by Sahara Kelly
Asylum for the
Mechanically Insane
Book II - Destruction
Sahara Kelly
Copyright 2013 Sahara Kelly for
SK Private Label Publications
Cover Art Copyright 2013
S.L. Carpenter for P and N Graphics, LLC
Acknowledgements
My thanks go to all the readers who took a chance and read the first book in this series. This is a little note of appreciation for coming back and trying the next story! New adventures are always a mixture of excitement and terror, and this is a perfect example of both. I appreciate your faith and confidence and will do my best not to let you all down.
And to my writing partner and best friend, as always…my thanks. You’ve talked me down from the ledge on more occasions than I can remember and this series, so out of my comfort zone, has been no exception. You’re always there with a helping comment or just an encouraging word and you believed in this project from the start. That means—well, everything. Thanks, Scott.
Author’s Note
I must repeat my warning about these Asylum stories. For those accustomed to my erotic romances, please be aware that this is a different genre for me. I believe a writer benefits from taking a sabbatical, a literary vacation, a trip into previously unexplored territory. In my case, voyaging into gothic horror and building a world there…well it’s an adventure of gargantuan proportions. So eschew normality again, shed your preconceptions once more, take another breath and follow me—if you dare.
Cast of Characters
Currently residing in, and owners of, Harbury Hall
Lord Randall Harbury --- Inherited Harbury Hall after the
Lady Alwynne Harbury --- ”death” of their nephew, Devon Harbury
Malcolm --- Butler to the Harburys
Other Household Staff --- Housekeeper, Servants, etc.
Residents and workers in the Harbury Laboratories
Dr. Merrill Ringwood --- Scientist, Unstable Elements
Mr. ‘Enry --- The Cook
Other Servants --- Residents of Level One
Devon Harbury --- Inmate, Level Seven, presently Level Four
Eleven other men --- Inmates, Level Seven, presently Level Four
Various physicians and scientists --- As yet unrevealed experiments
Mary Jones, a maid --- Alias assumed by Portia Fielding
Other Interested Parties
James Burke, Inspector --- Attached to Lord Lieutenant’s Office
Mrs. Louise Onslow --- Milliner, Little Harbury
Mrs. Vivienne Stanton-Foley --- A Widow
Thakur Sahib Kerala --- An Indian Gentleman of High Rank
Professor Pembroke --- Visiting Scientist
Mr. Edwin Carstairs --- Visiting Engineer
Prologue
London - early 1880s - during the reign of Her Royal Majesty Queen Victoria. The vicinity of Edgeware Road…
She was humming, a little song she’d heard at the pub earlier. It was a catchy tune and it matched her cheerful mood. She’d done well, earning rather more than her usual shilling or two.
There’d been a gentleman, and yes, gentleman he was, all toffed up in his fancy clothes and smelling of expensive cigars. He’d given her five quid for a quick bit of fun with hands and mouth, no more than a few minutes in the shadows of a mews.
Five quid. She’d nearly passed out as he put the coins into her hand. And then he’d given her a sweet, all pretty like, wrapped in paper the likes of which she’d never seen…so fine and delicate.
She took it from her reticule and looked at it under the gaslight as she neared her meager lodgings at the end of a deserted alley. Yes, it had been a really good night, she thought. A couple more like these and she could afford a better place, maybe. Somewhere she could bring the gentlemen to, rather than sneak about dimly lit back streets like a cheap whore on the docks.
Her mouth watered, so she gently unfolded the beautiful tissue and stared as she discovered the pink and smooth sweet inside. It was shaped like a flower, tiny but perfect.
She sniffed, catching the slight scent of roses and cinnamon. Oh gracious. What a treat.
She hummed again and popped it into her mouth, savoring the delicate flavor as the sweet began to melt on her tongue. She swallowed, her saliva carrying the warmth of the cinnamon down her throat. This was bliss indeed. A pocket of money and a mouth full of deliciousness.
The warmth grew hot and there was a brief moment of confusion as her throat and chest felt as if they were erupting into flames…then… oh God…
The explosion could be heard for quite some distance and drew more than a few residents of the area to their windows. Police whistles screeched and it wasn’t long before there was a small crowd of curious onlookers.
Most attributed it to the ongoing attacks on the Edgeware Road underground railway project, which had been targeted by some Irish rebels over the last few months. Especially since there was nothing to see on the pavement or the cobblestones but some oddly shaped scorch marks.
Nothing to indicate that the barely visible red vaporous mist coating the brick walls and the street had once been a human being.
Not even five golden coins…
Chapter 1
It had been nearly a month since a dreadful accident had almost destroyed a laboratory located beneath Harbury Hall.
Two unfortunate souls had been killed…the scientist who worked in that area and his assistant. Their bodies had been quietly removed and buried in a respectfully somber manner, and a few weeks later the memorial service lauded their accomplishments, mourned their loss and gave the local community of Little Harbury fodder for gossip which would probably last at least until Michaelmas.
