by S. C. Green
“It wasn’t her fault, Miss!” Brigitte burst out. “She was dusting the china cabinet, and she slipped from her ladder and dropped a plate. She even managed to rescue it before it smashed on the ground. His Majesty was sleeping in his chair in the corner and she must have startled him awake. He tore from the wheeled chair, tipped the cabinet upside down, and threw all the plates at poor Alison’s head, howling all the while. He — he — he —”
“He assailed her even when she was no longer screaming,” said Cassandra. “We heard the whole thing from the hall. Oh, Miss Julie, it was horrible!”
Brigitte thought of the strange noises she’d heard, and the blood sloshing at the bottom of that one pristine teacup, and she wondered if she and Cassandra had even grasped the true horror. She hugged her knees to her chest.
“You girls have had a terrible fright.” Miss Julie stroked Brigitte’s hair. “And you know what cures the willies — a good run at the wringing machine. There’s a load of bedclothes a mile high that needs wringing and hanging, and we’ll be covering Alison’s chores ’till she recovers, so we’ll need to look lively.”
Cassandra sobbed, but Miss Julie would hear none of it. With one last, lingering look at Alison, her head covered in bandages and her tiny body punctured with wounds, Brigitte left the room and returned to her chores.
***
When she collapsed into her bed that evening, Brigitte leaned over to watch Alison. Miss Julie had obviously been in to change her bandages, for now only a thin layer covered most of her face. One of her eyes had swollen shut, puffed up like the casing on a mince pie, and the other stared, wide and unblinking, at some spot beyond Brigitte’s shoulder.
“Alison?” she whispered.
The eye met hers, wide and frightened. Alison tried to say something, but all that came out was a strangled, hoarse sob. She was the third new maid in as many months, the other two disappearing from the castle in the night, their beds found empty in the morning, and their meagre belongings still stuffed into the pillowcase.
“Hush, it’s all right now. You don’t have to be afraid. He can’t hurt you here—”
Alison screamed, the sound hollow and hoarse, as though she had not the energy to make a sound. But her one eye screwed shut and she opened her mouth again in a gaping, silent screech. Horrified, Brigitte turned away, buried her head under her pillow, and tried to forget.
***
For days Alison remained in a state of flux: catatonic one minute, screaming the next. It was as if she lived inside a permanent nightmare, flailing herself against the sheets in a desperate attempt to wake herself up.
Miss Julie had cleaned up the blood and crockery on the third floor. The King hadn’t left his chambers since that horrible morning, though Banks had been attending him night and day. Brigitte hoped he stayed there forever.
After a week, Alison’s condition had not changed. Miss Julie took some money from the jar under her bed, and went into the village. She returned with a man in a dark suit, carrying a leather case. They shut the bedroom door while they examined her, so Brigitte could not watch, but she listened through the door and could hear Alison sobbing. Ten minutes later Miss Julie and the man emerged. The housekeeper’s usually ruddy complexion had become drawn and white.
“Alison will be going away,” she said. Brigitte demanded to know why, but Miss Julie rapped her across the knuckles for insolence. She was sick, Miss Julie said. The man would take her somewhere she could get better.
But Brigitte’s mother had gone away with a pale-faced man with a leather case too, and she’d never got better and she’d never come back. Brigitte sobbed and screamed and cursed at Miss Julie, who didn’t scold her this time, but took her in her arms and said it really was for the best. The man returned to the bedroom, bundled the sobbing girl in her sodden sheets, and carried her outside to his waiting carriage. As Brigitte watched through the barred windows, the carriage sped out of the gates and along the castle wall, ’till it finally disappeared from sight.
Brigitte knew she would never feel safe in the palace again. She and Cassandra cleaned as a pair, one manning the mop or broom or polishing cloth, while the other walked behind, eyes nervously darting into every hall and alcove, checking for signs of the King. Whenever they heard the creaking of the wheeled chair on the bright marble floor they would hide in the nearest room, holding each other and praying to their Gods that he would not find them. Neither wanted to end up as the next victim of the King’s rages. Neither wanted her cheeks flayed off like poor Alison.
