“Yes, sir.” She watched as the physician turned the key in the brass lock. He returned it to his pocket, and they began to walk down a long, tiled corridor. The entire ward was illuminated by electric lighting, and the floor and wall tiles shone like white mirrors.
“The room on the right contains one of our newest patients. This ward is for a special type of ailment, but I believe you strong enough of mind to see them as pitiable rather than monstrous.”
She wondered what he could mean by this strange statement, but wanting to make a favourable impression, O’Sullivan nodded. “My own sister sometimes suffers from epilepsy, sir, and I would never think her monstrous.”
He nodded, pleased with her reply. “That is one reason I recommended you for this duty, Miss O’Sullivan. Now, be very quiet as we enter. You will notice the lighting is subdued inside the rooms. We find that men with this affliction suffer from light sensitivity.”
He led her into the shadowy cell. She could make out the shape of a large bed, much longer and wider than the ones on the other wards. It had rails along the sides like a crib, but there was no bedside table.
“May I ask, sir, where the medical supplies are kept? I see no table or closet,” she whispered.
“We endeavour to remove all items that might prove—let us say useful to these gentlemen.”
There was no window, but a dim bulb burned in one corner, near the ceiling, casting ominous shadows across the gleaming tiles. “Hello, Mr. Ascot. How do you feel this evening?” Kepler asked.
A large man lay upon the bed. He wore no clothing, but a thin sheet covered him, from the waist to his feet. As her eyes accommodated to the low light, Bridget noticed the man had a large cranium and jaw, and that his ears appeared unnaturally pointed. His eyes were closed, but his face and even earlobes were covered in coarse hair.
Kepler looked at his new student. “You observe his deformations? They are normal for this malady of the mind. These men reach a point where their ancestral, evolutionary forms begin to emerge. They can be quite violent at times, particularly if moonlight touches their skin or enters the eyes. That is why we keep them below ground, for here there are no windows that permit the mischievous moon to enter.”
“Can he hear us?”
“That is a good question, Miss O’Sullivan. Yes, he can, though he looks to be asleep, does he not? He is, in fact, in a strange state of twilight rest. Our medications maintain this state. It is the safest condition for him, and for us.”
“How does he eat, then, sir? And—well, there are bodily functions which must surely require a waking state.”
“Astute observations, my dear. We once thought so, too. However, these men are capable of enduring many weeks without food, water, or other bodily functions, as you appropriately call it. In some ways, it seems to me that a return to a more natural, ancestral state is a boon. His nutritional requirements are minimal, yet his strength when awake is that of ten men. We hope to learn more through microscopic study of the blood, but so far the answer eludes us.”
“What is that?” she asked, pointing to a strange shadow on his chest. “A birth mark?”
“No, it is our way of keeping track of them. These men have a strong tendency towards natural states, which is why he wears no sleeping shirt or dressing gown. We’ve tried many times to enforce this, but they always tear them off, leaving the clothing in shreds as they howl and scream. It is my belief that the clothing burns those so afflicted.”
“How terrible!” she said, genuinely pitying the man. “So, he would remove any identification as well?”
“Quite so. Therefore, we tattoo each whilst under anaesthetic. If the symbols make no sense to you, do not despair. It is our own system. We keep a roster of each man’s name and the symbol. You will find the roster in the porter’s office. All records must remain in the ward. You must never, I repeat never remove any item from this ward. To do so, would mean immediate dismissal.”
Bridget recognised the need for security and patient privacy. “Of course, sir. I’ll follow all the rules.”
“I know you will. Now, we shall leave Mr. Ascot to his twilight sleep and continue to each room and patient until we finish. I want you to note each man’s characteristics and when you begin your own visits with them, you must record any new alterations. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir. Quite clear.”
“Very good. You’ll do well here, Bridget. Dr. Collins was wise to see your potential. Now, our next patient is a Mr. Brightman…”
Bridget followed, her mind still fixed upon the hideous man sleeping in room number one. His ears and size were enough to frighten, but what disturbed her most was the blood—just a small, caked stain at the corner of his mouth.
