Blood Is Blood

by Will Thomas

  “Thomas,” Rebecca said, coming down the stair.

  I looked up at her. She was in her widow’s weeds again, black as a funeral. She was a forbidding sight for so small a creature. I’d forgotten how beautiful she was. A Rose of Sharon; a rose no longer meant for me.

  “Shall we go into the parlor?” she asked, her voice cold.

  “As you wish.”

  I followed her into the room.

  “Sit.”

  “I fear I cannot,” I said.

  “You know that you owe this visit completely to Mrs. Ashleigh’s persuasion. She would not stop hounding me until I agreed to hear you. Sit!”

  “I cannot,” I replied. “Mrs. Ashleigh said little to me of this visit. I have nothing that requires hearing.”

  “Nothing?” she demanded.

  I bowed. I, too, was astonishingly formal, all of a sudden.

  “Nothing prepared, I mean. You know everything in my heart, and it is unchanged. I regret you having seen what occurred that night, but if given the chance, I would do it again to defend you.”

  “Please sit,” she pleaded.

  I sat.

  “I wish you would quit that terrible profession, and find a reasonable situation in the City. My father knows almost everyone.”

  “Very well. I’ve written a letter of resignation. I can deliver it in the morning.”

  I noticed her hands were shaking. She hadn’t anticipated it would be so easy. “That’s settled, then.”

  “Of course. I’ll tender my resignation, and then I’ll pack. Perhaps I’ll find a hotel here in the City. It shall be difficult to inform Mr. Barker that he is no longer invited to be my best man, but I’m sure he’ll understand. When he is well again he can gather the scraps of the case I’ve left behind and solve it himself. After we are wed, I’ll move here and establish myself as a clerk or a junior stockbroker. Something like that.”

  I stopped speaking and looked at her. Her eyes were large and brown, like velvet.

  “You would absolutely hate that, wouldn’t you?” she murmured.

  “But I’d be willing to try. For you.”

  She’d been sitting up, a model of deportment, but her shoulders slumped a little and she sighed. “You’d be miserable. You can’t hide it, Thomas. I know you too well. Oh, what are we going to do?”

  She leaned forward and put her face in her hands.

  “Perhaps I am a mistake after all,” I said gently. “Your mother thinks so, and your father, and your sister. Your entire social class, your crowd, would be so much happier if the earth opened and swallowed me up. You can send back the gifts, if you wish. I fear Mrs. Ashleigh has overstepped her bounds.”

  “Thomas, stop being so agreeable and listen. And sit!”

  I had stood at the last words, preparing to depart for good. I sat again.

  “Have you entered my house armed before?” she asked.

  “No,” I said.

  “Do you often carry … what are they called? Pistols? Revolvers?”

  “Sometimes. My profession is occasionally dangerous.”

  “How dangerous?”

  “Very, at times. My predecessor was killed while performing his duties.”

  “Do you understand in what a position that places me?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “You did not sufficiently warn me, Thomas.”

  “I’m sorry,” I murmured. “I did not.”

  “You should be. Firearms in my house! In the very shadow of my own synagogue, no less. This goes far beyond sorry.”

  “True.”

  “You haven’t shaved this morning,” she remarked. “You look terrible.”

  “I feel terrible. Can you possibly forgive me?”

  She put her hand out, warning me back. “I don’t know. I haven’t considered the matter thoroughly.”

  “Does your family know?” I asked.

  “I don’t see a reason to tell them. Not yet, anyway.”

  “Has the wedding been postponed? Or even canceled?”

  “The time grows short, but I have not decided. Nothing has been canceled. It can, should I choose, but I have not.”

  “Certainly.”

  “You are fortunate to have friends willing to work in your favor.”

  “I know Mrs. Ashleigh has spoken to you.”

  “And your advocate, as well. Your barrister, if you prefer.”

  “Who are you talking about?”

  “You’re being uncommonly thick this morning, Thomas,” she said, smoothing her skirt. “I’m talking about Jacob.”

  “Jacob who?”

