Hessians and Hellhounds

by Tilly Wallace

  They walked out into the courtyard, where the two carriages were loaded with their luggage. The family gathered and said their goodbyes to Mrs Rossett and Mr Swift. Timmy climbed up to the driver’s seat of one carriage next to Old Jim. Frank helped Mary up to sit with him atop the larger vehicle.

  Sir Hugh lifted Seraphina into the family carriage, where she would start the journey with Hannah. They had much to discuss, from restoring the gardens of Mireworth to speculating how an Egyptian mage had come to be bricked up in a tower. Hannah had taken rubbings of all the hieroglyphics they found in the tower for them to pore over. Helga would ride with Sir Hugh, and Hannah suspected the two would probably nap, lulled by the rocking of the carriage.

  As the horses pulled them away, Hannah leaned out her window for a final wave, not only to the staff they left behind, but to Mireworth itself. She made a promise to return. Perhaps on the next visit they could tackle the exterior. In many ways the house resembled Frank—fearsome and ghoulish, yet harbouring a gentle soul.

  They passed the journey in conversation, short naps, and stops to stretch their legs and relieve themselves. At one tavern, Frank collected Wycliff’s mare and tied her to the back of their carriage. Two long days later, as the sun dropped below the horizon, they finally reached the gothic mansion in Westbourne Green.

  Hannah stepped down on the familiar packed earth behind the house and stretched her arms up over her head. A pop sounded in her neck and her muscles protested the prolonged sitting position. She imagined how good it would feel to drop into a hot bath, but she didn’t want to bother Mary when the maid would be as stiff as she. She stared up at the house and wondered if Wycliff was in, or on business in London.

  “I’ll help Cook rustle up some dinner now we’ve all descended on her,” Mary said. Then she scurried up the stairs to disappear into the house.

  Hannah stood in one spot, soaking in the familiar atmosphere. Somewhere in the trees, Percy the peacock called out to his harem, gathering them to him before dusk fell. Around her, the men unharnessed the horses and moved them into the stables. Lights glimmered on in the house and a faint aroma of beef and garlic wafted from the open kitchen window.

  “Are you all right, dear? You are supposed to be frozen in time, not frozen to the spot,” her mother said from beside her.

  “Just taking a moment to appreciate all we have and wondering what will come next.” She rested a hand on her mother’s shoulder.

  Once Wycliff finished his current investigation, Hannah would relinquish her hold on life. In some ways it was romantic that her husband would stay by her side even after death. While they were no fairy princess and her champion, love flourished in the dark as strongly as under any light.

  Seraphina took her hand and squeezed. “We face the future together, Hannah, as a family.”

  A wave of emotion surged up through her and moistened her eyes. “We might be an odd family, but I think we are all the tighter for being stitched together.”

  Frank unloaded their luggage to be carried inside, Barnes perched on his shoulder.

  The sight made another thought occur to Hannah. “Do you think we could find a companion for Barnes?”

  Her mother chuckled. “Let us keep an open mind on that subject. I think he was rather taken with Mrs Rossett.”

  Hannah peered into each room as she walked through the house, but did not find Wycliff. Assuming the investigation had detained him in London, she busied herself in the library until he returned. She assisted her mother in hunting out books about mages and the transference of their power to a new person. Then they searched for the magical rites and practices of ancient Egypt.

  Darkness had settled over the landscape when the library door was flung open by her husband, his jacket buttons undone and his hair wild, as though he had lost his top hat on the ride home.

  “Wycliff!” Hannah’s heart leapt to see his sharp features, and she hugged the books to her chest as though they were armour to keep that organ in its place.

  He stalked toward her, cupped her face in his hands, and kissed her thoroughly.

  “I missed you,” she murmured. “Does that make me silly, since we have only been apart for two nights and three days?”

  “I missed you, too,” he whispered before he kissed her again. “And no.”

  “You must tell me what has happened that Sir Manly needed you so urgently in London. Papa said there is a box of remains awaiting his examination in the morning.” She loosened her grip on the books and glanced at the top one—Tales of the Underworld.

