The Magnificent Lizzie Brown and the Devil's Hound

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The Magnificent Lizzie Brown and the Devil's Hound Page 12

by Vicki Lockwood


  “But what about last night?” Lizzie wondered. “She didn’t even go on, she was that panicked. Who was watching her then?”

  “The debt collectors,” Hari said with a sigh. “And half a dozen of us circus people who were there to keep an eye on them. I think Lizzie’s right.”

  “So what do we do about it? We can’t hide the audience away, can we?” Lizzie looked into Victoria’s sad, dark eyes and felt sorry for her. “Poor thing. You couldn’t say what the problem was, could you? I wish we’d guessed it sooner.”

  “This might not be that tough a problem to crack,” Nora said happily. “Give me just a moment.” She rushed off, then came back after a few minutes holding something like a harness.

  “Blinkers?” Lizzie guessed.

  “Maybe if she can’t see the crowd, she won’t get upset,” Nora said.

  Before they could put the theory to the test, Malachy appeared at the entrance. “Special meeting in the tea tent! Attendance mandatory for everyone!” He grinned at Lizzie. “And that counts double for you.”

  * * *

  “Blimey,” Lizzie whispered as they saw Fitzy, who was standing on a box and beaming at the gathered crowd. “If he was smiling any brighter you could stick him on a cliff top and use him as a lighthouse.”

  “Ladies and gentlemen!” called Fitzy. “Boys and girls. Dear friends, one and all . . .”

  “Get on with it!” someone shouted. A peal of laughter followed, from Fitzy too.

  “I draw your attention to this special edition of the London Evening Post,” Fitzy declared. “Please be so good as to read the headline.” He held the newspaper up so everyone could see it.

  CIRCUS CHILDREN APPREHEND GRAVE ROBBERS

  Desecration Ended

  by Valiant Youths of Fitzy’s Traveling Circus

  Lizzie pushed her way up to the front of the crowd so she could get a better look. An artist had provided a sketch using a lot of imagination. The drawing showed a group of children in circus costumes — a clown, an acrobat, and a lion tamer — surrounding a grave. An ogreish-looking man was climbing out with a body slung over his shoulder.

  “I can’t take my eyes off you lot for a minute, can I?” Fitzy laughed. “Now, I don’t want to get anyone in trouble with their folks, so I won’t ask the heroes to identify themselves now. But I think we can all guess who they were.”

  A lot of feet were shuffled, and a few people whistled in mock innocence. Lizzie looked around at all the smiling faces and grinned bashfully. Even Ma Sullivan couldn’t keep her stony face on anymore and broke into a smile.

  Fitzy read aloud from the paper, which told a slightly garbled version of the story. For one thing, Lizzie didn’t remember any heroic boy clown tripping the grave robbers up and sending them tumbling into a grave. But everyone turned to look at her when the story mentioned a mysterious “fortune-teller” with “powers quite beyond the common table-tappers and Mr. Sludges of London society.”

  “What’s a Mr. Sludge?” Lizzie asked Malachy.

  “He’s a fake psychic from a Robert Browning poem,” Malachy whispered. “It means the papers think you’re genuine. I’d brace yourself for a lot more customers if I were you.”

  Fitzy’s voice rang out. “Now, some of you might be thinking, ‘I bet all that publicity in the papers has done wonders for ticket sales!’ And you’d be right! We’ve sold a great many tickets for tonight’s show.” He looked right at Lizzie, and his eyes gleamed with a wonderful light. “In fact, we have sold every single one of our tickets for tonight’s show!”

  “We’re sold out?” Mario exclaimed.

  “Packed to the rafters!” Fitzy raised his hat. Everyone broke out cheering and clapping.

  Lizzie was thrilled for Fitzy, but she just didn’t feel like celebrating. Malachy gave Lizzie a hug. But when she stiffened, he took his arm away.

  “What’s the matter?” he asked.

  “I’m not sure,” she muttered. “I just feel . . . sort of wrong.”

  “Is it because everyone’s looking at you?” Malachy asked. “I know you don’t like that.”

  Lizzie shook her head. “No, it’s not the attention. I don’t mind that, not from friends. It’s something else.” She turned to leave. Malachy started after her, but Lizzie said, “I probably just need to get some rest.”

