Hannah paused in her search, an open book in her hands as she scanned its contents to make a quick decision whether it would aid their search or be put aside for another day. “And yet we know that to be untrue. The Druids roamed these isles for thousands of years before Christianity reached our shores. The Egyptians must have been the first to see the rise of mages. We know they had at least one woman among them. Is it so unusual that there might have been more?”
“If one were of a suspicious turn of mind, one might almost think the mage council had erased a vital part of our history. Which is why I asked my friends to find any history from beyond our shores,” Seraphina murmured.
Hannah agreed with her mother. When men focused only on history that represented them, so much was lost to everyone. Hannah closed her eyes and let her mind guide her. If something in the chest called to her mother, did that mean it might have a very faint trace of magic she could detect? Back and forth, she let her hand follow the contours and shapes. One brushed against her palm with the tiniest tickle.
“You,” she whispered, and closed her hand around it.
Opening her eyes, she freed her treasure, a small rolled scroll. A blood-red ribbon held it shut, and she tugged on it to undo the knot. A tremor rippled up her arm as she unrolled the thick paper to reveal the bright scene painted on it. Her gasp turned to an exclamation.
The scroll was twelve inches wide and six inches high. Tight rows of small hieroglyphics marched around the edges to frame a central scene. The picture stole Hannah’s breath. The colours were so bright and fresh, it appeared the artist had just set down his or her brush.
In the centre stood Ma’at, the goddess of truth, before her golden scales. On one side she placed the pearly white ostrich feather, on the other a person’s heart. Before the altar, a man was on his knees with his head curled over his body as he waited to hear the judgement. Anubis stood to one side, his obsidian skin glistening in the low light. The muscles in his torso had been drawn with great skill. Around his hips was tied a linen kilt with a delicate gold edge. More gold curled around his biceps and he held a staff. His jackal head had upright ears tipped in gold, and the Horus eye was drawn in gold around each of his eyes.
And beside Anubis sat a hellhound, the creature’s smoky fur tipped in red and its eyes glowing. Droplets of fire clung to the tips of its monstrous fangs. A woman with long, ebony hair stood next to the hellhound, one hand resting on its head. The artist had drawn a serene expression on her face. She wore a simple linen gown bound with a gold cord.
“Who is she?” Hannah whispered.
Seraphina ran a finger along the line of symbols at the bottom of the page and muttered a spell to make the English translation reveal itself. “Anput, the wife of Anubis.”
To the left of the scene ran a river of fire. Waves of glimmering red and orange flowed past the temple. Beside it hunkered an oddly formed creature with a body that was part lion, hippopotamus, and crocodile. Hannah knew a small amount about this god, her form constructed from the three largest man-eating animals known to ancient Egyptians.
“Ammit,” she whispered.
The Devourer of the Dead. If the heart were judged impure, Ammit would snap it between her jaws and eat it. The dead person would never journey toward Osiris and immortality.
“What happens when Ammit swallows their hearts? Do you think it is similar to what happens when the void asks Wycliff to toss a dark soul into it?” Could her husband be the hound sitting beside Anubis?
“A soul that is consumed becomes restless forever. The Egyptians called it the second death, and those unfortunates will never find peace.” Seraphina traced a fingertip over the fierce form of Ammit with her crocodile jaws.
Another figure stood in the background. A tall and slender woman in a linen gown with gold binding across the chest. She held her hands cupped together and between them, the artist had painted a glowing dark blue orb, as though she held the night sky. A silver crescent of the moon hung in the very centre.
“Do you think she is a shadow mage?” Hannah whispered.
Seraphina sucked in a breath. “Yes. The shadow mage of Anubis.”
The scroll fell to her mother’s lap. “Oh, Hannah! How much knowledge have we lost over the centuries? Erased by stuffy old white male mages.”
Hannah rubbed her hands over her arms to dispel the goose bumps. “How do we find out if a shadow mage was dead?”
