Perhaps he is right, Rosamund; after all, you have seen Constance, Harry, the man on the street, all those shadows…
No! Imagination! It was pure imagination, or fever!
I had seen other things I had never expected to see either; electrical light; the Christmas tree, bedecked in ribbons; the rosy-cheeked glow of women in long flowing skirts and tall handsome men in suits and top hats – glorious sights, sights to warm the heart, not frighten it or leave it stone cold.
“Rosamund,” Andrew Griffin’s voice interrupted such thoughts. “We would like you to demonstrate, that is all.”
“You are forcing me to demonstrate. You have trussed me up!”
“For your own safety.” He turned to his colleagues. “Gentlemen, I believe it may be easier to see in the darkness. Please, one by one, blow out your candles, following my lead. We will go in a clockwise motion.”
What was this? I was to be plunged into darkness?
“Let me go!” I shouted. “I cannot see anything. I will not!”
“What do you see, Rosamund?” Griffin uttered despite my protests, the light from his candle dying.
“What do you see, Rosamund?” the man next to him, David Woodbridge, said in turn, before snuffing his candle out too.
“What do you see, Rosamund?” This was McPherson; then it was Mathers; then Davis… the room growing darker and darker, becoming filled with shadows.
“I see nothing!” The shadows were merely that, although… distorted by what remained of the candlelight, they were beginning to loom… to take shape.
“What do you see, Rosamund?”
“Nothing! Nothing!”
“What do you see, Rosamund?”
Soon it would be Father’s turn to ask it.
“What do you see, Rosamund?”
The pictures, all those pictures…
What had Father meant by that?
“What do you see, Rosamund?”
There was yet more darkness, yet more shadows. As on the streets of London, the room was crammed with them. I shut my eyes but I knew it to be in vain; as in the bedroom at the townhouse, such shadows could permeate everything.
“What do you see, Rosamund?”
Harry – I would like to see Harry; such a beautiful face he had, and those eyes of his that looked like they had lived a thousand years – or been dead a thousand years? Again, I shook my head at where that thought had led me. No! No! No!
“What do you see, Rosamund?” That was my father’s voice, a growl in it.
“Stop it! All of you stop it!”
A voice beside my own began to speak, concern in it; the voice of the young man, Davis? If so, he was easily overruled.
The girl at the window, waving to me; who was she? I had not seen her within the townhouse, and why would she be waving, trying to gain my attention?
The twelfth man to ask me the same question would be Arthur.
Oh, Constance. I saw you. I saw you and yet you were dead…
That firm realisation caused my heart to plummet and my mouth to gape open. But they were not my screams that filled the air. Not this time.
They belonged to Arthur.
Rosamund Chapter Thirteen
“My daughter, my darling daughter, my wife… What have I done? What have we done? Their blood is on my hands. Look! Look at them! Can you see? They are dripping with blood!”
“Light the candles, all of you,” someone commanded. “Quickly, light them.”
“Arthur! Arthur! What are you doing, man? Calm down!”
“Light the candles, damn it!”
As the commotion continued, I struggled against my cuffs, determined to undo them; to escape, but to no avail. I was held fast, stuck in the midst of pandemonium.
There was light now, the men obeying the command of Griffin, and the shadows receded as those who were really present in the room came into full view.
Arthur Lawton had gone mad. That is what it appeared. He was on his feet and his hands were in front of him, his eyes bulging with horror and his mouth wide open as he continued to scream; to insist there was blood on them.
“Oh dear Lord, we killed them, didn’t we, William? You and I.”
Men were rushing towards him but he appeared to have a strength that was inhuman, throwing them from him as though they were rag dolls.
“Arthur!” I was unable to identify who it was beseeching him again. “You need to remain calm!”
More men approached him, warily this time. I needed desperately to escape. I had seen no door ahead of me or to my side and concluding that it must be behind me, I began to push with my feet, making my chair scrape and bump in that direction.
Still Arthur was screaming. “Constance! We killed Constance!”
“Arthur, what happened was not our fault!” It was Griffin insisting this.
“She was an addict,” insisted another. “You never divulged that. If we’d known… That is why it must be the correct decision to ban the use of substances with our subjects from hereonin, because contrary to what has been said, they do not dull a person, but they do open doorways, which at our stage of development is dangerous.”
“What she saw…” Arthur’s voice was as pitiable as his wife’s had once been.
“Was hallucination,” Griffin rushed to answer. “It had to be.”
“She gouged at her eyes! To do that, to go to that length—”
“IT WAS MERE HALLUCINATION!” continued Griffin. “We have discussed this!”
Arthur’s whimpers matched mine. “What if you are mistaken? My wife said I was evil, that I was damned. Perhaps I am: because of her, because of Constance—”
“Pull yourself together, man!” I recognised that growl as I continued to edge myself backwards. “Listen to Griffin! What happened to Constance was an accident. You should never have brought her here in the first place; I was astonished when you did – someone that did not have the sight; who merely fancied she did. What were you thinking, man? How could you be so easily duped, and by a chit of a girl too?”
“Constance is dead!” Arthur wailed.
