A smile pulled on thin grey lips. “You don’t see the rotting cadaver, then? Perhaps you need spectacles, my dear. My flesh is separating from the bone around my eye sockets and there is blue putrefaction spreading across my cheeks.”
Hannah placed one hand on the arm of the bath chair. “You are my mother and I love you.”
“Exactly my point, dearest. While others would look at me and recoil in horror, you do not. Your father looks at me and sees the woman in the bloom of youth, with dewy skin and sparkling eyes, who stormed the court and demanded her full due as a mage. Ask me how I know that.” The smile broadened on her mother’s face. Hannah almost forgot that no blood pulsed through her body, as mischief gave her mother another sort of life.
“How do you know that is what he sees?” Hannah whispered.
“Because that is the reflection I see in his gaze. True beauty is in how others see you, not in a garment you wear.” Having said her piece, Seraphina pulled the veil over her dead face. “We simply need to find a man intelligent enough to see that you are beautiful on both the inside and the outside.”
“I’d rather talk about puppies. Having given it some thought, if possible I would like a spaniel with long, silky ears and a chocolate and white coat.” A dog would love unconditionally. It didn’t matter if she were short or tall, voluptuous or thin. A dog’s reflection would show her what her mother spoke of.
Seraphina tapped the end of her daughter’s nose. “You can thumb your nose at love, but it might just creep up on you one day.”
“Set a puppy behind me and it will. Now, enough talk of irrelevant things—we have work to do.”
The day progressed as Hannah worked through the names in the book. Less than one name in ten proved to be that of an aftermage. They had enough to commence their study, but it would be a very small group with no more than five. They would need to hold some aftermages’ brains in reserve if Unwin and Alder obtained fewer than ten a month.
As Hannah separated the names into groups, another part of her mind gnawed over numbers. Her father had taught her to ask the questions that nibbled in the shadows of thoughts. That often her subconscious mind had seen something that had not yet occurred to her conscious self.
Two hundred people had attended Lizzie’s ball. The ton comprised the upper ten thousand peers. Three hundred pots of face powder had been sold to nobles. Two hundred women relied on Unwin and Alder to fulfil their needs.
Her concern finally took shape and allowed her to voice it aloud. “The numbers don’t add up. Where are the missing Afflicted?”
“What do you mean, dearest?” Her mother closed the enormous genealogy tome.
Hannah had learned much on her visit to the resurrectionists. “Unwin and Alder have two hundred Afflicted as clients. We know that there were three hundred containers of face powder sold to members of the ton, of which Father has five locked up in his laboratory. That leaves us with ninety-five unaccounted for.”
Her mother drummed her fingers above the book as though she counted in the air. “There will be a number of Afflicted who do not rely upon the services of Unwin and Alder. Some people may have shared a pot. I believe there are sisters who were both infected from the same container of powder. Then there will be some containers that were never used and so no one was ever struck down. Like the container that languished on a courtesan’s dressing table.”
Even assuming some pots remained unopened and others were responsible for multiple infections, the available facts still didn’t add up. “I cannot imagine that so many would go unused when it was an expensive and sought-after luxury. Nor was a double infection commonplace.”
Her mother’s hands stilled. “Your father and I believe there are others who were buried before the extent of the contamination was known. Then, for whatever reason, they were not dug up.”
Hannah shivered as she imagined the women waking, only to find themselves imprisoned in coffins. Dead, yet still conscious and abandoned to a terrible fate by their families. How long did they fight to escape before the rot or hunger overcame them?
An idea too horrifying to contemplate wormed its way to the front of Hannah’s thoughts. What if they were dealing with an unidentified Afflicted who was feeding on Londoners? A madwoman, or madman, who could strike at any time at any one? A murderer who could not be stopped by normal means? Hannah did know where a few of the unaccounted-for Afflicted resided: in an undisclosed location her father travelled to once a week, to check on those who were interred. Knowing their numbers might allay her growing fear. “How many are held for the safety of England?”
Seraphina held up one hand and wriggled each covered digit. “Two committed murder and another three were identified as being unsafe, and removed. That gave us three men and two women who could not control their hunger and who had to be interred. Then there were another five women who could not reconcile what they had become with their religious beliefs. They have refused to allow any brain matter to pass their lips and your father closely monitors their condition.”
“Only three men infected, and they were all unable to control themselves. What does that say about us?” Ten in total and still short of the ninety-odd who were ghosts in her thoughts. Her father had always denied her requests to study them, but she would ask again, as they had much to learn. She was no delicate gentlewoman, and the more they learned the more they would have to analyse.
“We women have always been better at ignoring our needs and moderating our appetites,” Seraphina mused. “It is no easy thing to do what we must, to keep ourselves ambulatory. Each individual must decide for themselves if they can consume the brain of another. For myself, I find comfort in knowing a donor lived their allotted years on this earth and have no further use for their mind. Unwin and Alder see to it that their families receive payment for what we need and for some, that coin might save the entire family from starving and meeting a too early end.”
