A Devilish Slumber

by Shereen Vedam

  After months of being entombed by the overgrown vines around her Mayfair townhouse, where all the windows were always shut and curtains drawn, Rose found herself surprisingly open to the idea of rejoining society. Go to a dance. Perhaps even attend a play. Or sing. That last thought brought with it a wrenching pain. She breathed slowly until the ache receded. She had not sung since the day Eve died.

  Helen, too, was now dead. But this time, Rose refused to bow to her loss, her curse, without exacting retribution. This time, there was a villain she could punish. For, somewhere in London, there was a heartless killer who could be brought to justice.

  She stood and threw the newspaper and Helen’s letter into the cold hearth. Retrieving a lone candle, Rose headed upstairs. She passed the first floor where her bedroom was and did not even hesitate near the second floor that used to be the servants’ quarters. Instead, she climbed straight up to the attic in search of old things. Her flickering candlelight painted this cramped space with eerie shadows.

  This was a part of her home that Rose normally avoided, because its untidy, cobweb-covered, dusty atmosphere housed memories of happier times. When Eve and Rose first began to manifest their talents, their mother had brought them up here and unearthed two amulets called the Cimaruta. She said they were an ancient blessing and that the girls must wear them at all times.

  Rose absently stroked her amulet that still hung around her neck as she looked about the jam-packed room. To her right, her mother’s old gowns were packed away in trunks. On her left, stacked from one wall to the other, floor to ceiling, was her grandmother’s collection of ancient lore.

  Rose had closed her extensive library downstairs and ordered those books brought up here. Since she planned to discharge all her servants, leaving the books downstairs would make keeping them dust-free cumbersome. She wiped away a stray tear and made her way to the back of the room where her father’s clothes were stored.

  Soon, with her arms full of musty old garments, she climbed down the creaking stairs, taking care to not to trip over her skirt hems. Once she kicked shut her bedroom door, she set her candle on an end table and dropped her handful of clothes on the bed and a pomander rolled to the floor and bumped against her slipper. She retrieved it, inhaling an elusive scent of orange and vinegar. Orange had been her father’s favorite scent.

  She quashed a sudden longing for his advice, and straightened her shoulders. Quickly, before she might change her mind, she put on his shirt, breeches, neckcloth, waistcoat, and coat. Then she sat on a chair and tugged on his Hessians. Wearing his clothes was oddly comforting, and reminded her of the many times that she and Eve had played “dress-up” with their mother’s clothes and shoes.

  Chin lifted in defiance of all the propriety and comportment lessons heaped on her by the governesses her grandmother had employed, Rose strode before her tall oval looking glass for inspection. Her father had not been a big man, so his attire, though a little loose, was presentable.

  For a moment, she could have sworn she felt someone pat her on her shoulder and whisper, There is my brave girl.

  With a firm breath, she next resurrected the most dangerous part of her disguise—to magically change her body. Shifting, her grandmother called the ancient family gift.

  This shift would be more difficult than any she had done before, for, if her plan was to succeed, she must be able to convince a stranger that she was a man. Only a man would be able to delve into the details of Helen’s death with impunity. Rose called on her talent and felt cold satisfaction as her magic sprang to life. Every part of her tingled with animation.

  She began her transformation at the top of her head by shrinking her shoulder-length blond hair until it hugged the curves of her skull like a snug cap. The Cimaruta immediately warmed, like an alarm rung. Ignoring its caution, she reshaped her pert nose into a snub shape. The sensation was similar to twitching her nose in reaction to an oncoming sneeze.

  Then she set to work on her distinctive sea-green eyes. Her sight went out of focus before the candlelit room became clear again. Her eyes were now a muddy forgettable brown. She then dulled the fullness of her lips into a thin straight line. Finally, she flattened her breasts. That felt akin to a wide steel band being strapped across her chest, or a corset tied too tight, too high. And in the looking glass, Rose vanished, and a male stranger appeared.

