At nearly three in the morning the household was awakened by the loud banging on the front door. Hannah jerked upright in her bed. The luminous hands on the mantel clock (courtesy of an enchantment by her mother) told her the early hour. Her mind raced ahead of her body. Late night or early morning callers usually meant her father was needed urgently. Before the war, soldiers used to turn up to escort her mother somewhere for the clandestine use of magic, but none sought her abilities since she had passed to the other side.
Hannah grabbed a robe and tied its belt as she hurried down the stairs in the dark. At the bottom, she took a moment to light a lantern while her father’s heavier tread followed. She held the light high as her father opened the door.
A man in dark clothing stood on their doorstep. He angled his chin down to keep the light from his eyes. Beyond the porch, drizzle fell. “There’s been a murder, sir—an employee of a gentleman’s club. You are required most urgently by Viscount Wycliff.”
Hannah shared a glance with her father.
Another one, she mouthed. For why else would Wycliff be involved?
“Give me ten minutes to dress,” Sir Hugh said.
Hannah held up a hand to the man. “Fifteen minutes for Sir Hugh and his assistant to dress and to fetch what they require for the examination.”
Her father huffed and stared at Hannah. “Very well, fifteen minutes to rouse my assistant and collect my things. Off you go, Hannah.”
The man rubbed chilled hands together. “The carriage is waiting at the end of the path. Lord Wycliff has secured the scene until you arrive, sir, but please make haste.”
Sir Hugh shut the door while Hannah raced up the stairs, one hand on the railing to ensure she didn’t miss a step. Upstairs in her bedroom, she tapped a large glass mushroom on her dresser. The object was ensorcelled and awoke on Hannah’s command. The mushroom’s cap glowed a soft yellow and threw out enough light to dress by.
Next, she grabbed a folded shirt and pair of trousers from a chest. She glanced at the clock as she disrobed and redressed. Ten minutes had ticked by when she pulled on worn boots and tied the laces.
Back down the stairs she hurried, tucking her hair up under a cloth cap as she went. In the parlour they kept her father’s bag with an array of instruments he might need if called out at short notice. Hannah had the bag in hand and was waiting as the clock struck the quarter hour.
Sir Hugh’s heavy steps reached the bottom of the stairs just as the clock fell silent. “Let us see what awaits us, my boy.”
He winked and led the way out the door and down the front path to the waiting conveyance. The driver nodded and they were barely seated when he gave the horses the command to trot on. They journeyed in near dark, the countryside enveloped in an inky blanket. The moon was only a tiny sliver in the sky and up front, the driver relied on the two lanterns on the carriage and the horses’ ability to follow the road.
“Another one in less than a week, Papa. What do you think it means?” Hannah whispered the words, even though they were alone, as though she feared that the dark might reply. One nightmare scenario played out in her head—a murderous Afflicted on a feeding frenzy and creating secondary Afflicted in her wake.
Sir Hugh clutched his bag on his knee. “We can only speculate. It could be growing desperation and an out-of-control craving, or perhaps a need to heal damage? It might even be an illegal trade in brains for those Afflicted who cannot afford Unwin and Alder’s prices.”
“If such were the case, they would be paying footpads to snatch people from darkened streets, not dining on a marquess’s footman or an employee of a gentleman’s club.” She stared out the window and spoke to the starless sky.
The previous crime had been brutal in its execution—the man’s head stove in with a paperweight. What would they find when they arrived at their destination tonight? She suspected an equally hasty murder and a missing brain. And Viscount Wycliff stalking the Afflicted in attendance at the event like a fox rounding up chickens.
The carriage drew closer to the bustle of London, heading straight down Oxford Street. Even in the wee hours of the morning there was still activity. Night soil was collected and coal delivered under cover of darkness. Members of the ton were still out playing and they would then sleep away the day in a lifestyle perfect for any vampyres among them. Women of the night plied their trade, ignoring the light rain as they hoped to earn sufficient coin to feed themselves and their children.
The carriage turned left into Tottenham Court Road and then stopped about halfway along. The driver opened the door and gestured toward a red brick building that seemed as high as it was wide. “Lord Wycliff awaits you inside, sir.”
Hannah glanced around, wondering what sort of establishment he had summoned them to. She stayed close to the bulk of her father as they approached the entry doors. Two enormous men glared at them and she huddled closer to the doctor.
“Sir Hugh Miles,” he said to the men guarding the front doors. “Lord Wycliff sent for me.”
