Wycliff snorted. Once, he’d thought everybody had the right to know what sustained the Afflicted. Now, he considered it nobody’s business as long as they existed within the dictates of England’s laws. “If the Afflicted commit no crimes, they should be left in peace. Whoever is behind this has taken two lives, whether that is considered murder the second time or not.”
“If the proposed amendment to the law does not pass, we may have to let this one go, Wycliff.” The former general pushed off the arms of the chair to stand. Some years earlier, he had championed the pivotal bill that gave Unnaturals the same rights as all Englishmen. That bill had been bolstered by the wartime efforts of the Highland Wolves. Yet in times of peace, the deaths of those without a heartbeat fell between the cracks.
Wycliff’s lips tightened into a grim line as he stood. Whoever had consigned the former Lady Albright to a bonfire might escape the law, but they wouldn’t escape the kind of justice he could deliver. If the perpetrator dared reach for Lady Miles or her daughter, they would find themselves thrown into a torment that would make them long for the end delivered by mage fire.
He spent the rest of his afternoon tackling the paperwork stacked neatly in a wooden tray on his desk. Higgs proved invaluable in sorting and tallying his invoices, so all he had to do was sign them off. Then he laboured over the reports of his investigation. Hannah had sent a note that confirmed Mr Oliver Berridge was unaccounted for and had been summoned to the theatre the night in question. Wycliff was staring at his report of the charred remains found at the theatre, when a soft rap came as Higgs stood at the open door.
“It’s nearly three thirty, milord,” he said.
“Excellent.” Wycliff pushed the paper to one side. He would finish the report tomorrow.
Parliament sat at four; he had time to make his way to Westminster for the session and find Sir Hugh. Wycliff’s title of viscount entitled him to a seat in the House of Lords, but his work as an investigator gave him a handy excuse for missing the sittings that often lasted late into the night. He had better things to do than listen to long-winded aristocrats nitpick legislation.
Today was an exception, and he wanted to attend as the House debated a new category of crime that impacted those creatures defined as Unnatural. He needed to cast his vote, assuming he could stay awake that long. He set off at a brisk pace. Pedestrians mostly dodged out of his way and the few who didn’t earned a glare as he stepped around them. A few people gathered on corners, waving placards calling for the removal of the Afflicted from London. A brief urge to call out their stupidity slowed his feet, then he berated himself. Nothing could be done for the simpletons who blindly believed every word in the scandal sheets. Change had to come from Parliament and trickle down to the streets.
The swirl of people around the Palace of Westminster slowed his pace, and the chimes struck to summon the politicians as Wycliff made his way to the chamber where the House of Lords sat. Sir Hugh stood with a group of men outside the entrance. His father-in-law could not vote, but he would watch from the gallery.
He hailed Wycliff and detached himself from the cluster. “Wycliff. I am told the House will consider a curfew for the Afflicted this afternoon. Damn fools. We don’t even know who they all are. How the blazes do they intend to enforce a curfew?”
Wycliff grunted as they walked into the chamber. Enforcement would probably fall on his head. “While there is noise in the streets, for once we should be grateful for the rotten boroughs that have allowed a handful of lords to control the majority of seats in the House of Commons. They are at least voting in line with the Lords, and I doubt any of them want to tell their wives and daughters they can’t go out at night. Balls, after all, must be attended.”
The two men parted company, Wycliff to find his seat at the back of the chamber on a hard wooden bench. The more earnest and verbose lords crowded together in the front rows. Sir Hugh took the stairs to the balcony above. The gallery was placed high, near the ceiling, and he looked down on the politicians like a bird perched in a tree. Noise rolled upward to the spectators, as the Lords argued and shouted like angry schoolboys.
For once, the Lords dispensed with all the introductory posturing and leapt straight into debate. The Speaker announced the amendment under discussion—murder of an Unnatural, or other being, who lacked a heartbeat.
“This amendment is preposterous. You cannot murder a dead thing!” A lord in the front row leapt to his feet and turned to face his companions. “Dead is dead.”
