by Shamus Young
“We have the right to seek out and execute witches throughout the British Empire, which includes your borrowed house. A house which you have defiled by making it into a den of sorcery.”
There was a great deal of noise and activity in the room. The men were treating the place roughly, searching where they pleased.
“You presume much, and with no evidence, as is your custom,” Alice said. “But evidence is in small demand when the suspects are executed before they can speak for themselves. Do you intend to furnish proofs, or are your swords your only arguments?”
“The trial does not take place during the arrest, Miss White.”
“Or at all, when your kind is involved,” she retorted.
“You want to see the evidence? So do I.” With that, Hierarch Prothero marched upstairs. “Bring her,” he commanded his men.
The men grasped her and dragged her upstairs to the library, where she was deposited on the floor. She was hedged in by men with red sashes. She heard the sound of a sword being drawn.
Alice looked up, and found the room different from how she had left it. Gilbert was not in the center of the room. Instead, one of the rugs had been taken from its proper place and placed over the sorcery circle that she had drawn. The open books had been shut. For a moment she thought he had vanished through some act of sorcery, but then she saw the coffin was once again occupied. His hands were posed on his breast.
Alice stood. She tried to move to see him more closely, but the men shoved her back. Curiously, several of her tools were around the coffin, and a small vice was clamped to Gilbert’s jaw.
The red sash that had drawn his blade was standing over Gilbert. With a nod from the Hierarch, he began stabbing Gilbert in the chest. The first stroke was bold and triumphant, but when it did not provoke a response he stabbed again and again. He became frustrated and angry, finally hewing at the coffin itself in humiliation and rage. Finally he looked back to the Hierarch and shrugged.
“Is this what you came here to do, you holiness? Break into my home and defile a corpse?”
“It is wickedness to keep a body indoors like this.”
“Then you should correct your wayward religion for its evil practice of holding funerals.”
“A funeral is for showing reverence for the departed.”
“A more obvious way of showing reverence would be to avoid mincing them with swords,” she retorted, gesturing to the man standing over Gilbert’s coffin and panting.
“I should very much like to know what you are doing with a corpse,” Hierarch Prothero said. His arrogance had faded, and he sounded defensive now.
“Investigating, gathering evidence. I am not surprised the process looks unfamiliar to you. We do this so that we don’t inflict punishment on the innocent.”
“We are guided by the hand of God, who protects the innocent,” he said.
“Was your corpse abuse done at His direction?”
Hierarch Prothero struck his scepter against the floor, and his men filed out. A moment later the front door slammed, and they were gone.
Alice sat on the steps and wept for several minutes as her anger and nervous energy worked their way out of her system. Downstairs, Archer picked himself up and washed his face; they had slammed him against the floor for resisting, and he had a bloody nose.
“It’s safe,” Alice said. “They’re gone now.”
As morning ran out, the captain arrived at Grayhouse with a few of the other men. They came to relieve Archer and find out how the research had progressed overnight. They were enraged when Alice explained what had happened with the church. They gathered in the library to discuss matters.
Turpin paced the room, shaking his head. “What would possess them to behave this way?”
“I’m sure they were after Gilbert,” she said. “They had news of him. The Hierarch knew exactly where to go to find him. They came directly to the library.”
“Who could have told them? Perhaps Moxley was afraid of discovery, and so gave us over?”
“Captain, they knew when to strike. They came in the morning when Archer was my only guard.” Alice did not mention that Archer had been sleeping. She was actually grateful. If he had been more awake (and if he hadn’t left his rifle upstairs) he might have tried to defend the house alone. There would have been bloodshed, and he would certainly have been killed.
“Perhaps they were watching the house?” the captain thought aloud. “But that doesn’t explain how they knew about the library.”
“Captain, when was the last time anyone saw Lieutenant Stanway?”
The captain nodded, but said nothing more. Jack hadn’t been with them since they arrived home the previous morning.
“We are lucky the church holds ignorance in such high esteem,” Alice said. “If the Hierarch knew anything about the unliving, they would have taken Gilbert’s head and not simply hacked away at his bones.”
“Their stupidity has always been our greatest asset, even from our founding. What I don’t understand was how you got out of your circle and back into your coffin.” The captain said this to Gilbert.
“I walked out,” Gilbert said with a shrug.
“I have a confession,” said Alice timidly. “The circle I put around Gilbert was just for show. There is no such spell. Not that I know of, at any rate. But I knew everyone was terrified that he was going to run off and do some horrible thing, and this seemed like the best way to put the popular fears to rest.”
“I am not pleased to find I have been the victim of deception,” the captain said. “And it makes me wonder what other lies you may have built that have not been exposed.”
“None that we should inventory now, I think.”
“Well, your deception probably saved your life. I suppose I would rather have you breathing than sinless. But how did he know the circle was harmless?” At this the captain gestured towards Gilbert.
Gilbert spoke for himself, “I didn’t. At least, I wasn’t sure. I thought her spell seemed a bit convenient, and it also occurred to me that if such a thing existed that it would make dealing with feral unliving very easy. When the church arrived, I heard the talk downstairs, and realized things would go very badly for Alice if I was discovered. I figured that if the spell was real, the circle would kill me and they would find nothing more incriminating than a corpse. If it wasn’t real, I might be able to hide her work some other way.”
