Simon sat quietly, thoughtfully, for a few seconds. Then his blond eyebrows drew together and he said, “In terms of Inspector Abberline, I am not terribly concerned with his knowledge of the symbol. It is, after all, on that painting in the laboratory closet. Furthermore, it is not unlikely that he saw it on one of the Conclave member’s arms. What does matter, however, is that he does not learn of its significance. And it seems that he has not.”
“If he does,” I said bleakly, “he is a dead man.”
“Undoubtedly.”
“These Highgate Cemetery murders and the Ripper murders might be unconnected,” I surmised. “The cannibalism could have been committed by a random crazed lunatic. That woman might have merely looked like Mariah. Perhaps I am jumping to conclusions.”
“And perhaps you are not.” Simon picked up the morning edition of the Times, turning it over so that I could see the headline:
More cannibalism and murder in Brompton Cemetery.
Fourteen
On the way to New Hospital that day, I felt stunned. Three more resurrection men had been murdered and cannibalized, in Brompton Cemetery in Southwest London, the night before. The murders were almost identical in nature to those that had occurred in Highgate Cemetery. My dream of the lamia—Max’s voice in the dream—these murders—I had no specific evidence that they were connected, yet I felt great unease. Nothing made sense, and it was maddening. Simon and I had agreed to be on guard, to communicate everything to each other from that point forward. I feared for William’s safety, but Simon assured me that he would relay to William everything that happened.
Even though it was Saturday, Simon was going to work as well. Although I was not expected at New Hospital, the last thing I felt like doing was returning to Kensington and doing nothing.
“Abbie, be extraordinarily careful. I’ll call upon you soon,” Simon said as we took our leave.
“Of course.”
But he held my arm a moment longer, his level gaze half-serious, half-amused. I loved the way Simon could communicate so well with his expression. I could tell he was remembering how foolhardy I’d been last autumn, when I’d traveled to Whitechapel Hospital by myself at night.
I smiled a little. “Of course, Simon. I’ll be very careful.”
He said nothing, but I knew he was not reassured.
I returned to Grandmother’s house in the late afternoon, my arms heavy with medical and anatomy books. I had spent the entire day following Dr. Davis around the wards, aiding her in deliveries and prenatal exams, but before I left, Dr. Anderson met with me briefly to give me the books. They would help me study for my examinations in the fall.
When I walked through the door, Richard met me with a note. Once again, I felt warmly toward him for safeguarding all of my mail. “Thank you, Richard,” I said, my heart skipping a beat when I saw that the message was from William. I tore it open as soon as I reached the privacy of my bedroom.
The note contained only three words: I believe you.
Grandmother, fortunately, was at Lady Violet’s home for the evening. She wouldn’t be back until late. I felt grateful for this, as it saved me from having to argue with her about going out again. Swiftly, I washed my face and removed my work pinafore, but I didn’t even bother changing out of my work dress.
Just before leaving, I paused at my bedroom door.
“Be extraordinarily careful,” Simon had said.
I flew to my closet and opened the trunk where I kept many of Mother’s things. The lamia portrait hung upon the closet wall, above the trunk. In spite of my hurry, I had to pause to stare at it. In the dim light of my bedroom, in that moment, I began to see it differently.
The painting had a stark beauty to it. More than in any of Rossetti’s other works, there was something raw, more than mythical, about it. Gabriel had taken great care to make Mother look human as well as monstrous, and I thought his depiction of her was nothing less than brilliant. A bleakness marked her features, under the haze of sunlight. Her face seemed tragic. Sand was smeared among her hands, and wiry green seaweed dangled from her red locks like bold tendrils.
What are you trying to tell me, Mother?
Lamias did not exist. They were mythical creatures. And yet, in my dream and in my vision, I had seen one with hazelnut hair—very different from my mother’s flaming red hair. But my mother’s body in the portrait, her talons and exposed breasts, bore such a close resemblance to the beast. And I had seen the impossible already—a Conclave of immortals. Furthermore, Max had sent me the portrait. He’d wanted me to see it for some reason; that meant he must be behind my visions of the lamia. But then again, the visions might not have been accurate. My visions during the Ripper murders had proved true, but Max might be trying to confuse me now, for some reason. He was, after all, an assassin. And he had never revealed to me that he had killed my mother—thus I knew he was also a liar.
As I rifled through the trunk of her belongings, I located my bowie knife. I’d never told anyone, not even William or Simon, that I’d kept it after that fateful night. Personally, I wasn’t certain why I’d kept it—upon discovering that the Conclave had killed my mother, I’d become so infuriated that I myself had turned murderous. The deaths of those four men haunted me even now.
Once alone, I had washed all the dried blood off the knife obsessively, so that now it shone. It was as if I could make it clean again. As if I could make myself clean. And yet I couldn’t discard it. The knife had saved my life. My favorite sport of knife throwing in Dublin had made me comfortable with knives. The smaller blades were easier to throw, but with my fear, my adrenaline, this one had served me so well that night. It was more lethal.