  Wycliff took the books from her and carried them to a side table. “There has been an odd fire, which witnesses say burned blue and white. It appears to have consumed someone—those are the remains awaiting your father downstairs.”

  “Oh, a blue and white fire? Mother will know what might have caused that.” Changing the colour of flames was a simple spell. Her mother had cast one to make the fire in Lizzie’s bedroom burn in delicate shades of pink and green. Hannah preferred the enhanced autumnal tones of vivid red and brilliant orange.

  “There is more. They burned the body in Bunhill Fields and next to the grave used as a fire grate, there were paw prints. Rather large canine paw prints.” He held up a hand to indicate the approximate size.

  “Another hellhound?” Hannah’s breath caught in her throat. Was it possible that another such creature resided in London?

  “That is what I fear. Although I am loath to rush to a conclusion on so little evidence. Nor does the appearance of the flames resemble what I saw the night the creatures slaughtered my men.” He ran a hand through his unruly hair and attempted to finger comb the locks back into place.

  “Well, let us gather the evidence and then theorise about probable causes. There is one minor matter I can shed some light upon.” Hannah walked to the desk and fetched the ensorcelled ledger that recorded donations to Unwin and Alder.

  “Oh?” Tired lines pulled at his eyes.

  “Do you remember the report of the funeral of the woman who had her brain removed? I found her in the ledger. Mrs Sennett was briefly at the premises of Unwin and Alder, and they paid her husband the usual fee for the minor inconvenience.” She flicked to the most recent page and tapped a finger on the entry recording the woman as O, for ordinary.

  “At least we know how her brain came to be missing. Perhaps her husband’s behaviour was as simple as not wanting to reveal they’d paid him for what happened to her.” Wycliff let out a sigh and reached for her hand.

  Hannah dropped the ledger to the sofa and nestled against him. “I thought that since we are in London, I might pay Mr Sennett a visit and confirm that suspicion.”

  He kissed the top of her head. “A fine idea. I shall wash up before dinner and we can ask your mother about blue flames.”

  They ate a simple meal. Hannah pushed peas around her plate as conversation brushed past her ears. While she had spent her childhood in the gothic mansion and it held many happy memories, it dimmed when compared to Mireworth.

  “Are you quite all right, Hannah?” Her mother patted her arm and drew her away from her gloomy thoughts.

  “Yes. Only a little tired, that is all.” Hannah managed a small smile for her mother.

  “Not missing Mireworth, then?” Humour infused Seraphina’s words.

  “Somewhat,” Hannah murmured, and she glanced at Wycliff from under half-lidded eyes. “I have so many mysteries to chase now, I hardly know where to begin.”

  “Blue fire,” Wycliff suggested. “The witnesses to the pyre at Bunhill Fields reported seeing blue and white flames.”

  “Coloured flames are a simple enchantment that even some aftermages can produce. There are two possibilities—either someone cast a change of colour spell over an existing fire, or a true blue flame was called forth,” Seraphina said.

  “Is it easy to produce a true blue flame?” Wycliff’s hands stilled, knife and fork poised over his dinner as he waited for an answer.

  “N
o. It is a different type of spell and more difficult to master. A high-level aftermage with an affinity for flame might be able to construct one, or a mage could create a potion for it.” Tonight Seraphina held an empty wine glass. A simple enchantment swirled around the inside of the crystal and resembled phantom wine.

  “Well, let us see what the morning brings. Although I peeked into the box and there is scant little to examine,” Sir Hugh said from the head of the table.

  After dinner and an hour of reading in the parlour, Hannah said her good nights. “I will move into Wycliff’s rooms, if he is agreeable, and use my room as a dressing room.”

  “Of course, dear, whatever suits you best.” Seraphina waved a hand, engrossed in a chess match with Sir Hugh.

  In silence, Wycliff rose and shadowed her steps out into the hall. There he took her hand and pulled her closer. “We can move to your room, if you prefer? You have slept there all your life.”

  Hannah kissed his cheek. “Thank you, but no. I have begun a new phase of my life and I rather think the change of room is appropriate.”

