Timecurse

by Tom Becker

  “Who are you?” the girl asked fearfully. “How do you know my name?”

  “Ssh!” Raquella said, placing a finger over her lips. “I’m a friend. You can trust me.”

  She sat down gingerly on the edge of the bed and took hold of the girl’s hand.

  “Do you know my Uncle Archie?” Clara said hopefully. “I haven’t seen him for days. Not since the bad man came here.”

  Raquella leaned forward. “The bad man?”

  Clara’s face darkened. “He came here with Uncle Archie and threatened him. They thought I was asleep but I was listening. The bad man said if Uncle Archie didn’t help him, I’d be sent away to a place worse than here.” Clara’s eyes moistened. “If there is a place worse than this, miss, I don’t want to see it.”

  Raquella took off her shawl and placed it around the girl’s shaking shoulders. “Of course you don’t,” she said soothingly. “And don’t you worry – no one’s going to send you anywhere.”

  From outside came the sound of marching footsteps, and a booming, self-important voice. Clara’s head shot up.

  “It’s the warden! He’s coming with the bad man, I know it!” she whispered. “You have to go!”

  Panic churning in her stomach, Raquella looked around for a hiding place. There were no cupboards to conceal her, no curtains to hide behind, no way past the iron bars that criss-crossed the windows. As the door handle turned and a crack of light entered the infirmary, Raquella leapt into the empty bed beside Clara’s and pulled the musty sheet over her head. There she lay, stock-still, barely daring to breathe.

  “Here we are, then,” she heard the warden say briskly, even as Clara whimpered with fearful recognition. “I cannot thank you enough for once again gracing our humble institution with your presence.”

  “It is not a problem,” a voice replied smoothly. “My ears are always listening out for the plaintive cries of the needy.”

  Beneath the sheets, Raquella’s eyes widened. She would recognize that voice anywhere. The floorboards winced loudly as a pair of footsteps made a shuffling progress towards Clara’s bed.

  “Sit up, ma cherie, and take a deep breath,” the voice continued. “There’s a good child. . .”

  It was Vendetta’s doctor: Hugo La Mort.

  19

  Raquella held her breath beneath the sheet, questions racing through her mind. La Mort was the bad man Clara had been talking about? But why would the doctor need a spy in Vendetta’s household? Weren’t the two of them supposed to be friends?

  On the other side of the ward, the warden was lecturing to his inmates, oblivious to the fact that no one was listening to him. From the bed next to her, Raquella heard La Mort whispering into Clara’s ear.

  “Bad news, child,” the doctor hissed. “Your uncle let me down. It was not a difficult thing that I asked of him. Now I have had to make alternative arrangements, which have greatly inconvenienced me. I warned him, ma cherie, what would happen to you if he failed me. I have to keep my side of the bargain, non?”

  “Where’s Uncle Archie? What have you done to him?” Clara whimpered, before bursting into racking sobs. Disturbed by the noise, the warden broke off from his sermon and approached the girl’s bed.

  “There, there. It’s only the doctor. Hmm . . . what do you think, Doctor La Mort?”

  “Oh, monsieur warden,” La Mort replied, his voice honeyed with false concern, “this is a very sad case. I fear the girl’s malady has spread to the brain. She is distressed, mentally enfeebled. I do not think there is much more a medical man can do for her, if you understand me?”

  There was a pause.

  “I see,” the warden said slowly. “You think she would be more comfortable in the Bedlam?”

  Clara made a small, horrified sound; Raquella’s blood froze. Ever since she had been a little girl, the maid had heard the tales – the horror stories – of the Bedlam, Darkside’s asylum for the insane. Everyone in the borough knew of its dreadful reputation, how decades of echoing screams and cries for help had warped the very walls themselves. Confining madmen to the Bedlam was a dark enough duty; committing someone who was sane was simply monstrous.

  “Alas, I do,” La Mort replied. “After my rounds I will come up to your office and sign the necessary papers, oui? But let us see if there are any patients here I can actually help.” He turned towards the next bed. “What is the problem with this child?”

