by Steve Goble
“How many?”
She looked at him suspiciously. “You ask questions, don’t you?”
Spider nodded. “I am curious. Odin says I should stop.”
“Odin looks like the very devil.”
“He takes some pride in that. So how many patients died?”
“Four,” she said. “All young men, bless them. Better men than these who lost their lives last night, I am certain, whatever their ailments might be that put them here.”
Spider said nothing.
She shook her head. “I told the master of the house these were wicked men, I did. I told him. I doubt very, very much their souls are in a better place today, John. No good could come from such rough . . .” She stopped suddenly and looked away from Spider.
“Fear not, Missus Fitch,” he said. “I am a rough sort, I know. Like most seafaring men. Scarred, missing a finger, missing some teeth. But looking rough don’t make me rough, if you understand me. I avoid violence when I can, although I’ve often thought of my own soul and where it might be headed . . .”
He touched Em’s pendant beneath his shirt. “I am wondering if I shouldn’t go from this place. Might be too rough for me.”
“I have had the same thought,” she whispered. “I have worked for Mister Oakes a long time, at the old place for three years before we came here, and I do not mind cooking and cleaning for the poor souls upstairs, especially Miss Daphne, bless her. But that Mister Fawkes, and the men he brought along . . . it cannot lead to anything worthy, I say. I should just go.”
“How did the master meet up with one such as Fawkes?”
“I do not know for certain, although the master was a sailing man long ago. I suppose they met at sea.”
“Aye, that could be. Once shipmates, always shipmates, or so I’ve heard. Some fellows I would as soon never see again, though, for my part.” He winked and hoped the gesture might be reassuring, or even charming. It seemed lost on Mrs. Fitch, though.
Spider tried a new course. “Where would you go?”
“What?”
“If you left here. Where would you go?”
“That is a good question,” she muttered.
She wrapped her hands in cloth and lifted the kettle from the stove, setting it onto a large cutting board. Next, she ladled steaming eggs into a bowl. Spider counted ten eggs. “Can I help you crack them open?”
“No, thank you. I can manage.”
She let them cool, glancing at Spider now and then suspiciously. “Have you no place to be, John?”
“I am not weary,” he said, preparing a pipe. “And I love the aroma of a good kitchen. Not something I get to enjoy much at sea.”
She nodded. “Very well. Forgive me if I work rather than chat.”
“Forgiven.”
She shelled the eggs, then mashed them in a bowl while Spider lit his pipe. “Easier for the patients to eat,” she said, when Spider asked about the mashing of the eggs.
“Are they restrained? Daphne told me of being wrapped in sheets.”
Mrs. Fitch shrugged. “They are, most of the time, locked in their rooms, although some are allowed out for exercise. Perambulations, the master calls it, says it does them good. If they get out of hand, Simon or any other fellow up there will wrap them up or tie them down, as need be. But sometimes they chomp on their food so, and eat so violently and thrash about, that we fear they may choke. So they eat mashed eggs, and mashed potatoes, and soups and such fare as that.”
“And is there an illness among them?”
“What, sir?”
“An illness among the patients, to account for the deaths? Some fever or such? Or do they take their own lives?”
She wiped her hands on a towel and seemed to be gathering her thoughts. “Illness, yes. Mister Oakes says they died of illness, not by their own hands. It comes on slowly, and they waste away. He tells me I need not worry about me own self, that there is no contagion. It is a consequence of their mental afflictions, he says, some of them being so mad as to not cling much to life. You may hear some howling, John, some sobbing at night, from those wretched souls. Tucked away here, they are, out of sight from their respectable families, and Mister Oakes doing what he can to help them and yet . . . and yet they moan so, and they howl. Lost, they are, and perhaps better off with the Lord than ignored here on Earth by them that are supposed to love them.”
Spider nodded. “It is good to know there is no illness that might spread,” he said. “All those graves, I had to wonder.”
“Contagion or none, still, I avoid going up there. You should, too.”
