The carriage turned left into Tottenham Court Road and then stopped about halfway along. The driver opened the door and gestured toward a red brick building that seemed as high as it was wide. “Lord Wycliff awaits you inside, sir.”
Hannah glanced around, wondering what sort of establishment he had summoned them to. She stayed close to the bulk of her father as they approached the entry doors. Two enormous men glared at them and she huddled closer to the doctor.
“Sir Hugh Miles,” he said to the men guarding the front doors. “Lord Wycliff sent for me.”
The men exchanged looks, then one gestured for them to enter and closed the door again behind them. Inside was an entrance hall with a wooden floor and a large painting of a bird on one wall.
“The Harriers,” her father said.
For a gentleman’s club, the air was permeated with a sharp tang of sweat and blood that made Hannah wrinkle her nose. Double doors to the next room were propped open and they peeped in the doorway. Beyond was a large, mostly empty room. Two men had buckets and mops and were swabbing the floor.
“Whatever went on in here?” she asked her father.
He pointed to the roped-off square covered in blood and spittle. “Bare-knuckle boxing. Quite popular in some circles.”
Hannah shuddered. How horrid. Why on earth would men pummel themselves bloody for the entertainment of others?
A door opened to the side of the entrance and the wraith appeared behind them on silent feet.
“This way, Sir Hugh.” He glanced at Hannah, then looked again with narrowed eyes.
She tugged the peak of her cap down lower. Usually no one paid any attention to Sir Hugh’s assistant and she hoped he wouldn’t denounce her in front of the few staff. While society knew that she assisted her father in his laboratory, it would never be considered seemly for a woman to attend a murder scene. Instead, Sir Hugh’s assistant attended the more gruesome call-outs.
“My lord,” she whispered and clutched her father’s bag more tightly.
He grunted. “At least no one will deny you entry to the club for being a woman with a pulse.”
She rocked back on her heels. It hardly made a woman’s heart race to be told she looked just like a young lad, even if that was the disguise she adopted for the sake of propriety.
With a lift of one corner of his lips, he dismissed Hannah and turned to her father. “Management of The Harriers are cooperating fully. We took an accounting of those present before they were allowed to leave. Although I already know the Afflicted present this evening.”
“Noblewomen were here? Surely not.” Sir Hugh glanced back to the near deserted room.
“Two were among the crowd. But let us deal with more pressing matters first.” Wycliff’s face remained impassive; no emotion flickered across his solemn countenance as he referred to the Afflicted.
They crossed to a counter. The door beyond was closed and Lord Wycliff pulled a key from his pocket. “I ensured the scene would be undisturbed and locked until you arrived.”
Her father entered the room first and Hannah followed. The unfortunate victim had met his end in the small cloakroom. His body was collapsed on a coat and his arms outstretched, as though guarding it like a broody hen with chicks. There was even a fox overlooking the scene.
The fox crossed his arms and guarded the door. “Sir Hugh, can you confirm whether this was done by the same culprit?”
“The lights, if you please, Hannah,” Sir Hugh said as he contemplated the scene before them.
While her father made a preliminary examination, Hannah opened the large bag and extracted two mirrors on folding stands. She set them up to capture the light from a nearby lantern and then angled the mirrors until a direct beam shone on the man’s head.
“Ingenious,” Wycliff murmured.
Hannah held out a hand to help her father kneel on the floor. Then she handed him a magnifying glass. Careful not to create a shadow, the doctor examined the edges of the wound.
Hannah took advantage of the silence to survey the room. Coat hooks lined three walls, and a number of overcoats and cloaks were hung, waiting for their owners. A shelf ran above the hooks and held hats. Stands held umbrellas and canes.
Moving her inspection to the floor, she saw a piece of the man’s scalp with auburn hair still intact had been tossed to the corner like the discarded top on a box containing a present. A walking cane with a solid, round brass top lay nearby, having escaped from its stand. The brass orb was discoloured with what at first glance appeared to be rust. Closer inspection revealed the red hairs clinging to the brass end.
