Hessians and Hellhounds

by Tilly Wallace

  14

  Later that morning, the family gathered in the dining room for breakfast. A sombre mood hung over them after the previous night’s discovery. Hannah tackled the issue of who might have owned the shoe and wracked her brain to identify the tallest among the women Afflicted who might wear such a size.

  “‘The Afflicted cannot escape God’s judgement.’” Wycliff read the headline aloud and then tossed the scandal sheet to the table with a snort. “Another inflammatory piece from Nash to add fuel to the unrest.”

  “How does he know it was one of the Afflicted? Seraphina discerned it from the bone, but we said nothing anyone could have overheard last night.” Sir Hugh stared at the paper from under bushy eyebrows.

  Hannah picked it up. “This was written by the same man who wrote the articles exposing the work of Unwin and Alder. He is a reporter who does not rely on facts, but who crafts his own version of the truth.” She glanced across the table to Wycliff, who ground his teeth. She suspected her husband planned an unpleasant interview for Mr Nash. Truth be told, she did not want Wycliff to temper his behaviour with the person who wrote such horrid things about the victims of the blue fire. “I shall refrain from attending when you speak to him. I think this matter is best discussed between the two of you.”

  Hannah read the article and then passed the paper to her mother.

  After reading the article that detailed how the Afflicted were akin to demons polluting the London air, Seraphina waved a hand and the newspaper rose into the air before scrunching itself into a tight ball. Then with a pop, it exploded, distributing tiny specks of paper that hung in the air like dandelion fluff.

  “Temper, Sera,” Sir Hugh muttered as he picked a sliver of paper off his toast.

  “He has written a load of utter rubbish that will provoke more fear in the general population and turn them against us. Nobles cannot afford to ignore the opinion of the people. Look what happened in France when the aristocrats did that.” Seraphina drew her hands through the air and gathered up the dots of paper before directing them to an empty fruit bowl.

  “Which is no doubt the reporter’s intention. Or certainly that of whoever pays him to write such nonsense,” Wycliff said.

  “Perhaps I shall accompany Wycliff when he talks to the man,” Seraphina mused. “I am sure between the two of us we can extract the truth of the matter.” The dots of paper burst into a pure white flame and when it extinguished itself, only a black smear stained the porcelain bowl.

  “We must not descend to the same tactics as whoever moves against us.” Hannah glared from her mother to her husband. Never did she think these two would become accomplices.

  “All this nonsense talk of Cerberus claiming escaped souls to send to Hell…honestly. Mark my words, this is nothing otherworldly. There is a very mortal hand at work.” Seraphina bristled, the linen undulating over her body as she contained her rage.

  “Several witnesses saw a large black dog run from the theatre last night, which adds more fuel to that fire. I don’t know if it is another hellhound, a lycanthrope, or merely some ugly mastiff out for a walk.” Wycliff poured more coffee into his cup and took a long drink. “The only thing the drunk mob agrees upon was that it had one head, not three. So it cannot be Cerberus.”

  “But it could have been a hound sent by Anubis.” Hannah spent most of her time in the library, reading anything she could find about Duat, the Egyptian afterlife where souls journeyed to be judged.

  Mary appeared at the doorway and then crept in, holding a sheaf of letters. “These arrived this morning, milady.” She passed them to Seraphina.

  The mage took the pile and sorted through them, glancing at the handwriting and turning them over to see the sender’s name. Then she broke the seal on one sheet and read the note. It was discarded, and she opened the next.

  Hannah grew curious as papers littered the table. “Whatever is it, Mother?”

  “Here. They are all similar in content.” Her mother passed the letter in her hand to Hannah.

  “‘I beg of you, extend your protection to me. I have lived a good and honourable life and have done nothing to deserve the fires of Hell…’” Hannah’s voice faltered. A circular stain smeared the ink. The author had shed a tear as she pleaded for help.

  “They are from the Afflicted, afraid that something hunts us in the dark and will drag our souls to Hell. Or more likely, they are terrified to be consigned to the flames, unable to die but only to…cease to exist.” Seraphina laid the last letter on the table and smoothed out a crease in one corner.