“I see.” Inwardly, Spider shuddered. The road to Hob was a nightmare path, first murder, followed by pirates and smugglers, then a madhouse, and now a series of deaths. And Hob might not even be here, he thought. This whole quest might just be a fool’s errand, needlessly keeping me from Em and my boy. It might be for the best if I just burned this hellish place to the ground.
“He, Mister Oakes, shows no fear of being around the sick patients himself,” Mrs. Fitch added. “And he works like the devil to save them once they catch ill. Sometimes he goes without sleep for days, stays right by them.”
“You must have seen many deaths, though, over the years,” Spider said.
She frowned. “What?”
“You said you’ve been with Mister Oakes a long time. I reckon that means you’ve seen patients die often. Much sadness for you to endure.”
Mrs. Fitch seemed puzzled. “Well, come to think of it, there was not much death at Gayle Fields, that’s the old place. Just that Mister Lamb, and he was nearly ancient and not long for the world even had his mind been whole.”
Spider pondered that. “So, these poor souls dying, that’d be a new thing then?”
She nodded. “But we had fewer patients then, it was a much smaller house. That is why the master moved us here, you know, so he would have more room for more patients, do more good in the world.”
“I wonder that patients here die, but not the ones you had at the old place.” Spider scratched his beard. “What would the difference be?”
Mrs. Fitch shook her head. “I don’t know, really. I just never thought much about it. I . . . well!”
“Yes?”
“The poor ones that took ill mostly came from those Mister Fawkes fetched. A couple before that, they came in separate from each other and died, but then Mister Fawkes came back from somewhere with half a dozen all at once. And a couple of those have died from that batch. Maybe they all had a disease in common?”
“Maybe,” Spider said. “That ever happen before, a whole batch of patients at once?”
“Heavens, no.”
“Where do the patients come from?”
“Families bring them, usually,” she said. “Sometimes Mister Fawkes goes and fetches them.” Then she sighed heavily. “I honestly think, in some cases, certainly in poor Daphne’s case, the families just want the poor souls out of the way. They pay Mister Oakes and then have done with them, other than sending funds for their boarding and food. No one even comes to mourn them when they die, or to take them home to be buried.”
Spider spotted a tear on her cheek.
A rap on the door drew her attention, and she opened it quickly, seeming glad to have the interruption. A giant of a man, wild blond hair dangling across his face, strode into the kitchen carrying a heavy bucket. Spider recognized the man instantly as the fellow who had leapt over the north wall and snuck to the barn.
“Fresh milk,” the man said. His voice was barely audible, and it seemed to Spider the man struggled over the words. He did not struggle with the bucket, though. He hefted it onto the table as though it was filled with air, and did not slosh any milk over the top.
“Thank you, Michael. You are a dear.” She tore a hunk of bread from a partial loaf and handed it to him. “I’ll help with the chickens, in just a while. Wait for me.”
Michael, who seemed to be perhaps twenty years old, at most, nodded and gave Spid
er an awkward glance. Then he scurried back out into the yard.
“Don’t mind him,” Mrs. Fitch said. “He is shy, because he is none too bright and he has difficulty with words. But he sees to the cows and the chickens and does many chores for us. A good lad, Michael is.”
“I think I saw him earlier, sneaking over the wall.”
Mrs. Fitch blushed. “I think he must have a lass nearby. That’s what Raldo says, anyway. Raldo thinks everyone is . . . well, let us call it courting. He thinks of little but women and supposes all other men to be the same. But I have teased Michael a bit, you know, he’s such a dear, and I think in this instance Raldo has the truth of it. Michael has a sweetheart, and he sometimes is not around when he ought to be.”
Spider mused upon that point. “Indeed.”
Mrs. Fitch whirled. “You will not say anything to the master, or to that dreadful Mister Fawkes, will you? I would hate to see anything happen to Michael.”
“I shall keep my mouth closed, Missus Fitch, you may rely upon it. I have no reason to wish your friend ill.”