Alice saw that this made an impression on the men. To their shame, they had been in bed when danger struck. One of their own had betrayed them. And yet the abomination had risked its own neck to set things right and protect her. From that point on, they took Gilbert at his word and allowed him to move unhindered.
“What I don’t understand,” said Alice with amusement, “Is why you screwed my vice to your jaw.”
“I thought there needed to be some explanation for why you had a corpse, and that the vice would make it look as if you were somehow working on me. Perhaps looking at my teeth? I don’t know. I’ve never studied a corpse. It was at hand, and I trusted you would find an excuse if you needed one.”
“Thank you, Gilbert. You are as decent and honorable a corpse as I’ve met.”
Gilbert bowed.
“But you must let me do something about your outfit,” she said, “What that man did to you is simply ghastly.” Gilbert’s white gown had been slashed to pieces, and the bits of him that showed through were not attractive.
One of the storage rooms upstairs held unwanted clothes. Most of it had belonged to her father, but bits of it were from other men who had been a part of Ethereal Affairs and had left things behind when they died or found other work. With great relish Alice mined these heaps, looking for items that might fit Gilbert.
The bell rang before she could lose herself in the task. Fearing the church had returned with more arguments, everyone (except for Gilbert) went downstairs when Alice answered the door.
“Mr. Moxley! I am very surprised to see you!” she cried.
“I imagine you are. I imagine most assassins are shocked when they discover their victims are still alive.” Mr. Moxley had a strange, animated irritation about him this morning. He seemed to be outraged and jesting at the same time.
“Assassin? What is this silly business?” Alice demanded.
“Yes!” he replied, pointing an accusing finger at her, “An assassin. You, all of you, have waylaid me with your absurd foolishness, and if it does not lead to my death then it will be miraculous.”
“Is this about the church?” Alice asked.
“The church! No. Thank God no, and may He forgive me for saying that I hope to have nothing whatsoever to do with them again. I have never met anything so bad for religion as the church.”
Alice considered telling him about the altercation this morning, but thought better of it and let Mr. Moxley continue.
“Last evening! Imagine the heart-stopping shock I experienced last evening when a Member of Parliament called on me and informed me that I had thrown Sir Edward James Brooks into prison. I insisted that I had done no such thing, and would certainly remember it if I had thrown Edward into the lockhouse. This person suggested that perhaps it was done by one of my subordinates. ‘No!’ I insisted. I had just visited that morning and spoken with the lovely and altogether brilliant Alice White, and she had never breathed any mention of any arrest into my ear. And certainly she would not have sat with me for an entire morning without bothering to inform me that she had locked away a very powerful and influential member of parliament, tossing him into the cage with all sorts of cutthroats and lunatics. Imagine my utter, nearly fatal shock when I learned that you had done precisely that.”
“Oh Mr. Moxley, I am so-”
“But!” he shouted before she could begin to devise an apology, “I learned later that this report was not accurate. It was, in fact, foolishly, madly optimistic. The truth, the real truth, which I only discovered when I arrived to release Edward, was that you had, in fact, locked him up along with a powerful industrialist, a famous general, and a well-liked judge.”
Alice didn’t dare say anything, but could only stand with her mouth open.
Captain Turpin came to her rescue. “See here. If you’ve objecting to the imprisonment, then take it up with me. It was done under my orders and I don’t apologize for it.”
“Then Captain,” replied Moxley, “I do not pretend to know all the pressures your job might entail, but I’m afraid I must give you this order: Should the occasion ever come where you want to imprison four incredibly wealthy, powerful, and beloved men and charge them with capital witchcraft, then you should also bring with you some shred of proof, some fragment of evidence to which you might attach your outlandish and controversial charges. Barring that, I should hope you would have the decency to send one of your men to come round and shoot me, so as to spare me dealing with the aftermath.”
“I can assure you, we had a bounty of reasons to arrest those men, whoever they may have been,” Turpin said stoically.
“Indeed. Well I have heard their case - or as much of it as I could make out over my own terrified groveling - and I think I know enough to argue it for them. Would you like to try and convict them in my eyes before you attempt it in a court of their dear friends who all owe them favors? Go ahead. Make your case, and I will be an advocate for the accused.” Mr. Moxley led them into the sitting room and placed Alice behind a small table. “You shall be our judge,” he said with a bow. “You don’t need to say anything at all. Just listen to our arguments with minimal interest and worry about your future career prospects should your Ladyship rule incorrectly in this case.”
“Mr. Moxley,” Alice said patiently, “This is absurd. I know almost nothing at all of being a justice.”
“How fortunate. This will add an unexpected element of authenticity to the proceedings. Now Captain Turpin, come over here and stand opposite me. Yes. Now simply explain the arrest of these four men.” Mr. Moxley made a grand gesture towards the empty couch.
Captain Turpin foundered and looked around the room in dismay.
