“What of the other five? The ones who could not control their appetites?” Hannah counted metal doors. There were five on one side of the corridor and only three on the other. What lurked behind each one?
Her father’s expression became serious, his eyebrows pulled slightly down and toward one another. “They are not as peaceful to observe. They are dangerous, Hannah.”
“I’m ready, Father. I would know the full extent of what we seek to cure.”
Sir Hugh gestured to Fallon, the guard. He unlocked a small steel door by his table. From inside he withdrew a glass preserving jar. From a nearby shelf he retrieved five wooden bowls. With a pair of tongs, he extracted a slice of matter from the jar and placed one in each bowl.
When the jar was locked away again, he stacked the bowls one on top of another and passed them to Sir Hugh. Next, he unlocked the door at the end of the hallway.
Screams escaped and washed over Hannah.
“Stay to the right of the room, my dear. Do not step within arm’s reach, for they will lunge for you,” her father warned over the shrieks and cries.
Hannah hugged the notebook tighter and followed her father and the soldier inside. The next room was more bleak prison block than quiet monastery cell. A short corridor ran along the front of five small cells, and a wooden bench was placed against the far wall. Stone walls kept the prisoners apart and stout iron bars separated them from those who cared for them.
The cries rose to an angry pitch. Bars rattled as fingers curled around the iron. The sharp tang of rot assaulted Hannah’s nose.
“They have not mummified.” She peered around her father at the occupant of the first cell. In life, he had been a tall man. In death, he was a nightmare made real.
Rot consumed his soft tissue, but it fell in droplets on the ground around him. Liquified internal organs oozed down his side from a gash in his skin. His skin tore in random spots across his body. A split in his cheek revealed the action of his tongue as it wagged against his teeth.
When he spotted Hannah, he jumped to the bars and stuck an arm through as far as he could, swiping and clawing at her.
Sir Hugh moved Hannah to the extreme right and well beyond their reach. “These Afflicted each receive their daily sliver. However, we have observed that the ration that keeps all the other Afflicted in a stable condition is insufficient for these five and they continue to decay. I hypothesise that hunger is linked to the cycle of decay and healing. They cannot control their hunger—likewise, the rot is uncontrolled.”
An idea flared into life. There was a clue in how, for these Afflicted, their constant appetite was linked to the more rapid decay. She just needed to puzzle out why. Hannah wrestled her senses under control. The ear-piercing screams, the suffocating smell, and the visual horror assaulted her in every way, but she stood her ground. “The others seemed so peaceful. By comparison, this is…horrific. Imagine if they shuffled down the Strand. People would panic.”
“Not only from their appearance. They would dash open the skulls of the living and tear out their brains while their hearts still beat, and we know the tragic effect of that.”
Those secondary creatures were additionally cursed: the lack of brains made them shambling monsters intent on death. When identified, those deceased were cremated and their ashes interred in lead boxes and buried before they could be reanimated.
Hannah drew in her notebook, to capture the misery and horror caged before her. “The actions of our murderer are similar to these Afflicted. Yet the person responsible cannot have such a terrifying countenance. Such an Afflicted would be easily discovered.”
Sir Hugh patted the bowls in his arms. “Remember, these five are fed the same diet that is sufficient to maintain the others who retain their places in society. If these five ate an entire brain every few days, it is entirely possible they would look just like anyone else. Perhaps even with a flush of health to their skin.”
Conversation was difficult over the screams and cries. Instead, Hannah wrote notes to follow up with her father later, in the peace of the carriage. What was it about these five that made a sliver a day insufficient to maintain them? Could it be as simple as a deficit of character, an innate weakness that made them more susceptible to gluttony?
Fallon picked up what appeared to be a type of shovel, the end being flat and square. Sir Hugh placed a bowl on the end and then the soldier slid the shovel and bowl under the bars. The Afflicted fell upon the bowl. The process was repeated at each cell. The shouts and screams were replaced by soft murmurs, sighs, and then a slurping noise as the prisoners licked their bowls clean.