Hannah steeled her spine. “Then we have two extremes. Those who refuse the slivers of matter and those who cannot devour enough. Yet both types have met the same end. Father has long denied my request to study them, but I will not be protected any longer.” For too long Hannah had lived a quiet life, doing as instructed. No longer would she be blown by the winds of fate; she would navigate her own course. She tried to pierce the veil covering her mother’s face to gauge whether she would agree with her request or not.
“It would seem some of Viscount Wycliff’s rebelliousness has rubbed off on you. But I agree with you, Hannah. We have protected you and tried to shield you from the worst of life, for that is what a parent does. But you are a child no longer and deserve to be a full partner in this endeavour.” Seraphina reached out and stroked the side of Hannah’s face.
“A child no more,” Hannah murmured. What would Viscount Wycliff think of that? “But may I still have a puppy?”
19
Hannah clenched her hands around the notebook as she sat in the carriage. With her mother’s support, they had both tackled Sir Hugh over lunch and insisted that she be allowed to study the interred Afflicted. A tickle at the back of her mind wondered if there was something to be learned of their unknown murderer by studying those with no control over their impulses.
While her father assured her that none had escaped, part of her needed to confirm with her own eyes that they were all present and accounted for. With a deranged murderer on the loose, one couldn’t be too careful.
In a rare example of be careful what you wish for in action, her father announced he could take her immediately, as he had his regular rounds to do. Once she recovered from the shock of getting her own way, Hannah dashed upstairs for a bonnet and a long sage-green pelisse to protect against the cooler weather. Next she went to the library and chose a fresh notebook, tucking a pencil down the spine. She intended to make her own notes and observations to mull over later.
Nerves activated in her stomach as they drew closer to their destination. What would she find—mind
less monsters in the grip of addiction screaming for brains? Or sad, still corpses?
They did not have far to journey. The secure location was midway between Craven Hill and Westbourne Green. They turned off the dirt road and the carriage rolled under a tall, wrought-iron gate. The gatekeeper saluted to the driver as they passed and closed the gates with a clang behind them.
Goosebumps erupted along Hannah’s arms under her pelisse. They had passed through a magical barrier. She peered out the window, but nothing appeared out of the ordinary.
A short, curved driveway deposited them in front of a two-storey house that squatted into its surrounds. A cropped lawn ran from the house to a high wall that enclosed the property and gave the impression that it held tight the secrets it contained.
She glanced up at the house’s stern exterior. Thick windows in mullioned frames obscured any view inside. Apart from the man who had emerged from the gatehouse, there was no one else about. The house was enveloped in an eerie cloud that made the hairs on the back of her neck prickle. There was more than one spell at work here.
Hannah hugged the notebook closer to her chest and wished she had brought a larger one, or one with a metal cover, to make a more effective shield.
“What is this place?” she asked her father.
“It is known as the Repository of Forgotten Things,” he replied. “All you need know is that it is owned by the Home Office and used to house things best kept secret.”
A tingle made a slow journey down her spine. “I sense Mother’s touch here.”
Her father glanced sideways at her. “Seraphina has ensorcelled the bricks of both the outer walls and the house to ensure the secrets held here stay contained.”
The secrets…or the residents?
They stepped into the embrace of the front porch. The door was set back three feet and created a nook where a person could shelter from the weather while waiting to gain admittance.
Sir Hugh withdrew a key from his jacket pocket and unlocked the door.
Hannah hesitated before she followed her father in. She stared at the toe of her boot as she trod over the threshold, as though she stepped from one world to another. Her senses were on the alert for other enchantments she might encounter.
The hall was large enough for a side table, a bench, and a hat stand. Before them, stairs marched straight up to meet a landing for the second floor. The walls were encased in dark panelling and rugs of deep green were laid over the floorboards. The small dimensions of the space and dark colours made it feel as though they stood in a mossy cavern.
There were no sounds of life or occupants. The only noise was the tick of the clock standing guard against the wall. Hannah had expected the bustling activity of a military camp or a hospital. Instead, the house held the silence of a library or a church.
“This way, Hannah,” her father said as he led the way down the hall.
If Hannah strained her ears, she could catch the shuffle of feet or a muffled cough from behind closed doors they passed. Curiosity made her wish to peer through keyholes, but she had to keep pace with her father’s long stride.
At the end of the hall was a set of stairs leading downward. Lanterns attached along the wall held flames that appeared frozen in time—they gave off a constant light but never flickered with a breeze, nor did they burn down.
Sir Hugh paused at the top step, his hand on the railing. “Prepare yourself, Hannah. Some of the interred are not pleasant to observe, being in an advanced state of decay.”
“Are they not fed sufficiently to keep it at bay?” It had not occurred to her to question how they were fed. Although given the fact that two were murderers, they did not deserve any more than the equivalent of a prison ration.
He shook his head. “The Repository houses those who could not control their appetites. Even gluttony is not enough to sustain them. But you will see for yourself.”
She was no stranger to rot. Like her father, she had adopted the Afflicted cause and had seen what it did to women on the outside and the inside. “Do they remain conscious?”
“Some, yes.” He said no more, and then began the descent.