“Come now, Captain,” Mr. Moxley coached, “This will be far more difficult in a court packed with outraged friends of the accused.
“They conspired to raise a body from the dead,” said the captain, gradually getting into the spirit of the thing. “The tomb of Lord Mordaunt had been sealed, and the tools to break the chains were found nearby.”
“Did they? What was their role in this necromancy? Did any of them perform the magic themselves?”
“No. That was done by another, who they employed, and who is still at large.”
Moxley nodded. “When I released the accused from prison, I found they had been beaten. Was that your doing?”
“Certainly not,” the Turpin bristled. “That was done by the fellow who got away. Or by the abomination.”
“But a moment ago you said the man was their employee, and you’re claiming the abomination was created at their behest. Why is it that this supposed servant assaulted them? Doesn’t it seem more likely that my clients were visiting the resting place of a dear friend on the anniversary of his death, and were set upon by grave robbers?”
Turpin was becoming visibly frustrated now. “They were on the land of the late Viscount Mordaunt. Very suspicious!”
“When Viscount Barrington Oswald Mordaunt died, his property passed to Sir Edward James Brooks, one of the accused.”
“They were in league together. They were all wearing black robes!” Turpin said hotly.
Mr. Moxley sighed. “Mr. Turpin, have you ever been inside of a criminal court? A real one, I mean, and not one held in your sitting room and presided over by a girl of twenty-four.”
“The court asserts, for the record, that Her Ladyship is no less than twenty-five,” Alice said grandly.
“I have been to court on occasion,” said the captain. “More so in your predecessor’s day, when I was needed to be a witness against men accused of witchcraft.”
“Do you recall how the men, particularly the judge, dressed on those occasions?” Mr. Moxley asked smugly.
“They wore... dark robes,” Turpin muttered in frustration. “But see here, these robes were different! They had hoods! And it was well after midnight, so their claim of simply visiting the grave of a friend is preposterous.”
“So the core of your arguments, as I understand them, is that these four powerful men should be charged with the capital offenses of trespassing on their own property, wearing the wrong robes, and staying up late?”
Turpin bowed his head in defeat before sitting down on the couch with the accused. “So what is to be done now?”
Alice wished she had a gavel so that she could end the proceedings properly. Instead she relinquished her post and sat beside the captain.
Mr. Moxley faced the large front window and watched the busy street traffic. Sooty rain fell down in icy curtains, robbing the outside world of color. It was nothing so exciting as a storm, but only a long, dull complaint of grey water that washed over all things without making anything clean. The street was overrun with laden carts driven by dirty workmen. The air was filled with the clatter of their passing over the soaked cobblestones.
“It has already been done,” Moxley replied. “The men are all released, their names are cleared, and I have begged them for mercy on your behalf.”
“I suppose I should thank you,” the captain said bitterly.
“I suppose you should,” said Moxley. “If it is of any comfort, I believe you. I’m sure the men are as guilty as you say. And I’m sure many others will come to the same conclusion when they hear the story. But since we lack the evidence to convict, all we have done is kindled their anger and rallied allies to their side.”
“Allies?” asked Alice nervously.
“It is to the advantage of a Nobleman to not have friends convicted of witchcraft. Guilt tends to spill over in these sorts of cases. People will ask a man, ‘How is it that you were such clos
e friends with Sir Edward James Brooks for all these years and never knew about his sorcery? Perhaps you are one of his conspirators!’ You can see how they would want to avoid that, particularly if the church gets involved. No, your charges are politically dangerous to many people, and they will treat your accusations as slanderous. Even if they secretly believe you!”
“There is one more thing,” Alice said cautiously.
“Your tone of voice tells me that you are about to assail me with more bad news. I wish you wouldn’t. No, that’s not quite true. I would rather suffer the news than endure the agony of curiosity unquenched.”
“We have betrayal within our group. In the Ministry, I mean. The church was here this morning…”
Mr. Moxley cried out at the mention of the church, “The church! Our foes are now beyond counting.”
“They were here, and they knew about our prisoner. They knew exactly where to find him. They even knew what hour to strike so that they would find the house under minimal guard. It was just myself and one man. We were overpowered and the house searched.”
Mr. Moxley bowed his head, “That does explain why the place is so suddenly disheveled. When I arrived, I joked that you were trying to kill me. But it seems you were courted by death yourself. I wonder how you survived.”
“Through wits,” she said. “There was an unexpected bounty of them on our side, and a predictable famine of them from the church. But nevertheless, one of our number told them when and where to strike.”
“And I assume this Judas is still at large?”
“He is,” said the captain. “Jack. Lieutenant Stanway. He has been missing since yesterday morning.”
Moxley looked up at the ceiling, searching his memory. “Stanway? Is that the fellow I appointed to the group last year?”
Captain Turpin nodded. “You sent him along when Lieutenant Fisk was stabbed while chasing after those bone collectors. Nasty business.”
“Yes, I remember the man. Stanway, I mean. Intense. Eager. Bit of a crusader. I thought he would make a nice counter-balance to your pragmatism. Well, it seems that this morning none of us is innocent of self-sabotage.”