by George Mann
“I’m sorry, sir, but I’m not quite with you,” said Foulkes.
“Keep up, Foulkes,” said Bainbridge. “Miss Hobbes here has just found the address of our missing hospital.” He folded the slip of paper and secured it in his breast pocket. He turned to Madame Gloria. “Keep that door shut. Under no circumstances may you allow any of your other … lodgers … to visit that room. I will send people to remove the bodies within the hour. Have I made myself clear?”
Madame Gloria nodded enthusiastically. “Thank you, Inspector.” She put her hand upon his jacket sleeve, her fingertips fondling the button. “If there’s ever anything I can do in return…”
Bainbridge, flushed, snatched his arm away, and Foulkes stifled a laugh. “I think not. The most helpful thing you can do is to ensure that people are safe. Turn away any visitors until this has blown over.” Veronica noted that Madame Gloria was careful not to make any promises, despite her encouraging nods.
“Foulkes,” said Bainbridge, “make the necessary arrangements.” He hooked his arm through Veronica’s and led her to the top of the stairs. “Miss Hobbes and I have an appointment in St. Giles.”
CHAPTER
13
Newbury dreamed of leaves.
They smothered him, crowding him, their damp, cloying scent thick in his nostrils. Vines writhed around his arms and legs, pinning him to the bed. They crawled across his chest, slipping around his throat, constricting, questing for his mouth. He screamed, gasping for breath, fighting desperately against his bonds, but still they came at him, a grasping emerald tide. They tightened around his throat, throttling the life from him. He scratched at them with fingers that were raw and bloody, but they had wrapped themselves around his wrists, too, dragging his hands away.
He couldn’t breathe. Panic swelled. This was it—the vines were taking over, consuming him.…
And then they were gone, and he was lying on the floor in his Chelsea study, surrounded by familiar, comforting objects. Still gasping for breath, he sat up, rubbing at his throat. It had seemed so real. So …
He felt something warm spreading across his chest, and then pain blossomed. He glanced down to see crimson blood soaking through the white cotton of his shirtfront. Panicked, he scrambled to his feet, ripping at the garment and scattering buttons across the floorboards. Frantically, he searched for the wound. There was something there—a shape—carved into his milky-white flesh. Appalled, desperate, he tore the remains of his shirt free, and, bare-chested and dripping with blood, he ran for the stairs. He took them two at a time, hurrying along the landing to his bathroom. He flung open the door and staggered in, leaving a trail of stark blood spots on the white tiles behind him.
Tentatively, he examined himself in the looking glass. How had this happened? Someone had taken a knife to his chest, roughly scoring an image in his flesh. It was partly obscured now by seeping, dribbling blood, but their intention was obvious; it was a witch mark, a symbol of occult significance, a hand held palm out inside a ragged pentagram. Only, something was wrong. Most witch marks he’d seen before were of six-fingered hands—the sign of the witch—but this one only had four. Four fingers. He had no idea what it could mean.
Newbury stared at the raw and bloody wound in the looking glass, clenching his jaw at the stinging pain. He turned at the sound of someone shouting his name from the hallway below.
“Maurice? Maurice?”
Newbury opened his eyes to find himself in the familiar surroundings of the train carriage. He was in the drawing room, laid out on the floor, head cradled in Amelia’s lap. She was brushing his hair back from his forehead and dabbing his face with a cool, damp cloth. She was looking down at him, her face creased in concern. “Oh, Maurice,” she said, with visible relief. “You did give me a fright.”
Newbury sucked greedily at the air. His throat was dry and sore. He felt hot, sweaty, uncomfortable. “What happened?” he asked, his voice a croak. It was a dutiful question; he already knew.
“You had a seizure,” said Amelia. “A seizure just like mine. Like…” She hesitated. “Like the ones I used to have. You were thrashing about like you were under attack, and murmuring something about witches.”
Newbury expelled a long, deep sigh. “It was just a dream, Amelia. Nothing to worry about.”