  For the length of a pent-up breath, she stared with critical scrutiny at the image of a nondescript, ordinary, and she hoped, forgettable, young man. Then she nodded with satisfaction.

  With top hat in hand, she picked up her father’s walking stick and headed outdoors, muttering, “I will avenge you, Helen. You have my word.”

  An hour later, Rose’s hackney stopped in front of a brick and stone row house, and the driver pulled out the carriage’s two shallow steps with a loud rattle.

  “We have arrived, sir.”

  Cool night air swept inside the carriage, generating a shiver of alarm along Rose’s neck. She stayed glued to her seat, suddenly unsure about her plan. Her grand scheme to catch her friend’s killer had seemed well thought-out and reasonable when she was home with all her doors locked and the windows barred.

  She now peered into the dark night and wrinkled her nose. The stench of overflowing sewers was especially ripe here. Down the street, a splash suggested that a bucket of refuse had been tossed out a window.

  Her thirst to avenge Helen’s murder still burned, but the trip from Mayfair to the seedier south side of the Thames had eroded her confidence. She sat with her father’s top hat weighing heavy on her forehead as uncomfortable questions poked and prodded. How well had she known Helen anyway? Did a three-month acquaintance warrant such a suicidal move as to get out of this coach, at this time of night? And why must she conduct this investigation?

  Answers came swift and damning. “Because Helen tried to help you. To drag you out of the quagmire of grief you had sunk into. To give you a chance to live again.”

  She could not bring Helen back, but she could ensure Helen’s murderer saw justice. Although, she supposed many killings probably happened in this dangerous section of London and Bow Street. Nobody was likely to pay attention to one lone murder by the Thames. Even if that woman had been ruthlessly slaughtered, thrown away as easily as if she had been the day’s dishwater.

  Well, Helen had mattered to Rose. And she intended to ensure the culprit was brought to justice. Surely there must be some clue in her room that spoke of the reason why she had gone out to that warehouse district alone last night. Could she have received a letter or invitation? And if what she had discovered was in some way connected to Rose’s family, though highly doubtful, then she owed it to Helen to bring the matter to light. Searching her friend’s room for such a clue could surely not be too onerous a chore to take on.

  Her backbone suitably stiffened, Rose stood and stepped out onto the grimy pavement.

  The burly black-caped driver held out his hand.

  She paid him and requested that he return in two hours.

  “Yes, sir.” He tipped his hat, climbed aboard his carriage and clucked at the horses.

  As the carriage clattered away, light from a lone lamp post across the street revealed the building’s stark face.

  Unease crept up Rose’s back like a prowling scavenger. She adjusted her brown waistcoat and the points of her shirt stabbed her jaw, reminding her that it was perfectly acceptable for a man to be out here alone in the dark. In fact, if she truly intended to catch Helen’s killer, she might be called upon to do far more than walk along a darkened street in a dangerous part of town.

  Her amulet, the Cimaruta, which had heated with every change of her body, lay warm against her chest. A reassuring sign that her “shift” was still in effect.

  Rose took a deep breath to still her trembling stomach and stepped up to the front door. She could do this. She
would discover the identity of Helen’s killer and then let Bow Street bring him to heel. She rapped on the door with her father’s walking stick.

  After a few moments, the door opened and an older female peered out. She carried a lantern that shone light across Rose’s face, making her squint against the glare. “What do you want, lad?”

  Rose smiled to ease the woman’s concern. “Good evening, ma’am.” She used a soothing baritone, her vocal cords reshaping to match her need. “My name is Mr. Ben Turner. Mrs. Helen Beaumont’s family sent me.”

  Misgiving was painted on the woman’s wrinkled face. Her glance took in Rose from her slightly tattered top hat to dusty Hessians, making Rose regret not cleaning both after retrieving them from the attic. Then the woman opened the door wider and stepped forward. She tightened her shawl and looked up and down the street.

  For footpads? Rose followed the search. Thugs probably frequented this area.

  “The lady passed away yesterday,” the woman said. “A constable was here this morning to inform us of the news.”

