Of Dubious Intent

by J. A. Sutherland

  Cat nodded again.

  Osraed grunted again, drank and passed the flask to her. Waited for her to pass it back, then, “Sounds a dangerous man.”

  “He is.”

  “He who came that night? He who killed Brandt? You’ve not said a’certain, but he’s dead, ain’t he?”

  Cat considered what to say. Osraed had never shown much of whether he liked Brandt or not, so did he want revenge? Would he agree to help her if he thought Roffe had done the killing?

  Finally, her mind settled on the thing Osraed said to her at the start, how she’d lied to him.

  “I killed Brandt,” she said.

  Osraed pursed his lips and drank again. “Hard or easy?”

  Cat thought about all the screams and whimpers in the dark. She turned her head, met Osraed’s gaze, and stared at him for a moment.

  “Hard.”

  Osraed’s eyes widened a bit.

  “You’re not Runt no more,” he said.

  “No, I’m not.” Cat accepted the flask and sipped again, the scent of apples in her nose. “You’re not the same Osraed I knew.”

  Osraed nodded to her chest. “Some things needed hiding under Brandt, I’ll admit.” He sighed. “I always thought, another year an’ that bastard’ll move up, you know? Marven tap him for some job — maybe he goes for the high jump and half the little ‘uns rejoice, but Brandt, damned if he didn’t like being the big fish in the little pond, see what I mean?”

  Cat nodded.

  “So, I did as I’m told,” Osraed said, “no matter what, and I wait. Now Brandt’s gone and Dome backs me, so I’m in charge.”

  “So, you lied to us all those years, Osraed? Playing the boy with rocks for brains?”

  The boy shook his head. “I never said I was stupid, Run —” He frowned. “What was it, Miss Catherine?”

  “It’ll do.”

  “All right, then, Miss Catherine. Like I was saying, I never said I was stupid — so no lie, see?”

  “If you say so.”

  Osraed drained the flask. “I do.”

  Cat nodded to it. “That’s not rough drink,” she said. “It must be nice at the top.”

  Osraed shot her a sideways look. “Brandt was a fool,” he said. “We’ve twice as much in the pile as when he was in charge. Brandt, he took near all of it as didn’t go to Marven, so the boys had to hold back some to eat — you remember?”

  Cat nodded.

  “But we were all afraid to hold back too much and if the rest just goes in the pile, then why bother bring in more than your share for Marven, eh?” Osraed chuckled. “Now I see they all see the split and its fair — so they work harder. More for them, more for Marven —” He tucked the flask back into his belt and smiled. “— more for me.”

  Cat thought she could almost like this new Osraed.

  “So we can work together?” she asked.

  “Aye, Miss Catherine, we’re yours — long as you have the coin.”

  Chapter 40

  Osraed was true to his word and the gang soon set about earning more of Cat’s coin.

  She dipped into her dwindling cache again and again over the next fortnight to keep them at it, but their reports soon gave her a decent idea of Roffe’s comings and goings from the club where he kept rooms. Perhaps he cared more for the company there than at the townhouse, but he spent no more nights in his own home now than he had while Cat was there with Clanton — visiting only seldomly, Cat assumed to work on some device.

  There was, though, no sign of Emma anywhere. Neither Roffe nor Clanton, who was also shadowed by the gang, went anywhere near a sniff of the girl.

  It was morning when Cat decided to confront Roffe and the street outside his club was bustling with activity already. Cat rode in a hired carriage, followed at a distance by another containing Osraed, who was decked out in new clothes Cat had dubbed the Poor Lord’s Son. Shabby and several seasons out of fashion, but good enough to be hiring carriages without the driver worrying about the fare.

  She alighted quickly, not waiting for either the driver or the club’s doorman to open the carriage door and put down the steps — instead she flung it open herself and hopped down.

  She wore the Parson’s Niece, no longer the Orphaned Daughter, though she was herself for the most part — the conservative cut and dark color lent her the necessary gravity, she thought.

