by George Mann
“Right, then. Time for my treatment.” She folded her hands on her lap and sat back in her chair. “Come along, then, Mr. Calverton. We don’t want to keep Dr. Fabian waiting.”
The man’s head remained cocked for a minute, entirely still. Then sharply, decisively, he changed his position, his head snapping back into place. He entered the room, the pistons in his thighs hissing and venting, and maneuvered himself around to stand behind her, gripping the handles of her wheelchair with his gloved fists. Gently, he moved the chair around so that Amelia was facing the door, and then they began the ponderous decent to the treatment room.
The walk would take them fifteen minutes, weaving through the corridors and passageways of the old house, down through dank, dimly lit tunnels that seemed to descend forever, until finally they arrived at the treatment room. It was a stark, fearsome place, filled with the great machine that was somehow curing her of her seizures. And of course, Dr. Fabian, who would be waiting for them with an expectant grin.
They had made the same short journey once a day for the past few months, and Amelia could have followed the route with her eyes closed. But she did not have the strength to make the journey alone, and suspected that even if she did, Dr. Fabian would not allow her the run of the house. Whilst he assured her that it was only to aid in her recuperation that she was kept locked in her room—and judging by his successes, she had no reason to doubt him—she still could not help wondering if Mr. Calverton was as much a minder as he was a porter, assigned to keep a watchful eye on her and report back to his master. Perhaps she was being too fanciful. Nevertheless, the doubt continued to gnaw at her. She wondered what she might find if she were ever able to explore one of the side passages that branched off from the tunnels she took with Mr. Calverton, see what lay in the darkness beyond. And she wondered when Mr. Calverton’s time would come, and how long it would take before her vision of him became a reality.
Today, however, she was grateful for an uneventful journey to the treatment room. It was a vast underground space, a cavern carved out of the bedrock and filled with the strange mechanisms of the Queen’s physician. It smelled of oil and soot. And just as she had anticipated, Dr. Fabian was already there, waiting for them, glancing pointedly at his pocket watch to signify his displeasure at their late arrival. She wondered if Mr. Calverton would be berated for that later.
“Good morning, Amelia. How are we today?” The doctor poked his wire-rimmed spectacles back up his nose with his index finger—a nervous tic that she had noticed him enact a thousand times before. He was a short man, balding, with only a few trailing wisps of dark hair around the temples. She’d placed him in his early fifties, but she could have been wrong—she found it very difficult to be sure.
She offered him her best beaming smile. “I feel well today, Dr. Fabian. Better than I have in months. I think if only I was able to go into the gardens for some fresh air, then I’d—”
“Amelia, Amelia.” He cut her off with a sad expression that suggested he was tired of going over the same ground with her, day after day, week after week. “I know Dr. Mason had very different ideas about your physical well-being, but I assure you, it would set you back enormously if you were to catch a chill. It’s simply not worth the risk.” He approached the wheelchair, his hands held out in a placatory fashion. She noticed a series of tiny puncture marks on his left wrist, where she assumed he’d been self-medicating. He dropped into a crouch before the chair. “Soon, my dear. Soon we shall have you up and about. You’re doing so well. Let’s not spoil it now by getting ahead of ourselves, hmm.”
Amelia nodded, biting back her frustration. She knew he was wrong, about this at least. She longed for the cool breeze on her skin, the fresh air in her lungs. She could take precautions not to catch a chill. She knew there was another reason why he would not let her out, but she couldn’t even begin to fathom what it was.
It was pointless arguing with him, though. She had tried that before, and it had got her nowhere, and at least he had her best interests at heart. She believed that much.
Dr. Fabian stood, clapping his hands together to signify they had reached the end of their discussion. “Well, then. If you are ready, Miss Hobbes, we shall begin.”