***
“He doesn’t want to see no one.”
“He’ll want to see me.” Nicholas stooped down to look through the slot in the door. Peter’s face scowled back at him.
“I know it’s you, Nicholas. He doesn’t want to see you, neither. You could go down if you want, but he’s chained an’ padlocked the door. Working on something top secret, he is.”
“Fine. I’ll wait in the church.”
Nicholas didn’t understand. We have only four months to get the Wall and railway completed. Isambard said we needed to begin immediately, and here I am, ready to work, and Isambard has locked himself away on some whim?
He didn’t really know what to do with himself. He had no desire to return to the guesthouse — the compies in the walls were louder than ever — so he lay down on one of the pews at the back of the church, and fell into a dreamless sleep.
He awoke later, to the uneasy feeling of someone standing over his body. The dark shape stood in the shadows just out of view, tall and thin, like a rake leaned against the wall by some careful gardener.
“There you are. I’ve been waiting for you for hours. What are you messing around with down there? We have a Wall to build—”
“Hello, Nicholas.”
It wasn’t Brunel. The man stepped out of the shadows and loomed over him, his priestly robes sweeping along the floor and his bulk blocking the light from the gas lamps above. Nicholas sat up and met the man’s gaze. The man didn’t speak, but simply stared back — his expression hard, his eyes blazing.
Finally, Nicholas said. “And you are—”
“I am Oswald, the eldest son of Henry Williams, Senior. I believe you went to school with my brother.”
“However much you blame me for Henry’s death,” Nicholas said, uneasiness creeping into his head, “I cannot bring him back.”
“I’m here to talk about Aaron,” Oswald said. “I want you to stay away from him.”
“Why?”
“You’re not a Stoker, Nicholas, so I don’t expect you to understand. Aaron is young, and you—” he gave a sinister smile, “you have not exactly sailed under cover of darkness. Once I heard you had returned I had to know everything there was to know about Nicholas Thorne. You had a brother once, didn’t you? But he died in very mysterious circumstances. Very mysterious indeed. And then you came to London, and my brother died, and you conveniently shipped out the very next day. So I looked up the Navy records, and what did I find? You killed a superior officer, and fled into Spain to escape your punishment. But you’re in London now, so you’ve crossed the border illegally, and that can only mean you’ve left an even bigger mess behind in France than a murdered lieutenant.”
He leaned in so close Nicholas could see every lump and furrow of his pock-marked skin. “We’re simple folk, us Stokers, but we have our own rules, and we care about our families, Nicholas Thorne. I’ve already lost one brother because of your presence—”
“Henry’s death was an accident—”
“And accidents seem to follow you everywhere, don’t they? I won’t have Aaron caught up in whatever clandestine dealings you and Brunel have dreamed up.” He swept his arm around, indicating the Nave, the Chimney, the flickering lamps, and Brunel’s whole operation. “He believes that because I work for him I’m blind to his ambition, but I’ve seen things, Nicholas Thorne. I’ve seen. You’re planning something, the two of you, and it’s un-Stoker-like, and Aaron will ha
ve no part in it.”
“But we’re not—”
“Also,” he added, holding out a thick palm, “I see the bulge of a purse in your pocket. I’ll have that, if you please.”
“But—”
“If you please, Mr. Rose. I’d hate for the authorities to find out about your presence in this city, and your real name.”
Nicholas pulled the purse from his jacket and threw it at the priest. Oswald caught it in midair, pulling it open with eager fingers, and feeling for the coins inside.
“That will do … for now.”
“This is absurd. Isambard has done nothing but look out for Aaron. And I hardly intend to—”
But the priest had already turned away. “I trust,” Oswald called over his shoulder as he descended the steps towards the priests’ cloister, “you won’t forget this little meeting.”
“Your words, your Holiness, are forever etched into my memory.”
