“I commend your soul to the Master,” he said. Then he wiped the blade clean on the front of Ribbenhoff’s coat and retrieved the red book of Gentry’s potions. He straightened up and put the hooked knife away. “That business is concluded,” he said, with a faint smile toward Matthew and Archer.
“I’ll get the other book,” Mother Deare said. “Martin will have cornered the professor by now. I want the honor of finishing him and taking my time in doing so.”
“Certainly. And these two?”
“Kill them, of course.”
“Commend them in my image,” Cardinal Black said to the swordsmen. Then, to Mother Deare, “I will meet you at the tower.” As he turned to leave, Mother Deare clutched one of his hands, drew it to her face, and kissed his rings. They both went out together, Cardinal Black got into the coach with the book of formulas in his possession, and Mother Deare turned to the left on her way to—
Get the other book? Matthew thought. What other book?
The coach driver snapped his whip. With a snort from a couple of the horses the vehicle moved on as the two swordsmen advanced upon their victims.
The Lesser Key of Solomon, Matthew realized. It had to be that. With its spells and incantations…of course that would be a fitting gift from insane daughter to demoniac father.
The man Matthew had recognized lifted his lamp, the better to aim his first strike.
Archer picked up Ribbenhoff’s sword and put himself between Matthew and the two killers. “Give me space,” he said.
It was Albion speaking.
The swordsmen came forward, one on either side of Archer.
He parried the first blow and then an instant later had knocked aside the second. The lamplight glinted off the deadly lengths of steel as the swords crashed together, swung and feinted. Matthew stepped back but was desperately looking for something to use as a weapon, for even though Archer was highly accomplished with the blade the two men were pressing in and at any instant an edge might find the judge’s flesh. Still Archer held them off, his confidence with the weapon causing the pair to restrain their enthusiasm at this work, but suddenly a sword got through Archer’s guard and a line of blood appeared across the judge’s right cheek. He feinted, dodged nimbly aside to avoid another thrust, and drew blood at the shoulder of the man from Mother Deare’s cellar. The second man pulled back a distance, calculating the possible angles of attack.
Matthew shrugged out of his coat. He coiled it around and around and whipped at the face of the wounded man as the next thrust was made. The man was struck between the eyes and retreated, and in retaliation he flung his lantern at Matthew, who narrowly missed catching it in the teeth.
Archer lunged forward and his sword, a blur of steel, entered the man’s chest just below the heart. The man’s free hand clasped the blade, trapping it, and struck a blow that cleaved into Archer’s left shoulder at the base of the neck. Then Archer had jerked the sword out of the body, the mortally-wounded man toppled like a dead tree and his weapon went with him, and though bleeding profusely from a terrible cut William Archer—Albion, in full rage against the evil of the world that no man could fully contain—attacked the remaining killer.
Matthew picked up the second sword. In desperation and perhaps knowledge that he had also sustained a mortal wound, Archer was throwing all caution to the wind and battling like a man truly possessed. At once Matthew, recalling his own lessons in the deadly art, attacked the swordsman from the weaker side, being the left since the man was right-handed. He got a deep slash in on the meat of the man’s forearm that showed a gleam of bone before the blood filled it up.
Suddenly the man had had enough. He got his back to a wall, dropped his sword and lifted both hands.
“Mercy!” he cried out.
Archer, his chest heaving and the blood running like a stream from the wound at the base of his neck, said, “No.” He drove his sword into and through the unprotected throat.
When the blade was withdrawn the man gave a terrible gasp and gurgle and, his eyes shining like coins offered to Charon, slid down the wall to a sitting position and did not move again.
“I commend your soul,” Archer said hoarsely, “to wherever the hell it’s going.” Then he looked at Matthew, his face—but for the red line across his cheek—white as opposed to the dark blood that flowed from him. He dropped his sword, took a step forward, and sank to his knees.
