Sheer Madness

by Laura Strickland

  “Oh, I am quite certain we can find something to hold her interest. Miss Hathor, do you often help your father in his work?”

  “Never. But he rarely ceases reminding me we have a duty to those who come to us for solace.” I should be struck dead for hypocrisy, Topaz thought even as she spoke the words. But she’d say anything she must for Romney’s sake. Desperation still gnawed at her. All night long she’d found no rest and caught no hint of him, not so much as a whisper.

  Frederick turned away and filled three snifters with brandy. They had met in his study—the very place Topaz wanted to search for the key—and she struggled to keep her gaze focused on Clifford rather than speculate about her father’s possible hiding places.

  Frederick placed a snifter in her hand. Feigning interest she asked, “And, Mr. Clifford, precisely what is your occupation?”

  “Undertaker.”

  “I beg your pardon?” What had he said in that soft voice of his?

  “For many generations, Miss Hathor, my people have cared for the dead even as yours have listened for departing spirits and aided them. An ancestor of mine used to travel around the Fens with a horse and cart, tending the newly deceased. Today we are much more…organized.”

  Undertaker. A second chill followed the first up Topaz’s spine, this one so violent she barely kept still. And there were corpses in the cellar.

  Suddenly she didn’t want to know what went on there. She looked from her father’s dark eyes, which could hide any number of secrets, to those of Clifford, so oddly difficult to read behind his lenses, and horror touched her.

  Run from this, her every instinct told her—the same that guarded her when she went abroad in the dangerous parts of the city, and that kept her safe.

  She fixed her gaze on Clifford, and the sense spoke again: Get away from him.

  But she had to discover what had happened to Romney—help him if she could. And she prided herself on being fearless, the kind of woman who chased away would-be abductors. Why should she be so disturbed by this mere drip of a man?

  She sat on the leather settee, assuming a mild interest. “And, Mr. Clifford, how did you meet my father?”

  The two men exchanged glances before Clifford lowered himself into a chair, holding his brandy snifter as if not quite sure what to do with it. “I sought him out. Your father, Miss Hathor, is one of the foremost spiritualists of our day. Even in England we have heard of him. Does it not make sense that one such as I, who deals with the dead, should wish to make his acquaintance?”

  “I don’t know. Does it?”

  “Oh, I think so.”

  Frederick took the other end of the settee. “Danson brings knowledge that, combined with mine, may change how we perceive death and could ultimately negate bereavement.”

  “Really?” Topaz’s thoughts flew. She leaned toward Danson, even though her every instinct still bade otherwise, and asked confidingly, “What are you attempting? Do tell.”

  “All in good time, Topaz,” Frederick said almost jovially. “First you must prove your sincere desire to be part of this great undertaking.”

  Undertaking? The undertakings of an undertaker… surely her father made a joke. But no, Frederick Hathor rarely displayed a sense of humor. “How am I to do that, Father?”

  “Apply yourself. Leave off wasting your time and frittering away your energies in the seamier parts of the city.”

  “I do not waste my energies.”

  To Clifford, Frederick said, “My daughter insists on visiting waterfront dives, teaching self-defense to prostitutes, and consorting with automatons. Oh, yes, Topaz—you’re aware I know every detail of what you get up to at Nellie’s and the Eagle Bar. Do you think I don’t have sources whispering to me? They whisper constantly.”

  Anger and frustration twisted together to turn Topaz’s stomach. Did her father have to flaunt his knowledge? What else did he know? Was he aware of her connection with Romney? Had he somehow got rid of him? Did he guess what she was about even now?

  Or was that just what he wanted her to think?

  Frederick Hathor might be a talented spirit master; he was also a consummate confidence man. He did, in truth, contact spirits at the request of those who came to him. He also prolonged their reasons for coming and procured from them large amounts of money—enough to keep this grand house with all its comforts.

  Solace for the bereaved—at a price. But where did an undertaker from East Anglia fit in? Especially one who raised Topaz’s hackles to such a degree.

