Manners and Monsters, #1

by Tilly Wallace

  Then he rapped on the roof of the carriage with his cane.

  Hannah’s stomach lurched as they jolted to a sudden stop.

  Wycliff leaned forward, his weight resting on the silver cap of his cane. “I assure you, Miss Miles, cruelty was a lesson I learned at the hands of society. I returned from the war to find I had been judged in absentia and sentenced to perdition.”

  Having said his piece, he flung open the door and stepped from the carriage to disappear into the bustle of people on the pavement.

  Well, that settled it. She just had to find out what had happened to him on the Peninsula.

  12

  Wycliff abandoned the carriage before he wrapped his hands around Miss Miles’s neck and throttled her. Anger was a wild beast inside him that demanded a release. Better he walk until it settled down within him.

  Before he did something foolish, like kiss the woman to silence her biting remarks.

  Her words were a stiletto through the ribs and straight into a vital organ. She was just like every other shallow woman in society—judging him when they knew nothing about him or what he endured.

  His body rocked to an abrupt halt as though he had run into an invisible wall. His imagination conjured the linen-draped image of Lady Miles before him, admonishing him for judging her based on her disturbing outward appearance. Then the image morphed into an angry Miss Miles, accusing him of blaming the Afflicted for their state. But the words that resounded most inside him were that she would consider herself blessed to ever find a man who loved so deeply that he would battle death for her.

  Poppycock and nonsense.

  He waved his hand and the image returned to the shadows in his mind. What use did he have for love? What he needed was a ready source of cash. His estate in Dorset was bankrupt and creditors were banging on his (rented) door. To have any hope of rebuilding his ancestral home, he needed the income offered by Sir Manly as his investigator. An heiress would put him back on a steady keel, if he could stomach the idea of taking a wife purely for financial gain.

  Returning to the task at hand, Wycliff pulled the small notebook from his pocket. He had transferred the list of names to the book and one by one, the list of suspects was whittled down. Today he would tackle a different angle on the murder. He walked briskly to the business district with its large warehouses. Laden carts drawn by heavy horses took loads to smaller retailers.

  He made for a warehouse that stood apart from the others. It was segregated by a strip of dirt, bereft of even the hardiest plant in the available space, as though even grass and weeds wouldn’t grow close to its walls.

  A small sign over the door proclaimed it the warehouse of Unwin and Alder. The business founders were perfect examples of criminals who had built a legitimate occupation. The two men were former resurrectionists who used to supply doctors and medical students with illegally obtained bodies. Now they were government-sanctioned suppliers to the Afflicted of what was politely referred to as pickled cauliflower. As the only legal operatives, their business was booming as they serviced their captive market.

  No working-class carts pulled away from this warehouse. Their wares were discreetly packaged in plain boxes like those used by millinery shops and delivered by a man who resembled a doorman delivering a lady’s purchases.

  Wycliff pulled open the front door of their office. Within, it looked like a solicitor’s rooms, with dark panelled wood and warm rugs underfoot. Only its location among the other warehouses, instead of a more prestigious high-street address, gave a hint as to its indelicate nature.

  A secretary sat at the front desk and scribbled, the quill waving back and forth with each breath he took. He looked up over the top of gold-rimmed spectacles and squinted at Wycliff. “May I help you, sir?”

  Women didn’t cross this threshold unless they were in desperate need. Orders were placed by trusted footmen, and then husbands or sons bore the responsibility of paying for the goods. The invoice shuffled among those for bonnets, ribbons, and shoes.

  “I wish to speak to either Unwin or Alder on a most urgent matter.” He hated dealing with underlings, and this one wouldn’t have access to the records he required. Layers of secrecy concealed the more gruesome details of the Afflicted’s condition from the rest of England.

  Their existence on this earth shouldn’t be extended, regardless of who they were related to. If the plague had struck the working class, Parliament would have dispatched the army to deal with them and the Afflicted would have been eradicated in short order. But because a small number of ladies of the ton were infected, a whole new industry had sprung up to service their needs. They needed veils, expensive porcelain masks, pomanders and, more disturbingly, pickled cauliflower.

