The Fruit of the Poisonous Tree: Stoker & Bash, #2

by Selina Kray

  “Oh, but of course! What better place to be close to Her than in Her garden, under the very branches where the forbidden fruit hung. I will retreat there now, Daughter, and let you go about your day. Don’t give me another thought.”

  He spun, flaring the sides of his robes so that they billowed out behind him as he returned to the garden. Hiero listened for her to catch up, to call him back, but, as expected, she was glad to be rid of him. He chanced a glance over his shoulder halfway to the gate—she’d disappeared. He diverged behind the rows of hanging linens, re-retracing his steps to the conservatory entrance. Not one of the rotund, rocking mothers-to-be looked up from their knitting as he slunk into the main house.

  Black on black in a dimly lit corridor played to his advantage. Hiero slipped past the devil door that had unnerved him on their tour, still seething with wrongness, still compelling him to his doom. A far more propitious destination awaited: the box room. Or, rather, the shrine to Rebecca Northcote and her works.

  Hiero had played in some of the most beautiful theaters in England, and these theaters had nothing on the shrine. Gold leaf etched the heavy wooden doors. A tree-motif silver podium sprouted out of the altar’s floral carpet as if Mother Rebecca had grown it herself. Immaculate pews by the finest craftsmen canted toward the front. No paintings or statuary sullied the room. The unilateral focus was the box, a seamless rectangle of iron with no clear lock or hinge, lit in a chiaroscuro of colors from the stained-glass window behind. It depicted Mother Rebecca in the Garden, of course, the reborn Messiah swaddled in her arms.

  It relieved Hiero to know someone in the Daughters had a flair for the dramatic. Sister Juliet’s fugues convinced, but their improvisational nature meant they lacked staging. He wondered if she felt intimidated by such a room, obviously the work of her predecessor. He almost wished he could turn back time to witness Rebecca Northcote in her prime. On such a stage, with the full power of her persuasiveness, she must have brought down the house.

  Revivified by this bit of skullduggery, Hiero raced over to the altar. Lifting his robes to skip up the few steps, he was finally alone with the box, Mother Rebecca’s legacy of flummadiddle. He painstakingly circled the podium, scrutinizing every inch of the flawless surface. No notch or fissure to be found. He smoothed his hands over all five sides, then lifted it to examine the bottom. Nothing. A quick feel around the podium itself proved no more illuminating.

  Two theories came to mind, both disappointing. The likeliest, this was not “the” box, but a facsimile. The doors, after all, had been left open. No one with any sense would leave their most priceless treasure out where any old light-fingered passerby—like himself—could pilfer it. The second, the box was solid iron. No mysterious contents, no apocalyptic revelations. A herring so red it had gone off. The ultimate fool’s gold.

  Hiero traced the dull edges of the box as he considered his options. Short of painting it chartreuse—improbable, given his lack of supplies—there was only one way to light the kind of fire that would bring the Daughters’ cauldron to a frantic boil. Trouble was he would be the likeliest suspect.

  Not that being a target had ever stopped him before.

  “Irresistible, isn’t it?”

  Sister Juliet strolled down the center aisle, a well-worn Bible cradled to her breast. The white-gold wings of her hair and widened pupils of her eyes gave her an owlish look—and also conveyed more wisdom than she’d ever betrayed in Hiero’s presence. But owls had claws and consumed their prey whole. Hiero’s whiskers twitched at the thought.

  “Temptation rarely comes in such humble form.”

  “Ah. You’ve caught on to the symbolism.” She waited for him at the base of the altar. With a final pet to the podium, he descended.

  “A thing most desired in its least desirable shape? Hard to mistake Mother Rebecca’s intent.”

  Her weak smile lacked any mystery whatsoever.

  “Acting on the instructions of our Great Mother, of course. Exiled from Her garden by temptation, she creates an even greater one to herald her return. The symmetry is... breathtaking.”

  “Some might call it vengeance.”

  “And what of it?” Sister Juliet scoffed. “To be denied the thing you love most, the place you grew and tended with your own hands. The only home you’ve ever known... Why not triumph over those who wronged you?”