  “To tell you the truth,” the warden said, “I’m not entirely sure. It must be a new arrival.”

  “Well then, let us see what we are dealing with.”

  Footsteps drew near Raquella’s bed. Her heart pounded; she knew she was trapped. If La Mort saw her face, there was no telling what he might do to her. Raquella felt the doctor take hold of the bed sheet and try to pull it down. She resisted, her knuckles blanching with the effort. All the while a single thought was revolving around her brain: where on Darkside was Harry?

  “It seems,” La Mort grunted, “that this one is suffering from an acute case of shyness.”

  “Not shyness,” Clara said, in a small voice. “Typhus. That’s why she’s trying to stay away from you.”

  The doctor suddenly released his grip on the sheet.

  “What did you say?” La Mort said.

  “She was brought in about an hour ago. I heard them say she had typhus. She won’t be long with us now. . .”

  “Doctor La Mort,” the warden cut in hastily, “I assure you, there is no way that—”

  “Sacre bleu!” the doctor exclaimed violently. “You imbecile! You incompetent! I offer you my services, my expertise, and you reward me by enclosing me in this . . . this death trap! This patient should be in an isolation room on her own! Do you have any idea how infectious typhus is? I could already have caught it!”

  “Please, monsieur doctor, you have to believe me—”

  There was the sound of a ringing slap, and the warden cried out. A pair of footsteps stormed out of the room, hurriedly followed by another, and then the infirmary door slammed shut. Breathing a deep sigh of relief, Raquella pulled the sheet back from her head. She smiled at Clara.

  “That was brilliant,” she said. “Thank you.”

  Clara tried to smile, but the tears were still rolling down her face.

  “Oh, Clara,” Raquella said tenderly, “I’m so sorry about your uncle.”

  “He’s gone, miss,” Clara sniffed. “He’s gone, and I’m alone, and they’re going to send me to the madhouse. And I ain’t mad, miss! Honest!”

  Raquella got out of the bed and hastened to the girl’s side.

  “I know you’re not mad, Clara. And you’re not on your own. I’m here, and I’ll make sure that no one sends you to the madhouse. Can you walk?”

  “I can try, miss, but where are we going to go?”

  “Outside—”

  The doors to the infirmary crashed open. Light poured into the room, outlining the familiar silhouette of Harry Pierce.

  “. . . And this nice gentleman is going to help us.”

  Harry paced impatiently into the room, peering into the beds.

  “Is that you, Raquella?” he called out. “I said ten minutes! What have you been doing?”

  “I could ask you the same question,” Raquella shot back. “Come on, Clara.”

  She helped the girl climb out of bed, wrapping the shawl tightly around Clara as she tottered to her feet. Harry looked on, frowning.

  “Is that Clara?”

  “It is,” Raquella replied firmly, helping the little girl as she hobbled towards Harry. “She’s coming with us.”

  “Is that really a good idea? We’ve got to get out of here, you know, and this really isn’t the best time. . .”

  He broke off. Even the dingy light couldn’t obscure the look on Raquella’s face.

  “Harry Pierce,” she sa
id, in a voice several degrees below freezing, “either this girl comes with us or you can walk out on your own. It’s entirely up to you. But leave us now, and I will take out a full-page advert in the Informer telling the entire borough what a coward you are. Are we clear on that point?”

  A look passed over Harry’s face that Raquella didn’t recognize. With a jolt, she realized it was embarrassment.

  “Right. Sorry about that. Perhaps I can help here?”

  He picked up Clara’s tiny form as though she were made of straw, and hoisted her into his arms. At the infirmary doors, Harry paused and nodded for Raquella to go before him. She swished past him, head held high.

  “Better, Harry. Much better.”

  If anything, the poorhouse was getting busier – the corridor outside was crammed with paupers shouting and bickering with one another. They had barely taken ten paces when there came a shout from behind them.

  “Hey! You there!”