  The clerk set down his quill and adjusted his spectacles while making put-out harumphs in the back of his throat. Wycliff cut him off before he marshalled his petty administrative power.

  Wycliff crossed his arms and stared at his fingernails. “I am Viscount Wycliff, investigator for the Ministry of Unnaturals. Unwin and Alder can either talk to me or their license to practice will be revoked. I can have you shut down by the end of the day.”

  The man’s mouth snapped shut and his eyes narrowed further. But he could bluster all he wanted. Wycliff wasn’t moving.

  The clerk blew out a resigned sigh. “One moment, my lord.”

  He unwound his gangly frame from the chair and slipped through a set of double doors behind his desk. Voices rose and fell beyond and then the clerk reappeared. “Mr Unwin would be delighted to field your concerns.” He gestured to the now open doorway.

  Wycliff strode through and snapped the doors shut behind him, in case the clerk thought to follow. Let him press his ear to the door if he wished to know Wycliff’s business.

  Unwin rose from behind his enormous desk. He had the look of a man grown soft on easy living. A florid face had the distinctive red nose of one who enjoyed his brandy and plenty of it. His waistline expanded just as his company’s bottom line improved. It had been a long time since he had done physical labour with a shovel under cover of darkness, or had to run from those protecting the sanctity of the churchyards.

  He plastered a smile on his face. “Lord Wycliff, how may I assist you?”

  “I am investigating the murder at the Marquess of Loburn’s home.” He jumped straight to the matter. He wasn’t here to exchange pleasantries. Life would be more efficient if everyone cut out the small talk.

  The man nodded and clasped his hands behind his back. “Oh? Terrible matter, I am sure, but what brings you to my door?”

  Wycliff paused for a moment as irritation grew in his breast. Sir Manly had advised him to curb his quick temper, but men like Unwin sorely tested his resolve. “Don’t play coy with me. I believe the perpetrator of the heinous crime is one of the Afflicted. Who else would scoop out the poor man’s brains? I want to know whom you supply, who is behind in their payments, and whether anyone has missed a delivery.”

  As the man swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. It wasn’t easy to cloak his business in respectability. The taint of murder might make Londoners look askance at his operation. “Surely you don’t suspect one of our clients?”

  The man seemed as slow as molasses. “No. I suspect a hungry Afflicted who is no longer one of your clients. Where do you keep your records?”

  Unwin’s face grew redder and he swallowed again as though suddenly thirsty. “Those records are strictly confidential, Lord Wycliff. Those poor ladies—”

  Enshrined in the Unnaturals Act was the edict that such creatures must uphold English law. The Afflicted forgot they were dead, and as such, had no rights or protection other than what their money could purchase. “The dead have no rights to privacy. The records?”

  The man paled. Just as his clientele were in the highest ranks of society, it also meant he would have equally highly placed enemies should they find out he had handed over their names.

  “I cannot,” he gasped, like a d
ying man needing water.

  “Which will inconvenience your clients more…my knowing their names, or your business closing its doors?” Wycliff threw the man onto the horns of a dilemma. Which damage was worse—lost reputation or lost revenue?

  It took Unwin mere seconds to make up his mind. “If you would follow me, please, my lord.”

  Just as he suspected. Unwin would rather lose the records than the income.

  The large man led the way from the room, across the main outer office and through a smaller door that opened onto a dim corridor. A skylight above was covered with metal bars and was the only source of light. The sun was filtered through opaque glass that cast thick lines on the hardwood floor.

  One side of the corridor had three large metal doors, such as Wycliff would expect to find in a bank. No noise filtered through the thick walls, but a faint metallic whiff, underlaid with something sharp like vinegar, made him wrinkle his nose. The absence of windows and metal walls couldn’t completely erase all trace of evidence that the warehouse dealt in death.

