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

by Selina Kray

  “Penny tins.”

  Hiero blinked, filtering his words through his internal translator. Nothing. “Would that be ha’pennies or full pennies?”

  This inspired a look of frustration that broke Hiero’s heart a little. In Amos Scaggs he saw a road anyone might have travelled with the wrong kind of luck.

  “Sister Juliet says they been bad and got to tell the Lord what they done wrong.”

  “Ah, penitence. So everyone is... what, confined to their rooms?”

  “I don’t go in the big house.”

  “No, and quite right. It wouldn’t be proper.”

  “That’s what Merry says.”

  “Very smart, she is.” Hiero searched for a tact that would get him the information he needed. “And, of course, you tend the garden.”

  “I’m guarding the door.” Amos said this with such pride Hiero felt his throat tighten. “’Gainst the serpent. He’s coming for us.”

  “So he is, sweet boy.” Hiero spun around to catch Sister Merry descending the farmhouse steps. She paused at the woodpile, gripped the handle of the axe dug into a tree stump. “We won’t be having no trouble today, Father. You’d best go back from where you’ve come. Not Italy, is my guess.”

  “No.” Hiero found conceding certain truths always helped when a deception was discovered. If they thought you were finally being honest, they were more likely to believe the new lies you spun. “No holy man either, as you might have guessed.”

  “I wondered when you forgot to say grace.”

  “Not one of my finer moments.” He inhaled a shaky breath, calling up the humility that had enthralled audiences during his interpretation of Oedipus. “I apologize. When Mrs. Sandringham and I embarked upon this mission of ours, I never thought I would have to lie to such kind people. You opened your home to me, and I abused your trust. Please forgive me.”

  Her stare proved so incisive Hiero felt as if she’d scraped off a layer of skin.

  “And you’ve come for one last favor, have you? Do you think me born yesterday, Mr...?”

  “Sandringham.” Amos, at least, had the grace to gasp. The piglet snorted, indifferent. “Rebecca’s husband.” Hiero paused to allow her to digest this news, collecting his thoughts as well. It wasn’t the first time his talent for improvisation had raced ahead of his ability to reason. “Very much alive. I know it sounds madness, but we didn’t think you’d believe her to be the vessel if I was still... well, around.”

  “You still claim she’s the vessel?”

  “With everything I am. With every ounce of my faith.” Hiero marched up to her as if daring her to take arms against him. “I was on a pilgrimage when the great Mother visited her. At the shrine I had a vision. Like Joseph before me, She welcomed me into her light. But instead of Jerusalem, she directed us to London. To you. To Her garden.” He opened his arms as if to embrace his surroundings, biting into his tongue to wet his eyes. “Neither of us expected what happened at that first service. How the Mother would speak through her now that she was finally with you. We meant only to observe you. Hence my disguise.” He squinted out a single tear. “We should have confessed at our first interview. That was my mistake. It all happened so quickly...”

  Hiero bowed his head, inwardly counting down the seconds until, as predicted, callused hands grasped his.

  “It’s the way of the faithful, innit? To trust without question.” He didn’t miss the note of worry still quavering her voice. “But whyever did you take the box?”

  “Leverage.” Hiero planted another seed of truth. “It’s the Mother’s will that I be with Rebecca, to love and support her till She reigns over Her garden anew. Sister Juliet refused to hear my message, banished me from the compound. I had to find some way to be with Rebecca again.” Hiero met her gaze full force with his most desperate, pleading expression. “That’s why I’ve come. I see now we’ve disturbed you here. I only want to reunite with my wife, and we will be gone from this place forever. Can you help me?”

  Her eyes—weary, wise, and wistful—scrutinized every pore of his face. Hiero fought the impulse to squeeze her hands tighter. Instead he opened to her in every way he knew how, giving over to his sadness at injuring Kip, his regret of his actions, his determination to contribute to saving his friends.

  “Come with me.” Sister Merry turned back toward the main path, expecting him to follow.

  Hiero made his own leap of faith.

