by Jack Conner
“Strawberry scones,” Mrs. Everly added.
If possible, Agatha paled even more. “Ah. The, uh, strawberry scones. Very good.”
“I do enjoy scones,” Lynch said when Agatha had departed.
“As do I. Blueberry, preferably.”
“Only when they’re in season.”
“But of course.”
They stared at each other. He imagined Mathews waking up in the shadows, swearing and stumbling toward the villa.
“Your brother and I met last night,” he said. “I thought him a very interesting man, and I think him moreso now for being dead. Perhaps I could speak with him.”
“I really don’t know what you’re on about, but you’re quite obscene. My poor departed brother was the soul of kindness, and I will not have you making unsavory accusations.”
“Did I make one?”
“Your whole manner is unsavory, and accusatory. Who did you say were again?”
“I am Lynchmort James.”
She wrinkled her face up. “Lynchmort . . . James? Why, I have heard of you!” She looked as if she had stepped in something foul. “How did you get in here? Where’s Gilbert?”
“He’s taking a nap. Perhaps he can join us for tea when he wakes. Perhaps your brother can, as well. Is he about?”
“He is in the family plot on Hedgewig Avenue. Visit the mausoleum if you like. Bring violets. They were his favorite.”
“Yes. He likes his purples, doesn’t he?” A portrait hung on the far wall -- of some member of the Gunnerson clan, no doubt, a patriarch by the look of him, richly attired and standing before his horse. Lynch examined his face and found definite similarities to the artist’s. Of course, that proved nothing. So far this whole expedition had been a bust -- and here he had used his real name, confident that it would draw the killer out. He sipped more tea. “Can you tell me why he’s murdering people in the Blight -- and why exactly he mutilates the bodies?”
“Your obscenity grows with every word.”
He raised his hook, letting her see it, and idly picked at it.
“Ah -- ” she started.
Her eyes flicked over his shoulder.
He spun to see a deathly-pale man with unhealthy skin, dark veins showing beneath it, and eyes that were yellow where they should be white. He looked harried and irritated, but his yellow eyes widened when he saw Lynch. He smiled, showing rat-like teeth slicked with viscous saliva.
“You.”
Lynch recognized the man as was one of the artist’s two servants -- the twin of the one who had belched poison in his face.
Chapter 3
“I thought that demand for scones was odd,” Lynch said.
Mrs. Everly sniffed. “I am not an idiot. Thank you for joining us, Siegel.”
“My pleasure.” The yellow-eyed man smiled wider at Lynch. “Didn’t get enough of our hospitality last night, eh, Lynchmort?”
“I’m afraid it left me wanting.” Lynch pulled the gun he’d stolen off Mathews, pointed it at Siegel. “Where’s your master?”
“You’re on unfriendly ground, sir. I suggest a certain deference in attitude.”
Lynch cocked the gun. “Take me to -- ”
A jingle behind him. He turned to see Mrs. Everly hurling the tea pot at him. He ducked, heard Siegel curse, and a metallic crash. Instinct propelled him to leap backward. He whipped his head around just in time to see Siegel slicing a knife at him. The blur of steel flickered a millimeter past Lynch’s throat. Siegel’s other hand batted the gun away. It struck a wall and went spinning.
Lynch grabbed hold of Siegel’s shirt front, hauled him in before Siegel could reverse his swing. Lynch sliced his hook hand up, felt the familiar tear of fabric, then flesh. Siegel grunted, spasmed. Lynch jerked his arm up further. Blood spattered the floor. A rank smell wafted out. He held Siegel’s shoulder with his good hand, steadying him as he jerked his arm up -- up. Somewhere Lydia Gunnerson Everly screamed. Siegel’s yellow eyes went wide with pain.
Lynch pulled his hook free with a grisly sucking noise, and as he did a cloud of gas erupted from Siegel’s interior. Yellow and quickly spreading, it enveloped Lynch -- he shut his mouth -- and mushroomed throughout the room. Siegel wore a mocking smile as he slipped to the floor, guts squiggling around him. The yellow cloud spread, and spread, similar to the substance Siegel’s twin had breathed in Lynch’s face last night. Just what were they?