  Outside the tent, in the cool air, Lizzie listened to the sounds of celebration. The mood had shifted, and it was about time too. It was grand to see Fitzy full of hope again. So where was this unsettled feeling coming from?

  Lizzie knew she still had to perform tonight, but no, that wasn’t what was gnawing at her. The grave robbers were safely locked away, so they wouldn’t be out for revenge. That wasn’t it either. Deep down, it felt like something was still wrong. Perhaps her clairvoyant powers could help her see clearly . . .

  Lizzie needed to be on her own. Celebrations and rehearsals would just have to wait. She climbed inside her trailer, closed the door, and sat down on the bed. A wave of fatigue swept over her — she badly needed a nap.

  Lizzie began to clear the clutter off her bed. Hairbrush, book, loose change . . . and the horse brass Becky had given her. She picked it up, thinking that she’d put it away in a drawer — and a vision took hold of her mind. It was so powerful it forced her to her knees.

  She saw Becky’s father, flat on his back on a metal table. All around him lay peculiar implements: steel tongs, a saw, strange metal items like spikes and clips. He was white as flour and not moving.

  “Help me,” his voice pleaded in Lizzie’s mind. “I cannot rest. Make them put me back!”

  “Where are you?” Lizzie cried out. “Ain’t you buried?”

  “Help me! She’s coming . . .”

  Next moment, the hunched figure of Mrs. Crowe, the housekeeper at Dr. Gladwell’s, leaned into the vision. Her eyes narrowed and her nostrils twitched, as if she could smell Lizzie watching her.

  “. . . coming to cut meeeee!” wailed the ghostly voice.

  Slowly, Mrs. Crowe wiped a bright metal object clean on a wad of cotton. She raised it up into the light, and Lizzie felt a chill as she saw what it was…

  A terrifyingly sharp scalpel!

  CHAPTER 16

  A knock at the door made Lizzie jump. “Come in,” she croaked, still feeling shaky.

  Malachy peered in, a cup of tea in his hand. “I thought maybe I ought to check on you. When you don’t feel right, there’s usually something psychic going on.”

  “Thanks,” she said with genuine gratitude. She stood up, felt dizzy, and sat down again.

  “Having one of your visions?” Malachy passed her the tea and watched curiously as if he half expected her head to start spinning around.

  Lizzie took a drink of tea, which made it easier to speak. “I had a vision,” she said. “A horrible one. Seems like they’ve all been horrible lately.” She described what she’d seen. The memory of Becky’s father’s pale, cold flesh made her skin crawl.

  “Well,” Malachy said. “What do you make of it?”

  “I don’t know.” Lizzie rubbed her forehead. It was damp with sweat. “I thought all this was over. It’s not, though, is it?”

  “It might be,” Malachy said. “Maybe what you’re seeing now is the past.”

  “The past?” Lizzie took another sip.

  “Think about it,” Malachy persisted. “We know Becky’s dad is down at the cemetery, don’t we? They dug him up, took his stuff, but when they didn’t find any jewels or gold, they chucked it away in the canal. So you must be seeing visions of when he was alive.”

  That didn’t sound right. “But he was so pale!” Lizzie argued.

  “So was JoJo,” Malachy pointed out. “Becky’s dad must have gone to Dr. Gladwell’s when he was ill. Mrs. Crowe probably helped the doctor care for him.”

  “I dunno.” Lizzie hadn’
t seen the body move at all. And usually her visions of the past had a slightly fuzzy quality, whereas this vision was sharp and crisp.

  But as far as Malachy was concerned, the discussion was over. “Back to work for me,” he said, dusting himself off. “Lots to do tonight. It’s a full house, remember?”

  “Malachy—” Lizzie started to say.

  “Yes?” He looked very tired.

  Lizzie shook her head. “Never mind.”

  Once Malachy had left, Lizzie lay down and listened to the sounds of preparation coming from all around the site. She knew she badly needed to rehearse some more, but the show tent would be busy now, and there was nowhere else to practice. Besides, the vision was lingering in her mind, nagging her to act.