  Rose swallowed hard, for hearing the news spoken aloud made it more real. Helen was dead. “I know of her passing. Mrs. Beaumont’s family has asked me to pack the widow’s things and arrange to have them shipped north.”

  “She owes back rent.” Arms folded, the woman did a good job of blocking the doorway. She had probably planned to sell Helen’s things.

  Having anticipated this problem, Rose pulled out a wad of notes. “This is to cover her rent for the month.”

  The landlady’s eyes widened at the generous offer, since it was but the ninth day of April. Without further protest, she snatched the offering and quickly ushered Rose inside.

  An odor of stale onions wafted from the woman’s breath as she moved closer to Rose, all friendliness now. “Come in, sir. I am Mrs. Firth. Follow me and I will show you to poor Mrs. Beaumont’s rooms.”

  She led Rose toward the stairs. Though she glanced back with apparent curiosity, she seemed convinced she dealt with a respectable young man.

  Rose silently celebrated passing this test. Every tiny success bolstered her confidence that much more.

  Below the landlady’s cap, gray-streaked auburn curls bounced as she climbed to the upper floor. The stairs creaked under her heavy tread. “Mrs. Beaumont’s maid ran away this morning after we heard news of the murder. She has not returned yet. I expect she never will.”

  They arrived at the appropriate door and the woman gave Rose her lantern and hurried away as if afraid she might be endangered just being near the murdered woman’s rooms.

  Rose entered and looked around. The lingering scent of Night-Blooming Jessamine, Helen’s exotic perfume, evoked a fresh wave of grief. She swept it back. This was no time to wallow in excess emotion. She had a villain to catch.

  The main parlor held no portraits. Helen had spoken little of her family; simply that she had an aunt in North Yorkshire. There were no personal papers on the desk. Not even a ledger. Signs of her travels, however, abounded.

  Leaning her walking stick against the table, Rose set the lantern on the desktop and picked up an odd-looking fairy from the mantel, admiring its intricate wings, the extra blue arms, and lustrous dark porcelain hair. Putting that down, she ran a finger along the smooth wooden surface of a miniature spinning wheel. Intrigued, she spun the wheel to see if it actually worked. It did!

  Her delight brought a lump to her throat, thinking of Helen also spinning that wheel with glee. Missing her friend, Rose shook off her growing gloom and moved on to admire an ivory elephant with sharp curled tusks. Helen’s collection evoked a sense of strange lands, dangerous adventures, and secret treasures. She had envied her friend’s courage to travel wherever she wished, by herself.

  She had hoped to approach Helen about accompanying her on her next journey. Unfortunately, that was no longer possible. Still, with her blood pounding at this late night foray, a daring thought slipped in. Could she travel on her own too?

  The idea stirred a glimmer of a future more exciting than her lonely past. She shook her head at her silly daydreams. She had barely taken one tiny step out at night, and now felt emboldened to face the world?

  Rose retrieved her lantern and approached the adjacent room. In contrast to the parlor, this room was bare, containing only essential items: a bed, a wardrobe, a side table, and stacked trunks in the corner. Hidden in here, among her clothing, could be a journal, diary, or even a locket with a significant picture. Something, anything, that would give Rose a clue as to who had loved Helen and who had hated her.

  Rose laid the lantern on the wardrobe and dragged one of the trunks over to the center of the room. She was supposed to be packing, which was an excellent way to search as well. One by one, she folded Helen’s clothes and placed them in the trunk. These were simple dresses, not of high fashion but designed for comfort and durability. Helen had given the impression of being a practical person and her fashion choices confirmed it. So why had she gone alone to that warehouse last night?

  By the time Rose had emptied half the wardrobe, she had uncovered nothing meaningful. A soft footfall from the main room made her pause and look at the half closed bedroom door. Had Mrs. Firth come to check? Why did she not knock or call out? Rose tiptoed over to lower the lantern’s shutter.

