“Tell me,” she said, “was Lord Carlston’s wife discovered to be a Deceiver? Is that why she disappeared?”
For a moment it seemed she had not been heard. Mr. Hammond stared at the silver handle of his cane, and Lady Margaret continued to look out of the carriage window.
Finally Mr. Hammond met her eyes. “The Countess of Carlston was not a Deceiver,” he said. “She was human. We do not know what happened to her, and his lordship and Mr. Benchley have made it clear that she is not to be discussed.”
Helen wet her lips. The subject of her mother and now Lady Elise, both taboo. It seemed the Dark Days Club held as many secrets from its members as it did from the outside world. “Do you think his lordship killed her, Mr. Hammond?”
He opened his mouth to answer.
“Michael,” Lady Margaret warned. She turned to Helen. “It does not matter what we think. This is not a game with written rules, Lady Helen. There are uncertainties and ambiguities all around us and in everything we do. You must come to terms with that.”
“That is true,” Mr. Hammond said more gently. “All of us engaged in this calling are guilty of blurring the lines of morality. It is the price of dealing with these creatures.” His eyes met hers for a moment, and behind their sympathy was an immense sadness.
Their response had in no way relieved her unease—quite the contrary. Must she be content with a leap of faith about his lordship’s innocence? It did not sit well at all to be on the same level as a lovelorn lady. For a moment she had the wild thought to ask Lord Carlston for the truth, straight and bold, just as she had done regarding Berta. Did you kill your wife? Helen’s shoulders tightened. No, of course she could not do it. Besides, even if he did answer—which was unlikely—it would be near impossible to read him accurately. Now that he knew her level of skill, she had no doubt he could hide anything from her if he so wished.
Lady Margaret motioned to her brother to pass over a bundle of clothes that lay beside him. She removed a faded gray pelisse. “When we go into the Devil’s Acre, you must wear this over your dress and change your bonnet for a cap. I have similar to wear.”
“We must also refrain from using titles,” Mr. Hammond added. “Use only brother and sister, with our Christian names. Like the Quakers.”
“Christian names?” Helen echoed. One did not use bare Christian names for anyone but family, and possibly a close friend. “Even Lord Carlston?’
“Especially his lordship,” Mr. Hammond said firmly. “His name is William. And, please, call me Brother Michael.”
Lady Margaret handed Helen the cap and pelisse. The odor of unwashed bodies and sour spills wrinkled Helen’s nose.
“That is nothing compared to the smell of the rookery,” Lady Margaret said. “The stink of the place will announce itself well before we arrive.”
Helen loosened the cream silk bow under her chin. “What can his lordship wish to show me in a place like the Devil’s Acre? Is it more Deceivers?”
“No, something quite different,” Mr. Hammond said. “Deceiver progeny.”
“They have children?” Helen had not even considered if they could procreate.
“Not in the way that we think of children,” Lady Margaret said. “From what we know, their natural form is pure energy. Here, however, on this earthly plane, they cannot exist outside flesh. They do not seem to have our limited lifespan, so they do not produce children to continue their bloodline. Rather, the same Deceiver passes from generation to generation by stealing a new human body when the old one dies.”
“And not just any human body,” Mr. Hammond added. “The only bodies they can steal are those of their own progeny: children made with a human. Every time a Deceiver sires or gives birth, it embeds a vestige of its own energy in that child’s soul. When its body dies, the Deceiver passes into the body of its nearest progeny—pulled from dying flesh into living flesh by that vestige of energy—and so survives to live its next life. It does not even need to be in the same country to transfer to the new body.”
Helen smoothed her bonnet ribands, trying to make sense of the Deceivers. Such creatures were against the basic law of nature: that all was in motion, moving toward improvement. “What happens to its child?” she asked. “The one already inhabiting the body?”
“Its human soul is obliterated by the arrival of its Deceiver parent. All that is left is a human husk, ready to be filled by the Deceiver.”
“It kills the soul of its own child? But that is heinous.”
Mr. Hammond nodded. “Indeed.”
