by George Mann
Bainbridge was at her side immediately. “What is it? Are you hurt?”
Veronica hardly knew what to say. “It’s … full of corpses.”
“Corpses?” said Bainbridge.
“So many of them,” said Veronica. She righted herself, smoothing her jacket and gently removing Bainbridge’s hand from her arm.
Bainbridge crossed to the door. He started to push it open.
“No!” she called after him, her composure now fully regained. “Be careful. Cover your face.” She took her handkerchief from her coat pocket and held it over her mouth and nose. “Don’t touch anything.” Her voice sounded muffled; her breath hot through the thin linen.
Bainbridge, startled by her sudden outburst, released the door and followed suit, clamping a red kerchief against his face. “More spores?” he said.
Veronica nodded. “Like nothing you could imagine.”
She saw his brow furrow, the concern in his eyes. “Are you ready?”
“Yes, I’m ready,” she said, steeling herself. Together, they opened the double doors and stepped through into the adjoining ward.
Here, just as in the previous room, utilitarian beds were arranged in neat rows along the left-hand and right-hand walls. These ones, however, were far from empty.
It was difficult to tell if the sorry things that lay upon them were even human; the host bodies had warped so dramatically from the ministrations of the infection that they were close to unidentifiable.
Vines sprouted and snaked in a thousand directions at once, the protrusions from one body becoming entangled with those of another, and another, scaling the walls and forming a dense canopy across the ceiling. They quivered, questing for the upper windows and the weak light they provided.
Fat spore pods hung like bulbous fruit amongst the vines, ripe and ready to burst. Some, she could see, had already given up their deadly payload, and had cracked open, showering their spores into the atmosphere.
Veronica pressed the handkerchief tighter over her face and took a few steps further into the room. Amongst the melange of growths and vines she caught a glimpse of a distorted face, thick, ropey vines bursting from its ruined eye socket. Elsewhere, woven into the bizarre web work, was an errant hand, a few toes, and an elbow.
“Good Lord,” said Bainbridge. “There must be a dozen of them here.”
“At least,” said Veronica. The only way to be certain was to count the beds. She couldn’t bring herself to do it.
This, she realised, was the source of the sickly-sweet perfume she had smelled upon entering the hospital; a vast breeding ground for the fungus. The dead hosts were now nothing but fertiliser, being steadily consumed. “What do you think happened here?” she said. “Were they trying to help them?”
Bainbridge shrugged. “I hope that’s what they were doing, Miss Hobbes,” he said. He crossed to her and took her gently by the upper arm. “Come along. Let’s get out of here. It’s not safe. We’ll send the experts in.”
“Experts?” she said. “Dr. Finnegan was an expert. Look at what happened to him. I don’t believe there’s anyone whose experience will be enough to help them attend to this.”
“Nevertheless,” said Bainbridge, “you and I are neither trained nor appropriately attired for such work. We cannot risk any further exposure. I won’t be responsible for you contracting this abysmal condition.”
Veronica nodded her assent. She had no desire to remain in the ward any longer than necessary.
They left in silence, returning to the main lobby before removing the handkerchiefs from their faces.
“What now?” she said.
“Now? Now we post guards on the door,” said Bainbridge, “and send medical men in to handle the remains. The whole place will have to be incinerated.” He offered her a meaningful look. “And the sooner the better.”
“What about the offices?” she said. “We still need to establish who owns this place, who’s responsible. If they were trying to treat those poor patients, they might be able to tell us more about the disease.”
Bainbridge crossed to the reception desk and scooped up an armful of files. “Everything we need should be here, in the paperwork,” he said. “How about we split it, and meet again tomorrow to compare notes? In the meantime, I’ll have the others clear the place out properly and have it all taken back to the Yard.”
“Very well,” said Veronica. She extended her hand, meaning for Bainbridge to pass her a sheaf of files, but he shook his head.