Although it frightened me a bit that I’d saved the knife, still I could not let it go. Perhaps I shouldn’t let it go. The last, most dangerous Conclave member was still alive, beckoning me toward him in a bewildering web.
I put the knife inside my boot and left Grandmother’s house.
On the carriage ride to William’s home, I reflected upon his note: I believe you.
Thoughts flooded me … that I had been foolish for leaving him, that I needed to forgive him. I half-wished that these new feelings would drown out my other trepidations and fears regarding William’s character and constancy.
As the carriage approached, I saw that nearly all of the lights in the Rossetti house were on.
I knocked on the door. William answered it. My hopes sank. He opened the door only a few inches and his expression seemed defensive, angry. He was visibly drunk. Although Simon suspected that he had been drinking too much, I had never seen William overindulge. It was entirely out of character.
“Might I come in?” I asked.
He opened the door wide, and with one dramatic arm swoop, ushered me in.
As I stood in the foyer, I heard voices and giggling from the parlor.
“Who is it?” asked one of the voices.
A female voice. And not Christina’s.
I stepped around the corner, ahead of William, into the parlor.
Amid all of Christina’s rescued animals, on the couch sat two identical-looking women. They had to be at least a decade older than me, but they giggled like girls. The women dressed with expensive flamboyance—red silks and taffetas that were entirely too much for an evening visit. By the look of their flushed faces and tossed ringlets, they were inebriated, too, sipping generously from large glasses of champagne held in their pale, elegant fingers.
Both suppressed giggles as they observed my disheveled appearance and work dress.
“And who is she?” one asked William. He stood quietly behind me, pouring himself another glass of gin.
“One of your aunt’s ‘friends’?” the other woman asked.
They both laughed heartily, spitting small specks of champagne into the air.
“No,” William replied, his vo
ice hard and stony.
Both women sobered.
A little.
“This is Arabella Sharp … ” He paused. I almost felt his cloudy brain spin for the right words to describe our relationship. Then, without looking me in the eyes, he stated, “She has worked with me at the hospital.”
That was all he had to say about me. I stared at him, unbelieving. Hurt.
After walking across the room to shoo Toby, the parrot, away from his perch on the Polidori portrait’s frame, William said, “And Abbie, these two lovely ladies are my cousins, Lettie and Lottie.”
“Cousins?” I said, irritably.
“Yes. Are we second or third? Do either of you know?” he asked, eying them.
“Either way, Will, I think we’re kissing cousins at least,” Lottie exclaimed, laughing stupidly.
“William, might I see you in the hallway for a minute?” I shot him a fixed look as I said this.
William excused himself.
“Will? ” I asked sarcastically as soon as we had shut Lottie and Lettie in the parlor. “Your cousins? Really, William.” I tried to keep my voice down.
“As I said, second cousins.” He took another drink of gin. “Or maybe third. Can’t tell you, Abbie. My head is swimming a bit, to tell you the truth.”
He shrugged. Perfectly handsome even when drunk.
“Oh well. Doesn’t matter,” he continued. “They’re wealthy twins, both getting a bit up in years at twenty-eight and all, and their papa has it in his mind for one of them to marry me.” William smirked. “I think the old man’s getting a little desperate.”
“I should think so.” I frowned at the glass of gin. “I thought Christina didn’t approve of alcohol in the house.”
“She’s gone—volunteering at New Hospital most of the night.”
“How convenient. And her friends?”
“Currently we have a bit of a gap, as all of her friends now have sustainable wages and can live on their own.”
The conversation was going nowhere, plunging into bitter talk and feelings—and with William drunk, I knew I should get to the point. But in that small foyer, I paused. In the glowing lamplight, I searched for the William I had known, or at least the William I thought I had known. That honest, terribly impolite, terribly self-assured William seemed gone. Taken away from me completely. I didn’t know this person in his place; I searched the crevices of his still-handsome face to try to find … him.
But who was he?
Then our eyes locked, and through his fog of alcohol, I saw William’s transparent emotion—I saw desperate sadness.
I wanted to reach out, to embrace him, to take him back. Tears stung in my eyes and I suppressed that desire. But I could not, not after what I knew of his past, and not after tonight—coming in upon him in this compromising situation. I loved him, but I could not plunge down that same path again … the end seemed far too uncertain.
So I cleared my throat and blinked back tears. “I received your note, William.”
“Good.” He drained his glass.
“So you believe me now?”
“I do.” He set the empty glass down hard on a nearby side table. “Particularly after I read about the Brompton murders in the Times today. You saw something out of the ordinary that night. I actually believed you a little then, too. I was just angry.”
William’s eyes were shining. At least, even when he was drunk, he could be honest.
“Why did you take the trouble to send the note to my house today?” I asked. I had hoped that he’d left it to somehow right what had gone awry between us.
William shrugged, appearing uncomfortable.
“Did you want to see me?” I felt my heart in my throat as I spoke.
Then he looked angry. “It doesn’t matter, does it? You’ve been seeing quite a bit of Dr. St. John, so I decided to have my own party.”
So that was what this was about.
“Childish.” I sighed, walking over to the dining room table and pouring a glass of wine for myself.