Matthew knelt down beside him. There was too much blood. The wound was too deep, and at a vital conjunction of nerves and arteries. Even if a doctor had been there on the scene, Matthew knew full well that Archer would soon be gone.
Archer lifted his hands before him and stared at them. They had begun to tremble. He balled them into fists and let them fall to his sides.
“I’m sorry,” said Matthew.
“As am I.” He reached out to grasp Matthew’s arm, but somewhere along the way he seemed to forget what he intended to do and his hand dropped once more. He blinked slowly and heavily. He said, “Have I been evil, Matthew?”
“You’ve been human,” was the reply.
“Ah…that. Whoever and…whatever that thing was…he is correct. All men have inherited the sin of Adam. Our challenge, I suppose is…how much we compound it or seek to heal it…with our purposes.” He brought up the ghost of a smile that nearly wrecked Matthew’s heart. “I do so love England,” said Albion. “What is to become of my country?”
“I expect it will survive the White Velvet and Professor Fell,” said Matthew. “It will even survive Lord Puffery’s Pin.”
“That one…I’m not so sure of. Will you help me lie down?”
“Yes.”
Matthew folded up his coat to serve as a pillow and gave aid in getting the judge in the position he’d wanted.
Archer breathed harshly a few times, and then he whispered, “Thank you. If you are able…tell Steven—”
And with that unfinished request, Albion left the world that had so terribly crushed both his Eleanor and himself.
Matthew stood up. He had no further time to lose.
With bloodied sword in hand he left the hospital and ran toward the house on Conger Street, aware of any movement in the dust and smoke that still drifted over the beautiful grave.
Forty-Two
THE iron gate had been left wide open. So too was the door to Fell’s house. Lamplight glowed from the upper windows. A broken lantern lay on the floor just inside the entrance, and the glass crunched beneath Matthew’s boots. With his sword held in the ready before him, he started cautiously up the steps towards the professor’s study.
He could hear more gunshots outside, but in the distance. On his way here he’d witnessed one guard shooting another, and he hoped it had been a score against Cardinal Black’s men. He had no idea what the situation was out there.
All was quiet in the house but the sound of the ticking clock. Had he gotten here before Mother Deare? He’d run as fast as he could the most direct way possible, and he was yet breathing hard. The quiet was ominous. He winced as a riser beneath the black runner betrayed him with a soft squeal that sounded to him as loud as a scream.
At the top of the stairs Matthew saw that the door at the end of the hallway was open into Fell’s study, and the room was illuminated by two or three tapers. From this position he could see neither Fell’s desk nor the professor. His attention then went to the body that lay sprawled on the floor in the doorway, and from the condition of the back of the black-haired head a bullet had passed through on its way to the opposite wall.
Martin had cornered Professor Fell? Indeed.
Matthew had difficulty getting past the bulky corpse and nearly slipped in the blood. His right elbow banged against the wall. He got through the doorway and there stood Professor Fell in the glow of a double-tapered candelabra that sat atop his desk. The single-shot pistol that had delivered death to Martin lay next to it. The professor’s hollow-eyed face was blanched. His hand had been reaching for a book from the
wall shelves.
Fell’s gaze ticked to Matthew’s right.
If Matthew had not instantly recognized that as a signal, the crashing of the door against his right side might have broken his ribs. As it was, his shoulder was nearly dislocated from its socket when he threw up his sword arm to deflect the blow.
He staggered across the room, his arm buzzing with pain, as Mother Deare came out from behind the door. Her pegteeth were tightly clenched, the muscles in her jaws twitching, and her bulbous-eyed face was contorted into a soundless shriek. Without hesitation she threw herself at him. Her ivory-handled dagger—the blade, Matthew realized, given to him by Albion—was upraised for a killing strike.
