Camille

by Tess Oliver

  Two lanterns provided us with the only light. Earlier that day, a brisk breeze had blown through moving the herd of stubborn clouds out to sea and leaving behind a clear, black sky with a thick slice of moon. The graveyard on the northeast end of town held far fewer adornments than the last cemetery. The markers were rough stone with no distinction between them aside from the names carved there. Strider had made payment to the two men watching over the cemetery, and they’d pointed us in the direction of the grave.

  Dr. Bennett held the lantern up over the stone. “Samuel Chase,” he read quietly. It would be the first time he saw one of his victims deceased. There was a certain hesitation in his movements. Strider placed his own lantern on the ground and plowed the shovel into the wet ground.

  “With the grave still fresh and yesterday’s downpour, this shouldn’t take long,” Strider said between blows into the soaked earth. Dr. Bennett joined in with his own shovel, and I stood watch.

  The only other signs of life besides the three people desecrating a man’s grave were the vermin who inhabited the cemetery grounds. The lantern light weakened, and I stepped closer to where they dug. A pile of dirt flew onto my shoe and I shook it off. Anxiously, I glanced around the deserted yard. The outline of tombstones began to resemble an audience standing watch over the whole scene. I shivered and peered down into the hole. “Do hurry.”

  Dr. Bennett glanced up with a raised brow. Dark smudges stained his forehead and chin. He didn’t say a word, but I clamped my mouth shut.

  “I think this is good,” Strider’s voice floated up from the pit. I looked over the side again. The top half of the coffin had been exposed. Like a man who’d done this many times before, Strider covered his nose and mouth with his black neckcloth and used the end of his shovel to pry open the wooden lid. Swollen with moisture, a chunk of the wood splintered off. He lifted it a crack then looked up at me. “You might want to cover your nose and back up. Death is not pleasant smelling.” His voice was muffled by his cloth. My hand flew to my face, and I backed away.

  For a moment the tops of their head disappeared completely. My eyes darted around the graveyard, my ears pounding with the horrible silence that filled the air. How lonely and dull death must be, I mused.

  A few minutes later Strider ascended with shovels and a small bottle of fluid. He turned and reached a hand down for Dr. Bennett. They went immediately to work covering the coffin. White puffs of air spurted in front of their faces as piles of wet soil flew into the pit. This idea had to work. I was long overdue for having something turn out right.

  ****

  A large dose of sunlight summoned Strider and I out of doors and onto an omnibus headed toward Marylebone Rd and Regent’s Park. Dr. Bennett had given enough hints that his work went better without anyone in the house, and with the inviting weather, we were more than pleased to oblige. We’d picked up the omnibus at Charing Cross with only two other occupants inside, a mousy woman with tawny hair and her sour-faced companion who wore a great deal of perfume. By the time we passed Piccadilly and were rumbling over Regent Street, the inside of the buss was packed so tightly, we would’ve stayed put in our seats even if the vehicle had overturned. However, being crushed in close quarters with Nathaniel Strider was not altogether unpleasant.

  The two original passengers departed at Cavendish Square, although they hardly looked fashionable enough to belong there. Three others exited at Devonshire Terrace, leaving plenty of space for the remaining few blocks to Regent’s Park. But Strider’s thigh and shoulder stayed pressed against me. Or, it was possible that, I stayed pressed against him.

  Most visitors prefer the rich pinks and yellows springtime in the park affords, but I looked forward to the rusty reds and burnt ambers brought out by fall’s shrinking daylight. Regent’s was the best of architecture, landscaping, and sculpture brought together in one huge parcel of land. Without a plan, we found ourselves meandering along the edge of the lake. Three black swans floated past as we stopped to stare at the water.

  “Those are lucky birds.” Strider picked up a stone to skip across the water. “Living in a place like this, people throwing food at you, and no worries.” He threw the rock and the three black birds lifted their huge wings and fluttered over the water, landing a good distance away.