  “Well, then, Father,” she said solemnly, “I guess I’ll just have to prove myself to you.” She pierced Clifford with a glance. “To both of you.”

  Frederick smiled. “Welcome home, Daughter. Welcome home at last.”

  Topaz drained her snifter in a single gulp.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “He’s coming around.”

  Moist, dense air beat at Romney’s face, pressed against his mouth, and funneled down his throat, making it difficult to breathe. The chamber where he lay felt very warm—steamy—and his flesh had become slick with moisture. Condensation? Sweat? Blood?

  He couldn’t tell. Strange to be once more housed in flesh, especially this flesh that lay strapped to a table, kept immobile by force, which would drive a man to…

  Madness, madness, madness.

  Surely he’d been mad for a while, had been out of his body, as well. And who wouldn’t flee this? Here was nothing but pain.

  He wanted Topaz. Gypsy dancer, beautiful woman, all strength and fire. He held to the idea of her as to a flare of light in darkness.

  A shadow materialized above him; a face peered down at him, backlit so he could not see the features.

  “Welcome back, friend. I thought we had lost you.”

  “Not your friend.” His lips barely moved; he had lost some of the ability for controlling the flesh and now felt doubly confined. He could not tell whether or not he actually produced the words.

  “You were gone several days,” the shadow informed him.

  Gone with Topaz, where he wanted to be again. But the demands of the flesh had called him home and now tethered him.

  He must be in the asylum. At the thought, he felt his heart thump hard in his chest. A strange sensation after its absence. He didn’t want to be here, had successfully fled once before. Could he escape again?

  But no; his spirit had settled back into this flesh as into a prison. He gathered himself and tested his bonds; right wrist strapped down tight. Left wrist. Right and left ankle. Chest and thighs. At least he did not sit in the chair with wet feet and the electrode coming at him.

  The figure looming above demanded, “Tell me your name.”

  He struggled to recall. Only one name came to his mind: Topaz Hathor. But he could not utter that, would not endanger her at any cost. He had a sudden vision of her here in his place, strapped down with her black hair fanning out, her breasts rising and falling with her distress, agony possessing her body.

  No, no, no—not that. He would suffer anything before betraying her.

  “Your name.” The demand came again, absolute as death. His mind raged and screamed and produced the only other appellation within its reach.

  “Romney Marsh.”

  Calmly the voice asserted, “Romney Marsh is a place. I want your name.”

  His thoughts flailed wildly: he possessed nothing else. He tried to shake his head but a strap pinned his skull to the table.

  “He’s forgotten. You’ve shocked it from him,” said a second voice from beyond his line of sight.

  “Perhaps.”

  “I did warn you.”

  “He’ll remember with the right persuasion. If it’s in his head, I’ll obtain it. Tell me, friend, why did you come to Buffalo? What is your mission?”

  Helpless, he remained silent.

  “Tell me.” Soft yet utterly relentless, the voice pressed on. “Or shall we employ the electrodes?”

  “No. No, no—”


  “If he doesn’t remember…”

  “My good man.” The form hanging above him half turned to address the other man, and he caught a glimpse of a profile: sharp nose, receding chin, and a pair of spectacles. “This man is devious beyond your comprehension. He could be playing us even now. He would not have been sent were he not among the very best.”

  “Then kill him,” the other urged. “End it. What will reducing him to quivering jelly accomplish?”

  “Killing him will not tell me what he knows.”

  “Perhaps he knows nothing.”

  The man who leaned over the table snorted. “So he would have us think. This is a top agent of the Crown. Only think how many days it took for us to induce him to scream.”

  Agent of the Crown? He echoed the words in his mind. Her majesty’s Crown—Victoria? Surely not. Yes, he had come from England. Home.

  But no—Topaz Hathor was his home.

  The spectacled man said, not raising his voice, “I have told you repeatedly I dare not kill him outright. He has influential connections and will eventually be traced. But if those who come find only a babbling, drooling husk—that’s not murder, is it?”

  “Worse than murder, some might say.”

