by Sahara Kelly
Burke joined her laughter. “You are an amazing woman, my lady. Beautiful, intelligent, and fascinating. I think I’m a little afraid of you.”
“I’m going to take that as a compliment. And leave you, since you’re quite correct, my feet are getting cold.”
“Of course. My apologies again for keeping you out here. Shall I walk you back to the house?”
“No, no.” That wasn’t what she wanted at all. “I will take the quickest route and go back through the laboratory entrance I think. Just a few minutes and I’ll be warm. I suggest you not linger too long.”
“I won’t. Just a few more notes. Thank you again for your consideration.”
She left him, satisfied that their polite conversation had conveyed her casual interest in the project. And it would be quite a coup should any ancient artifacts be discovered at Harbury. She wasn’t about to open a museum to the public on the grounds, of course, but showering some largesse on Little Harbury would be appreciated by the village.
It might serve to ameliorate some of the rumors she knew were whispered amongst the locals. It was a minor miracle that it was only a matter of rumors. Robert and Arthur had been diligent in their clean up efforts after some of Randall’s more unpleasant episodes, and nothing had ever turned up that would connect her husband, or anyone from Harbury, to an assortment of missing persons.
Granville and Somerly had better produce something useful, and soon. Alwynne wasn’t sure how much longer he could be controlled, or how much longer she could stand his presence anywhere near her.
Matters were coming to a head, and if heads had to be involved, she preferred her husband’s.
Preferably on a platter.
Chapter 9
Devon Harbury was exhausted.
It wasn’t an unusual state of affairs, but he’d been holding up better lately; moving into a small room on Level Four rather than a cell on Level Seven had agreed with him and he’d begun a modest program of moving around, exercising, stretching and attempting to use muscles he was afraid had gone lax over the period of his incarceration.
He admitted that Portia had a lot to do with it. He was doing it for himself, yes, but a little voice deep inside kept reminding him that she was young and wouldn’t particularly like a man who was withered beyond his years.
It was important she like him because he knew, beyond any reasonable doubt, that he was going to marry her and spend the rest of his life watching her lively expression and listening to her voice, both with his ears and his brain.
Their psychical link ought to make for some amazing bedroom adventures. In spite of his exhaustion, he grinned at the thought and it cheered him even though his entire body was on the verge of collapse.
It had been a marathon session, this time. Longer than he could remember, although given that he had lost track of everything for a while when first imprisoned, that might not be an accurate statement.
But he was pretty sure it was out of the ordinary. The process, stripping the men naked, and then attaching their genitals to some sort of energy system, was painful, especially since it always caused an arousal. Only then could the full strength psychic energy possessed by Devon and his fellow inmates be harvested.
He’d accepted that some kind of psychical ability lurked in his brain. But he’d paid very little attention to it. He followed hunches, listened to what his instinct was telling him and usually came out on the right side of things.
But it wasn’t until he’d experienced this masculine agony, having his cock rise hard and eager, only to be pulled and sucked at like some sort of teat on a cow’s udder, that he’d realized the extent of his abilities.
And not until Portia arrived in his tiny world did he understand their power. That first moment when her thoughts had touched his…well, it was beyond anything.
He’d cursed his gift many times. But on that memorable day he blessed it. And as soon as he focused on her, he “felt” her presence, a warm bright spot somewhere in his mind.
She was concerned, he knew, so he sent her a soothing and calming brush of energy, sensing her immediate response and the relaxation of her stressful thoughts. She was near, so it was probably late afternoon or early evening, perhaps. He had no idea, but hoped he might see some food soon. His belly was empty and he was weary beyond belief. But Portia was there, safe and sound, and she had the Inspector to support her. Devon looked forward to meeting him and thanking him. She was a precious treasure and her well being of prime importance.
A rattle outside and then the squeak of his door opening distracted him, and the scent of a vegetable stew reminded him of his hunger. There was even bread, a bit of a luxury for Devon and his fellows. He watched the servant carefully placing the food on the one low and wobbly table in the room. A large tankard of water accompanied it, meager fare to say the least. But to him it was a banquet. He hoped he wasn’t too tired to do it justice.
“Thank you.”
His words made the servant jump and the armed man waiting at the door moved into a position of defense. Devon didn’t move, since he had no interest at all in being touched with what they called a jab-stick. It could administer a bolt of electric energy that felt like lightning rattling inside every nerve of his body.
He avoided it whenever possible.
The two men left without a word, the sound of the key securing his prison loud in the ensuing silence.
But there was food, there was water, and Portia was safe for now. The food nourished his body, the water slaked his thirst. And thoughts of Portia warmed his heart. There was even a little glimmer of light from the hallway, glowing through the thick glass window bars high on the door.
As he rested on his straw-filled mattress and tried to keep warm beneath a blanket that had seen better days, if not centuries, his mind tried once more to unravel the mystery of this power system he fed.
Psychical energy sucked from the cocks of a dozen or so men. It went into some kind of piping, and then to…where?
On this level there was a much closer association with the entire subterranean laboratory facility, so he listened intently, working on the assumption that the power he and his fellows had generated must be running something.