“Thank you.” She returned to her work, using a ladle to fill a pitcher with milk. Then she took a key from a peg near the door and unlocked a cupboard. She pulled out a bottle, then the cork, filling the room with an enticing scent of rum that drew Spider’s attention. She poured a bit into a wooden cup, then added some water from another pitcher. Next, she returned the bottle to its place.
“Might you and I share a drink?” Spider pointed toward the bottle.
“I do not drink,” she said. “I think rum is the devil’s tool. I would not give this to the poor souls upstairs, I would not, but Mister Oakes says it is medicinal. Nor would I serve drink to the men, but . . .”
“But we would mutiny if you did not,” said Gold Peter, walking into the kitchen. Daphne followed in his wake.
“Aye,” Mrs. Fitch said harshly, locking the cupboard.
She pointed to the bowl of mashed eggs and the pitcher of milk. Peter placed these on a large platter, scowling at Spider.
“And this,” Mrs. Fitch said, holding forth the cup of watered rum, “is for the sick Irish lad. The master says it will lift his spirits.”
Daphne took the cup and did a curtsy. “I will see to it, ma’am. Bram will have his special cup.” The girl saw that Spider was watching and covered the top of the cup with her hand, as if to block anyone from even taking a whiff. “This is not for you. Not for you.”
“See that she does as she is supposed to do,” Mrs. Fitch said quietly to Peter.
“Aye,” Gold Peter growled. He carried the food and drink out of the kitchen. Daphne started to follow but glanced at Mrs. Fitch and saw the woman’s attention was elsewhere. She strode toward Spider, lifting the cup as though it were a magical elixir. “Quickly,” she whispered, “and mind you, just a sip.”
Spider winked, lifted the proffered cup, and took a small swallow. Then he gave it back to the girl, who dashed out quickly.
Mrs. Fitch hummed quietly across the room.
Spider shook his head. “Is that a good idea, Missus Fitch, trusting the girl with liquor? Won’t she drink that herself, or use it to bribe Gold Peter or Simon for some favor?”
“The master says it is an important part of her treatment, to show some trust. So we allow her some chores. Peter will see to it she does as she is told.”
“I am not so sure any seafaring man can be trusted when it comes to rum.”
“Well, the master is likely awaiting the cup by the patient’s side, so all will be well, I am sure.”
Spider doubted that. All will be well? How much freedom does death-obsessed Daphne have? Does she come and go as she pleases?
“I am off to help Michael feed the chickens and choose a few for the pot,” Mrs. Fitch said, exiting through the back door. She paused. “Thank you for the company, John. It is a rare thing here. Rather gentlemanly.”
“Thank you for the company and the food, Missus Fitch.”
She left. Spider puffed away at his pipe, took up the key from the peg, and opened the cupboard. It held only three bottles, and he had no doubt Mrs. Fitch would notice if one vanished. So instead of taking one, he merely helped himself to a swig or two, then locked up and replaced the key on its peg.
“Never a good idea to trust a seafaring man around liquor, I warned her. To bed, then,” he told himself, “and let there be no nightmares.”
25
Before he reached the cellar, a voice halted him.
“Spider John.”
Spider turned to see Ambrose Oakes at the end of the hall, one hand holding a bottle and the other opening a door. “Sir?”
“Fawkes tells me your old friend gave a good accounting of himself last night,” Oakes said. “Shot a man on the run, in the dark. That is no easy task.”
“Odin is a tough bastard and a fair hand in a fight, sir,” Spider said. “I told you that.” He also wondered why Oakes was not upstairs with the patient, as Mrs. Fitch had supposed.
“Come, John.” Oakes stepped into the room. Spider followed and discovered it was a library, complete with a wide desk and a wooden mechanism that resembled two wagon wheels on an axle. Slats mounted between the wheels held open books, six of them, and Spider soon surmised the wheels could be turned to bring whichever of the books was desired to the top. All the shelves were on axles, too, and were rigged so that they always remained perpendicular to the floor.
“This is beautifully done, sir,” Spider said, running a finger over the smooth maple.