Seraphina picked up the scroll and turned it to one side. She muttered under her breath as she asked the symbols to yield their meaning. “She served Anubis, who rules in Duat, the underworld. The shadow mage draws her power from that realm, but walks the world of the living. As I do. The shiver in my bones tells me this is the piece I have been missing. In England, we have focused only on the light and life—we have upset the balance by shunning their opposites.” Seraphina held the scroll at arm’s length and the picture seemed to move over the papyrus. “It will take me some time to wrangle the meaning from the inscription on this scene. But there is another clue here. This is Kemsit, and unless there were other mages who bore that name or title, this might be the woman in the tower.”
Excitement surged through Hannah. She leaned close to her mother’s bathchair to stare at the scene of judgement. The shadow mage had a strong face, with sharply defined cheekbones and full lips of a reddish brown. There was something else she noticed about the possibly dead shadow mage. “If she is dead, then there is no evidence of rot about her in this drawing. Could she have been a vampyre?”
That caused a warning to surge up her torso. Had they left Mrs Rossett alone in the house with a blood drinker, who now had a convenient way to exit the tower that had held her captive for hundreds of years?
10
That day, Wycliff rode into London and headed for the smart townhouse occupied by Lord Albright and his second family. The man lived well and was the typical indolent noble. Albright spent his money on wine, women, and slow horses. The similarities to Wycliff’s own father did not escape him—except that in Albright’s case, his estate earned sufficient to keep pace with his spending.
He clenched his jaw as he rapped on the door. The man offended Wycliff’s sense of honour and the hound whispered that it needed only seconds to latch on to his soul, wrestle it free of his physical form, and then toss it to the void.
“Is Albright at home?” Wycliff said as soon as the door swung open. He barged past the startled butler, who wordlessly gestured to a half-open door along the hall.
The man in question sat in a tastefully decorated parlour, reading the newspaper before venturing out for the day. A brown dog stretched out in front of the fire and only twitched an ear at Wycliff’s arrival. The current Lady Albright sat opposite her husband with an embroidery hoop in her hands. She froze to stare at him, whereas her husband didn’t even acknowledge him.
“I bring news of your wife,” Wycliff said. Without being asked, he took a chair in front of the window with the light behind him, equidistant between the two Albrights.
“My wife is quite well, as you can see.” Albright looked up and gestured to the woman across from him.
Some twenty years his junior, she had a pleasing but somewhat bland countenance. A merchant’s daughter, she had conducted a well-known affair with her husband while his other wife still possessed a pulse. The couple had married while the former Lady Albright lay in her coffin.
“I have news of your former wife,” Wycliff bit out between clenched teeth.
The man before him was no gentleman, despite what society might say. He had abandoned his wife of many years once her heart stopped beating—had thrown her into the street with no more care than if she were the contents of a chamber pot. He had made it clear he would have interred her to scream unheard and bang on her coffin lid for decades, if he had known she would reanimate.
Albright folded up the newspaper and tossed it to the sideboard with a loud sigh. “What on earth has Felicity done now? She is dead, for good
ness’ sake, and no longer my responsibility.” His words were sharp and his narrow nostrils sucked in as irritation flared in his eyes.
“She is dead,” Wycliff uttered the words, then realised they had fallen flat, given the lady in question had expired some two years previously.
Albright snorted. “You waste my time, Wycliff. See yourself out and don’t come here again.”
Wycliff counted to ten in his head. Admittedly, he did it as fast as he could and by increments of two, but he had paused to rein in his temper. “Let me rephrase that. Someone expunged the former Lady Albright from this earth. We found her remains at Bunhill Fields and Sir Hugh identified her through a gold tooth and a scrap of fabric, which her cousin recognised.”
The current Lady Albright let out a soft gasp and dropped her needlework. The dog finally looked up to stare at its mistress. Then its enormous head fell to its paws again, followed by a loud snore.
“She’s gone for good this time?” Albright jumped to his feet and rushed to his wife, where he took her hands in his. An odd look passed between the two of them.
