The warm sympathetic part of me wanted to say sweet words for our former servant’s imminent passing, but this was our only chance to gain insight about my father’s whereabouts during the murders and his potential connection to Miss Emma Elizabeth Smith.
I stood taller, imagining the veins flowing through my body were nothing more than steel wires, cold and unfeeling. Now was the time to find that scientific switch Thomas relied on. “I really must see him. It’s of the highest importance. You wouldn’t deny me saying good-bye to a dear friend—especially not one who’s in the throes of death, would you?”
The young woman stared open-mouthed before snapping her jaw shut. She bumped the door open with her unoccupied hip, gesturing us inside with an impatient wave of her hand. Pointing to a holder in the corner, she jerked her chin.
“Put your brolly there and suit yourself, then,” she said. “He’s upstairs, first door on the right.”
“Thank you.” I crossed the tiny foyer with Thomas on my heels, heading up the worn staircase as quickly as I could. The scent of boiled cabbage followed us as we ascended, adding to the ill feeling churning in my stomach.
When my foot reached the top step, the woman called out in a mocking tone, “Nightmares will be your bedmates tonight. All the fancy sheets in the world won’t make a lick of difference. Don’t say I didn’t warn you, my lady.”
This time when I heard a crash of thunder, I shuddered.
Tubercular leprosy, c. 19th century
NINE
MESSAGE FROM THE GRAVE
THORNLEY RESIDENCE,
READING
11 SEPTEMBER 1888
Gauzy curtains—that had possibly been white once—billowed toward us as if they were two decaying arms desperately reaching for release.
If I were forced to stay in this tomblike room for long, I’m su
re I’d become as desperate. Drops of rain splattered onto the sill, but I didn’t dare close the window.
A small wrought iron bed with a striped mattress displayed a skeletal body that barely looked alive. Poor Thornley had withered away to nothing more than graying skin pulled taut over fragile bones. Open sores on his torso and arms oozed a mixture of blood and pus reeking of fetid meat even from the doorway. It was hard to say for sure, but he looked to be suffering from a form of leprosy.
I covered my nose with the back of my hand, catching Thomas doing the same from the corner of my eye. The smell was overwhelming at best, and the sight before us was by far the worst thing I’d ever seen.
Which was saying a lot, as I’d witnessed the putrid insides of the departed on countless occasions during Uncle’s postmortems.
I closed my eyes, but the rotten image was burned onto the backs of my lids.
I would’ve thought him long deceased, but the slight rise and fall of his chest defied what my eyes told me to be true. If I were a superstitious person, I’d believe he was one of the undead haunting the English moors, searching for souls to steal.
Or possibly eat.
All my life I’d been interested in biological anomalies, like the Elephant Man, gigantism, conjoined twins, and ectrodactyly, but this seemed a cruel act of God.
The young woman was right. This was the place nightmares came to be inspired.
The curtains inhaled wet breaths, then slowly exhaled—their dampness sticking to the wood before rustling free with the next gust of storm-drenched wind.
I took a breath through my mouth. We needed to either run back downstairs—and preferably all the way to the train station while screaming bloody murder—or speak with the poor man immediately.
The former had my vote even if it meant running in the rain, in heeled boots and possibly breaking my neck, but the latter was inevitably what we were going to do.
Thomas nodded encouragement, then walked fully into the room, leaving me propped against the door frame with nothing but my wits supporting me. If he was capable of facing this, then so was I.
If only my body would catch up with my brain’s courage.
He pulled two chairs close to the bed—their limbs scraping in protest—before motioning for me to have a seat. My legs carried me across the room, seemingly of their own volition, spurring my heart into a steady gallop. I buried my hands in the folds of my skirts once I sat down. I didn’t want poor Thornley seeing how badly they were shaking; he was going through enough as it was.