“Oh, yes, you are a carpenter. Yes, I have had that a long time. I had it made when my library was much smaller and space was difficult to come by.” Oakes moved a candle on the desk, placed his bottle next to it, and removed two glasses from a drawer.
“I might try to build something like this for ship use,” Spider said. “I’ve made travelling desks, but nothing like this. Charts would be most at home on one of these, I dare say.”
Oakes poured two glasses of dark wine and handed one to Spider. “This is Spanish, and quite excellent. To our newly dead.”
Spider drank.
Oakes did, too, then sighed. “So quick, that transition between life and death. One moment a breathing man with dreams and fears, and the next . . . cold, lifeless. And especially so when dying by violence, would you agree?”
“Aye,” Spider said. “I’ve seen too damned much of that in my life.” Oakes sipped again. “I do not much care for the ruffians surrounding me, Spider John. I mean no offense, of course.”
“Of course.”
“I must have protection, though, if I am to do my work—my vital work—and so I do as I must. Mister Fawkes, himself a rough fellow but one I know, hired them on my behalf.”
“You have known Jim a long time?”
Oakes nodded. “If one man can really know another, yes. We were adrift once, he and I, almost thirty days in a launch, with a few others.” His almost hairless brow furrowed. “We watched men die slowly, then. Hunger. Tremendous thirst. Fawkes and I, we were young then, and survived the deprivation, but the others . . . you could watch them dying, and almost predict the moment their souls would escape.”
The man’s head tilted, as though he was watching a ghost ascend. “So, I do know Fawkes, to an extent, and he knows me, if men reveal their true natures under duress. We see what men do, hear what they say, but their minds remain unfathomable, castles that can never be breeched and their souls likewise a mystery. Or so they say. I dare to believe otherwise. I assail impregnable castles, Spider John.”
The fat man drained his glass and poured another.
“Those deaths,” he pointed toward the west, where Fawkes had left three dead in the road, “are regrettable. Men of the caliber and, shall we say, attitude I require are not easy to find, and I would prefer not to squander them through senseless violence. But those men were malcontents.”
He inhaled deeply. “We’d hoped sending them to town for supplies, and giving them a brief taste
of freedom, might appease them somewhat. Well, so I believed. Mister Fawkes was of another mind. I hope this mess does not lead to mutinous thoughts?”
So, Oakes takes a sounding, does he?
“I have heard no grumbling,” Spider said. “Men who have lived on the account know violent death very well, and they know a fellow who disobeys is likely to bring it upon himself. If you started treating them all badly, or did not pay what is owed or something like that, they’d rise up. If they think a mate has been dealt unfair, they might rise up. But if they wager these men bought their own deaths by crossing Fawkes, well . . . they likely do not care.”
Oakes considered that. “That is somewhat reassuring, John. I’ll rest my mind where mutiny is concerned. We still have lost hands. But . . . your friend apparently is capable, and Fawkes speaks well of you. Perhaps the two of you are more than equal to the three we lost last night.”
“We will serve well, sir.”
“You look weary, Spider John. Go to your rest. As for me, I have a patient upstairs awaiting my attention.” The heavy man opened another drawer, frowned, then opened another.
“Aye, sir.” Indeed, it had been a long night, and Spider’s head seemed to be spinning a bit from the rum and the wine. He left the room. Behind him, Oakes bellowed.
“Missus Fitch! Where is the sedative?”
“I believe the woman is out to the barn, doing something about chickens,” Spider answered when Mrs. Fitch did not.
“Confound it,” Oakes muttered. “Thank you, John.”
Spider headed toward the cellar, chose a hammock next to the snoring Odin, and soon plummeted into a deep sleep.
* * *
“Spider.”
The hammock rocked like a boat on a turbulent sea.
“Spider!”
He forced his eyes open—his eyelids seemed anchored, somehow—and peered into Odin’s face. It seemed the old man was spinning, lending his ghoulish face a more sinister aspect than usual. Then everything blurred, and Spider saw worms crawling from Odin’s wounds.
“Lord!” His stomach heaved, and hot fluid rose in his throat, but he coughed hard and choked it down.