A Taste for Monsters

by Matthew J. Kirby

  I decided to risk the hour, thinking he might be awake in his sleeplessness, and strode in the direction of his quarters through the utterly quiet and lonely courtyard. On the streets, I’d made it a habit to avoid such empty places, for they seldom truly were, and I felt a familiar apprehension unsettling my nerves as I recalled the haunted Northanger Abbey. The sound of my footsteps echoed up the walls and along the east wing, and the shadows of broken bed frames clawed upward around me. I hurried my pace and had nearly reached Mr. Merrick’s door when the sight of something stopped me.

  A woman stood absolutely still at the top of his stairs, her back toward me, pale as a statue. I had no idea where she might have come from so suddenly. I had heard no other footsteps in the courtyard but mine.

  “H-hello?” I called to her.

  She ignored me.

  As I drew closer to her, my heart pounded. A sensation of wrongness scraped my bones and set a terrible ache in my jaw.

  She wore what might have been a wedding gown, though why she should be so dressed, in that place, at that hour, I could not say. She was short, perhaps five feet, and still she hadn’t turned toward me.

  I called to her again, and this time she turned her head slowly toward me. She was young, perhaps twenty years old, her skin like pale cambric, her eyes gray hollows filled with such sadness they stole my breath. I took a step backward, nearly choking. She then descended the cement stairs, without a sound, and Mr. Merrick’s door creaked opened without her touching it.

  “No,” I said, my voice weak. “You can’t—”

  She stepped through into the darkness and the door closed, leaving behind the unrelenting chill of a winter fog, though it was not yet autumn.

  I didn’t know what to do. I believed—I feared—that I’d just seen a ghost. I tried to tell myself I was wrong, that it must have sprung from the novel I’d been reading to Mr. Merrick, as well as Becky’s suggestion. But I had no other explanation for what I’d seen, nor for what I had felt.

  I resolved to go into Mr. Merrick’s room to make sure he was safe, although that was the last thing I wanted to do. For several moments, I couldn’t make my feet obey and move a single step. By the time I did reach the top of the stairs, a new doubt arose and weakened my intention.

  I heard Becky’s voice echo in my mind. Men are all the same, ain’t they?

  There was another possibility, more believable than a ghost. I wondered if I had simply witnessed a clandestine tryst between Mr. Merrick and a willing young woman. Though I found the idea scandalous, it seemed possible that for the right price he might be able to pay for certain services. His musician friend, Charles, could no doubt arrange such a thing. If that were the case, I most assuredly did not want to enter his room and witness it. So I stepped away from the staircase, desperate to believe the woman I had seen was actually flesh and bone.

  Rather than go back to my room, I went instead into the main hospital, with my face hidden behind my shawl, and passed the silent, sleeping wards of the east wing, into the main entry and receiving room. There, I beheld and smelled some of the aftermath of the dock fire. Porters and scrubbers worked on cleaning blood and black from the floors, while a few of the conflagration’s more fortunate, less injured victims still waited for treatment, many of them lascars. There was a blood-streaked midwife there, a leathery old hag with a frown that would drive a saint to confession, and I wondered if a pregnant woman had somehow been caught up in the accident. As I walked over to the attending nurse’s desk, my shawl slipped open, and the midwife gasped.

  “That’s a pretty scar you’ve got,” she said, her voice a croak.

  I ignored her and spoke to the attendant. “Excuse me, is Miss Doyle somewhere nearby?”

  “She is quite busy,” the nurse said, eyes bruised with exhaustion. “And has been all night.”

  “I know,” I said, but felt my position depended upon my speaking to her before she went to the matron. “I must speak with her about Mr. Merrick.”

  “Oh,” the nurse said, leaning back. I’d gambled on the effect of his name and won, for she clearly did not want to deal with matters relating to the Elephant Man. “In that case, I best get her for you. Wait here.” She left me and went into one of the examination rooms. A moment later, she returned with Miss Doyle.

