“But I will be there to stop it, my lady,” Darby said. “That is what you have chosen me to do. I’ll help you get rid of the energy, and you’ll be all right.”
Helen felt Darby’s hand cover her own: a small warmth against the chill that seemed to have spread through her whole body. “I am not sure I can do it,” she whispered. “I don’t want to get hurt or go mad.”
She bowed her head, shamed by the confession. Her mother had faced such peril. Her father, too. Perhaps she was just not as brave as her parents. Surely it would have been better for everyone if Andrew had been the direct inheritor.
Darby patted her hand. “I know you, my lady. How would you live with yourself if you did not do your duty or act upon your conscience?”
Helen raised her head. “But is it my duty?” she asked. “Does an accident of birth compel me to put you and myself in such danger?”
“I do not believe it is an accident that you’ve been gifted in this way,” Darby said softly.
“I think you put too much upon me,” Helen said. She looked into the mirror and saw the tight lines of fear in her face. “Just as his lordship does,” she added, and turned away from her reflection.
Twenty-One
AT TWO IN the afternoon, Lady Margaret and Mr. Hammond drew up in a smart blue barouche drawn by four bays, its rear hood raised to counter the threat of the dark clouds overhead. Helen was handed up into the carriage by Philip, who settled her next to Lady Margaret and, with a small flourish, placed a mohair rug across her knees to guard against the possible chill of driving in an open vehicle. Mr. Hammond sat opposite, all smiles and enquiries about her comfort, but Helen saw the strain beneath his bright gallantry. In fact, brother and sister were both tense. Lady Margaret was pleating her skirt between her fingers, the nervous action creating ugly creases in the bronze silk. She saw Helen note it and stopped, pressing her hands together in her lap.
With Darby seated beside the driver, and a few final courtesies to Aunt, who watched from the town house steps, they set off. Helen listened to Mr. Hammond’s comments upon the weather and the state of the road and the crowds drawn by the funeral of Lord Perceval, waiting for the truth of their destination to emerge.
Finally, as they reached the corner and turned into the noise and bustle of Piccadilly, Mr. Hammond leaned forward, all pretense of lightness gone. “We think we have found your housemaid.”
Helen felt every nerve in her body tighten: this was the last thing she had expected. “Where? Is she all right?”
Lady Margaret shook her head. “The girl is dead.”
“Dead?” Helen echoed. She looked up at Darby’s solid back. All that hope and prayer for Berta’s safe recovery had come to nothing. “Was she murdered?”
“We don’t know,” Mr. Hammond said. “Possibly.”
Had poor Berta been innocent after all, a victim rather than a Deceiver? Mr. Hammond leaned closer. “His lordship received word this morning that a corpse matching your maid’s description had been found in a derelict building near the Leadenhall Skin Market. He has ordered it removed to a tavern opposite. That is where we go now. To meet him and view it.”
“View her?” Helen drew back. “I am not sure I can do that.”
“You must,” Lady Margaret said with a grimace of sympathy. “Only you can determine if it is your girl.”
Helen rubbed her hands together, needing some kind of movement to relieve her agitation. She had, of course, seen dead animals—foxes from the hunt, dogs in gutters, sheep on the estate farm—some of them weeks old and foul in their decay. But she had never seen a dead person, and this one, when alive, had walked in her rooms and curtsied to her every day. The dread of the duty prickled across her skin, made worse by the knowledge that she now had to inform Darby that they were probably driving toward her friend’s corpse. Nearly three weeks ago she had promised she would find Berta. Well, Berta was found, with the worst possible outcome. She looked up at her maid laughing with the driver. She would wait until they arrived to tell her the grim news. Let Darby enjoy the ride.
Mr. Hammond leaned closer again. “I have no definitive information about that gentleman who was following you on Piccadilly. Our man tracked him for a while, but lost him near the Privy Gardens in Whitehall. Does that have any meaning to you?”
“The Privy Gardens?” Helen echoed. “No, not at all.”