Cries of hear, hear went up from a clump of lords across the floor from Wycliff. The lord on his feet held his arms wide as though his declaration of dead is dead was the final nail in the bill’s coffin. “What’s next? Am I guilty of murder for tucking into my roast beef at dinnertime?”
Laughter greeted his comments. Then Lord Jessope rose and stepped to the middle of the floor. He paused before the other lord and with a withering glare, sent the younger man scurrying back to his seat. Then he clasped his hands behind his back and faced the Speaker. “I lost my wife to this dreadful curse that stilled her heart, but kept her mind intact and trapped in a dead form.”
Silence, or as close as the assembled lords and gallery could manage, rippled away from where Lord Jessope stood. The earl rarely spoke of how the curse had struck his family, and those without an Afflicted family member hung on every word.
He walked down the space between the two sides of the assembly, speaking as he went. “Some argue that a life requires a heartbeat. That murder is when another steals the steady rhythm of that organ. But I stand here before you today to say that is not always the case. My wife maintains a devout and Christian existence, her days spent in prayer. The former Lady Albright was known to many as a kind and thoughtful woman—even without a heartbeat.”
Heads swung to stare at Lord Albright, who had a deep scowl on his face.
“If it is not murder when an Afflicted is consumed by flames against their will, then how do we describe the snuffing out of a person’s existence?” Lord Jessope stopped before Lord Albright as he asked his question.
The mean-spirited lord narrowed his gaze. “The Afflicted died. Those who peddled the infected face powder were charged and convicted. How can one person possibly be murdered twice? We make a mockery of our laws and reputation for fairness if we entertain this amendment.”
Agreement echoed around Albright. He would push that a person couldn’t be murdered twice, as he had long tried to rid himself of his former wife. Certainly he took advantage of her dead status to remarry with unseemly haste. Wycliff suspected he had a hand in the former Lady Albright’s fate. All he needed was proof.
Another lord stood. “Where do we draw the line? If those without a heartbeat have special protection, what about those without their minds? What fate awaits them?”
“Those without their wits could always practise law,” someone yelled across the floor.
Chortles of laughter erupted in the chamber. The Speaker banged his gavel. “Order! Order, my lords.”
A large and dour-looking lord used a walking stick to stand. His hand shook on the cane as he supported his weight. “While you jest, my lords, our friend Jessope raises a very real concern. If the Afflicted truly dine on the minds of Londoners, we should be less worried about attacks against them, and more concerned with the crimes they might commit. Murderers should not be given free rein, not matter who they are related to.”
Having said his piece, he lowered himself back into his seat.
Wycliff curled his hands into fists on his knees. That comment veered too close to revealing that two Afflicted had murdered innocent people in order to consume the contents of their skulls. What direction would the debate take now?
“The Afflicted shouldn’t be allowed to roam the streets and steal the brains of honest Londoners!” a voice shouted from the back.
“They should be rounded up and held somewhere, for their safety and ours.” The lord who asked where they would draw the line
added to his argument. “Surely that resolves two issues? They cannot be burned if they are kept secure, nor can they attack the rest of the population.”
Wycliff heaved a sigh. He was going to regret making himself known, but he could sit in silence no longer. Standing, he faced the lord arguing for the Afflicted to be quarantined on the Isle of Dogs. “How exactly do you intend to capture and imprison all the Afflicted in England? Will you storm the homes of dukes and earls, and drag their wives and daughters screaming from their drawing rooms?”
Mutters came from sections of the room, no doubt men imagining the scene as they had to tell their female family members their nocturnal entertainments were to be curtailed, and worse, they were to be sent to a dreary spot without a single dress shop or millinery.
“Don’t you have a list of their names?” Another lord tossed out his question.
Wycliff tried to discern where the voices came from in the crowded room. “No. We know a few, but not all. Many nobles refuse to make it known whether or not they have an Afflicted relative.”
