A Scandal in Battersea Page 19

  The dim light faded, and shadows closed in around them. The vines seemed to reach out toward them, and Amelia gasped with fear.

  That’s enough. Neville!

  There was a rush of enormous wings. Amelia screamed as something as big as a house swooped down out of the sky and a claw closed around her waist, another around Nan’s. Before Amelia could do more than cry out, the gigantic raven thundered into the sky, aiming for a single bright light above them, which grew, and grew, and grew, until they flew into it and—

  Nan opened her eyes to find Amelia clutching the hand that had been held against her cheek.

  “I told you Neville would get us out,” she said, matter-of-factly.

  Amelia smiled weakly at her. “You did,” she said softly.

  “I think some warm milk with honey in it is in order,” Nan replied, making an effort to sound calm and ordinary. “Will you be all right if I leave Neville with you?”

  “Oh yes,” came the heartening answer. “I do think he is my hero tonight!”

  Neville pulled himself up and preened. “Thank you, pretty,” he said, looking immensely pleased with himself.

  Nan padded down to the kitchen in her wrapper and slippers, made some warm milk with honey and a touch of cinnamon, and brought up two glasses full—plus some sugarplums for Neville. He had certainly earned them. She returned to Amelia’s room to find the girl with her arms full of purring raven, his head down against her chest as she gently scratched the back of his neck. She smiled a little as one eyebrow rose. “I brought the milk, and a treat for you, my pirate,” she said, as Neville looked up, his eyes half-closed in pleasure.

  She handed one of the glasses of milk to Amelia and put the saucer of sugarplums on the floor for Neville, who hopped down off the bed and proceeded to stuff himself.

  Amelia sipped the milk, color coming back into her pale face. Nan sat at the foot of her bed and picked up a shawl draped over the footboard to hand to her. She wrapped it around her shoulders with one hand.

  “I think we should talk about what we saw while it’s still fresh in our minds,” Nan said calmly.

  Amelia looked very much as if she would really rather not do anything of the sort, but nodded. “This felt like . . . now,” she said. “Like the visions I had of those murders, as if it was happening right now.”

  “I had the same impression. Did you recognize the area?” Nan asked.

  “Only that it was the same area as the other vision. It didn’t look like any place I’ve been before—well, except that it looks like a lot of places in London.” Amelia sipped her milk with both hands wrapped around the glass like a child. “I didn’t recognize the girl.”

  “I didn’t think you would.” Nan privately thought the girl had looked to be about the same class as the soulless creature Doctor Watson had had her examine. Was that significant?

  “I think the plants were alive,” Amelia said into the silence. “I mean, I think they were thinking, in a way. They hadn’t noticed us at first, but when we got to that house, they had started to.”

  “I think whatever was in that house made the ground open up under that girl, and dragged her back inside,” Nan replied, thoughtfully. Amelia shuddered, but nodded.

  “I could feel that. I could feel it wanting to eat her.” Amelia started to shake.

  “I think we both got the same impressions,” Nan replied, as Neville hopped back up on the bed and cuddled up to her, poking his head under her arm so she could put it around him. “And I think that is about all that is useful that we are going to decide tonight. Would you like me to stay here until you sleep?”

  “Yes, please.” Amelia drained the glass and gave it to Nan, hugged Neville, and slid back down under the covers. “But I don’t think I’m going to be able to . . .”

  Neville snuggled up next to her in the crook of her arm, laying his head along her shoulder. And Nan gave Amelia’s mind a little, gentle push . . .

  And her eyes fluttered closed, and in moments, she was asleep.

  “Excellent. I am glad to see that trick works on her. You want to stay with her until we’re sure she’s not going to be pulled into another vision?” Nan asked Neville, who turned his head slightly to look at her with one bright, black eye.

  “Yisss,” the raven breathed, barely opening his beak.

  Knowing Neville was now “on duty,” and would wake her if she was needed, Nan got up, put both glasses on the bedside table, and sought her own bed.