  A phalanx of Daughters led by Sister Nora preceded Sister Juliet into the room. They fanned out around the perimeter of the chapel’s small stage. Sister Nora fashioned herself into a human shield locked in at Sister Juliet’s side. Tim recognized Sister Zanna at the far end, shifting from one leg to the other—the only one out of step in their otherwise military precision. Sister Juliet, her angelic face framed by a gossamer cloak that floated around her like a fairy crown, crossed the room to bow before the portrait of Rebecca Northcote. She lit a candle on the small altar beneath the prophet and whispered a silent prayer. Sister Nora stood guard at her side, bowing her head but not closing her eyes.

  It was high theater, and the why of it niggled at Tim as he waited to be acknowledged. He possessed something the Daughters wanted, true, but they had proposed a fair trade. In coming here, Tim had agreed to their terms. So why the display? Was Sister Juliet incapable of acting without an audience, or was this her way of remaining accountable to her troops? Either way, Tim’s hopes sunk under the weight of his disadvantage. He’d never been one to strut and fret his hour upon the stage, especially not against an experienced player such as Sister Juliet.

  Still, a detective had his ruses.

  “I fail to count Mrs. Sandringham and Miss Kala among you. I must insist you present them at once, on penalty of a kidnapping charge.”

  A few of the Daughters’ eyes went wide, but Sister Juliet giggled into her hand. She shifted on her small pew but did not rise, did not flick her gaze away from the portrait.

  “Are you a devout man, DI Stoker?”

  “I believe but do not ascribe to a particular faith.”

  “Come, then. Let us pray together.”

  Tim considered refusing but could see no harm in it. He knelt beside her at a proper distance, twining his hands in lieu of the traditional pose. He kept alert as Sister Juliet nattered off some composition of Rebecca Northcote’s. Any troubles or desires he might confide to a higher power would not be made, even silently, in the presence of these watchful women.

  “And may your light see fit to return to us that which we, in our negligence, lost, and stamp out the serpent amongst us,” Sister Juliet concluded.

  “I pray you mean the murderer. You do recall the babe found dead on your grounds?”

  “Rest his soul.”

  A scratch across his left trouser leg delayed Tim rising. After ripping himself away from the bench, he discovered a patch of upholstery had been worn away by the bed of upturned nails beneath. Some bizarre form of penance from Mother Rebecca’s time, no doubt. A scattering of lilylike flowers, which he at first mistook for decoration, were speared on the nails. Their phallic spadices jutted up like heads on spikes. The nails had clawed deep enough to draw blood—a slash bisected his shin—but not to deter him from his mission.

  Tim paced the front of the stage, appealing to the crowd.

  “You call me serpent, but I have only ever sought this child’s killer. A villain who you continue to harbor and have taken no action against.”

  “You presume much if you think any of us know who committed such a black deed.”

  “I suspect. I do not presume.” Tim stilled to address them all. An itch roped its way around his calf, prickly as a weed. “And I say fie to your terms. You will not have the box until I conclude my investigation. Now fetch Mrs. Sandringham and Miss Kala, or I assure you, there will be consequences.”

  “Of that I have no doubt.” Sister Juliet’s sphinxlike smile warned of further mischief.

  Sister Nora burst forth, unable to
hold her tongue a second longer.

  “How did you come to be in possession of the box if you are not in league with the priest?”

  “Father Coscarelli sought me out after he’d been banished. He claims you are keeping Mrs. Sandringham against her will.”

  “She came to us,” Sister Juliet reminded him. “Called to us in our language. Bears the Mother’s mark. If she wishes to be parted from us, she has only to leave.”

  “Present her, then,” Tim insisted. He struggled not to twitch, the irritation coiling around his thigh spiky as a briar. “Let her speak for herself.”

  “That is not our way,” Sister Nora interjected. “The prophet speaks for us.”

  “You seem to be doing a fine job as interpreter.” Tim cleared his throat once, then twice, a sudden thickness afflicting him. “Or is that as the prophet wills it?”

  “Who are you to come here and accuse us of such horrible things!”

  “An officer of Scotland Yard, answerable to a higher court than you, Miss.” Sweat broke out on Tim’s neck and brow despite the toothsome chill of the air. The skin of his throat ballooned.

  “Blasphemy!” another Daughter shouted.

  The others chimed in, a choir of vitriol silenced by a wave of Sister Juliet’s hand. The diminutive dame appeared ready for her soliloquy; Tim thought he might revisit his lunch.