Wycliff pulled out his notebook as he observed the couple. All of society knew of their affair, but had they conspired in other ways? Such as procuring what they required to dispatch an unwelcome predecessor? He wondered what the current, and now only, Lady Albright thought of her husband’s treatment of his previous wife. Or was she one of those creatures who believed the advantages of increasing her rank and standing far beyond her birth were worth any price?
“Yes. Unfortunately, the former Lady Albright was incinerated and very little is left of her to inter this time. Where were you Tuesday night?”
“Tuesday night?” The man snorted and turned a hard gaze on Wycliff.
“Yes. I require you to tell me your movements that evening.” The witnesses to the blue and white flames were next to useless. None had investigated the unnatural fire at the cemetery, superstition making them too afraid. By the time the curious crept out with the dawn, the perpetrator of the crime had long been gone. Not that Wycliff believed Albright would have done it. The man was too much the coward to do his own dirty work. Although Wycliff could see him hiding behind a tree to watch his former wife suffer a horrendous second death.
“What is the purpose of these questions?” Albright shot out, as though in a hurry to end the interview.
“A crime has been committed against the former Lady Albright, and I will find the person responsible.” Wycliff wished he could drag the man off to Newgate prison now. How much proof did they need to throw him where he deserved to be?
Albright emitted a braying laugh that made Wycliff think of hyenas. “My former wife died two years ago, Wycliff. You surely cannot suspect me of murdering a dead thing? Although I am relieved she will no longer haunt our lives and Lady Albright and I can raise our children in peace. Felicity made a dashed nuisance of herself turning up wherever we went, draped all in black. Everyone knew who and what she was, and she put a dampener on every outing.”
Everyone knew who and what she was… Albright was correct. The former Lady Albright was a familiar figure in London. Society lapped up her sad tale and how her husband had paraded his new bride before her. Her every appearance at soirées had been like a new instalment in a serialised drama. An idea flitted through his mind. What if this was not a crime against Lady Albright personally, but one which simply targeted an Afflicted—any Afflicted? That put a different spin on events. He tucked the thought away as unlikely. Her uncaring husband seemed the only candidate wanting to commit his pesky former wife to a funeral pyre.
“We have yet to ascertain if this was murder. No one can deny that she walked this earth and continued to live her life after her heart stilled. Or she did, until someone condemned her to the flames. A particularly gruesome way to expire. Perhaps Parliament will institute a new category of murder to prosecute those who extinguish the unfortunates whose hearts no longer beat.” Wycliff measured his words and dispensed them with slow regularity.
Lady Albright’s eyes widened as he spoke, and one hand went to her generous chest. Her already alabaster complexion paled further.
Lord Albright, conversely, appeared to grow more impatient and angry. He rose to his feet and paced by the fire. “Parliament cannot do that! It would be deuced unfair. How can one person be murdered twice? But anyway, I was home that night. My wife and any of the staff will confirm that. Little Tristan had a cough, and we sat by his bedside.”
“I have not concluded this matter,” Wycliff said as he stood. He’d question the staff on his way out, before Albright schooled them in any story.
“Yes, you have. The matter is closed as far as I am concerned. Done and swept into the gutter, I hope, like an unwanted burnt roast.” Albright stalked closer to Wycliff, his shoulders tense and his hands clenched.
Intimidation didn’t work on Wycliff. All the noble did was entrench his opinion about the man’s guilt. Ignoring him, Wycliff nodded to Lady Albright and took his leave, stopping to ask the staff about their master’s movements. Each footman and a startled maid confirmed the heir had indeed been poorly, and both parents devoted in tending him.
Blast it. He still could have found time to slip out, so Albright remained Wycliff’s prime suspect.