“Yes, she is, but what is now important is that our society cannot be held accountable for it.”
“What? Is that all that is important to you; to all of you? You… You bastard!”
Arthur lunged at my father, who, as he had done with Helena, immediately held up his hands in order to hold his opponent at arm’s length.
“You killed my wife,” Arthur twisted his head towards the others, who had rushed to help but now stood aghast at what was being said. “This man killed my wife. It was in my house; my house damn it. With his bare hands, he grabbed her neck; he snapped it, just as if it were a twig. He murdered her in cold blood.”
“William?” It was Griffin asking, while the others clustered wide-eyed around him. “What he is saying, what he is… accusing you of, is there any truth to it?”
Father kept his eyes on Arthur as he answered. “I rather fear this man is every bit as addled as his daughter.”
Arthur renewed his attempts to attack my father. “YOU KILLED HER!”
“WHERE IS THE PROOF?” Father returned. “You are deluded, sir!”
“I am the proof,” I said, but my voice was lost in what ensued next.
Father suddenly lost his restraining grip on Arthur, who, seizing his chance, enclosed Father’s neck with his hands and began to squeeze, squeeze, squeeze. A part of me egged him on, wishing… hoping… A part of me I refused to indulge further. Whatever he had done, whatever ills he had committed, William Howard was still my father, and I should be lost without him. I would be an orphan.
A group of the other men also joined in the struggle, trying to release Arthur’s grip. In their efforts they knocked over a candle, causing the cloth that had covered the table to burst into sudden flames.
“What the deuce…?” someone shouted. “We need water. Quick! Water!”
Smoke filled the air with alarming rapidity, finding its way
into my lungs and causing me to cough, choke, and making my eyes stream. Even more panicked, I bucked, still intending to free myself of what bound me and, as I did, the chair tipped backwards. I crashed to the ground, once more hitting my head. Mercifully, I did not lose consciousness; I could not afford to, not if the room was burning.
“Someone help me. I beg you, let me go,” I whimpered.
There were so many voices, but the loudest of all was Arthur’s. He continued to yell, seemingly taking no note of the fact that the room was alight. “He killed my wife, in front of my very eyes. He is a murderer, a filthy murderer!”
“Arthur! Arthur! We must leave. We will deal with William later. Come, Arthur, please!”
I did not know who said this, but if they were leaving, surely they would not leave without me? I was not oblivious to the flames as Arthur appeared to be; I did not want to suffocate or be incinerated. I could not imagine a worse way to go.
“Help! Help!”
They were leaving! There were trampling all over me to escape. Why? How could they do such a thing?
“Father! Arthur! Help!”
It was a hideous sound that next met my ears; a cry filled with unimaginable pain. I could barely bring myself to look but I must – I could not hide or remain ignorant – not anymore.
One of the men was on fire. He was beating at his torso with frenzied hands, doing his utmost to battle the ravages of such a fierce element. It was Arthur, I was sure of it. Another man tried to help him – the young man I think, Stephen Davis, although his fair hair looked blackened. He attempted to beat the flames back with his bare hands, but as Arthur went careering into the wall, Davis had to admit defeat, although I could sense his anguish in doing so; his sheer disbelief. He stood there, his hands if not burnt, at least badly scorched, and I cried out once again. “Help! Help!”
My voice had become a mere croak, dying in my throat as I would surely die in this room if no one came to my aid. I could feel the heat of the fire searing my face; it was creeping closer, just like the shadows would creep, but soon it would do so much more than that; it would charge towards me, unrestrained, unstoppable, the strongest element of all. Unable to move, I began to sob. Yet again, I was defenceless.
“Help! Help!” I called one last time before shutting my eyes and resigning myself to such a hideous fate.
“Be calm, I have you.”
My eyes snapped open.
“What? Who is this?”
“It’s Stephen. I have you, Rosamund; we will escape this.”
“Where… where is Arthur…?”
There was a moment of silence but it spoke volumes.
“Arthur is lost,” he said at last.
As the other members of his family had been lost – all of them gone.
“I have to turn you onto your side, to untie you, I mean.”
“Yes. Yes.” I replied. “Please hurry.”
“I will. We shall get you out, I promise. I am sorry… I just… I am so sorry.”
He worked as quickly as he could to release me, enabling one of my hands to become free, followed by the other. I attempted to climb to my feet but my legs would not comply. Stephen must have noticed my difficulty for he put his arms around me and lifted me as though I were a child instead of a girl of sixteen, and together we began to make our way to the door, with the flames not only behind us, but leaping higher and higher on either side. How soon before the entire house burned?
Just as we reached the door, a figure shot forward.
“Unhand her!”
“Father?” I managed.
“I said, let her go! She is my daughter!”
Although the man holding me protested, he set me down. Father, however, was in no mood for remonstration – not this time. With both hands he gave Stephen a great shove and the young man fell backwards, into the flames.
“FATHER, NO! WHAT ARE YOU DOING?”
In no mood for explaining either, he grabbed my hand, his touch so unlike Stephen’s; there was no gentleness in it at all as he dragged me forwards. I did my utmost to stop him, the one hand I had free holding onto the doorframe; digging my heels into the floor; but this time I was a child, and my strength was no match for his.
