I knew one thing: By God, my body does not know what to do!
And there we sat, on the green in Richmond Upon Thames, for God knows how many minutes, until it was clear to both of us that we had to move on, lest we be caught here.
Panacea twisted in my arms, her mouth open, reaching for my jaw. Her tongue snaked outward, sliding across my flesh, lapping at the core that had accumulated on my face. Like a cat at a bowl of milk, she worked her tongue over me, cleaning my face in case I was encountered by another as we made progress.
Clever Panacea, I thought, stroking her back as she worked.
I dragged the bodies as close to the cab as I dared, then took down my sack of curios. After wrapping the child in the sack and leaving her hidden in shrubbery beneath a tree, I loaded the bodies onto the cab and drove to the riverside. Three corpses, bloodless, thrown into the river. I could see Burton, Haddon and Margaret in the murk too, staring back at me with unnatural, pure-white eyes.
How many more would join them? How many more innocents would lose their lives? I could not pretend to care.
At that moment, I thought to myself, as I stared into the black water, lots more. I do so hope it is lots more.
Twenty-three.
Charles leapt from the cab, never stopping to pay the driver as he pushed and jostled his way along through the crowd. The Poland Street Hospital was a husk. The London Fire Engine Establishment had taken over in force, with one horse-drawn and three man-pulled engines at the scene. Ash and soot snowed down on the street and the hundreds of people gathered there. London’s foul air was particularly gloomy over Poland Street as the cloud of smoke hanging over the street blotted out the orange sunset, casting those gathered in an artificial twilight.
Charles could see that the buildings that neighboured the hospital had been burning for some time. The firemen had taken to dampening the adjoining buildings along the street to try to prevent any further spread, as the buildings already burning were clearly beyond salvation. He could see that their technique was effective, the flames had nowhere else to go and the ordeal was almost over.
At the end of the street he could see Charlotte Burton crying and shaking her head in disbelief. A well-dressed, academic-looking man who he immediately took to be Francis Flanders, offered solace and held Charlotte, trying to soothe her with his words as a severe-looking man in full fireman uniform offered words of consolation.
As Charles drew near he heard Flanders say, “Thank you for your kind words, Firemaster Braidwood. As you can see, Mrs Burton’s grief is so great that I doubt she will make sense of this until much later.”
“A grand and noble enterprise has gone to waste,” Braidwood said. He added, “However such instances can be expected with some of the undesirable characters that this establishment attracted.”
“Poor George,” Charlotte sniffled.
“Poor George!” Charles boomed, startling the small gathering. “Poor George! It was your Poor George who struck the match!”
“Who is this… man? Do you know him?” Braidwood asked.
“I do, he is an associate of mine,” Charlotte responded.
Charles turned to the Firemaster and snarled, “Had you not better tend to that fire? Sooner you get it put out, the sooner you can get yourself to that accountant’s office that went up in smoke.”
“What?” Flanders cried as Firemaster Braidwood left them, disgusted at this newcomer’s blood-caked attire, and shocked that either Mr Flanders or Mrs Burton would be associated with him.
“Yes, Mr Flanders. Terrible accident. One of your lads done himself a mischief and lit the place up,” Charles enjoyed the look of terror on the other man’s face, even though he knew the four men in the office would have easily stifled the flames without the need of more than a jug of water. At least, if they had acted quickly enough, he reasoned.
“Who is this man, Charlotte?” Flanders asked, horrified by the bloodstained thug before him.
“Charles, you are being highly improper. Particularly when you are paid to represent me and my interests,” Charlotte reproached him, managing to control her sobs. “From what I gather you have left a trail of destruction in your wake this day and have harried people I know and love under the guise of duty to me.”
“Mrs Burton, now you must listen,” Charles began. “I have uncovered a monstrous conspiracy involving your Doctor Blessing.”
“I will hear no more of it, Charles! I just want everything back as it was! The hospital, poor, terrified George-”
Charles interrupted, “And Henry! Back from the dead, eh?”
Charlotte moaned in pain at the sudden attack of Charles’ spiteful tongue.
“This is terribly inappropriate, sir!” Flanders protested, turning his shoulder, trying to shield Charlotte from this ruffian.
“Inappropriate? I have discovered a murderer! Henry Burton’s murderer. I am close to bringing him to justice, you buffoon! And since I can see that you have been otherwise occupied, I can assume that you do not harbour him.”
“What is this madman talking about, Charlotte?” Flanders groaned, trying to usher her away.
Charles struck out with the hand covered in tattered bandage. He felt hot blood throbbing through his head and a rage burning within him, sudden, uncontrollable. His blow struck Flanders on the back of the neck, knocking him against Charlotte’s profile. She staggered and Flanders managed to help her maintain her balance.
Flanders turned to face Charles, rearing up to his full height, which was only three inches shorter than Charles, but his frame was slight. Equally apparent to Charles was Flanders’ lack of fighting ability.
The accountant lashed out with an open hand, delivering a stinging slap to Charles’ nose.
Charles responded with a blow to Flanders’ midriff, before rolling his shoulders, stepping in and hitting him with a left in the same spot. The first blow doubled the accountant over; the second knocked him to the floor. He kicked Flanders savagely as Charlotte protested and clawed at him.
