Among the ranks of disreputable pubs, one stood out as a flickering beacon of iniquity among its peers: the Brass Balls.
The narrow alley where it was situated was already spewed with the noise and smells emanating from inside, ensuring passers-by knew just what kind of entertainment was to be had within. Every time the door opened, waves of blue, narcotic-laced smoke plumed out and carried patrons in on dreamy waves.
That was precisely how the owner and bar-keep liked it.
Mr. Mister was currently polishing grimly glasses with an even grimier rag, and smiled benevolently at his patrons spread across the various low couches around the room. The pierced brass spheres that hung about the room didn’t give off much light, but what there was glinted off his few metal teeth and the ominous bits and bobs woven into his black, waist-length dreadlocks.
Though it was early yet, he was having a good night. After all, Erasmus Cogspeare was in town.
And here he was, the drunkest lout in the loudest group in the seediest bar in London. Mr. Mister was hoping that the epithet would soon be ‘the seediest bar in the world’, but he had only been open for a couple of years, and reputations like that took time to grow.
Erasmus was stretched out on his side, one young female giggling at his feet, while another had appropriated his stethoscope. He gulped down a swallow of gin and almost spit it out just as quickly.
“Damn it, Violet, that’s not where you put that!”
“Could have fooled me, it’s pulsing like your heart.”
“My heart is considerably further north than that. Come here and let me show you.” He grabbed her and was making inroads into her bodice when he suddenly sat straight up, looking serious and wide-eyed.
The girls instantly quieted, knowing the look of a man with fear in his eyes, and they instinctively shied away. Mr. Mister looked up from his bar-keeping, and seeing Erasmus’s face, automatically reached for the spear he kept under the bar.
He needn’t have bothered. Just as suddenly, Erasmus stood up and took off at a sprint.
“But wher yer going, luv?” one of the girls called out.
Though she couldn’t hear his reply, Mr. Mister could have sworn it had been something like, “Home. Something’s not right.”
Chapter 55:
“It’s ten o’clock and do you know where your twin is?” Quintus, Amadeus, Magnus, and Minerva were seated around the end of the dining room table. Magnus had woken up, but was still too tired to bother rolling his eyes. Amadeus was too well fed on the Oysters Surprise, Rivets of Veal with a Shocking Sauce, Shattered Quail, and Chocolate Florets to answer, almost.
“He’s still out frolicking in the East End, probably at the Brass Balls.”
“And that’s not your favourite place?” Minerva asked. He shook his head.
“No,” Quintus interjected, “He’s more comfortable behind a pew.”
“Quintus!” Magnus exclaimed, trying to shut him up. But his younger sibling, staring into a large snifter of cognac, blithely continued,
“You see, all the Gaelic that we all might have inherited was concentrated in the twins; Erasmus has the booziness and conviviality, and Amadeus the Popish piety.” He reached over and flicked the ascot around Amadeus’s neck, revealing the white collar of a student-priest.
“Quintus, shut up,” Magnus growled.
“That’s alright,” Amadeus held up his hand, trying to hold onto the rapidly dying vestiges of well-satiated hunger. No, he realized as he tossed down his scarf, the full feeling was gone, replaced by a leaden weight. “Over the past few days Minerva’s been exposed to Cogspeare family life and hasn’t run screaming from the house. I doubt my religious affiliation will do it.
“You see, none of us knows exactly why, but mother, though we assume she was raised a Catholic, is dead set against religion in general, and the Roman Church in particular.”
“Then how...?”
“How did I come to be studying for the priesthood?” he shrugged and said simply, “I felt the calling about three or four years ago.”
“And everyone but your mother knows?”
“No, father doesn’t either- they couldn’t keep anything from each other if they tried. But all of the boys, yes. Erasmus always knew, of course, and then Declan bumped into me last year when I was wearing the togs, and he blabbed it to the rest.”
“I don’t ‘blab’, Amadeus!”
“But why keep it from them?” interjected Minerva. “They’re so understanding!”
