Instruments of Darkness

by Imogen Robertson

  An owl called out over the forest, and pictures in her mind of wind and water were swept away by the image of Brook as she had first seen him, the look of faint surprise and disapproval on his face, the obscenity of the wound in his neck. She imagined him alive, standing in the dark, the figure emerging behind him with Hugh’s knife in his hand. She played the scene through behind her eyes as she watched the darkness. Thought of Hugh’s scarred face emerging from the gloom, then Wicksteed’s. Did Wicksteed have the courage to kill a man? What could make him a murderer?

  Huddled against the children in the darkness, Verity Chase heard the sound of a sob suppressed and looked down. Susan was crying. She knew the girl did not want it known; she was being as brave as she could for her guardians, for her little brother. Verity pulled her more tightly to her side, letting her fingers press into the girl’s shoulder. She hoped to give courage, resolve, but she was not sure she had any left herself to give. Her eyes stung with sleeplessness and fear in the gloom. Ashes from various fires had found their way past her hood to her pale skin and caught on her eyelashes. Her face seemed to have been crying gray, sooty tears. She looked up to where Clode was propped against the side wall of a shuttered coaching inn next to her. Jonathan lay curled on his cloak at the man’s feet. Daniel smiled at her—sad, serious. She found herself thinking that, shaved and cleaned, he probably still looked little more than a boy himself. At the moment he looked more like a woodcut of a highwayman. So much the better. There was a footstep and Graves approached.

  “We are very close to Hunter’s now. It’s not ideal. I can see where the house is from the end of the road here—there are lights burning, it’s perhaps half a mile. But it’s open ground. If Jonathan is right and that man is still following, it is the perfect time for him to make his attack.”

  Susan whimpered, and as quickly bit her lip. Graves dropped to his heels beside her.

  “My love, I’m sorry to scare you. I’m an idiot.”

  Susan shook her head quickly. “No. I’m sorry. I do not mean to be frightened.”

  Miss Chase squeezed her shoulder again. “We are all frightened, Susan. That’s just good sense.” She looked between the two men. “What shall we do?”

  Graves stood again. “We’ll have to make a run for it. Miss Chase, could you carry Jonathan that far?”

  She nodded.

  “Very well. As soon as we come into the open, head right. And run. If the gates are locked you will have to climb them. Whatever happens, do not wait in the road.”

  “Of course.”

  It was hard for Graves, searching out the edges of her face in the darkness, not to declare his love then and there. He swallowed. “Clode and I will follow and stop anyone passing us. Are we ready?”

  Clode was placing Jonathan in Miss Chase’s arms. Susan had taken her bundle from her, and tied it around her waist. They nodded.

  “Very well then. Let’s go.”

  3

  They reached the corner and without a word Miss Chase turned and plunged off into the darkness, one arm supporting Jonathan, her free hand in Susan’s. Clode and Graves began walking backward behind them. The little light of the new moon caught on the tips of the blades they carried. The footsteps began to fade behind them, for one joyful moment the night was suddenly still, and Daniel thought they might have been wrong—that the paranoia conjured by the riots and their own fear might have deluded them, and the boy—that all was well ... then there was a shout and two dark shapes reared up along the track.

  Clode sprang at the man nearest him. In that moment all his tiredness disappeared; he became something other than himself. He felt the man stumble under his weight, then the world spun as the man’s fist slammed into his jaw and his head snapped back. He had his hand on the man’s shirt, and while the night exploded with pain that seemed to shatter his bones, he would not let go. He struck back with his free hand, using the fist clasped around the handle of his knife to strike at the place in the darkness where he guessed the man’s face would be. He connected, and felt the crunch of bone. The man yelled and reared under him, striking him hard in the side. The blow loosened his grip and the knife skittered on the roadside. The man swung Clode onto his back, and sat over his chest. Time began to slow. Clode saw the man reach into his pocket for his own knife. He was about to be killed by a shadow, his mind informed him gently. His blood beat through his hands, he scrabbled to gather the dirt of the road and threw it into the man’s face. The shadow winced and reared back slightly. It was enough for Clode to reach his right hand back, to where he felt rather than saw the pale glint of his own blade. He heard the roar of the giant on his belly, saw the man raise himself, the point of his blade held high and angled straight for Clode’s heart. His fingers brushed the wooden handle, he reached, every muscle and bone singing poison with the effort, then felt it, held it, and pulled it toward him. As the man fell on him, his eyes went dark for a second. Then he opened them again. His chest was warm, but he felt no pain there. He struggled out from under the man’s bulk and staggered to his feet, putting a hand to his chest. He could feel the blood on him, but knew it was not his own. He turned the body at his feet over with his boot. The bulk shifted and sprawled on its back. The eyes were open and empty. His knife was buried deep in the massive chest. He bent down and pulled it free. Then turned, looking for Graves.

  Graves saw Clode pull the man to the ground on his left. He jumped right and managed to connect with the thin figure trying to dart past him, and pushed him off balance. The man fell on his knees, but before Graves could launch himself on top of him, he had scrambled to his feet again and turned to face him. The moon sighed enough light forward for him to see the yellow face under the peak of his hat.