“We cannot leave Stephen in there,” I shouted as he continued to drag me down the hallway and out of the house, where quite a crowd had gathered, huddled in clusters as if watching live theatre. “Father, we cannot, he will perish!”
Just as Arthur had perished, as Helena had said he would, in the flames of Hell.
“FATHER!”
In spite of my protestations, he merely increased the distance between us and the crowds. I recognised some of the men who had been in the room. They were coughing and spluttering, and some had also noticed us. They were pointing towards Father, and calling out to him, trying to catch his attention. He simply lowered his head and bustled us both along, into what quickly became a warren of streets.
At last I recognised where we were; the crescent with its graceful curve.
“Why are we here?” I asked, my bewilderment increasing at once again seeing the Lawton family home. When he refused to answer, I cried out, attracting the attention of a passerby. “We cannot go back inside there, Father, we cannot.”
“Be quiet, Rosamund!”
“Then tell me why.”
“There is something I need to retrieve, that is why. Damn them,” he seethed as we continued towards the house, “with their rules and their regulations, their rigidity. It is I that holds the key to it all. It is me that has you. Enough questions! Gather your things, Rosamund, and quickly. I will see to it that a carriage is waiting for us when you come downstairs. I warn you, do not dally. We have to leave London and soon.”
He rapped on the door and the butler appeared, a scowl on his face at the sight of us, his commitment to his profession perhaps forcing him to hold his tongue. As we entered the hallway, Father issued instructions for transport to be hailed. Whilst he did, I looked about me. What a grand hallway this was in Helena’s family home, which had been given over to her husband; stolen from her through marriage. An evil man, but he had loved his daughter at least; Constance had been right about that, the loss of her sending him mad, quite mad. Would he burn forever? I wondered. Would all of us burn in the end?
In the hallway, the gaslight flickered just as the candles had done at that other townhouse, casting shadow upon shadow. As I began to walk towards the staircase; as I stared at their ill-defined forms; they slowly began to move.
Rosamund Chapter Fourteen
I was awake as I continued to climb the staircase. I knew that. This at least was not a dream. Even so, it appeared that dreams and reality had merged to produce a new version of reality; as though the barriers that had previously divided the two had come tumbling down, allowing so many and so much through.
This house where until today had lived an esteemed London family, was not empty; far from it, it was full of people: the fair-haired girl who had waved at me when I first came here but one of them. Like the streets outside, it was teeming; some figures passing blithely by me, passing through me even; others stopping to stare at the girl amongst them; curious about her; stretching a hand towards her.
I did not shrink back as I had done in Berkeley Square, or scream or faint – I think my senses had grown numb after all I had experienced in recent days. It was as if I had become unable to react; as though I was now a shadow too. What had happened to Stephen when Father pushed him backwards? What if he had…? No, I must not think that. Better to remain numb.
I did not stop at the crest of the first flight of stairs; I continued on to the second floor and then the third – the floor where I knew Helena’s bedroom to be; compelled to go there and not questioning that compulsion, not yet. It was already dark outside but the corridor was darker still with no living person, no Nell, scurrying along the landing. Why would she be? Who was there now here to tend to?
Reaching Helena’s room, I pushed ope
n the door and the smell that assaulted me was the same as ever, sweet but sickly. Rather than the darkness, I focused on one thing and one thing only – that smell – closing my eyes and breathing it in, despite how repellent it was. Was this the smell of laudanum, the drug the society had referred to? If so, Helena had been an addict, though perhaps not at first; perhaps initially she had had an illness for which it had proved useful – indeed she had hacked blood up right in front of me, so that could be true. But still she had become addicted to whatever had dulled the pain; dulled her mind – or opened doors. Constance had had the same smell about her sometimes. It was only now, standing there, that I fully realised it, remembering how she too had staggered on occasion; how sometimes her words had been a little slurred, or her eyes perhaps over bright. Drugs open the doors of the mind. Constance had mentioned that she thought she had seen a ruffian close to me when I had fainted. Was that proof that he was real, or that her drug use had done exactly that: opened her mind? That same drug – laudanum – had been administered to me as I lay in bed on the first floor – I was now certain of it – not as a means to ease my pain but as an attempt to make me more pliable. If so, it was not the only drug that could do that, Father had said there was another; one that was more effective; that prevented lying…
Is that why we had had to return here, so that Father could retrieve it?
As I was about to turn and leave the room – coming here having confirmed my suspicions about the nature of laudanum at least – a movement caught my eye. The bed – previously empty, was empty no more! Although all was silent in the room, I could hear the rush of blood – my own – as it coursed through my veins. No! No! I do not want this. Helena Lawton was dead. She should remain that way.
I hurriedly made to leave the room.
Constance is lost. I am lost.
Those were the words Helena had used, and – as if she had indeed had the gift of prophecy – she had been correct. A woman full of fun and enthusiasm, who had given birth to another similar to her, but was then lost to the darkness that her husband had plunged her into. But if it were Helena on this bed, she had become the darkness.
Psychic Surveys Companion Novels Page 45