“I’m ready,” she said, although in truth she was never ready for what came next. She looked up at the huge brass sphere that dominated the entirety of the treatment room. It was the size of a small house and looked more like a furnace than like anything medical. It was fed by an array of pipes and shafts that gleamed in the bright electric lights, like a spider at the centre of a shining web. In its belly was a small brass door, the door through which Amelia would be taken for her daily treatment. She felt a knot tighten in her gut. If only there was another way …
Dr. Fabian turned to Mr. Calverton, who was loitering in the shadows of the great machine. “Mr. Calverton, could you please escort Miss Hobbes to the treatment bay?”
Mr. Calverton stomped forwards, his metal feet tapping out a harsh rhythm on the stone floor. He took the handles of her wheelchair once again and slowly rolled her towards the gaping mouth of the brass door.
Amelia fought the urge to leap out of the chair and flee. She knew it would be over with soon, and she would feel better again in a couple of hours. The pain didn’t last. Not for long.
Mr. Calverton parked her wheelchair before the threshold of the sphere and stooped over her, gently placing one arm beneath her knees and the other around her shoulders. Carefully he lifted her out of the seat, all the while keeping his strange and unblinking eyes on her face. She smiled weakly as she wrapped her hands around his neck, and together the two of them entered the bizarre treatment machine.
Dr. Fabian, in his more whimsical moments, was prone to referring to the sphere as his “engine of life.” Amelia always thought that sounded like self-aggrandizing nonsense, and had asked him on more than one occasion to explain the actual purpose of the machine. But, full of his usual bluff and pomposity, the doctor simply told her not to concern herself with it—that his miraculous contraption would make her better, and that she needn’t worry herself with the details. She should simply lie back and accept her treatment like a good patient, and then revel in the results.
At first she’d found this patronising and troubling, but she’d grown accustomed to the doctor’s offhand manner, and she had, indeed, found herself able to revel in the results of his ministrations. She was alive, for a start, and that was something she had never expected. Dr. Mason had warned her that she was unlikely to see the summer. Yet, thanks to Dr. Fabian, here she was.
Inside the brass sphere, Mr. Calverton’s metallic footsteps echoed like miniature detonations. Amelia tried not to look up. She didn’t want to see the cluster of apparatuses that hung from the ceiling on long multijointed arms, the needles and the masks and the blades and the throbbing lights. Nor did she want to look up into Mr. Calverton’s burrowing eyes.
Instead, she focused on the chair. It was mounted on a platform at the centre of the sphere, up a short flight of steps. Mr. Calverton took them slowly, careful not to jolt her with his sudden, jarring movements. The chair itself was similar to a dentist’s: black leather, with a footrest and a deep angle that meant lying almost horizontally. Only, unlike any dentists’ chairs she’d encountered, this one came with arm and leg restraints.
Mr. Calverton approached the chair and laid her, almost reverentially, upon it. He was labouring for breath.
“Thank you, Mr. Calverton.”
The faceless man cocked his head in acknowledgement and then turned his back on her, descending the short stairway and exiting the sphere the way they had come. The door slammed shut behind him with a loud clang, and Amelia heard dead bolts sliding into place.
Dr. Fabian’s monotonous voice echoed around the interior of the sphere, piped in through the brass speaking tube that connected the contraption to his workstation outside. “Try to relax now, Amelia. It’s time for you to undress.”
Ame
lia sighed. She hated this bit. She sat up and unbuttoned the back of her nightgown, slipping it over her head so that her modesty was protected only by her undergarments. She knew that no one except Dr. Fabian could see inside the sphere—through a sequence of adjustable mirrored panels that allowed him to observe the progress of the treatment—but she couldn’t help imagining Mr. Calverton lurking in the shadows, watching her undress. She shivered, and it was only partly because of the cold. She draped the nightgown over the stand beside the chair.
“Very good, Amelia. Now, lie back and try to remain calm.”
She did as she was told, placing her wrists and ankles in the metal brackets. They snapped shut, seemingly of their own volition, to hold her in place. She felt her heart thudding against her ribs.