  “Except all the worries a bird might have.” The carpet of fallen leaves littering the grass tempted me into a leaf crunching dance. A small breeze made it necessary to give chase to some of the leaves before I could stomp them, and I burst out laughing. Strider joined me and with much bigger feet, he was far more successful at mutilating the fallen foliage.

  “Your petite feet are not really made for this.” He dropped onto a clear section of grass, which sloped down toward the broadest section of the water. “You look pretty, by the way, in your blue dress.”

  I sat next to him, aware that my blue dress would be stained by the grass, but not caring as long as I was near him. “You like the dress better than my trousers and hat then?”

  He motioned his head to one side. “You wear those trousers well, too. But the blue looks lovely against your skin.” His compliment warmed my face. “Especially when you blush pink.”

  Behind us on the road which encircled the park, a man trotted by on an enormous black horse. The animal snorted and a puff of steam came from its muzzle. “That’s a fine mount,” Strider said. “I miss riding.”

  “You had a horse?’

  “Actually, it belonged to my father, but my brother and I used to take it right out there.” He motioned to the same road with his head. “We lived not far from here off Hampstead Road. My brother taught me to ride when I was seven. He used to tell me I was a great equestrian, but I needed a healthy dose of fear.” Strider plucked out several blades of grass and tossed them in the water. “I took the horse over a high fence one day, and I’d never jumped before. Landed on my shoulder. I heard it crack as I landed. My mother refused to call the physician. She said I deserved it for being so reckless.”

  “And your father?”

  “My father was only concerned that his horse was still sound. He forbid me to ride his horse again and thumped me hard on the same shoulder for good measure.”

  I shivered not from the cold but from his story. “Your parents were wretched people. How in God’s name did they produce such a child when they had no charm or qualities of their own?’

  He smiled at me and the suddenness made the breath catch in my chest.

  “So you think I’m charming, then?’

  “Well, in a surly, scoundrel sort of way.”

  He laughed. Music drifted to us from behind St. John’s Lodge. Strider jumped up and offered me his hand. “Let’s go. I haven’t heard good fiddle music since….”

  I knew how the sentence ended, but it was not a day to bring it up. He pulled me along, following the lively notes, around the inner garden and over a huge expanse of slightly browned grass to a circle of chestnut trees. Two men, one with a bushy moustache, a ruddy complexion, and a fiddle tucked under his chin and one with a wooden leg strapped to his knee and a harmonica at his mouth, sat side by side on a bench. They played well together, as if they’d sat there for years producing music.

  Strider smiled at me. “May I have this dance?”

  I stepped back. “I don’t know how to dance.”

  “Neither do I, but I’ve never let that stop me.” He grabbed both my hands. We spun around until the scenery blurred into a rush of color. Dizzy from it all, I fell against Strider’s chest. He held me against him. It was brief, but it was a moment I would not soon forget.

  He lifted up my hand high in the air and twirled me around. For someone who claimed not to be a dancer, he moved in perfect rhythm to the music.

  Strider smiled down at me. “I think you dance very well.”

  “You’re being kind. I’m as ungainly as a newborn foal.” I stumbled and he caught me.

  “At least you haven’t stepped on my toes yet.”

  I l
aughed. “Give me a chance. I’m sure I can stomp them at least once.” Suddenly a loud chorus of honking geese drowned out the music. Some of the water fowl floating on the lake sprang from the water and flew to the north end of the park where a vast array of exotic animals was housed.

  “I ‘aven’t seen the animals since I was a boy.” Strider motioned with his head. “Shall we?”

  “Definitely.” He grabbed my hand, nodded to the musicians, and pulled me along the path to the Zoological Society grounds.

  It had been several years since I’d seen the animals as well. Had it been a Sunday, there would have been a long queue at the pay hut, but we passed only two horsemen on the road. The two men, dressed smartly in long coats, smiled and tipped there top hats in my direction as they trotted past. Strider squeezed my hand a little too hard.