  “Yes, Miss Fallow?” Miss Doyle said, followed by the kind of sigh that left no breath inside her. Her apron below her bosom had not a bit of white showing and had gone rigid with blood.

  “Miss Doyle,” I said. “I wanted to speak to you about Mr. Merrick.”

  She blinked, as if bringing me into focus. “Mr. Merrick?”

  “Yes. I must apologize. Last night, I didn’t mean—”

  “Stop.” She closed her bloodshot eyes and laid the back of her hand against her glistening forehead. “Have you not looked around you? Do you not suppose there are more important matters to worry about?”

  “I … I’m sorry. It’s just that—”

  “Evelyn, listen to me. I was angry with you, I admit, but after the night we’ve all just had, I am tired, and I’ve lost any inclination to carry the matter further.”

  “Truly?” I stepped toward her in gratitude and relief. “Thank you, Miss Doyle, I—”

  “Though your coming here, taking me away from my patients, is most inappropriate. My inclination might easily change. If you fail again in the least regard, the matron shall hear of it. Do we have an understanding?”

  “Yes, we do, and I’m ever so grateful—”

  “Good.” She shook her head. “I must get back.” And she left without another word.

  I stood there a moment longer, and then ventured out into the hospital’s gardens feeling slightly stunned at my fortunes. The shy sun had finally allowed a blush of first light, and I strolled among the flower beds until it reached a full glow, feeling a tremendous relief that I would not be sacked. At least, not yet. But I was now indebted to Miss Doyle, and that was a condition I had never before permitted myself. Debts were dangerous.

  I waited until I felt it safe to return to Mr. Merrick’s room, and even then I knocked before entering. I found him alone, abed in much the same state as every other morning I’d gone to him, but he nevertheless appeared differently to me now, and I trusted less in his innocence. Even so, I apologized to him for the way I’d fled his room the night before.

  “I don’t know what came over me,” I said. “I think it was the heat and steam from the bath, perhaps. I felt dizzy.”

  “That’s quite all right,” he said, yawning. “I’m just glad to see you are well. I worried about you.” A dourness weighed down his musical voice.

  “Thank you, Mr. Merrick.” I went to tend his fire, and when I’d finished with that, I turned back to him. “Shall I bring your breakfast?”

  “Thank you,” he said, yawning again.

  “You seem tired.” I was divided between wanting an answer to the question of his night visitor, and not wanting to know. By that point, I’d fully convinced myself the woman could not have been a spirit. “Did you … sleep well?”

  “Not so well, no.”

  “Oh?”

  “No. But perhaps tonight I shall not be disturbed.”

  “You were disturbed?” I thought that an odd choice of word for an assignation.

  “I—” He stopped and stared at the door for a moment. “Never mind. I’m well enough.”

  “Would you like to sleep longer? I could bring your breakfast at a later time.”

  “No, bring it now, please,” he said.

  He apparently did not want to speak of the young woman who’d entered his room, and I accepted that.

  “As you wish, Mr. Merrick.”

  He said nothing, and appeared to have withdrawn very far into his own thoughts, staring in my direction as I left his room, but not, it seemed, at me. Rather, his eyes were still fixed on the door.

  When I returned with his breakfast, I found Mr. Merrick still weighed under by a darkened spirit, an
d it did not lift from him as we went about the day’s routine of his bath—late, by an exhausted yet indefatigably cheerful Miss Doyle and Miss Flemming—and my changing his bedding. Afterward, when I asked if he’d like to resume our reading of Northanger Abbey, he quickly and firmly declined.

  “Very well,” I said. “Perhaps another day, then.”

  “No,” he said. “I find I’m not enjoying it as much as I’d hoped. You may return it to the library, with my apologies to Miss Austen.”

  “Very well,” I said, and put the novel aside. “What shall we do, then?”

  “Would you mind helping me with my card church?”

  “Not at all,” I said.