  “You may care to wonder, DI Stoker, how we obtained your address.”

  “I did find it curious you didn’t send for me at the Yard,” he rasped, the edges of his vision twinkling as if Sister Juliet wore a halo.

  Despite his angelic imaginings, an enigmatic, vaguely mocking smile twisted her lips. Sister Juliet glanced over at Sister Nora, then up at the heavens as if sharing in a cosmic joke.

  “We did.”

  Tim struggled for calm, though his halting breaths and sluggish heartbeat betrayed him. The fiery itch twisted around his legs to the point of numbness.

  “And?” was all he could croak out.

  “We have it on your superintendent’s authority you are no longer on their duty roster.”

  “Correct.” Tim fought for control as the room started to spin. “Due to my recent successes, I’ve been appointed as special consultant to a higher office. Much higher.” He took some satisfaction in the fine skein of tension that brittled her features as Sister Juliet began to understand him. Completely. “A gentleman and military man of your acquaintance, I believe.”

  Sister Juliet blanched.

  “What is it?” Sister Nora grabbed her by the arm.

  The muscles of Tim’s wounded leg knotted convulsively. The world swam; he grabbed for a pew to steady himself. The skin around his throat seared, cinching his airway. He thought of the handkerchief that had stolen Little Bean’s breath as his squeezed off. His inebriated heart pumped an erratic pulse. Tim clutched his chest, collapsed to his knees.

  “Now you lower yourself,” Sister Juliet seethed amidst the Daughters’ panicked chatter. “Now you beg.”

  “What have you done?!” Sister Zanna broke the line to catch Tim as he swooned. She slapped his cheeks to revive him some, then ripped off his cravat. “In Her name, what have you done to him?”

  “What the Mother couldn’t.” Sister Juliet turned to her hellfire Eve and threw open her arms. “Strangled the serpent.”

  The Daughters’ ecstatic cheers echoed in Tim’s ears as he sank into the darkness.

  Chapter 17

  In the end, Callie hadn’t lost any fingers, but it was a close thing.

  Hands slippery and shaking, Miss Kala had briefly attempted to aim the revolver before beating at the chains that held Callie’s wrists instead. Old and rusty, they snapped after a few judicious hits. The other women, roused as much by this glimmer of hope as by their activity, called for their attention—until Miss Kala shushed them with a sharp clap. She pointed to the ceiling, and they fell silent.

  The cuffs rattled as Callie rolled feeling back into her wrists. She braced herself before rising into a seated position, the weight of the bridle skewing her balance. She felt every second ticking past, even without a clock, but knew it would serve no one if they rushed. Though it was difficult to tell just how long they’d been locked in, the ache in her bladder and the squeal of her stomach suggested it was approaching noon. She noticed Miss Kala disappear into the shadows and prayed the sounds of her relieving herself didn’t inspire them all to similar action.

  Four other beds were occupied. Callie didn’t dare check which one berthed her mother for fear of being overwhelmed. They’d already risked summoning the Daughters down with the gunshot. Callie needed a tool, preferably one she could hide in her skirts should they be discovered. She searched the room but saw little of use. Shattering the gas lamp would poison them all. The straw in their mattresses was too brittle. Wooden crosses embedded in the walls were the only decoration. They were barefoot, hair loose, no jewelry or...

  Callie leapt to her feet. A wave of dizziness forced her to steady herself against a nearby wall. The bridle cinched her head so tight she felt every beat of her pulse, every whinge of her aching head. She pushed through, waving Miss Kala over as Callie hiked up her skirt. The poor woman’s wrists looked like one of the Demon Cats of Scavo had sharpened their fangs on them. Callie ripped off a strip of her uniform and wove it around as a bandage.

  Miss Kala caught her by the hand, squeezed. Callie didn’t look up, knowing she would be undone by the earnestness in her eyes. She eased out of the clutch with a soft tap to Miss Kala’s knuckles. Gesturing to her corset, Callie tore the fabric away until the spine was revealed. Soon they worked to pry out one of the bones, their grunts of effort blighted by the infernal bit. Callie grew so aggravated she might have chomped it off had the bone not chosen that very moment to dislodge. A few scrapes against one of the chain links to sharpen it, a few clicks of the padlock that held Miss Kala’s bridle in place, and she gasped in her first breath of iron-free air.

