Of Monsters and Madness (12 page)

“Leave this on for three days,” I instruct her. “Then
we shall change it. I’m sure everything will be just fine, but you must continue to rest your finger as much as possible. I’ll look at it again once the skin has fully closed.”

“I will. Thank you, miss.”

She looks relieved, and I put the remainder of the salve into a pot so that it may be used again another day. Since there are still several hours until tea with Father, I retire to my room to look through
The Anatomy of Humane Bodies
and study the section on the makeup of the hand and finger. With a wound as deep as Johanna’s, there could be permanent damage to the muscle. I want to be sure there is not more I should be doing. Eventually, Maddy brings me a lunch tray, but I am lost in my studies and eat very little.

When three o’clock finally draws near, I put my book aside and hurry to the looking glass propped up on the desk to see if I am presentable. My eyes are wide, and spread too far apart for my liking. A slight ring of amber circles the dark brown irises. No amount of wishing will change their color from the dull brown of a muddy river to a deep chocolate like the mahogany sheen of my desk, but I still hope for it anyway. Wisps of loose tendrils stray from the curls that Maddy set
this morning, and I carefully smooth them back into place. “Hopefully, Father’s good mood will prevail and he shall find no fault in you,” I whisper to my reflection.

I’m pulled out of my contemplations as the hallway clock chimes three. Touching my scarf for reassurance, I straighten the edges of my cuffs and hurry downstairs. Cook is waiting outside the sitting room with a tea tray.

“May I carry that in?” I ask.

She looks taken back. “It’s my job, miss.”

“My hands are feeling restless and I would be ever so grateful to have something to occupy them. My nerves are getting the better of me.”

“You’ll do just fine, miss,” she reassures me. “But if it will make you feel better …?”

“It will.”

With a cheerful smile, she hands me the tray, and I carry it carefully inside the room. Two wingback chairs are sitting next to a small table, and I set the tray down between them. Long minutes pass as I wait for Father. When the door finally opens, I stand to give him a curtsy. He doesn’t seem to notice as he comes to take a seat beside me.

“How was your morning, Father?” I ask, trying to calm the butterflies in my stomach.

“It was rather busy.”

I intend to pour us some tea, but he does not wait, filling his own cup and adding two cubes of sugar. He does not pour a cup of tea for me. After a moment of waiting for him to offer, I pour some for myself and gesture toward the tray. “I met with the butcher at the market to buy the mincemeat pies as you suggested.”

He picks one up and takes a bite. Then he puts the other on a small plate and holds it out to me. “They are quite fresh.”

I have no idea what a fresh mincemeat pie should taste like, but the flavor is moist and rich. A cross between a meat pie and spiced cake. Desperate to not lose his attention, I say, “The market was quite lovely. I saw so many beautiful things. Although I learned of the untimely death of one of your acquaintances; you have my condolences.”

As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I can hear Mrs. Tusk’s voice in my head, scolding me.
A proper young woman does not speak of such things
.

He looks up sharply. “Who told you this? What did you hear?”

“I only know that a murder occurred at the marketplace last night.”

“Yet you also know who the victim was. You say I knew him?”

“Yes.” My voice is a whisper.

“Well? Who was it?”

“Mr. Durham.”

“And how is it you were made aware that he was an acquaintance of mine?”

I shift uncomfortably in my seat and pick at the edge of my pie. I do not wish to see Maddy get in trouble for what she has said. “I heard of it in passing,” I say slowly. “And then Maddy told me—”

“I see. So it was nothing more than idle gossip.”

“Oh, no, Father. Truly, we were not gossiping about such things. She told me so that I might offer my condolences to you.”

“I was not aware that the staff cared so much for my feelings,” he says drily. “Rest assured, though, Mr. Durham was no friend of mine. He stole something very dear to me. If this was to be his comeuppance, then so be it. Perhaps he should not have been engaged in whatever activity it was that caused him to be murdered.” Pulling out his pocket watch,
Father glances at it. “I need to return to my work now. I have wasted too much valuable time already.”

He gets to his feet and walks out of the room without even a second glance. His tea has not been touched.

Stunned by his words, I drink the rest of my own tea in silence. No one, no matter what they have done, deserves to come to such an end. That Father can be so callous toward Mr. Durham’s death chills me to my very soul.

I dream that night of Father looming over a faceless body in the dark. I try to scream for help, but no sound escapes my lips. He mumbles about comeuppance and punishments fitting crimes as he paces back and forth, but I am trapped, cornered. I cannot scream for help. My corset laces grow tighter and tighter, choking the very air from my lungs, until my vision goes dark and I collapse. Then I hear Edgar’s words in my head: “Sleep well, Annabel.”

When I wake, the room is as dark as pitch. There is no moon overhead and the fire has gone out. A loud crack of thunder splits the air and shakes the house. I
sit upright, clutching my scarf tightly around my neck.

Gradually, I become aware of a scratching sound coming from the window. I tilt my head toward it to listen more closely.
Something is out there
. Fumbling with the covers, I pull them back and feel my way over to the window ledge. The sound has grown more urgent. I press my face against the glass. My eyes begin to adjust to the darkness.