  “My fingers!” I pulled them from his grip and rubbed them. I glanced up at him and there was a glint of fierceness in his eyes reminding me that aside from the lovely day at the park, a horrible change was happening to my companion.

  Strider shook his head. “Forgive me, Camille.” His face stiffened, and a tense silence fell between us.

  “Let’s walk back to the bears. There used to be the sweetest black bear that would hang at the top of its pole cleaning its paws.” I spoke in a lively tone to return us to the wonderful day we were having before the bleak reminder.

  Strider did not reply, but he picked up his pace as we walked the path to the bear building.

  “There he is. I see him.” I raced ahead. Strider caught up and stood behind me. The black ball of fuzz stared down at us from the top of his pole. “I would love to touch him,” I turned back, “wouldn’t you?”

  “Touch a bear?” His gaze drifted over me. “I can think of better things to touch.”

  I ignored the rather lascivious comment. He was, after all, the lad I’d seen seducing a girl in a dark alley. And while the image of his wild side always stayed in my mind, it was sharply contrasted by the Nathaniel Strider who’d been staying with us these past days. I faced the bear again. “His fur must feel like expensive velvet. It looks so soft.”

  “Soft as velvet,” he said in a near whisper. Fingers lightly brushed the side of my neck and I jumped. The moment of anger on the road had darkened his mood and along with it came a boldness which made me uneasy and dizzy at the same time. I stepped forward out of his reach.

  Loud screeches came from the next building. “That must be the monkeys.” I headed in the direction of the primates. The monkeys, like the bears, had poles to climb, but there were boxes at the top for the animals to take shelter. “Most people find the monkeys entertaining; I’ve always found them a bit unsettling with their human-like facial expressions and hands.” I blathered on now just to fill the silence.

  “Nothing more unsettling, I suppose, than an animal that seems half human,” he said darkly.

  Realizing too late, the ignorance of my comment, I sealed my lips and walked toward the circular aviary housing several large birds with menacing talons and beaks. One of the birds, a brown hawk perched high on a limb, eyed a dead mouse on the floor of the enclosure. We said nothing as we stared at the tiny, still creature and the predator waiting to devour it.

  Suddenly, the visit to the animals seemed a terrible idea. The gardens and the music had been perfect. Why had we traveled to this end of the park? I turned to find that Strider had started off down a path leading to the animal dens. The tension in his broad shoulders made me wring my hands together. I had to get him out of the animal park immediately.

  By the time I’d caught up to him, he stood stock still in front of a walled yard. There was a cave like building at the end of the yard. A carcass lay in front of the shelter, but I could see no animal. Strider stood in a near trance staring at the opening. There was an information sign hanging on the wall, but I didn’t need to read it. I knew what lived inside.

  A growl rolled out of the blackness. It was a sound I knew too well, only this noise was less painful, more natural sounding than the one I knew. Two sets of glowing eyes appeared and two gray wolves lumbered out into the yard, their eyes squinting at the daylight. At first their long snouts wriggled in the direction of the raw meat, but then their attention focused on something else, the human spectator outside their yard. The two animals came closer to where we stood and began pacing the end wall. Strider pumped his hands open and shut as he watched them grow more and more agitated. I grabbed his arm, but he yanked it away.

  “Please, Strider, let’s go.” The pleading in my voice did not persuade him. I had to draw him away. My mind raced as quickly as my heart. Desperation combined with passion made me step directly in front of him putting a barrier between him and the pacing wolves. I stood high on my tiptoes and stared into his eyes. They were glittering brown with a fierceness I’d never seen. My hands were shaking as I reached up and smoothed several black curls from his forehead. He did not flinch at my touch which gave me the confidence to kiss him on the lips. I dropped back to my feet. He stared down at me now through a curtain of long lashes.

  “Let’s go,” I repeated.

