ayahs coming by in the hall that Selim had been hurt, and decided to wait to tell Memsa’b about the visions until things settled down again. So I took notes and drew some pictures and went back to sleep.” She settled the pile of pencil drawings carefully back inside a portfolio and looked expectantly at Holmes.
Yes, Amelia was certainly a very different young woman than the one who had been in that hospital, Nan reflected. Now that she knew she wasn’t going mad—that, in fact, what she was seeing was important—she was showing a great deal of composure and even bravery in the face of having to endure those horrific visions of hers. Nan wasn’t at all sure she would be able to sit here and speak calmly if her nights were interrupted without warning by visions of that terrible world into which they had thrust themselves a night ago.
A very great deal had happened in less than twenty-four hours. Much more than Nan would have ever dreamed could happen.
Sherlock had spoken with his brother, and Watson with Lord Alderscroft. It was Alderscroft who had gone to the director of the hospital and arranged to move the soulless girls to a concert hall. Nan marveled that the place even had such a thing in it, but then the patients were, for the most part, of the sort of class that was used to being entertained. And, she supposed, it made the lives of those who had been incarcerated against their will there a little more bearable.
Events were certainly on the move—had moved, much faster than Nan would have expected. At first light John and Mary had taken the coach into London, and apparently it had been easier to convince Alderscroft that things were perilous than any of them would have predicted.
Somewhat to Holmes’ bemusement, the Hartons’ amazement, and her astonishment . . . it turned out there was a very special platoon of Her Majesty’s Army that was kept at the ready to deal with . . . “unnatural situations,” as Alderscroft had called it. These were all men who had, at some point in their military careers, dealt successfully with “incidents” of the supernatural. They were well trained, sharp, and again, as Alderscroft put it, “not easily rattled.” Based in London and at the call of Alderscroft, they were already deployed to the hospital, where pairs of them were to guard the girls day and night.
Alderscroft must have invoked Her Majesty’s name to get all this done, Nan reflected. I cannot imagine that doctor allowing part of his hospital to be taken over by a platoon of soldiers otherwise. And he must have invoked some sort of Special Privilege to keep the man quiet about it so that he would ask no questions.
I wonder if that was Lord A’s work, or Holmes’ brother’s? It could have been either or both, working together, as she knew now they often did; moving a small group of very special troops and presenting the doctor with an order with the Royal Seal on it would have been well within Alderscroft’s powers, but Holmes’ brother actually had the ear of Her Majesty and could probably manage it quicker.
Alas, to Holmes’ disappointment, there was no Maxim gun to be had on such short notice, but on his recommendation, one had been called for, and if this stretched on for very much longer, it might well arrive before the Unhallowed Queen opened her portal to conquer this world.
Enhanced magical wardings had been placed all around the School, by Puck himself. That was why Karamjit and Agansing were there at the hospital now, rather than here. As it happened, two of those special soldiers had been Sikhs, and one a Gurkha, and they were the very men the Hartons’ servants had intended to attempt to recruit themselves! According to a letter carried to her this evening by Neville, there had been great surprise all around when the acquaintances learned that Agansing and Karamjit were in the employ of “pukka jaadoogar” like their own commander, Alderscroft. And Agansing and Karamjit had been quite chagrined to discover there actually was a platoon that held men like themselves, as adept in battling supernatural evils as they were the more mundane evils that men were only too capable of producing.
Puck was nowhere around, but Nan was not at all concerned; he could be summoned in an instant, either by Roan here, or Durwin, who had moved himself to the hospital, where he had established himself with an eye to being helpful to the soldiers. The rules that governed hob behavior were very much suspended for now, by Robin’s own decree. “What’s the point of these rules, if they keep us from defending our own home?” he had said. “And if I can’t break the rules I set, then who can?”
Holmes interrupted her thoughts. “It seems to me that we have good, sound evidence pointing to you being sensitive to these portals opening, Miss Amelia,” he said. “There is no reason to think that the being did not open a second one last night, after the first had closed. It probably wanted to contact its ally in our London, to prepare him for the imminent invasion. Was there any difference in the strength of the visions?”
“Oh, yes,” Amelia nodded decisively. “The first one was much clearer, much stronger than all the rest have been. The others were much the same in strength.”
“A good argument for all the other portals being some physical distance away from you, then.” Holmes looked at his own notes, and added another.
It was too bad that they couldn’t delay the thing for a while by separating the girls, or merely keep the seventh away from the rest. But John Watson had rightly pointed out that if they delayed for
longer than usual in bringing the last girl to the rest, the thing would likely grow impatient, snatch away all of them, and work its spell in some remote place where it could do as it pleased. They had decided that as soon as the last girl was located, they could delay as much as two days, but not more.