  Raquella looked over her shoulder to see the cadaverous porter from the front gate hastening after them with a pompous red-faced man, who she presumed was the warden, at his side. They were ominously flanked by two large guards carrying billy clubs. The red-faced man called out again.

  “Yes, you! I want to speak with you!”

  “Harry,” Raquella said softly to her companion, “I think we may need to go a little faster.”

  “How much faster?”

  Raquella turned again, to see the warden pointing them out to the two guards, who began lumbering in their direction.

  “I think running would be a start,” she said.

  “I had a nasty feeling you were going to say that,” Harry sighed, shifting Clara in his arms. “Follow me.”

  With that, he darted off down a side corridor, dodging through the gaggles of people and hurdling prone bodies. Even with the burden of Clara in his arms, Harry was fast – Raquella could only just keep pace with him. The guards barrelled their way along the corridor after them, shouldering people out of the way, clubbing anyone unfortunate enough to block their path.

  “They’re gaining on us!” she cried desperately.

  “Can’t go any faster!” Harry shouted back. “We’ve got to slow them down!”

  They burst into the main hall, which was now so full of bodies it resembled a solid mass of human flesh. Harry cursed and tried to push his way through the throng, but with his arms full it was difficult to make an impression. Raquella knew that, although they were within touching distance of the main entrance, they would never make it. In the centre of the hall she came to a halt, and turned to face their pursuers.

  “Are you mad?” Harry shouted. “They’ll kill you! Come on!”

  Raquella pulled out a small pouch from the folds of her dress and undid the drawstring, her fingers shaking. She pulled out a handful of coins and hurled them high into the air towards the guards, their edges glinting in the fading afternoon light. The shocked hall fell into a silence so profound that the only sound was the tinkling of the coins as they hit the floor at the guards’ feet.

  Then all hell broke loose.

  With a roar of desire, the paupers descended on the coins like a swarm of bees. Besieged, the guards began swinging their clubs about their heads, but there were too many opponents to quell. As the punches and the kicks and bites rained down upon them, the guards were quickly swallowed up in the scrum, until their swinging clubs could no longer be seen, and their cries for help could be heard no more.

  Raquella looked on, frozen by the chaos she had created. She felt a hand on her shoulder. It was Harry. The boy had put Clara down, and was looking sympathetically into Raquella’s eyes.

  “It was the only way,” the maid said softly. “I had to do something. . .”

  “I know,” he replied. “It’s time to go.”

  Taking her hand, Harry gently led the two girls towards the exit, leaving the No’penny Poorhouse to its bleak fate.

  It was dark by the time they reached the offices of the Darkside Informer. Harry climbed wearily up the stairs and deposited Clara into the care of Arthur Blake. The pudgy editor took one look at the young girl and immediately took charge, ordering one of his employees to race out into the streets and bring back hot food and drink. Now she was upstairs in his office, wrapped in one of Arthur’s oversized coats, giggling as the editor made shadow animals dance across the walls.

  Down in the main office, Raquella found herself wishing that someone would take similar care of her. The poorhouse had overwhelmed her in a way that the horrors of Vendetta’s service never had. She couldn’t shake the images of the starving families and feral children from her head. Now, sitting with Harry at his desk, Vendetta’s ledger between them, she suddenly felt very, very tired.

  She looked up to see Harry eyeing her with concern.

  “Are you all right?” he asked.

  “I’m fine,” Raquella said, a hint of irritation creeping into her voice. “Don’t worry about me. I’m just trying to make sense of what happened. I can’t work out why the doctor would cross Vendetta.”

  “There, I might be able to help you,” Harry said. “What was his name again?”

  “The doctor? Hugo La Mort. Why, do you know him?”

  “No,” he replied, opening the ledger and leafing through the pages, “but I’ve seen his name before. A few hundred times, in fact. I’ve read this book from cover to cover, and Hugo La Mort turns up again and again. He makes large regular payments to one person – the same man every time. Can you guess who?”

  Suddenly, things started to become clearer in Raquella’s mind. “Vendetta.”

  “The one and only. Here – check out these entries.” Harry turned the ledger round, showing her the payments. It was clear that, over the years, Vendetta had received a large sum of money from the doctor.