The men exchanged looks, then one gestured for them to enter and closed the door again behind them. Inside was an entrance hall with a wooden floor and a large painting of a bird on one wall.
“The Harriers,” her father said.
For a gentleman’s club, the air was permeated with a sharp tang of sweat and blood that made Hannah wrinkle her nose. Double doors to the next room were propped open and they peeped in the doorway. Beyond was a large, mostly empty room. Two men had buckets and mops and were swabbing the floor.
“Whatever went on in here?” she asked her father.
He pointed to the roped-off square covered in blood and spittle. “Bare-knuckle boxing. Quite popular in some circles.”
Hannah shuddered. How horrid. Why on earth would men pummel themselves bloody for the entertainment of others?
A door opened to the side of the entrance and the wraith appeared behind them on silent feet.
“This way, Sir Hugh.” He glanced at Hannah, then looked again with narrowed eyes.
She tugged the peak of her cap down lower. Usually no one paid any attention to Sir Hugh’s assistant and she hoped he wouldn’t denounce her in front of the few staff. While society knew that she assisted her father in his laboratory, it would never be considered seemly for a woman to attend a murder scene. Instead, Sir Hugh’s assistant attended the more gruesome call-outs.
“My lord,” she whispered and clutched her father’s bag more tightly.
He grunted. “At least no one will deny you entry to the club for being a woman with a pulse.”
She rocked back on her heels. It hardly made a woman’s heart race to be told she looked just like a young lad, even if that was the disguise she adopted for the sake of propriety.
With a lift of one corner of his lips, he dismissed Hannah and turned to her father. “Management of The Harriers are cooperating fully. We took an accounting of those present before they were allowed to leave. Although I already know the Afflicted present this evening.”
“Noblewomen were here? Surely not.” Sir Hugh glanced back to the near deserted room.
“Two were among the crowd. But let us deal with more pressing matters first.” Wycliff’s face remained impassive; no emotion flickered across his solemn countenance as he referred to the Afflicted.
They crossed to a counter. The door beyond was closed and Lord Wycliff pulled a key from his pocket. “I ensured the scene would be undisturbed and locked until you arrived.”
Her father entered the room first and Hannah followed. The unfortunate victim had met his end in the small cloakroom. His body was collapsed on a coat and his arms outstretched, as though guarding it like a broody hen with chicks. There was even a fox overlooking the scene.
The fox crossed his arms and guarded the door. “Sir Hugh, can you confirm whether this was done by the same culprit?”
“The lights, if you please, Hannah,” Sir Hugh said as he contemplated the scene before them.
While her father made a preliminary examination, Hannah opened the large bag and extracted two mirrors on folding stands. She set them up to capture the light from a nearby lantern and then angled the mirrors until a direct beam shone on the man’s head.
“Ingenious,” Wycliff murmured.
Hannah held out a hand to help her father kneel on the floor. Then she handed him a magnifying glass. Careful not to create a shadow, the doctor examined the edges of the wound.
Hannah took advantage of the silence to survey the room. Coat hooks lined three walls, and a number of overcoats and cloaks were hung, waiting for their owners. A shelf ran above the hooks and held hats. Stands held umbrellas and canes.
Moving her inspection to the floor, she saw a piece of the man’s scalp with auburn hair still intact had been tossed to the corner like the discarded top on a box containing a present. A walking cane with a solid, round brass top lay nearby, having escaped from its stand. The brass orb was discoloured with what at first glance appeared to be rust. Closer inspection revealed the red hairs clinging to the brass end.
“The murderer used the brass-topped cane,” Hannah murmured. “Did no one hear him call out?” Two brutal deaths now, and the only screaming had come from the party who had discovered the body. How did these victims remain silent while fatal blows were rained down upon them?
Dark eyes swept over her. “No. The Harriers was exceedingly loud this evening. The men were shouting at the fighters, and you could barely hear yourself think over the din. The Afflicted had locked the door behind herself when she was finished, which further delayed the discovery of the body. We assumed the attendant had taken a break.”
Sir Hugh peered at the outer edges of the wound with his magnifying glass, before turning his attention to the interior of the skull. “The brain has been removed, the same as the Loburn footman. The tweezers, please, Hannah—there is something in here that does not belong.”
She placed the long-nosed tweezers in his outstretched hand.
