Immediately the heat registered against her skin. The arid air burned her lungs and forced her to blink rapidly, as the moisture was instantly robbed from her eyes.
Whirling, she took in the scene. First, the cell doors were open. Glancing in the two cells closest to her, she found them empty. Glass cases had been shattered and whatever had been stored within had escaped. Escape from the flames had been the priority rather than feeding, as she checked herself over and could find no evidence of bites.
Second, the sound of fire roaring and crackling told her that whoever had attacked her, had decided to destroy the building. She did not need years of De Omori training to determine the identity of that someone.
In a moment she was back in the small study. The desk had been upset and drawers emptied out over the floor. The bookshelves had been toppled, their contents scattered and doused in oil lighting. Leaves of paper and journals curled in the heat just as the flames took hold, destroying the information forever. Mary stayed low, as the smoke billowed overhead in a streaming cloud that pushed into to the operating room.
Blinded with tears, Mary grasped whatever sheets of paper she could reach, patting flames out against her body and moving to another page or book, extinguishing the flames again.
In less than a minute, the room was an inferno. Mary took her last deep breath and burst into the operating room, breaking into a sprint across the burning pools of liquid. Soot and ash swirled in the air as currents from the fire twisted upwards, grasping for the open air of the London streets. Mary’s muscles burned, her lungs feeling like they too were on fire. She swatted at her burning dress, as the flames licked at her flesh. Burning oil splashed up her legs with each footstep.
A barrel of oil rolled and bashed its way down the stairs, oil sloshing out in every direction. Mary ducked back into the operating room as the barrel sailed past her and the flames burst forth once more, invigorated by this sudden feast of fuel.
Mary’s trembling hands reached the railing as she ascended.
The flames howled around her.
Her dress was burning again.
She could smell that her hair was burning.
She let out her last breath as the doctor’s office came into view.
More fire.
An inferno.
She tried to breath, it hurt.
She inhaled fire.
She coughed.
Smoke raced around her like spectral hands trying to overcome her.
She gulped the smoke in.
Coughed smoke out.
Vision gone.
Blinded.
Coughing.
Knees on the burning rug.
Hands burning on the burning rug.
Face burning on the…
“Doctor?” a man’s voice.
A voice in the smoke.
“Oh, God! I have you, madam. I have you.”
Small animals screaming in the flames, burning but not quite consumed.
Hands around her forearms.
“Ah!” a hiss of pain. “Cut my fingers.”
He found her secret blades.
Animals screaming, frenzied.
“What in God’s name?”
She was floating, out of the flames, he was beating her as she floated. The heat subsided but her flesh still burned.
Fresh air! She gulped fresh air and coughed and coughed and vomited black in the muck of the alley behind the clinic. Tears streaked down her face.
The big man she had seen outside the coffee shop was stamping on something and rubbing his hand.
“What was that?” Mary asked.
“A bloody mouse bit me! And what the hell is in your dress? Something cut my hand!” the big man shouted, moving over to her.
Mary staggered to her feet.
The man’s teeth were bared, he was angry. He would take the blades out.
Mary beat him to it. Her fingertips found the small circular buttons at her wrists and, spreading her arms apart, drew two short, flexible blades, each with one razor-sharp edge. The buttons she had grasped led on to a thin handle, wide enough only for her fists, followed immediately by the deadly little blades. Mary slashed out, using the flat of a blade to deliver a stinging slap to the side of her saviour’s face.
Her muscles twitched and pulsed, striving for the memory, the shapes, the way to fight, hoping that she could deter the man from stepping closer. Hoping she would not have to fight him at all.
“I only wanted to help you, madam!” he gasped. “Wait a minute! I know you! The doctor’s whore!”
Mary’s face contorted, confused. How did he know about McEwan? “You know of De Omori?” she asked.
“De what?” the man barked. “Listen! Is the doctor still in there?” the big man boomed.