  The next morning, after a quiet breakfast, Hannah assisted her father in his laboratory. They angled the mirrors to catch the light that burst through the tunnel near the ceiling and reflected it to illuminate the table. Sir Hugh carried over the box and prised off the lid.

  What they did couldn’t be called an autopsy—there simply wasn’t enough for such an examination. With great care, they removed the remains from the container. The sad collection of charred pieces affected Hannah far more than an intact body might have. While it was efficient and saved space in the cemetery to have one’s very self reduced to what one found in the bottom of the fireplace, surely there should be some marker to denote a life turned into ash? A small plaque could display the name of the person, even if no body decomposed in the ground.

  “It must have been an intense fire, to reduce an adult to so few remains,” Sir Hugh said as he sorted through them.

  “Perhaps the blue flames were more than a colour effect and burned hotter, such as the crematorium uses?” Hannah used a pair of tweezers to sort lumps into similar piles. “More worrying is that Wycliff found large paw prints at the scene.”

  Her father paused in his work and met her stare. “Do you think another hellhound did this?”

  Hannah moved a larger piece of bone to one side and a pile of ash to another. “Let us hope not. Wycliff does not seem to possess the ability to produce a blue fire to incinerate people. The colour of the flames might have resulted from an accelerant used, and the paw prints could have been made by any large and perfectly ordinary dog.”

  They worked in near silence, picking through bone fragments that, they hoped, would aid in discovering the unfortunate’s identity. Although they had little to assist them. In all, there remained only a thigh bone, half a pelvis, and a lower jaw still holding teeth. The rest of an adult’s 206 bones were reduced to rubble, charred lumps, and soot.

  Sir Hugh picked up the left half of the pelvis in one hand. Hannah passed him a small brush, and he used gentle strokes to clear away the soot and dirt. Next, he dropped a magnifying lens over his eyes and peered at the bone.

  “From the shape of this, I believe our victim was a woman,” he said at length.

  From the measurement of the thigh bone, her father performed a mental calculation to determine approximate height. Then the jaw received similar scrutiny. A gentle cleaning revealed a gleaming gold tooth.

  “That could be an aid in finding out her identity.” Hannah noted where in the lower jaw the gold tooth was located and drew a sketch of its exact placement. “We have no way of determining how the person died. We could have a murder, a terrible suicide, or someone might have desecrated a grave and burned a corpse they found.”

  They soon concluded their work. Hannah scoured the storage room and found an old piece of red silk that she used to line the bottom of the box. The bright strip of fabric reminded her of the lining of a coffin and, in her mind, turned a storage box into something more fitting as a final resting place for the unknown woman. She swept up all the charred bits and placed them in the bottom first. Then she laid the larger bones on top. Hannah draped the ends of the silk over the bones and closed the lid. She rested a hand on the top, hoping that whoever was contained within had attained a peaceful afterlife.

  6

  After completing her work, Hannah walked with slow steps up the stairs to find Wycliff and advise him of their findings. The door to his study was open and inside, he sat with a pen frozen in his hand as he stared out the window.

  “Wycliff?” she murmured his name, not wishing to disturb him while he was deep in thought.

  “Hannah.” He half turned and held out a hand in welcome.

  She grasped his hand, and he pulled her onto his lap.

  “You seemed miles away.” She peered out the window, wondering if something beyond had caught his attention.

  “I was pondering hellhounds, and whether there might be another roaming London. Although I am not convinced it is a beast such as I. When I dispatch a soul, no fire is involved and my efforts to call forth a blue fire have failed. If I set something alight, it burns red and yellow as expected.” A brief smile pulled at his lips. “What news do you have of our victim?”

  “We found part of a pelvis, and there was sufficient bone for Papa to identify it as a woman of slight height, judging from the length of femur we found. There was also a gold tooth.” She tapped her jaw to indicate where.

  He tugged a piece of paper forward and added her findings to a short list. “I have a strip of fabric caught on the railing around the grave and flowers scattered in the dirt. Although they might not be related.”

  She let out a sigh. “Let us hope it is enough to discover the woman’s identity.”