Lord and Lady Harbury expressed their sorrow in suitably decorous terms. Well, Lady Harbury did, ascending to the pulpit in a flawless silk suit, the deep purple hue a perfect foil for her golden blonde hair and creamy skin. A true beauty, they said, possessed of every quality marking her as a blue-blooded aristocrat. Her eulogy was poignant, eloquent and—to the satisfaction of most of the congregation—brief.
So sad about her poor husband, they said.
That horrifying and disfigured face, fully half of it almost gone, they said.
And yet none really knew the extent of the deformity, since the man himself made every effort to conceal the unspeakable ugliness of a skinless visage, a skull barely covered by strings of muscles and the occasional patch of rotting flesh.
During his rare appearance at the church, he made sure a black silk panel was affixed to his black hat and it was kept tucked snugly beneath his cravat, draped securely over his damaged countenance. It was effective, dramatic and did nothing to allay the curiosity of Little Harbury. The fact that almost every resident of that small Hampshire community was present assured a variety of viewpoints and extensive discussions later down at the Dead Boar Arms.
There were several members of the Harbury Hall staff who elected not to attend the service, and no adverse comments were made. It was an optional morning of sober reflection, and both Dr. Henderson and his assistant weren’t the friendliest of colleagues.
Most of the servants hadn’t even met them. Mary Jones, a maid, was one who had been hired just before the explosion, and she’d never seen either of the departed.
She had, however, seen something more devastating. She’d seen, and touched, Devon Harbury. The rightful heir to Harbury Hall.
He had almost escaped with her, but fate had intervened. Devon was now in temporary “quarters” on the fourth level beneath the house he should have been occupying as its master.
The rooms were small, but at least they had real beds in them, something made feasible by the fact that they’d taken over a currently unoc
cupied medical area. There were bars still, padlocks and a variety of security features. But it was better than the horror of Level Seven and its dismal prison cells.
Mary Jones should have neither known this detail, nor should she have cared about it.
But she did. Why?
Because she wasn’t Mary Jones at all. She was Portia Fielding, second daughter of the Fieldings of Chase Park. And after her sister had disappeared during a visit to Harbury Hall, she had set out to discover what happened to Miranda.
It transpired that the definitive answer to that question remained elusive, but Portia was certain her sister had fallen victim to foul play. A locket, Miranda’s favorite piece, currently rested against Portia’s skin.
And beneath that skin, her heart beat faster at the realization she’d have chance to visit Devon now that everyone else was attending church.
There was more than one reason she still maintained the fiction of being a servant. Portia had made a promise, a vow to herself—and by default to Devon. She was going to find a way to free him and right the wrongs done to him over the last couple of years, even if she never found out the truth of her sister’s fate.
She hadn’t seen him since the explosion, but kept her fingers crossed that the opportunity would arise for her to visit the fourth level. Now, with everyone at the church, it seemed that opportunity had not only risen but was knocking loudly at her door.
She bundled the rubbish she’d collected on Level One into the small handcart and wheeled it through one of the few doorways leading outside. Most people who lived and worked beneath Harbury entered via the main house, where the servant’s hall housed a neat lift that would clatter its way downward on command.
But this exit was used routinely, since it led to the area containing a large trough where the gardener would collect refuse for burning. Portia had been told there was an incinerator in the laboratories, but that it was for scientific detritus only.
She was quite content with that, given her many suspicions about what experiments were conducted in the darkness beneath Harbury. In her worst dreams, she was haunted by the possibility that her sister disappeared into that darkness, only to surrender her life in some awful way.
Those were bad nights from which she would awaken dispirited and with the dampness of her tears still cooling her cheeks.
But every now and then she’d “hear” Devon in her head. They’d discovered an odd psychical connection and it was an enormous comfort to sense his emotions or, very rarely, discern a thought.
Frustration was uppermost, and she shared that irritating feeling that time was passing and they were accomplishing nothing.
She pushed the cart with a spurt of angry vigor, rounding a corner with more speed than usual.
And nearly mowed down the man coming the other way.
“Oh my goodness, I do beg your pardon, sir.” Horridly embarrassed, Portia backed up the cart. “I didn’t hit you, did I?”
“No, but it was a near thing.” He grinned and brushed off his jacket. “Not to worry, Miss. I’m untouched.”
“I’m happy to hear that.” She sighed with relief and then noted his insignia and the gold clasp on a braid to one side of his lean face. “I’d be in a lot trouble if I injured a Fleet Commander.”
“Some people might give you a prize.” He chuckled.
“I wouldn’t take it, Commander. Your service and that of your brothers in arms…well, it keeps us all safe, doesn’t it?”
He tilted his head and observed her out of a pair of very shrewd eyes. “I have to say this is the first time a maid has tagged my rank within a minute of meeting me.”