Holmes continued to ask questions about minute details of Amelia’s visions; she answered him as best she could, although too often her answer had to be “I don’t know.” Nevertheless he did not seem unsatisfied with her performance. Finally he thanked her. “What are you doing with yourself?” he asked, out of what seemed to be pure curiosity. “It would be better to occupy your mind somehow, and try not to fret yourself too much—”
Amelia smiled faintly at him. “I am going about my day, Mr. Holmes, which at the moment consists of helping to teach some of the children here, and taking classes in things my parents forbade me to learn. I enjoy being here; quite frankly, it is much more pleasant here than it ever was at home. There is very little that I can do to combat this terrible creature should it break through to our world. So I am doing what I can to prevent it, and meanwhile living my life. Either you will stop this thing, and any time I spent wasted in huddling in my room in fear will have been wasted, or you will not, and wiser heads than I will instruct me on what next I can do. The longer I am here at the Harton School, the more I realize how little freedom life under my father’s rule allowed me. I am not going to permit fear and uncertainty to rob me of what I have only just won.”
She raised her head high as she said this and looked Holmes straight in the eyes. He nodded.
“Well said, Miss Amelia. God willing, we shall finish this creature, and you may continue to enjoy the freedom you have here.” He sketched a little salute to her; she bobbed a suggestion of a curtsey, and went on her way, head held high.
“If you and Sarah and that girl are examples of the kinds of women Isabelle Harton is turning out of her school, England is in safe hands,” he said to Nan. “Now . . . let us put our heads together and see what we can adduce from all the clues in these visions.”
Alexandre was bitterly unhappy at the moment. Alf’s initial interview with the madame had been inconclusive.
“She’s gotta virgin in th’ ’Ouse, but it ain’t one yew want,” he’d reported to Alexandre when he got in. “Too many gents ’as seen ’er an is biddin’ on ’er. I seen ’er m’self.” He’d smacked his lips. “Blimey, she’s a looker. ’Ore-’ouse born’n’raised, so she knows wut’s wut, too.” He shook his head. “Price’s gonna go ’igh, ’Ouse of Lords ’igh, an’ plenty of gents’ll wanta know ’oo she goes to. But Madame says she’ll think on’t, an’ Oi’m t’come back termorrer.” Then he’d yawned hugely and gone to bed.
Alexandre had pinned all his hopes on Alf coming back with word of success, if not in possession of a girl. His heart and courage had plummeted. And he was, frankly, too nervy and too upset to stay in the flat after that.
So Alexandre had gone out. He couldn’t bear to stay in the house with that thing so clearly able to get at him whenever it chose. But wherever he went that day, fear followed. He could not enjoy his food, or the performers at his music hall, or even the discovery of several gems at the bookstore. He slunk back to the flat, feeling exhausted, unsatisfied . . . and laboring under a weight of dull fear that prodded him with muted pain, like pebbles in his shoes that he could not rid himself of.
When he slumped into the kitchen where his man was, Alf took one look at him and went to the pantry, returning with a bottle of clear liquid. He poured a small glass full and set it down in front of Alexandre. “Drink thet,” he ordered. “All at once.”
Alexandre tossed it down—and nearly choked. As he gasped for breath, Alf put a glass of water in his hand, which he tossed down. “What . . . was . . . that?” he asked, still gasping. His eyes watered. His throat and gut felt as if he had just swallowed fire, but whatever it was, he could already tell it was going to make him drunk in a very little while.
“’Omemade stuff,” Alf said. “Somethin’ Oi make. Oi gotta liddle still. Don’ usually drink’t when yew got so much better tipple, but it’s got its uses. Don’ need it much, but . . . when yew need it, yew need it.”
It must have been nearly two hundred proof. He felt the pure alcohol going straight to his brain, fuzzing things out a little. Forcing relaxation on him. Taking the edge off his fear.
“Naow yer ready t’sit’n listen,” Alf said. “Talked t’ Madame Maude. She’s got th’ virgin auction on th’ boil, but Oi did some fancy talkin’ an’ made some promises, an’ she decided she hain’t about t’ miss out on prime money fer sorry goods what she c’n git fer free, so she’s makin’ time fer us. She reckons t’ git a gel from a work’ouse she knows. ’S run boi a lotta Bible pounders, they keeps the gels separate from the lads, an’ dragons at th’ door t’keep ’em apart. Uglier a gel is, more like she’ a virgin, but Maude’ll inspect on th’ prem’ses t’make sure. She hain’t astin’ no questions, an’ she wants five guineas.”