There was a grating sound from above as the mechanical arms swung into motion, creaking in their sockets. Amelia flinched involuntarily in anticipation of what was to come. She looked up and saw the pod of needles descending.
“This won’t hurt, Amelia. Just lie back, close your eyes, and think of something else.”
She tried to think again of the gardens at the rear of the institute, the topiary sculptures, the darting animals, the sunshine reflecting on the lake. But as the machine descended, she couldn’t repress her scream. She bucked against the restraints. Her voice was raw, as if the sounds were being ripped from her throat. She wanted only to be away from there, from the chair and the sphere and the pain.
Above her, the pod of needles opened like a cluster of fingers, and then they were upon her, stinging as they punctured her flesh, pricking holes in her face, arms, chest, thighs, feet. Her body was alive with pain. Crawling with it, as if all her nerves were suddenly, simultaneously on fire. She screamed again, her body racked by the violence of her torment. Miniature pistons fired as the needles continued to sink into her flesh. She heard them, hissing with escaping air. Dr. Fabian was talking again in the same monotonous voice, disembodied and echoing throughout the room, but she could not discern his words. All she could think about was the pain, her screaming, and the intense white light that was blinding her, preventing her from seeing what was happening.
Another needle slid into her throat. Something warm flushed through her body. She bucked again in the treatment chair, and then, after a moment, she was still.
CHAPTER
6
It was late morning before they arrived at Piccadilly. The sun was high in the sky and Piccadilly Circus was bustling with people.
Bainbridge, Newbury, and Veronica abandoned their hansom—one of those dreadful steam-powered affairs that Veronica despised so much—on Shaftesbury Avenue with the intention of making their way to Regent Street on foot.
Almost as soon as they stepped down from the cab, however, Veronica realised their error. She found herself being jostled by the press of tourists, workers, shoppers, and beggars. The place was overflowing with people. She held on to her handbag, cautious of the pickpockets that she knew to be active in the area.
Newbury fought through the milling people until he reached her side, taking her arm in his own and maneuvering her away from the tide of bodies. Bainbridge followed close behind, using his cane to part the throng before him like Moses commanding the Red Sea. Veronica couldn’t help but laugh at this vision of the chief inspector, stomping through the busy morning crowds with a stony expression, people shuffling out of his way to let him pass.
She realised Newbury was trying to get her attention. He leaned over, speaking loudly so she could hear him over the noise of the crowd. “Have you seen it yet?”
“What?”
“The crime scene. The place where the burglary was committed last night.”
Veronica shook her head. Bainbridge had called for her at her rooms in Kensington that morning and they’d set out to find Newbury directly. She knew only as much as he did—that the evidence at the scene suggested Sykes had been involved. “No. I haven’t seen it yet. Why?”
Newbury shrugged but didn’t elaborate. She wondered if it were some sort of test, and whether or not she’d passed, but Newbury wasn’t giving anything away. Did he suspect that she and Bainbridge had already been to visit the crime scene without him? Were the drugs now inspiring paranoia in Newbury, too? She considered pressing him on the matter but he’d already turned his attention back to the crowd, weaving down the busy street and pulling her along behind him.
The mob in the Circus was unusually dense, people packed in with little or no room to move. Veronica strained to see what was holding their attention, but was granted nothing but the rear view of people’s heads and the briefest glimpse of something bright and brassy, shining in the midday sun.
There was a sudden cheer from the front few rows of spectators, and she felt Newbury start at the noise. He still had his arm looped through hers, and she clung to him so as not to lose him amongst the multitudes. At least, that was what she told herself as she leaned into him a little closer.
Newbury craned his neck, trying to see over the people in front. “It’s some sort of demonstration,” he said, pushing his way through.
More cheering. Veronica tried to dodge a man who was waving his arms above his head with wild abandon and received an elbow in the ribs for the effort. The guilty little urchin—a girl of no more than ten—charged off, ducking between people’s legs. Veronica checked her bag. Thankfully, nothing appeared to be missing.