“Yes…but not when it comes to this. Mother once protested the consecration of a new church in the West End by putting up effigies of the pope and saints outside the doorway. Then she set them on fire. On Easter.”
“Oh…”
Quintus took out one of his cigarillos, and just as he brought it to his lips to light Magnus shouted,
“Damn it Quintus, do you have to do that here? You know how filthy I find it!”
“Well alright,” he huffed back, blowing a plume of smoke into Magnus’s face, “I shall just go take myself off to the front stoop to indulge in front of the entire square if you prefer.”
Magnus didn’t bother replying through his coughing fit.
Outside, the evening was cool and damp, the luminescence tubes flickering along the pavement in the moist air. In the distance, Quintus heard a carriage coming slowly in his direction, and absently wondered if his parents and brothers were coming home from the opera so soon. But instead, out of the mist a scruffy man walked unsurely towards him, as if he didn’t know where he was going.
“Mr. Cogspeare?” he asked with a perceptibly South-Western accent. “Mr. Magnus Cogspeare?”
“Sorry, that would be my brother.”
“That would explain it. You two don’t look half alike.”
“Curse of the Cogspeares. Can I help you?”
“No, but I can help your brother. I’m John Craggs, and he tried to speak with me. I was a bit rude-”
“Don’t worry; he’s used to that, Mr. Craggs. I’m sure he deserved it,” he grinned.
“No, as my Annie used to say, there’s no cause for rudeness. But my,” his voice cracked but he continued, “my son passed yesterday, and now I can speak freely, if you catch my meaning.”
“No, what’s the issue, my good man?”
“It’s about the damn mining company, how they knew we was sickening…”
The sound of the horse and carriage was closer than ever.
“Of course, please come inside,” Quintus turned and began to lead the miner inside. He bent down and crushed his cigarillos in the rhododendrons, just as the still night air was rent with shockingly loud sound of two gunshots.
Quintus instinctively dove for cover in the bushes, but turned his head quickly enough to see a massively large man duck back into the carriage as the horses were throttled into a gallop by the driver.
The front door flew open.
“Quintus!” Magnus shouted, running down the front steps. “Quintus, where the hell are you?” Amadeus followed him out even as Steamins held Minerva back.
“I’m over here,” he groaned, and the three of them pulled him out of the flowers.
“Are you alright?” Magnus asked, but just as Quintus was trying to find a reassuring quip, he felt pain lance through his chest, and only managed to groan.
“Get him inside, I can’t see a damn thing!” Magnus ordered, even as the other two picked him up and dragged him in. He was about to follow when he heard footsteps running toward him. Thinking it was the perpetrators coming back for a second attempt, he braced himself to face them, only to see a familiar, dishevelled red head emerge from the mist.
“What happened?” Erasmus gasped as he ran up the steps.
“Did you hear the gun shots?”
“Amadeus? Is it Mother or Father?” he swayed on his feet, trying to reconcile his marinated body with motionlessness.
“No, they’re out. It’s Quintus.” Just as he turned to go in, Erasmus stay
ed him with a firm if uncertain grip on his arm.
“It’s not only him, Magnus,” he slurred slightly, “Who’s that?” he pointed to a heap of a man in the bushes opposite the one Quintus used for cover. Magnus went and rolled the body over. He quickly stood up.
“Come on, help me get him inside. I think he’s a miner I met.”
“Meeting miners, gunshots fired. You seem to be coming along rather nicely, Mag. Next thing you know you may actually have a girlfriend.”
“Magnus?” Minerva asked from the door way. Erasmus’s eyebrows shot up, though not precisely in tandem.
“Well would you look at that, you’re practically human!”
Chapter 56:
Magnus dragged Craggs inside, with Minerva supporting the staggeringly drunk Erasmus, to the latter’s considerable pleasure. Once inside the foyer, they saw that half of his face was bloodied from a shot that hit his neck. He mumbled something as the last of the blood dribbled out and his eyes slowly glazed over.
“What was that? What did he say?” Minerva leaned over the circle of Cogspeare men.