Mrs. Everly grabbed her throat and sank to her knees, hacking desperately.
Covering his mouth, Lynch dragged her from the room and deposited her in the kitchens. Then, returning to the tea room, he leapt Siegel’s corpse, grabbed the gun and pressed down the hall in the direction Siegel had come. He reached a half-open door and ducked inside. Sucking in a lung-full, he started down a flight of stairs. A basement, then. The walls and floor seemed to blur and twist around him. What the hell had that gas been?
A wall blocked off the stairwell from the rest of the room, and when he reached the bottom he was able to peer around the corner and see the room. At one point this had been a large wine cellar. Fashioned of musty brick, it arched into a dome spanned with cobwebs. Cells like cages lined two walls, including the one near the stairwell, and when Lynch squinted into them he saw human figures squatting amongst soiled rags and pallets. People, horribly disfigured, slumped in the cages, some not even seeming to possess the strength to stand.
In the center of the chamber strange machines buzzed and crackled. Lynch recognized a few, scientific devices -- a shaker, an autoclave, a refrigerator, benches laden with vials and test tubes -- but there were other, stranger devices that he did not recognize at all . . . and which looked oddly alien. A large, greenish obelisk glowed with light. A thing like an upside-down pyramid balanced on its tip, also greenish, whose top surface shimmered with heat waves. There were others, but Lynch did not have time to take it all in.
For, directly in the center of the room, near one of the tables, stood the artist. He wore a lab apron over his velvet suit, his eyeglasses had been removed -- he had unusually flat, black eyes -- and a surgeon’s mask had been drawn down so that he could speak. Before him on the table stretched a man tied down with leather straps, utterly naked. He was a fellow of impressive height and stature, and staring down at him, clearly confederates of the artist, were three stately-looking gentlemen, engaged in conversation with the artist himself. Around them buzzed various technicians and scientists, running procedures, tending to the hissing, sparking machines, shoving food into the cages or hosing the cages out.
“ . . . calm yourself, Lord Hatterly. He will be back soon. I am sure it is nothing. Sister does get jumpy,” the artist was saying.
“I do not like the look of him, but I must say he makes me feel more comfortable, having him around.”
A throat cleared. Out of the shadows stepped the other deathly-looking servant, the one who had belched poison into Lynch’s face.
Lord Hatterly nodded. “Pardon me, Fieglund. Of course I had not forgotten you. The Bookends, I like to think of you.” He laughed, and one of the other gentlemen joined in -- somewhat nervously, to Lynch’s ears. Fieglund smiled, but unpleasantly. He said nothing. “It’s just that this whole business has gotten me jumpy,” Lord Hatterly added.
The artist nodded. “It’s the final days. It’s only natural. But your patience and cooperation have yielded marvelous things.” He nodded to the body on the slab. For the first time, Lynch saw that it was alive. Its great chest rose up and down. “Our formulation of the improved serum is nearly complete.”
“He is beautiful,” said one of the gentlemen, reaching out a hand to stroke the arm of the captive man, and the others frowned at him.
“He is the future,” the artist corrected.
“Yes, yes, of course,” said the gentleman, drawing back his hand. “I only meant I cannot wait until such beauty is mine.”
“Of course, Lord Leftwitch. I assure you you are not alone.”
Lynch peered at the
named lord, marking the jutting chin and receding brow, the aristocratic tilt of the nose. With a shock, Lynch realized he was staring at the Prime Minister! Lynch’s mind reeled.
“As you see, things are progressing on schedule,” the artist said. “The Society will ensure our goals are met, and on time, too.”
The third gentleman, who had not spoken yet, gestured vaguely to the hunched, miserable shapes in the cages, the ones that must be the artist’s guinea pigs. “And how much longer can you keep all this hidden?”
The artist shook the question aside. “This is nothing. Only my own personal lab. I assure you the Society is quite able to keep a lid on things.”
Lynch stepped forward, gun pointed. “Not anymore.”
The three gentlemen recoiled. The servants flinched and withdrew into the shadows of the machines, their eyes shining like cats’ in the darkness. The artist merely frowned.
Fieglund stepped forward. “Where is Siegel?”