  So we went to the table and worked together on the cathedral he had partially assembled. It was a rather complicated model, with a central structure comprised of many delicate pieces, its six spires, with buttresses and windows, all printed with the color and lines of masoned stone. We sorted it all out, largely without speaking, and went to work folding and fixing the paper edges together with glue. During the process, I tried as much as possible to let Mr. Merrick handle the construction, and merely offered him assistance when he required a second hand. Before long, we had made some headway, having raised one of the towers, and it was time for me to fetch his luncheon.

  When I returned, I found Charles had come back to visit Mr. Merrick, and I greeted the violinist with apprehension and some irritation.

  “Miss Fallow,” he said, flashing that smile. “I was hoping to see you.”

  “Were you?” I said, keeping my back stiff and my voice even as I placed Mr. Merrick’s meal on the table.

  “Of course,” Charles said. “I thought I made my intentions clear the last time we spoke. Come, take off your scarf and enjoy some music. I was just about to play for Joseph here.”

  I hadn’t yet removed my shawl after my walk from the kitchens, and aside from Matron Luckes, no one had ever invited me to do so before. I’d long since learned that most people would rather I keep it in place, but I lowered it for Charles hesitantly, feeling exposed and somewhat disarmed by the casualness of his request.

  “This one’s called ‘Bloomsbury Square,’” he said, and proceeded to play and sing.

  I’m a good-natured fellow, pray let me confess,

  And I can’t bear to see a female in distress.

  While crawling up west a few weeks since, I met

  with a little adventure I’ll not soon forget …

  From there, the song told of how a rather gullible gentleman got swindled out of ten pounds by a woman claiming to have forgotten her purse at home—a home in Bloomsbury Square, naturally, at an address occupied only by an old codger—and he paid not only her cab fare but the cost of a new silk dress. I’d heard the song played in beer houses, and it was customary for the whole drunken lot inside to join discordantly in singing the chorus: “Bloomsbury Square! Bloomsbury Square!” Neither Mr. Merrick nor I did so, which was likely a disappointment to Charles.

  In fact, when the song ended, not only did Mr. Merrick not laugh, he sounded quite agitated. “Well, what—what happened to the young lady?” he asked.

  Charles chuckled. “She was given six months reflection by the law.”

  Mr. Merrick sputtered. “She went to jail?”

  “Of course, man!” Charles said. “That’s the point! You’d like it better if she got away with it?”

  “But surely there must have been some misunderstanding.” Mr. Merrick shook his head. “Perhaps the gentleman misunderstood the address she gave, or he failed to remember it correctly.”

  “She wrote it down for him,” Charles said. “The song said as much. Weren’t you listening?”

  “But—”

  “She swindled him! Trust me, there’s women will take your very last farthing and curse you for a miser whilst doing it.”

  “I can’t believe it,” Mr. Merrick said. He seemed genuinely affronted on behalf of the girl in the song. It endeared him to me once again, and I wondered if I’d been wrong in my suspicions. “Such a lovely young lady would never do a thing like that,” he said.

  “Suit yourself, my ugly bloke,” Charles said, pointing an accusing finger at Mr. Merrick. “But don’t you say I never did warn you about women.”

  “I doubt I’ll ever have cause to say that,” Mr. Merrick said. “For … many reasons. Some of which I think are quite obvious.”

  I heard a caged pain break through the bars of those last few words. I’d only truly learned for myself Mr. Merrick was a proper man the previous night, and just then I realized he was also quite aware that no woman would ever have him as such.

  “Easy, there, Joseph. Have a look at that there mantel.” Charles had let down his jolly bravado and now spoke gently. “You’ve got a treasure hoard of cards and lovelies would make any man green with envy, and you can count me one of ’em.”

  Mr. Merrick kept his eyes downward, clearly still frustrated. “I still think you got it wrong about the young lady in the song.”

  “Perhaps I did get it wrong.” Charles nodded with his nose pointed at the floor. “Perhaps I did. No stranger to mistakes am I, that’s for certain.” I’d heard the song before and knew he hadn’t mistaken its lyrics, but I appreciated his kindness to Mr. Merrick. “I’ll pick a better tune next time, eh?” Charles bent to put his violin away.

  “I meant no offense, Charles,” Mr. Merrick said.