“No. We’ll take a carriage back to the Yard first; make all of the necessary arrangements. Then I’ll see to it that you’re returned to your home. I intend to see you safely out of St. Giles, Miss Hobbes, and I’ll be hearing no words of dissent.”
Veronica sighed. She knew it was well intended, but Bainbridge’s old-fashioned chivalry could be somewhat stifling. “As you wish,” she said, not wanting to hurt his feelings. This way, at least, she’d probably get home quicker than on foot. “Lead on, lead on.”
CHAPTER
16
It was with some trepidation that Amelia led Petunia Wren back to her cabin. She was blatantly disregarding Newbury’s earlier instruction, but Petunia was not about to be given the slip, at least without arousing her suspicion. It was paramount that Newbury receive word of the murder as swiftly as possible, though, and so Amelia had decided to allow Petunia to tag along. She seemed harmless enough, if a little trying. Amelia only hoped Newbury would see it that way, too.
With a dry mouth, she turned the handle and ushered Petunia through Newbury’s cabin and into their suite. Newbury was sitting in his armchair, reading from a folio of papers. He looked up, about to welcome her back, but then caught sight of her visitor and gave Amelia a quizzical—and somewhat accusatory—look.
“Oh, hello,” he said, quietly. “Constance, you’ve brought a guest.” She could tell from his clipped tone that he was not impressed. Nevertheless, he leapt up from his chair, straightened his shirtfront and approached Petunia with his arm outstretched. “Sir Maurice Newbury,” he said. “A pleasure to meet you.”
“Oh, Constance, my dear. No wonder you were keeping him locked away. Quite the handsome devil.” Petunia took his hand, clutching it in both of hers.
“This is Mrs. Petunia Wren,” said Amelia. “She’s travelling with us as far as St. Petersburg. She has a suite in the first carriage.”
“The first carriage, indeed?” said Newbury. “We are honoured. I was under the impression they reserved that carriage for royalty.”
Petunia smiled. “Well, it’s a once in a lifetime trip, so I thought I’d push the boat out a little. Anyway,” she said, positively fawning over Newbury in a way that made Amelia feel quite nauseous, “I’m so delighted to meet you. Constance here hasn’t stopped talking about you since we met.”
Amelia felt her cheeks redden. “No … well … that’s not strictly true.”
“Oh, as good as,” said Petunia, dismissively.
Newbury smiled, but Amelia could see there was something wrong; the way he’d reacted when Petunia had taken his hand, the slight tightening of his jaw. She knew him well enough now to read his mood, and this wasn’t simply consternation at an unwanted intruder. She’d have to talk to him about it later, when they’d managed to shake the woman off.
“So,” said Newbury. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“Oh,” said Amelia. “Petunia and I have just overheard something in the dining car, and I thought you should hear of it immediately.”
“A murder,” interjected Petunia, in scandalised tones. “Right here on the train.”
“A murder?” said Newbury. He glanced at Amelia, and a moment of understanding passed between them.
“Yes, it’s a terrible business,” said Amelia. “A young woman came stumbling into the dining car, all in pieces. She claimed she’d seen blood seeping out from beneath the door of the neighbouring cabin. She was as white as a sheet.”
“Just think of the scandal,”
said Petunia. “I wonder what happened. A lover’s tiff, perhaps? A terrible tale of revenge?”
“I think, Mrs. Wren, that perhaps you’ve indulged in one too many romance novels,” said Newbury. “I fear murder is rarely as exciting as you seem to think. You can take my word for it. I’ve witnessed enough of it in my time.”
“Oh, come now, Sir Maurice. You must admit, a spot of intrigue to help us while away the long hours—it’s not entirely unwelcome, is it?”
Newbury frowned. “Murder is never welcome, no matter the circumstances.”
“I wondered if you might wish to intercede,” ventured Amelia. “Perhaps offer your advice and experience?” She looked at Newbury pointedly, and saw that he had already reached the same conclusion—that the woman in the dining car might have discovered the aftermath of the ritual killing they were already aware of. If the cabin in question marked the site of the original murder, it might provide Newbury with evidence of the Cabal and their whereabouts on the train, or at least the opportunity to prevent either himself or Amelia from being further implicated in the death.
