Then she realised why not.
“They don’t belong together,” she whispered.
“What’s that, my dear?” Her father looked up from his examination of the severed end of the forearm.
“This hand does not belong to that arm. That is why one is animated and the other is not. Look, Papa. The man has a tattoo of a sailing vessel on the inside of his wrist, but it is incomplete and doesn’t extend beyond the sewn wound as it should. And the hand is rough and calloused, like a physical labourer, yet look at the forearm. The skin seems pale and there is no distinct muscular definition such as you might see in a person with perhaps a seafaring occupation.”
Sir Hugh muttered under his breath something more befitting a rough soldier. “You’re right, my clever girl. Someone has stitched the hand of one to the arm of the other.”
“So we are looking for two injured people?” Lord Wycliff asked.
“It is a man, Papa. How many male Afflicted do we know of that might be missing a hand?” Hannah met her father’s worried gaze.
Sir Hugh heaved a deep sigh. “None under my care.”
Hannah called to mind her work with the ledgers. “Unwin and Alder have just two on their books. It will be easy to ascertain if either is missing a hand. And dare I venture to say, given their respective stations, that neither would be in possession of callouses.”
“Then it is someone else.” Wycliff glanced at Hannah. “Could it be another man infected by his lover, like Rowley?” The viscount had collided with their lives after a gruesome murder and had learned what happened when an Afflicted consumed the brain of a person they had killed.
“What of Rowley’s first victim—was he not a dock worker?” Hannah asked her father quietly.
“We did not know of his death soon enough and he was not dealt with appropriately. He had been buried by his family and that should suffice.” Sir Hugh stared at the limb as though he expected it to contribute to the conversation.
“Should suffice? You mean you didn’t confirm where his body was?” Wycliff’s tone was sharp, each syllable a shot fired in the quiet room.
Sir Hugh laid his hands flat on the table as he studied the partial patient. “He is buried and I can assure you that he is not on the loose in London, either with or without an arm.”
The temperature in the room dropped and gooseflesh sprang up along Hannah’s arms.
“You cannot assure me, since you did not see the corpse. For all we know, there is a shuffling horror out there poised to prey on innocent Londoners.” The viscount spoke quietly, but ice dripped from each word.
“It has been over a month now. We would have heard if he had dug himself out of his grave and gone looking for a brain to eat.” Sir Hugh kept his eyes downcast.
“That is scant comfort. I struggle to comprehend how the government can allow the Afflicted to remain in society, when they have the capacity to spread their plague upon the general population.” Lord Wycliff ground his teeth. “What of the other two that were murdered—the footman and cloakroom attendant. Have they reanimated?”
The hand ceased its attempts to escape.
Hugh poked at the hand with the tongs and the fingers snapped at the tool. “The other two secondary infected were handled appropriately. I can attest to their being contained, as I oversaw it myself. Those in power allow the Afflicted to live out their lives just like any other subject of the Crown, as long as they obey the laws.”
“If an ordinary man murders another he is hanged. He does not create an abomination that can propagate more abominations.” Lord Wycliff gestured to the hand making a valiant effort to seize the tongs from the doctor.
“If you disagree, my lord, I suggest you take your objections to Parliament. Right now we need to concern ourselves with finding the rest of the man who belongs to this lively appendage.” Hugh placed the tongs out of reach of the grasping fingers. “However this limb was removed from its body, this stitching is a crude type of surgery.”
“Setting aside the possibility of an Afflicted epidemic should they go on murderous rampages, do you think this might be a practice surgery?” Wycliff asked. “It is possible he was dug up to supply the surgery schools and did not reanimate until after he was…disassembled.”
Hannah tried to imagine what had happened to the hapless man. First he was murdered and his brain consumed. Then his body was buried by his family only to be, possibly, dug up and dissected in a surgery school. At what point might the French curse have reanimated his tissue? The entire course of events was horrible and better suited to a nightmare-inducing novel.