“Stop this madness, Charles! You are dismissed! You have overstepped the boundaries of decency, you disgrace!” she cried, mortified as the nearby crowd of onlookers turned their attention from the fire and started to watch them.
Charles crouched down, ignoring Charlotte, and grabbed Flanders by his hair. “I want you to tell me where that crook is, the art dealer.”
“Who, Edward?” Flanders sobbed, trying to catch his breath.
“Yes. Edward Summerscale. I want to know where he lives.”
Flanders hesitated until Charles raised a fist to strike him again. “All right!” Flanders cried. “All right! Just leave us and go about your business. He holds a house in Richmond Upon Thames near the end of King Street. He should be easy to find.”
“He had better be,” Charles snarled, pressing his nose into Flanders’ face. “Or I shall be back for you.”
Twenty-four.
Looking back at London with eyes half-closed, the haze of filth that rose from the city could easily look like smoke, Mary thought. The whole city on fire. It would not be the first time, she thought.
Her temper had subsided on her ride out of the city and she was able to think more clearly. It did not take one of the telepathy teachers at the school to suggest that the lust she felt for Doctor Blessing was a simple matter of displacement and distraction of her feelings and frustrations for Owen. Both doctors, both of them attractive, but there was something that set them apart.
Blessing was normal.
Doctor McEwan had killed for De Omori, had killed to order.
Blessing had killed because he was a victim, under the spell of one of the most deadly creatures alive. He was innocent. Innocent and normal.
So which was safer for her?
To live with a normal man, one had to be normal, surely?
And, being something other than normal she was destined to live an abnormal life. With abnormal people. Mary pondered this as the team of horses pressed on along th
e road at pace. She liked the word unconventional. Abnormal sounded like she should be encased in glass and placed in a museum, or prodded at by doctors.
She allowed herself a chuckle. When she was not thinking about killing creatures of the night, all she did seem to think about was being prodded at by at least two doctors she knew.
Mary sighed and thought, remember your training. Put everything back in its compartment. She knew that everything she had said to Lily and Niamh was a lie. Not with regard to saving Doctor Blessing, but she had no intention of delivering him home. If she could have that man to herself, she would. And she would finally be free of the spell Owen had over her. He could go back to The Island. He could go and teach new students. Or he could die trying to save London from his imaginary outbreak of vampires.
Mary allowed herself a rest with her eyes closed and tried to silence her thoughts. Breathing deeply, purging her mind, she found balance. She desired them both, for different reasons. Blessing was a gentle kind of man she could get to grow old with. Owen was a mysterious kind of man she would have to grow old in front of.
“Almost there, Miss,” the driver called.
Black Mary opened her eyes to see the lights of Richmond along the road ahead.
Twenty-five.
After collecting the child, who lay shivering in the night air, and my collection of jars from the damp, chilly grass of Richmond Green, I made my way to the southern tip of the park. I looked about me to get my bearings and could see the lights and hear the throng of patrons of the Cricketers public house. Henry, Edward and I had taken a good drink there not long after it was rebuilt. The original building had burned down in the 1840s. Were it not for the presence of the child, I might have taken a beer or gin there again.
I cut down Paved Court and onto King Street, where Edward rented a house. He was not difficult to find, and it was evident that he was home, or at least, someone was in his home. I can not imagine for a minute that Edward was liked or respected by his neighbours. Fortunately a closed shop took up the property to his left, but a well-to-do family clearly lived in the large house to his right.
Singing and piano music rang out into the night and couples courted on the steps immediately outside his front door. I watched with disgust as a woman leaned against the pilaster of the entrance as her suitor vigorously rubbed her sex beneath her hitched skirts. Her hand was equally vigorous, occupied as it was, in his trousers. The house sounded full and I feared that the child safely ensconced within my coat would not remain hidden for very long.
I had no option but to proceed as planned and pushed past the couple and into the reception of Edward Summerscale’s home. Panacea squirmed against my body, unaccustomed as she was to such noise, so many voices and, I would have wagered, so many scents.
Here two women were kissing and caressing, there two men, here another couple groping feverishly, there a woman with her tongue protruding from her lips, for it to be licked by two doting men. I thought for a moment I had walked through a door into an orgy in the time of the emperor Caligula!
The revellers seemed not to notice the stranger in their midst as I followed the sound of the piano into the parlour.
A squeak issued forth from my coat. Although I heard it, I knew that others nearby had not.
“Edward!” I called, seeing my old friend stood by the piano, patting another man on the back as he played.
Another squeak, louder, more despairing. Two revellers looked at me and frowned.
“Edward!” I called, pushing my way through the tangle of well-dressed socialites and shabbily dressed artists.
A prolonged squeak and a shorter echo sounded. Others in the room detected the noise and traced it back to me as easily as they would have located a shattered window. I ignored them, knowing the child to be in distress. I pressed her closer to my body, willing her to close her auditory canals. I hunched over slightly and rocked gently as I stepped further into the room. “Excuse me… excuse me there,” I said, stepping over the legs of those leaning against the walls and furniture.