Helen paused in removing her bonnet, appalled. “Does that mean the souls of ten thousand English children are annihilated every generation?”
“Yes, although by the time the Deceiver leaves its old body, the progeny it enters may have reached adulthood,” Mr. Hammond said, his narrow face grim. “Every Deceiver is centuries old, and they are wily—consummate actors playing the part of humans. Of course, their lack of true reproduction means there is a finite number of them. A blessing of some sort, I suppose.” He looked across at his sister. “Margaret, you may not think it is proper for me to explain their habits, but I think she needs to know them.”
Lady Margaret nodded her permission, but her mouth was pinched with distaste.
Mr. Hammond leaned forward to counter the sudden loud crunch of the wheels on a grittier part of the road. “By now, in this century, most Deceivers have maneuvered themselves into male bodies in order to beget as many children as they can upon as many women as possible. Of course, they try to have legitimate offspring, but they also spawn by-blows in case all their legitimate issue die.” He cleared his throat. “It is why we find so many progeny amongst the demimonde, the lower orders, and women in the rookeries.”
“If you are going to tell her, you may as well be plain about it,” Lady Margaret interjected. “He means among kept whores, servant girls, and gypsies but is too missish to say so.”
Mr. Hammond’s hand tightened around the handle of his cane, but he did not respond to his sister’s derision. “Once we are sure of the identity of a Deceiver, Sir Jonathan Beech locates its progeny, legitimate or otherwise. Sir Jonathan is our senior Tracer. He tracks them through records and rumor and other such ways. You will meet him today.”
“As you can imagine,” Lady Margaret said, “it is not an easy task to find all the progeny of one Deceiver.”
“Sometimes it feels almost impossible,” her brother said. “However, when we do find tainted offspring, a Reclaimer removes the vestige and returns them to full humanity. We may not be able to eradicate the Deceivers from our midst, but at least we can claim the victory of saving human souls.”
“Is that what his lordship meant when he said we remove darkness from the soul?” asked Helen.
Mr. Hammond smiled. “Yes. And when all of the progeny have been found and their souls cleansed, then a Reclaimer can deliver Mors Ultima to the Deceiver sire or dam.”
Final death. “I assume that means exactly what it intimates,” Helen said.
“Yes,” Mr. Hammond said. “It is quite a show: a flash of fiery light as if the creature is lit from within.”
A flash of light as if lit from within? The same phenomenon that Delia had reported in her letter. Mr. Trent had indeed been a Deceiver. Delia thought she had been debased, but in fact she’d had a lucky escape.
“It is a most satisfying moment to see,” Mr. Hammond added.
Lady Margaret nodded her agreement. “It is very satisfying. But what we will see today—a reclaiming—is far more glorious.” That burning belief was once again in her eyes. “You will see why the risks we take are worth it.”
Nineteen
LADY MARGARET WAS right: it was the stink of the Devil’s Acre that came first. Even with the windows closed, Helen almost gagged as the coach inched its way along Duck Lane and turned into Old Pye Street, the thick of the rookery
. She tried to breathe through her mouth, but the stench of human and animal excrement, rotting food, fetid bodies, and greasy smoke overwhelmed her newly acquired Reclaimer sense of smell. Even Lady Margaret and Mr. Hammond were suffering, both of them pressing their hands over nose and mouth.
“It gets worse every time we come here,” Lady Margaret said. She wore a linen cap also pulled from the bundle, the yellowed cloth draining her skin of any color. Or perhaps it was the dreadful stink that blanched her face.
“We are almost there,” Mr. Hammond said. He had changed his smart beaver and superfine coat for a dusty tricorne and stained broadcloth jacket. “It will be a little better once we go inside.” He rapped his cane on the wooden front again. “The house beside the Red Lion,” he called to the driver.
Helen doubted the man had heard him through the cacophony. Shrieks of children, calls of street vendors, dogs yelping, people shouting, and all through it the bells of Westminster tolling, every sound resonating through her ears into her very bones. To distract herself, she tried to focus on the task ahead.