  He turned down the path to the exit and I followed, my legs wobbly and my stomach in knots. This thing was taking hold of him, and we had no idea how to stop it. Then an idea occurred to me, and I glanced back to the walls around the animal dens, walls built to keep visitors safe from being attacked by a leopard or wolf. “A barricade,” I whispered to myself. Strider, still in a semi-hypnotic state had not heard me, and I had not meant him to hear. I tucked the idea into my mind for safe keeping.

  It was a long walk back home, but we opted out of a crowded ride on an omnibus. With Strider’s mood, it would have been like squeezing an untamed animal into a box. The trek seemed to soften the tension in Strider’s shoulders and face. But that same tension returned as we neared Dr. Bennett’s townhouse. My feet ached, and I felt every piece of gravel through the bottom of my shoes, but I had to nearly run to keep up with Strider’s pace.

  “Tis Charlie,” he said as the front stoop came into view. A young boy, the other boy from the cemetery, sat on the top step with his arms wrapped tightly around himself. He heard us coming and stood. His trousers were a mosaic of old patches, and his coat was so threadbare I could see shadows through it when he lifted his arm to wave at Strider. Tears had left streaks of clean skin on his otherwise filthy face. He jumped off the steps onto the pavement directly in front of us and grabbed hold of Strider’s arm.

  “It’s Goose,” the boy choked on his words. “He’s real bad, Strider. You’ve got to come.”

  Strider turned to me. “Camille, go inside. I’ll be in later.’

  There was a chill in his words, and I wasn’t convinced he’d return. “Nathaniel…”

  “Camille, please!” he snapped. My eyes watered as I raced up the steps and slammed the front door behind me. I walked to the front window and lifted the curtain. They dashed off in the direction of the Strand. Something deep inside me felt hollow. I knew he would not return.

  Chapter 18

  In the quiet of my bedroom, I flopped stomach first onto my bed. The emotional turmoil I’d endured since that night when I first saw Nathaniel Strider was unbearable. Happiness, love, heartache, terror were not emotions to be swirled together within the course of a day. But I seemed to be dealing with all of them at once and not just one day but every day. And the new details of my life were the cream on the top of the insanity.

  No doubt, the gang Strider had warned Goose about had taken their revenge on the boy, an act of brutality the thieves would soon come to regret. A sickening feeling swept through me, and a bitter taste rose in my throat. I closed my eyes to shut out everything.

  I fell asleep for hours and was woken by a light knocking at the door. “Strider!” I flew to the door and opened it. Dr. Bennett stood in the hallway with a candle stick.

  “Strider has not returned, but I wanted you to see something in the lab.”

  The gas
lamp glowed, painting the colorless walls with the geometric shadows of bottles, jars and equipment. He placed the candle stick directly behind the microscope and sat down to make some adjustments on the device. “Come see,” he said not looking away from the eyepiece.

  I pressed my eye to the brass tube. They looked like normal blood cells. I pulled my face away. “I don’t understand.”

  “They are Strider’s cells. I mixed some of the dead man’s blood cells in with Strider’s and they began reverting back to normal.” He put his hand on my arm. “Your idea, Cami, it may save the boy’s life.”

  A whimper flew from my mouth. “How long until we know for sure that it has worked?”

  “We must give it some time to see if there are any adverse effects.” His blue eyes glittered in the candlelight. “But the results are amazing thus far. Where is Strider anyhow?”

  The excitement which raced through me hit a cold wall. My shoulders drooped and I sat down hard on the stool.

  “Camille, what is it? Is he in some trouble?’

  “Goose, his young companion from the cemetery, has been hurt. Strider went to help him.”

  “That doesn’t sound so terrible. I’m sure he’ll return soon.”

  “He is changing quickly. Sometimes I see this feral rage inside his eyes, and I fear he has no control over it. He left very angry.”

  Dr. Bennett lifted his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “I see. My own worries are proven then. I figured an impetuous lad like Strider would prove a formidable beast.”