“If you’ll excuse me, I have guests in the parlor,” he said coldly. “You should leave, and I would suggest taking a long detour away, from Swains Lane … ”
“I thought, from your note, that you believed me.” I heard my voice crack and damned myself for my vulnerability.
William raised his brow.
“Abbie—I believe that you might have seen the murderers, but how can you think that they are after you? Do you actually think that they have something to do with the Conclave?”
“William, I told you that I heard my name spoken, that evening in the graveyard. And why else would they take one of our hospital’s children? It was as if they wanted to lure me there.”
William sighed. “Come with me.”
Both confused and excited, I followed him up the three flights of stairs to his apartment in Christina’s attic. Watch yourself Abbie, I reminded myself, knowing how weak I could be when alone with him. Nonetheless, I followed him.
The dying fire lighted William’s large attic bedroom only a little. Hugo lay in front of it, stretched out lazily. Lottie and Lettie probably feared the gentle beast.
My thoughts disappeared into shocked ecstasy when William shut the door and kissed me hard. His arms grasped around me about my waist in a near vise-grip. I could not move.
I did not want to move.
A thundering knocking from the front door far below interrupted us.
William pulled away. I still trembled. He looked into my eyes for a minute, his gaze unreadable. Detached.
“My apologies, Abbie. I’m drunk,” he said, running his fingers through his hair. He looked at me again, his dark eyes momentarily fiery in the light of the dying fireplace embers.
My head reeled from the wine. And the kiss. “Why did you bring me up here?” I demanded. I felt tears sting my eyes.
William shrugged.
I stared at him, unbelieving, blinking back the tears. My head continued to spin. Hugo walked toward me and licked my hand.
The loud knock echoed again downstairs. I heard the parlor door open and Lettie and Lottie’s voices ring out.
“Will!” one of them called.
“Will!”
“Excuse me.” He left abruptly.
When I reached the bottom of the stairs, I stopped, shocked.
Simon stood in the foyer, surveying in bewilderment the scene before him: the two vacant-eyed blond twins, me still in my work dress. William, flushed-faced and reeking of alcohol. Both Lettie and Lottie were silent, cowed in the presence of Simon’s formidability.
“St. John, you are out past your bedtime,” William stated casually, pouring himself yet another drink. His tone was accusatory, even challenging. “Are you not?”
“I was just leaving, Simon,” I said briskly as I buttoned my coat.
Simon stood absolutely still in the doorway—the front door still wide open behind him. I tried to pass him, but without a word he caught my arm at the elbow in a firm grip.
“Were you going to let her walk home alone, William?”
William shrugged, taking a deep swallow from his glass. “I’m not one to tell Arabella Sharp what to do.”
There was an awful silence in the air. Simon seemed even taller than usual; William more explosive, angrier than usual. Their silence made the tense atmosphere worse.
I saw irritation in Lettie’s and Lottie’s expressions. Their little party with William was at an end.
Simon was the one to break the silence. “I’ve come from the hospital. We have some serious issues to talk of.” He cast a brief gaze toward Lottie and Lettie. “Privately.”
Before William could retort, Simon raised a long finger, silencing him. “Do not speak to me now. I am going to make certain Abbie reaches home safely, and then you and I will talk. I su
ggest that you secure a carriage for your friends, and that you … sober up a little.”
Glaring, William drained the rest of his glass.
Simon ignored this. “Make some hot tea, anything, but I will be back shortly, and I expect to find you here, alone, and as rational as you are capable of being.” He narrowed his eyes. “We must discuss some matters.”
Still holding my arm, Simon led me away from the house.
“I just had a long discussion with Josephine,” he said as we stood outside the house in the cool night air. “She was at the hospital on the night the child was taken, overseeing the rooms where the children slept. Although vigilant, Sister Josephine did not see the intruder and became quite distressed when William returned with the child—she had not yet noticed Christabel’s absence. Fortunately, William had the sense to say nothing about your experience in Highgate. Josephine said that he told her he had found the child wandering in the streets, and that she had either walked out or that someone had taken her. The front door, as you know, is supposed to be locked, but William upon his arrival found it unlocked. There were no signs of forced entry—so it was probably due to carelessness from one of the workers. It has been left unlocked before.”
Simon was correct about that; however, the unlocked front door usually presented no problem, as Whitechapel Hospital did not have much of anything to tempt an intruder.
“Anyway, the children were all asleep when Josephine left them alone downstairs to attend to something upstairs. That was around nine o’clock. It was during this time that Christabel would have been taken.”
I thought of the two mutilated bodies in Highgate Cemetery and tried not to think of the awful possibilities if Christabel and I had not escaped. I shuddered.
Simon continued. “Apparently, William simply gave Josephine a firm lecture and said nothing more on the matter, when he should have alerted me. I did not discipline Josephine further, but security is imperative. I spoke to all the staff tonight about locking the front doors as well as all of the windows during night shifts. Also, we will have three nurses instead of one each night in the newborn and children’s nurseries. I need to discuss all of these new policies with William, tonight. And also clear up our … communication problems.”
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