Wicked Women

by Gaie Sebold

  ‘But how did you know about it?’ asked Joseph.

  Arabella laughed. ‘The way that I know about anything. I have sources. In this instance it was a rather helpful sailor, who was very, very put out that his Captain wouldn’t let the crew drink on their shore leave.’

  Joseph eyed the statue suspiciously and Arabella reached her bandaged hand forward to examine the demon figure’s carved fangs. It had the face of a wolf, and yet the body was that of a naked man.

  ‘What does this say?’ asked Joseph pointing to the writing on the side of the crate.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Arabella said.

  ‘It doesn’t look like a god to me. It looks more like a devil,’ Joseph said.

  Arabella pulled back her hand and realised she had smeared the wolf-like snout with blood. It gave the statue a sinister sneer and the blood streaked its fangs as though it had just made a kill.

  ‘I agree it is grotesque. But this, my dear friend, might just be our ticket out of the city,’ Arabella said.

  ‘I’ll make some discrete enquiries with our sailor friend tomorrow,’ Arabella said, after they re-nailed the front onto the crate. ‘I have to meet up with him to complete the payment now that we have the goods. Maybe he’ll know about this book they were so keen to find. Perhaps it is connected to the statue.’

  Athos crept along the gangplank and off the ship. By midnight the search had been called off and the sailor was free to retrieve the book from its hiding place. Everyone had assumed that Arabella had taken it. Athos had set her up well. After all, who needed an old and cumbersome statue, when an ancient grimoire would pay so much more and was easier to steal?

  Athos recalled how often he had seen the book left out on the writing desk. The Captain had been so casual about its safety, never suspecting that members of his crew might understand what the book was.

  The most interesting thing of all though, was the civilian passenger, a Mrs Constance Stirling, who owned the book; even though the Captain kept it in his cabin. Stirling slept in the cabin above Athos, and the sailor had soon learnt that the woman talked in her sleep. The narrow space between him and the ceiling had always felt confined and claustrophobic, but unlike the other sailors who shared his small room, he was in a prime position to make out the words behind the passenger’s mumblings. Athos was for once pleased that he slept in the top bunk.

  Athos discovered that Stirling was distressed and fearful; her dreams filled with unmentionable horrors. And gradually Athos began to understand how some of that was because of the book. She feared its content. In her sleep she often cried out, ‘Don’t read it! Never read from the grimoire!’

  Athos realised that an equally susceptible collector might perhaps be led to believe that the book really did contain some power, and part with good money to own it. Athos himself did not believe in such things, even though he knew people who claimed to have witnessed supernatural happenings. Ghost stories were common among the sailors, and so were tales of beautiful seductive sirens. Athos had never seen anything on land or sea that couldn’t be easily explained by some natural cause. He only believed in what he could see with his own eyes and Athos knew that words could not hold magic. They were just words, even when people set such store in them.

  Athos slithered along the dock to a heap of empty barrels that were stacked high against the warehouse building. He reached behind them and retrieved the book. It was wrapped in an old sack and Athos hugged it to his chest and slipped away from the docks, never to return.

  The next morning, Arabella ate breakfast with her parents. She was the model daughter, dressed neatly in a brown velvet skirt, jacket, a white ruffle blouse and a subtle bustle. Her hair was tied up and she looked like someone who would make the ideal governess, except that a lady in her position didn’t have to work.

  ‘Good heavens!’ said Lord Hutchinson. ‘Sailor found dead in house of ill-repute! How the devil can they justify putting that story into a respectable newspaper?’

  Arabella said nothing. She was used to her father’s outbursts and she didn’t agree that the newspaper was respectable at all. She knew far too much about the editor’s other line of work and the backhanders he took to write stories that suited the sensibilities of the empire. It was all propaganda. The story did interest her however because of her recent scrape at the docks. It seemed an unlikely coincidence. She wondered if she knew the sailor in question. She waited for her father to discard the paper before subtly retrieving it and went back to her room to read the piece.