“The murderer used the brass-topped cane,” Hannah murmured. “Did no one hear him call out?” Two brutal deaths now, and the only screaming had come from the party who had discovered the body. How did these victims remain silent while fatal blows were rained down upon them?
Dark eyes swept over her. “No. The Harriers was exceedingly loud this evening. The men were shouting at the fighters, and you could barely hear yourself think over the din. The Afflicted had locked the door behind herself when she was finished, which further delayed the discovery of the body. We assumed the attendant had taken a break.”
Sir Hugh peered at the outer edges of the wound with his magnifying glass, before turning his attention to the interior of the skull. “The brain has been removed, the same as the Loburn footman. The tweezers, please, Hannah—there is something in here that does not belong.”
She placed the long-nosed tweezers in his outstretched hand.
Sir Hugh gave the prongs an experimental tap together, then with a steady hand he reached inside the skull. Hannah angled the mirror to shine light where he directed the tweezers. At length he huffed and slowly withdrew them, a tiny, bloody sliver clutched between the pincers.
“What is it?” Wycliff asked, peering at the cream-coloured chip.
Sir Hugh held the magnifying glass over the object as he turned the tweezers in his grasp, to examine it from different angles. “I believe it is a piece of a fingernail. The murderer used their bare hands to scoop out the brain and in their haste, a piece broke off.”
Wycliff swore. “Everybody has left already. I did not think to examine their hands.”
Hannah reached into her father’s bag and found a small glass vial. She removed the stopper and he dropped the broken nail inside. “You had no way of knowing the murderer had left something behind.”
Hannah surveyed the pattern made by the blood in the room. “He fought, whereas the footman was either done in or rendered unconscious with the first blow.”
“How can you be so sure?” Wycliff turned to her.
Hannah pointed to the blood splatters that covered many of the coats and hats. “The blood trail moves, almost as though he spun around. Perhaps to confront the person who did this?”
“The murderer would have had blood upon their clothing and hands,” Sir Hugh said.
Wycliff grunted. “Many people had blood on their clothing this evening, especially those closer to the ring. The area around the fighters looks not unlike this scene.”
“There might be a clue in whose coats remain and whose are missing? The murderer might have gone and taken the bloodstains with them.” Hannah gestured to the remaining garments on hooks.
Wycliff made a growling noise in the back of his throat. “A possibility we cannot explore, since no tickets are used here. The attendant was new and an aftermage, his gift the ability to know which items belonged to whom.”
Sir Hugh turned his attention to the ball end of the cane used. “Yet again our murderer has used what they found at hand. First a paperweight, now a cane.”
“But two in one week, Papa. This is most unusual.” Hannah stared at the deceased man. He had fought against his demise. Did he perhaps scratch his killer? Hannah peered more closely at the dead man’s outstretched hands.
Wycliff tracked her with his black gaze. “Why is the frequency unusual? Are these creatures not driven by a monstrous ap
petite?”
Hannah swallowed a breath and took a moment to steel herself before responding. Her instinct was to snap back, but his question was not unreasonable. “The hunger is the body’s way of directing the Afflicted to what it needs to ward off the rot. But it is an appetite that is sated with a small amount of matter. This is gluttonous behaviour.”
Her father huffed. They had made extensive studies to find the lowest amount needed to sustain one of the unfortunate women. “One Afflicted requires one brain per month. A sliver a day keeps the rot away,” Sir Hugh said.
Wycliff arched a dark eyebrow at her father. Not everyone shared her father’s morbid sense of humour.
“A frugal Afflicted can make one brain last for six weeks without any ill effects. Beyond that, death seeks to claim their forms. But what we see here is an indulgence of excess for no apparent reason. To do this would not be worth their exposure, for their own continued safety.” Hannah faltered, unable to find the words to understand why one of the Afflicted would commit such a crime. If they exercised moderation, they would have no need to seek nourishment from other sources. Instead of voicing the ideas swirling in her head, she instead contemplated her hands. From which finger had the murderer lost the nail?