  But not to sleep. At least, not yet.

  She closed her eyes and pored through her own memories, trying to find something in the landscape she might be able to identify precisely. If she could find something she could recognize later, she should be able to identify which borough of the real London the one in the vision corresponded to. She wasn’t entirely sure why she was doing this, except that she had the vague feeling that if she could identify the place in the real world, they might find something there giving it a physical link to the world of the visions.

  And if they could do that, they might be able to find out just what was happening to those poor girls.

  Because she had the other, much stronger feeling that Robin had correctly identified the place in the visions as another world, one that paralleled the one she knew, and one that, somehow, was affecting people in the world she knew. This was not some horrific future . . . at least, it was not yet some horrific future.

  One step at a time, she told herself.

  But she wanted very much to ask Robin about this. And the Watsons. Both of them had spoken of other worlds. Both of them might be able to tell her if her feeling had any basis in reality.

  So, chilling and horrific as it was, she kept working at the vision until exhaustion caught up with her, and eventually she fell asleep, and as far as she was aware, there was nothing in her dreams but the usual muddle of mismatched images she always had.

  Fortunately, Amelia, too, slept undisturbed through the night.

  Now that Sahib had turned over his import business to the management of a younger protégé—a former military man himself, with a knack for business and an eye for the sort of ornaments likely to be popular with the middle and monied classes alike—he had become an instructor at the school himself. As a result, he and Memsa’b took it in turns to eat meals with the students, in order to keep at least a semblance of decorum at mealtime. And it was Memsa’b’s turn this morning. So this morning Nan and Sarah and the birds were having breakfast with him, instead of his wife. He listened with interest to Nan’s detailed recitation of Amelia’s vision last night.

  “Well . . .” he said, when she had finished. “I prefer to keep unpleasantness until after eating, but this telegram arrived this morning for us.” He reached into the breast pocket of his coat, pulled out a folded piece of paper, and read the contents aloud. “‘Second girl found Battersea. Coming afternoon. Watson.’ So, given what you saw last night, it seems that your impression that this was happening in the present was absolutely correct, Nan. And your initial conclusion, that Amelia’s visions had a concrete reflection of reality rather than a symbolic one, was also true. However, I do not think we should jump to the conclusion that the girls are being pulled into this world of the vision. I think it more likely that the vision reflects the horrific effects that something from that world is having on them in the real world. I would suggest a convocation in the greenhouse this afternoon.”

  “So you also think we should summon Robin,” Sarah stated. “I agree. This has to concern him, if something from another world is reaching into this one.”

  Nan kept her own opinions to herself, although Sahib’s idea was probably more likely than hers. That ruined London—well it could reflect the last thoughts of the victims as their souls were being torn from their bodies.

  Which begged the question, of course . . . if that was true, what did this thing want wit
h souls in the first place?

  “I will confess I cannot imagine what possible use Memsa’b and I will be,” he added, “But I think we should be there, if only to have another set of brains to work on the problem.”

  “We’ll go talk to Roan and have him take a message to Robin,” said Nan, pushing away from the breakfast table. Then she paused. “I would like one other thing on the agenda for this convocation. Whether or not we should continue to use Amelia like this. It seems . . . unfair.”

  “In that case, I think we should include Amelia in the discussion,” Sahib replied. “As has been rightly pointed out, she is more than old enough to make her own decisions about when and how her abilities are to be used.”

  With a nod of agreement, Nan and Sarah left the breakfast room and went down to the workshop, which was just off the stable. Roan was nowhere in sight, but they didn’t expect him to be. He seemed to have a much more “traditional” view of how a hob should behave than Durwin did.