  Hiero pretended to give her arguments due consideration, not caring to debate a dogma he did not ascribe to.

  “And so it shall be, when She is born again.” He gestured to a nearby pew. “But you have been seeking Her solace, and here I’ve interrupted. Shall we pray together?”

  “Perhaps, once all is said that need be.” She climbed the steps to the box, pressed a kiss to its side. Hiero didn’t miss how the maneuver evened their heights. “You must go from this place. Your path lies elsewhere.”

  It was so amateurish he almost laughed.

  “I was appointed Mrs. Sandringham’s guardian and spiritual adviser by Cardinal Ferretti himself. I have the seal of Rome.”

  “Rome!” She chuckled. “What precisely do you think we’re about here, Father? We reject the doctrines of Rome, and Jerusalem before it. She comes to stake her claim in the rich earth of England, to grow Her garden out from our sacred isle. Why do you think She called Mrs. Sandringham to us? We are where she means to dig in her roots, to bear her child and see the Mother come anew. You are a shepherd and have played your part in bringing her to us. Now you must leave her to her sisters.”

  “If these are Mrs. Sandringham’s wishes, let her express them to me herself. I do not obey false prophets.”

  Sister Juliet shook her head, smug. “At the first sign of challenge, you reveal yourself as the apostate you are.”

  Hiero did laugh then, at this silly, power-mongering woman, at her petty bid for control, at her delusional beliefs. And vowed to smite every single one.

  “I am a man of God and a servant to the Mother. I carry Her in my heart. She knows it to be true. Keep me from my charge if you dare. Banish me, curse my name, strike me from this Earth. You cannot shake my faith.” A burst of inspiration had him adding, “And if you mean to keep Mrs. Sandringham from me and both of us from ascending into the Mother’s light, you will bear the consequences of your actions as She bore God’s wrath.”

  Hiero flew up the stairs, his talons unfurled. On instinct Sister Juliet grabbed the box, hurled it at him. Hiero caught it deftly, smashed it to the ground. The impact didn’t make a dent. A small, cruel smile twisted Sister Juliet’s lips seconds before she started to scream.

  “Be gone! Be gone, devil!”

  Her shrieks brought the cavalry. They descended upon Hiero like a flock of murderous doves, smothering him in their feathers, deafening him with their caws. In their frenzy to be rid of him, they failed to notice the box tucked under his voluminous robes.

  Tim folded the note over once, twice, three times and stuffed it deep into his pocket. That Sir Hugh required an update on his progress came as no surprise. They’d last spoken well over a week ago, although that report had a far more promising outlook. He scrawled a quick note saying he would meet him at the house in two nights’ time, whispering a silent prayer as he did so to have concrete answers for him, not just news of the murdered child. Tim stared at the address long after he’d slipped it back into the same envelope. Unless the next forty-eight hours saw a hard reversal of their fortunes, he would have to recommend involving the Yard.

  And somehow learn to embrace the totality of his failure.

  With reluctance Tim surrendered it to one of Han’s little spies, a fat-freckled youth who might have been his younger brother. Or self. He added a shilling, earned a smile. As the boy scampered off, Tim turned toward Han, who practiced his way of watching without looking while monitoring the movement around the orphan asylum. Or perhaps the gaol-like structure across the street captivated his interest. Ready for action, his stillness enervated Tim. He missed Hiero’s busyness, though Ha
n’s solidity would probably prove more effective in this particular interview.

  “Word from your client?” Han asked.

  Tim nodded. “I’m late with my report.”

  “I don’t envy you such a task.”

  “The trouble isn’t the message; it’s the mystery. Confirming the boy’s identity would save a good deal of bother.”

  “Was there nothing of use in the silver book?”

  “Other than inspirational quotes and a timetable of the Daughters’ monthlies? No.” Tim laughed to stave off despair.

  Han flicked the ash edge of his cigarette into the small pile at his feet, offered Tim a draught. He refused.

  “How do you think he’ll take the news?”

