The Undying Legion Page 10

  Her expression continued to hold a look of stunned shock, like a startled deer caught in the rush of Penny’s infernal motorized contraption with its single blazing lamp.

  “Jane.” Her voice was barely above a whisper. “Jane Somerset.”

  “My pleasure, Miss Somerset.” Malcolm examined the red scorches on his hands and forearms.

  Jane’s attention turned to the cadaver that was burned and blackened. It began to collapse into a shapeless pile. “That looked like Mrs. Higgensbottom, but that can’t be.” Jane stared back at him in confusion, and then offered, “She was the cook here for sixteen years till she died a year ago. That’s when I volunteered to help.” She clutched her hands together and wrung them fretfully. “But I recognized that dress. We buried her in it.” She went dreadfully pale and whispered, “There were … were … maggots.”

  Malcolm was worried she’d faint. He tried to attract her gaze away from the sizzling thing on the floor. “Miss Somerset, that flash of light, it seemed almost like lightning.”

  Jane glanced at him quickly but remained silent.

  “Did you see it?” he asked.

  “No.” Her retort was too quick and too quiet.

  Malcolm took her hand firmly in his and examined it. She gasped at his boldness but didn’t pull away. There wasn’t a mark on her skin despite the fact that he had seen arcs of lightning envelop her hands completely. “It seemed to come from you.”

  “No!” She jerked her hand from his, and said in a desperate quivering voice, “I’ll ask you please not to talk about it, Mr. MacFarlane, if you are a gentleman, sir. I beg of you.”

  Malcolm studied her plain face and her darting eyes. She gave off a sense of almost breathless desperation. He could see fear in her face, but not just fear. Near panic. However, there was something else in her too. It was shame, a terror of having some secret exposed.

  He rose to his feet and helped Jane to hers. He moved across the kitchen, stepping over the smoldering corpse, and retrieved his pistol from the floor. He then went with Jane out into the dark dining room, where the stink of death mixed with the acrid tang of electricity was a bit softer. He pulled a chair for her to sit. She perched on the edge of the seat with her hands clenched in her lap. Her head was down and her shoulders slumped under some unspoken burden.

  Malcolm knelt in front of her, keeping several feet between them to prevent her from feeling improperly crowded by a man. “Miss Somerset, whatever that lightning was, it’s clearly nothing you need fear.”

  “I’m not afraid, Mr. MacFarlane.” She didn’t raise her head. “The Lord will guide me. Please, sir, I asked you not to speak of it further.”

  He began to reload his pistols out of habit. “I don’t pretend to speak to your faith or beliefs, lass, but I spent many a long hour inside a good Presbyterian meeting house in my youth. I have a healthy fear of our Lord. And I can say without hesitation that your ability saved our lives.”

  Jane looked at him with a hint of gratitude and penitence shining in her eyes. “I would like to think so.”

  “I’d say it was a miracle.” He snapped the Lancaster’s breech shut.

  “Most would think otherwise.”

  “Then they are damned idiots.”

  Her eyes widened with scandalous shock, but then she smiled ever so slightly as if bemused by his vulgar ways.

  He slipped the pistol back into his holster. “There are names for such that wield lightning. They’re called elementalists.”

  Jane stiffened. “Elementa …?”

  “Elementalists. Those who conjure fire, air, water, earth, or lightning.”

  “Only the Lord may command nature.” She shuddered as if expecting a bolt of lightning to strike her from above. “Sorcery is an abomination before God.”

  “Well, I don’t know about that, Miss Somerset, but I’ll grant you it can be a great pain in the ass.”

  Jane edged farther away from him. “Are you an … elementalist?”

  “Jesus no.”

  “Don’t blaspheme. Why were you here tonight?” Jane coughed to clear her throat against the disturbing odors in the room.

  “I came to see you, I suppose.” Malcolm stood and reached out to Jane. “Although I am surprised to see you here at this hour.”

  “I often can’t sleep and come here to work.” She stared at his hand. “Why did you want to see me?”

  “Because last time I was here, you were generous to me for no reason other than you are a good person.” He touched the woolen scarf around his neck. “You gave me this, and I credit it a great kindness.”