Portia gave herself a quick mental slap upside the head. “My last position was in a family connected to the military, sir. I got to see a lot of officers and I suppose I got used to the ranks as well.” She let her accent slip a little into that soft Hampshire burr she did so well.
“That must be it.” He nodded as if satisfied. “Go on then, girl. I don’t want to interfere with your very important work with…” he leaned over and glanced in the cart, “…er…your rubbish.”
It was her turn to grin. “Thank you, sir. Yes, important work indeed.”
“Before you leave, can you point me to Harbury? I know I’m here but damned if I can find the door. I walked from the airfield.”
Portia paused, impressed. That was a good five miles away. This gentleman was clearly in good shape. “Yes sir. You just keep going this way, around the house to the left and you’ll see the front portico and steps. It’s a few minutes from here.”
He shrugged. “And a lifetime and a fortune if you look at it that way.”
She sighed. “Indeed.” Realizing she’d slipped again, she quickly bobbed a curtsey and pushed the cart again, moving to one side so she didn’t hit him. “Good day to you, sir.”
“And to you. What’s your name, girl?”
This time she was ready. “Jones, sir. Mary Jones. But I’m not a maid at the house. I’m in the laboratories.”
“Then I’ll definitely see you.” He nodded and walked away.
Portia continued her mission with the rubbish, but her mind was already wondering what could have brought a Fleet Commander down to earth from his airship and his command duties.
And what devilish lures had been cast out to get him to the potential hell lurking underground Harbury Hall.
As if echoing her thoughts, a dull booming thud pulsed from somewhere beneath, making her catch her breath. But there was no consequent rumble or alarm. It must have been just another experiment…
*~~*~~*
Fleet Commander Arundel Moreton continued his stroll in the direction the young maid had indicated, and sure enough as he rounded the corner, the entirety of Harbury Hall’s expansive frontage was revealed.
Heading toward the impressive front steps, he pondered again the course of events that had led him to this place, this moment.
His injuries from the accidental hangar blaze had healed. And as long as he kept in shape but didn’t overdo it, the lack of a lung hadn’t impeded his existence much.
He couldn’t run very far, of course. His stamina in bed had diminished—not from desire but from simple breathing limitations. Other than that he was relatively unscarred.
They’d said it was a miracle he’d survived, let alone emerged almost whole. They didn’t know the searing agony of burning from the inside out, the insanity it had engendered and the sheer luck that had sent him stumbling from that building to safety, where the rain-soaked air had smothered the flames inside his chest.
His surgeons could only guess at his experiences when their incisions had revealed the congealed carbonized remains of one of his lungs. They shook their heads, cleaned him up, stitched him neatly together and hurried off to write scholarly treatises on all facets of his condition.
He’d requested anonymity and received it—to an extent. The story about the “Strange Case of The Man Who Burned Inside” had finally made it to the penny dreadfuls, but thankfully very few had put two and two together and come up with a name.
Del Moreton was devoutly thankful that those who had guessed were close friends and believed in honoring his request for privacy.
The invitation to visit Harbury and review the latest airship design produced by a group of scientists and engineers had come at an amazingly opportune moment and he’d accepted with alacrity.
Transport had been arranged, depositing him early this morning in a Hampshire field. His belongings would arrive more traditionally by coach later in the day.
The walk had been refreshing and exhilarating, giving him the chance to stretch his legs, walk at his own comfortable pace, rest if he needed to… and think.
Unfortunately, the thinking part of his walk had been rather unproductive, since he found himself distracted by a squirrel, fascinated by the tracks of some small animal dappling the dew-covered path, and the occasional flash of a red leaf above him, telling him that autumn was awakening.
It wasn’t bad, necessarily, just somewhat annoying, since he’d planned on working out his future during this sojourn in the wilds of Hampshire.
But there was still plenty of time, so he cheerfully dismissed his little irritations and headed toward the house.
Another slight shock beneath his feet made him stop for a moment. This was the second one and he’d been in enough action to know an explosion when he sensed one.
There was no response from anyone at the Hall, at least not that he could see, so the most logical assumption was that it was routine, non-threatening and not anything he need worry about.
With that comforting thought uppermost in his mind, Fleet Commander Arundel Moreton, whose friends called him Del, walked up the impressive stone steps to Harbury Hall and almost dislocated his shoulder lifting the huge brass bull that acted as a knocker.
The resultant echoing thunder surpassed the rumble he’d heard earlier and he smiled. He was certainly announcing his arrival in an explosive fashion. Something that could be viewed as ironically appropriate by many.
They’d be right.
Chapter 2
The man sat in a small stone cell, affixed to a solid chair by straps around his wrists and ankles. A similar strap secured his neck and he wore a skimpy blindfold.
He was naked and shivering, but the scientist standing outside ignored those inconsequential details as he moved between dials, levers and an assortment of different controls.
The man was merely a test subject. A felon who would have been condemned to a miserable death on the gallows had not his fate been determined by an “interested bystander” who had stepped in for a brief word with the magistrate.