  “Impossible to say. We discussed the possibility at the outset, but the reality...” Tim shook his head. “He’s a man alone in the world.”

  “Too old to start anew?”

  “No. But old enough to consider his legacy.”

  Han scoffed. “Legacy: the white man’s burden. Forever chasing windmills.” He crushed the last of his cigarette with his boot, slipped another out of his case. “Do you fear any repercussions?”

  Tim considered this as he scratched a match on his heel. “Only that a child’s murderer goes free.”

  “To your brilliant career, I mean.”

  “Of course. But perhaps I should take my lesson from a certain gadabout of our acquaintance. Better to be your own man than to be a puppet on a string.”

  He felt more than saw Han’s glance of approval.

  “Confront your client with that in mind, and you won’t go wrong. Direct him toward the conclusion you wish him to reach.”

  “There’s too much dishonesty in that approach for my liking.”

  “You prefer he tells tales of your incompetence to your superiors?”

  Tim let out a long, tortured breath. “He is my superior.”

  Han swore in his language. “Quayle?”

  “Higher. Much higher.”

  Han sucked in half his cigarette, then blew out a bullet of smoke.

  “You do like a challenge.”

  Tim couldn’t help a smirk. “That’s where I thrive.”

  A whistle from Angus pricked his ears. At the approach of a horse-drawn wagon, Tim gestured for them to step into the carriage’s shadow. He recognized the driver from Hiero’s description: a giant in coveralls with an angry scar. Amos Scaggs hopped down to open the gate, then drove the wagon through. Squalling could be heard through the tarp that covered the back.

  “No better than pigs to market,” Han seethed, stomping out his second cigarette. “Shall we?”

  “Most definitely.”

  They jogged across the road. The unlocked gate gave them no trouble, only adding to Tim’s irritation at the lack of security and the disposable way they treated the children. Han hurried around a corner of the building to observe Amos in the act of giving over his wares while Tim knocked at the front door. He hoped this double assault would divide their attention long enough for him to sneak a look at their ledgers. Though given the ease with which they had infiltrated, he didn’t expect much in the way of organization. Underfunded, understaffed, charity-dependent orphan asylums rarely had time to order their books.

  A harried-looking woman with a bird’s nest of brown hair and hawkish eyes answered. She stared him down until spooked by his warrant card. She performed a curtsy before ushering him to the office. Her colorful commentary so aggrandized the stark hallways, scuffed floors, and crumbling walls that Tim almost mistook himself as being on a tour of the Great Exhibition.

  But there was no mistaking the sorry state of the classrooms they passed or the children in them. Little ones with littler hands struggled to learn trades like sewing and carpentry. Those who didn’t misbehave out of boredom had the cowed, vacant gazes of the bullied. Surreptitious head scratching and disheveled uniforms told Tim all he needed to know about the sanitary conditions. And these, he reminded himself, were the lucky ones, not made to work at an age that didn’t yet number in the double digits.

  A crack bisected the door pane that announced Michael Crook, Headmaster. Mr. Crook stood, immaculate, behind a desk that teetered on spindly legs amidst walls papered by a tornado of lists and schedules. After shaking Tim’s hand, he waved him toward a chair Tim feared would collapse under his weight. He lowered himself delicately, exhaling when the wobbling ceased.

  “What can I do for you, DI Stoker?” Mr. Crook asked in an accent that defied his station. Youngest son of a philanthropic couple, Tim guessed. “I assure you, we’ve had no noise complaints in several months.”

  “Pleased to hear it, but I’m here on a separate matter. I require a list of the societies that bring unwanted children to you and, if one exists, a record of those children received over the past year.”

  Mr. Crook relaxed into his seat. Curiosity sparked in his eyes.

  “Would you care for some tea?” He rang a small bell on his desk. “Millicent!”

  The door swung open so fast she had to have been listening. “Hmm?”

  “Tea for DI Stoker.”

  Tim, who hadn’t given any indication of wanting tea or not, wondered if Crook meant to distance prying ears.

  “There.” Mr. Crook exhaled, confirming Tim’s suspicions. “You may of course have any information you seek. Though I must, as a matter of form, ask if this institution or anyone in it has come under investigation?”