“Then all we can do is keep watch for him again.” Mr. Hammond sat back.
Leadenhall Skin Market was in Cheapside, another dubious area of London. The stench of the nearby tanneries and slaughterhouses was even worse than the Devil’s Acre. Helen swallowed hard, fighting back nausea. They passed the narrow three-story building that formed the corner of the market, the outer stalls busy with butchers in aprons, poulterers with live and dead birds, and the vegetable men calling their wares. The progress of their barouche caused some stir, especially when their way became stalled by the slow progress of a long cart edging into the market courtyard. Helen looked past the gawping men to glimpse stacks of cattle skins, the pale horns still attached. Buyers picked through them as workmen dragged huge pallets onto drays, their shouted instructions almost indistinguishable from the clamor of squabbling geese in a nearby stall.
They finally made their way through the maelstrom to the Lamb Tavern. It was a large-windowed establishment with a hanging sign duly painted with its woolly namesake, all sweet black face and knobby knees. Mr. Hammond alighted first, then offered his hand to Helen. At least there was pavement here, and not boards laid across mud and sewage. Still, the strong smell of waste in the gutter quickly sent her to the front door of the tavern to await the others.
“His lordship said he would be inside,” Mr. Hammond said as the driver handed Darby down. “Allow me to go first. This is a tavern frequented by those in the skin trade.”
He led the way, Helen following Lady Margaret into the dim foyer, Darby at the rear. The narrow space was hung with smoke-darkened paintings of dead game, and the steamy air brought the taste of broiled meat—beef, Helen decided. The muted rumble of male conversation and the ring of cutlery on plates came from within.
Reluctantly, Helen turned, stopping Darby’s progress. “I have very bad news,” she said quietly. “His lordship thinks he has found Berta. Dead. We are here to see if it is her, or another poor girl.”
“Oh, my lady.”
“I know.”
Darby’s top teeth bit hard into her lip, holding back her shock. Always so brave. Helen touched her arm, drawing her forward again. Mr. Hammond and Lady Margaret were already at the end of the corridor.
They were met at the stairwell by a short, portly gentleman in a neat jacket and vibrant scarlet waistcoat.
“Would you be Mr. Hammond and party, perchance?” he asked, dipping his head. A rather grizzled, gray powdered wig covered his dark hair.
“Yes.”
“I’m the owner of this establishment. Mr. Pardy, at your service, sir.” His worried eyes took in Helen and Lady Margaret. He gave another bow and motioned toward the staircase, lit by oil lamps set into the wall. “Lord Carlston is waiting for you below. This way, please.”
He led them down wooden steps worn into creaking curves from thousands of journeys to and from the cellar. Helen smelled a sickening decay building in the air as they descended: no doubt the corpse. The strength of the stink did not bode well for the state of the body. She covered her nose with her gloved hand, breathing through the soft, sweet leather. As they neared the bottom of the steps, her companions became aware of the stench too.
“Good Lord,” Mr. Hammond murmured.
“Yes,” Mr. Pardy agreed. “I’ve begged his lordship to get rid of it afore that reek gets up into my dining hall. It’ll drive out all my customers.” He crossed himself. “God rest her soul.”
Lady Margaret pressed a lace handkerchief to her nose. “Quite.”
r /> “His lordship’s in the cool room.” He pointed down a stone corridor to a rectangle of yellow lamplight that spilled onto the stone flags. “If you don’t mind, I’ll not be going in there again. I want to keep me dinner.” He mounted the stairs, but clearly bethought himself of something else and turned back. “Are you sure you want the ladies to see it, sir? Not the thing for delicate females. I’ve a private room upstairs where they could wait.” He smiled encouragingly at Lady Margaret. “A nice drop of ratafia, too, my lady. Peach flavored. Or if you’d prefer, cherry.”
“We will not be needing your private room nor your liquor, my good man,” she said.