The creature known at Castor Asylum as Mr. Thirteen gazed at himself in the long, cheval mirror. “Is that me?” he asked Vasily.
“It is, indeed, you, sir. Prince Anatole awaits downstairs. He hopes to introduce you to the others.”
“The others? Are they also patients?” he asked, resisting the urge to scratch at the clothing.
“They are guests. If you will follow me, sir?”
The Russian butler led the hybrid creature down a magnificent staircase and into a grand parlour, where a man with a curved spine played a stringed musical instrument, held betwixt his knees. A giant man with six fingers on one hand sat nearby, talking with two women. A third man, stout and round-shouldered, glanced at Thirteen as he entered the room. Instinctively, his nose twitched, and he bared his teeth.
“None of that, Mr. Stanley,” Romanov commanded as he strode towards the doorway. “Do come in, Mr. Thirteen. You find us enjoying Count Riga’s cello. Allow me to introduce you to our company. May I use your true name, rather than that impersonal designation?”
Thirteen trembled. He could smell the perfume of the women, their soap, hear the crisp rustle of their skirts as they moved. Something within his mind spoke of blood and mayhem. “I don’t deserve a man’s name,” he told his host.
“Nonsense! Of course, you do. Our Mr. Stanley was once known as Mr. Seven. He escaped his fetters several months ago. His captors were also yours, but neither of you will ever see those cruel corridors again.”
Thirteen’s teeth clenched. “I hate those men.”
Former CID detective Elbert Stanley crossed the room and shook the newcomer’s hand. “As do I,” he said. “Each day, the memories grow a little more dim. You’ll soon begin to mend, my friend. Cast off the impersonal designation those hateful scientists gave you and reclaim your true name!”
Thirteen’s face contorted as he struggled to recall it. Tears filled his eyes, and he lowered his head in shame. “I have no name.”
“But you do, my dear friend. You do! Prince Anatole will uncover it, though it is likely he already knows it. His Highness is most informed.”
Turning to Romanov, the pitiful hybrid’s eyes grew round as he wiped at them. “Do you know my name, sir?”
“I do. It is David Anderson. You once worked in a great house as a trusted and much beloved footman. Do you remember any of that?”
“No, my lord.”
Ida Ross crossed the room and touched Anderson’s hairy hand. “Welcome to Istseleniye House, Mr. Anderson. I’m Ida Ross. This other lady is Miss Brona Kilmeade. Count Riga is our cellist, and that is Mr. Blinkmire near the fireplace. We are all of us outcasts of one sort or another. Despite our many and varied sins, the prince makes room for one and all.”
Anderson slowly moved forward into the room, bowing slightly to Kilmeade. “A pleasure, Miss. Where is this place, my lord?” he asked the prince.
Romanov took a glass of punch from a tray and handed it to Anderson. “This house has been in my family for over two hundred years. It lies beyond the reach of those who pursue you. In time, they will forget all about you, David, and you may then choose a new path for your
self.”
“They did things to me,” he whispered, looking down at his hands. “I used to be old.”
“As was Mr. Stanley, but the youthful aspects of your altered selves will not depart once the treatments are complete. As I say, a new life lies ahead.”
“Treatments?” he asked, nervously. “You’re not going to inject me like those doctors did? Hurt me?”
“Not at all,” the prince assured him. “The doctors you knew sought to change your humanity. Our therapy will return it to you.”
“The medicine is but a powder, dissolved in water,” Stanley explained. “Once every hour at first, then thrice a day; becoming less frequent over time. I take mine but once a day now. My last turning occurred only recently—a slight relapse due to a failed dosage, but the prince was very kind to me, despite my actions.” He glanced at Ross, who nodded in understanding. “The cravings can make you mad, but Luna’s rays no longer hurt me or cause me to fear. Isn’t that remarkable?”
“Does it always work?”
“It always works,” Romanov assured him. “Mr. Stanley’s failed dosage, as he puts it, was caused by the deliberate interference of someone who no longer resides here. Now, let us enjoy Count Riga’s music, shall we? Ida, I would speak with you for a moment.”