Sir Hugh gave the prongs an experimental tap together, then with a steady hand he reached inside the skull. Hannah angled the mirror to shine light where he directed the tweezers. At length he huffed and slowly withdrew them, a tiny, bloody sliver clutched between the pincers.
“What is it?” Wycliff asked, peering at the cream-coloured chip.
Sir Hugh held the magnifying glass over the object as he turned the tweezers in his grasp, to examine it from different angles. “I believe it is a piece of a fingernail. The murderer used their bare hands to scoop out the brain and in their haste, a piece broke off.”
Wycliff swore. “Everybody has left already. I did not think to examine their hands.”
Hannah reached into her father’s bag and found a small glass vial. She removed the stopper and he dropped the broken nail inside. “You had no way of knowing the murderer had left something behind.”
Hannah surveyed the pattern made by the blood in the room. “He fought, whereas the footman was either done in or rendered unconscious with the first blow.”
“How can you be so sure?” Wycliff turned to her.
Hannah pointed to the blood splatters that covered many of the coats and hats. “The blood trail moves, almost as though he spun around. Perhaps to confront the person who did this?”
“The murderer would have had blood upon their clothing and hands,” Sir Hugh said.
Wycliff grunted. “Many people had blood on their clothing this evening, especially those closer to the ring. The area around the fighters looks not unlike this scene.”
“There might be a clue in whose coats remain and whose are missing? The murderer might have gone and taken the bloodstains with them.” Hannah gestured to the remaining garments on hooks.
Wycliff made a growling noise in the back of his throat. “A possibility we cannot explore, since no tickets are used here. The attendant was new and an aftermage, his gift the ability to know which items belonged to whom.”
Sir Hugh turned his attention to the ball end of the cane used. “Yet again our murderer has used what they found at hand. First a paperweight, now a cane.”
“But two in one week, Papa. This is most unusual.” Hannah stared at the deceased man. He had fought against his demise. Did he perhaps scratch his killer? Hannah peered more closely at the dead man’s outstretched hands.
Wycliff tracked her with his black gaze. “Why is the frequency unusual? Are these creatures not driven by a monstrous appetite?”
Hannah swallowed a breath and took a moment to steel herself before responding. Her instinct was to snap back, but his question was not unreasonable. “The hunger is the body’s way of directing the Afflicted to what it needs to ward off the rot. But it is an appetite that is sated with a small amount of matter. This is gluttonous behaviour.”
Her father huffed. They had made extensive studies to find the lowest amount needed to sustain one of the unfortunate women. “One Afflicted requires one brain per month. A sliver a day keeps the rot away,” Sir Hugh said.
Wycliff arched a dark eyebrow at her father. Not everyone shared her father’s morbid sense of humour.
“A frugal Afflicted can make one brain last for six weeks without any ill effects. Beyond that, death seeks to claim their forms. But what we see here is an indulgence of excess for no apparent reason. To do this would not be worth their exposure, for their own continued safety.” Hannah faltered, unable to find the words to understand why one of the Afflicted would commit such a crime. If they exercised moderation, they would have no need to seek nourishment from other sources. Instead of voicing the ideas swirling in her head, she instead contemplated her hands. From which finger had the murderer lost the nail?
“There is one more possibility, Hannah. The Afflicted may be seeking to heal a wound. That might explain the frenzied attack.” Sir Hugh moved from his cramped spot on the floor and stood.
Wycliff grunted. “The attendant was an aftermage, and, I have discovered, so was Dunn, the Loburn footman. Do you think that is relevant?”
“Perhaps this Afflicted has discovered something we have not, Papa?” Hannah bit her lower lip as she tried to think through the consequences.
Hypothesise, then strategise. They had not yet studied the effect the type of brain might have, and she was grasping to find some sort of reason or logic in such a senseless crime. A wound of some significance seemed the most likely cause, especially if the lady could not afford the additional purchases from Unwin and Alder.
Her father let out a sigh and dropped the magnifying glass back into his bag. “We won’t know until we commence our study. I have some early notes about excess, from when your mother and her friends were first Afflicted and we were learning. As you can imagine, the war gave us a plentiful supply of brains no longer in use.”
“Who did you see among the revellers?” Hannah asked Wycliff, curious as to whether he had narrowed down his suspect list.
“Lady Gabriella Ridlington was here with her companion Mr Rowley, and Miss Emma Knightley with a party of friends.”
Hannah stared at him, but in her mind’s eye, she saw Emma crying over a stain on her gown.