Beneath London (31 page)

Kilner stared at St. Ives, although without any surprise or horror on his face. “There were no
goggles
, then, to go along with it? Merely this piece of broken lens?”

“Just so. If goggles existed, they were no doubt taken away. Do you recognize it, then?”

“Indeed I do. I produced it.”

“So Pullman suspected. He told me of your experiments with the human aura, which two days ago would have sounded moderately fanciful to me.”

“There’s nothing fanciful about it. I can assure you of that. The human body produces energy in the form of invisible light. These lenses make it possible to see that light. The quality of the light, to put it simply, reveals a great deal about the physical and mental health of the individual, or so I believe. It’s my notion that any number of lenses might be contrived to distinguish various moods, shall we say: sickness and health, criminal intent, what is commonly called love, creative powers. The well is
very
deep, Professor, and I’ve only plumbed the surface of the waters. To say that there is much yet to learn is to understate the thing. The complexities of the human aura might easily turn out to be akin to the complexities of the human mind.”

“Have you ever run across a human being who had the innate capacity to see and assess these auras? A person who would have no need for the goggles?”

“I have not, and I do not believe that any such person exists. Why do you ask?”

“The daughter of the murdered woman, a girl who is apparently otherwise blind, is alleged to see these auras and to understand what they indicate. She can…
see
in other ways also, that have no scientific explanation.”

“I would very much like to meet her.”

“She speaks only rarely, and only to those she particularly trusts. I was convinced that she was a mute until I was told otherwise by the one person who regularly communicates with her. She can evidently converse with animals, as whimsical as that sounds. She is also alleged to be a human hydroscope of profound powers – an exceedingly sensitive girl. She protects herself from earthly emanations by wearing lead-soled shoes.”

Kilner looked hard at St. Ives now. “Are you practicing upon me, sir, with your witches and hydroscopes?”

“I am not,” St. Ives said. “I have not witnessed all of these things by any means, but enough to be dumbfounded by what I have seen.”

“Then I repeat that I would very much like to meet her if she’s amenable to it. She might add a great deal to the little I know about the human aura.”

“You’ve published your results, have you?” asked St. Ives.

“No, sir. The results are tentative – perhaps years away from bearing objective fruit. The lenses themselves are in a state of continual development. The chemical washes that color them are often highly toxic, the chemicals difficult to obtain. And you must understand that the study itself is of no consequence to this hospital, and so is little more than a variety of hobbyhorse. I’ve only recently contrived lenses that are in any way useful.”

“It’s a fact that someone donned a pair of the lenses in order to make use of them when he committed the murder. He seems to have questioned her first, perhaps after drugging her with henbane, and it’s possible that he utilized the lenses to study his victim during the interrogation. In any event, I assume that he must either have manufactured his own lenses or have borrowed a pair from you.”

“He
stole
them from me, in point of fact, although I certainly would
not
have lent him a pair, and he knew that full well. He had no right at all to put them to use.”

“
He
, do you say? You know him, then?”

“Assuredly. He was once an associate of mine. He has a morbid interest in the electronic stimulation of the brain, particularly the pineal gland and various layers of the cortex including the seat of memory. He has convinced himself that the pineal gland is the center of second sight. It’s often referred to as ‘the third eye’ in mystical teachings. To my mind he would take a keen interest in your so-called witch and in her daughter. His experimentation on the human brain is perverse, tantamount to diabolism. I cannot countenance the filthy business of trepanning the skulls of living patients merely to prod their brain tissues with electronic stimuli. He is convinced that extra-sensible powers, as you put it, are the result of brain lesions, and that electronic surgery will promote them. It is quite beyond the pale. I’ll tell you plainly that it was my doing that led to his being turned away from this hospital. I regret only that I didn’t have enough evidence of his illicit activities to involve Scotland Yard.”

“You say that he
stole
a pair of these aura goggles? You’re certain of it?”

Kilner held the piece of lens up to the light and scrutinized it. “Aye, quite certain. He stole several pairs, and of various types – different chemical washes, you see, although this particular, very deep violet wash produces the most interesting effects so far. He also stole my writings from within the desk that you see before you – those that he could put his hands on. I could not prove that he stole any of it. The lot of it simply disappeared from my office one afternoon. I was angry enough to accuse him of it, however, and he had the temerity to laugh as he admitted it, his face positively satanic. He assured me that he would henceforth deny it.”

“Is he capable of murder?”

“Oh, yes. It’s possible that he is incapable of
not
murdering. The man is quite depraved.”

“Will you tell me his name?”