He tried to get his sword in between them but his arm was too heavy. She knocked the feeble attempt aside with her own free arm, and the knife came down at Matthew’s throat. He caught the wrist and hammered at her ribs with the hilt of his sword as they careened about the room. A pink-gloved fist struck Matthew in the jaw and shot crimson stars through his brain. He desperately hung onto the woman’s wrist as they battled back and forth. Suddenly she headbutted him with the vicious strength of the back alley brawler and he was knocked to the floor, his lights nearly extinguished.
She lumbered toward him, a mistress of monstrous power.
In his haze he realized he was dead if he didn’t act fast. He swung the sword at her ankles but she leaped over it to slam a boot down upon his forearm. His fingers spasmed and opened. As Mother Deare leaned over to pick up the sword he brought his hips up off the floor and kicked her in the face with his right foot. She went flailing away from him and crashed into the bookshelves, as Professor Fell cringed back toward the shelves that held his jars of preserved marine specimens.
Matthew got to his feet. His right arm was bruised, throbbing with pain, and useless. Mother Deare pushed herself away from the bookshelves. Her mouth was bleeding and the cottony cloud of her wig was dangling halfway off her head. Matthew could see the horrible patchwork of dark red and brown scar tissue on her scalp, and even in this fight for his life he felt a twinge of pity for a little girl that he thought had never had a chance. But now in the revelation of her insanity her father had come for her, and in obeying him she had put herself even beyond Fell’s brand of wickedness.
Part of the wig was hanging in her face. She tore it away from its fastenings and threw it on the floor. It landed between them like the hide of a skinned little dog. She wiped the blood from her mouth and advanced upon Matthew with the dagger making small circles in the air.
Matthew saw that Fell was reaching for a jar amid the specimen shelves. To keep Mother Deare’s attention he did the only thing that came to mind; he stabbed the wig with his sword and lifted it off the floor.
Mother Deare stopped, her bulging eyes large and her warped mouth gone crooked.
Matthew put the wig at the end of his sword to the burning tapers on Fell’s desk, and the hair instantly began to crisp and burn.
She screamed, a big-knuckled hand flying to her throat as if to squeeze the scream off before it escaped…but too late.
Perhaps it came from a childhood place, and a memory of her own hair crisping away. Perhaps it came from the memory of the burn, or the memory of her own deranged mother, or the fact that without her wig the crude Whitechapel brawler stood fully revealed to the world, and the shame of what she really was came suddenly up like a beast to eat her alive.
Who could say? But it was the most terrible scream Matthew had ever heard.
“Miriam,” said Professor Fell, and when her head turned toward him he flung into her eyes the liquid from the specimen jar he’d just opened.
Whether it was alcohol, or brine, or some mixture of the two was unknown to Matthew, but the solution carried with it a twisted white squid that for a few seconds plastered itself to Mother Deare’s forehead. Her scream changed from outrage to a higher pitch of pain. Her free hand went to her eyes, but she held onto the knife and suddenly became a frenzied whirlwind, spinning this way and that, the blade slashing wildly in all directions. Blinded or not, she propelled herself toward Professor Fell. He was nimble enough to dodge the first swings of the dagger but then her hand found and caught the shoulder of his coat. With an animalish roar she lifted the knife to plunge it into his chest.
Before Matthew could move, a figure rushed past him. In the blur of motion he saw a pistol’s barrel being pressed against the side of the madwoman’s head, and the sharp crack of the shot was followed by Mother Deare’s brain matter spraying across the specimen shelves.
The knife at its zenith was halted by a hand that gripped the wrist. Mother Deare’s knees buckled, her squat body began to fall, and Julian Devane let her go.
She crashed to the floor. Incredibly, even brain shot, she pulled her knees up beneath her and tried to rise again. Both Professor Fell and Devane drew back through the blue smoke curling across the room, and Matthew saw in their faces the stark expressions of fear, that the woman’s lifeforce was powerful enough to keep her moving with deadly purpose even with a bloody hole in her scarred skull.
She almost got up to a full standing position. Her bloodshot eyes appeared to be near bursting from her face. From her mouth came the mangled words that sounded like the voice of a child crying out as she tumbled into a bottomless pit.