Since Deceivers did not look any different from humans, their progeny must look the same as normal children too. The difference, of course, was within, and it would be fascinating to see his lordship remove the vestige: the spark of Deceiver energy. It was hard to imagine how he could reach inside a soul to do so, and yet she was supposed to be able to do it as well. Maybe he would ask her to help. Dear God, could she? Should she?
Helen watched the filthy children running alongside them, this time trying to distract herself from her own fear.
The coach drew to a stop. Mr. Hammond opened the door and climbed out. “Off with you,” he growled at the huddle of gawking children, sending them scattering. “Sister Margaret, if you will.”
Gathering her threadbare blue pelisse, Lady Margaret took her brother’s hand for the step down to the road. They both turned to receive Helen. She slid across the worn leather seat and leaned into Mr. Hammond’s strong grip as she stepped down onto a wooden board laid across the wet ground. It sank a little under her weight, stinking mud oozing up around the edges. Murmuring her thanks, she looked up at Darby in the high rumble seat at the back; her maid’s begrimed face was tight with disgust, and she was brushing futilely at the dust and mud spatters on her refashioned gown.
“Brother William has instructed us to bring your maid inside,” Mr. Hammond said quietly.
“Has he so?” Helen replied, affronted by his lordship’s high-handedness. Still, she did want Darby inside, so she allowed Mr. Hammond to call the girl down.
He led the way to a three-story dwelling whose upper floor leaned perilously over its stone foundations. The short trip to the front door was a slippery, smelly business. Helen clutched Darby’s arm for support as they tentatively placed their feet on the wooden planks already slimed by previous pedestrians. Two filthy, emaciated little girls ran across the road toward them, bare feet deep in the sludge and hands cupped for alms. Mr. Hammond chased them off before Helen could withdraw a coin from the reticule hidden beneath the musty folds of her borrowed pelisse.
“My lady, why are we here?” Darby asked as they made the hazardous step from one board to the next.
Helen steadied herself then leaned closer. “His lordship is going to show me how to reclaim a soul,” she whispered.
“Only one?” Darby muttered, glancing at the sly, lounging men watching them pass by, and the blowsy women outside a gin shop. “I’d say there’s a thousand here who need saving.”
“You must not call me my lady while we are here,” Helen instructed. “Call me Sister Helen.”
Darby shook her head firmly. “I can’t do that, my lady. That’s not right.”
“Please, it is what his lordship wants. I presume you are to be Sister Jen.”
Her maid gave a soft snort. “Sister Jen? God preserve us.”
The peeling front door was wide open. Helen followed Mr. Hammond and Lady Margaret inside, the bare boards of the entryway creaking under their feet. The pungent smell of mold, beef-tallow wax, and urine was almost a relief from the putrid air outside. Helen peered into the gloom, making out a staircase at the very end of the corridor and the shadowy shape of another person descending the steps. A man, but too short and round to be Lord Carlston.
“Brother Jonathan?” Lady Margaret said. “Is that you?”
“Yes, it is I,” the shadow answered, bowing. “Wait one moment, and I will arrange a taper for the climb.”
He was gone, a series of creaks marking his progress up the staircase. A minute or so later another set of creaks and the approaching glow of soft light announced his return. The man—doubtless Sir Jonathan Beech, the Tracer—hurried down the hallway to meet them, the taper casting his face and rotund body into sharp relief. He smiled up at Helen, his cheeks rounded under a shrewd gaze. A luxurious set of gray sideburns fluffed from temple to jaw, perhaps compensation for the wispy fringe of hair that circled his crown. “Ah, you must be Lad— Sister Helen,” he corrected, his smile turning into a quick grimace of self-censure. “What an honor it is to meet you. Such an honor. I am Brother Jonathan.” He bowed again, the taper light dipping across the wall, showing plaster covered with a black creep of mold that had bloomed into spidery circles. “My apologies for the lack of formal introduction.”