  Callie spat once she’d been freed, her tongue bruised and her gums prickling in the bit’s wake. She rallied as Miss Kala unlatched her cuffs, but, to her shame, a few sobs escaped. After they readied themselves for the next stage of their breakout, oddly silent despite hours of quietude.

  “I’d give my left tit for a cup of water,” Miss Kala eventually quipped.

  Neither Callie nor the other women stifled their giggles.

  “You certainly spent a riverful.”

  Miss Kala slapped Callie’s arm as she doubled over with laughter. The stresses of confinement had left them shaken and, apparently, easily amused. Feeling on the verge of hysteria herself, Callie focused on mapping the room. She spotted the bottom rungs of a staircase beyond the one exit and, to the right, the black of a corridor that led who knew where.

  Better the devil they knew, then.

  “We’ll have to chance returning to the surface.” Callie indicated the way out. “Did they drug you as well?”

  A giddy laugh. “No. Some of us know to pick our battles.”

  “Do sober yourself, Miss Kala. We’re only fighting for our lives.”

  “You’d think after all we’ve suffered, you’d care to call me Shahida.”

  “Very well, Shahida.” Callie tested the name on her tongue. “Are we under the main house? Is this the fabled cellar?”

  “That it is.” She grinned from ear to ear. “Calliope.”

  Callie marveled at her Hiero-esque ability to poke fun while imprisoned by torture-loving fanatics. Then she remembered her mother.

  They found her in the darkest corner, cowering against the wall despite arm and leg shackles. Her thrashing had all but shred the back of her dirt-streaked uniform. Packs of straw poked out of the threadbare mattress, scratching her skin. Her soot-black hair had been chopped into a patchy, severe cut, as if someone had taken shears to her plaits. Swallowing back the roar that pounced up her throat, Callie shucked out of her uniform and tossed it at Shahida, instructing her to tear off more strips.

>   Her mother shivered through a nightmare. Callie laid a hand on her shoulder. Lillian snapped around, hissed, then wailed in recognition... of Shahida. Reached out to her with skeletal hands.

  Callie fumed as Shahida gentled Lillian. She exhaled until she earned enough calm to unlock the shackles and the bridle, but she could not keep her gaze from straying to her mother’s jellied muscles and emaciated frame and the vile patch where she’d repeatedly soiled herself. As Shahida—wise, infuriating Shahida, who had disappeared the revolver into the folds of her uniform—hushed Lillian with her favorite lullaby, to keep herself sane, Callie dreamed up scenarios in which she revenged herself on the Daughters.

  She would set their world on fire before she permitted them to do this to another person.

  Once freed, Lillian crawled into Shahida’s arms, mewling.

  “Mama, it’s me.” Callie petted her coarse hair like when she was a girl, but her mother only curled further into her shell.

  “She’s not herself,” Shahida whispered.

  “No.” Callie sighed against the rising tide of emotion. She preoccupied herself with bandaging her mother’s ankles to keep from screaming. “Did you notice an inside lock on the door upstairs?”

  “I think so. She used a key.”

  “Then let’s get moving.” With a final pet to her mother’s head, she rose to her feet. “I’ll scout. Can she walk, do you think?”

  Shahida shook her head. “We’ll have to carry her between us.”

  “Be ready when I return.” Callie hovered above them, sick at heart but somehow transfixed by the sight of them hugged together. “I’ll need my revolver.”

  “You’ll have it. Don’t think we’re getting out of here any other way.”

  Callie sighed, then slipped away. The pools of gaslight from below only encompassed the first few steps. The cunning Daughters knew better than to light the way to the exit, so she felt her way up the staircase in ever-deepening darkness. Another trial her mother would have to endure because she’d trusted some kind-seeming women. Because of her love of gardening! As she pressed her cheek to the door to listen for sounds of life beyond, Callie enumerated all the ways she would ruin Sister Juliet. Her revenge would be total and epic. With the skill of her mentor, she’d seduce away everything the woman held dear, starting with Sister Nora.