“More,” one said, and thrust the bowl back through the bars.
The chant of more was taken up by the others, as they all held out their bowls. Requests turned pleading and then angry. The single word was screamed at Hannah and the others. She pressed herself against the brick wall as she sat on the bench to continue her drawing. Hannah quickly sketched the closest Afflicted, arm stretched through the bars as he waved the bowl and screamed for his hunger to be sated.
Even as she drew, his body sought to heal. Rips in skin stuck themselves back together. His flesh evened out and the constant seep of foul-smelling liquid stopped.
Her father took a seat next to her.
“Have you tried feeding them more? If nothing else, it would keep the rot at bay.” Hannah added bars to her drawing, keeping the monster safely contained.
“We did try in the beginning. Like opium addicts, we found they required an ever-increasing amount simply to sustain the same level of repair. At one point they were being fed an entire brain a week, and yet they still decayed at an accelerated rate.”
“Fascinating,” Hannah murmured. The curse did not progress the same way in every victim. If they could determine why, it might aid their search for a cure.
She couldn’t help but think of the calm that wrapped itself around Lady Jessope and her fellow disciples. Their self-denial resulted in the curse mummifying their bodies and keeping them conscious. In the other five, their gluttony resulted in their bodies dripping with rot while an insatiable hunger demanded more. It was as though the beliefs of the sufferer dictated the course of the affliction.
Before her were the only male Afflicted, three men raging and screaming at the bars holding them captive. Her mother said that Sir Ewan Shaw had been shot by a French officer they suspected to be Afflicted. From his description, the Frenchman had not been a shambling nightmare like these men. What if there were other men who were Afflicted, but who had not succumbed like the ones before her?
Was it possible that the murderer Viscount Wycliff sought was a man, able to move through society without any knowing of his deceased state? A male Afflicted could hide among members of society as the Frenchman moved among his fellow troops, and only his larger appetite would give him away.
20
Wycliff stood on the corner and waited for a phaeton and pair to clatter past. As one day turned into another, his investigation into the murdered cloakroom attendant made little progress. He had spent two days ratting around in the man’s life and hadn’t found anyone with so much as a harsh thing to say about him.
A young boy next to him clutched an armload of scandal sheets. The lad waved one at Wycliff. “Read all about it, sir. Gruesome murderer on the loose!”
Wycliff shook his head as he carried on his way home. Lady Miles had set free a greater rumour to counteract the murder during the Loburn ball, but two gruesome murders couldn’t be ignored. The last thing they needed was publicity about the Afflicted’s habits that would panic the population. No Londoner would feel safe if they thought a well-bred lady were circling behind them with a canapé fork in hand.
He had proposed to Sir Manly Powers that all the Afflicted be rounded up and kept in a secure location until their culprit revealed herself by her actions. That had not been well received, even though it would protect the ordinary people of London. Yet again, those with power and influence dicta
ted the course of events.
His hands curled into fists. He would discover the murderer and then perhaps those higher up would finally see reason. Nobles should be treated no differently than the common born. Wealth and position should never be used as a shield with which to escape justice.
Today, Wycliff headed to the home of Lord Albright. While Albright might not have direct knowledge of the murderer, it was a noteworthy coincidence that two murders had occurred at events he attended. There was a slender chance the man could help Wycliff better understand any potential motives of his previous wife. Finding a motive for the murders might then reveal the person responsible.
Albright was not at home, but his butler directed Wycliff to a local mews, where his lordship was inspecting a new purchase. Wycliff approached the stables with a lighter step. He had managed to keep hold of his horse. He should have sold the mare to pay down his father’s debt with a blacklegs at the racetrack, but couldn’t part with his sensitive and responsive mount. Life had taken so much from him already that he clung to the quiet joy found in riding the horse.