She left the room along with the prince, and the two of them withdrew to a small parlour on the opposite side of the great house.
“Sir?”
“Mr. Sinclair has found your letter, and it has worried him terribly. He now looks for your body in the river, but prays it is not there—that you are alive and unharmed.”
“That is kind of him. Did he obtain the list?” she asked, her hands twisting nervously.
“He did. Your help to him is immeasurable. Does this make you happy?”
“I suppose it does,” she replied softly. “I wish I could see him once more, to let him know I am alive.”
“Not yet,” Romanov told her, cupping her chin gently. “But soon. Now, would you play hostess to our household? I’ve a call to make on an old friend. She, too, requires rescue.”
He kissed her cheek, and his lips felt like velvet. Ida watched the prince leave the house, and in seconds, the black coach disappeared from view.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Thursday evening – Queen Anne House
Charles entered the library and found the earl in deep discussion with Michael Emerson. “No one told me you’d arrived, Michael. I was just upstairs with Elizabeth.”
“And is she better?” the physician asked.
“Much. I assume you’re here to examine her again.”
“Not unless she requires it. I promised to report back after I spoke with Price. I met with George this morning.”
“Did he offer insight regarding Beth’s mother and these purported miscarriages that Tory mentioned?”
“May I speak freely?”
“Charles, should I leave the two of you to speak in private?” Aubrey asked as Miles and a footman entered with refreshments. The earl held the door whilst the footman carried in the second of the two large trays, nabbing a small sandwich from a plate and nibbling on it. “Oh, this is made from that scrumptious pork roast Mrs. Smith served at supper tonight. Michael, you must try one.”
“I’m not really hungry, but a cup of tea would be welcome.”
Charles added a sandwich and two small cakes to a plate whilst the efficient butler poured wine. “Just half a glass. Thank you, Miles. We can take care of ourselves, gentlemen. Thank you both. Has our uncle left?”
“He departed an hour ago, sir, in company with Lady Adele and Lady Victoria.”
“Tory and Della aren’t staying here tonight?” he asked the earl.
“Tory has last minute plans to make with James, and Della wanted to help. Both promised to return before eleven.”
“Did Granger go along?”
“He did, my lord,” the butler interjected. “As did Powers. Both are well armed, of course—per your orders, sir.”
“That’s a relief,” Sinclair answered. “Miles, would you make certain we’re not disturbed? Unless, of course, the duchess needs us.”
“Certainly, Lord Haimsbury,” the butler said. Both he and the footman left.
Charles locked the door to assure privacy.
“You’ve spoken to Price?” he asked the doctor once they all sat around a circular table near the fireplace.
Emerson nodded. “Yes, I had an enlightening conversation with that noble gentleman. He is a wealth of medical knowledge, and I hope to learn much from his experience. I asked him about the late duchess, if she had indeed lost children prior to Elizabeth’s birth. Price told me that it was so, and that each loss puzzled him.”
Aubrey sat opposite his cousin. “Tory told me that she’d spoken to you about those miscarriages, Michael. I’d wondered if that might be what you planned to discuss with my cousin.”
“You knew about them?” Sinclair asked, dumbfounded. “And you said nothing to me?”
Wiping crumbs of the sandwich from his mouth, Aubrey poured a shot of whiskey into a small glass. “Forgive me, Charles, it never occurred to me to mention it. Tory told me about it last summer, and I asked Price about it myself soon after. He used that same phrase: that the miscarriages puzzled him.”
“How is it the miscarriages puzzled him, Michael?” Sinclair asked, clearly worried. “Medically, you mean?”
“Yes, medically, but also personally, I think. Here is what he told me, and if you have occasion to speak with Price directly, I suggest you do so. As a detective, it’s possible you would find clues, where I miss them, but here is how I understand it. Lord Aubrey, feel free to speak, if my sequence of events is incorrect, or if you have additional information I lack.”
Paul nodded. “I shall.”