  “Not according to the law. I have no wish to be hauled back to England for a neck-stretching. Bring the orderlies, Cecil, and prepare the electrodes. We shall try once again to discover just what he recalls.”

  ****

  “What do you think of Father’s new associate?”

  Topaz, who had encountered her brother in the front hall, paused and shivered involuntarily. She glanced over her shoulder, half expecting Danson Clifford to hover in a corner, like one of the spirits that plagued this place.

  “An appalling creature,” she told Sapphire. “You’ve seen him?”

  “Indeed I have.” Sapphire’s eyes gleamed. “Seems an unprepossessing specimen to me, if thoroughly wet and unpleasant.”

  “Don’t you believe it.” Topaz leaned close to her brother. “Did you know he’s an undertaker?”

  Sapphire lifted his brows. “I did not. Father said only that he had brought vital innovations from England and was engaged in some fascinating experiments.”

  “Clifford told me his family had been undertakers for generations in some place called The Fens.”

  “You mean Romney Marsh?”

  Topaz froze where she stood. “What did you just say?”

  “It’s a place in the southeast of England—Godforsaken, by all accounts—and from whence I’m sure Father said Clifford hails. Sister, at times your ignorance shocks me.”

  “You must be mistaken,” Topaz said through suddenly stiff lips.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because Romney Marsh—well, that’s his name—the name of my missing spirit, that is.”

  A gleam appeared in Sapphire’s dark eyes. “He told you that?”

  “Yes.”

  “A curious thing. Because it’s a place, as I say. Sure you’re not mistaken?”

  Topaz shook her head. “Don’t you think it’s odd, brother, they’re both from England, my spirit and Father’s new associate?”

  Sapphire gave a lithe shrug. “Life is all too full of coincidences. Have you convinced Father to let you assist him?”

  Topaz wrinkled her nose. “For that privilege he requires many sacrifices. I must apply myself to his above-stairs endeavors, strive to develop my affinity for spiritual communication, and forego my activities on the waterfront.”

  “Ah. So where are you bound now?”

  “To the waterfront,” Topaz admitted. “I have a class scheduled this evening and would not like to disappoint the girls who come. They rely on the skills I teach them.”

  “And if Father finds out?”

  She shrugged. “He claims to know everything we get up to, right? That means you and Carlotta, as well.”

  “He claims. Father claims many things. Some percentage of it is truth.”

  “Well, I’ll take a chance this once. Come with me?” she added hopefully.

  “I am otherwise engaged.”

  “Not Carlotta again?”

  “I’ve told you, she’s an addiction—an awfully sweet one. But I promise, sister, once she falls asleep, I intend to go creeping into Father’s study in search of your key. I take it you’ve still had no contact from your spirit.”

  She shook her head. “Go safely.”

  “You as well.”

  “No fear—I’m armed. And Patrick Kelly may be there, too.”

  “Your mechanical watchdog?”

  “Not mechanical. He’s far more than that.”

  ****

  “Well done!” Topaz praised the girls and women arranged in rows before her in various states of dress and undress, all of it ragged. She herself wore only her chemise and a fine sheen of sweat.

  The storeroom of Nellie’s Bar, where they gathered, was barely heated, but she’d worked hard. They all had. The boxes of gin and vodka and the barrels of Irish whiskey had been pushed to the walls to afford them room.

  In one corner lounged Patrick Kelly, keeping an eye on things, his ever-present glass of whiskey in his hand. He never drank from it, but when he was off duty it had become an appendage.

  And an identity? Topaz shot a thoughtful look at him. What must it be like to be human but quite possibly not human enough? And what constituted human enough? Patrick had more than once told her he doubted he possessed a soul.

  She, Topaz, didn’t doubt it. He was one of the finest men she knew, and she trusted him implicitly.

  She turned her gaze back to her students, who, all but one, breathed heavily. She’d put them through their paces this evening, but hopefully they’d react as needed the next time they faced a threat of any kind.