Horses had a soothing presence and the rhythm of their breathing made him take deep, steadying breaths. They were much like dogs and didn’t care a whit for a man’s title or pocketbook. They judged a man on his actions and how he treated them.
The mews bustled with activity as some horses were ridden out, and others were mucked out. A row stood waiting to be shod by the brawny smith working in an open yard. The ring of metal hitting cobbles mingled with equine snorts and soft human conversation.
Wycliff held out a hand to a dark bay tied to a rail, patiently waiting to be shod. The gelding snuffled at his glove and nibbled the leather. He scratched the horse’s neck as he peered into the wide breezeway, looking for Lord Albright. He found him running his hand over a leggy grey mare.
Albright was in his fifties and cut a trim figure. Probably to draw attention away from the fact that his hair had vanished like grass during a drought. When he bent over to examine the horse’s hoof, the light played over his bald head. His face was defined by sharp cheekbones and a narrow jaw, with small lips that made him look perpetually annoyed.
As Wycliff walked into the stable, he inhaled the sweet aroma of hay and horse. Why didn’t women use such scents to attract a man, instead of cloying perfumes that assaulted the nostrils with all the subtlety of a cavalry charge?
“You have a handsome creature there, Albright.” Miss Miles was uppermost in his mind and to appease her memory, he tried a more relaxed approach rather than thrusting in with a direct question.
Albright looked up and grunted. “She should be, for the amount she cost. Saddle her up, I’ll take her out myself today.” He gestured to the waiting groom and slapped the mare on the rump. “If you think I know anything about these murders, you are mistaken.”
Wycliff watched the horse led away and resisted the urge to sigh like a deprived child. “Actually, I wanted to discuss your wife.”
The man’s upper lip pulled back in a sneer. “I assume you mean my former and now deceased wife.” The reminder of his previous wife evoked a physical response in Albright. Invective flowed into his mouth and flew past his lips as spittle when he spoke.
“Indeed.” Wycliff moved out of spitting range and leaned on a stall door. “Did you converse with her at either the Loburn ball or The Harriers?”
The man’s eyes widened and he inhaled sharply. “Felicity is dead. I don’t converse with her at all and I am kept much occupied by my lovely present wife and children, all of whom possess a pulse. To address your question, I did see her at Loburn’s with that ridiculous black veil, but I had no idea she was at The Harriers.”
Wycliff waited while a stable boy wheeled a cart of manure along the aisle. “She told me she wished to talk to you, but went no farther than the entrance. Do you think your former wife capable of murderous intent?”
Albright snorted. “Highly improbable. The woman was like tepid porridge while alive—bland and easily forgotten. I never once heard her raise her voice or saw her display any passion for life.”
A description that dovetailed with Miss Miles’s assessment of the late Lady Albright. Although Miss Miles had worded it more delicately. “Then what matter do you think she wants to pursue with you?”
The groom returned with the saddled horse and Albright ran a hand under the girth. “I have no idea. She is none of my concern any longer.”
The man dropped his responsibilities with remarkable ease. Wycliff wasn’t so sure he could turn his back on someone who had once shared his bed and home. Even the dead needed somewhere to rest their bones and someone to safeguard their eternal sleep. “No concern at all? You married her and vowed to honour and cherish her.”
“My vows were until death us did part. Felicity died. What was I supposed to do, share my home with a corpse?” Albright’s eyes narrowed and the flow of spittle increased with his agitation. The horse danced sideways and the groom at her head tightened his grip on the reins.
Wycliff thought that was exactly what some did. A woman’s lack of pulse didn’t preclude her from contributing to daily family life. He only had to consider the guest list for the Loburn ball to see that a number of the Afflicted had been included in the celebration, despite their deceased status.
“If I might enquire, how did you become aware of the late Lady Albright’s condition?” Wycliff pitched his voice low, as though he spoke to the nervous horse. He didn’t want Albright bolting before he dug a little deeper. The voice in the back of his head said this was a thread worth chasing.