Lynch raised his bloody hook. “I’m afraid he’s not doing well.”
“Bastard!”
“And Sister?” asked the artist, also known as Lars Gunnerson. He was stepping backward as he spoke, toward one of the tables.
“Poor,” Lynch said. “Don’t -- ”
Lars Gunnerson’s arm blurred, and a silver streak flashed at Lynch’s head. He fired his gun even as the scalpel sailed over him, and fired again while the three gentlemen fled. The bullets had passed through Gunnerson’s fluttering apron and smashed into a machine. Now sparks and fire erupted from it. A servant holding a screwdriver leapt at Lynch, metal tip poised to skewer his remaining eye. Lynch shot him in the neck.
Another servant leapt at him, and another after that. Lynch kicked one away, clubbed another over his head with the blunt side of his hook -- the impact jarred the bones of his forearm, making him grit his teeth.
The whole chamber filled with smoke and fire. The gentlemen screamed. Somewhere Gunnerson cursed, ordering servants about.
There came the metal crash of storm doors flung open, and Lynch briefly saw Gunnerson hunched against the far rectangle of light, holding papers that must be scientific notes to his chest, then vanishing. Gentlemen and servants streamed after him. Lynch started to pursue, but the final servant mounting the stairs turned, and paused. It was Fieglund. Rage and loss struggled on the strange man’s features as he opened his mouth and wheezed out a torrent of yellow vapor. Lynch fired, but with the smoke and distance missed. Fieglund disappeared up the stairs and slammed the storm doors with a metallic bang, leaving Lynch alone in the fiery, poisoned room.
Coughing, trying not to breathe, Lynch mounted the inner stairs. Flames chased him and he heard something explode in the laboratory behind him. Stones crumbled and he heard the whoosh and boom as the ceiling collapsed.
The people stuck in their cells . . .
There was no time.
He kicked the door at the head of the stairs open and stumbled into the halls of the mansion proper. There still remained the bitter, sulfurous tang of Siegel’s poison but Lynch doubted it was in concentration enough to kill. Nevertheless he breathed shallow. There were no servants about. Lynch stumbled to the tea room, then the kitchen, but found no sign of Lydia Everly’s body. Had servants removed it? Had she survived? Siegel of course lay where he had fallen, gutted like a fish.
Lynch wrestled a door open and staggered out into the lawn. Shouts and calls cut the night. A gun crashed. Coughing, he slipped into the cover of the trees and made for the wall. He aimed for the front gate but saw soldiers there. Still coughing, shaking from the poison, he made his way to the wall and climbed it, his hook scraping pitifully against the brick but providing excellent leverage, though it wrenched his arm to find it. At last he swung his leg over the top, but before he slipped down to the other side he lifted his gaze to the Gunnerson mansion. Flames licked out the windows and columns of smoke obscured the stars.
Nicely handled, Lynch old boy. And just what the hell have you stumbled onto?
Sirens wailed in the distance. Lynch dropped down.
***
As a taxi barreled him homeward, Lynch cursed himself. He had made a serious error in moving against Gunnerson and leaving him alive. Gunnerson had researched him and would doubtless know where Lynch lived. Likely he had anticipated paying Lynch a visit in any case, but now his plans would accelerate. He would strike hard, and immediately, and with powerful allies like the Prime Minister by his side, who was to stand in his way? Lynch realized he had committed himself to this fight, even though he still did not know what fight it was.
The cabbie dropped him off a block from his brownstone, and Lynch paid him double the fare to forget his bedraggled, bloody appearance. Lynch approached his brownstone from the rear and beat on the alley-side door until Ambrose let him in.
“What in the world are you doing back -- oh, dear Lord! What have you done to yourself?” Ambrose said.
Lynch slammed the door behind him, crossed to the bar and fixed himself a thick fist of brandy. Only after draining it and pouring another, his fingers steadying as he poured, did he turn to Ambrose and say, “We have to evacuate. Wake the others.”
