by Anne Renwick
“For Anna, yes.” The clockwork horse clopped forward a few steps before he continued. “For years, I’ve attempted to strengthen her heart, hunting for novel drugs, but finding few. Atropine. Digitalis. Hawthorn. None have the desired effects. Her only hope now is locating a rumored device that will restart a stalled heart.”
Her breath caught as images of cadavers jolted with bolts of electricity sprang to mind. “Is this Dr. Farquhar a galvanist?” Such quacks were little better than the spiritualists a few decades past who had hinted at the possibility of life after death. Under the guise of medicine, some slightly less insane men sold elaborate devices while expounding upon the benefits of electricity to restore health and vigor. She’d seen men with paste-pots and handbills gluing advertisements for electrotherapy clinics to walls.
“He once trained as a cardiac electrophysiologist,” Nick said, focusing her mental ramblings. “Today? The exact direction of his work is unclear, but he might well be a galvanist focusing upon cardiac tissue. I should warn you that there’s a strong likelihood he’s experimenting upon animals.”
Animals. Most likely stray ones. But not necessarily. A hired man with a catch pole would snag any convenient animal that had the misfortune to wander past. One such as a roaming cat sìth. Worry twisted her stomach even though her mind insisted Sorcha was far too wild and resourceful to ever find herself trapped. Besides, Dr. Farquhar’s house was near The British Museum, far outside her established territory. Still…
“What do you know of heart anatomy and physiology?” Nick asked. His voice broke the grip of her concerns.
“Next to nothing.” Save he always made hers beat faster. “What—exactly—is wrong?”
“Are you aware that the heart is composed of a unique kind of muscle tissue that will spontaneously contract?”
“I am now.”
“A heartbeat initiates at the top of the heart. First two chambers known as the atria contract, then a signal spreads downward via a net of connecting fibers. When the stimulus reaches the lower two chambers, the ventricles, they contract, pumping blood into the lungs and throughout the body.”
She slid her palm upward, until she could feel the beat of his heart. “Thump-thump, thump-thump.” At her words, it leapt beneath her hand. Warmed by gratification, she smiled against his back.
“Exactly. Normally, such an electrical impulse travels through the heart at a rate of sixty to seventy times per minute.”
Nick tugged on the reins, turning the clockwork horse onto Oxford Street. The street lamps did their best, but the night was moonless and thick with fog. Those out and about moved as if anonymity was assured, as if they were no more than flitting shadows. For them it might be dark, but for Colleen’s eyes the gaslight was enough to cast everything in a faint gray light. On their left, a passing figure in leather and wool flicked a cigar stump into the street. A ruffian wearing ragged trousers slept in a doorway beside a mangy dog. A crank hack passed on their right carrying home a man wearing a top hat.
She tugged her hood forward. Better safe than sorry. “And Anna?”
“As low as forty beats per minute.” Nick paid no mind to the skulking shapes in the streets. “When we were children, it wasn’t as bad. Her heart’s rhythm was slow—only fifty beats per minute—and occasionally skipped a beat. From time to time, she might grow lightheaded or a touch dizzy but, for the most part, she was fine. After much fussing, the doctors concluded that her heart was damaged, that something blocked the rhythm from propagating to the lower chambers. But there was nothing to be done.” He took a deep breath. “Of late, it has grown much worse.”
Sympathy tugged at her chest. “How so?”
“Shortness of breath. Heart palpitations. Her hands are always cold, her fingernails blue. From time to time, she collapses without warning, twitching. To the touch, her slow pulse is seemingly absent. There’s nothing to be done save limit her exertions.”
“That’s awful! What changed?”
For a long moment, Nick fell silent, seeming to struggle with her question. “Anna was advised never to marry.”
“But she did.” Colleen remembered the announcement. And what often followed some nine months later? Love might pain the heart, though it would do no direct damage. But… “There’s a child.” One did not require a medical degree to know that childbearing—childbirth—could place a strain on the heart.