“There is one more possibility, Hannah. The Afflicted may be seeking to heal a wound. That might explain the frenzied attack.” Sir Hugh moved from his cramped spot on the floor and stood.
Wycliff grunted. “The attendant was an aftermage, and, I have discovered, so was Dunn, the Loburn footman. Do you think that is relevant?”
“Perhaps this Afflicted has discovered something we have not, Papa?” Hannah bit her lower lip as she tried to think through the consequences.
Hypothesise, then strategise. They had not yet studied the effect the type of brain might have, and she was grasping to find some sort of reason or logic in such a senseless crime. A wound of some significance seemed the most likely cause, especially if the lady could not afford the additional purchases from Unwin and Alder.
Her father let out a sigh and dropped the magnifying glass back into his bag. “We won’t know until we commence our study. I have some early notes about excess, from when your mother and her friends were first Afflicted and we were learning. As you can imagine, the war gave us a plentiful supply of brains no longer in use.”
“Who did you see among the revellers?” Hannah asked Wycliff, curious as to whether he had narrowed down his suspect list.
“Lady Gabriella Ridlington was here with her companion Mr Rowley, and Miss Emma Knightley with a party of friends.”
Hannah stared at him, but in her mind’s eye, she saw Emma crying over a stain on her gown.
16
The next day, Wycliff was summoned to the Ministry of Unnaturals by his superior. He arrived at their offices in Whitehall to find a vacant front desk. The fledgling ministry was still in the process of hiring staff and had yet to find a secretary.
Wycliff considered requesting an office in the small, squat building. If he set up a camp bed, he could further reduce his expenditures by sleeping in his office. With nothing else to fill his days, he would be wedded to the job anyway.
He walked down the hall and rapped on a dark wood door.
“Enter,” a voice said from beyond.
Within the office, he found General Sir Manly Powers and Sir Hugh Miles deep in conversation.
“Ah, Wycliff, take a seat. Sir Hugh has some information he wishes to impart.” Sir Manly gestured to a vacant sofa before the fireplace.
“What of Miss Miles? Will she be joining us?” He cast around the room, but she didn’t appear to be hiding behind Sir Manly’s desk. He looked forward to provoking a passionate response from her in the defence of the undead like her mother.
Sir Hugh sat adjacent to Wycliff. The large man leaned forward, arms on thighs, and clasped his beefy hands together. “No. There are things about the Afflicted that Lady Miles and I do not think appropriate for Hannah to hear. Nor is it relevant to the research she undertakes. What I am about to impart to you must be kept confidential.”
“Very well. You have my full attention.” Wycliff had feared the girl might hamper his investigation and here was confirmation—there was pivotal knowledge she lacked. He rested one arm along the back of the sofa as he waited for the surgeon to begin.
“In the summer of 1813, Seraphina and two of her friends—ordinary ladies, not mages—were poisoned by a French agent. It was a cowardly assassination to prevent England’s most powerful mage from helping us to victory. All three women became violently ill almost immediately and within hours, slipped into unconsciousness. Despite my medical knowledge, I found myself powerless and no remedy made any difference to their conditions. Three days later, I held my wife in my arms as her heart stopped beating and she departed this world.” He choked over the words, as though reliving the experience.
A man who loved beyond death, Miss Miles whispered in Wycliff’s ear. He waved a hand to dismiss the phantom. “How long did Lady Miles remain that way?”
Sir Hugh unclasped his hands and stared at his palms. “Two days. I refused to allow anyone to remove her. I was not yet ready to say a final farewell to my heart’s companion. You can only imagine my joy when she sat up and said she felt…odd. Only upon a thorough examination did I discover she had returned to consciousness, but not to life.”
Information was intelligence, and Wycliff hoped that somewhere in the narration about the origins of the Afflicted were clues that would enable him to identify the murderer. “And so she became the first Afflicted. What of the other two women?”