She frowned. “Just a dream? How can you say that? You know as well as I do what’s just occurred. How dare you dismiss it all as ‘just a dream’? Remember who you’re talking to.”
“I’m not you, Amelia,” he said, propping himself up on one elbow. He sipped at the glass of water she held to his lips. “I can’t see the future.”
She looked skeptical. “Don’t you think I know the signs? Don’t you imagine that if there were one other person who’d know, it would be me? You won’t pull the wool over my eyes that easily, Sir Maurice Newbury.”
Newbury didn’t have the strength to argue with her. The truth was, he didn’t want to believe, to admit to himself that what he’d seen had been a precognitive vision of the future. To be choked to death by writhing vines, or to have his body mutilated in such barbaric fashion—well, it didn’t bear thinking about. Perhaps it was more that they were warnings, he considered, symbols that his mind was attempting to interpret or construct a story from, a sequence of images from which he might be able to discern meaning.
Then again, perhaps they were simply the random output of a feverish mind. Such episodes were far from unknown to him; he’d consumed enough opium in his time, after all.
He closed his eyes. Whatever the case, these seizures were coming upon him more and more frequently, and after each one, it took him longer to recover. They could no longer be ignored. For the time being, though, he needed to be strong for Veronica.
He raised himself up, meaning to get to his feet, but Amelia put her hand on his shoulder to stop him. “You’re still feverish. Here, let me help you.”
He didn’t argue as she wrapped his arm around her shoulders and hauled him up, staggering a few feet to the nearest armchair. He collapsed back into the soft embrace of the seat, resting his head against the winged back. The leather felt cool against his cheek. “I need a drink,” he said.
He watched Amelia through half-closed eyes as she disappeared into his cabin. He could see she was already dressed for dinner in a pretty green frock, her dark hair loose around her shoulders.
She reappeared a moment later carrying a small brown bottle with a peeling label. She crossed to the sideboard, searched out a wineglass and decanter, and poured a small measure of red, before adding a few droplets of laudanum. She carried it over to him, and he took it, gulping it down gratefully.
“Thank you,” he said. He knew Veronica would never have administered the drug in such a casual fashion. Amelia, though, seemed to understand his relationship with the narcotic, how he needed it, how it calmed him. Besides which, she was right; she was the only one who could understand what he’d been through—the after-effects of the seizure, the strange lambency that made everything seem vibrant and hyper-real, the crippling muscle pain from the spasms, and the exhaustion.
She took the seat opposite him, watching him closely. He regarded her through hooded eyes. Her concern seemed so genuine that he was touched. She must have suspected the truth of what was going on, of course—that the healing ritual he was performing on her was not, in truth, a healing ritual at all, but one of transference. He was taking upon himself her symptoms, her condition, in the vain hope that he might perhaps be stronger than her, able to survive it for longer.
“Tell me,” she said. “Tell me what you saw.”
“Creeping vines,” said Newbury. “Curling around my throat, choking me.”
“Creeping vines?” she echoed.
“Don’t read too much into it,” said Newbury. “I’m sure it’s nothing.”
Again, the look. He sighed. “It’s as if the plant had somehow become animate, and the more I fought it, the more it overcame me, smothering, binding me, stra
ngling the life from me.”
“I wonder what it means,” said Amelia. She glanced at the window, as if seeing the corpse of the dead man still hanging there, watching them. “I wonder what’s to come.”
“The only thing to come,” said Newbury, “is dinner. For you, at least. I couldn’t eat a thing.”
She shook her head. “I’ll stay with you. You need me here, to ensure you’re well.”
“No, I need rest. You should go to the dining car.” He waved at the door. “Lock the door behind you, and keep your wits about you and your eyes open. Remember, there’s danger on this train. Perhaps by mingling with the other passengers you might help to identify our enemy.”
“Well, if you’re sure…,” she started.
“I’m sure,” said Newbury. “Go. I’ll sleep. I’ll be here, in this chair, when you return. Trust me. One of us needs to keep our strength up.”