Mary waved the blades at the big man. “Stay away. You can’t understand this! This matter is beyond you.”
He stepped forward, still rubbing the bite on his hand, which had further opened the incision caused by the concealed blade. “I wanted to help you! I wanted to help!”
“Step no further!”
Hand outstretched, the man ignored her warning. Mary struck with precision, blinding speed, and solid force. She caught the man’s jaw with the handle of one of the weapons, sending him spinning to the floor.
Secreting her blades once more, she dragged the big man around onto Poland Street proper, not wishing for him to die if the fire spread to the alley. He had saved her life, after all. She staggered off Poland Street, onto Oxford Street, slapping the hands away and ignoring the offers of help and cries of horror.
She had to get to the Seraphim, only there could she compose herself and read the stolen documents she had stuffed inside her dress. Mary hoped she had managed to steal enough to make sense of this whole affair.
Thirteen.
Niamh had carried out my instructions to the letter. She had returned in the early afternoon, with her mission accomplished. Spread out before me were the items needed to become a navvy, an artist, a wandering musician, anything I so desired.
The power swelled in my breast as I raked the razor over the strop, again and again. One last look in the mirror.
I sensed my enemies aligning, the demise of Doctor George Blessing near at hand! Goodbye George. Silly old George. Silly old George was not so silly. He could not be trapped in the body and life of Doctor Blessing! I was warping into something else entirely, with new ideas and new strategies. Nothing was impossible. The machinery of my brain drove on, fuelled by I knew not what, but I knew that I would stop at nothing to secure my safety, and the safety of Panacea.
I spread the lather across my face and already saw a new man looking back at me.
Charlotte had suspected me and had involved a man whose instinct alone had implicated me in the crime of which I was entirely guilty – the destruction of my friend! I was still unclear on whether Charlotte knew of the strange woman from the coffee house – she had been so adamant that she knew nothing of her.
The razor cleaved its way through my moustache.
The woman agent was nothing more to worry about, whether Charlotte had guided her or not. She had perished in the flames. I do hope that D.O. will not miss her! I thought.
I raised the scissors and tilted my head in the mirror, taking my time, savouring the metamorphosis.
D.O. That symbol. I had seen it somewhere before. I turned my attention to my stacks of books, journals and magazines. Running a finger from spine to spine, from my scientific texts, to my arcane, spiritual books… nothing. And there, on my desk, in the exact spot I had left it so audaciously hoping that Father Haddon would be shocked by it – right in that spot, lay ‘The Anatomy of the Blood-Fiend’.
Grasping the book in both hands, I inspected the spine and cover, and there, embossed behind the name of the author, Doctor Samuel Brown III, was the very same symbol shown on Mary’s handkerchief. “She knew!” I bellowed.
That woman had nothing to do with Charlotte, after all! Perhaps she could have h
elped me, could have instructed me, and guided me in my research and care for the child. She had said there was an island for these creatures – presumably the very place this Doctor Brown had carried out his research.
Dizzy with the discovery, I dropped the book back on the table and spun back to the washstand. I grasped the scissors once more and cut away, frantically, recklessly.
I had caused the deaths of a great many people, but now, included in that number, an agent from an organisation charged with the protection of mortal man from supernatural enemies – creatures of the night – beasts – monsters! I had become their enemy, a monster!
My lies had compounded and under pressure, they had ruptured. I had contradicted myself; I had lied or told half-truths, unaware of facts that would show me instantly to be a liar. I had remarked on Henry’s inability to sire a child, when it had become clear to me in hindsight that he had, before his death, impregnated his wife.
In pretending to be Father Haddon, I had revealed knowledge of his clandestine meeting with Mary – placing myself quite obviously to the suspicious mind, as the last person to see him before his disappearance. Mary and that brute knew where I lived, knew my work and almost everything about me.
Hair gathered at my feet in great tufts as I continued to destroy my own image.