  “Today I will try again to hunt down Mr Nash.” Wycliff gulped the last of his coffee.

  “I can assist there, with a finding spell. If you anchor one end at his desk, a red thread will appear that will lead you straight to him,” Seraphina said.

  “Excellent. I have a suspicion he is avoiding me.” Wycliff turned to Hannah. “If you are able to confirm the deceased was indeed a male Afflicted, it shouldn’t take too much time to discover the latest victim’s identity.”

  “I’ll assist Papa with the examination.” Hannah placed the sheet of paper in her hand on top of the others. Until they found whoever was responsible, she feared the pile would only continue to grow.

  Sir Hugh stared at the stack of letters. “After Hannah and I have finished, there are a few gentlemen I will call upon this afternoon. One or two are highly placed in the House of Lords, and are sheltering an Afflicted daughter under their roof. I will determine what they are doing to ensure they can charge the perpetrator with some crime. They must act to dampen the panic spreading on the streets.”

  “I will construct a protection spell for these poor women to ease their mental torment. I think some sort of token that will screech if they are rendered insensible might work to alert anyone near them.” Seraphina gathered up the letters and dropped them into her lap.

  With their day planned, the family set about their tasks. Hannah followed her father down the dim stairs to his laboratory. She grabbed her apron from its hook by the door and then angled the mirrors to cast a bright shaft of light on the table. Once again, they emptied the box onto the table and undertook the tedious task of sorting bone fragments from the soot-like matter too far gone to aid identification.

  They treated everything with respect, and Hannah ensured that not a single speck of ash dropped to the floor. Whatever she had gathered was all that remained of a person who had once walked the earth. Someone who perhaps loved and laughed. The shoe with its glittering buckle sat to one side and made her think of the tale of Cinderella. Whose foot fit inside the shoe? Though no prince awaited the owner, only the certainty of a name to carve into a tombstone and a family to mourn a loved one’s passing.

  Sir Hugh picked up the pelvic bones and brushed away the soot and charring. “Wycliff was correct about the shoe. Our victim is a man this time.”

  Hannah sucked in a breath. There were so few male Afflicted, and most resided beneath the Repository of Forgotten Things, unable to control their urges. It would take no time at all to determine if one were missing. “How odd that in both fires, sufficient pelvic bone remained to enable us to narrow down the identity. Do you think it was deliberate?”

  Her father peered at her over the rims of his spectacles. “The pelvis is a large structure in the centre of the body. It might be the result of how the fire consumes—from the extremities to the core. If whoever did this truly wanted us to know their victim’s identity, then a note with a name would be much easier, given how completely mage fire destroys an earthly form.”

  Hannah shuddered. Two horrors lingered in her mind, and she couldn’t decide which fate was worse. One was to be consumed by fire, unable to either escape or die, but held captive in excruciating pain until enough of the body were irreparably turned to soot. The other nightmare was to awaken trapped in a coffin, to claw against the wood for hundreds of years. That idea reminded her of Kemsit, the shadow mage. Did she pound on the lid of her sarcophagus, demand
ing to be let out, or had her soul travelled to the underworld centuries ago?

  Her father cleared his throat and held up a charred tibia. “I say, Hannah, there is an old break here. Whoever this chap was, in life he broke a leg at some point. You can see how the bone has healed, but there is a misalignment. I wonder if it affected his gait.”

  “A male Afflicted, found burned at a theatre, who might have limped?” Hannah added together the three clues and sorted through her memory for a name. “There is only one person that matches such a description—Mr Oliver Berridge. He possesses all those attributes. I think he broke his leg in a tumble from the stage one night, as he was an actor.”

  “Let us finish our work here. I’m sure Wycliff can find out if he is still limping around his home or is missing.” Her father fetched a fresh sheet of paper on which to record their few findings and to jot down the measurements of the remaining bone.