  The doorman, caught with his hand extended and smacked with the flung open carriage door, took several steps back in surprise, which allowed Cat the opportunity to walk swiftly — not running or dashing, but purposefully and brooking no interruption, as the Parson’s Niece would in searching out some parishioner in need of a lecture.

  She was into the club before the doorman could recover and the door swung shut behind her.

  Inside, the club was all dim lights and dark woods, just as she’d suspected from glimpses of the male-dominated studies she’d had at the parties Roffe took her to.

  The entry hall had a marbled floor and the heels of her shoes set off a sharp echo, the pace of which never altered or slowed as she strode forward.

  A suited majordomo or other servant of some kind widened his eyes and rushed toward her.

  “Miss? Miss! May I help you?”

  “I seek my uncle, Mister Edward Roffe, is he in?”

  Cat saw the man’s eyes cut toward a particular door and she started that way before he could begin to answer.

  “Mister Roffe is in the Reading Room,” he said, “but —” He struggled to keep up with her, his feet on the marble adding a shuffling, desperate counter-beat to her own. “Miss! Ladies are not allowed in the —”

  He broke off as Cat made the Reading Room door and strode through with no hesitation. His voice lowered to a hissing whisper as he followed along.

  “Ladies are not permitted in the club, Miss Roffe!”

  The Reading Room was perhaps half full of men in heavy, leather, wingback chairs, all set about in groups of two or four around low tables, with carefully shaded lamps casting pools of light for each reader. Coffee cups clacked against saucers, newspapers crinkled and snapped as they were read and folded, the low murmur of some few conversations filled the room for an instant as Cat entered, then silenced as heads turned to observe her, eyes widened, and all action stilled.

  Cat ignored them. She caught sight of Roffe, made her way to him — also ignoring the increasingly urgent pleas of the majordomo — and sat herself in the chair opposite him.

  “Mister Roffe, please,” the majordomo whispered. “Inform your niece that she is not permitted in the club.”

  “Please excuse us this one time, Franklin,” Roffe said, voice calm. “I’m sure my niece would not disturb us so if it were not an urgent matter.”

  The majordomo’s throat worked as though there were a great many words caught there and in need of swallowing.

  “A few minutes, only, I assure you,” Roffe said.

  The servant clenched his jaw, nodded once, then backed away.

  Around them, the sounds of the Reading Room began to resume, though fewer and more muted.

  Roffe smiled thinly. “Catherine.”

  “Father.”

  “Good of you to come, it’s been too long without word. Are you well?”

  “Where is she?” Cat demanded.

  “Who?”

  “You know who, damn you!”

  “The maid do you mean? Have you lost her?” Roffe shrugged. “Perhaps she’s run off with someone — the lower classes, you know. Can’t trust them.”

  They sat in silence for a moment, Roffe smiling his infuriating smile and Cat’s mind working on how to get any information from him at all. She’d hoped to throw him off by confronting him here, but he was unshaken.

  “What do you want of me?” she tried instead.

  “You know what I want of you, Catherine.”

  Cat shook her head. “I won’t return to you.”

  “That’s what your mother said, and look what happened to her.
I will not allow you to defy me, Catherine. You are mine, as she was, and nothing, no one, will deprive me of what is mine.”

  She stayed silent then lowered her eyes to her lap and let her shoulders slump. Perhaps if she appeared to give in —

  “And if I do? Return, I mean.”

  Roffe shrugged. “I suppose that all will return to as it was.”

  “So, she’s alive?” Cat asked. “Emma?”

  “Alive?” Roffe snorted. “Of course — so long as she’s of value to me, of course. I’m surprised it’s taken you so long to come for her — perhaps she is surprised, as well.”

  Cat ignored his dig. “And she’s well, you’ve not harmed her?”

  “Harmed? Far from it, she’s getting the best of care for her affliction.”

  “Affliction?” Cat asked, her blood running cold. What had Roffe done?

  “That … aberration of hers.” Roffe’s eyes narrowed. “There’s a physician I know who has the most ingenious theories for the cure of that.”

