“Yes, she bites. She most certainly bites,” I responded. “She is tired and afraid and I have no idea what to do for the best. These three years I have kept her half-starved in a bell-jar. She has become accustomed to that environment, but her hunger… her thirst has exceeded my will.”
“Your will?” Edward asked, crouching closer to the cowering child.
“She talks to me, Edward. She can tell me things.”
“She speaks?” he gasped.
“Not exactly. But we understand each other. She can do something. It is akin to that noise you heard, but my mind seems to divine her meaning now.”
“Telepathy,” Edwards said. “I have heard of such things, but dismissed it as fancy.”
I steeled my jaw and cradled the child, pressing my cheek against the white flesh of her head. “This is no fancy, Edward.”
“What does she eat? Is there something I can get her?” Edward asked.
“No, she has fed sufficiently for tonight.”
“And she eats?”
“Drinks, actually. She drinks… well, she drinks blood.”
Edward sniggered and raised his hands to his forehead, pushing back his hair so that his fringe stood on end. “Oh dear. Poor old Henry.”
“What?”
“So this is what happened. It all becomes clear. Henry knew about this creature, disapproved and so you killed him. Fed him to it… her. And off he went into the river.”
I raised my eyebrows.
“I was correct!” Edward turned on his heels and danced away from me, laughing.
The child stirred. She could detect my uncertainty. I had immediately become uncertain of Edward. Was he really actually amused by this? Or was he horrified and about to bring about my downfall?
“The Bilbao Devil got his just desserts in the end,” Edward announced.
“Shhh, Edward!” I hissed.
Edward’s mouth widened into a grimace momentarily, by way of an apology. He approached once more. “You are without a doubt, George, the most interesting of all the men I know.”
“So… what I need to know is… can you help me to escape?”
“Help you? George… I want to come with you! This could be the greatest adventure I have ever known!”
“Are you mad, Edward? I am a hunted man. God’s wounds, that brute, Charles, or that damned woman could be here already. I need to disappear. I need to be able to escape into… into nothing. Thin air. I need to be where nobody can find us!”
Edward smiled and shook his head. “No, George. That is not what you need at all. For if nobody can find you… how will she survive?”
He was right. I knew he was right. And she knew what I knew. Her purr of agreement touched our minds like silk.
The child was asleep before long, stretched across a hastily prepared collection of cushions and blankets Edward had arranged on the floor of his room. Safely ensconced in her warm furnishings, she resembled a desert princess of Persia.
So fatigued was she, that I noticed my thoughts, though conflicted, were my own. Her hold on me had slipped.
“You had better make use of my bedroom tonight, George,” Edward had insisted as we stole from the room and locked the door.
I was ready for the gin Edward thrust into my hand. I savoured the bitterness as it washed away the lingering flavour of the woman’s blood. In my disguise as a navvy I did not look too dissimilar to the artists who fraternised with the wealthy and well-to-do guests also present. Edward introduced me as George Branding, a Soho artist he had known for years. Summerscale cruised through the murky waters of criminality with astounding ease, propelled as he was, by a steady stream of lies.
In moments where we had the time to steal a conversation in secret, Edward revealed that he had already conceived of a plan to spirit me away. There was a travelling carnival nearby. The master of this carnival, a man he referred to only as Smokey, was a good, loyal friend of his. I was under the impression that they had conducted some illicit business together. Indeed, Edward intimated that Smokey was a man who was good at making things, or people vanish.
The carnival, he said, roved around the countryside, never to a scheduled route. They travelled at night, he told me. Only Smokey knew where they would go. Ideal for me, he said. Ideal because he was certain that Smokey was going to head North, it being unlikely that he would remain in the South for very much longer, lest he be caught for one thing or another. Smokey knew secret places, he told me. Places a man could lose the past and start over. Ideal for us both, and the child, he said.
Before I knew it, I had partaken of several gins and had sung along to songs so lewd that they would have made the Devil blush. It reminded me of the good old days with Burton, down in Charlie’s Gin Palace. A flutter of regret swept through my innards. I clung to my insight like a buoyant plank in a shipwreck.
One moment I felt I could kill everyone here assembled and feed them to my little Panacea. The next I felt as though I should mount the stairs with a knife drawn and destroy the creature as it slept.
One moment I thought of Burton’s smiling face in the music halls and gin parlours. The next I saw his snarling lips, his fiery eyes and his accusing finger, pointed into my chest, his voice booming, “Murderer!”
“Shhh, George,” Edward said, wheeling me away from the piano. “Christ! These people have no idea what I’ve done,” he muttered.
“I meant someone else,” I whimpered.
Edward kept his tone hushed, hoping that the other guests had not heard my apparent outburst over the music, as he said, “I know, I know. Listen. Perhaps I should tell you about Alexander, but not tonight. I am sure you realise, however, that an artist’s work is more valuable when he is dead. Well Pond… he was producing nothing. Supposed to be a great! One of The Greats! Oh, that was Alexander. He had to go. He was costing me money. And that woman of his!”
“Woman?”
“Remember Dominique from the other night?” Edward asked, his eyes beaming with excitement.