“Yes,” said Newbury. “I think you’re right. I should go and take a look, see if I can’t lend a hand.”
“Oh, excellent!” said Petunia. “Our very own sleuth. You’re just like the hero in one of those romantic novels I’m so terribly fond of.” She shot Newbury a sideways glance, but he seemed too preoccupied to notice.
“I would suggest, ladies,” said Newbury, “that you both return to your cabins and lock the doors. At least until we’re clear who’s responsible for this unfortunate business. If there is a killer aboard the train, then I’d advise you to remain out of harm’s way until he’s been apprehended.”
He put his hand on Amelia’s shoulder. She could see that he wasn’t comfortable leaving her like this, with a stranger, but she’d given him little choice. He couldn’t ignore the opportunity to get to the bottom of what was going on, and perhaps even nullify any further threat. Besides, she could look after herself. These days, she was probably stronger than he was.
“You understand, don’t you, Constance?” he said.
“Of course. That’s why I came to find you,” she replied.
“Very well. Remember what I said. Return to your cabin and lock the door. As soon as I know that it’s safe, I’ll be back.” He stepped into his cabin, and with one final glance back at the two women, pulled the door shut behind him. A moment later, they heard his footsteps in the passage outside.
“He’s very gallant,” said Petunia. She crossed to the chair in which Newbury had been sitting, shifted his folio of papers, and dropped down into it. “So, what have you got to drink?”
Amelia frowned. “Didn’t you hear what he said? We’re to return to our cabins and lock the doors for safety.”
Petunia waved her hand airily. “Oh, where’s the fun in that? He’ll be back soon enough, with news of scandal and intrigue. I’m not missing out on that.” She smiled, and Amelia thought she caught a glimpse of something else in the woman’s expression: a hint of desperation, perhaps? Fear?
“Come on, fetch us both a drink and pull up a seat. I’m dying to know how this thing plays out.”
With a sigh, Amelia turned the key in the lock and set about pouring them both a large brandy. She had a feeling she was going to need it.
CHAPTER
17
They met mid-morning in a tearoom just off Piccadilly Circus, a place called Rosalie’s, familiar to her from her younger years, and still a place of comfort and charm. She liked it there: the heady aroma of baking cakes, the whoosh of steam from the kettle, the chitter-chatter of so many ladies gossiping raucously about the latest scandals.
She arrived a full half hour early, so that she might soak up the atmosphere while she finished leafing through her share of the files. Even their dire contents couldn’t quite shake her buoyant mood as she relaxed, untroubled, in the corner. She kept half an eye on the door as she read.
Bainbridge arrived punctually, as expected, bustling through the door in his big overcoat and hat, and looking somewhat out of place in such a dainty establishment. He glanced around, looking a little crestfallen as he took in the other clientele. Veronica noted how he drew the attention of these other women; this curious fellow who’d barged into their world like a sudden gust of wind, ruffling all of their feathers. She laughed.
He spotted Veronica in the corner and made a beeline for her table. She stood, greeting him warmly.
“Good morning, Miss Hobbes,” he said, removing his coat and hat and handing them to the waitress.
“Morning, Sir Charles,” said Veronica. “You found it all right, then?”
“Oh, I’m well aware of the place,” he said. “Isobel was a frequent patron.” His expression lightened for a moment at the mention of his late wife. “Very fond of the coffee cake, she was.”
“She must have had excellent taste,” said Veronica. She beckoned to the waitress. “Let’s organise you some tea.” The waitress approached, and she gave a short order. She considered scones, but decided against it. Bainbridge was looking rather well fed of late. Too many trips to his club, she decided.
Bainbridge sat back in his chair, folding his hands on the table before him.
“No files?” she said, when she realised he hadn’t brought anything with him.