  Jane took his hand and rose, shaking her head. “I’ve had many say they feel a sense of spiritual warmth coming from my little tokens. I’m grateful to be able to do that for others.”

  He gathered her bundles of blankets and flour. “Let’s go outside where the air is cleaner.”

  She obediently walked with him out into the street, where she breathed deep of the relatively fresh London breeze, clearing her senses of the filth of the dead. The glow of the rising sun lightened the horizon. She started walking down the brick lane with the man quietly at her side.

  After a moment, Jane regarded him. “I can’t imagine what would have happened if you had not been there.”

  “I imagine everything would have happened exactly as it did. My guns did little.”

  Jane was quiet again, but then asked, “Why was she here?”

  “Seeking someplace familiar most likely.”

  “No, I mean how.” Her face held fear again. “The dead only rise at the end of time.”

  “Regardless of what the Bible says, the dead do rise, but they don’t rise by themselves. It’s black magic.”

  “Do you mean the Devil?”

  “I mean a devil, sure. But likely not Ole Scratch. There’s plenty bad to worry about before we get to Lucifer himself. Where is she buried? Where was she buried?”

  “St. George’s Bloomsbury. She lived on the edge of that parish.” Jane paled until she looked like a wraith herself under the stringent streetlamp’s glow. She put a hand to her mouth in alarm. “That’s where that murder was a few nights ago. The same night you came.”

  “Aye. I went there but couldn’t prevent it.”

  Jane stopped walking, her face slack, her head filled with thoughts she obviously hadn’t expected to contend with this night. She stood at an unimposing door on a street that was once fine but was now in decline.

  “Is this home?” Malcolm asked.

  “I live here with my father.” Jane suddenly gave a dispirited groan and put a hand to her forehead. “What am I thinking? I have to go back. I must clean the place before the reverend comes in at noon. He mustn’t see that.”

  She started to trudge back the way they had come, but Malcolm put a hand lightly on her arm. “Miss Somerset, I will go back and clean the kitchen.”

  “That’s hardly a man’s duty.”

  Malcolm laughed loudly, throwing his head back with guffaws. Dogs started barking in the distance.

  Jane held up embarrassed hands. “Please, Mr. MacFarlane, lower your voice. I shouldn’t be talking unaccompanied to a stranger at this hour. Or any hour.”

  He clamped a hand over his mouth and muttered through his fingers, “Sorry. I will make things right at the soup kitchen. Have no fears. I’ve been a bachelor long enough to have some homely skills. No one will know anything out of the ordinary happened.”

  “I was supposed to make the bread.” It was such a trivial thing to worry about in light of what happened, and from her exasperated tone Jane knew it.

  “Make it here at home,” he told her. “You can find some excuse.”

  Jane paused nervously. She made ready to speak but thought better of it. Malcolm didn’t question her.

  Finally, she blurted out, “Won’t you come inside? My father is awake. He rarely sleeps. I should like to give you breakfast, or at least something for your goodness.”

  “I don’t want to distur
b him.”

  She opened the door and turned back with an eager smile. “On the contrary, he would enjoy another man’s company for a change, I’m sure.”

  Malcolm entered the trim little home, instantly feeling the weight of his guns in the domestic setting. The furnishings were sparse yet pristine and the interior was meticulously kept. An older woman of a rotund size hurried into view, flustered and harried, in a dressing gown wrapped around a nightdress. She looked surprised to see the mistress of the house, then flummoxed at the sight of the dark-haired man. “Miss Jane!”

  “It’s all right, Mrs. Cummings. A pot of tea, please. We’ll have it here in the parlor.”

  “Yes, Miss.” Mrs. Cummings curtsied. She stared at Malcolm with a glint of approval, then darted back where she had come from, most likely the kitchen.

  Jane led Malcolm into a small room lined with bookcases. The tables were covered with lamps and vases and bric-a-brac. It was as if the pieces of a life once used to a larger home were now crammed into this little abode. She settled herself on the sofa and gestured Malcolm toward a high-backed chair that would suit his large frame. He mindfully pulled it near the open door to spare Jane any embarrassment of being alone in a room with a man.