“Yes. Though the infant is fine, Anna’s condition grew worse following delivery, and she began having fainting attacks.” He blew out a sudden breath. “There’s a fifty percent chance of mortality within a year of such a seizure.”
Meaning each time she collapsed, her family could do nothing but watch and hope that this time her heart would restart. And, when it did, brace themselves for the next episode. She tightened her arms about Nick’s waist. “If we locate this device, you propose to…?” She trailed off, praying there was hope.
“Evaluate its potential,” he finished. “It’s time I set aside medications to pay more attention to the work of the electrophysiologists. Anna lives on the sharp edge of fear, preparing daily for the eventuality that the next seizure might well take her life. Imagine if there’s a way to guard against that possibility?”
Colleen attempted to digest the enormity of the situation facing his sister. She opened her mouth to ask another question, but a glow of light clouded by dense smoke caught her eye. In the distance, a rattle grew nearer and nearer. And louder and louder.
The dreadful cry of “Fire!” reached her ears at the same moment a great steam pumper fire engine roared onto the street, taking the corner on two wheels and followed closely by a fire wagon carrying coils of hose. People poured from buildings, half-dressed—some in their nightclothes—all shouting and clamoring as they thronged through the streets following the engine like a pack of hounds.
“Hold tight!” Nick shoved the lever forward, sending their clockwork horse into a gallop, weaving expertly through the swelling mob—then reining back to a sudden stop at Bloomsbury Street. In the face of the dull roar of the fire, the fire brigade worked quickly, sending arcs of water onto a blazing townhome while pickpockets threaded through the crowd taking full advantage of the commotion.
Though quiet shadows were preferable, a burning house would be a convenient distraction while they searched the laboratory. She slid from the clockwork horse, but Nick made no move to dismount. Instead, a curse fell from his lips.
No. Could it be— “Is that… 28 Bloomsbury Street?”
“It is.” Nick’s jaw tightened.
The timing was curiously suspicious. Yet they hunted a life-saving medical device, not some secret government technology pursued by biotechnological spies. Or so she’d been led to believe. Her gaze slid sideways. “Then you should interview its mistress.” She pointed to a woman who stood beside the fire wagon—conspicuously alone—with a blanket wrapped about her nightdress. No neighbors rushed to her side to offer comfort. No tears streaked down her soot-blackened face. Odd.
Lips pressed into a grim line, Nick dismounted and paid a boy to watch the clockwork horse, promising far more if they were both still present when he returned. He elbowed his way to the woman’s side. “Mrs. Farquhar?”
“Yes?” Suspicion tinged her voice, and she clutched the blanket tighter.
Columns of smoke and steam rose from the burning heap as the firemen doused the fire. Colleen stood to the side, keeping her face well-hidden in the shadows—a challenge beside this blaze—yet with her ear finely tuned to the nuances of their every word.
“I need to speak with your husband,” Nick said. “Now. Is he nearby?”
“No,” Mrs. Farquhar’s eyes sidled away. “So if you’re here to collect his findings…”
Nick stiffened. Colleen’s ears pricked.
“Don’t deny it,” the woman grumbled. “That outlandish dress of yours doesn’t fool me. You work for him. I warned the likes of you that Gregory was a bad gamble. The bastard did a runner.”
“And took his invention with him?”
The fire was nearly out, and the crowds began to disperse. The firemen, exhausted, worked quietly to stow their equipment. She squinted. Broken glass. Charred wood. Dripping, soot-blackened water. The house was now uninhabitable, but the gaps in the structure made by flames and collapsing wood made the lowest floor, sunken beneath street level, accessible. Easy enough to pass through the kitchen and reach those rooms behind it where the laboratory would be located.
“Oh, is that what we’re calling it?” Mrs. Farquhar groused. “Nasty business, all of this. Why else would he run? Either way, that rosewood box you’re after? It’s not here.”
Ice crystalized in her blood, and a shiver ran across her skin. A rosewood box. She’d bet her entire bank account that she’d had her hands on that very box just a few hours past. Dammit. A sick twist of nausea swirled in her stomach. She had lowered her standards to accept a gray assignment and look where it had led. Anna’s life dangled in peril all because—
No. This was not her fault. Colleen took a deep breath and concentrated upon the conversation.