“Are you sure, Margaret?” Mr. Hammond asked. “There is no need for you to see this. Let me escort you upstairs.”
“Thank you, brother, but I am not perturbed.” She gave him a challenging stare, then strode down the passage and into the cool room. For a moment there was silence, and then the harsh sound of retching echoed against the stone walls.
“Mr. Hammond?” It was Lord Carlston’s voice. “Your sister is not well.”
Mr. Pardy cleared his throat. “Well, the private room is available if you need it.” With a bow, he ascended the steps.
Mr. Hammond sketched a bow to Helen and hurried after his sister, disappearing through the doorway. “Margaret, can I— Holy God.”
Helen took a shallow breath of the putrid air, trying to steady her nerves but not turn her stomach. “Are you ready, Darby?”
Her maid retreated a step. “I’m not sure I can, my lady.”
“I am not sure I can either, but we have to, for Berta.” She held out her hand. “Come.”
Darby drew herself up. “Yes, my lady.”
Helen felt Darby’s cold hand lock into her own. She gave it a small squeeze of encouragement, then led her down the corridor.
“Where is Lady Helen?” she heard Lord Carlston ask.
“I am here.” She let go of Darby’s hand and entered the narrow doorway.
The stink of new vomit rose through the noxious decay of flesh, bringing a retch into her throat. She jammed her hand over her mouth, transfixed by a bulging eye that stared up at her from the long table, the pale arc of the socket visible underneath blackened, burst skin and oozing tissue. Good God, was this thing Berta? She swayed and groped for the support of the wall. At the back of the room, Mr. Hammond held up Lady Margaret, her face turned into his shoulder. Mr. Quinn stood near them, his gold skin bleached to a sickly yellow. Behind, Darby gave a small moan and clutched the doorframe.
“What has happened to her?” Helen whispered.
“About three weeks of decomposition,” Lord Carlston said at her side.
He gently took her arm, breaking her thrall. She looked up into his face, a blessedly still anchor in the pitch and roll of the room. She noted the small sympathetic smile that curved his mouth, and the gold flecks in his dark eyes, and he was saying something, but it was all so far away. Far, far away, and blurring. Was she going to faint?
“Head down, Lady Helen.”
She felt his hand cupping the back of her head, pushing her into a most inelegant stoop. For a moment she thought she might topple over, but his grip held her firm. She looked blankly at the blurry stone floor, his lordship’s mud-caked Hessian boots, her own burgundy hem, and then the world burst back into full sight and sound and foul smell.
“My lord, what are you doing?” Darby was asking. “My lady needs salts!”
“Gently,” he said. “Come up slowly.” The pressure on the back of her head eased. He helped her upright and looked into her eyes: a keen examination that was far too close for propriety. She drew back.
“I am quite well,” she said, but her voice felt as light as her head. Darby had bravely entered the room and was at her side, face turned away from the table.
“Are you well enough to see if this girl was your missing maid?” his lordship asked. “The sooner we can determine that, the sooner we can all go upstairs into fresher air.”
Stepping closer to that ghastly form on the table was the last thing Helen wished to do. But it had to be done. “I am ready,” she said. She stroked Darby’s arm. “I am so sorry. She was your friend, I know. But you knew her best. Will you help?”
Darby grimaced, the tendons on her neck fanning with horror, but she nodded.
The least distressing way to look at the corpse, Helen decided, was in quick snatches. A purple-black hand, fingernail sliding off. A bloated arm. The folds of a cotton tucker, wet with brown matter. Pale sinew showing through a gaping throat. And the face: swollen tongue forced between teeth, tight cheeks, protruding eyes. All topped by thick, matted black hair. Yet, with all the horrific disfigurement, there was a sad familiarity.
“I think it is Berta,” Helen said. “I can see her face in there. And the hair is the same.”
“Yes, it is Berta,” Darby said, her voice heavy with certainty. She pointed to a hairpin caught in the mass of dark hair. A small metal flower, painted blue. “She always wore it.” She blinked rapidly and swallowed. “May I retrieve it, my lady? As a memorial, for her mother.”
