Chapter 30
Chapter
Although Lord Rosemorran had kindly made over to us the use of his carriage—when not wanted by a member of the family—as a perquisite of our employment, I did not stop at the mews on my flight from Bishop’s Folly.
If horses were already harnessed, it meant the carriage was wanted, and if they were not, it would take far too long to arrange.
Instead, after returning to Lady Rose long enough to instruct her firmly to send J.
J. and Mornaday after me the second they appeared at Bishop’s Folly, I charged through the door in the garden wall and onto the pavement, throwing a hand into the air as I issued a piercing whistle.
Instantly, a hansom drew to the kerb, and the wheels had not yet ceased to turn before I hurtled inside, shouting directions to the cabman.
I promised him an exorbitant sum for the fastest possible trip to Swain’s Lane, and as he sprang the horses, I was flung against the seat.
I grabbed at the strap and held on for dear life, having recourse to use it to keep my balance more than once.
I dared not look at my watch, but I felt the seconds tick past with every beat of the pulse in my throat.
Stoker and I had faced danger before. In the course of our endeavours, he had been variously shot, stabbed, punched, drowned, immolated, and poisoned.
(In the interest of accuracy, I must admit that not all of these assaults were received at the hands of villains.
At least one had been inflicted by his brother Tiberius, and I myself had been responsible for two of them.) And prior to our meeting, he had been attacked and nearly killed by a particularly nasty jaguar in the Amazonian jungles.
(His response to this—which I share now in case an unfortunate reader should find themselves in a similar position—was to slowly force his fisted hand past the fangs of the beast and down into its gullet, effectively smothering it.
This takes a good deal of strength and considerable time, so do not attempt if you are in a hurry is my advice.) But Stoker had survived each of these precarities thanks to his own robust constitution and some unexpectedly good luck.
It had long been my fear that one day his luck would run out.
Such were my unhappy thoughts as I was hurtled through the darkening streets of London.
The hour was late and not many folk were yet abroad, a piece of good fortune as our way was less impeded than it might have been.
Still, there were too many stops and delays for my liking—including a particularly vexing interlude where we were forced to halt for more than a quarter of an hour while an overturned milk cart was righted.
By the time we swung into Swain’s Lane, my nerves were slightly taut, I will admit.
I had been clasping my hands together, and as I scooped coins out of my pocket for the driver, I saw that my nails had left bloody little half-moon indentions in the flesh of my palm.
This would not do. If I were to rescue Stoker, I would require all of my faculties about me.
I took a deep draught of aguardiente, grateful for the rasping burn of it from throat to stomach.
I replaced the flask under my skirt and surveyed the situation.
The tall gates were shut and locked, it being a few minutes after sunset, and I saw no means of illumination.
Beyond the gates, all was shifting darkness, shadows that parted and moved and came together again, endlessly forming and re-forming in some malignant blackness that seemed to whisper and murmur although no breeze moved the air.
There was no help for it. I should have to scale the barrier. I chose a spot deep in shadow to conceal my presence from any passersby, put my booted foot between two rails of the iron fence, and began to climb.
At once, a soft sigh moved through the trees.
“There are no such things as ghosts,” I muttered as I turned my attention once more to the fence.
It was higher than expected and with few proper footholds, but by wedging my feet tightly apart and exerting considerable effort with my shoulders and arms, I was able to inch my way up the bars.
At the top, I swung one leg over, settling neatly between two of the high spikes that ran in a forbidding row along the length of the fence.
It had doubtless been put there to serve as deterrent as much as embellishment, for there was no simple way to descend from its height with those tall iron teeth ready to carve into one’s flesh—a point brought home to me when my skirt snagged on one as I prepared to lower myself down.
I had managed perhaps two feet of my descent on the inside of the fence when my movements were sharply—and somewhat painfully—arrested.
The sudden stop caused me to lose my grip, and I slipped from the fence, swinging gently out into the air.
I looked up to find my skirt tightly wrapped about a spike, the fabric all that stood between my person and a fall of some greater height than I would have chosen.
The moon had risen by then, shedding a fitful silver light onto the scene, casting long, eerie shadows.
“There are no such things as ghosts,” I repeated—more in hopes I might come to believe it than in any real conviction.
A scientist must keep an open mind about such things, I have always maintained.
But being able to firmly discount phantoms as existing solely in the realm of fantasy would have been a consolation as the soft wind moaned woefully in my ears and the shrubberies sighed in despair.
It occurred to me that it might have been prudent to wait for some sort of support in my mission.
Mornaday would have been the obvious choice, but even J.
J. might have proven herself useful under these particular circumstances.
I swayed back and forth a few times, much like an aged cheese in the window of an Italian grocer, as I considered my options.
I had not yet settled on a course of action when the situation was taken out of my hands.
In short, the fabric of my skirt gave up its valiant effort and parted with an audible rip.
Luckily, it did so slowly enough that I was lowered with a series of awkward jerks towards the mossy ground beneath.
The last bit of ruffle might have held, but I shifted my weight, and this too tore, dropping me neatly onto Mr. Bevan Strangeways, or at least onto what was left of him.
His grave was newish, I realised, for grass had not yet covered the mound of dirt, and it was something of a morass of mud into which I had fallen face down.
The gravestone, clearly installed quite recently, was sharply incised with his dates of birth and death.
“1801 to 1889. A very good innings, sir,” I said, saluting him as I rose from his place of repose and wiped the worst of the mud from my eyes.
My efforts to tidy myself were in vain. Mud caked my clothes, and I could feel a mask of it hardening upon my face.
My hair had come loose from its pins through my exertions, leaving it in a tangled snarl liberally coated in more mud.
My skirt was beyond repair, the back of it completely open, so I removed it altogether, grateful for the fact that I had worn trousers underneath, even if they were a little too inclined to cling to my form with indecent tenacity.
I dropped the skirt onto Mr. Strangeways and began to pick my way through the cemetery, heading towards the spot where we had found the remnants of whatever unholy rites Asphodel had performed.
I dared not light a vesta, so I was dependent upon the moon’s capricious light.
Sometimes it provided welcome shadows, concealing me as I moved.
At others, it left me thoroughly exposed.
It seemed a hundred eyes watched my progress through the cemetery, and more than once I stopped to take my bearings.
It was during one of these pauses that I first heard it—a sound barely louder than the susurration of the wind in the treetops but with a curious rhythm, a chanting of sorts.
“Voices,” I murmured. But what were they saying?
I could not make it out, but I was encouraged by the fact that the presence of other people meant Lady Rose’s intelligence was correct.
It was only at that moment that I realised the significance of the date, a slender scrap of information I had unearthed in my researches.
It was the thirtieth of April, the feast of Saint Walpurga.
It was, amongst Germanic peoples, the most important night of the year for witches—the night when they mounted their brooms and flew away to commune with the devil himself.
I skirted the Circle of Lebanon, eased my way down the Egyptian Avenue, and emerged behind a handy bit of concealing shrubbery.
The chanting was louder here, but still unintelligible.
I kept to the shadows of the bushes, working around the area Asphodel had chosen for her ceremony.
I looked about more than once, hoping to spy a caretaker or guard I might despatch to go for help, but there was no one.
We had already surmised that Asphodel and Ruthven would need to bribe the cemetery staff to conduct their little gatherings, and this was proof of it.
As I drew near, I could see the glow of the torches, and the sound of the chants rose, loud enough to send owls and nightjars scattering.