“One had already been buried and she was hastily dug up. The experience of being entombed in a coffin permanently affected Mrs Edgar’s mind. She was hysterical when freed and her erratic fits never subsided. Lady Tennent fared somewhat better, as she still awaited burial. Her husband was alerted to her condition when she banged on the nailed coffin lid. Poor chap nearly had a heart attack.”
Sir Manly chortled to himself and his enormous curled moustache wagged up and down. “Colonel Tennent was always susceptible to frights. Never thought he should have been put in the field.”
Wycliff wanted the facts, not the embellished version more suited to a work of fiction. “Did the women immediately crave brains?”
Sir Hugh leaned forward and poured a glass of water from the decanter on the low table before them. “No. All three women were put under my care because they all felt ill and, of course, had no pulse. My superiors wanted answers, but I was fumbling in the dark to determine what had happened and how to remedy it. The French had an agent posing as a maid to poison a pot of tea, but the woman took her own life before we could question her further.”
“Your wife must have supplied some thoughts from her unique perspective?” There must be some advantage to having an undead mage working for England. She had already mentioned how her magical ability had transformed when her pulse stopped. Since she dwelt with the undead, did she look through the veil she wore from the valley of death? He had stared death in the face and even from this side, the experience had altered him.
“Seraphina said the poison was tainted with the dark arts and that she could taste it as it stole her life. Over the last three years, we have concluded it was a merging of science and black magic. Neither would have worked in isolation. That is why we work together to try to undo what has been done.” Sir Hugh sipped the water.
How did a person recognise they needed to consume human brains? The very idea was anathema and made him shudder. Vampyres, with their need to drink human blood, didn’t seem as obscene; he imagined one sipping what appeared to be red wine from a goblet. He couldn’t think of a culinary equivalent for an Afflicted except for sitting down to a meal of tripe and onions, even if Unwin and Alder labelled their product pickled cauliflower.
“When did their appetites emerge?” he asked.
Blunt fingernails tapped the side of the tumbler in Sir Hugh’s hand. “Over a per
iod of weeks we tried a number of recipes, but the women could not stomach even the lightest broth and their bodies rejected the nourishment. Their hunger grew, but we could find nothing in the kitchens to satisfy them.”
“Not many kitchens stock brains,” Sir Manly pointed out.
“Did they deteriorate without sustenance?” The Afflicted needed to consume on a regular basis to keep the rot at bay. He had augmented his knowledge of the Afflicted thanks to his conversations with Miss Miles.
“Yes. After three weeks, I noticed the discolouration in the extremities. Their complexions took on the grey, dull appearance of the dead. They smelt of the decay nibbling at their bodies. Soldiers pressed cloths to their own faces as the odour grew and spread from our tent. Whispers grew, calling the women undead, for while they had no pulse they walked among us. I began referring to them as the Afflicted, to alleviate some of the men’s fears. The general thought it made their condition sound more medical than ungodly.”
Wycliff agreed with the common soldiers—they were ungodly. A few believed it so vehemently that they had taken to protesting outside Parliament, demanding the undead be expunged from the earth. A position that wasn’t well received when those women were closely allied to men in power. “Did all three women exhibit the same symptoms?”
“In Lady Tennent and Mrs Edgar, the rot ate their fingers, toes, and noses first. In Seraphina, it advanced up her legs at an accelerated rate. Possibly it affected her differently, since she is a mage and the others ordinary. As the flesh and muscles of her lower legs turned putrid, she begged me to remove the limbs.” Sir Hugh halted his narrative and rose from his seat. He paced for a moment or two in front of the fireplace. Then he stopped and stared at the fire burning in the grate, one hand curled on the mantel. “I was a damned fine field surgeon. I have lost count of how many amputations I have performed and of the lives I have saved. But it is another thing entirely to remove your wife’s limbs. She steadied my hand upon the saw when I would have faltered.”
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