“No, left them back at the Yard,” he replied. “All except for one.” He patted his jacket pocket. “I’ll come to that.” He eyed the heap of files on the table. “I see you’re making good headway.”
“You could say that,” said Veronica. “Although I fear it’s the same story, repeated over and over again. It’s a ghastly business. It seems whomever is behind this—and he was very careful to keep his name off the paperwork—was carrying out experiments on the poor individuals named in these notes.”
“Go on,” urged Bainbridge. “I’m interested to hear what you’ve deduced.”
“It seems many of them were wounded soldiers, returned from Africa. There are a high proportion of amputees. The doctor—if that’s what he is—seems to have claimed to be able to regenerate their missing limbs, and used that promise to lure them in.” She stopped as the waitress approached with Bainbridge’s tea. The woman set it out before him on the table, and then retreated with an apologetic smile.
Veronica lowered her voice. “From what I can gather, he was infecting them with the revenant plague, first allowing that to take hold, and then treating them with a compound derived from a rare fungus. Whatever he was doing, though, it didn’t work. Not judging by the records here. And you saw as well as I did what became of the men in that ward.”
Bainbridge smiled as he poured himself some tea, and Veronica knew that he was holding something back. He’d found a lead, and was waiting to hear what she had to say before springing it on her. She’d seen him do this to Newbury, too, and she found it endearing, rather than frustrating—a sign that he took great pleasure in being good at his work.
“Yes,” he said. “I concur. The patients’ notes all tell the same story. It seems clear to me that the man’s true purpose, however, was to search for a cure for the revenant plague itself. Nothing to do with the excised limbs.”
“Then why didn’t he simply experiment on existing revenants?” said Veronica. “There are plenty of them wandering the slums.”
“Too dangerous, I’d imagine,” said Bainbridge. “Risk of exposure. You’ve seen what the brutes can do. This way he could keep them tied up, monitor their transformation, study them.”
“How awful,” said Veronica. “Those poor men. As if they hadn’t already given enough. To be taken in like that, tricked into giving their lives…” She took a sip of her tea. “It makes sense, though.”
“What, experimenting on soldiers?”
“No,” said Veronica, with a wave of her hand. “What you said about trying to cure the revenant plague. That first corpse we found—Dr. Finnegan said it had been a revenant. Perhaps it had escape
d from the hospital. And it fits with what Dr. Farrowdene told me, too. That the fungus first of all seemed to have rejuvenated the dying cells, healing its victim while it festered parasitically within.”
“Quite appalling,” said Bainbridge, with a grimace.
“Just imagine if it had worked,” she said. “Think of the difference it could make. A cure for the revenant plague.”
“It did,” said Bainbridge. “At least in a manner of speaking.” He pulled a folded piece of paper from the jacket pocket he had indicated earlier. “Throughout the notes he keeps making a reference to another case. A patient with the initials E.P.”
“Yes, I’d noticed that,” said Veronica. “As if he’s likening the other cases to that one.”
Bainbridge grinned. “I managed to locate E.P.’s notes in the file. Ernest Pargeter. A soldier just like the others. Lost the use of his arm from a bullet wound in the Boer conflict.”
“And?” said Veronica.
“He underwent the same treatment at the hospice, the one you’ve just described. Only in Pargeter’s case, it appears to have proved successful.”
“What?” said Veronica. She took the piece of paper from Bainbridge. It was a discharge note.
“The regenerative process appears to have worked,” Bainbridge went on. “Not only does he appear to have recovered from the dose of revenant plague administered to him by our mysterious doctor, he also regained partial use of his arm.”
Veronica set the paper down. “That’s remarkable,” she said.
“Not only is it remarkable, Miss Hobbes,” said Bainbridge, “but it’s also the breakthrough we’ve been searching for. I looked him up before leaving the Yard. Ernest Pargeter rents a property in Limehouse.”
“If it’s true, if he’s still alive,” said Veronica, “then he should be able to point us to the man responsible.”
“Precisely,” said Bainbridge. “The noose is tightening.”