  “Well, that lets me off the hook, then, ’cause I took none.” It seemed his bravado didn’t stay down for long. “’Til next time.”

  “Wait,” Mr. Merrick said. “Before you go … might I ask you a question?”

  “As sure as the river reeks,” he said. “Ask me.”

  “Do you believe in spirits?”

  The image of the pale woman crept into my imagination. The cold hollow in my chest returned at the memory of her, and Mr. Merrick’s question seemed to confirm my fears.

  “What?” Charles said. “Ghosts, you mean?”

  Mr. Merrick nodded. “Yes.”

  Charles rubbed his chin, and I heard the scratch of his stubble. “That’s an odd question,” he said. “I reckon I do. Them Spiritualists is mighty convincing.”

  “I see,” Mr. Merrick said. “Thank you. It was good to see you.”

  Charles blinked, then nodded. “Right. Pleasure to see you, too.” Then he turned to me. “Miss Fallow, might I have a word with you outside?”

  His request startled me a little, and I agreed before I’d given it a real thought. A moment later I stood outside with him on the cement stairs. “Yes, Mr. Weaver, what is—”

  “Call me Charles.”

  I could not help but give him a slight glare. “I have work to do,” I said. “What did you wish to speak with me about?”

  “First, you call me Charles.”

  His bravado had swelled to impudence. “You think you’re in a position to bargain?”

  He smiled. “I think you want to know why I asked you out here.”

  “Not particularly,” I said, though that wasn’t entirely true, but I refused to let him think he had got the better of me. “However, if calling you Charles will get me off these steps that much quicker, I’m happy to oblige.”

  “There, that weren’t so hard. That’s music to my ears, that is.”

  “But it’s a tune I fear is going out of fashion very soon.”

  “Then I best enjoy it whiles I can.” He removed his bowler cap with a flourish. “Do me the honor of walking with me this Sunday?”

  “I …” I had not expected that at all. “You mean …”

  “Surely I do. A walk to a park, or maybe even to church. Lord knows I could do with a spot of church. Afterward, perhaps we could eat some ice cream.”

  I didn’t know how to suppress the rising storm of panic and confusion inside me. Surely he mocked me, for why else would he ask me that? Yet his demeanor seemed earnest. Still, I could not fathom going with him anywhere, least of all out in the very streets I
’d come into the refuge of the hospital to escape. He would offer no protection from what I knew lay beyond the hospital walls.

  “No, thank you,” I said. “I’m afraid I must work.”

  “When you get your day off, then?”

  “It’s not just that. I don’t … go walking. With anyone.”

  “Why not?”

  He knew exactly why, and his feigned ignorance angered me. “Do not mock me.”

  “I’m not mocking you,” he said. “Upon my sivvy, I’m not.”

  My anger multiplied. “You are. You know very well why I don’t go walking about—”

  “Wear your shawl, then, if you like.”

  “No.” I turned away from him and descended the steps to Mr. Merrick’s door. “My answer is no, Mr. Weaver.”

  “Ah,” he said, frowning. “The song is ended.”

  I said nothing more as I opened the door and went back inside, where I breathed deeply and tried to hide my frightened and angry quivering, but Mr. Merrick noticed.

  “Are you all right, Evelyn?” he asked.

  “Yes, Mr. Merrick,” I said.

  “What did Charles want? Or is it impolite of me to ask?”

  “I take no offense at you, Mr. Merrick. He asked if I would go for a stroll with him.”

  He was silent for some time. “And will you?”

  “No.”

  “Because of your scars?”

  “Yes,” I said, though it was more complicated than that simple answer.

  “I should like to go walking, if I could. I used to walk about the hospital gardens at night, when I wouldn’t disturb anyone.”

  Charles had to realize what he was asking, and the easy way he’d asked it, as if it would be nothing for me, made me angry. Even if I’d had no ambivalence about him as a man, I had no desire to go strolling about to once again be the subject of ridicule and hatred. I decided to change the subject away from myself, toward the thing I wanted and yet feared to know.