“Do the medical schools dispose of cadavers by throwing them in the Thames?” Wycliff asked.
“No. Of course not.” Sir Hugh moved the tweezers farther from the hand as it made attempts to lunge at anything placed on the autopsy table.
“It might have escaped, though, which would not have been any fault of the school. It does seem rather determined.” Hannah had a grudging admiration for the hand, still trying to battle impossible odds.
Her father tapped the forearm but it remained limp and dead in comparison. “There we go, Lord Wycliff. A simple explanation, is it not? The poor man was cut up at some point, probably before he reanimated, as no student would keep quiet if his bits were jumping about. I suspect the hand escaped when no one was looking.”
Lord Wycliff crossed his arms and drew his brows together. “You are omitting one tiny detail, Sir Hugh.”
“What’s that?” Her father moved the discarded sack over to his workbench.
“Where is the rest of the Afflicted person?” the viscount asked.
Sir Hugh scratched his chin. “I’ll make enquiries. Doctor Husom teaches when he has time and he will know what happens to cadavers after the school has finished with them. Usually remains are either buried in the potter’s field or sent to the crematorium.”
The hand fell still, as though it knew they talked about it. But that was impossible. A hand had no ears to hear, or mind to process thoughts. So what drove it onward to escape when the rest of it might no longer exist?
What drives any of us in the face of impossible odds? Hannah wondered.
5
The second day of the SUSS gathering was again held in the Royal Hospital in Chelsea. It wasn’t really a hospital, but a retirement home for soldiers known as the Chelsea Pensioners. Due to the needs of the residents, many of whom had been injured in battle, the building had a small infirmary, a surgery, and a lecture hall. Hannah’s excitement at being allowed to attend was somewhat dampened by the black cloud that followed them.
Even worse, her father invited him to ride in their carriage. Since Sir Hugh took up a larger area, he had the front-facing seat to himself. Viscount Wycliff perched on the seat beside Hannah. He seemed as ill at ease as she. Both of them pretended to look out the window so each had an excuse to huddle closer to the side and farther from the other.
Her father chatted on, oblivious to the discomfort of the younger people in the carriage.
At least I don’t have to stare at him. Hannah concentrated on the passing countryside. Yet the man emitted heat as though she had her back to the fire.
Was this what it would be like to have a sibling? One who rankled with their mere presence, but whom one had to tolerate under the same roof?
He is no sibling, a voice whispered from the depths of her mind. Hannah nearly choked out a snort at that idea. Ridiculous. She could barely tolerate being in the same room with him. Although there were many noble matches where the parties felt that way about one another.
“Are you all right, my dear?” her father asked as she caught her breath.
“Yes, Papa. I think I swallowed a bug.” She glanced sideways, but the viscount continued to ignore her. “Did you hear Mary’s tale this morning? She said Old Jim swears he saw Black Shuck in the meadow a few nights back.”
Her father huffed a laugh. “He saw a black dog at night? There are many dogs that hunt at night.”
Hannah remembered Mary’s description quite clearly and it didn’t sound like any local dog she recognised. “Old Jim said it was enormous, easily bigger than a mastiff.”
Sir Hugh smiled at his daughter. “Perhaps the Highland Wolves are in town. The lycanthropes use the fields around London to shift forms and run.”
“Wolves don’t have fiery red eyes.” Hannah glanced to Viscount Wycliff, on the verge of asking for his opinion, but changed her mind as he stiffened his shoulders.
“While the world contains many strange and unusual creatures, Hannah, some are still only found in fairy tales. I think the tale of Black Shuck is one such legend, spun after men have indulged in too much ale.” Her father reached across and patted her hand.
The carriage stopped by the smaller western wing of the hospital known as College Court and they alighted. Hannah stared up at the grand building with its symmetrical layout. Men strolled the grounds in their distinctive red coats. The grounds included magnificent formal gardens constructed by Sir Christopher Wren. Canals, gazebos, and summer houses stretched down to the Thames and Hannah itched to explore.