  “I will return to Bunhill Fields today, to ask the sexton if any graves have been disturbed. It is possible a grave robber dug someone up and, for whatever reason, incinerated the remains.” He tapped the pen against the page with the little they knew written upon it.

  Hannah imagined scenarios where a person could have dug up another to cremate them. “Perhaps the perpetrator sought to conceal another crime? It might be someone who was thought to have died of natural causes, but had really been murdered and they wanted to hide what they did.”

  He huffed a gentle laugh. “That hypothesis might be more difficult to prove, given how little remained. But I will first ascertain whether any resident of Bunhill Fields is missing.”

  “I will come into London with you, if that is convenient. I wish to seek out Mr Sennett. There is something about the salacious newspaper article that niggles at me.” While she had confirmed the woman’s brain had been removed under the strict conditions of Unwin and Alder, the discovery worried at her. For the entire section of skull to be dislodged would take some force.

  “Very well. Old Jim could drop me at the cemetery and take you on to Sennett’s house. Then perhaps we could meet at the Ministry offices to confer with Sir Manly?” He caught a wayward strand of her hair and stroked it between his thumb and forefinger.

  After depositing Wycliff at the gates to Bunhill Fields, it didn’t prove too difficult to find Mr Sennett. Old Jim asked a person on the street once they were in the correct neighbourhood, and numerous people leapt to answer. Apparently everyone knew where to find the man whose wife’s mind had gone walkabout. The old retainer halted the carriage outside a row of small terrace houses.

  Hannah pondered what to say as she walked to the front door. Coldly announcing she wished to discuss a certain vanishing organ seemed inappropriate. But how to word her request to ensure she gained admittance?

  Her knock was answered by a young girl of around ten years, with weepy eyes.

  “Is Mr Sennett in?” Hannah asked, peering over the child’s head into the dim corridor beyond.

  “Yes, ma’am. He’s in there.” The girl gestured to an open door.

  Hannah thanked the gi
rl and walked into the small front parlour.

  A man rose from a chair with a frown on his face. “Can I help you, ma’am?”

  “Forgive my intrusion, Mr Sennett. I am Lady Wycliff. My husband is an investigator with the Ministry of Unnaturals, and with your permission, I should like to discuss recent events with you.” Hannah walked to the middle of the room, a feat which took only three steps.

  He swallowed and nodded before gesturing to a sofa covered in a worn green brocade. Once she was seated, he resumed his chair by the window. He leaned on a sideboard and a tremble made his fingers skitter over the surface.

  “I didn’t do it,” he rasped.

  “I am aware of that. What confuses me is that I know your wife briefly passed into the care of Unwin and Alder, yet the newspaper article reported you did not know how…the event…occurred.” Hannah chose her words with care. No need to remind the man of what had happened while he still mourned his wife.

  He looked away to stare at children in the street throwing a ball back and forth. “I didn’t want to say anything. They said it was a condition of taking the money, that their research be kept quiet. You probably think I’m horrid, but with four mouths to feed, I did need it.”

  “I think no such thing, and cannot imagine how hard it is to provide for your family now that your wife has passed. I seek only to understand what happened, to ensure that Unwin and Alder are meeting the strict arrangements under which they are allowed to operate.” It appeared that events were as they suspected. The bereaved husband had not wanted to announce he had sold his wife’s brain when her coffin was jostled.

  “What happened to her…brain?” He whispered the last word, casting around the room as though he expected something horrible to happen. His eyes were wide, the whites tinged red from either too much alcohol or a bout of crying.

  Hannah didn’t enjoy lying. Nor was she particularly good at it. She did, however, believe there were circumstances under which a small lie or an alteration of the truth was necessary to prevent a greater harm. Such as when Lizzie clasped both her hands, stared into her eyes, and made her swear she had never used the contaminated face powder. Another such situation arose before her now, with Mr Sennett demanding to know what had happened to his wife’s brain. Hannah doubted he wanted the bald truth that the organ that once professed to love him had been sliced into thirty equal parts and floated in a herb-infused vinaigrette for consumption by an Afflicted woman.