  A sailor had indeed died in a brothel and Arabella knew the place well. She had arranged to meet Athos there later that day. From the description of the dead sailor she strongly suspected that her useful contact would be of no further use.

  ‘I’m just going out to the Mission to visit the sick, Mother,’ Arabella said as she walked into the drawing room. She was carrying a wicker basket and a jar of cook’s homemade damson jam peeked out from under a piece of muslin.

  ‘You’re such a kind girl, Arabella,’ her mother said but she didn’t look up from her embroidery. Arabella left the room and headed out.

  In the family carriage, Arabella pushed aside the jars of jam, block of cheese and the small jug of sloe gin. She was already wearing her thigh holster and gun; her automatic crossbow and spare arrows, bullets and gunpowder cartridges were hidden in the bottom of the basket. She covered the weapons just as the carriage pulled in at the Saint Christopher’s mission building.

  ‘Come back for me at five,’ Arabella instructed her driver and she turned and walked up the steps of the mission.

  Inside, Arabella passed the sick, disabled and helpless that the mission helped every day. She felt no remorse. Her money helped these people, especially the extra revenue she and Joseph brought in from their nightly excursions. Helping the mission was her justification for being involved with Joseph’s band of thieves, though Arabella would have done what she did regardless. She was addicted to the adventure. It made her feel strong and powerful. She resented how women, with the exception of the Queen, were considered to be so fragile and weak. The money she earned paid for her gadgets and gave her the life she wished to live: albeit secret.

  Through the back door another carriage waited. This one was driven by one of Joseph’s men. Arabella climbed inside and found Joseph waiting for her.

  ‘I think my contact is dead,’ she said. ‘The sailor found at The Red Room?’

  ‘Nasty stuff. The word is he died badly.’

  ‘Get me into the morgue. I need to see the body.’

  A few greased palms later and Arabella and Joseph were looking down at the dead body of Athos. His face was twisted and distorted with the agony of his death.

  ‘What killed him?’ Arabella asked. She could barely keep her face and voice bland.

  ‘Animal attack,’ the mortuary assistant said. He was a man in his late forties, with greased back hair. There were several splashes on the front of his apron, which Arabella took delight in observing to be blood in varying stages of freshness. Some of the stains were a dark brown, others still vibrant red.

  ‘Animal? But how?’

  The assistant pulled back the cloth covering the body and Arabella and Joseph saw the victim’s naked, ripped stomach. He looked as though something had tried to eat him from the inside out.

  ‘Innards, what’s left of ’em, are over there,’ the assistant said.

  Arabella placed her handkerchief over her mouth and nose and feigned disgust while really it hid her smile. Her eyes followed the assistant’s hand and she saw a bowl containing the remains of Athos’ guts resting on a weighing scale. The blood and gore intrigued her. Death was, after all, the ultimate adventure.

  ‘Most of his intestines were eaten,’ said the assistant and his cruel eyes scrutinised Arabella for signs of nausea. She pretended to find his words distasteful.

  ‘Oh my! How dreadful. I do feel terribly ill at such a horrid thought,’ she said.

  ‘Didn’t an
yone hear or see anything?’ Joseph asked the assistant, pressing a pound note into his hand.

  ‘I overheard the police inspector say that the doxies there said they heard nuffin’. You’d fink someone would have though. Apparently the room was covered in ’is blood.’

  Joseph released the note and the assistant hurriedly placed it in his pocket.

  ‘There’s more for you if you hear anything else,’ said Joseph.

  The assistant nodded. Arabella and Joseph left but they weren’t sure what to make of the death.

  ‘Perhaps one of the whores has a dog,’ Arabella suggested. ‘Maybe Athos stepped out of line with one of the girls, the dog attacked and they are covering it up.’

  Joseph shook his head. ‘Never heard of a dog being at The Red Room, but then I’m not in the habit of visiting the place.’

  ‘Well it was just a thought,’ said Arabella.

  They returned to the mission and as Arabella let herself back in the rear entrance, Peter, one of the helpers, greeted her.