“This way.” Her father took her hand as he used to when she was a child who often ran off in search of adventure. He tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow, thus ensuring she couldn’t wander off.
It would be rude anyway, she chided herself. She had petitioned both her parents to be included in the meeting. Perhaps at the end of the day there would be time to explore the grounds.
The members of the Society of Unnatural Scientific Study met in a small lecture hall that reminded Hannah of a Roman amphitheatre, or what she had seen of them in drawings. The room was rounded, with the lecture area the focus of all attention. The seats curved around the room and rose up steeply, ensuring everyone could see over the person in front.
A large blackboard covered the wall behind the lecture area. A table was draped with a sheet that did nothing to disguise the fact that underneath rested a body with its toes pointed toward the audience. An array of scientific equipment was scattered around the dais. Tall iron pillars were entwined with copper and a spiderweb of wires hung between them. To one side of a pillar was a large brass wheel with a dull black handle jutting out from a black cylinder the size of a horse’s body. A wheeled table that might once have been a tea trolley held a collection of beakers with various coloured liquids.
Hannah followed her father to a row near the front and took a seat. Wycliff climbed to the back, no doubt to look down upon them in a disapproving manner.
“What is the topic for today?” Hannah asked, but her attention wandered to the cadaver. There was no visible rise and fall of the chest, but she couldn’t tell if it was dead, Afflicted, or some other creature.
Sir Hugh rubbed his hands together before using them to flick out the tails of his coat to sit. “We call it the resurrection challenge. Some of the fellows have various theories about what animates the Afflicted. They will each have a chance to test their theory on the cadaver.”
“You don’t take part?” Hannah took a seat and pulled her notebook from her reticule.
Sir Hugh stared at his daughter with a sad look in his eyes, then he patted her hand. “No. We know the cursed powder only works on the living and steals their lives. It does not raise those who are already dead. My study is focused on trying to find a way to reverse the curse, not replicate it. But it is informative to watch the fellows in their attempts.”
“Who is taking part today?” Hannah tried to figure out the contraptions and what purpose they might have. On the table of vials, the contents of one swirled and changed colour from cream to deep yellow and back again. Another that contained a black substance burped a dark brown cloud.
Sir Hugh waved to some of the older men who entered and shuffled along the rows to find seats. He gestured to the very front row, where three gentlemen sat. “Reverend Jones is first. Then Lord Dunkeith, who is convinced the answer lies in the apothecary arts. Last will be Doctor Husom, who is doing some fascinating work with electrical currents.”
More people trickled into the room. Some sat in twos or threes and others, like Viscount Wycliff, sought a spot well away from anyone else. The room never filled, but it contained more people than Hannah had thought were interested in curing the Afflicted. A group of young men sat near the back and chatted loudly.
“The meeting is well attended,” Hannah observed.
Sir Hugh glanced around. “Unfortunately, some are motivated by curiosity rather than genuine scholarly interest. The lads are medical students hoping to have an Afflicted paraded before them.”
Hannah narrowed her eyes as she studied them, looking for two faces in particular. But none appeared to be either of the men she had discovered cutting Miss Emma Knightley for the novelty of watching her flesh heal.
An elderly gentleman walked to the middle of the lecture floor and the chatter fell away. “Gentlemen, and lady—” He bowed toward Hannah. “Let us begin the second day of the Society of Unnatural Scientific Study conference. This morning commences with what we refer to as the resurrection challenge. Three of our members will each attempt to bring this deceased person back to life.”
“That’s Doctor Finch. He runs all our meetings,” her father whispered in Hannah’s ear.
Doctor Finch gestured to the men seated at the very front. “Reverend Jones will be the first challenger.”
Reverend Jones rose and stepped forward, clutching a Bible in one hand and a small glass vial in the other. A tall, lean man with a sombre expression, he appeared to be in his fifties, with white hair rapidly receding from his skull. Dark eyes darted back and forth as he approached the table. Once in position by its side, he nodded to Doctor Finch, who grabbed hold of the sheet and wound it toward himself.