  The signs of Roan’s presence were quite pronounced however. The workshop was a hundred times tidier than it had ever been when Nan and Sarah had been at the school. Every tool was in its proper place. Paintbrushes were cleaned and neatly arranged. Paint cans were tightly capped and arrayed according to color. There was an actual painting station, an area with its own workbench away from where all the sawdust was. Instead of half-mended toys being distributed haphazardly about, there were toys in a logical progression of repair, with repainting being the last of the stages. The air was full of scents: the sharp, oily smell of paint and lacquer, the pleasant smell of sawdust, the tang of drying glue. One of the rocking horses that they had last seen in sorry shape, mane and tail gone, paint chipped and faded, one of the rockers splitting, now stood on the workbench in splendor. It had a brand-new horsehair mane and tail of shining, silky black and a real leather saddle, bridle, and reins. Both rockers were sound, and it was in the very last stages of painting, lacking only the fine details of the eyes, nose, ears, and hooves. In fact, to Nan’s eyes, the grand chestnut steed would have looked finished, and she only knew Roan was going to add details because of the array of small paint cans and fine brushes beside it on the workbench.

  “This is amazing,” Sarah said, echoing her thoughts. “The craftsmanship is. . . .”

  “Spectacular,” Nan finished for her. “I hope there is time enough this morning with all this work going on to let Robin know that we urgently need to meet him in the greenhouse around teatime.” If Roan was going to keep to the traditional ways of his people, she would certainly do him the courtesy of the same and pretend he didn’t exist.

  She waited for an acknowledgement—not sure what she was waiting for—when a bell behind her rang twice. Or at least, it sounded like a bell. She had not seen any bells at all in the workshop.

  “I’ll take that as a yes,” said Sarah. Nan nodded, and the two of them left the workshop so that Roan could get on with both his work and carrying their message to the Great Elemental that called himself Robin Goodfellow.

  The Watsons arrived a little after luncheon—to Nan’s surprise, they appeared on the doorstep in a coach, a small one suitable for two or three, with Alderscroft’s crest painted discreetly on the door. This coach was a good bit more old-fashioned than Alderscroft’s usual coach, and nowhere near as ostentatious. She ran out to meet them as the coachman opened the door for them.

  “Where on earth did that come from?” she asked. “I mean, other than from Lord A?”

  “Apparently his Lordship has more than one vehicle, as I should have known all along,” Mary Watson replied as John handed her out. “His servants at the Hall use this one, along with the estate wagon, several carts, and for all I know, a traveling coach. He’s given us the loan of this one for the duration, since it has mostly been used only for conveying the butler, housekeeper, and his valet to church on Sundays, and ordered us to telegraph if we need the larger one.”

  “What does Holmes think of all this?” Nan asked, as they brought the Watsons to Sahib’s study, “And do you need luncheon?”

  “He’s utterly intrigued, and yes, please,” John replied, seating Mary first, before taking a spot himself. “I’ve prevailed on Dr. Huntley at Hampstead Heath Hospital to take in the first girl, even though her family cannot possibly afford his services. I pointed out that having two such patients doubled our chances of finding a cure.” He smiled thinly. “I will not pretend that I did not exert the gentle threat of Sherlock paying a visit, then followed it with the inducement of Lord Alderscroft being interested in the case.”

  Mary gave him an admonishing look. “I think he was persuaded without that, dear. Underneath it, Dr. Huntley is a good doctor and he saw the advantages of having two such girls there. After all, this means he can try different treatments on them at the same time.”

  Nan held her peace; she had a very good idea which of the two girls was going to get the “benefit” of the more drastic treatments. Which would possibly have made a moral difference, had there been anything like a human spirit in either of them. As it was . . .

  As it is he might just as well be experimenting on a pair of sausages.

  Selim himself arrived at just that moment with a tray. He had begun to open his mouth, probably to apologize for the scant luncheon, when Watson forestalled him. “Ah Selim, excellent, thank you. How thoughtful of you! A couple of plates of curry are exactly what we need after that cold drive. You must share Memsa’b’s mind reading talents!”

  “Not at all, Doctor, I am glad the selection pleases you,” Selim replied, with great dignity. He left the tray on a small table between the Watsons, and took his usual spot, standing behind Sahib’s desk.