  Cat’s blood chilled, but she kept enough of her senses to wonder why Roffe would tell her that. The information had been got too easily — she could find the doctor, find where Emma was kept.

  “Because it won’t matter,” Roffe said, answering her unspoken question. “You’ll find her and run again, yes?” He shrugged. “Very well. I will find you again. You’re not your mother, Catherine — not a bit. Too much of me in you. The taste of the mechanicals will call you — and I’ll find you. You’ll have need of money, for you’ve far finer tastes, now you’ve had a bit of finery to yourself, than you can bear to part with, so you’ll pull a job for more coin — and I’ll find you.” His smile widened. “You’ll feel the urge, girl, to set yourself and take from others, even if you don’t need the coin just then. You’ll make an excuse for it, any excuse to feel that rush — and I’ll find you.”

  He wasn’t wrong, she knew. They’d had enough for a year or more — far more if she’d stopped buying in parts for her mechanicals — before she’d made that last trip. They hadn’t really needed the coin, but she’d wanted the freedom and feeling of setting herself to beat some closely guarded thing and take it.

  “I’ll find you,” Roffe repeated, “and do worse to teach you not to run. And again, and again, and again — for however long it’s needed, until you realize that you cannot escape. You are mine, and I will not let you go, girl.”

  Chapter 41

  Poking stick? Poking stick, miss, just a tuppence!”

  Cat brushed the boy aside and moved forward with the others, about three dozen, who wished to tour the facility this afternoon. Most were men, but there were several other women, so Cat didn’t feel too out of place. She ignored another youth selling bottles of water with which to spray the inhabitants.

  The building before her, Bethlem Royal Hospital, was imposing, and disturbing to look at, with walls that seemed to tilt slightly off true.

  There was talk of a new site and a new building, but for now, the building itself reflected those within.

  Up ahead there was an uproar in the line.

  “What do you mean I can’t enter?” a man was saying. “I tell you I had a ticket just here! Signed by Governor Rhodes of your board!”

  The line shuffled to a halt. Little Garwin, the boy she’d terrorized on the gang’s rooftop, hurried by, a pack of sticks in one arm and the other hand just brushing Cat’s to pass off a folded bit of paper.

  The first stick seller put a hand out to stop him, but Garwin merely handed the other boy his bundle and ran off.

  “No! I tell you I had it just here in my pocket this morning. It must have —”

  Cat could see a pair of attendants in white uniforms. One shook his head, but she couldn’t make out his words.

  “We will see about this! You’ll hear from Governor Rhodes, my good man, I assure you!”

  The line resumed moving forward as the angry man made his way past them back the other way, face red and muttering he gave the stick-seller a shove that put the boy on his backside and continued on without a backward glance.

  Cat reached the front and handed the paper over to the attendant.

  “Right this way, miss,” he said after reading it. “And please let me know if there’s anything else I can do for you. Would you like a stick? I’ll get you one complimentary, if you like.”

  “No, thank you,” Cat said.

  “Well, anything a’tall you’d like, you just let us know, yes?”

  Cat smiled. “I will.”

  He ushered her in, and she heard him mutter to his partner behind her. “Have’ta be especial nice to them signed by Governor Rhodes today — just in case.”

  The state of the building grew worse as they entered, with uneven floors and drips from the ceiling, though it hadn’t rained in days — as though the building itself were sagging in on itself and weeping at the use it was put to. The white-tiled floor and walls were thick with grime, so that the color of the tiles was only visible where the black and grey had been scraped away.

  The din nearly drove Cat to cover her ears, and some of those around her did so — screams and wails echoed through the corridors, as though the hosts of hell itself awaited them ahead.

  “This way! This way!” an attendant called. His white uniform was soiled as well, but had seen a wash nearer than the floors and walls had.

  They followed him down corridors and through another locked gate to a long hall with windows on one side and barred cages on the other.

  The attendant rattled a heavy stick along the bars and the wails redoubled.