  “You again,” the man said.

  Graves stood in front of him. “Indeed.”

  The yellow face cracked with laughter. “If that’s how you want to play it, boy.”

  He suddenly danced forward. Graves swiped at him with his right hand. The man giggled, and before Graves could even register his movement, he had closed with him, pinning his knife arm to his side and catching his left wrist with the same hand. The embrace of an impatient lover. Graves felt the bitter warmth of his breath on his face. He pulled, but the grip was vice-like. The man spoke, softly. Like a disappointed father to a child.

  “Don’t you gentlemen learn anything useful in your education?” Graves struggled, but the man was rigid as iron. “Thought I’d taught you, with that little shaving nick I gave you.” Graves felt the rancid breath traveling the still-fresh wound on his face. “Thing is, boy, thumb on the blade. And strike up.”

  Graves looked down at the glint of the blade, the man’s thumb pressed on the flat of it; he felt the man’s body tense for the blow. So he would fail here; it would end here on the road with London burning in front of him. He thought of Susan, biting her lip, and the anger sung through him. With a roar, he twisted his body away, but not fast or far enough. He felt the cold point of it drive through his skin, and the darkness of the night flood in after it. He fell, the yellow man turned and began to lope off up the track. Then Clode was beside him.

  “Graves!”

  He shook his head, stumbled upright. He could still walk, the wound could not be deep. The yellow man had got past them. He was heading toward the children. Graves gulped in the air. It tasted like iron, but sweet, black, it bound his wound and threw the pain of it away.

  “The children. Come on.”

  They raced forward into the dark.

  Miss Chase heard the noise behind them on the road and Susan tugged on her hand, tried to turn back. Verity only pulled harder at the girl. The lights of the house were very close. She willed her little party over the last few yards till she reached, half-fell on the head-high metal gates. She lifted Jonathan up under his armpits.

  “Go, Jonathan. Now.”

  His hands fitted and clasped and she felt him pull himself out of her hands, saw his body swing lightly over the spear
s.

  “Now you, Susan.”

  She knelt down to make a cradle for the little girl’s foot with her hands and boosted her up. She heard her tumble on the other side, then began to search for her own footholds in the brick and iron. One foot pushing against the stone, her hand on the bar, the other slipping on the lock, she dragged herself up and felt with her right hand for a higher grip. Her fingers fitted around the muzzle of a stone lion at the top of the gate-post. She swung to the top, then let herself fall on the far side, her skirts billowing around her. She turned to look out into the roadway, peering out through the bars for a sign of what was happening on the road. With a crash, a body fell against the bars from the outside, and she found herself face to panting face with the yellow man of Susan’s nightmares. He smiled, and they held each other’s gaze a moment. She put out her hands, felt the little boy and girl take them. She managed to open her lips.

  “Run.”

  The three of them turned and scrambled through the long garden of Mr. Hunter’s house. She could hear the gate rattle where the man climbed up behind them. Lights were beginning to move in the house. They charged forward, then suddenly Susan screamed and the ground seemed to fall away beneath them. Miss Chase felt her leg twist as she landed. The breath was forced out of her body.

  The darkness here was absolute, but living. There was a noise. Something was already here, moving, twisting in the dark. She heard a noise. Something like the sea, or the tearing of rags, but animal. She put out her arms and gathered the children toward her, shuffling away from the sound, the movement, with her hands over their mouths to stop their noise. There was no need, their thin bodies were rigid with terror. There was a clank of metal, a chain. The strange purring roar. More voices in the distance now, familiar, Clode and Graves. She felt tears in her eyes. They were alive. There was a sudden impact in front of her. A darker shadow among the shadows.

  “What ho, pretty ones. What sort of a cave have you found to hide in?”

  Her mouth went dry, she struggled to unclamp her throat and shout, “Graves! Clode! Here! He has us!”

  She heard footsteps running above. She pushed the children behind her, into the extreme corner of whatever space they were in. She could hear the yellow man’s breathing as he moved toward them in the dark. He began to laugh. Then the other sound came again—like the grumbles of some huge dog. The yellow man turned back toward it.

  “What in hell?”

  Then he advanced on them again. Miss Chase began to see now. The yellow man in front of them, bearing down, his arm raised, and behind him a strange rippling movement in the shadows. There was a sudden shout, and she saw a figure of a man dart across her view, knocking the yellow man back into the darkness. The strange alien growl behind him became a roar. The shadows were all movement. There was a scream, high pitched. The rippling shadows squalled and tore; another scream, another figure, a ripping sound.

  “Graves?”

  “Here! They have him!”

  An exclamation of horror. Suddenly a man appeared in the darkness, half-dressed and holding a flaming torch over his head.

  “What in God’s name?”

  The torchlight swam in. Miss Chase clutched at the children. Two huge, cat-like creatures were at the throat of the yellow man, tossing him around like a rag doll. Graves, his trunk bloody and eyes wide with terror, was scrabbling away on his back. She saw Clode, grabbing one of the animals by its neck and throwing it bodily back into the cave, then seizing the yellow man’s leg and attempting to pull him free from those teeth. The torch was dropped; the man who bore it leaped forward to help him, kicking the second cat in the throat till it abandoned its grip. Miss Chase scrambled to her feet, picked up the torch and pointed it into the cave.