  “What am I supposed to do?” Lizzie murmured. Should she hold the horse brass again and try to talk to Becky’s father? No. She didn’t want to hear that despairing moan again. Let Malachy think what he liked. She was convinced the man she’d seen had been dead. Did that mean his body was at Dr. Gladwell’s house right now, then? But if it was, what on earth was Mrs. Crowe doing with it?

  A horrible thought came back into Lizzie’s mind. Erin had had a theory about dead bodies and the kind of people who had uses for them. “Witchcraft,” she’d said.

  Lizzie shuddered. Mrs. Crowe certainly looked like a witch. And she’d had a sharp scalpel in the vision . . .

  As Lizzie’s horror grew, JoJo’s words came back to her. He’d warned her to stay away, just before Mrs. Crowe had come and thrown them out. What was it he’d said? Something about being stabbed to death with needles . . .

  Witches made wax figures of people, didn’t they? Lizzie suddenly remembered Ma Sullivan telling her that. They’re called “poppets.” And they stabbed them with needles, so the victim died a lingering death . . .

  “JoJo!” Lizzie cried, leaping to her feet. Show or no show, she had to go and visit Dr. Gladwell’s house right now. If Mrs. Crowe really was a witch, the clown’s life was in grave danger.

  * * *

  Dr. Gladwell’s house loomed over the surrounding hedge, its dark windows filled with secrets. Lizzie lingered beside the main gate for a few minutes, trying to catch her breath after the journey and working up the courage to go inside. She couldn’t get that gleaming scalpel out of her mind.

  Once she was certain nobody was coming or going, Lizzie hurried through the gate. The front door was up ahead of her. A bench sat nearby — empty now, she saw. Gravel paths surrounded the house, and there were big rhododendron bushes beyond.

  In her mind, Lizzie retraced her steps from when she’d been inside the house last time. That big window must be the front room, where everyone had gathered for their immunizations. So the laboratory must be on the other side, across the hallway.

  Swallowing her fear, Lizzie ran up to the house and pressed herself into the corner where the front wall met the side of the porch. It formed a little blind spot. Nobody who opened the front door would see her there, as the porch wall would hide her.

  She crouched down, below the height of the windows, and began to edge along the front wall of the house. By lifting her head ever so slightly, she could peep into the windows as she passed. If anyone was in the room, she could duck back out of sight.

  Lizzie cautiously peered into the first window. There was the hall with the wood floor and the grandfather clock. She was going the right way. She shuffled along further, trying not to make too much noise. A crow flew up from the bushes, squawking, and Lizzie stood as still as a statue until the sounds had died away.

  The next window has to be the laboratory, Lizzie thought. She raised her head to look in, but all she saw was heavy cloth. The curtains were drawn. Grinding her teeth in frustration, she shuffled to the next window. That was blocked by a curtain too.

  Stupid of me! Lizzie realized. Why’d I think this was going to be easy?

  She’d reached the corner of the house. Maybe the curtains on the side window would be open? She craned her head around to see and breathed in sharply as she saw a room she recognized.

  Dr. Gladwell’s laboratory was the same room from her vision. There were cloudy flasks full of liquid, a sink, and a pair of bloodstained gloves. Lizzie couldn’t see all the way in, but she thought she could make out the end of the metal table.

  She peered in through the dirt on the window, leaning closer for a better view. There were two bare white feet on the metal table. And the body they belonged to was definitely dead. Was it Becky’s father or not? Lizzie couldn’t quite see. She tried to squeeze up even closer.

  She never heard the crunch of footsteps on gravel coming up behind her. Someone suddenly grabbed her roughly by the arm. Lizzie yelped in fear and looked up into the pop-eyed, furious face of Mrs. Crowe.

  “You’re hurting me! Get off!” Lizzie cried as the old woman’s fingers gripped her arm.

  “What are you doing here?” the housekeeper demanded with a spray of spittle. “What did you see?”

  “I saw enough!” Lizzie tried to tug herself free, but the old woman’s fingers were like an eagle’s claws.

  “You shouldn’t go sticking your nose in where it doesn’t belong,” Mrs. Crowe snarled. “There’s plenty that goes on in the world that the likes of you can’t hope to understand.”

  You can’t scare me, Lizzie thought. “You’re wrong,” she said. “I do know what you’re up to. You’re a witch!”