“Good.” And he was gone, his robes swishing against the stairs.
Nicholas’ stomach growled. He thought of the two shillings he’d had in his purse — the last of his money ’till Brunel could pay him. It will be another night with an empty stomach, another night kept awake with the threats of this new enemy hanging over me. I should have never returned to London.
***
James Holman’s Memoirs — Unpublished
As declared, the first meeting of the Free-Thinking Men’s Blasphemous Brandy and Supper Society took place in my cramped dormitory at Travers College, requiring the members to travel twenty-six miles from London to the grounds of Windsor Castle. I spent some of my meagre savings on a spread of fresh-cut meats and cheese and several varieties of tea, not to mention a fine bottle of brandy.
I raced back and forth between the common room and my quarters, arranging chairs, setting up bowls and spoons and polishing the tea settings. Every time I passed the oak writing desk opposite the door, my fingers brushed the letter that I had leaned against the inlaid drawers. Occasionally I picked it up and fingered it, brushing against the Duke’s seal, imagining what it might say.
The letter had arrived that morning, and it could only be a response to my request for extended leave to undertake an adventure. At twenty-two, I was the youngest of the Naval Knights by a good forty years. Although we are only allowed to absent our duties on medical grounds, I had managed, with a recommendation from a doctor friend, to secure a previous extended period of leave to attend medical school in Edinburgh. My new application sought permission to travel extensively across England, though in reality I meant to escape our closed borders and pursue my dream to conduct a circuit of the world.
Of course, I couldn’t read the letter, and I didn’t want to ask one of the cantankerous Knights to read it for me. So I had been fidgeting in anticipation all afternoon, pacing across the floor and cracking my knuckles in a most un-gentlemanly manner.
Nicholas and Aaron arrived promptly at four, sharing a carriage. Both men handed me their coats — Nicholas’ a fine woolen cape in the latest Parisian fashion, worn and thin around the edges; Aaron’s the tough canvas of a workmen, reeking of soot — and settled into the mismatched chairs I had placed around the cramped room.
“No Isambard?” I asked, secretly relieved.
Aaron shook his head. “He’s been most peculiar these past two days. He’s locked himself in his chambers and has not emerged, not even to give orders to begin construction of the Wall. I’ve no idea what he plans, but he certainly does not wish to leave his workshop for any reason.”
“Too bad, he’s missing out on this.” I presented the brandy to the gentlemen, and poured a glass each for Nicholas, Aaron, and Buckland, who had just arrived by carriage from Oxford.
“It’s nothing like the Royal Society lays claim to,” I observed, feeling each man’s fingers brush mine as they took their glasses. “But I feel our club should enjoy the fineries of intellectual countenance.”
“I’ll drink to that,” said Buckland, raising his glass to his lips. As requested, Buckland’s wife had indeed baked a cheesecake, and Nicholas had stolen a box of hot chocolate from the kitchen at his guesthouse. He stirred his brandy into his hot drink and sipped, giving a sigh of contentment.
We exchanged pleasantries while we waited for the final two guests to arrive. When I could no longer contain myself, I slid the envelope across the desk toward Nicholas. “Please?” I said.
Images swam inside my head — images of things I could no longer see but might one day hear, and smell, and feel. Paths unwandered, specimens undiscovered, ingenious peoples whose fascinating customs yearned to be documented …
He slit open the envelope with his bread knife, and read the contents aloud. “… on behalf of His Royal Highness the Duke of Edinburgh, we regret to inform you that—”
I froze, my heart galloping in my chest. I didn’t hear the rest of the message. I must have looked horrified, as Nicholas reached across and took my hand.
“I am sorry, James. The current political climate is rather prohibitive to adventuring. Perhaps you will have better luck if you apply again in a few years.”
My application had been declined. I would be stuck in Windsor for eternity, my dreams of travel and adventure remaining simply that — dreams.