  “Poke ‘em up, gents, poke ‘em up!” he called. “Make ‘em spin an’ dash about! Good fer the blood, the doctors say!”

  Cat’s stomach rebelled at the sight of the poor creatures within those cages. Men and women, some alone in their cages, others crammed in tight, naked as the day they were born, with long, greasy hair, and as filth-covered as the institution’s floors.

  She clenched her jaw and forced herself to look, both longing to see Emma and afraid she’d find her here.

  It had not taken long or too much coin for her to find the “physician” Roffe had spoken of, with his way of treating Emma’s “affliction”. The man had patients at Bethlem and it was here he carried out his work.

  “Ladies use yer bottles,” the attendant called out. “Hose ‘em down good!”

  He approached the bars where a naked man stood on the other side. The man’s face was split in a rictus grin and he fondled himself almost absently. The attendant took up a bucket, setting the mop aside, and flung the contents into the man’s face, soaking him and splashing those behind him with the filthy water.

  The patients behind shrieked and rushed about madly, knocking some to the floor to be trampled by the others. The man at the bars stared back dumbly until the attendant threw his own head back and laughed, mouth wide, then the madman behind the bars did the same.

  He laughed, again, and again, until Cat longed to slit the attendant’s throat and flee this place.

  “See? They likes it!” the attendant called out, and the women of the group stepped forward to spray water from their bottles on those behind the bars.

  “Takes yer time, have yer fun,” the attendant called out.

  Cat scanned those in the cages, but caught no sight of Emma. She thought she might have — the hair and figure were close — but the woman was older.

  One of the gentlemen stepped away from the crowd and approached the attendant. Cat watched carefully while he passed on a few coins, then the attendant nodded and motioned for the man to follow.

  Cat marked the doorway they entered and watched the other attendants for a moment, seeing they were all occupied with those at the cage bars, that none got too close to be grabbed by the inhabitants and encouraging them to “Stir ‘em up! Stir ‘em up!”

  With a purposeful stride, she made her way to the marked door and slipped inside.

  Behind was a narrow corridor that met
another, wider one ahead.

  She crept forward, noting voices echoing.

  “No,” a gentleman’s voice said. “Not to my liking.”

  The sound of metal sliding on metal, then a pause, and the sound again.

  “Hhmm … perhaps. Are there any younger?”

  The metal again and the attendant’s voice, “This way, sir,” then footsteps receding.

  Cat edged to the corner and peeked around, seeing the two men walking away down a long hallway lined on both sides with solid doors. Metal slides covered a window in each of the doors. The men turned a corner farther down the hall and Cat stepped from around her own.

  Carefully, slowly, so as not to make the grating metal sound she’d heard before, she slid open the window on the first door.

  Inside, a woman sat on the floor, naked but her long, lank hair covering her form. She hugged her knees to her chest and rocked back and forth slowly. A single blanket, crumpled in the corner, was the room’s only furnishing.

  She closed that window and moved to the next, seeing much the same, save this woman paced — one hand across her midsection, the other gesturing wildly about her head. Her mouth moved, but no sound emerged.

  “Hst!” Cat called, whispering close to the opening so that her voice wouldn’t carry down the hall, but there was no reaction. She called again, “You there!”

  Still nothing, so Cat frowned, slid the window shut, and moved on.

  The next two rooms were much the same, and Cat realized what went on here.

  A bit of coin to the attendant and take your pick. Do as you like, they’ll not resist — I’m certain some physician somewhere has said it’s good for them.

  She swallowed bile, suddenly certain that Emma was in one of these rooms. What else might any “physician” chosen by Roffe “prescribe” for Emma’s ailment?

  She checked door after door, time after time, slowing and opening the windows more carefully as she neared the next corner where the two men had turned. She was uncertain how it would work, whether the man would be left alone to his pleasures or whether the attendant would remain until he finished. All of the women in these rooms seemed docile, none responded to Cat’s calls, so perhaps there was no fear of them harming their visitors.