“Yes, where is she?” I asked, realising that I had not seen her since arriving.
“She and I have a little arrangement. She is posing tonight.”
“Oh!” I exclaimed, and raised my eyebrows somewhat saucily. “A nude, I do hope.”
“Not that kind of posing, my old friend,” Edward said, guiding me through the scullery to the long, narrow garden to the rear of his property. “Her artist lover is having dinner with his parents tonight and… well, what can I say? If I were to point you towards the garden gate…” he trailed off, gesturing with his glass, one finger outstretched.
There, in the darkness, I could see two figures locked in frenzied intercourse. I heard the voices and could just discern that the figure bent over had no breasts, and when they altered their footing, I saw the male genitalia.
With the interest of a doctor, concerned with matters of the human body I watched as they contorted and twisted to kiss and each man touched the others face, stroking so gently, the movements and sentiment seemed so to contrast with the savage pumping at the lower portions of their bodies.
“Tell me, Edward,” I said, pausing to gulp at my drink, “does the sodomite think like us?”
Edward paused and stroked his chin, giving his answer much consideration.
Before he could answer, I received a tap on my shoulder. I turned and reeled in shock, as there before me stood Margaret. No! It was another woman, wearing one of Margaret’s dresses.
The woman. And almost immediately I felt desire stirring within me that I had not directed at poor Margaret for a long time.
Twenty-six.
Charles arrived at Richmond Green. He lambasted the driver. “Do I look like I want a bloody picnic?”
“If you have no address, sir, the green is central.”
Charles paid the man and immediately made for a group of well-dressed young men walking towards him. Charles had never been to Richmond before, and hoped to God that Edward Summerscale was well-known.
“You there,” he commanded, walking straight into the group of half a dozen men. He grabbed the man who looked least inebriated and shook him roughly, barking, “Summerscale! Edward Summerscale. Where can I find him?”
“You a detective or something?” the man asked.
“A shabby detective, if he is,” another added.
“Never mind what I bloody am!” Charles grasped the first man’s jacket lapels and practically lifted him off his feet.
“Get your hands off him!” one of the others protested.
Charles pushed the first man into another and turned, slamming his forearm against the jaw of the man who had raised his voice. He turned again immediately, assuming the man now behind him, to be the next to strike. He was right. A bottle was racing towards him. With his other forearm, Charles redirected the bottle blow harmlessly and followed across his body with a right cross that opened up both of his attacker’s nostrils in an explosion of blood.
As he pulled back his right arm, he continued, smashing his right elbow into the face of another man, extending his arm to deliver a back-hand to his cheek with a crack sound. Charles grabbed hair and clashed two heads together like symbols, but with a dull thud not the metallic crash.
With each blow, he imagined Blessing’s face opening up. It was Blessing’s jaw broken, it was Blessing’s teeth skittering across the ground like dice, it was Blessing’s stringy saliva-blood, it was Blessing’s hair clumped between his fingers, it was Blessing screaming for him to stop kicking, it was Blessing saying, “You’ve killed him! You’ve killed him!”
“What?” Charles muttered, trying to focus on the battered and bloody men scattered around him. A noisy public house nearby was emptying out, and the evacuating patrons were showing an interest in the scene.
“David! Wake up!” one of the men shook his fallen friend and tried to rouse him. The man’s head lolled to the side, bubbles of blood bursting at the corner of his mouth.
“He is breathing,” Charles said. “He is breathing, the blood bubbles are his breath. Now tell me where this whoreson Summerscale lives.”
One of the dazed men, terrified of what damage Charles would do next, pointed back up to the Green. “Turn left and carry on through Paved Court. His house is usually easy to find.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“If you hear the noise of a party at any point along the way, you have found your man.”
“Oi! What happened here!” another group of men, five this time, slightly older-looking than the first group, joined Charles and his victims. “Is he dead?”
Charles drew in a deep breath, feeling his muscles and chest expand. “None of your business. Keep to yourself!”
The leader of the new group of five men pulled a knife from his coat pocket. “This knife says it is my business now,” he said, shifting his balance into a stance ready to slash out in a wide arc.
“Careful, I think he may be a copper!” one of the first men cautioned.
“I could care less than a monkey’s arsehole what he is. He is a dead man!”
The man charged. Charles was ready. He raised his left hand above his brow and stepped to the right. As the knife drew closer, Charles slammed his left hand down, fist balled, like a hammer, striking his attacker’s forearm, pushing his momentum down. The attacker was off-balance. Charles twisted and swung his right fist into the back of the man’s neck, staggering him.
He charged his whole weight into the man, knocking him sprawling, punching his ribs viciously as he pushed him against the wall.
Charles took the knife away from him as though he was seizing a toy from a naughty child. He glanced back at the other men who had gathered. “You all want to be third, then?” he spat, knowing they could see he had the muscle to support his arrogance. “Now, where should this knife go?”
“Spare me!” the man begged.
Charles bent the little finger of the man’s left hand back, twisting it slowly and then suddenly snapped it back. He enjoyed the crack sound and the ensuing screams as he worked quickly with the knife. “You shan’t miss this one, eh? This can be my little souvenir from Richmond!”