“Isn’t that part of your job, Wycliff? What do you do all day funded from England’s purse? Perhaps you are following in your father’s footsteps.” That voice he recognised—Albright.
For a moment he contemplated letting the hound loose at the implied insult that he frittered away his salary. Like many bullies, Albright felt emboldened with his cronies around him. The pressure from all the shouted questions and retorts built in Wycliff’s head. Nobles and politicians tried his patience, and the House of Lords combined the worst of both.
“There could be some three hundred Afflicted, not to mention how many other types of Unnatural creature, residing in England. I am one man, and there are only so many hours in the day. Contrary to what you think, Albright, I do not rest until I bring a perpetrator to justice, no matter where he might hide. Perhaps the Lords could support a bill to greatly increase the funding for the Ministry of Unnaturals, thus increasing the number of investigators. Twenty of us might be able to perform half the duties you expect of me.”
Having said his piece, he sat down. The debate wore on as the sun fell outside. One faction argued with another, then they veered off into religious quarters, arguing whether a heartbeat, a brain, or a soul gave a person life.
As the clock neared midnight, the Whig leader thumped on the back of the wooden bench. “Too long have bloated Tories feasted off the backs of the common man. Not content with snatching our hard-earned coin, they now they let their wives steal our minds. We demand they curtail their Afflicted relatives. Let us have a curfew while these other matters are debated, so at least they do not creep up behind some poor Londoner!”
Cries of agreement bounced off the walls. Wycliff shook his head. There would be no progress on the bill this night. A curfew would relieve some fears and keep the Afflicted safe from whomever roamed the streets clutching his vial of mage fire. But it would be a nightmare to enforce.
The Speaker seized on a simpler matter that might be resolved. “Let us take a vote on the matter of a curfew. Those in favour of a dusk to dawn curfew for the Afflicted, say aye.”
A roar of ayes charged across the floor.
“Those against?” the Speaker asked.
Shouts of nay, including Wycliff’s, went up but the volume alone was far less than the ayes.
“The ayes have it.” The Speaker banged his gavel on the desk. “From today onward, all Afflicted must be in their place of residence between dusk and dawn. Any caught on the street are to be incarcerated in a secure location.”
A groan came from some men present, no doubt anticipating the chilly reception of such news.
Wycliff slipped from the House of Lords after midnight and met Sir Hugh out in the hall. The large surgeon shook his head. “I don’t know how I feel about a curfew. It will keep the women safe from the attacker, but it’s the first step out on thin ice.”
“My feelings exactly,” Wycliff murmured as they headed out into the sharp night air. “Next they will propose they all be moved to a secure location. How convenient to have all the Afflicted in one place if someone decides that a permanent solution should be applied to them.”
“But without the amendment, no crime has even been committed. Except, perhaps, interfering with a corpse if they insist the Afflicted are dead.” Sir Hugh led Wycliff across the expansive courtyard and through the tall iron gates.
Wycliff stared up at the moon, hanging clear now that the clouds had scudded away. London lay awash in its silver light. “We cannot rely on support from Parliament. We must find a solution of our own.” Such a solution resided in the underworld, but he had promised Hannah he would not go without her.
Was he ready to watch her die, in order to save her?
18
Hannah woke the next morning to Wycliff’s warmth surrounding her. She rolled over and placed a hand on his face. “I never heard you come home. How late did the Lords sit?”
He kissed her palm. “You sleep soundly and hardly stirred. Your father and I left a little after midnight once it became obvious nothing would be achieved.”
“I sleep soundly because I am safe, and in that I am very fortunate. But what do you mean nothing was achieved? Did they not agree that the snuffing out of an existence is a type of murder?” She sat up and gathered the blanket to her.
Wycliff blew out a sigh. “No. The argument devolved. The only thing the House voted on was a curfew. The Afflicted are to remain in their homes between dusk and dawn.”