  Malcolm regarded her slender figure as he took his seat. She folded her hands in her lap, her long fingers interlacing. She looked weary. Beneath her steel-rimmed spectacles he could see dark circles under her eyes. He didn’t see any other servants about so he wondered if Mrs. Cummings was the extent of the staff.

  They sat in uncomfortable silence for a time until the tea arrived. Mrs. Cummings bustled about for a few minutes, pouring the beverage and distributing the cups until Jane thanked and dismissed her with, “Please tell Father we have a guest.”

  The two of them quietly sipped tea. Malcolm handled the dainty cup and saucer awkwardly. At first, Jane seemed to relish hers as if this were the first time she had had a moment of peace, but soon she placed the cup on the side table and regarded Malcolm a bit fretfully.

  “Would you like me to leave?” Malcolm asked.

  “No! I would never turn aside someone who is seeking something.”

  “What am I seeking?” His lips curved into a gentle grin. He drained his tea before it turned cold. “Salvation?”

  “Do you mock me, sir?” Her eyes went wide as she stiffened with indignation.

  Malcolm set his cup down a bit loudly. “My apologies, lass. My manners aren’t parlor fit. Too many nights spent on the road, or off it.”

  Her voice spoke quietly, her affront passing like a sudden storm. “Do you believe your soul is in danger, Mr. MacFarlane?”

  “I expect sometimes it is.”

  “I wish to know what it is you do exactly, Mr. MacFarlane, to hear it plain rather than couched in metaphors. I have had time to think on what occurred at the kitchen. As much as I would wish it wasn’t real, I know it was. Men like you seem to face these things while I wear rose-colored glasses and take shelter here in this house.”

  Perceptive again, Malcolm noted, and smiled to ease her fears. “Miss Somerset. Your glasses are not rosy, nor do you hide. There are many in need. You’ve placed yourself in the very heart of their battlefield. I admire and respect that.”

  She bowed her head gratefully. “Thank you.”

  “But you can do much more.”

  “How so, Mr. MacFarlane?”

  “Because of your ability to wield lightning.”

  Color fled her cheeks. She glanced around nervously, afraid someone in the household would hear. Malcolm cursed himself for speaking so openly.

  “My apologies again, lass. I should be more cautious.”

  Jane toyed with a loose thread. “Mrs. Cummings is hard of hearing. I doubt she could hear a storm outside her door.”

  “Your father then?”

  She nodded.

  “Is he a God-fearing man?”

  “No, but he should be. However, it is too late for that now. He lives within a world of his own making. There are days he does not recognize even me. So it’s best he not know certain things. He would not mean to do it, but I cannot be sure he wouldn’t reveal something to the authorities.”

  “I’m sorry,” Malcolm offered, “for your difficulties.”

  She fidgeted with her dress in silence.

  “You do realize that you are extraordinary. You wield great power, lass, and there are people who will recognize this power and seek you out.”

  “As you are doing,” she told him, lifting her chin to stare directly at him. “I will give them the same answer I give you.”

  “Some may not accept it. The risk that you will serve their rivals would be too dangerous for them to bear.” Malcolm could see he was getting his point across.

  She was trembling, but then she surprised him again. “If I am that powerful, why should I fear them? Perhaps they should fear me.”

  He grinned at her spirit. “You could use your special abilities to help people.”

  Jane pursed her lips and shook her head with uncertainty. “I don’t know if it’s wise to use something so dark, even in a good cause.”

  “A wise man shouldn’t refuse to help others in any way he can.” Malcolm sat quietly as his own point struck home.

  “I thank you for your concern, Mr. MacFarlane. I shall think on what you’ve said.”

  There was a sound behind him and Malcolm turned to see an elderly gentleman enter the room. He wore a suit of clothes, but his feet were shod in slippers and an ancient nightcap rested on his head. His eyes held confusion, knowing something was out of place in the house but unable to recognize it.

  The old man asked Malcolm, “Are you a lamplighter or a bill collector? Who else would be about so early?”