  Hannah stared at the remains as she took up the pencil and handed her father the tape measure. Who would do this? Or indeed, how did they arrive at their potential list of suspects? The trouble was, many men were vocal that the Afflicted should be expunged from the earth by cleansing fire. Wycliff had even once professed such ideas.

  Hannah checked the ledger of the Afflicted they kept in the library and confirmed that to their knowledge, only one male Afflicted resided in London—and indeed it was Oliver Berridge. Then she journeyed into London with Wycliff, he to chase the reporter to find who had slipped him the information on donors to Unwin and Alder, and Hannah to undertake two sad tasks. One involved the wooden box next to her in the carriage. She rested one hand atop it.

  “I can come with you when you return the remains of the former Lady Albright to her cousin and to ascertain if Berridge is at home.” Wycliff spoke in a low tone and the words whispered over her.

  Hannah patted the box. “No. I will perform these visits alone, but thank you. You must find Mr Nash and I cannot assist with that task.”

  He nodded and rapped on the roof of the carriage to signal Frank to stop. As the carriage slowed, Wycliff placed a tender kiss on Hannah’s lips. “Promise me you will keep Frank close. I do not like the mood on the street. I will attend Parliament this evening and will see you later tonight in Westbourne Green. But signal me if you require my assistance and I will meet you at the Ministry offices if I am able.”

  He referred to the way they could make the other person’s wedding ring tingle if they thought of their spouse while stroking the gold band—a simple device Hannah’s mother had created to enable a rudimentary communication between them. In the future, she hoped to allow them direct conversation over a distance. Ensorcelled paper was an option, but one hardly had time to sit down and pen a letter in the middle of a chase or urgent situation.

  “I promise to use Frank as a shield.” A sad smile flitted across her face.

  Wycliff jumped down to the pavement and headed into the newspaper office. Hannah leaned back in the seat and stared at her silent companion. “I hope you have found peace, Lady Albright, and that you are reunited with your son.”

  Frank steered the carriage along the busy roads. At every crossroads, somebody shouted about the Afflicted and how they were a plague upon London. That made Hannah scoff. Only about two-thirds of the three hundred Afflicted purchased their product from Unwin and Alder. Rats were far more plentiful in London and carried a greater risk of disease.

  A few pedestrians wore old-fashioned metal helmets, as though they were about to don the rest of their armour and ride a charger into battle against anyone who might steal their brains.

  “I imagine blacksmiths are doing a brisk trade in metal headwear,” Hannah murmured to herself as they passed. “How heavy a metal bonnet must be.”

  Protestors diminished as they moved into the quieter and more genteel neighbourhood where Mrs Hamilton lived. Frank helped Hannah out of the carriage and then picked up the box in his enormous hands.

  “I can manage, Frank, thank you.” Hannah took the object from him and tucked it against her hip. Hannah wasn’t sure she should add a monstrous delivery boy to the burden Mrs Hamilton carried.

  Fortunately, the maid opened the door as Hannah walked up the path and bobbed a curtsey as she entered the house.

  “Mrs Hamilton is in the parlour, milady. Can I carry the box for you?” She held out her hands to take the container.

  “No. It’s not heavy.” The mage fire left little to mourn or bury.

  Mrs Hamilton pushed off the sofa to stand and her greeting never made it past her lips. Her eyes widened at seeing the object Hannah carried. One hand went to her chest. “Is that…?”

  Hannah placed the box on a side table next to the sofa. “This is all that remains, yes. Please let me know if you plan any service. I should like to attend.”

  Mrs Hamilton gestured to the sofa and waited for Hannah to take a seat before resuming her own. “He was here. Asking about…” Her attention drifted to the wooden container.

  With some difficulty, Hannah swallowed her ill feelings about Lord Albright, for that was who he must be. “Perhaps he wanted to pay his final respects?”

  A loud snort came from the older woman. “He would tip her into a dustbin. I still think he did it. Who else would want to harm a hair on her head?”

  A sentiment Hannah shared. “Lord Wycliff continues his investigation, especially after another body was burned last night at the Fiddler’s Theatre.”