  She might look like a man but she did not possess a man’s strength to defend herself. She had no pistol and, oh, her walking stick! She had foolishly left it resting on the side of the writing desk. Would the intruder notice it and know someone else was here? She searched in desperation for a weapon. Moonlight gleamed on a porcelain chamber pot, thankfully empty. Clutching the cold white bowl overhead, she crept behind the door and waited.

  Footsteps approached. The bedroom door creaked and then it was slammed open, hitting her soundly on her elbows. Pain shot up her arms. Her weapon slipped out of her hold, grazed the side of her head and fell, clattering.

  The door shut, obliterating all light and she was thrown to the floor, her cheek rubbing hard against the rough, worn carpet. Then, like a lamb being prepared for slaughter, her arms were twisted behind her and her wrists bound tight.

  Fingers skimmed her hips and leg and Rose twitched in alarm. What did this intruder seek? If she had a pistol or a knife, would she have used a chamber pot as her best defense?

  A half-hysterical laugh grated along her throat but she stifled it as a blade flashed by. All humor vanished, and true fear crept into the crevice.

  “Who are you?” a man asked.

  The timbre of his voice pricked a memory, but recognition eluded her. Could this be Helen’s murderer come to collect any lingering evidence? Anger surged and she resisted but his knee landed on her lower back to hold her down and a blade nicked her throat. She swallowed, imagining the knife slicing her skin as it had Helen’s, and blood spurting onto the tattered old Scotch carpet.

  “Answer me.” A hand gripped her hair, twisted her head sideways and pulled up. Pain shot across her scalp and brought tears. The Cimaruta cooled suggesting, her command over her disguise wavered.

  She fought for control. Hair short, eyes brown, nose small, lips thin, chest flat. She chanted every change she had made as her grandmother once taught her until her discipline vibrated more alive than the pain and her amulet thrummed with heat.

  “Do not move.”

  He released her and went into the other room. On his return, he shone lantern light over her face. “Who are you?”

  That voice. Surely it could not be him.

  “Speak up,” he said.

  She squinted past the glare of the light and familiar features swam before her. Phillip Crispin Jones. Or was this another of her nightmares? Was she still asleep in her deserted home, dreaming of the man who had once courted and proclaimed to love her? All a lie, of course, done simply to prove her family members were trait
ors to England.

  As if she would ever betray her country. How could he have loved her and thought her capable of such a thing? The answer was simple. He had never loved her. That knowledge gagged her afresh, as if they had parted yesterday instead of three long lonely years ago. They might as well have been apart for a hundred.

  She gulped down her bitterness. “Why are you here?” She remembered to alter her voice to sound stronger and deeper. She must keep her new persona intact.

  He let out a harsh laugh. “I give you credit for courage. Instead of answering my question, you query me. But enough dissembling, who are you?”

  “Ben, sir. Benjamin Turner.”

  “And what are you doing here, Benjamin Turner?”

  “I came for Mrs. Beaumont’s things. I wished to ensure that her belongings would be shipped off safely. If you do not believe me, look at the trunk.”

  “Why pack in the middle of the night?”

  He was too sharp. She had forgotten that. Phillip had a quick mind. “That may not be the entire truth.”

  He waited. A man of few words.

  “May I stand?”

  He was still a moment longer, and then he stepped away.

  The implied concession that she could rise surprised her. Phillip was not the trusting sort. Could she push him further? She indicated her bound hands. “You have searched me so you know I am unarmed.”

  Again that hesitation, but then, with a flick of his dagger, she was free. Twirling his slick weapon, he stepped back as she stood. No doubt he had decided he had the advantage of both size and armory.

  She rubbed her tender head and surreptitiously watched him. He was as handsome as a prince. It was little wonder he had captured her heart. Rose had been instantly smitten at their first meeting.

  He was a little older now—his birthday this past March would put him at three and twenty. In his intricately tied cravat, crisp white shirt, and perfectly fitted brown coat and gray trousers, he portrayed a dandy. But she knew that beneath that dashing attire and careless attitude existed a man with an iron will.