“Five guineas, versus having to face that thing without a virgin for it?” He shuddered. “That’s no contest. When?”
“She’ll ’ave the gel tomorrer. Oi tol ’er yew wasn’t fussy ’bout th’ face, but yer partiklar ’bout bein’ clean an’ lookin’ loik a lady. She’ll ’ave her good’n’sleepy an’ dressed up posh. Oi’ got a lad t’day an’ put ’im upstairs. ’E’s on t’outside of ’nuff beer t’put ’im t’bed, an’ when ’e wakes up, ’e’ll be thinkin’ more ’bout all the food ’e c’n eat than anythin’ else.” Alf patted his shoulder. “Easy-peasy nice an’ breezy, guv. This tiome next week, ye’ll be laughin’ an’ in clover.”
Alexandre tried not to shudder.
He went to his bedroom with great reluctance and took a brandy bottle with him. If this devil’s brew Alf had given him wore off, he wanted to renew the haze. This might not be the best way of dealing with the entity, but he’d tried keeping it out with the magic that was in the same book as the summoning spell, and that hadn’t worked—
Or had it? It might have been able to speak to him—and it might have been able to transform his bedroom door—but the protective circle hadn’t reached to the door, just around the bed. And it hadn’t crossed that.
He undressed quickly and pulled on the nightshirt. If the protective circle did work, he wanted to be inside it as soon as he could get there.
He began to feel a little better. By the time he had climbed into his bed, he had begun to relax enough that he actually was able to fall asleep.
Alf left for the whorehouse a little before dark in the coach. Alex waited impatiently for him to return by the back door. They had both agreed to continue to take the utmost caution in making sure the neighbors saw nothing, and the very last thing they needed at this point was for some busybody to see a well-dressed girl half carried into the house. The house was utterly silent, except for the slow ticking of the eight-day clock. He was tempted to drink the brandy bottle dry, but nursed his drink, sipping it carefully, just enough to keep the edge off his anxiety.
It was moon-dark, so all he saw of the coach when it finally arrived was a dark shape against the snow. But when he made out a figure coming up the path to the door, he knew his long wait was finally over, and he flung it open immediately.
In the light streaming out of the door, Alf looked like—an ordinary servant bringing in a bundle. He heaved a tremendous sigh of relief. Alf had been cautious—tremendously cautious. There was a roll of what looked like carpet over his shoulder. Presumably the girl was inside it. He found himself giggling, as he recalled how Cleopatra had had herself smuggled in to Julius Caesar in the same fashion. Well, he was no Caesar, and he already knew the girl in the carpet was no Cleopatra either.
Alf thudded up the stairs into the kitchen, and Alexandre closed the door behind him and made sure the curtains were closed on the kitchen windows as Alf stopped next to th
e table.
Alf slowly slid his burden off his shoulder. “’Elp me ’old ’er hup, guv,” Alf said, and Alexandre steadied the roll upright while Alf unwound the carpet from its contents, catching the swaying girl by her shoulders and keeping her standing. Her eyes were half-closed, and she didn’t seem even remotely aware of her surroundings.
The girl revealed was scrupulously clean, scrubbed right down to her fingernails, which were neatly trimmed. Her hair was washed, her ears had been cleaned. That was a detail that he hadn’t considered, but he was very glad either Alf or the madame had. She was dressed “posh,” as Alf would say—wearing a brown wool gown that would not have looked out of place on a girl of his own social set, a cream silk waist, and good leather boots. Her hair had been pulled back into a severe knot at the base of her neck, and she smelled faintly of lavender.
As for her face . . . she was very, very plain. Horse-faced, he’d have said; her upper teeth protruded over her lower ones, her chin was receded, her nose was large and flat, and her eyes small. But there were plenty of girls in his social set and higher who were just as plain. She would not stand out as an oddity among the other six.
“She’s perfect,” he said aloud. “Worth every penny.”
Alf nodded with satisfaction. “Think yew c’n git ’er downstairs by yerself?”
She was quite light—judging by the thin wrist bones, she hadn’t been fed all that well in the workhouse. And again . . . that was not necessarily an anomaly. He knew girls who were even thinner. He lifted her, and felt a good corset under that dress. The Madame seemed to have covered every possible detail. She had certainly earned her guineas. “Easily. Can you get the boy by yourself?”
A Scandal in Battersea Page 30