At the bottom of the stairs was another hallway. This one had metal doors, rather than wooden. The magical lights were again encased in tiny glass and metal prisons. A chill washed over Hannah’s skin beneath her gown and pelisse. The shiver of magic in use combined with the bite of a chill spring day worked through to her bones.
A man in a black uniform sat at a small table at the end of the hall. A sword hung at his side. A ring of heavy keys rested on the table, along with an open book. A rifle leaned against the wall. He stood upon seeing them.
“Afternoon, Sir Hugh,” he said.
Sir Hugh nodded in his direction. “Afternoon, Fallon. This is my daughter, Hannah. She will be assisting me from now on. Is there anything to report?”
The soldier bowed to Hannah. “Afternoon, miss. Nothing to report, sir. Let me know when you are ready to begin.”
Hannah closed her eyes and concentrated, sorting through what at first seemed a strange hum. When she placed the noise, she opened her eyes. “They’re moaning.”
“Some moan, others growl. And a few are silent despite what they endure.” Her father approached a door and drew a bolt that held a metal shutter in place. He pulled it open and peered within. Then he closed the window and waved to Fallon. “We shall start here, please.”
The soldier slung his rifle over his shoulder and picked up the keys. He selected one and unlocked the door, which opened with a ghostly whisper. The room was small at barely eight feet square. Each side had a built-in bench that could double as a bed. Hanging upside down from the ceiling was an ensorcelled mushroom like the one Hannah had in her bedroom. A soft yellow glow bathed the occupant of the cell.
The unfortunate woman lay on one of the hard benches with no blanket or pillow. Her arms were crossed over her chest, as though she were an Egyptian princess awaiting mummification. Or one who had been recently unwrapped. Her body was clad in a bleached linen shift that was far too large for her and it drooped scandalously low from one shoulder.
She was in an advanced state of decay. No flesh or muscle remained. She was bones and tendons encased in tight skin that resembled leather. Only wisps of hair clung to her scalp. She appeared dead, except her jaw moved as she whispered to herself.
“Good afternoon, Lady Jessope. I have brought my daughter, Hannah, to visit. I thought you might like a little feminine company for a change.” Sir Hugh set his black bag on the floor and picked up the desiccated corpse’s hand.
“How do you do, Lady Jessope?” The name was vaguely familiar, but Hannah had never met the woman while she lived. Hannah bobbed a small curtsey and then pulled out her notebook and pencil. She drew a sketch of the other woman, noting the tendons visible through torn skin and the position of arms and legs.
“How are you today, Lady Jessope? Do you require any sustenance?” Sir Hugh asked.
“No.” The tongue worked to push out the word, its action visible through splits in the throat.
Once he completed his examination, Sir Hugh ushered Hannah from the room and the soldier locked the door behind them.
“Did she mummify naturally, or was the process created artificially?” Hannah asked as soon as the solid door was closed.
“It occurred naturally. As you saw, the decay consumed all the soft tissue and most of the internal organs. The skin and tendons hardened until they took on the consistency of tanned hide or leather.” Her father’s eyes lit up as he described the process.
“Most of her internal organs—what remains?” Hannah digested the information and scribbled notes on the page.
“Her heart. It is just visible through a tear between her upper ribs. All the other organs followed the normal course of putrefaction, and liquified and leaked from her body. But her heart has been mummified in a way similar to that of her skin and tendons. It has been perfectly preserved and remains, like a smal
l leather ball, in her chest.”
“Why does the heart remain in this instance, and yet the maid ceased being ambulatory when hers rotted?” Hannah pondered aloud. “Granted, the Afflicted have no heartbeat, but it would seem to indicate that the organ has a vital role in their continued consciousness.”
“An excellent hypothesis, Hannah.” Sir Hugh beamed and patted her arm.
“Was Lady Jessope a voluntary interment? I cannot imagine the strength of will it would take to refuse sustenance while your flesh falls from your bones.” Hannah added a brief history to the sketch.
“Yes. We have five such Afflicted here, all very devout women.” Her father gestured to four other doors along the corridor.
“Will she be buried when she is no longer conscious?” If the heart did not beat and support the circulation of blood, then what function was it performing? Hannah recalled something of the Egyptian belief that the heart was the seat of the soul. She wrote a note next to the drawing of Lady Jessope to remind her to discuss the possibility with her mother.
The dark curse used might have had an Egyptian origin.
“Her husband has a seat in the House of Lords and requests a weekly report of her health. Unlike some nobles, Lord Jessope retains affection for his wife.” Sir Hugh gestured for the soldier to unlock the next door.
“Such a lonely existence for them.” Those with fervent beliefs expected upon their deaths to be heralded by angels and borne up to sit at the feet of God. Not to be imprisoned in a basement outside of London.
“We did try putting them in together, but they became very agitated. Each woman is calmer alone, without the visible reminder of what she has become. They spend their time in prayer. I suppose their lives are not dissimilar to those in some monastic orders.”
They visited the other four women, all in peaceful repose. One clutched a rosary between her dried fingers, her tight, shrivelled lips murmuring the Hail Mary over and over.
Manners and Monsters, #1 Page 17