“I assume she bought herself one of those jars of fancy face powder, trying to look younger. Then she sickened and died, much like many other women. Felicity’s cousin insisted I delay the funeral to allow distant relatives from the countryside time to reach London. I said I didn’t want her body at my house, and so she was laid out at her cousin’s.”
From the rumours Wycliff had heard, the new wife had been secured and moved in before the old was even cold. All of London knew his new wife had delivered a healthy full-term heir just four months after the hasty wedding.
There would have been quite the scene if the two wives had met in the parlour when one was resurrected. Chaos had resulted in homes around London as mourners saw the deceased apparently revive before them. A miracle that, over the passage of weeks, revealed itself as being instead a nightmarish curse. “So the late Lady Albright regained consciousness at her cousin’s?”
Albright’s hand tightened into a fist around his riding crop as he waited for a lad to lengthen the stirrups. “Yes. I should have kept a tighter grip on events. Then I could have ensured she was properly buried and not free to haunt my waking moments.”
Wycliff wasn’t entirely sure he understood the other man’s meaning. “You would have buried her after her revival?”
Albright glanced toward the grooms and then leaned in close to Wycliff. “Do you think I would have been the only man to inter a troublesome wife who didn’t have the dignity to go quietly to death? I was just bloody unlucky that others saw her sit up. Otherwise she would have been dispatched to her grave to leave the living in peace.”
Wycliff’s stomach clenched. Albright’s words exactly reflected Wycliff’s own views and thoughts on the matter of the Afflicted. Yet to hear his innermost thoughts voiced by another man made them seem…wrong. The dead deserved to rest. What peace would there be for women forced into coffins and buried in the ground while they screamed and clawed at the unyielding wood? Perhaps Miss Miles was right to argue that they be allowed to exist undisturbed…so long as they obeyed English law and didn’t dine on the servants.
Wycliff recalled a soft patch of lawn with Hannah Miles at her mother’s feet while the two women chatted as though one were not a rotting piece of flesh. The young woman spoke with respect of her mother and treated the Afflicted as though they were any other breathing person. Had he been wrong all along, and a person actually retained their sou
l beyond death?
Albright nodded to the groom, who laced his hands and provided a stirrup to lift him into the saddle. He gathered up the reins and then flicked out the tails of his jacket.
Wycliff stepped back. “You have been most helpful, Albright. If you do recollect anything about your former wife that might be of assistance, do pass it along to me.”
Albright nodded and put heel to the mare, trotting out of the mews and along the road.
Wycliff left in a thoughtful mood. His beliefs had been challenged by hearing them from another’s lips and as he walked, he re-examined his interactions with the Afflicted women.
As he neared his rented home, he considered his options. If Lord Albright didn’t think his former wife capable of murder, that left two viable suspects—Emma Knightley and Gabriella Ridlington. But how to flush the right prey from the undergrowth where they hid from him?
As he approached his front door, a man on the pavement hailed him. He vaguely recognised him as being one of the Bow Street Runners who investigated the everyday crimes that plagued the streets of London.
“My lord, the magistrate sent me to tell you about a stiff we pulled out of the river the other week.” He took off his cloth cap and clenched it between his fingers.
Ah. Finally his request for any information about similar murders in London had yielded an answer. “Was the body missing its brain?”
The man nodded, then glanced around and waited for a couple to pass before continuing. “Head was bashed in and the skull was empty. He’d been in the Thames for a few days before we pulled him out and we just assumed fish had been at him. They tend to nibble on bodies thrown in the water.”
Fish were a distinct possibility. But so was an Afflicted with an appetite to satisfy. “When was this?”
The man screwed up his face as he thought. “Three weeks ago?”
That would make three such deaths within the space of three weeks, assuming the same hand had emptied all three skulls. Excitement built inside him. This could be the pivotal piece of information he needed. “And where did you fish him out?”
Manners and Monsters, #1 Page 18