  “I read about that in the newspaper. Is it true? Do you think that someone is targeting those unfortunates?” Mrs Hamilton perched on the edge of her seat.

  The maid entered carrying a tea tray. She stared at the wooden box and chose a different table on which to set down the tray.

  “I do not wish to think so, but I fear what will happen if the scandal sheets continue to turn public opinion against the Afflicted.” Hannah clasped her hands in her lap and willed herself not to tighten her grip. People who acted out of fear abandoned any common sense. The hideous murders of six months ago that had stolen lives had been, unfortunately, committed by two Afflicted who could not control their hunger. Thankfully, the reporter had not got wind of the full extent of those horrors, or the homes of the Afflicted would be stormed by a frightened mob and women would be pulled from their parlours and burned in the streets.

  Mrs Hamilton poured tea and handed a cup to Hannah. “It is such a dreadful curse to live with—being neither dead nor fully alive. My cousin wrote to another mage, you know, begging for a cure. I know your mother is trying her best, but she wondered if a living mage might be able to restore her heartbeat.”

  A blast of indignation swirled through Hannah. No mage worked harder than her mother to find a cure for the Afflicted. Then a strand of curiosity brushed aside the heated emotion. If one type of mage snuffed out a life, could their opposite restore it? If a living mage had created the curse that stole so many lives, perhaps what they needed was a shadow mage to rescue those souls from the twilight world in which they dwelt.

  “Do you know who your cousin corresponded with?” Hannah sipped her tea. The hot drink soothed nerves she hadn’t realised were on edge from having to undertake the grim task of delivering the charred remnants of the former Lady Albright.

  “I don’t recollect if she told me. Although the answer sent her into a right temper, which was so unusual for her. I might be able to find it among her letters.” Mrs Hamilton put down her tea and walked to a small writing desk. Above it hung a painting of a rural landscape with a stream where weeping willows dipped their boughs into the water. The scene reminded Hannah of the day she’d strolled along the river with Wycliff after the summer shearing.

  Hannah let out a sigh. She missed Mireworth, and they had only been home in Westbourne Green less than two weeks. How had the old estate squirmed into her affections with such ease and speed?

  Mrs Hamilton took a seat at the desk. At the rear were wooden slots crammed with letters, notes, and cards. She picked up a pile and
sorted through it, glancing at each before slipping it into the back of the pile and examining the next. “Not in here.” When she had searched all the slots and the papers left on the desk, she turned her attention to the drawers.

  Hannah drank her tea and found anticipation building inside her. What would the letter reveal? Who had Lady Albright turned to in her quest for a cure? Lady Miles had never mentioned any of the living mages studying the Affliction, but who knew what arcane magic they studied in their tall tower at the military base in Woolwich.

  A drawer rattled but refused to budge. “This one is locked. Let me see…ha!” Mrs Hamilton extracted a small key from inside a slender vase on the corner of the desk.

  Hannah placed her teacup on the table and edged forward as Mrs Hamilton took a bundle of documents from the locked drawer. Once again she sorted through them until she found a particular piece of paper.

  “Here we are. Although I don’t know how it might help you to discover who did this to Felicity.” Mrs Hamilton passed over the letter.

  Hannah glanced at the scant two lines of text, and then her eye went to the bottom and the signature that took up most of the page. A cold ocean poured into the space where hope and curiosity had been. With an effort, she dragged her attention back to the lines of text.

  * * *

  Death begets death, and it is no surprise that woman cannot cure you.

  Your kind are a plague upon London that should be burned from this earth.

  James Tomlin

  * * *

  “Oh, dear,” Hannah whispered.

  15

  Wycliff hopped to the pavement with his own task to complete while Hannah visited Mrs Hamilton. With the ensorcelled thread in his pocket, Wycliff strode up the steps of the bustling newspaper office. This time he didn’t stop to ask for Nash to be pointed out to him. He crossed the floor to the desk in the corner. Today the tea appeared stone cold and the papers in some semblance of order.