  “Don’t look,” she said to the children, then glancing back saw they had already seen, and could not look away.

  The yellow man lay sprawled almost at their feet, his neck a ragged mess of torn flesh. Across his chest the broad even stripes of clawmarks had torn his clothes and fringed them in red. Miss Chase looked at their strange rescuers. The cats were chained at the collar it seemed, their muscular bodies spotted with markings like tiny hoofmarks. They paced forward to the extent of their reach, their speckled mouths red and running, but they could no longer reach any of their guests. Graves slumped against the far wall, his face white and his side bloody and wet. Susan let out a noise between a whimper and a cry and scrambled over to him. He put his arm around her and pulled her close.

  “It’s all right, Susan. I’ll live.”

  Clode was on his knees at the yellow man’s side, looking as if he had lost his senses in the fight, panting hard, his front covered in blood. Miss Chase had never thought there was so much blood in the world. They all seemed drenched in it. She glanced at her own hands. Saw them scraped and cut by the walls, and floor. The man who had brought the torch stood in the midst of them, looking around with amazement. She looked up at him.

  “What are they?”

  “They are two male Panthera pardus of the felidae family. Commonly known as leopards. I am John Hunter. This is my home. Now, madam, who the hell are you?”

  Clode blinked and looked about him, then reached into his pocket, dropping his bloody knife on the ground in the process, and pulled out the letter he had received in the Caveley parlor. He remained on his knees, but held the paper up toward Hunter, crumpled and dirty, still struggling to find enough breath to speak. Hunter took it from him as Clode managed in a gasp:

  “Sir, with the compliments of Gabriel Crowther.”

  4

  “Bring them in then.”

  Hunter’s voice was muffled behind one of the heavy doors in the back of his house that separated the living areas from those in which he conducted his research, though, in truth, the whole establishment was a monument to his work. Oils of strange animals, meticulously painted, hung around the walls, along with skulls and bones of creatures Susan could not even imagine. Jonathan was transfixed by the skeleton of a snake coiled as if to strike in a glass case by his feet. His sister held tightly onto Miss Chase’s hand as the door swung open.

  Hunter was a man in late middle age. His face was rather squashed and red, with a comfortable belly pushing under his waistcoat. Standing next to him, Clode looked very young. He was wearing a fresh shirt, but there were still bloodstains on the skin around his throat. He tried to smile at them, and winced at the pain in his jaw. In front of the men was a huge oak table; on it two forms, bodies under dirty sheets.

  “We wanted you to see them before you go to bed,” Clode said. “For the last time. To show he is really gone.”

  Susan nodded and let go of Miss Chase’s hand. Hunter turned down the sheet from the yellow face of the body nearest to her, though he kept the throat covered. The children approached and stared at him for a long time. The eyes were open and blank of meaning. The candlelight pooled over the cracked jaundiced skin, and made puddles of shadow swing around the cloth over his throat. The lips were slightly parted.

  Jonathan looked up at Hunter. “He is dead?”

  “Very.”

  “And who is that?” Jonathan pointed across at the other body. Hunter folded back the second sheet to reveal the broad features of Yellow Face’s companion.

  Miss Chase saw Clode flinch as the corpse was exposed. So that was your work, she thought to herself. Again the children looked. This time Susan spoke.

  “He looks a bit like Mr. Yelling’s son.” She glanced up at Clode, who watched her with friendly concern. “He was a bit simple. It’s not him, though. And I’m glad he’s dead. Thank you for killing them.”

  She stepped back, and Clode looked a little embarrassed. The little girl addressed Hunter.

  “What will happen to them now?”

  Hunter glanced at the younger man, who answered for him.

  “The bodies will disappear,” Clode said. “That’s why we wanted you to see them now.”

  Jonathan yawned and leaned against
Miss Chase’s slender hip.

  “How disappear?” he asked.

  Hunter grinned at him. “I shall cut them up to show my students. Though I may keep the skulls.”

  The boy smiled sleepily. “Good.”

  Miss Chase placed her arm around his shoulders. “I must put these children to bed. We are just going to say good night to Mr. Graves.”

  The gentlemen bowed, and she led the children from the room, turning back to the strange, froglike man among the candles and corpses.

  “Thank you, Mr. Hunter,” she said quietly.

  “Delighted, Miss Chase.”

  Graves was comfortable, pale from his loss of blood, but neatly bound up and lucid. The children ran to him and buried themselves in his arms as soon as the door opened.

  “Steady there! Lord, you’re as much trouble as the man with the knife!” Miss Chase sat at the end of the bed and watched as they burrowed into him like babies. Jonathan looked at him, his eyes shining.

  “Mr. Hunter is going to cut them up and keep the skulls.”

  “That sounds like a fine plan.”

  They talked nonsense to each other for a few minutes, laughing more than would have seemed right to anyone who had not been through the tension of the night, felt it release and wash away from them, till Miss Chase noticed the first wakings of dawn outside, and began to stand, ready to gather them back to bed. The door swung open. Clode appeared, his manner all urgency.