Emerson continued. “Patricia Linnhe married Connor Stuart, the duke’s son, in December of ‘61.”
“December the tenth,” the earl added. “Beth was born in April of ’68.”
“Yes,” Emerson said. “Price tells me that the duchess became pregnant within a few months of her marriage, and that, at first, she carried the child with no sign of difficulty. She took care with her diet, refrained from strenuous activities, and avoided distressing situations. In short, she did everything right. Regardless, in the sixth month, in the fall of ‘62, the duchess miscarried a son. You can imagine, I’m sure, how this grieved both parents, for Price tells me that Connor Stuart was a tender-hearted, good man, much like yourselves, gentlemen. The second pregnancy was announced the following summer, in late August. To assure success, the late earl—Connor Stuart held the courtesy title of Earl of Kesson, I’m told...”
“Yes, that’s correct,” Paul interjected.
Emerson nodded. “Yes, well, Lord Kesson hired a live-in nurse, a woman of superior reputation and extensive medical experience, who kept watch over Patricia’s diet, activities, and even over the her visitors. This may sound extreme, but it is not uncommon in such situations. As I said, this was in late August or thereabouts that the happy news was shared with the staff, and at that time the duchess anticipated delivery in March the following year—in ‘64. She miscarried on the very day of her wedding anniversary in ‘63.”
“Another son,” Charles said, his imagination picturing the beautiful Patricia Linnhe Stuart and her Scottish laird mourning yet another dead child.
“Quite so. Now, Price is not sure of this, for he did not directly examine the duchess, but his fellow surgeon, a man named Wilkes, who was keeping watch over Price’s patients whilst he and Mrs. Price attended a family wedding in France, told him what occurred. It was late summer of ‘66, and the nurse still lived and worked at Branham, and Wilkes had stopped by to see if the duchess or anyone on the estate required his services. The nurse, a woman named Moira Stopes, refused to grant him entry to her lady’
s bedroom.”
“What? That’s nonsense!” Aubrey shouted.
“Yes, it is, but this nurse had gained considerable authority in her time at Branham, and there are certain personalities that refuse to relinquish power, even when commonsense requires it. Wilkes tried several times over the following weeks to see the duchess, and each time, he was refused entry. The staff begged him to send word to Dr. Price, for they were convinced the nurse had assumed an unnatural influence. The earl, you see, was serving in Constantinople at the time, and since he’d hired her, only he could dismiss her. The staff thought if Price wrote to the earl, saying that the woman posed a danger to the duchess, then Lord Kesson would return home and intervene.”
Charles smiled, thinking of the staff at Elizabeth’s country estate. “Michael, when you meet Mr. Baxter and Mrs. Alcorn, you will appreciate that story all the more.”
“I look forward to it,” Emerson answered. “A few weeks passed, and Price returned and heard his colleague’s tale. Immediately, both physicians called upon the duchess. Now, this is what most disturbs me, Charles. The nurse had decamped, leaving no word to explain her absence or inappropriate behaviour. The duchess, however, was found in a deplorable state—her health endangered, her mind a shambles, and showing signs of a very recent miscarriage.”
Charles was shocked. “Connor had no ability to restrain this devilish woman?”
“He knew nothing of it. It was only Price’s subsequent letter to the late earl that broke the news. Connor Stuart had returned to his posting four months earlier, and when he’d left, the duchess had been well and healthy. Had he been told of his wife’s condition, I feel certain he would have booked passage on the first steamer back to England. But there is more. Price interviewed everyone in the house, trying to determine if anyone had known of the duchess’s third pregnancy. The lady’s maid had been denied entry for many weeks, and she could give no reply, but she had suspected. Mrs. Chambers, who served as housekeeper at that time, said she was sure the duchess had been pregnant, for she’d asked for foods she had previously requested during earlier pregnancies. Many women have such cravings, and in most cases, it is best to satisfy these whims. However, this observant housekeeper had noticed one other thing. It was a strange herb that the nurse sometimes mixed into the duchess’s tea.”
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