My instinct had been correct. It was time to leave London. Those great swells of energy that had gathered in my breast and altered my normal patterns of behaviour – great leaps of instinct and motivation had pushed me, driven me to this point. Certainly there had been mistakes along the way, but perhaps my sudden charges into this battle had made my pursuers hold back and take stock. Perhaps they had mistaken my naivety as a dangerous, malevolent courage. My instinct, then, I reasoned, had bought me time.
But had it been my instinct at all?
I dropped the scissors to the floor and spread lather across my shorn head. I grasped the razor once more and entered the next phase of my transformation.
In the mirror I could see him looking back at me, a soulless thing trapped within the glass. But the glass was about to break. Every scrape of the razor’s edge brought this new creation closer to liberty.
My mind churned with suspicion and paranoia: they are coming. They had to be. If my instinct told me to leave now, then there had to be a reason, I thought.
I raised the towel and patted my scalp dry. I turned to the bell-jar, and considered her. Despite her lack of eyeballs, I knew that she could see me as I tore at my clothes. I knew that she marvelled at the spectacle of my reconfiguration as I pulled on the tatty garments assembled by Niamh. I could feel her approval; it warmed me and soothed me. Her approval kept my mind from straying to the lifeless body of my wife and her terrible death.
In a moment of unfettered, almost animal freedom, I growled a deep, throaty rumble. The noise sent ripples of excitement up my spine. This was it now! My soul was wrenched from my body, ascending, ascending – that body crumbling to ash in a moment, discarded… expended.
My hessian sack was prepared, the other, smaller jars already within.
Gently I cradled my child in her glass chamber and placed her in the sack, which I tied about me tightly, slung from left shoulder to right hip.
And then came the sound. The knock at the door.
Excitement and pride burst forth in a moment and I roared, an ungodly howl – my voice, mingled with the screech of a beast - not caring who heard! Let the world know it! I am here! A new animal! I live! The hunt is truly on!
Fourteen.
Charles beat heavily on the door to the Blessing home with his bandaged hand. His impatience caused him to beat again before it was proper to do so. He glanced at the two men accompanying him.
Both of his accomplices wore brown woollen suits, topped with derby hats similar to his. The first man, to his left, wore a gruff grey beard and had dark eyes set into his head, close to his crooked nose. His shirt caused the skin of his neck to roll and overhang slightly, so tight was the garment against his bulk. He had the appearance of a bear, giving him his nickname, The Bear.
The other man, to Charles’ right, was more slightly built, but a good four inches taller than Charles. He wore a finely trimmed and waxed moustache under his long nose, the nose ravaged red with excessive alcohol consumption. He was known as Wet Freddy, for all his drinking, but only behind his back. Face-to-face, he was known simply as Freddy.
The trio created a menacing sight to the maid of all work who opened the door. Her enquiry into their business was cut short when from upstairs a roar issued, startling her. Charles froze for a moment then suddenly surged forwards, shoving the door inward and Lily to the floor.
Charles started for the stairs and Freddy began to search the ground floor, heading for the kitchen, pantry and copper.
“I know you are here, Blessing!” Charles boomed.
Lily picked herself up and drew in a breath ready to release a scream.
“Stay quiet, pretty!” The Bear growled, raising a thick finger to his lips, inches away from Lily’s cheek. She winced at his rancid breath.
“What is it you want?” she whimpered, backing away into the parlour.
The Bear turned, hurrying to the stairs upon hearing Charles battering against a door on the first floor.
“Open this door, coward!” Charles yelled, red-faced as he recoiled and charged the door again. Charles turned to The Bear. “Mrs Burton said she thought if he had anything to hide, it would be in the study, through these doors.”
The Bear arrived at the study door. He and Charles concerted their efforts, ramming the door with all their momentum. The lock burst and the doors slammed inward. Both men staggered into the room, but only Charles managed to stay on his feet. The Bear lost his footing and hit the floor.