  “Good morning, sir.” Malcolm bowed. “I’m neither.”

  Jane approached her father’s side. “May I present Mr. MacFarlane. He is a gentleman and a servant of the needy.”

  Mr. Somerset relaxed and shook hands with Malcolm. “Then you are most welcome in this house.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Malcolm replied. “Join us. We were just discussing”—Jane’s eyes flashed fearfully— “the state of London’s poetry scene.”

  She exhaled a sigh of relief and guided her father as he stepped toward a comfortable chair set between them.

  The old man announced, “There was a poem about willow trees in last week’s paper. I found it quite nice. I think a poem should be about something like a tree or a dog or a battle. Seems like so many new poems are just words laid across a page.”

  Jane sat down demurely and smiled at Malcolm, grateful for his tact.

  Mr. Somerset’s eyes clouded once more, uncertain of the memory, but then just nodded. “Ah, yes. Are you an author, sir?”

  “I can’t make that claim,” answered Malcolm.

  “I detect a burr. I’d say Glasgow, but there’s some Edinburgh too.”

  “Raised not far from Glasgow. And I attended university in Edinburgh. Your ear is good.”

  “Scotsman.” Mr. Somerset laced his fingers over his misbuttoned vest. “I don’t hold that against you, son.”

  Malcolm found the comment amusing coming from the old man. “Thank you, sir.”

  “Are you gainfully employed?”

  “I am my own man.”

  “Splendid. I think all enterprising young men should make their mark in the world.” He patted Jane’s hand, and told her, “John here is a wonderful choice for a husband.”

  “This isn’t John, father,” Jane said with gentle patience. “John died at sea last year. Remember? This gentleman is named Malcolm. Malcolm MacFarlane.”

  “MacFarlane?” Mr. Somerset stared in confusion at Jane. “Surely Captain Perry should be home by now.”

  Malcolm glanced at Jane with admiration for her calm demeanor and kind disposition. Her worried expression regarded him, but then she nodded slowly turning back to her father.

  Her slim hand gestured to their guest. “But this is Mr. M
alcolm MacFarlane. He walked me home from the kitchen and was visiting to discuss matters of faith and charity.”

  “Ahh, a pleasure to meet you, Mr. MacFarlane.” Mr. Somerset rose unsteadily and shook hands with Malcolm again.

  Malcolm nodded at the old man, not disrupted by the man’s confusion. “Thank you for your kindness. Your daughter is a devoted humanitarian.”

  “Indeed,” exclaimed Mr. Somerset before Jane could respond. “A toast! Jane, fetch the sherry!”

  “Father, really. Your condition.”

  “Nonsense. A glass with you, Captain Perry.”

  Jane shook her head in exasperation, but then obeyed because protesting further would do no good. She poured the amber liquid into three small glasses and distributed them. Her father lifted his glass in a prost enthusiastically. Malcolm lifted his to Jane, whose cheeks were flushed with embarrassment.

  Chapter 11

  Simon stood in front of a map of London tacked over the ornithological wallpaper in the library at Hartley Hall. It was marked with four yellow spots corresponding to churches designed by Nicholas Hawksmoor. Two of the four yellow dots were marked with a black X.

  “The Sacred Heart Murders,” Simon announced, and tapped the two X’s with his walking stick. “St. George’s Bloomsbury and Christ Church Spitalfields. Both the sites of horrific sacrificial murders.” Then he pointed to the two yellow dots. “St. George in the East and St. Mary Woolnoth. Two other churches designed by Nicholas Hawksmoor where we found the same four names of the so-called zoas from William Blake’s poetry, as well as signs of Pendragon’s inscriptions using Egyptian symbols.”

  Kate sat with Penny on a sofa across the room, where they studied a folder of information provided by Sir Henry Clatterburgh as well as various other slips of paper and correspondence associated with the murders. She spoke up. “Speaking of which, tomorrow we are scheduled to visit the British Museum. The records of the Office of Works are housed with the King’s Library, and they contain many of Hawksmoor’s papers. And we will speak with my friend, Thomas Clover, who is a curator of Egyptian materials, and ask him about the hieroglyphs.”