  “Jacob Maccabee. Your butler, silly.”

  “Mac was here?”

  “Yes, on your behalf. And doing rather well, I might add. Aunt Lydia and I were fully convinced I should refuse you, but he almost changed our minds.”

  “He left in a hurry after Mr. Barker sacked him.”

  “Mr. Barker sacked Jacob?” Rebecca asked, shocked.

  “It was only temporary. A fit of pique on our employer’s part, I suppose. He regretted it after a minute, but Mac had already gone. He must have just heard what happened between us before he left.”

  “You’re lucky to have him as a friend, my old classmate from Hebrew school.”

  I blinked. Not only were he and I not friends, we were very nearly enemies. He barely suffered my presence, while I managed to thwart his every attempt at keeping the house running smoothly. There was mutual disdain on both sides.

  “Of course,” I told her. “He’s quite a fellow.”

  “He stayed until nearly midnight.”

  “I owe him more than I can say. I should hate to lose you.”

  The last thing I wanted was to owe Mac a huge debt of gratitude. He would hold it over my head for years, against any infraction on my part. He would use it again and again, without actually using it at all. Mac was clever that way.

  What was his plan now? I wondered. Why did it matter to him whether Rebecca and I should wed? One would think as a successful member of the Jewish community he would be against our union. Men outnumbered women here. They didn’t require any competition. Despite Mac’s good looks, he was among this group of men all jockeying for the same few women. Why help a goyim take a Jewish beauty out of such a small market? It was a mystery, if there ever was one.

  “Let’s not talk about what I want, Rebecca,” I said. “What do you want?”

  “I want you, Thomas. I want to have a last name no one can spell. I want us to love each other and get married. I want to have children. Your children.”

  I frowned and looked at her. “I assumed the wedding was over.”

  “You assumed too much. I haven’t canceled anything, not even your precious baby’s breath. Oh, I am angry, of course. After all, you shot people in my home, right in front of me. Shooting them was not your decision to make, it was mine.”

  “Rebecca,” I said, “the moment they kicked in the door, the decision was made. I work by instinct.”

  “You were a very good shot,” she sniffed.

  The tears came then, silent but plentiful, a cascade dripping from her lashes, dripping off her chin. Propriety be damned. I pulled the handkerchief from my pocket and took her into my arms as gently as if she were a plover’s egg. Her thin fingers seized my lapels so tightly I feared she would rend the satin. Even the forbearing Aunt Lydia would be scandalized.

  “What are we to do? How are we going to fix this?”

  “We might give optimism a try first, I suppose,” I said.

  She sniffed, hiccupped once, and tried to smile. “What am I going to do with you, Thomas? My mother was right. All men are beasts.”

  “Far be it from me to disagree with your mother, since we are as one in all other matters.”

  “Stop making me laugh when I’m angry with you.”

  “Sorry,” I said.

  “I shouldn’t have listened to Jacob. You’re much more trouble than you’re worth.”

  I nodded.
“There’s that.”

  “Be serious!” she exclaimed, clouding like a sudden squall. “There’s so much we haven’t even decided. Where are we going to live? How are you going to support us? Where will we worship? What friends will we have?”

  “Do you mean Jew or Gentile?”

  She ran a hand across her forehead. “I don’t know. Either, I suppose.”

  “Look, I don’t care what religion a person belongs to. I care about the person themselves. Are they kind? Do they have character? You’ve known Israel Zangwill since childhood. He’s the best friend a man could have. He doesn’t care if I’m Gentile and I don’t care if he’s a Jew.”

  “But doors will be slammed in our faces,” she continued, cradled in my arms. “Some will shun us.”

  “Then that is their loss. If they turn us away, we shall shake the dirt from our sandals and go our way.”

  “Is that a Gentile reference?”

  “Yes,” I admitted. “From Matthew, I think.”

  “There, you see? I don’t even know who Matthew is.”

  I took her hands in mine. “Darling, we don’t have to decide everything now. That’s what marriage is for. Everything shall work itself out in the fullness of time.”