The food I had so lovingly prepared tasted sour after that loathsome news. Aaron and Nicholas did what they could to keep the conversation light, but my mind returned again and again to my fate, to live out the rest of my days trapped in these infernal chambers with six crotchety old men, the only travel the gruelling hundred steps I must endure twice per day to reach the chapel.
The maid knocked on my door and announced the arrived of my final two guests: Mr. George Lyell, a biologist, and Dr. John Dalton, a chemist currently researching color-blindness, and the friend whose medical evidence had once succeeded in earning my freedom. Nicholas stood up to introduce himself to the men, and they greeted him warmly, offering their own platters of food for the feast.
When each man had been seated and their glasses filled, Nicholas rapped his knuckles against the chair arm and cried. “I hereby call the first meeting of the Free-Thinking Men’s Blasphemous Brandy and Supper Society to order.”
“Hear, hear!” Buckland was already halfway through his second glass of brandy.
First, we discussed the problem of keeping minutes of the meetings.
“It’s imperative we record our intellectual discussion,” said Dalton. “We might well make important observations that need to be recalled. Often, it’s when returning to the notes from such discussions that the true nature of a phenomenon becomes apparent.”
“But if a written record of our meetings ever fell into the wrong hands …” Buckland’s voice trailed off. We all knew what had happened to Babbage.
“The obvious solution,” said Aaron, “is some kind of code.”
“Aaron is right,” said Nicholas. “However, we face the less-common problem that not all of us can read.” He paused, and I could feel all eyes in the room fall on my Noctograph — the wooden and string frame I used to guide my hand while I printed — lying unused in my lap.
“Worry not about me, friends,” I replied, my cheeks burning despite myself. “I’m used to storing intellectual notes in the recesses of my cranium.”
“Nonsense,” cried Buckland. “We should not leave any one of our members without access to written notes of our proceedings.”
“What about a code printed in raised shapes on a sheet of metal?” said Aaron. “Like rivets on plated steel? That way, Holman could read with his fingers.”
“Brilliant!” I beamed.
Nicholas set his glass down on the table. “Aaron, of all of us, you have the most ready access to a workshop of tools. And I have some skill with ciphers from my time in the Navy. Should we two work together to write our code?”
With that decided, Nicholas — who seemed to fall into the role of master of ceremonies — moved on to the main event of the evening. T
he first member responsible for presenting research was Buckland, who had spent the summer on a caving expedition in Wales where he’d discovered a human female skeleton, stained with red pigment, amongst the bones of the ancient Great Dragons.
Geologists have already established that many large animals from the Dinosauria family — similar to the neckers, iguanodon, compies, swamp—dragons, and other creatures abundant in the British Isles today — had died out before the appearance of man. But never before had a human skeleton been found alongside them, and never one who, like Buckland’s, carried unusual rings and amulets made of the bones of the beasts. Buckland was trying to come to terms with the find before he published his paper.
“There is a Roman settlement nearby,” said Buckland. “Perhaps she discovered the bones in a nearby cave and carved the jewelry from them.”
Lyell shook his head. “The bones would have to be carved when they were still hard. You said the decomposition was the same? It seems your red lady was contemporary with the beast.”
“The bestial skeleton is old, probably pre-flood — I mean, pre-catastrophe. I can’t suggest that humans lived then. That’s counter to the whole Industrian dogma. You saw what happened to Babbage!”
“Relax, William,” said Dalton. “Unlike the Royal Society, it matters not to us what you write in your papers to please the Church. We’ve all written similar plaintive.”
Nicholas reached over and topped up Buckland’s brandy glass. “We’re interested in what you, as a scholar of biology and geology, think was going on in that cave.”
Buckland sighed. I felt a surge of pity for the man. I too knew what it was like to struggle against the bonds of society.
“The artefacts indicate she lived either before or during the Roman occupation,” he finally said. “And when this woman lived, Great Dragons still inhabited England. Not a word of this must leave this room, for it is blasphemy—”
“Great Dragons and humans … together?” Nicholas’ voice shuddered. “It is a terrifying thought.”