“I’ll get it, miss,” Quinn said. “You don’t want to be touching the remains.” He leaned over and pulled out the pin, then wiped it on his sleeve. With a dip of his head, he passed it to Darby. She received it with a wan smile.
“How did Berta die?” Helen asked.
Carlston leaned over and examined the corpse. “She cut her own throat. There are marks here that speak of hesitation. And she was found with a knife near her hand.”
“Self-murder,” Mr. Hammond said. “God pity her soul.”
Darby crossed herself.
“No, not suicide,” Carlston said. “This was a Deceiver leaving its body for its next vessel.”
Helen stared down at the grotesque, bloated form. “How can you be sure?”
“This girl, or should I say the Luxure in her body, crossed my path a few years ago. In Prussia.” He turned away. “Come, let us remove ourselves from this sight and stench.”
He ushered everyone out of the room to the bottom of the staircase.
“Now that we are certain this is your maid, Lady Helen,” he resumed, “I think I know what happened. She must have seen me that day on Berkeley Street. She might even have noticed my man stationed outside your house, seen him talking to me and made the connection. Whatever the case, she would have realized I was there for you and that I would recognize her as a Deceiver. I believe she saw me, panicked, and left to avoid discovery, with the intention of killing this body to move into the next.”
Helen pressed her hand to her forehead, feeling very ill indeed at this intelligence. “So there was a Deceiver in my house after all. For over a year.” She looked up at his lordship. “But why?”
He shook his head. “That, I cannot rightly fathom.”
IN THE END, they did avail themselves of Mr. Pardy’s private room. Lord Carlston, however, refused the peach ratafia and ordered brandy for everyone instead.
“Thank you, Mr. Pardy,” he said as the publican slid the tray, set with decanter and glasses, onto the small dining table. “You may go.”
Mr. Pardy bowed and backed out of the room, closing the oak door with another bobbing bow. Like a little robin, Helen thought, bippidy-hop-hop-hop.
She shook her head. There was a buzzing at the base of her skull that would not go away. It was probably just the shock of discovering that a Deceiver had been living in her home. She had even given the creature an old muslin tucker—most likely the one still on the corpse. She lifted her shoulders, trying to shake off the grisly image of the stained material. The smell was still in her nostrils. Perhaps it would never go. She had chosen to sit at the small writing desk by the open window—feeling the need for space around her and some fresher air—but she still felt too closed in.
His lordship lif
ted the brandy decanter and poured generous measures into the glasses. He passed one each to Lady Margaret and Mr. Hammond at the table, then another to Darby, who hunched on a low sofa along the wall. She took it with an awkward, embarrassed nod. Finally he picked up the last two measures and walked over to Helen.
“Drink this.” He held out a glass.
“I don’t like spirits.”
“Today you do. I have found that taking brandy in one draught washes away the hold of the dead.”
She took the glass by the short stem, the fumes of the alcohol prickling high in her nose.
He lifted his own measure. “Come, down it in one. With me.”
Obediently, she swallowed the whole in a large gulp alongside his lordship. For a moment there was just the rich oaky taste, then a terrible burning engulfed her mouth and throat and chest and even her nose. She coughed, the room blurring behind tears. He was right: the brandy did sear away that terrible stink.
“Are you all right, my lady?” Darby asked, preparing to rise.
“Stay where you are.” Helen waved her back. “Drink your brandy. It will help.”
Darby took a timid sip and then cleared her throat. “May I ask a question, my lord?”
“Of course.”
“Could Berta—I mean, the Deceiver that was Berta—have passed into another person in our household?”
“That would not be possible,” his lordship said with a reassuring smile. “She can only pass into the body of one of her own progeny. It was obvious, even in that terrible state, that the girl downstairs was not old enough to have an adult child who could have infiltrated your household alongside her and now be the vessel for that Deceiver.”