“I think he said ‘Mary’,” Erasmus replied. “Who is Mary?”
“His daughter,” Magnus and Minerva replied in tandem.
“Severed jugular, I’d say. Damn good shot. Do we care about this man?” Erasmus wavered, clearly beyond inebriated and well into sloshed territory.
“He must have had something important to tell you if he came all the way from Port Prudence,” Minerva said. She noticed then that Magnus looked slightly ill.
“Well, can’t do anything for the poor blighter now except tell his family and give him a decent burial. Steamins!” he called out, “There's a dead body in the hall!”
“Would you shut up? I let him go off duty after dinner.”
“Well, that wasn’t very bright of you, was it?”
“I wasn’t expecting a dead body to turn up, was I?”
“Erasmus! We need you!” Amadeus called out from the drawing room, fearing lacing his words. They ran.
Although the lighting was dim, everyone could see that Quintus, lying on the settee and barely conscious, was gravely injured. Without hesitation, Erasmus went to him and began ripping off his fine jacket, waistcoat and shirt.
“Give me that napkin over there!”
“It’s mother’s needlepoint,” Magnus commented as he handed it over.
“Then the blood will be an improvement. This is a bad wound; the bullet is probably lodged in his scapula, and may have nicked, or even broken, his second or third rib. I need more light, lots of boiled water, some of Father’s small, sharp knives, and a couple bottles of whiskey.
“Minerva, how are you around blood?”
“I don’t faint, if that’s what you mean.”
“Good. I prefer to have a pretty nurse around when I operate.” He got up off his knees and began rolling up his sleeves, but Magnus jerked him around.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing? You can’t operate on our brother, on the settee!”
“Would you prefer I did it on a bed, because that could be arranged!”
“Damn it, Erasmus, you’re not even a fully qualified doctor!”
“Magnus, do you see our brother bleeding out? By the time any doctor that you would want to operate on Quintus could get here, it will be too late. I’ve stitched up patients before, and getting the bullet is just a matter of following the hole it’s made.” His eyes became hard emeralds. “Now, get the hell out of my way, or I will punch you.” He didn’t wait, but instead moved around Magnus and, with Amadeus’s silent help, hauled up his brother and made to go to the hallway.
“Wait!” Magnus called out. “The light is best in the dining room.”
Minerva ran to boil the water downstairs, while Magnus took the stairs three at a time to his father’s lab. He grabbed a few of the tiny, sharp knives the scientist used to cut delicate wires and separate fine particles, and he hoped that they were relatively clean. On the way back down he raced into the nearest bedroom and stripped a fine linen sheet off the bed. Flying down the stairs, he caught a whiff of Minerva’s scent, and realized with a jolt that he was holding her bedclothes.
The dining room was in a blaze of light, every luminescence tube and lamp in the house was centred on the dining room table. The few remains of their dinner had been swiped to the floor, and Quintus was stretched out on the table. Though he was deathly pale, he was awake. Amadeus poured a long stream of whiskey over Erasmus’s hands, and each of them took a swig.
“You can’t be drunk and operate on our brother!”
“It’s better than the alternative, to operate being hung-over.”
“It’s alright, Magnus,” Quintus said woozily, “I trust him.”
“That makes one of us.” He threw down the knives and disinfected them with the decanted whiskey. Minerva returned and took the sheet from Magnus, ripped it into rough strips, and began to swab down Quintus’s chest.
“This really is flattering,” he sputtered, blood foaming at the edge of his mouth. Magnus bit the flesh between his right thumb and forefinger to keep from crying out loud.
“Right, now Quintus, I’m not going to lie,” Erasmus loomed over him with the decanter, ready to disinfect the wound, “this is going to hurt.” Quintus braced himself.
Erasmus punched him out cold.
“Shitting Tesla! What the hell did you do that for?”
Even though he was already picking up a knife, Erasmus deigned to reply to his frantic brother, “He’s already had some alcohol tonight, correct? If I gave him anymore, his blood would become dangerously thin and he would bleed out faster. At least now he’s out for the count. About fifteen minutes, I’d say,” he shook his hand vigorously to remove the sting. He began with a small incision.