  At the end of the corridor was a smaller door, made of oak and oiled to a dark stain. Unwin withdrew a key chain from his pocket and fitted a shiny brass key into the lock. As he turned the key, the hollow clunk echoed down the hallway. He paused with his hand on the lever and glanced over his shoulder at Wycliff. The former grave robber hesitated before pushing open the door.

  This time they stepped into a darkened storeroom that carried the sharp tang of preservatives. Once again there were no external windows, only a barred skylight above. The opaque glass allowed light to filter through but stopped the curious from pressing their noses up close to see what happened below. The room was cloaked in an eternal twilight that added to the eerie atmosphere. Neat metal shelves marched in rows across the room. Shelves held glass jars containing the pickled contents.

  Wycliff pinched his nose as the sharp odour stabbed up into his brain. He tried not to think too long about the origins of the pale slices suspended in liquid. However, his curiosity was roused when a stolen glance showed the liquids to be different colours and densities.

  “Why do they not all appear the same?” He gestured to two rows in particular. The top shelf seemed to house its contents in a clear liquid while those on the shelf below had a red tinge with what appeared to be specks of dirt floating in it.

  “Each lady has a personal preference. Some like a touch of rosemary or other herbs to flavour the vinegar. Some Afflicted prefer that particular types of alcohol be used as a preservative. We have developed a number of different recipes to relieve the ennui of a monotonous diet.” Unwin gestured toward the orderly rows, but his fingers stopped several inches from the glass.

  Wycliff sucked in his disgust, as bitter as the tart air in the storeroom. He held tight to Miss Miles’s words that the women did not choose to be so cursed. But that didn’t excuse the man who desecrated the poor deceased to pander to the tastes of the wealthy undead. Perhaps, like monks, they should consider their monotonous diet penance for what they consumed.

  “Are none whole?” Despite all he had seen on the battlefield, he was relieved that nothing was identifiable. It soothed his mind to think he looked at nothing more than sliced brassica.

  The merchant peered at one jar, where the label announced the slices drifted in brandy, sweetened with peaches and cinnamon. “No. Each is pre-sliced into thirty pieces, or one month’s supply. Some make it last six weeks by alternating a whole slice with a half. This way, the lady does not have to handle the matter any more than absolutely required. They only have to spear a piece with a long-handled fork.”

  “Do the poor families know what has become of their relatives?” Wycliff wondered aloud as he waved an arm at the rows of large jars.

  “The common folk are amply paid for the minor diversion of their loved one out of the way to their final resting place. Our men are quick and efficient. We can harvest what we require and have the body back in less than two hours. To explain the stitches in the scalp, they are told the bodies are required for a phrenology study.” Unwin sounded just like a businessman making a speech to his investors, but he stopped short of mentioning the lucrative returns.

  “A phrenology study that requires the scalp to be removed? I assume payment silences any concerns.” In one of the rooms behind its thick metal door, the required organ was removed. Did people question what happened in those two hours, or were they willfully blind? When you subsisted on the brink of poverty, a handful of coins went a long way toward allaying fears about what had gone missing from a daughter, uncle, or cousin.

  Unwin huffed a quiet snort. “Do you really think the people of England want to know what goes on here and what exactly a handful of the posh ladies are nibbling on for supper?”

  It was a British trait to make the best of a bad situation by dressing it up as something else. People didn’t want to know that a small group of undead ladies of the ton were feasting on the brains of the common folk. It was a more palatable tale to say that women afflicted with a magical French curse needed pickled cauliflower to allow them to continue as upstanding members of society. Just don’t ask where the cauliflower was grown.

  “But it crosses a line when one decides to crack a fellow’s head open during a ball.” The small number of Afflicted were tolerated so long as they obeyed society’s laws and didn’t covet the brains of the still living.