He stalked away from the house, needing to pound the footpath before he struck someone. Lord Albright burrowed under his skin and irritated him. Part of it was the hideous reflection he held up to Wycliff. Once, he had possessed similar beliefs—that the Afflicted shouldn’t be walking among Londoners. As he grew to know Hannah and her mother, they had opened his eyes. Most of his disgust was for the way Albright treated his wife. Legally, as a widower he was entitled to remarry. But he could at least have had the decency to ensure his former wife had a roof over her head and what she needed to sustain her. A little sympathy would have relieved much of the dead woman’s heartache.
Wycliff exhausted his frustration after several minutes and returned to where the Albright groom still held his horse. His next destination was the home of the man who had removed Mrs Sennett’s brain. William Peters lived in a modest house in a row of terraces. Unwin and Alder must pay their employees well for their unusual work…or for their silence.
Wycliff knocked on the door and a tired-looking woman answered. Strands of brown hair streaked with grey escaped from her cap. Wrinkles ruined her apron, as though she had spent much time balling it up in her hands. “May I help you, sir?”
“I need to see Peters. Is he in?” Wycliff peered over her shoulder into the hall, but all he saw was a set of stairs leading upward.
The woman gave a sob and rushed into a side room, leaving him standing on the doorstep.
Judging by the reaction, Wycliff wondered if the fellow had succumbed to his illness. If he had known in advance this visit would entail a weeping woman, he would have swapped with Hannah. With her gentle touch, his wife had a way of eliciting information from the more delicate individuals who needed questioning.
Wycliff pinched the bridge of his nose to stave off the headache pressing behind his eyes. Today was not progressing in his favour. Then he closed the door and followed the sound of crying. Inside a comfortable but modest parlour, he found the woman whom he took to be Mrs Peters in a chair before the fireplace, her shoulders heaving.
He waited for her to compose herself while he took in his surroundings. A bright rug in reds, oranges, and browns covered the floor and reminded him of fallen autumn leaves. A sage green fabric covered the settee positioned at an angle to the fire. Under the window and overlooking the road sat a small desk scattered with papers.
“He’s been gone these three days now.” The woman gasped between sobs. Then she pulled a handkerchief from her apron pocket and blew her nose.
“My condolences. Unwin and Alder told me he was ill, but they were unaware he had passed.” Blast. Another dead end in his enquiry.
She blew her nose on a long, high note and then turned to stare at him. “Bil
l’s not dead. He’s gone.”
The headache tapped on the inside of his skull. Lord save him from silly people. “I assume you mean physically gone, as opposed to dead?”
She nodded, and more tears dribbled down her cheeks.
“Tell me what happened.” Wycliff took a chair and held in a sigh. This didn’t make any sense. Peters had been absent from his job pleading illness. Or was the complaint self-inflicted? Perhaps he had got drunk and wandered off.
“He had a head cold. I didn’t think it was that bad, really, but men do fuss when they’re ill.” She glanced up at him, as though expecting confirmation that he also took to his bed with the sniffles. Hardly. He had crawled through the mud after the hellhound ripped out his throat and hadn’t uttered a single word of complaint.
“What happened three days ago?” Wycliff steered the conversation in the relevant direction.
“We were both sitting in here. He was going through the post when he leapt to his feet and said he needed to go out. When I asked where, he muttered something about fetching a tonic from the apothecary for his headache. But he never came back…” Her voice trailed off as her bottom lip trembled and the tears fell anew.
“Was he sitting there?” Wycliff gestured to the desk.
At her nod, he rose and relocated to the desk chair. Peters had been going through the post just before he went out and never returned. What had he found? Wycliff sorted through the invoices and letters from family. Had the man left behind a clue, or had he shoved a letter in his pocket and taken it with him? Nothing seemed to be an immediate summons, unless one missive were written in code. In which case he would need Hannah to lend her thoughts to uncover it.
He tugged a folded newspaper toward him. Bereaved man finds wife’s brain missing. He recognised the headline, the same article they had read in Mireworth about the missing brain of Mrs Sennett. He picked the paper up and held it closer. A squiggle in the margin caught his attention. Turning the newspaper sideways, he read, Langholm, 10am.
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