Ambrose stared at him. “Evacuate . . . wake . . . ”
Lynch steadied him just before he his legs gave out and lowered him into a chair. He poured some brandy for Ambrose, and when the man had gotten his bearings Lynch said, “I’m afraid it’s come down to it. You always told me my nefarious dealings would lead to ruin. Well, here we are. Congratulations! Now, I don’t think they’ll go after my servants, I think they’ll realize you’re as much in the dark as they, but I can’t take the chance. I’m giving you and the others some money and sending you to England. It’s still safe there. Well, as safe as anywhere on the Continent.”
“But . . . sir . . . may I ask . . . ?”
Lynch shook his head. “I’m afraid not. Not this time, Ambrose.”
“It’s Madam Wan, isn’t it? I always knew you mixing with those underworld types would lead to tragedy. I ought to go down there and -- ”
“It wasn’t Madam Wan, and, although they may well be nefarious and criminal, our foes are not in the underworld. Now -- go. Wake the others. There’s not a second to spare.”
The manservant looked stricken, but he downed his glass and set off to carry out his instructions. Soon he had the whole household, Lynch included, packing bags and getting ready. Nancy and Sam looked as startled as Ambrose, but they did as they were told. For her part Nancy had always professed a desire to see England and wasn’t as shaken up about the relocation, but Sam was inconsolable.
“Oh, it’ll be a hoot,” she told him. “Just think -- Big Ben!”
Sam hung his head. “The food is abysmal.”
Nancy turned to Lynch, her face serious. “Sir, I did something . . . bad.”
“I don’t care, girl. We don’t have time.”
“I RSVP’d for you.”
“What?”
“For the Queen’s Ball!” She squeezed his arm. “Oh, do say you’ll go!”
He was flabbergasted. “Nancy . . . I’m being hunted by . . . Consider yourself fired.”
He bustled them into a taxi and saw them off, watching as they vanished up the street, the taxi lights swallowed by the dark.
“And so it goes,” he muttered.
Despairing and drinking, he dressed in corduroy pants, cotton shirt, leather jacket and overcoat, and prepared a small bag, secreting about himself various jewels, cash and heirlooms that should provide him with some means until . . . well, he would cross that bridge when he must. He had bank deposit boxes, of course, not that there was much left in them, but he must assume those would be watched. No. He could rely only on what he could carry.
He prepared one last drink, the last he might ever know in his own home. He poured the brandy slowly, admiring the play of light on the amber liquid through the cut glass. Just as he raised it to his lips, the front door exploded in.
Chapter 4
Lynch heard the crash from the study and jumped to his feet. He started down the stairs to confront his attackers -- or slip out the back if he could -- but then heard an answering crash from the rear entrance off the kitchen. His skin prickled. Even his scrotum contracted. His home had been violated, and he had been cornered like a rat.
He sprang to the hallway and jerked on the cord that pulled down the attic trap-door, scrambled up the collapsed ladder and pulled it up behind him. He grabbed the cord, tied it off. It was cooler in the attic, away from the fire of the fireplace and the various heating stones. It was even cooler with the attic vent, but Lynch did not curse it. Rather he crossed immediately to the vent, wedged his hook in one of the slats, and tugged. He strained, planting one foot against the wall and shoving off, and with a squeal the metal tore free. Cold wind blew through the gap, solidifying his sweat.
He peeled back the remaining vent cover, wriggled through, his clothes scraping on the sides, and climbed onto the ledge outside. Fighting a swell of nausea, he glanced down. Dark vans had pulled up before the brownstone, men in equally dark uniforms spilling from them and charging into the building, firearms at the ready. Lynch couldn’t be sure, but he thought he recognized the uniform Matthews had worn. This then was the same security service that protected the Gunnersons’ mansion.
Lynch sidled along the edge, made for where the roof sloped down.
“He’s there! Look! Up there!”
Lynch reached the lower section of the roof, planted his hook and hauled himself upward. He swung his leg over, found purchase, and dragged the rest of his body over. He lay for a moment, panting, and stared up at the stars and black clouds. He still felt sickly and achy from the poison -- it must have gotten in through his skin, a lesser dose than through his lungs but still enough to sicken him -- but he made himself climb to his feet and crossed to the next brownstone roof, and the next. Wind tugged at his jacket. Unfortunately the block of brownstones stood alone and no other roofs could be accessed from its top. His pursuers would soon realize that there was only one way to descend.