Nick was pressing Mrs. Farquhar for more information. “Did he give you any details about the men he worked for?”
“No.” She backed away, shaking her head, all but snarling at Nick. “I’ll not fall for any tricks. This is a test, and I’ll not fail. You’ll not get anything more from me. Go away.”
It didn’t matter. She knew that the buyer—whomever he was—had arranged for one of Mr. Witherspoon’s other associates to meet with Dr. Farquhar, initiating the process by which his invention had been passed along an obfuscation chain. Which meant, quite simply, that it was—or would be—in the hands of another unscrupulous soul. Why, then, this burning of his house? Something felt wrong. Either it was part of the cover up, or someone had secrets to hide. The obvious choice, to question Mr. Witherspoon, was pointless. He would tell her nothing.
That meant they had a laboratory to investigate. Then a scientist to locate.
Chapter Seven
The firemen’s backs were turned, presenting Colleen with opportunity. A few long strides and a quick vault over an iron railing dropped her into the front service well of the house. Though it was dark, her eyes needed no more than the tiniest pinpoint of light to see clearly.
As she passed down the charred, acrid remains of the hallway, glancing into various workrooms, numerous damp, brownish-green frogs hopped about her feet, and a dozen rats with soot-streaked and matted fur scurried along the baseboard frantically seeking a way out. More than once, she’d been grateful for her knee-high boots, but never so thankful as she was now.
A heavy, half-closed iron door barred entry to a side room. There was only one reason for such security here in the basement. This must be the laboratory. She shoved at the door, forcing it to flex upon its hinges, and a panicked, lightly-singed weasel loped past her ankles seeking a path to freedom.
In the laboratory, the vile smell of chemicals and charred flesh assaulted her nose and sent her stomach roiling. Broken glass crunched beneath her feet, and something squishy shifted and slid. A mistake, looking down at the toes of her boots, for she found herself in the middle of a shallow puddle where thin, white threads twisted and curled as they died a slow death. Worms?
She grimaced and forced herself to survey the room.
Not every experimental subject had escaped. Not even close. Wire cages held blackened lumps of flesh, and glass tanks were occupied by frogs floating belly up. Bile rose to her throat, and she averted her eyes from the lifeless captives, only to find herself face to face with charred shelving and the rows of skulls it held. Small mammals, all of them, none of which she could identify, save those that were feline. Larger than that of house cats, smaller than that of a wildcat.
A frisson of dread ran down her spine. There were multiple skulls of cat sìth. Was it possible that cryptid hunters had found a landholder willing to turn a blind eye to poaching? Alarm morphed into anger.
In the center of the room stood a steel work table. Lining the walls were countertops and cabinets and yet more shelves. Or, rather, there had been. Most were charred, their contents destroyed, shattered or otherwise altered beyond recognition—save a partially collapsed, wood-framed box fitted with cracked and smudged glass panes with metal tubing that led to a low-set window. An experiment of some kind had been set up inside a fume hood and interrupted when the fire broke out.
“Colleen?” Nick called as if from a distance, searching for her, but she didn’t answer.
A faint mewl emerged from within the fume hood. One that sounded decidedly like an injured cat. Exactly as Sorcha had the night she’d returned home injured, limping with a gash across her leg. Feral animals were always a threat in the dark alleys she roamed.
She dashed across the room, swiping at the glass with her forearm, but only managing to smear the sticky residue. She pushed and rattled at the frame, forcing it to roll upward along two metal tracks. Inside were fluid-filled bottles, wires, a bucket of water, a scalpel and forceps. And a wire cage containing an exceptionally large black cat with a torn ear and a pinch of white upon its chest. Two slitted, golden eyes peered up at her.
“Sorcha!” Her voice was both a wail of grief and one of relief. Only then did she take note of the bandages wound about the cat’s legs, the shaved patches of bare skin upon her chest and shoulder. “What did that horrid man do to you?”