She glanced over her shoulder to see Bainbridge behind her, resolutely forging a path through the crowd, keeping pace with her and Newbury, his face like thunder. She was jostled roughly left to right, and clung to Newbury for dear life until, a moment later, they burst through to the front of the crowd to be confronted by one of the most bizarre spectacles she had ever seen.
Two men, dressed in full plate armour, sat astride identical brass warhorses, and appeared to be attempting to club each other to death.
Wooden barriers had been erected in a large oval to form a sort of arena, around which a crowd had gathered to watch the spectacle that was unfolding within.
The two men—dressed, Veronica gathered, as mediaeval knights—were locked in fiery combat, swinging flaming braziers at each other as their strange, mechanical mounts bucked and weaved and circled. The horses were clearly automata, of some sort: iron skeletons clad with shining brass plates, powered by tiny steam engines hidden somewhere in their workings and evidenced only by the jets of hissing vapour that issued from their nostrils. Each was bigger than a normal horse, with glowing, demonic eyes and sculpted manes. As they danced around each other with jarring but surprisingly rapid movements, Veronica caught glimpses of their internal workings, exposed as the overlapping plates of their bodies parted at the seams. Cogs whirred inside them like hidden clockwork nervous systems.
The two men were knocking each other about with tremendous vigour. Veronica flinched as one of them struck the other hard in the chest with his brazier, denting the steel plating of his opponent’s armour and sending hot coals spinning into the audience. The crowd parted to avoid the fiery missiles with a loud roar, but it was a roar of approval.
Veronica beckoned for Newbury to lean closer and spoke loudly into his ear. “What are they doing?” She turned her head to catch Newbury’s response.
“Fighting,” he said with a broad grin.
She gave him a playful slap on his chest. “I realise that. But why?”
“I have no idea. But it’s keeping this lot entertained.”
Veronica looked back, searching for Charles in the sea of faces. He was right behind her, and offered a resigned shrug. Then, spotting something, he pointed to a wooden board propped up against one of the barriers. It had been painted white, with words neatly stencilled onto it in red paint. Veronica tried to read around the people who stood in front of her, but they seemed intent on not staying still for even a moment. Eventually she managed to decipher the words FOR CHIVALRY! FOR ENGLAND!
Veronica frowned. Saint George’s Day had passed m
onths earlier. She wondered what it all meant. A demonstration by an Arthurian society, perhaps?
She had little time to wonder further as Newbury, clearly growing tired of the entertainment, dragged her away, towards Regent Street and the scene of the previous night’s crime.
* * *
Regent Street was almost as busy as Piccadilly Circus itself, with shoppers milling before impressive window displays filled with all manner of luxury goods, from exotic food hampers to oil-powered shaving kits, antique books to imported automata.
One store appeared to be selling Revenant Repellent Kits hand over fist. Veronica smiled at the hopeful faces of the customers as they emerged from the shop clutching their talismans and holly sprigs, still attributing supernatural causes to the plague that had infested the slums the prior year. People needed an enemy, something palpable to hide from. They would rather see devils than pox—at least devils could be kept at bay.
Veronica wanted to feel scornful towards these people for their naïvety, but she could not. They were only doing what they thought would protect their families from the Revenant curse, and surely it was better than nothing. Even hanging a talisman on the door was something, regardless of how little effect it had. And if it made them feel better … well, she couldn’t judge them for that.
She turned to see Bainbridge pointing towards the front of a nearby jeweller’s store with the end of his cane. The legend on the sign read FLITCROFT & SONS, FINE JEWELLERS. There were wooden shutters over the windows and the door was shut. There were no lights on inside the premises.
Veronica had heard of them by reputation, of course, but she’d never had reason to pay a visit to the store. Indeed, she suspected most of the items for sale inside to be well beyond her means. Shops like this one catered to the lords and ladies of high society, and whilst she could never be considered poor—she had a small allowance from her parents that she supplemented with her income from the Crown—neither could she afford to squander her money on elaborate and unnecessary trinkets.