  “Do you promise?”

  In answer, I kissed her; a real kiss, the kind that left both of us breathless.

  She pushed me away and stood. “Oh, good heavens! Thomas, you must leave now. Send in Aunt Lydia. We have a wedding to prepare! You’ll be underfoot!”

  The next I knew I was standing on the porch with my bowler in my hand again. It had become dented during our kiss and I pushed it back into shape. The rain had returned and I had no umbrella with me, and there was no cab in sight. So why did I click my heels together as I stepped off the curb?

  The wedding plans had never been canceled. I walked through the gentle rain and touched the brim of my hat to a pair of women huddling under an umbrella. This gave me a brief few days to solve the case, I thought. Perhaps not plenty of time, but at least it was possible. I touched my brim as I passed a man in a top hat. He pinched his, as well. Too late, I noticed the absurd little mustache. His cane swung hard against the back of my neck and I remember nothing else.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  I awoke to the requisite throbbing head. My shoulders were aching and there seemed to be little circulation in my arms. My head was hanging down, held by no more than my spinal column, and I was seated in a chair. Rather, I was tied to it with stout hemp.

  Raising my head on my aching neck, I looked about. I was in some kind of empty house. I could see doorways leading to other doorways, and light streaming in from outside. The sound of a clopping horse could be heard in the street, accompanied by the jingle of a harness. The chances were good I was still in London. As for the house, I doubted anyone owned it. It was no doubt awaiting a sale. I reasoned I must be in the center of the house, since there were no windows visible. The crown molding and a view of several feet of staircase informed me I was in an affluent neighborhood.

  I inhaled, preparing to cry out, when I caught a scent in the air. My captor was behind me. I felt warm breath on the back of my ear, and a voice spoke in my ear, triggering a nerve that ran down my body like an electrical charge.

  “Hello, Mr. Llewelyn. So happy to see you again.”

  Camille Archer circled around me, and I heard a sound like drapes being dragged across the floor. I jumped at her appearance and she seemed pleased by my reaction.

  She wore a serpentine corset, a sort I had only heard about. It constricted her bosom fully and shifted her hips backward then down, so that her position resembled a standing cobra. It must have been painful to wear. She wore a scale-like green dress made from anodyne dye, very bright. It, too, came to the top of her bosom, leaving her arms free, revealing a spray of freckles across her shoulders. The dress pooled on the floor behind her. Her hair was thick and loosened down her back. Her nose was upturned as always, but her eyes were black with mascara.

  She clapped her hands in delight. “Oh, we’re going to have such fun.”

  I turned my aching head and looked at her from under my brow.

  “Bonjour, mademoiselle,” I said.

  “How clever of you, Thomas. I may call you Thomas, may I not? How did you realize I was French?”

  “Your cadence is not that of an Englishwoman, although you sounded thoroughly English in our offices.”

  “Compliments. How gallant. This is going swimmingly.”

  “May I assume that you are here to allow your associates time to escape?”

  “Mr. Mercier is still with me.”

  She had circled again and now pressed the rigid corset against the back of my head, her hands on my ears, caressing them.

  “I am getting married in a few days, but then I realize you know that, Miss Fletcher will have told you.”

  She rested her chin on top of my head. I felt rather than heard her breathing.

  “Tant pis,” she replied. Too bad.

  I struggled, dislodging her head. My futile attempt to escape made her laugh. She stepped back and watched as though I were an entertainment for her alone. Finally, I stopped struggling. The ropes were closely tied and too binding to have been done by this near-emaciated girl.

  “Why did you—”

  She stopped my question by placing a finger on my lips. “Thomas, I am not here to answer your questions.”

  I ignored the warning. “Were you related to or merely acquainted with Jacques Perrine and the Mercier brothers?”

  “You are boring me. I came here for fun!”

  She pouted her rouged lips. The sound of her boot stamping the floor was muffled by the heavy dress. Her painted face, loose hair, distorted figure, and thin arms reminded me of a marionette. An evil, mad marionette.

  “How came you to England, Camille?” I asked.