Charles raced to the billowing curtains and the open window. He peered down into the backyard, where he saw Freddy looking in one of the outhouses.
“Freddy! Any sign in the yard?”
Freddy looked up at Charles, his jaw fell slack and he raised an arm, extending a finger, pointing at the roof. “He is above, Charles!”
Charles leaned out of the window, arching his back and clutching his hat. He caught a fleeting glimpse of a trousered leg, which promptly disappeared out of view, onto the roof.
Freddy became distracted by movement in the kitchen. “Oi! You in there!”
“Who is it?” Charles called.
“A girl. Doing a runner.”
“After her, Freddy!” Charles ordered. He began to climb out of the window.
Freddy raced through the house, back to the front door. There the maid Lily was waiting, having emerged from the parlour once more to see if she could make out what was happening in the study.
In his haste, Freddy failed to notice her outstretched foot, over which he tripped and careened out of the door, falling at full pace over the steps and down to the front street.
During the fall, Freddy lost his hat. His forehead smacked the pavement, opening a bloody split above his eyes. Dazed, he saw the running waif leap up onto a passing cab. She spoke to the driver, who glanced back at Freddy and cracked his whip at the horse, which broke into a trot, the driver yelling a warning to pedestrians at the end of the street.
Freddy cursed loudly and attracted many glances of remonstration from passers-by. He stood and turned back to the house to see the door slam shut and heard the locks engage from within.
Charles clung to the window frame with his thick fingers. The Bear grasped Charles’ forearms for added support, until he could take his own weight for the climb.
“That drain shan’t bear your weight, Charlie,” The Bear cautioned.
“He got up it, I can do it!” Charles snapped.
The Bear shook his head, “Get Freddy up there. The doctor’s just a skinny little slip of a man. You will fall, you will!”
Charles ignored his accomplice and grasped the drainpipe. He scuffed his boots along the wall and began the climb. The pipe rat
tled and trembled in its couplings all the way up to the roof and all the way down to the ground.
As he ascended, Charles saw a man, staying low and picking his way across the rooftops of the terrace, two sacks tied around his shoulders. He looked nothing like the doctor. This man had not a hair on his head, no moustache, and wore shabby work clothes. For a moment he was fooled, but the fugitive glanced back at him and Charles could see the resemblance. His years as a constable had taught him to try to see a man through his facial hair, as when he commits a crime, it is the first thing he will change.
He was making good use of his head start, was the doctor. Charles wanted to call out to him, order him to stop or return, but his breath burned in his lungs, his arms ached from the effort and the pipe seemed ready to collapse, such was the noise it made.
“He has to come down, Charles!” The Bear called from the window, below.
Two feet below the rain gutter, one of the long bolts holding the coupling in place began to work loose. Charles saw it. He pressed on, hand over hand, teeth gritted, spittle frothing from his lips with each breath.
The bolt fell loose. On the other side of the coupling, the other bolt was almost completely free.
Charles braced himself, changed his plan and began to descend with all haste. That he would fall was inevitable, but he wanted to be as close to the yard as he could be when it happened.
The rain gutter groaned. The first coupling fell free.
“Christ!” Charles roared.
The second coupling began to judder, this only a foot above Charles. He squeezed the drainpipe with all his might and looked down. The coupling strained, the bolts scraping away from the stone. Charles passed the study window, where The Bear observed his movements. He had not dared reach out to The Bear, or the window frame as he passed for fear that the shifting weight would have instantly sent him to the ground.
Another groan and the coupling broke free. The pipe buckled, tearing free of the roofline gutter. Two segments of pipe parted beneath Charles’ feet and he tilted away from the wall. He fell only a few feet, onto the roof of the coalhouse. The collision winded him and he rolled over, knocking the segments of broken pipe aside.
The Cabinet of Dr Blessing (The Dr Blessing Collection Parts 1-3): A Gothic Victorian Horror Tale Page 9