  “So La Mort was paying my master. But what does it mean?”

  Harry shrugged. “Damned if I know. But I think it might be worth paying a visit to the good doctor’s house.”

  “Is that wise?” Raquella said doubtfully, casting a glance at the grandfather clock by the wall. “La Mort works through the night, you know. He could still be up.”

  Harry smiled grimly.

  “Even better,” he said.

  20

  As Vendetta’s limousine purred along a dockside road south of the Thames, the silence in the back of the car was broken by Carnegie’s harsh laughter.

  “You’re insane,” said the wereman.

  The vampire arched an eyebrow. “Do you really think so? I have been accused of many things in the past, but madness has never been one of them.”

  “James has been dead for twelve years!” Carnegie guffawed. “He’ll be a rotting corpse, for Ripper’s sake!”

  “I wouldn’t expect you to grasp the intricacies of this plan, wolfman,” Vendetta said icily. “After all, its architect was Thomas Ripper himself.”

  “So what do you have to do with it, then?” the wereman asked.

  “Several weeks after James’s death, I was summoned to Blackchapel in the middle of the night. Thomas met me in a secret chamber behind the throne room. Even then, I could see the beginnings of his decline. He was still a broad, imposing figure – he had killed all three of his brothers in armed combat, lest you forget – but his spirit had been broken. Alas, even the Rippers are human.”

  “Barely,” Jonathan muttered, his thoughts turning back to the Black Phoenix.

  “That night,” the vampire continued, “Thomas confided in me that he felt James had been his true heir, and that he feared neither of his remaining children were fit to take the throne. He told me of his plan to try and resurrect James. Thomas needed help arranging the operation, and it was common knowledge that James and I were friends. I was a natural ally.

  “The next few months were . . . not easy. Thomas was a man possesse
d; there were no lengths to which he wouldn’t go to raise his own son. He took me down to the deepest cellars in Darkside, where cursed crones committed sacrifices in the hope of gaining power. We saw things beyond your wildest imagination and your worst dreams, Starling, but all to no avail. The soul of James Ripper remained beyond our reach.”

  “And then you met me,” Josiah said proudly.

  Vendetta glared at the watchmaker, piqued by the interruption. “Bartlemas managed to convince me that he could build a mechanism capable of turning back not just time, but life itself. I arranged the payments from Thomas, and oversaw his efforts. Initially progress was slow, the prototypes worse than useless. All the while Thomas was slowly dying, a deeply frustrated man.”

  “And then I managed to crack the code in my grandfather’s diaries,” Bartlemas babbled excitedly. “I discovered that the Chronos Wheel could provide the solution to our problems – if we could only get it to work. Two essential components were missing. For one thing, the Wheel needed to be encased in moonstone . . .”

  “. . . which Dexter Scabble was good enough to provide you with,” Carnegie said.

  Vendetta inclined his head. “Indeed. And I found the second component on Lightside. Now Bartlemas has all he needs to bring the Wheel to life.”

  “It is just a shame that Thomas didn’t live long enough to see his dream realized,” the watchmaker added.

  “If he had survived for one more week. . .” Vendetta said. He smiled coldly. “Perhaps there is something to be said for being dead already.”

  “Still sounds like a fool’s errand to me,” Carnegie growled.

  A flicker of irritation showed on the vampire’s face, and then he settled back in his seat.

  “Of course, you would know best,” he mocked. “But why don’t you indulge me? Come with us and see for yourself. We’ve nearly arrived at my flat.”

  Jonathan looked out through the tinted windows to see a vast building swallowing up his view. The limousine moved through the front entrance and made its way towards a forbidding set of metal gates at the back of the building. The gates parted as the car approached, and it rolled down a slope into an underground garage, a gloomy mausoleum of expensive sports cars. As they eased into a reserved parking space near the exit, Vendetta got out and strode towards the lift, Bartlemas scuttling along in his wake. Jonathan caught Carnegie’s arm as the wereman made to follow.