The man bayed and wept while all the other men who had not already felt Charles’ wrath ran into the night, hoping to keep all of their fingers.
Charles hurried away up the street and observed his newly acquired blade. Not as good as his revolver, but it would do. He was handy with all sorts of weapons. Following the young man’s directions, he saw a house in which a party was clearly in full-swing. He correctly assumed this to be Summerscale’s place.
There seemed to be a houseful, would Blessing notice if he walked straight in through the front door? People seemed to be wandering in and out, chasing and kissing, drinking on the steps in front of the door. He decided to take a look around before making his move. Blessing had already escaped once. He could not allow him to do it again.
On his way to the rear of the property, Charles was overcome by a sudden urge. He removed the finger from his pocket and placed it behind his teeth, sucking upon it deeply.
Twenty-seven.
Mary grasped Blessing by his shoulder and hand. “Care to dance, Doctor?” she asked, leading him, turning him away from Edward.
“What the hell are you doing here?” he asked, still in shock. “And what the hell are you doing in Margaret’s dress?”
“You can not simply run away, Doctor Blessing. You have to face up to this. I can help you.” Mary kept turning him, holding him closer and tighter, her breasts pushing into his chest. Without his moustache and hair, and without his usual attire, he looked like a different man entirely. Rougher, stronger. Part of her found him more appealing this way. She was glad that those eyes could never change. Those beautiful eyes.
“Are you going to answer me?” he asked, shaking her, fixing his feet in position, ending the dance immediately.
“I found her – your wife. I saw what happened to her. Lily and Niamh are quite safe, however. The men who chased you threatened them. One of them is still after you. He could be outside for all I know.”
What does it matter to you what he does? You both want me dead!”
Mary stepped back from him and looked in his eyes, pressing her palms against his chest, which seemed more muscular to the touch than she had imagined it would be. “Dead? I don’t want you dead, Doctor. In fact I very much want you to live.”
“But?” he asked, raising his eye brows, assuming there would be a caveat.
“But that thing must be destroyed. And if not destroyed, then contained and taken to a safe place.”
“This Island you spoke of?”
Mary nodded.
“And just where is this mysterious island of yours?” Blessing asked, almost managing to smile.
“If I told you, then there would be no mystery.”
Blessing allowed himself a snort of amusement. “What a strange profession you have chosen!” Blessing exclaimed. “You are a most adaptable human being, in my opinion!”
“What has brought you here?” Mary asked.
Blessing glanced at Summerscale, who cleared his throat, a warning. He was listening in.
Mary gripped Blessing’s drink and finished it in one draught. “Why do we not get another drink and discuss our matters in private?”
“Why not join us in the party proper?” Edward asked, quickly stepping to Blessing’s side. He looked Mary up and down. “I can only imagine you have a voice as beautiful as your figure, my lady. Will you join me at the piano?”
“I will not,” Mary snapped, striding away, leading Blessing by the hand.
Mary and Blessing sipped their glasses of gin and stole away to a corner of the drawing room. Mary had seen parties like this before, in many different cities. They did not excite her. They did not disgust her. They were simply background. The bare flesh, the tinge of opium in the air, it was all just data, registered and stored. She knew how to defeat every person in the room if they all turn
ed out to be hostile. That meant spotting the weaknesses and vulnerabilities of twenty-three people.
It had taken her less than a minute. The man with the limp – his right knee the problem, the glass, the opium pipe that could be smacked to the back of the throat, then removed and used to poke out an eye, or swing as a stick at the next attacker, the embers this action would kick up would provide a distraction… the ways she could hurt people were endless.
“There is something very familiar about you, Miss Brigham,” Blessing said. “You frighten me. There is something that tells me you will hurt me, or worse, but when I look at you sometimes I see something else.”
“Do you see the truth? That I wish you no harm?” Mary asked, raising her glass.
Blessing shook his head slowly. “That is not it. You know what you want. You are in control of any situation you find yourself in, are you not?”
“Not true. I could not make you give up the creature. Although I can guess that she is in this building. I can assume that you have hidden her as far away from the party as possible. The attic perhaps?”
Blessing shrugged. “If I told you, then there would be no mystery.”
“And I believe you to be quite yourself, right at this moment. But it is not my controlling nature you should fear. It is the creature’s. I believe she has made you do things, terrible things. I can help you to overcome her power. I can help you regain your normal life again.”
Blessing inched closer to Mary, his eyes locked on hers. “Who says I want that normal life again?”
“You crave something different?” Mary asked, the glass once more at her lips, her tongue flicking out to catch a drop of gin at the edge of the glass.
“Something more.”
“Adventure?”
“You could say that.”
Mary smiled and raised a suggestive eyebrow. “Sometimes adventure is no substitute for home comforts. The warmth of a bed, for instance.”
“Like an adventure, I suppose it all depends on who you share it with. And you may call me George, if it pleases you.”
The Cabinet of Dr Blessing (The Dr Blessing Collection Parts 1-3): A Gothic Victorian Horror Tale Page 14