Amelia gave a curt nod, and got to her feet.
He heard the door to his cabin shut behind her, and the key turn in the lock. He heaved another deep sigh, and embraced the circling threat of unconsciousness.
CHAPTER
14
She didn’t feel quite right about leaving Newbury alone, having suffered such a violent episode, but Amelia knew all too well the desire to be granted solitude after such an occurrence. For many years the seizures had plagued her, imparting their often-harrowing glimpses into the future. Sometimes they were stark and clear, like recent memories; other times they were opaque and impressionistic, near impossible to interpret, and easily forgotten, like gossamer dreams.
Now, because of his rituals, Newbury had begun to suffer while she, herself, had remained undisturbed for many months. She carried the guilt of that like a tightly wound knot in her stomach, ever-present. She knew it could not last forever. It was unfair of her to allow Newbury to take it on. He might be stronger than her, yes—more resilient, even—but it was her burden. Each and every time she broached this subject, however, Newbury would simply smile and offer her assurances, explaining that if they could just continue for a little longer, then the treatment would be complete. They would only have to suffer this indignity until she was fully recovered. He was sure of it.
She found these avoidances terribly infuriating, and if she was honest with herself, she suspected him of bending the truth, or at least sugaring it for her benefit; she did not dare believe that she might one day be fully healed, and that there would be no consequences for Newbury as a result. She could see it in his eyes; the stoic manner in which he pressed on, despite the fact the process was slowly eroding him, draining the vitality from him.
No. It had to stop. She resolved to act as soon as they returned to London and she was certain that Veronica would be well. Doing anything now, on the train, particularly while they were facing the very real threat of this strange cabal, would be madness. Back in London, though, she would force the issue, preferably with Veronica there to lend her strength.
“Excuse me?”
Amelia started and looked round to see a gentleman in an evening suit waiting to pass. She realised she was now standing in the doorway of the dining car, and had wandered here, oblivious, her mind on other matters. She stepped aside to allow the man to pass. He inclined his head in thanks, tugging unconsciously at one end of his walrus-like moustache. Painting a smile on her face—one that she did not entirely feel—she entered the car behind him.
It was an opulent sort of place, a separate carriage given over to two distinct rooms. The main, and largest, was a dining room, reminiscent of the grandest London or Parisian restaurants. A crystal chandelier hung from the roof, glittering in the warm reflected light of the gas lamps and table candles. Mahogany dining tables, each designed to seat four, were situated in two rows along either side of the carriage, each providing a splendid view of the rolling countryside beyond the windows.
The light was beginning to fade outside, the sun low and watery on the horizon. It was beautiful, and Amelia hovered just inside the doorway for a moment, watching the landscape whizz by framed by the pale, swollen orb.
Waiters dressed in immaculate uniforms dashed from table to table like flapping penguins, murmuring pleasantries in expressive French. They were coming and going from the other small room in the carriage, an area that Amelia presumed to be a kitchen or serving room. The smells wafting from the doorway were rich and glorious, and she realised just how hungry she really was, and how welcome a hearty meal would be.
She crossed to an empty table and pulled out a chair, choosing a seat closest to the window. Immediately a waiter was by her side, smiling down at her expectantly.
“Oh, good evening,” she said, feeling a little embarrassed that she wasn’t confident enough to use the man’s native tongue.
“Good evening, mademoiselle,” replied the waiter, in smooth, fluid tones. “Dinner for one?”
“Yes, please,” she said, with slight reluctance.
“Very good. Today we have a tomato consommé, followed by duck confit and lemon torte.”
“How lovely,” said Amelia.
The waiter gave a short, polite bow, and then hurried away to see to her order. Recalling what Newbury had said about keeping her eyes peeled for any useful information, she took a moment to survey the other passengers.
There were ten others taking dinner, including the whiskered man who had passed her in the doorway earlier, who was now sitting at the other end of the dining room, his back to her, discussing something in hushed tones with his disinterested wife.