  ‘This arrived for you a few hours ago,’ Peter said holding out a parcel made up of brown paper and string.

  Arabella took the package. It wasn’t unusual for one of her contacts to send things to the mission even though she hadn’t been expecting anything. Her eyes narrowed as she looked at the package.

  ‘Who brought it?’

  ‘Street urchin.’

  Arabella took the parcel into the mission office. The old nun who worked there nodded but said nothing as Arabella headed towards the back room. The nun was used to the lady being around. Arabella closed the door and sat down at the desk. This was technically her office. She paid rent for the space, and gave the mission so much money that her use of the room was never questioned.

  She placed the parcel on her desk and reached into the top drawer to retrieve the letter opener. Arabella then carefully cut the string and the paper slipped away to reveal a large, thick leather bound book. Arabella stared at the book cover. She couldn’t understand the writing at all that covered the front. It was just like the scrawled letters that had been on the outside of the crate containing the wolf god statue. That was enough to make her realise that they were indeed connected.

  ‘The book,’ she murmured. ‘But who sent you to me?’

  Her mind flew back to the planned meeting with Athos. Had he taken this from the ship and sent it to her before his death? It seemed likely. She turned the book over, checking the back. There were symbols carved into the animal skin.

  ‘What’s so special about you then?’

  On the spine she discovered a faded word. It was too difficult to decipher. Whereas on the opposite side, the pages were held together by a strap that wrapped around from the back to the front keeping the book closed. It held some kind of spring lock. Arabella examined the mechanism. It looked like a glass fronted pocket watch had been submerged into the cover. She turned what she thought to be the winder but nothing happened. The device seemed to be broken or jammed. She picked up the letter opener and probed the lock with the silver knife point. At that moment the watch cover sprang open.

  ‘Ouch,’ Arabella remembered the sharp gash she had received from the night before as a hard piece of metal scraped against the cut, reopening the wound. A drop of blood fell on the lock. The cogs began to turn and instead of the ticking she might have expected, the sound of music box notes playing an unfamiliar melody echoed through the room. The lock sprang open.

  The book fell open and Arabella looked at a page of illustrations and words, none of which were familiar. The shapes began to move and form into English words and she realised she could read it. The picture formed into a half man, half beast: a direct facsimile of the statue.

  It’s a poem, she thought. ‘No. A spell.’

  The words formed on her tongue, her mouth opened and the language, strange and ancient poured from her lips. It burnt like liquid flame. Sharp and yet still intangible, she read the words but their meaning and sound dissipated as each one was spoken.

  Arabella felt a dark horror eating away at her soul. In her mind’s eye she saw an ancient resting place, a sarcophagus surrounded by hideous statues. Malformed humans, monstrous insects, creatures from the sea, and there was the wolf: a large animal head on a human male body. She found herself lying at the statue’s feet, felt its claw-like hand stroke her hair. Then, Arabella did something she had never done: she screamed. A terror-filled cry that released her very soul from the cage of its human form.

  Arabella woke. Her cheek was pressed against the animal skin cover of the book. She raised her head and looked around the room. For the first time she noticed how decayed the office was. A dark green mould grew around the window frame and up over the ceiling. Arabella blinked. The lamps were lit yet her eyes felt dull and sluggish. It was as though she had brought the darkness from her dream out into her world. She tried to retain some remnants of what she had been dreaming but could only conjure up the image of a room and the vague shapes of statues.

  It’s this book! She thought. The words inside made me … Her mind stumbled and she glanced down at the desk trying to remember the thread her thoughts refused to find.

  The book was closed again and no matter how much she fiddled with the lock it refused to budge. She didn’t remember feeling tired, or settling to sleep, but when she looked outside she saw that the day had rapidly passed into evening and she realised she must have just drifted off and imagined opening the book.

  Even now the images and words evaded her. If only she could remember! In the dream, she was sure, they must have had clarity, but despite every effort to recall them her mind wouldn’t obey.