Helen smiled back. Sir Jonathan’s civilized manner was as welcome as the light he carried. “I understand, considering the circumstances.”
“Yes, yes indeed.” He glanced along the hallway, greeting the rest of the party with another nod of his head. “Well, shall we? They await us upstairs.” Holding the taper high, he led the way to the staircase. Helen grasped the banister. Something wet seeped through her glove; she snatched her hand back. On the first floor they passed open doorways dimly lit by half-boarded windows. One small room held a family of at least twelve: a mother nursing on a stool, children hunched over piecework, and a wasted man on a mattress, spitting into a tin bowl. In another, men crouched around a dice game, the raucous sounds of loss and gain punctuated by laughing and the clink of bottles. A brown dog, all legs and rib cage, slunk past them on the second-floor landing, stopping to urinate in a corner where a man lolled beside a befouled night bucket. Helen looked back at Darby, seeing her own shock mirrored in her maid’s face. How could people live like this?
They climbed the last set of steps. A door and wall had been added, closing the third-floor landing from common access. It was obviously a later addition, the makeshift wall built from raw deal and the door from a single piece of stouter wood with a lock under the handle.
“Here we are,” Sir Jonathan announced.
He opened the door and entered, standing to the side as they gathered on the shallow, whitewashed landing within. Two doors led off it: one open, one closed. Helen peered through the open doorway. Four plain bentwood chairs had been drawn up to a scrubbed wooden table. On it was a loaf of bread in a clean blue cloth, an earthenware pitcher beaded with moisture, and two matching cups. The corner of an iron grate was visible, and on its painted mantel a candle stub stood in a tin holder. It was all scrupulously clean. Someone had created a private suite of rooms. Someone with means.
Sir Jonathan knocked on the other door. Through the narrow gap left by its ill-fitted hinges, Helen glimpsed a sliver of bedpost and the red-striped bodice of a woman’s gown.
“Yes, come.” A male voice that she didn’t recognize.
Sir Jonathan pushed on the handle, the catch sticking for a moment before the door opened. He stepped back and bowed Helen into the room. The occupants, clustered around a low bed, all turned toward her: Lord Carlston, Mr. Quinn, a young priest, and the woman in the gaudy red dress. “I am glad you have come, Sister Helen,” Lord Carlston said.
He also wore old clothes: a rough shirt and breeches with a carelessly tied blue belcher at his neck. Even so, his natural authority was obvious.
It was absurd to think that he could be mistaken for anything other than a man of great rank. Her skepticism must have shown, for his eyes met hers, the warning in them clear. No titles.
Helen licked her lips. The room was intensely hot, the closed window holding in the heat from a small fire in another iron grate. Mr. Quinn dipped his head and stepped back against the wall, clearing a pathway to the bed. Helen, however, was transfixed by the sight of the boy upon it: about twelve, fragile, and tied to the frame at wrists and ankles. His hands were twisting the crumpled gray under-sheet and his blond head moved restlessly upon a dingy pillow. Why was the poor child restrained?
She looked back over her shoulder. Sir Jonathan stood in the doorway, but Darby, Lady Margaret, and Mr. Hammond had retreated into the room across the landing. Apparently Lady Margaret would not be seeing a soul reclaimed today after all.
“Allow me to introduce Reverend Pellham,” Carlston said.
The priest—young, with the hollow-cheeked asceticism that seemed to be a badge of the lesser clergy—bowed with a murmured “How do you do.” He gestured to the woman and the boy. “This is Mrs. Coates and her son, Jeremiah, who is in need of your help.”
The woman bobbed into a curtsy. She must have been pretty once, but fatigue and fear had worn deep lines into her face and dragged her mouth into a thin arc of suffering. “Thank you, Sister, thank you for comin’ today. You and Brother William are my last hope. No one knows what’s wrong with my boy. They say he’s mad. But I think he’s possessed.”
“Young Jeremiah has been overcome by something of a nature unknown,” the priest said delicately. “When I saw the state he was in, I knew immediately that it was a case for Brother William.”