Magnus had no head for blood, and so took a swig, or two, to stave off fainting. He stood at the end of the table by Quintus’s feet, Minerva and Amadeus to his left, Erasmus to his right. He silently passed the bottle to Minerva, and she took a swig. The bottle made a round, then two.
He tried not to look at the wound that was still bubbling blood, but he couldn’t help see that, even drunk, Erasmus worked quickly and with a delicate hand. After ten throbbing minutes, the scrape of metal on bone rattled the room, and Erasmus smiled triumphantly as he held up the bullet glistening with gore.
Magnus dropped to the floor.
“I thought he’d never pass out,” Erasmus said, relieved. Amadeus shook his head, smiling, as Minerva quickly went down and tended to the barrister.
“I need-”
“-Mother’s sewing kit,” his twin replied, already rushing to the drawing room and coming back with her basket.
Erasmus efficiently closed up the wound, so that by the time Magnus was back on his feet, albeit rather unsteadily and mortified that Minerva was holding him up, there was only a neat row of stitches and the bloodied sheets, shirts and hands to show that they had performed an operation.
“Pink thread, Erasmus, really?” Magnus managed to raise his eyebrow.
“A surgeon without a sense of humour would be too scared to pick up a knife, or so says Dr. MacHatten, my professor of surgery. Besides, knowing Quintus, by next week it will be the height of fashion.” He took a large swig of whiskey. “I’ll make sure to tell MacHatten to order some.”
“Can’t you be normal and serious for one minute?”
“I just had to save our brother’s life by operating on the dining room table while our parents are out at the opera. What’s so damn normal about that?”
“Boys!” Minerva shouted, finally getting their attention after a few attempts. She had slipped away and came back again without their noticing. “That man that was killed? He’s still outside in the foyer. Perhaps he should be moved someplace cooler? I doubt anyone will appreciate a decomposing body in the entryway.”
“Good Lord, yes,” Amadeus exclaimed. “I shudder to think of Mother’s reaction to a corpse on her beloved
Persian carpet.
Leaving Quintus with Erasmus, who was currently rather attached to the second decanter of whiskey, the three of them went out.
“Oh my God,” gasped Minerva.
“Holy Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” breathed Amadeus, crossing himself quickly. “That’s not supposed to happen, is it?”
“Definitely not,” Magnus replied, stunned.
The corpse formerly known as John Craggs, sprawled on the very splendid, very beloved and now, very ruined carpet, was steaming a noxious red gas.
Chapter 57
“Holy shit!” Erasmus surveyed the corpse in the foyer. “Why the hell did you bring him inside?
“Well we couldn’t very well leave him outside and call attention to him now could we?” replied Minerva matter of factly. “Do you know what’s wrong with him? What causes this?”
“Jesus,” Erasmus shook his head. “I have no bloody clue. I’ve never even read about this, let alone seen it.”
“Would your mentor know?” asked Magnus.
“No, he would have told me of such an interesting pathology. Does anyone know who he is?”
Magnus proceeded to tell Erasmus and Amadeus about his and Minerva’s expedition to Port Prudence and meeting John Craggs.
“And you say he had a sickly son?” Erasmus interrupted him.
“Yes, it was quite appalling,” Minerva added.
“Tell me more.” So Minerva did, describing the sickly boy in detail.
“Oh, shit,” Erasmus shook his head.
“What?”
“Well, until we know more, we’re going to have to be quarantined.”
There was silence for a heartbeat, and then Amadeus, Magnus and Minerva all started yelling at him.
“Would you all shut up!” he shouted. “This is our only option. From what you’ve both said, he probably contracted this from his son. Perhaps his death was inevitable. We don’t know if this,” he pointed to the body, the steam slowly dissipating, “happened to Junior as well. But until I run some tests, we have to protect the others from this. From us.”
The Cogspeare Conspiracy (The Cogspeare Chronicles Book 1) Page 17