  She felt tired and drained. As though she had been doing anything else other than sleep. That will serve me right for not getting home early last night.

  Her driver should have come for her hours ago. Arabella pulled her watch out of her waistcoat pocket but it had stopped. She rewound it and saw the second hand start its sweep.

  She picked up the book and re-wrapped it in the paper, then, holding it against her chest, she opened the office door.

  ‘Sister Mary?’ Arabella said. ‘Do you know what time ...’

  Her voice trailed off as the outer office was strangely dark and quiet. Sister Mary wasn’t there. Arabella frowned and walked out into the mission looking for the staff and nuns.

  The lamps were lit but the building seemed empty. Maybe there had been some emergency and everyone had left, forgetting that she was still in the office. This scenario seemed more and more likely as Arabella wandered from room to room, finding them all empty. Even the sick were missing, the covers thrown back as though they had left their beds in a great hurry.

  As she drew closer to one of the sick beds she saw the stain of a body, left to rot in one place until the flesh had disintegrated, becoming a vile sludge of fluids. For a moment she couldn’t understand what she was seeing. She hurried from bed to bed seeing similar stains: evidence that people had been there and had died in a hideous manner. It all seemed too horrible. The mission now appeared to be a charnel house allowing the patients to die and rot away for years. Arabella backed out of the ward then turned and ran from the mission.

  Outside, the world was unfamiliar. The city seemed to have fallen into decay. She looked up at the mission and watched as the roof began to slowly cave in, the building walls sagged and the heavy marble steps melted like snow in the sun.

  I’m still sleeping, she thought. It was the only explanation for her bizarre surroundings. She pinched her arm but the pain was real and so was the hunger she felt deep inside the pit of her stomach. It was the appetite of the impoverished and it burnt into her like the flames of hell. Arabella had never known such pain. She doubled up, holding her stomach, and retched bile onto the cobbles. This was one adventure she could not enjoy. The ending seemed far too uncertain.

  An hour later she stumbled down the empty streets fighting her way back to her home, and possible safety. The houses on either s
ide of the road began to disintegrate as she passed by. The street pooled into muddy water and Arabella waded through it until she reached the steps of her parents’ home. The house looked as desolate as the streets, but she ran up the steps – they remained sturdy beneath her feet – and as she reached the top the door opened for her.

  ‘Miss Arabella,’ said the butler. ‘Your parents are waiting for you in the drawing room.’

  She stumbled inside, her muddy velvet skirt clung to her legs, tripping her as she fell forward.

  ‘Miss Arabella!’ said the butler. He helped her to her feet and stared down at her dishevelled clothing. ‘What happened, Miss?’

  Arabella looked around the hallway. All appeared to be normal. She looked back towards the door and the butler hurriedly closed it.

  ‘Can I help you Miss?’ he asked.

  Arabella narrowed her eyes. Through the stained glass panel beside the door, the world was colourful and light again. The streets were normal and the murky night had changed back to the afternoon daylight that she had expected to see when she woke in the mission.

  ‘Please tell my parents that I don’t feel well,’ Arabella said, and hurried up the stairs to her room.

  In her bedroom Arabella hid the strange book under her pillow before stripping off her clothes and wrapping herself in a robe. Her mother entered the room without knocking, and by then Arabella was sitting in the armchair by the window. She watched the street for signs of change but the world moved on as it always had. For the first time she felt truly afraid and it was not enjoyable.

  ‘My dear, are you are ill? Do you wish me to send for the doctor?’

  ‘No mother,’ Arabella said. ‘I’d prefer to rest first. I’m sure I will feel much better tomorrow.’

  Her mother didn’t appear to notice the muddy clothes piled on the carpet beside Arabella’s bed.

  ‘Very well, rest up and I’ll have some food sent up to you.’

  A few moments later a tray of food was brought up. Arabella devoured the soup and bread and asked for more. She drank a pitcher full of water and afterwards she felt the liquid squeezing through her body, watering down her veins with the coldness of death. The emptiness and pain remained like a dull ache. She felt no joy in the world.