He was familiar with some of the latest steam engine generators. Or what had been new a couple of years before. Prepared to accept that there had undoubtedly been improvements, he pondered on the mechanisms he’d seen. They required fuel, of course. Something to produce the steam that turned the wheels or turbines or vanes and thus create a power source.
This was a physical action, the force of the steam spinning a rotating whatever. He frowned to himself as he realized how unlikely it was that psychical energies could manifest that kind of activity.
So, back up a stage.
The steam. Could psychical energy produce enough heat to create steam? That, he concluded, might be a possibility. How, he hadn’t a clue. But of all the irrational and illogical things he’d considered, it seems the most likely to be in the realms of “not completely insane”.
Again, he listened, trying to hear with his other sense as well as his ears. But there was nothing more than the usual background noises of Level Four. No thudding or whirring or any of the sounds he could have identified as any kind of engine.
There had to be something powering these laboratories. Harbury Hall itself was a warren of rooms, some of which had gas piped to their lighting, others still using candles. Even fewer had the newer lights featuring a dull glow from some other source. His father had been secretive about the systems in place, and Devon admitted he’d paid little or no attention to his paternal ramblings.
He couldn’t wait to get the hell away from a man who was slowly sliding into drug-fueled madness.
Now he wished he had listened to all those muddled lectures on energies and scientific experiments. Back then, they’d seemed boring and completely irrelevant.
Now…they might have answered so many of his questions. But his father was gone.
His mother long before, thank God. And he himself was also dead, according to the records.
He pulled the blanket higher around his shoulders and curled into the smallest ball he could manage. Somebody was in for a big surprise soon, when he was resurrected from his presumed afterlife.
And he was looking forward to a long chat with the current residents of his family home, Lord and Lady Harbury.
*~~*~~*
“Will it work?”
Both the men staring at a bluish liquid had the same thought, but only Sinjun voiced it.
Finally Granville sighed. “I don’t know. I honestly don’t know. And it’s not as if we can actually test the stuff, because how on earth do we find a rodent with the same mental condition as the lord of the manor?”
Sinjun lifted an eyebrow. “There are those who would venture the opinion that rodents aren’t that far removed from more than a few lords of various manors.”
“True, but no help.”
“Agreed.”
Granville shrugged. “It will have to do. The ingredients are valid and pure. The process seemed to ensure that they all interacted exactly as we predicted. The valerian was harvested fresh, as was the hemp. Your suggestion of adding ground poppy seeds was masterful. I can’t see why it wouldn’t do exactly what we predict—turn his Lordship into a happy, sleepy vegetable.”
Sinjun corked the decanter. “Well, I suppose we’ll find out soon.”
“How about our other project?”
“The carboys are filling nicely.” Sinjun nodded at a row of large glass containers on one side of the laboratory. Each was encased within a lacy wrapping of thick rope, preventing them from touching each other. There was a very faint hissing sound as small pipes passed through the corks in the top and dripped a gaseous liquid slowly inside. The resultant soup looked pale grey-green and unappetizing, but both men knew that when exposed to oxygen, a vapor would be emitted.
And the sexual drive of every person inhaling that vapor would be multiplied several times over.
“I wish we could pipe this stuff, the way we do for Lady Alwynne.” Granville tapped gently on a carboy. “I can’t say I like the idea of jolting these fellows around in a cart to the Dower House.”
“Plenty of straw and if we make sure the ground isn’t frozen too hard, we should be all right. With this rain, the lane will be pretty soft, I think. It’s only half a mile or so.”
“Mary’s got everything lined up. Have you heard from London?”
Sinjun smiled. “I have indeed.” He reached into his jacket and pulled out a folded note. “Just this morning I received the final acceptance. We have six guests coming. They’ve all paid the top price for the privilege.”
“God, really?” Granville’s eyes widened. “All of ‘em?”
“Apparently the chance to deflower a virgin is a powerful lure.”
“Yes, but…”
“I know.” Sinjun stopped his question. “Two virgins and six men means that four of them are going to be disappointed. But they’re going to draw straws when they get here and the thought of being present, and afterward getting one of them while she’s still…almost virginal…well, it’s appealing. Not to mention that there’s other ways a woman can be a virgin.”
“Ahhh.” Granville grinned. “Of course.”
“So we, dear cuz, are now six thousand guineas or so richer.”
The astounded silence that fell was broken as the door creaked open and Lady Alwynne peered inside. “Gentlemen. A moment?”
“Of course.”
Both men hustled to see to her comfort.
“I cannot stay. I merely wished to see if you’d made progress on your project for me?”
Somerly led her to a table and showed her the blue liquid in the decanter. “Here it is, my Lady. As promised. One small glass…” he picked up a tumbler and showed her what he meant. “About this much in the morning and before retiring, and his Lordship should no longer be troubled with any anxieties or unmanageable behaviors.”
“May I take it now?”
“Of course.” Both men nodded and Somerly carefully handed her the decanter.
“We do have more of the ingredients. But this should last about a month—enough time for us to evaluate the effectiveness of the liquid. If we might ask for some information from time to time on his Lordship’s progress, that would be of great help.”