  The man himself arrived a moment later with his wife. When everyone was settled, John Watson began the full story, interrupted only by spoonfuls of curry and rice or sips of good hot tea.

  “This girl was found very near where the other was, by the local constabulary again. Having had one girl wandering witlessly about already, they immediately took her to a hospital instead of the police station—although,” he added a little sourly, “I imagine the fact that she was dressed expensively and extremely well didn’t hurt. And they sent around to the rest of London to see if there was a missing girl matching her description. There was. Cynthia Denniston, a niece of Lord Denniston, had been missing since a group led by Lord Denniston’s oldest daughter went on a visit to the Grosvenor Gallery. She was last seen in the company of a well-dressed young man, whose name the other girls did not remember, but they thought he made money in some manufacturing trade. Lord Denniston was quite adamant that Cynthia would never have gone off with a stranger of any sort, much less a strange man. The girls were adamant that no man, especially not one as good-looking as this one had been, would ever be interested in Cynthia.”

  “But that’s a couple of assumptions that don’t hold up, if we assume this man wanted her for—for whatever occult purpose is leading to these girls ending up as prey,” Sarah pointed out. “He could have overpowered her, after all.”

  “And yet, the guards at the Gallery and the various coachmen and cabmen waiting outside are absolutely certain that no man of any description carried off a girl who was struggling, or fainting, or anything suggesting foul play.” Watson held up his hand, as Memsa’b looked about to speak. “Yes, Memsa’b, I know you are about to point out that someone with your talents could easily overpower the girl’s mind and get her to go with him. Someone with the more mundane ability at mesmerism could do the same—as could virtually any Master and many magicians. This is merely information so we can eliminate outright abduction-by-force.”

  “Of course,” Memsa’b replied. “Do continue, Doctor.”

  “Naturally I said nothing of this to the police, nor to Lord Denniston.” He shrugged. “It’s really of no use to suggest anything in the way of the mystical to the police, it would only make them think I’d taken
leave of my senses.”

  “Did Dr. Hunter call on you again?” Sarah asked.

  “No, actually,” John told her. “It was Sherlock who brought me in this time, and Sherlock who was brought on the case first, instead of the other way around. Denniston sent for him as soon as he learned the girl had been found, and I came with him. Sherlock suggested mesmerism, which . . . honestly, is not out of the question, and the police did not disagree with that notion, which is broad-minded of them.” He made a face. “Then again, Lord Denniston jumped on the notion like a cat on a fat mouse, and the police are eager to please him.”

  “So we are looking for a Svengali?” Memsa’b hazarded.

  “One who is also some manner of magician,” Watson reminded her, and frowned. “To return to the narrative, none of the cabmen remembered driving away with a girl and a young man, so he would have had to walk or come by private coach.”

  “You said Sherlock has some notion—one that does not correspond to the girls’ fate as soulless husks,” Nan prompted him.

  “Well . . . that is not entirely true. Sherlock’s theory actually might explain their condition,” Watson admitted. “He mentioned something called zombies. Haitian sorcerers are supposed to create them out of the dead. Of course, Sherlock scorns the notion that they are actually reanimated corpses. Holmes posits that those sorcerers actually poison their prey ahead of time and ‘resurrect’ the corpse after it’s buried. Their behavior, which he believes is caused by severe brain damage due to the poison, is alleged to be very like that of the girls we have in custody—nearly mindless, they will do exactly what they are told to do until they are told to stop. They can’t perform complicated tasks, but simple ones, like plowing, fetching water and wood, simple cleaning tasks, they can. And whether Holmes is wrong and the sorcerer actually makes a corpse rise, or whether he is right and the sorcerer administers a drug that essentially wipes the mind blank—perhaps even stops the heart for a time—the process would give us something that is virtually identical to these girls.” He put his plate aside and drank the last of his tea. “To be honest . . . I think he might be on to something.”