  Tim stifled his instinct’s answer: Should they have? “I cannot confirm or deny the details of an active investigation. As you well know. But if you have anything to report...”

  A touch of derision spiked Mr. Crook’s laugh. “If only. The crime we are most guilty of is boredom. Hence my interest.”

  “A natural one.” Tim resisted the urge to cast about the office for clues. Instead he met and matched Mr. Crook’s level gaze, waiting him out.

  “The records, yes.”

  He capitulated, Tim suspected, to dig a chink out of Tim’s stone wall. Mr. Crook fished out the key that hung around his neck, retrieved a ledger from a locked drawer. Slapping it on his desk, he invited Tim to peer over his shoulder as he flipped back the pages to the beginning of the year. He conceded a little ground by canting the book in Tim’s direction but otherwise was determined to follow his every move.

  Mr. Crook explained the neat columns’ legend. “Date of intake. Name, if any. Sex. Age, if known, or approximate. Parentage, whether alive or deceased. More detail in their individual files. Provenance, the very thing you’re looking for. We do get a few ‘donations’—babes in baskets left at the gates, for instance. These are left blank.”

  Tim skimmed the rows until he came to January 1874, noting multiple entries for DOE under Provenance. And found himself grateful for Mr. Crook’s honesty. Until he saw just how many baby boys they had received in the period under consideration.

  “Do you list physical attributes in their personal files?”

  “If possible. Most newborns aren’t very distinctive.”

  “Do you employ a classification system? Are the children tagged?”

  For the first time since Tim’s arrival, Mr. Crook inched away. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Babes, as you say, look somewhat alike.”

  “Ah, I see. Perhaps the ladies in the nursery do employ such a method. But individual files are by name, whether given or assigned.” Mr. Crook fingered a well-worn page edge, an automatic gesture.

  Tim snatched his pencil, ticking off each possible match.

  “Then we must go there.”

  “Go where?”

  “To the nursery.”

  “Whatever for?”

  “To account.” Tim tapped the butt of the pencil on the desktop. “I’ll need to review these individual files.”

  “Forgive my confusion, Inspector. To account for what?”

  Tim bookmarked the ledger with a stray slip of paper, snapped it shut, and tucked it under his arm before Mr. Cr
ook could vanish it.

  “For each of the children listed here. And you’d best pray your nurses are as thorough as you say. The consequences will be dire if there is but one missing boy.”

  Mr. Crook stood. “There is not.”

  Tim very much hoped he was wrong.

  Chapter 12

  Callie stared into the dregs of her morning tea, wishing she could divine her future, if only for entertainment’s sake. Had Hiero been there, he would by now have half convinced Miss Kala of her right to the Norwegian throne via a series of misadventures involving a shipwreck, a fleet of sea turtles, and a monogrammed handkerchief. What Callie made up for in mechanical ingenuity, she lacked in imagination. Her characters were studies, not improvisations. Perhaps why she had not been able to coerce their way out of their infernal room.

  Without a genuine book to read or much knitting ability, the hours inched by with the speed of a frozen river. Come nightfall they’d infiltrate the house anew. They’d plotted out their new strategy in the wee hours after their return, giddy on their success at evading discovery. The feeling did not survive the dawn; Miss Kala snoozed in her chair while Callie inherited her restlessness. With so much to be done and their advantage secured, wasting daylight seemed the ultimate crime. Though whoever designed the floral motif on the yellow wallpaper deserved to be imprisoned in their place.

  As if in answer to her impatience’s call, the door lock rattled. Callie kicked Miss Kala awake, spilling her cold tea down her front. Murderous eyes grew wide when she heard the door. Miss Kala yanked off her spoiled apron and sat on it seconds before Sister Nora marched into the room.

  “With me.” She gestured for them to stand.

  “The Mother’s blessings to you, Daughter,” Miss Kala huffed. They’d straightened in their chairs, but neither had obeyed her order. “How you faring out there?”

  “That is of no consequence. Sister Zanna requires you.”