  “Quite.” They left the room, and Unwin carefully locked the door behind him. He then walked to another door, this one made of the same wood and design as the previous one. He selected a different key from the chain attached to his waistcoat button. The lock clanged as it drew back and then he pushed inside.

  The next room was wrapped in complete darkness. Leaving the door open to allow a dim shaft of light, he grabbed a tinderbox from a nearby table, lit a lantern, and turned up the wick. He set the lantern on the table. Two walls of this room were made up of small wooden drawers. They reminded Wycliff of shelves in a mausoleum.

  Unwin gestured to the multitude of drawers. “This is where we keep a record of each lady’s order. The cards will tell you the date of each delivery, the type of cauliflower dispatched, and payments made.”

  “How are they arranged?” Wycliff cast an eye over the numerous drawers and did a quick count. There were fifteen drawers in a vertical row, and twenty across, making a total of three hundred small drawers. How many Afflicted were there exactly, and how many minds had they collectively consumed to stave off the rot eating at their flesh? All so they could continue to tread the floors at Almack’s or pay visits to one another to indulge in shallow chatter.

  “Alphabetical, my lord. One drawer per customer, although not all the drawers are in use. We only mark the initial of the last name on the drawer.” Unwin pulled open the nearest drawer with the letter D on the outside. Within were a series of handwritten cards with notes and financial transactions.

  “Do you note the name of the person who provided the cauliflower that makes up each delivery?”

  Unwin frowned and his eyes squinted almost closed. “I don’t understand, my lord?”

  “I have discussed with Miss Miles, the daughter of Sir Hugh Miles, the leading researcher into the Afflicted, if it makes any difference whether they ingest the brains of the aftermages or those of ordinary folk. You have the records to enable that study.”

  “Whether it makes a difference?” Unwin produced a handkerchief and mopped his brow, as though he found the conversation taxing.

  Wycliff opened one drawer and peered at the tightly packed cards within. “To their symptoms. Do the Afflicted improve if they ingest matter from an aftermage?”

  The other man’s eyes widened, then he practically salivated at the potential. “Good Lord. We could charge a premium for the aftermage brains if they are more effective. Of course we shall cooperate in any way we can in such an inquiry.”

  Wycliff held in his disgust at the open greed on Unwin’s face at the thought of lining his
pockets even further. “I would suggest that you immediately begin to record who receives which brain. It shouldn’t be too difficult. Assuming your staff can count, I would suggest assigning a number to each harvested mind and then recording that number on the Afflicted’s delivery sheet. An examination of the mage genealogies will tell us who is an aftermage among your ‘pickled cauliflowers.’”

  “A brilliant suggestion, my lord. I will instruct my staff directly and ensure we begin recording the required details. We can even hold back new stock until we identify whether or not they are aftermages, so we can more accurately facilitate a study of effects.”

  “I won’t hold you up. I have much to do.” He would begin by reviewing the names on his list. A quick cross reference to Unwin and Alder’s cards would tell him who was, or wasn’t, Afflicted. Then he could focus on payment and delivery dates.

  Particularly those of Emma Knightley and how her parents managed to pay her bill.

  13

  Hannah burst through the door and draped the staircase newel post with her bonnet and shawl. Then she made a beeline for the small, discreet door in the wooden panelling that led down to her father’s laboratory.

  The temperature dropped as the darkened stairs took her down into the earth. Her mother had had the rooms dug deep into the ground not to store wine or preserves, but to take advantage of the cooler temperature for Sir Hugh’s work. The solid stone walls had no windows and this far below the house, there was little fear of anything escaping and going on a rampage in London.

  Her father had three rooms down here. One was the autopsy or examination room, dominated by the large stone table. Another was the workspace that ran the width of the house, with its long benches and rows of shelves with their specimens. The third room was Sir Hugh’s private study and his consultation room.

  The stairs ended in a short, wide corridor that was large enough to manoeuvre a body on a hand cart. Hannah chose the door to the workroom and found her father seated at the long bench, peering at a specimen under his microscope.