  She looked at Suzie, who sat on a crate at the edge of the cleared space. Suzie had shown up tonight willing to take part in the lesson, but Topaz had forbidden it.

  She asked, “Any questions?”

  “Yes, miss.” One of the older women, with a riddled, pockmarked face, spoke up. “You say in a pinch it’s smart to go for the fellow’s vitals, if you know what I mean—his man bits. Ain’t that right?”

  “Better than getting cut or beaten up,” Topaz returned, determinedly looking away from Suzie.

  “But won’t that put a damper on future trade?”

  An outbreak of sniggering ensued. These women, as Topaz had learned, possessed a crude sense of humor, dark as the lives they led.

  “Chance you’ll have to take. There are plenty other johns on the prowl, right? And you want paying for your services—not grief.”

  “Friend of mine got raped the other night,” said a younger girl. “The bastard left her lying in an alley, bleeding.”

  “Precisely. You ladies lead a perilous existence. Some of the tricks I’ve shared with you just might save your skin someday.”

  More gently she added, “That will be enough for this session. Dry off well before you go out into the cold.”

  “A dram in the bar for any who wants it,” Kelly said jovially, getting to his feet.

  “Miss Topaz?” It was the only appellation by which she was known here. The name “Hathor” had never been uttered, so far as she knew.

  “Yes, Peg?”

  “When will we meet for another session?”

  Topaz hesitated. If she continued to defy her father outright, could she expect to win his confidence? She dared not risk doing anything to jeopardize reconnecting with the man she still thought of as Romney.

  But she looked into the worn, worried faces before her and couldn’t find it in her heart to refuse them.

  “Same time next week and—same place?” She glanced at Kelly, who nodded. “And,” she added, “bring your friends, all who will come.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  The women dressed and filed from the storeroom quickly, eager for their promised drinks. When Suzie moved to follow, Topaz held up her hand.

 
; “Wait, Suzie, if you will. Can we have a word?”

  The girl paused at the end of the line and dropped her gaze. A tiny thing and surely no older than fifteen or sixteen, she barely reached Topaz’s ear.

  “Yes, miss?”

  “What happened to you?” As if Topaz didn’t know. She examined the girl’s face: skin split above one cheekbone, two black eyes, and lips swollen so she could barely speak.

  Suzie shrugged. “He wouldn’t pay up front and didn’t want to pay when we were done. When I tried to insist, he did this.”

  “How bad’s the rest of it, under your clothes?”

  Suzie shifted uncomfortably. “Not too bad. I won’t be turning any tricks for a while, though.” She winced and admitted, “My face hurts the worst.”

  Topaz turned as Patrick Kelly strolled up. “What do you think? Broken cheekbone?”

  His green eyes examined the girl’s countenance. “Quite possibly.”

  “Suzie, you need to see a doctor.”

  “Oh, miss.” Suzie shrank. “I can’t.”

  “Why not? You have to get proper care or your face might not heal right.”

  “I can’t afford it, miss. Don’t know where I’ll get money to eat till I can take paying customers again.”

  Topaz turned and searched among her clothes, which she’d shed at the beginning of the session, and came up with her clutch purse.

  “Here. Find a doctor—and not one of those quacks who operate around here. Pat, do you know anyone?”

  “Dr. Fleming on Jefferson will see her.”

  “Go there, then. Here’s money for his fee and enough for another visit if he tells you to go back. If he does, you must comply, understand?”

  “Miss Topaz, I can’t take your money.”

  “You can and you will. What are friends for? There’s enough to buy some hot meals and pay for a room. You’re skin and bone.” She stuffed the money into Suzie’s hand and looked at her sternly.

  “Is there no way you can get out of this life?”

  The girl shook her head.

  “No family?”

  A more violent shake.

  Helplessness flooded Topaz. Why should she have so much and this girl so little? “Well,” she said, struggling to conceal her emotion, “we can’t let this happen to you again. What you need is a weapon—a knife such as I carry, or perhaps a very small pistol. Patrick, surely you could procure one.”