The lads at the back chortled as the form of an overweight middle-aged man was revealed. He was naked except for underdrawers that stopped just above his knees. A large belly swelled over his sides. A thick swath of hair covered his chest and disappeared beneath the undergarment.
The laughter behind Hannah was cut short so abruptly she turned to discover the viscount glaring at the youths and burning away their humour. For once she appreciated his formidable stare. No one should be laughed at in death. The grim reaper would come for everyone, no matter their outward appearance.
The reverend stood at the dead man’s side, presenting his profile to the audience. His whispered prayers filled the room as he fervently asked his God to return a piece of the man’s soul to animate his flesh. Setting aside the Bible, he twisted the top from the vial and sprinkled the contents over the man.
“Holy water,” Sir Hugh whispered to Hannah.
When the vial was empty, Reverend Jones dropped it into his coat pocket and took up the Bible. He rested one hand on the man’s forehead and, lifting the Bible high, beseeched God to demonstrate His might by making the man sit up.
Hannah leaned forward, concentrating on the cadaver as she waited for the tiniest movement. Surely a plea from a churchman would elicit a quick response from their Creator.
After fifteen minutes of prayers, without even the faintest twitch from the deceased man’s little finger, Doctor Finch coughed into his hand.
Reverend Jones smiled at the assembly. “It appears our Lord has exceeded his allocated time to provide an answer to His supplicant.”
He returned to his seat and Lord Dunkeith rose and strode forward. The noble cut a fine figure, clothed in the latest fashion, as though he were attending a soirée. While not particularly tall, he was what Hannah would call pleasant-looking, with a friendly face and a wide smile. He was in his early thirties, with ruffled light brown hair as though he frequently ran his hands through it, and his brown eyes sparkled with life.
Hannah wondered what drove his interest in the Afflicted. With a title, a more than sufficient fortune, and good looks, he should have been prowling the ballrooms, not the autopsy rooms. Perhaps he was the rare sort of man with
little interest in gambling or other vices, and blessed with intellectual curiosity. An enquiring mind raised a man far higher in Hannah’s esteem than the weight of his pocketbook ever could.
Lord Dunkeith approached the wheeled table and studied the selection of vials and beakers. He picked up an empty one and placed it before him. Then he began mixing. A drop from one vial extracted with a glass dropper. A larger portion from another measured with a silver funnel.
Hannah was mesmerised, as though she watched the finest musician playing a concerto. Lord Dunkeith moved with a relaxed grace as he narrated his activity in a dulcet tone. The ingredients ranged from the exotic and disturbing (excrement from a strix—a supernatural bird) to the everyday (rosemary for remembrance).
When he had used every liquid in varying proportions, he stirred until a faint green mist wafted from the top of the beaker and dispersed in the air. Some of the watchers covered their mouths and noses with fine linen handkerchiefs, but Hannah inhaled. The soft fragrance of rosemary carried a sharp edge that she couldn’t recognise. She hoped it wasn’t strix excrement.
Lord Dunkeith prised open the cadaver’s teeth and inserted one end of a length of black rubber tubing. Inch by inch, the tube was slid over blue lips and down into the man’s stomach. When he was satisfied that tube was in the correct position, Lord Dunkeith held the brass funnel attachment high in the air and slowly poured the smoking green liquid into the tubing. A wisp of green mist escaped from the dead man’s lips as the potion disappeared down his gullet.
“Lord Dunkeith is a sixth-generation aftermage with a keen interest in the apothecary arts. He has a knack with potions and believes he is close to discovering the formula to rejuvenate the deceased,” Hannah’s father whispered.
“An unusual occupation of his time for a lord so blessed by the Fates. I wonder that he doesn’t use his ability to produce potions for the ladies of the ton.” Hannah watched the performance unfolding before her.
Galvanism and Ghouls Page 4