And then I realize I’m staring into a beady, black eye.

I scream and stumble backward. Feathers explode in a quick beating of wings, and a large black bird taps against the glass. It’s a raven.

A sense of unease comes over me. In Siam, seeing a raven was considered a bad sign. A portent of secrets being kept. He cocks his head to one side and ruffles his feathers, staring at me. He taps again, and the sound echoes loudly in the quiet space. I bang on the glass to try to make him leave. “Go.
Shoo
. You are not welcome here.”

But he merely turns his head to look at me once more.

“What is it?” I whisper. I stare back at him and he hops to one side. I follow his movements and see a
light down below. Two figures are in the courtyard. The lantern they hold dips and wavers as they struggle with a large bag they’re carrying. They move closer to the kitchen door, and the light disappears as they enter the house.

I wait for the light to reappear, but it does not.

My thoughts turn to dark things. Who would be down there? Was it Father again? Does this have anything to do with Mrs. Tusk?

I know Grand-père said not to wander, but my curiosity is too great. I light a candle and creep slowly downstairs. Holding my breath, I push the door to the kitchen open just a hair. The room appears much like the other night. Dough is rising, freshly scoured pots are drying on the worktable, and nothing has been disturbed.

But the door to the courtyard is standing open.

Hastily, I move toward it, remembering only moments before I step outside to extinguish my light. Allowing my eyes a minute to adjust to the darkness surrounding me, I find it’s surprisingly easy to make out the shapes of the animal bushes, and the bench where Maddy and I had our picnic.

I crouch next to one of the lions and wait for the
lantern light to appear again. It does not take long until the pitch of low voices draws my attention to the doorway leading beyond the courtyard.

“Don’t drop it now,” someone says. “He pays to have ’em delivered near perfect as possible. We don’t want no bruises.”

I cannot place the voice.

“Aw, you try liftin’ the side with the head then. It’s easy for you to say. You don’t have to keep thinkin’ it’s going to wake up an’ start looking at you!”

“Quit blabbering. I didn’t bring you on to talk my ear off.”

I strain in the darkness to see the faces of the two men crossing the courtyard. Another large burlap sack is held between them. The lantern wavers, and I cannot see clearly.

“Don’t know why he can’t just get it himself,” the unhappy man grumbles. “It’s not hard to find a cemetery unguarded. He just doesn’t want to get his hands dirty, an’ leaves—”

A dull thud echoes the man’s words and he grunts in pain. “Blasted bench! I walked right into it. My leg’s goin’ to be black as rotten horse meat tomorrow.”

“That’s what you get for blatherin’ on. Now quit yer
complaining. One more word outta you, an’ I’m keeping yer cut.”

The man falls silent and they carry their delivery into the house. I wait for several long moments until they reappear at the kitchen door. Money is quickly exchanged, and then they both set off across the courtyard again. One of them limping slightly.

It isn’t until I hear the courtyard door shutting and a key scraping against the lock, that I finally get to my feet. Thankfully, they did not lock the kitchen door behind them. It opens easily and I pad softly back inside.

I step into the room and take another look around. Then I hear something faint. I hold very still, and the noise comes again. It sounds like it’s coming from beneath me. I move slowly toward the fireplace, closer to where the sound seems to originate, and I see a small door there. A door I’ve never noticed before.

A key hangs on a nail in the wall beside the mantel. I lift it free. The metal is cold and smooth, and I wrap my fingers around it, steeling myself for what I’m about to do. Carefully inserting the key into the lock, I turn it as quietly as I can. Every muscle in my body has tightened and my hand shakes when I place it upon
the doorknob. I take a deep breath and try to steady my nerves, and just as I’m about to turn the knob—

Someone grabs hold of me.

I whirl around, drawing in a breath to scream. But it’s only Cook. She’s clutching a white shawl around her shoulders, and her hair is loose.

“That’s no place fer you, miss. The whole house knows we do not go down below. The men that visit the Master at night are not the kind you’d be wise to keep company with.” She tries to pull me away from the door.

“What’s down there? I heard noises …” I do not tell her what I’ve witnessed in the courtyard.

She shudders. “Master’s lab’tory.”

“A laboratory?” I turn back to the door, but Cook pulls me away from it. “He’s a scientist?”

“A doctor. Or at least he used to be.”

She ushers me toward the stairs, and my thoughts are churning. “I don’t understand.”

“Rumor has it he lost his license because of strange experiments he did.” She makes the sign of the holy cross. “Unnatural things,” she whispers.

“A doctor? I can hardly believe it. Father seemed so uninterested when I looked at Johanna’s finger.”

“Ha!” Cook scoffs. “Don’t let that act fool you. He’s as int’rested as they come. Always reading those strange books, he is.”

We reach my bedroom and she gently pushes me inside. As if regretting what she’s already told me, she says, “Never you mind about it now. I shouldn’t’ve said even as much as I did. Good night, miss.”

“But, Cook, surely you can tell me more—”

She shakes her head. “It’s not my place.”

But before she goes, she glances back for a moment. “Don’t go downstairs at night, Miss Annabel,” she says softly. “An’ please … Don’t open that door.”

Eleven