She took the rest of them in, one at a time. None of them looked particularly dangerous. Bored, perhaps—tired; inebriated, even—but not likely to murder anyone and carve bloody sigils into their flesh. But then, she supposed, she had no idea what a real murderer might look like.
Finding the corpse in their cabin, pushing it out of the window—it all seemed like a distant dream to her now, so outlandish, so awful, that it couldn’t possibly have happened. Nevertheless, there was someone on this train with murderous intent. The problem was identifying who that person might be. They were hardly going to be carrying a placard.
She decided to take things a little more seriously, and to pay closer attention to what everyone was saying and doing. At the table closest to her was an elderly couple. He was busily forking mouthfuls of duck into his gap-toothed mouth, while she picked at hers like a disinterested bird, stirring the food around and sighing with abject disappointment. They were in no way likely candidates for the murder, although Amelia wouldn’t have been surprised to learn the woman had murderous intentions towards her spouse; the glower of hatred she had fixed upon him as he merrily chewed away at his food could have withered a spring bloom.
Everyone else appeared to be engaged in pleasant, meaningless conversation with his or her dining partners. The young couple she had seen earlier in the observation lounge; two middle-aged men, laughing; an older lady and her younger travelling companion, perhaps a niece or a granddaughter. She listened to snippets of their conversations:
“Miraculous contraption, what?”
“Think how much fuel it must consume.”
“I’ve heard they burn plague corpses.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Mildred.”
“Look, you’ve dropped another stitch!”
“I really think they could have tried harder with this duck.”
“… And then he said, ‘what she doesn’t know can’t hurt her!’ Can you believe it, Jones?”
“What, plague corpses?”
Amelia almost wanted to laugh at the mundanity of it all.
“Oh, it’s all going on in here,” said a familiar voice. Amelia looked up to see Petunia Wren standing over her table, smiling down at her. “All of life in this carriage.” The woman pulled out a chair and dropped into it, opposite Amelia. “You don’t mind if I join you, do you?” The question was clearly rhetorical; she was already removing her hat.
Amelia noticed Petunia was smoking a c
igarette with her left hand, waving it around expressively as she talked. She took a long draw on it, expelling the smoke from the corner of her mouth. Amelia hoped she didn’t plan to smoke through the entirety of their dinner.
Petunia shrugged off a small fur jacket she’d been wearing, and hung it tidily on the back of her chair. She brushed her hair from her face and settled a napkin on her lap, making herself comfortable. Peculiarly, she kept her dainty teal gloves on. “So, Constance—I imagine you’re brimming with gossip. I hope you’re going to share it with me.”
Amelia shrugged. “Well, not really. I’ve rather been keeping myself to myself.” Aside from throwing corpses from windows, of course, she thought.
Petunia raised an eyebrow, as if indicating that she understood Amelia’s response to have some deeper, undisclosed meaning. “In the company of your travelling companion, hmmm?”
Amelia flushed. The waiter, who had spotted Petunia’s arrival and made a beeline for the table, saved her any further embarrassment. “Good evening. Will you be joining mademoiselle for dinner this evening?”
Petunia nodded. “Why yes, of course. I couldn’t very well allow her to eat alone, could I?”
“Indeed not,” said the waiter, with the briefest of glances at Amelia.
“Just bring me whatever my dear Constance is having,” said Petunia. “I’m sure it’s perfect.”
“Very good, mademoiselle,” said the waiter. He turned away and made for the kitchen.
Amelia wished she could be quite so confident. She’d grown up without a great deal of experience of the outside world, spending her formative years moving from institution to institution, always under the watchful care of doctors who would treat her like something fragile, to be protected. Even recently, hidden away in the small village of Malbury Cross, pretending to the world that she was dead, her interactions with others had been limited. Consequently, she sometimes struggled with social conventions. She admired Petunia, however, for the blatant manner in which she disregarded them.