  She narrowed her eyes, trying to decide whether to answer or not. “I came to be a governess. I answered an advertisement in Paris. England seemed like a good place. Quiet. I was here no more than a month before the father of the house raped me.”

  “What did you do?” I asked, trying to keep her talking.

  “I did the only logical thing. I cut off his head. He was a doctor. His bag contained a scalpel and a bone saw.”

  “And the Metropolitan Police caught up with you.”

  “I waived my rights. After all, one prison is like another.”

  “Were you an inmate of Burberry Asylum?”

  “My barrister claimed I was mentally unfit for prison and that I could never be returned to society without medical treatment. I was sent to Burberry Asylum for therapy.”

  “Where you met Dr. Pritchard.”

  “I did.”

  “Where, in fact, you became involved in a relationship with Dr. Pritchard. Did you wish to avenge his imprisonment by killing my employer?”

  “The charges against him were not fully proven in court. They merely thought it expedient to lock him away in a place which is in every way worse than a prison.”

  “Obviously, the rigors of asylum life, coupled with questionable and experimental treatments, have damaged a fine man’s reason. A great pity.”

  “Yes. For you. Did you think I had forgotten the two men who brought my lovely Edward to trial in the first place? Do you think me so weak-minded as to believe you sympathetic to my cause?”

  “Oh, come now!” I argued. “You’ve blown our offices out from under us. You’ve put my employer in hospital. Isn’t that enough?”

  “No, it is not, monsieur,” she hissed, her hands on her hips.

  She moved to a small reticule lying on a windowsill, rummaging about in it for something the way women do. Finally, she found it and lifted it in triumph. It took a moment to work out what I was seeing, but when I did, my heart stopped in my chest. It was a scalpel, the point impaling a small cork, which she removed with a small sweeping gesture. It didn’t matter whether or not it was sharp. I imagined that it was, w
hich was enough to give me apoplexy.

  Camille raised a boot to the front edge of the chair, forcing me to press against the back with my limbs splayed. Casually, she leaned forward and sliced my tie in half. Then she put a tear in the arm of my jacket. She made another on my trouser leg, so close as to leave a tingling sensation on my bare flesh.

  She seized the tip of my collar and cut through it, though the stay made it more difficult. Cut after cut after cut. She was flaying my nice suit and she would flay me next.

  At one point, she sliced open my waistcoat and shirt to such an advanced degree that she reached in and put her palm against my chest, wanting to feel my feverish heart. Whatever it did, she pulled the hand away again, satisfied.

  There was something intimate about the experience which turned my stomach. The woman was dangerously mad. She whispered taunts in my ear that she could have spoken three feet away, but she wanted to personalize this for her own amusement.

  “Oops,” she said, as the knife ran along one shoulder. I felt a sharp, stabbing pain and I saw a bloom of scarlet appear on the lacerated white shirt.

  “You know where the arteries run, don’t you?” I asked.

  “To the square inch,” she replied. “Edward gave me a map of the nervous and circulatory systems. I don’t know how he procured it. A Christmas present, he said.”

  “What is your intent?” I asked, trying to sound calm and to keep the panic in my voice from being too obvious.

  “To be honest, I was going to flay you. I’ve always wanted to do that! But you’ve been such a dear. I think I’ll just nick you here and there and let you bleed until you run out of blood. I wish I could stay, but I have plans today. I mustn’t be late.”

  She cut across my arm then, not deeply, but enough to raise blood. I groaned as the scalpel sliced across my breast. She lowered the blade to a spot on the inside of my trouser seam.

  “No,” she said. “There’s an artery here. You’d bleed out too fast. I think I’ll give you a sporting chance. If your Mr. Barker is as clever as I think he is, he’ll find you in time, or send that American. If not…”

  She shrugged her shoulders as if to say it would be my fault, not hers. She had done all she could. She dug the blade a little deeper across my rib cage and I gasped in pain. She kissed my cheek like a disturbing parody of a mother kissing her child. I tried to shrug her off, but my body was stinging.