  Mrs. Crowe laughed. It was an ugly, wet sound, like a cat coughing up a hairball. “I’ve been called worse.”

  “What’s in them jars?” Lizzie demanded. “Potions? And I know about your needles too. You might have fooled the doctor, but you can’t fool me.”

  The old woman’s hand swept back, ready to slap Lizzie. Lizzie flinched in anticipation, but the blow never came. Mrs. Crowe pulled her close and growled, “You run along back home, now, if you know what’s good for you.”

  Lizzie screwed up her face in disgust. Revulsion gave her strength, and in one swift move she wrenched her arm out of Mrs. Crowe’s grip and shoved her, sending her staggering back into the bushes. The housekeeper’s angry yells rang in Lizzie’s ears as she ran for the door. “Stay back! Get out of there!”

  Lizzie sprinted through the open door and skidded to a halt in the hallway. I have to warn Dr. Gladwell, she thought. His housekeeper’s a witch, and he doesn’t even have any idea what she’s up to.

  “Doctor?” Lizzie shouted. “Doctor, where are you?”

  There was a sound of a door closing, then unhurried footsteps descending the stairs. Dr. Gladwell emerged into the hallway, his kindly smile lighting up his face. “Hello, there. It’s young Lizzie, isn’t it? Whatever can be the matter?”

  “It’s Mrs. Crowe,” Lizzie blurted out. “She’s a witch!”

  “Oh, dear,” the doctor said, laughing. “Have the village children been telling stories again?”

  “I was outside the house, and she grabbed me—” Lizzie started.

  The doctor shook his head. “I’ll have to have words with her. She can be fearsome, but that’s no reason to call an old lady cruel names.”

  “I looked in the window!” Lizzie insisted. “There was a dead body on the table!”

  The doctor’s smile never faltered. “Ah. Now I see. I’m afraid that’s common practice, Lizzie. I’m sorry if you got a nasty shock, but I did tell you to stay away from the laboratory.”

  “Common practice?” Lizzie repeated, dumbfounded.

  “Doctors have to dissect cadavers, my dear. It’s part of our medical training. You can’t learn about the human body from books alone, you know.” Dr. Gladwell put his hands behind his back and strode across the hall until he was standing in front of the door to the laboratory. “It’s not nice, especially not for a young girl, but it’s a crucial part of scientific progress.”

  “You mean you cut up the bodies?”
Lizzie asked.

  “Naturally,” the doctor said. “So do doctors across London. Across the country. Hundreds of them.” He stopped, as if he realized he’d said too much.

  Lizzie looked into his gray eyes. The atmosphere in the room changed. The doctor knew what she was going to ask next. A sinister feeling crept over her. “So . . . if doctors are cutting up bodies all over the country . . . then where do all the bodies come from?”

  “They’re the bodies of executed prisoners,” Dr. Gladwell said, a little too smoothly. “Now, I’d like to return to my work, if you don’t mind.”

  “All of them?” Lizzie asked.

  The doctor snapped, “Yes, all of them!” The mask of kindly good humor was gone. He glared at Lizzie as if he wanted to crush her to a pulp.

  “Show me the body you’ve got in your lab right now,” Lizzie demanded.

  “Absolutely not,” the doctor replied.

  Lizzie took a step forward. “Show me!”

  Dr. Gladwell shook his head. “It’s not a suitable sight for young eyes.”

  As he blustered, Lizzie charged at the closed door. She shouldered the doctor aside, grabbed the handle, twisted it, and shoved.

  The door opened onto the laboratory. The stench hit Lizzie’s nose immediately, the same smell she’d noticed before. It definitely wasn’t carbolic.

  It’s embalming fluid, Lizzie realized. The smell of dead bodies in an undertaker’s parlor.

  The door opened wider, revealing Dr. Gladwell’s secret. Finally, Lizzie saw the true horror in the room, and in that moment everything that had happened up to that point made shocking sense. Her stomach heaved. What she saw on the table would haunt her imagination for months to come . . .

  CHAPTER 17

  Becky’s father, Jacob Hayward, lay on the examining table with only a white cloth covering him below the waist. He had been laid out like a butchered hog. There was a fresh, open incision in his stomach.

 

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