Clasping the bottle to her chest, Lady Alwynne smiled brightly. “I’ll make sure you are kept informed, gentlemen. Which reminds me, I did ask my staff to clear the Dower House for you. I hope it is acceptable.”
“Perfectly, dear lady. We are very grateful.” Granville bowed.
“A deal is a deal. We’ve both kept our promises.” She smiled. “And now I must leave you. Perhaps Randall might like to try this tonight. He is in sore need of a good night’s rest.”
With that, she departed, leaving two scientists to wonder what news the morrow might bring.
Chapter 10
In capricious fashion, the weather decided to not only clear, but become uncommonly warm over the next few days, thus permitting Mr. Chomper to begin the work of excavation for which he had been designed.
He was, decided Burke, damned efficient at it, all things considered.
The gears interlocked and cranked other gears that worked hard to move pulleys, levers and finally a large toothed bucket of gleaming copper. Hence the name Mr. Chomper.
Neat piles of dirt began to appear near another contraption that filtered said piles and retrieved anything looking like it was, or could be, of interest to an archaeologist. Thus far the process had produced two old pennies, a few nails, a broken bottle and a bone. The gnaw marks identified it as an ancient beef rib that some enterprising hound had buried for future enjoyment and forgotten.
Lack of results aside, Mr. Chomper produced a pleasant rhythmic chuff as he worked, clouds of white steam billowing from his polished chimney.
It was mesmerizing after a while, and Burke had noticed small knots of people gathering, staring and then leaving, only to be replaced by other fascinated onlookers.
None breached the rope lines set up to keep unskilled boots from sullying the dig, but many were entranced at the possibilities. Portia told him about the endless conversations that were now part of the kitchen routine. Some were convinced there would be gold and untold riches beneath the turf. Others were more on the morbid path, anticipating dead bodies, burial mounds and perhaps sacrificial weaponry.
The actual team, Charlotte, Burke and Portia, knew better. Although she couldn’t spend a lot of time there, Portia managed to drop by a couple of times a day. Especially now that she was working on the Dower House.
And that project, Burke mused, was one of interest as well.
She couldn’t tell him much. “They’re cleaning most things, Inspector. Just the usual take-off-the-covers cleaning, nothing special. The parlor, the salons, the small library and all the upstairs bedrooms.”
“How many are there?”
She thought for a moment. “Six, I believe. Maybe more. I was mostly downstairs so I can’t be certain.”
“How about the kitchens?”
“Now you come to mention it…” she frowned, “I didn’t see or hear anything about the kitchens. I don’t even know if anyone went in there. We had our instructions and followed them. But I would think somebody must be working there?”
“One would imagine so.”
“Oh, I did see a delivery come in. The man came to the front door, so I sent him around to the servant’s entrance and I believe that leads to the kitchen.”
“What was he delivering?”
“Hmm.” She leaned over a bit of bare earth as if fascinated. “I saw crates of wine. Other bottles, probably liquor? I couldn’t tell. But it certainly wasn’t eggs or milk or flour. The cart didn’t have any name on it, but you could make out the clink of glass against glass as he led the horse around to the back.”
Burke felt a chill even thou
gh the sun was warm enough to coax the birds into full-throated song. Without realizing it, his hand went to the back of his neck and rubbed the itch that had begun. This was an anomaly. He loathed anomalies.
“I have to go.” Portia turned away and waved at Charlotte, who was busily sifting dirt. “I’ll see you tonight.”
“Be careful.” Burke’s farewell was a bit on the absent side, and he knew it, but he needed to do some thinking about this situation.
A few servants had gathered with cups of tea clasped in their hands, enjoying the winter sun and the prospect of digging up history in their back yard. Burke made a spur of the moment decision.
“I’m going to take a stroll, Charlotte.” He touched her on the shoulder as he passed.
She turned, glanced at him, narrowed her eyes for a second and then nodded. “Go. Take your time. Work it out and then come back and talk to me about it.”
He couldn’t help grinning. He knew this psychical thing had some validity because of Portia and her Devon. But damned if Charlotte wasn’t starting to read his mind as well.
Funny thing was, he didn’t mind at all.
Pushing his personal musings aside, he strolled away from the site, to all outward appearances looking like a man on a pleasant walk. In fact, he was anything but.
Portia’s mention of a large wine delivery to a newly-opened house tucked away in a secluded part of the Harbury grounds…it painted a picture that made him uncomfortable.
No food, she’d said. But all six bedrooms cleaned and readied. What kind of party or guests would use the salons and the bedrooms and imbibe large amounts of liquor, but not require the simple things like bread and milk?
He was afraid he knew.
His career, after leaving the military, had taken him to a variety of different places and continued to show him some of the worst of mankind. It was a reason he was so content in the countryside, since London had become a cesspit of the most debauched and disgraceful behavior.
His occupation as investigator brought him into contact with the lowest of the low on a regular basis, far more so than the average resident of the metropolis, thus he had developed a thick skin, a strong stomach and an instinct that seldom misled him.