Then she went down again in front of Fell and Devane, her chin smacked against the floor, she shuddered a few times and at last lay still.
No one moved.
Matthew realized he was trembling, and he fully expected Mother Deare to draw in a breath and begin to rise again, a braindead phoenix energized by the strength of her ambition and the strange love she had for Cardinal Black.
But…she was gone.
Fell staggered. He put a hand against the nearest wall to steady himself. He gazed around the study and said listlessly, “Look at this terrible mess.”
“You can drop that sword,” Devane said to Matthew.
Matthew was still stunned. He looked at the sword and at the burning wig impaled upon it.
“I suggest,” said Devane, “that you drop the sword now.”
Matthew heard him as if at a distance. It came to him that Devane’s pistol was another single-shot weapon and could not be reloaded fast enough to defend against the blade. Devane had a purple knot on his forehead above the right eye, a mottling of bruises across his left cheekbone and a show of blood from a split lower lip, indicating he’d endured his own travails elsewhere in the village.
Could the man be taken?
Matthew decided he was in no shape for any further combat. And what would the point of that be?
He dropped the sword.
“Ribbenhoff is dead. Not by my hand,” he said. “The man Mother Deare was working with…he calls himself Cardinal Black. He came to the hospital…”
“The hospital?” Fell’s sense of urgency had returned.
“He took Gentry’s book,” Matthew went on, and he had to lower himself into one of the chairs before he lost his own equilibrium. “That’s what all this was about. Somehow Cardinal Black convinced Mother Deare to help him break in here and get the book. She’s been telling him where the Velvet was stored, too.”
“The formulas,” said the professor. “With those in hand, and the botanicals he needs…he won’t be able to recreate the more exotic drugs, but…” He stared down at the dead woman’s body.
“My oldest and most trusted associate. Why did I not see this?”
Matthew noted that Devane remained tight-lipped at this question. “Time moves on,” Matthew said, recalling that Gardner Lillehorne had spoken this exact phrase to him in discussing the rebirth of the criminal element of London beyond Professor Fell’s influence.
The professor grasped Devane’s shoulder. “Thank you, Julian. How goes the situation?”
“They’ve cleared out. We’ve caught three of the horsemen who blew up the gate and we have two of the turncoats. Otherwise we took many casualties. Among them Co
peland, Fenna, Leighton and McGowan.”
“We have five tongues to make talk, though.”
“Yes sir.”
“Start that at once. Strip them and have them tied up in the square. Do we have enough men left to do that and put on watch?”
“Guinnessey had a wagon pulled up to block the way in, if they try coming back. I think we have nine men able to shoulder muskets.”
“Not very many.”
“Cardinal Black has what he came for,” said Matthew, who was fighting against a terrible weariness. “One thing, at least.”
“Meaning what?” Fell asked sharply.
“Mother Deare came here for two reasons. To kill you and to get a second book. The one you were reaching for when I came in. Had she just gotten here a moment before? I imagine I made some noise trying to get around Martin’s body.”
“We both heard you on the stairs. She likely thought it might be Julian, the same as I.”
Matthew nodded. “The demoniac,” he said, “wanted as his second prize the book of descriptions of demons and spells on how to raise them. Tell me, Professor…what does The Lesser Key of Solomon have to do with Ciro Valeriani?” When Fell didn’t answer, Matthew said, “He created something in his laboratory that Rosabella told me he tried to destroy, but it wouldn’t let him. What was it?”
Fell remained in silent contemplation for a bit longer, and then he said, “The girl is incorrect. Ciro Valeriani did not create it in his laboratory. From what I’ve gleaned, he created it in his workshop. It is not an object of science.”
“All right, then. What is it?”
“It’s an object,” said the professor, “of furniture.”
“What? A chair that tells fortunes? And it ran away from him when he tried to put an axe to it?”
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