Crouching, the cat sìth hissed and bared her sharp teeth.
“It’s me, sweetie. Come to take you home.” First to her uncle’s, but then, yes, all the way back to northern Scotland. “You poor thing.” She tugged off a glove and reached out, giving the frightened cat sìth a moment to identify her as friend, not enemy. When they located Dr. Farquhar she’d make him answer for his mistreatments. “The moment we’re home, I’ll find you a saucer of cream.” And spoil her rotten, as a fairy cat ought to be.
The cat sniffed her fingers, then twitched, directing her gaze over Colleen’s shoulder. A low growl emanated from the cat sìth’s throat seconds before Nick pointed his decilamp at the cat’s cage.
“He’s a friend,” she crooned to the cat, comforting her by letting a little Doric slip into her words. “Nae worrie.”
“Colleen?” He stood beside her. “Is that—?”
“My familiar?”
“Sorcha.”
“Yes. And she’s badly hurt.” Her worse fears realized.
Nick pulled a second decilamp from a pocket and handed it to her. “I know your vision is excellent, but…”
She took the offered light. “It does improve things.” And it did. They’d never spoken directly about her unusual eyes or any of her other catlike skills, something they would need to address were this engagement to progress beyond its trial status. Something she’d worry about later. “I’ll need to keep her in the cage for now, until her panic subsides.”
Colleen snapped upright, remembering why they were here. She glanced about the laboratory and said, “Perhaps you can make more sense of what remains. I passed a number of fleeing frogs and rats and even a weasel.” She flicked the light across the skull-laden shelves, past the caged corpses. “Dr. Farquhar’s other victims weren’t so lucky.”
For now, dawn approached. They needed to comb through the wreckage for clues. What exactly was Dr. Farquhar about and where might he have run? Reluctantly, she turned away from Sorcha and began to poke through the wreckage.
Nick, however, moved to stand before the fume hood, examining its contents. Sorcha, quiet now, stared at him through narrowed eyes. “A bottle of chloroform, for use as an anesthetic.” He traced a length of wire from beneath the cracked window to the remnants of a large mechanical contraption, one that was minimally charred yet still unidentifiable to her eyes. “This machine bears a striking resemblance to the one in my own home, used to send a jolt of electricity to the heart.”
Colleen cringed. Both for Anna and for the poor animals�
��dead and alive—that might have endured its use.
“Disappointing. I was hoping to find evidence of something much smaller.” Nick tipped the bucket full of water. “And this was likely filled with ice.”
“Ice?” She looked up from the pile of soggy papers she’d tried to separate. Alas, not only were they glued together, but the ink had run to the point of illegibility.
“Extreme cold stops the heart.”
“He was—” Her mouth fell open in horror.
“Stopping hearts so that he might practice restarting them?” His voice grew distant. “Yes.”
Anger marched up her spine, setting her skin alight. Frogs and rats she could perhaps understand. One had to begin somewhere. But cats?
Wait.
Something about Nick’s voice sounded off. She narrowed her eyes. “What is it you’re not telling me?”
He hesitated. “Queen’s agent’s business.”
“That’s Sorcha in there. That makes it my business too.” The words emerged as a growl. “We can work together on this, or at cross purposes. Your choice.”
Nick blew out a long breath. “Fine. Dr. Farquhar’s sanity is questionable.”
Obviously. But she kept her mouth shut, waiting.
“It has been suggested that Dr. Farquhar has an interest in animal transmutation. In short, sorcery.”
Or witchcraft.
Which might explain his interest in Sorcha. In the cat sìth. Was it possible he believed the stories?
“Tell me,” Nick urged. “Even to my weak eyes, it’s as clear as day that you know something more. We are both partners and a betrothed couple. Isn’t it time to peel away all pretenses?”
She knew quite a bit more, and he was right. They couldn’t work effectively as a team if they kept details—however small—from each other. “Sorcha is no house cat.” She hesitated, uncertain how to explain the feline to an Englishman.