A low squeal rose and rose. I could feel the webbed fingers and curved claws writhing against my flesh. “Edward!” I cried.
The squeal increased in volume until it could be heard over the piano. The player stopped. All eyes were on me. There was a horrifying moment of silence, achingly long, accusingly empty.
“What was that noise?” people gasped, finally free of their shock. They shook their heads, both in dismay and in an attempt to shake off the disturbance the sound had caused them.
I saw a man dab at his bleeding nose with a handkerchief.
Edward was looking straight at me, but had no idea who I was. His blank eyes regarded me a stranger. “George! My God!” Edward boomed, finally recognising me without my customary attire, moustache and hair. He approached me, arms raised in welcome. He embraced me, but paused when he noted that I clutched my body tightly, not returning his gesture. “Is something wrong, old friend?” he whispered.
“I need to talk to you… in privacy.”
“All right, go straight up the stairs, to the second floor. I shall join you in a moment,” Edward said, keeping his voice low as the twenty or so others in the room began to chatter among themselves. Edward turned to address his guests with arms spread wide, and announced, “This is George, a new discovery of mine from Soho! He has decided to join us for the party. He needs to freshen up from his tiresome ride, however. We will return presently! Benjamin, the music, if you will! Something we can sing to!”
I was out of the room before Edward had finished his announcement and as per his instructions, had pushed up the stairs, onwards past more drunken, lust-filled revellers. How clever he was, upon noticing my condition, to assume that something grave was at hand, and to introduce me as George, without surname or title.
Edward caught up to me at the top of the stairs, unlocked his bedroom and ushered me in. He lit an oil lamp on his dresser and set it on a small desk. He offered me the seat at his desk, and I was grateful for it. I maintained my support of the child and rocked her. Away from the clamour of the party, she had settled somewhat. Again in my head I could hear her reflecting my soothing tone from earlier, “Shhhhhhh. Shhhhhhh.”
Edward’s face was caught somewhere between pleasure and concern as he said, “George, I wish I had known you were coming.”
“I’m sorry. I should have sent word in advance.”
“No,” he said, patting my shoulder, which was now thankfully completely healed. His fingers found the tear in the material and he glanced at it, puzzled. “Not at all, George. I simply mean that I could have prepared something for your arrival. This is just a gathering of a few friends. You are more than welcome to it.”
I chuckled at the idea that Edward considered this to be a gathering of a few friends. He strove to integrate his poor artists into high society, hoping to find wealthy patrons for them. He maintained that the artist, musician and actor were underprivileged and a society who sought their wares often treated the artists themselves with scorn. Why that meant they all had to get drunk at his house and commence to fornicate all over the place was beyond my grasp, but then I remembered who this was before me. And why I had come to see him.
“I am in terrible trouble, Edward,” I sobbed.
“I did assume that, what with your drastic change in appearance. What sort of trouble?” he asked, without a pause or waver in his voice.
“I am a wanted man. At least I think I am,” I replied.
“Wanted? By whom? Surely not the constabulary?”
I shrugged. “This man. This bloody man, Charles someone-or-other. He has hounded me these past two days.”
“But I ate with you just the other night,” Edward said. “Why did you say nothing to me then?”
“It was next morning that it all became clear to me. And there is a woman who seems to know something about me…” I trailed off trying to make sense of it all and what I could tell Edward.
“Geo
rge, forgive me, but this is difficult for me to understand.” Edward stroked his moustache and grasped my shoulder, squeezing me in encouragement. “Now look, you are talking to me. Eddie. You can tell me anything.”
“The widow Burton… she has sent someone after me.”
“Charlotte? But why would she do that?”
“She blames me for Henry’s death,” I said, looking my friend in the eye. “She thinks I killed him and dumped him in the river.”
“Ridiculous! You are a doctor, not some blood-sucking vampire savage.” Edward shook his head in disbelief. “I have a mind to visit her in her ridiculous house and put her straight. Jumped up little maid of all work!”
I stared at the floor, my eyes tracing the pattern of a Turkish rug that took up the centre of the room.
“Of course, I am sure all of this has to do with whatever that is under your coat.”
My eyes immediately met Edward’s and I took in a sudden gasp of air.
“Open your coat. I might as well see whatever it was that made the noise down there. I will see it sooner or later; you may as well not look so shocked. There must be some reason you came to me so suddenly.”
He was right. I came to Edward, because I knew two things about him. One, he is a murderer. And two, he knows how to get away with murder.
I peeled open the coat and watched as Edward covered his mouth, never taking his eyes of the child.
“Some sort of deformed baby?” he muttered, as if to himself.
“No. I am certain she was meant to be born this way. I think this is her at the height of perfection.”
“So bony. Her skin looks as though her ribs will tear through any moment,” he said, his fingers reaching forwards, closer to her.
“I must warn you, do not touch her. Not yet. I am not sure how much she listens to me.”
Edward looked puzzled. “What do you mean? Does she scratch, or bite or something?”
The Cabinet of Dr Blessing (The Dr Blessing Collection Parts 1-3): A Gothic Victorian Horror Tale Page 13