A number of different arguments as to the absurdity of such a proceeding crammed Hannah’s mind. “A curfew?” she spluttered. Indignation flared in her torso. The bill before Parliament was intended to recognise the Afflicted’s right to exist, and that no one could snuff out.
Wycliff rose from bed and gathered his clothing. “Yes. I voted against it, but I can see some merits to it, so please hear me out before you explode. It will at least keep the Afflicted safe in their homes while we figure out who is behind the fires. It might also dampen some of the fear in the streets.”
Hannah fetched a robe and shrugged it on. She would meet Mary in her old bedroom down the hall to dress. “It also casts the Afflicted as criminals who need to be monitored.”
He softened his tone. “If the amendment does not pass, no crime will have been committed against the former Lady Albright or Oliver Berridge.”
“Mr Berridge was lured to the theatre. Mr Trayling said he received a note from a patron who wanted to discuss a new play. Unfortunately, he had it in his pocket when he left. If we possessed the note, either Mother or Lady Alice Shaw might have been able to locate the writer.” Hannah wrapped the robe’s cord around her finger and then let it go again.
Wycliff sat on a chair to tug on his stockings and Hessians. “The former Lady Albright made her own way to Bunhill Fields and was most likely followed, but Berridge was summoned to his demise. The difference in approach may tell us something about the person behind this.”
“Did you learn anything from Mr Nash?” Apart from a note Hannah had left for Wycliff at the Ministry, they had had no chance to share what they had each learned the previous day.
“No. Only that someone directs his activities and he refused to disclose whom, even when I let the hellhound become visible to him.” Wycliff tucked his shirt into his trousers and then buttoned up his waistcoat.
Hannah sucked in a breath. “He showed no fear of the hound?” She didn’t either, but for entirely different reasons. Wycliff would never harm her no matter what form he took. The sort of person who penned horrible and inflammatory articles about the Afflicted should have some concern for his immortal soul. If he possessed one.
“Why don’t you dress and we’ll discuss everything over breakfast with your parents?”
“Very well. I’ll not be long.” Hannah hurried to her room and found Mary waiting. In no time she was clad in a blue-and-green-striped gown and headed downstairs. She sipped a hot chocolate as her father
wheeled her mother into the room.
“Did you hear about this ridiculous curfew, Hannah?” Seraphina said as she took her place.
“Yes, although I see Wycliff’s point that the Afflicted should be safer from this attacker if they are at home.” Hannah took a piece of toast and dropped it to her plate. The edges of the bread were somewhat burned, and the charring made her stomach turn.
“I found Peters yesterday. He is—was—the Unwin and Alder employee we suspect of not completing his job and telling Nash what funerals to attend. Unfortunately, he was pulled from the Thames and won’t be telling us anything.” Wycliff downed his first coffee in a few gulps and then poured another.
“Someone is tidying up after themselves,” Seraphina murmured.
“I suspect a mage is behind this. Who else could Nash fear more than a hellhound?” Wycliff met his mother-in-law’s gaze.
Hannah couldn’t eat and worried the edge of her cup with her teeth. One name squeezed over her lips. “Tomlin.”
“There is no doubt he dislikes your mother, but surely even he wouldn’t stoop to such a crime against the Afflicted?” Sir Hugh paused for a moment before returning to his plate of sausage, eggs, and toast.
“Do we know for certain that Lord Albright is not involved?” Hannah had to ask the question, as deep down she suspected the horrible man guilty of something. However, she couldn’t see how he might be the connection between the death of Mr Berridge and that of the former Lady Albright.
Wycliff tapped his long fingers against the side of his cup. “I know nothing with certainty, except that Peters won’t be leaving bits of skull off any more donors to Unwin and Alder. That should see an end to Nash’s stalking funerals, although it makes me suspicious that he has another source yet to be tapped.”
Hannah pushed her plate away, the toast uneaten. “Parliament’s lack of action does not mean we must likewise stagnate. We must continue to investigate who is behind this. If they do not cease, then neither shall we.”
Hessians and Hellhounds Page 16