“I will, although he will confess to nothing if you press him. He operates a private hospital in Wimpole Street. He calls himself a doctor, although he is no such thing. He’s a surgeon with a counterfeit degree – probably several of them, although he is quite skilled with a scalpel. His name is Benson Peavy.”

TWENTY-THREE

M
iss Bracken held her hat tightly to her head as she walked down Fingal Street into the teeth of the wind. She thought about Jamaica, with its warm breezes – never a need for anything but a thin blanket on the bed at night, summer or winter – and she cursed her ill luck, thinking about what she had gained and lost in a little over a fortnight. Gilbert Frobisher was a good old bird, and had treated her kindly. No man had ever done so before, except for a boy she had played with many years ago in better times and who had died of the yellow jack when he was seven years old, leaving her friendless. Now she was friendless again, and in a cold climate.

“You’re down in the dumps,” she told herself resolutely. “Until you know for
certain
, you know
nothing
, and it’s a fool who says elsewise.” She wiped a tear from her eye, although it might have been the wind that caused it.

She realized that Lars Hopeful was no longer following her, and she looked back to see him talking to the driver of a hansom cab with a broken-down horse that was unfit for the knacker’s yard. The driver had the look of an ape about him. She was no longer a rich woman, perhaps, but there was money in her purse, and she was damned if she would ride up to a posh hotel such as the Midland Grand sitting inside a moving poultry coop towed by a bag of bones. She put her fingers to her lips and whistled at Hopeful, who turned to look in her direction just as a coach reined up before her on the street. Its door opened and Mr. Smythe stepped out onto the pavement.

“Might I be of service, ma’am?” he asked, with a lavish bow. “I’ll reveal to you that I left early this morning to take care of a piece of business, but now I’ve returned to see to your safety. I don’t like the look of the fat man who cast false accusations at you last night, and I don’t believe that you should be traveling alone in this city with that ruffian afoot.”

“Thank you, sir,” she said to him, the dregs of her unhappiness disappearing on the instant. “This north wind does get up one’s gown. You! Boy!” she hollered at Hopeful, who waved her forward as he handed her trunk up onto the rack of the hansom cab.

Mr. Smythe strode down to where Hopeful was now hefting Miss Bracken’s portmanteau, shouldered Hopeful out of the way, had a word with the driver, and gave him a coin. The driver tipped his cap, handed down the trunk, and set out up the road. Smythe returned, followed by Hopeful and the two pieces of luggage, and very soon Miss Bracken found herself in quite an elegant coach, driven by a stilt-legged man in a red bowler, traveling down Farringdon Street, and seated next to Mr. Smythe. She marveled for a moment about how one’s luck can change on the instant.

She opened her bag, hidden by her person, and peered inside in order to have a look at her prize – the ivory jewelry case that she had taken from Tubby Frobisher’s portmanteau this very morning while he sat downstairs greasing his face with rashers. The gold shone with a high polish, and she longed to look at the diamonds within, but caution advised against it. Gilbert would not have begrudged them to her. She knew that for a certainty.

She closed the bag and smiled at Mr. Smythe, who looked her up and down, and said, “You’re at loose ends, then, ma’am? No friends or family in the whole of England, I believe you said.”

“That’s very close to being true, sir, although I believe I can count you as a friend, since you were kind enough to offer your friendship last night. I have it in my mind to stay at the Midland Grand, St. Pancras. I’m told that gold leaf adorns the walls and that there is an astonishing hydraulic lift. I intend to await Mr. Frobisher in a room with a view of the station so that I can see the trains come and go.”

Mr. Smythe was silent, his face grave as he stared out through the window at the busy morning traffic. After a moment he shook his head and said, “You’ll wait a tolerably long time, ma’am. Mr. Frobisher’s body was found underground just this morning along with that of Professor St. Ives. Both of them were crushed. It grieves me to say so, for they were good men, especially Mr. Frobisher, who left his mark on the city. He’ll be sorely missed.”

Miss Bracken scarcely comprehended the words, and so said nothing as they settled into her mind. She began to sob, then, and Smythe comforted her by putting his arm around her shoulder and drawing her toward him.

“I suppose I mustn’t go to the hotel as I’d thought,” she said. “It’s too dear by half if I’m indeed alone and hopeless. Can you suggest a small inn? I’d be happy if it were clean, but I make no other demands.”

“I cannot,” Smythe said, as the coach careered around onto Fleet Street. “I won’t happily allow you to remain alone in this very dangerous city. I offer you my protection, ma’am, if you’ll agree to accept it.”

“
Well
,” she said, looking at him now. He wasn’t an ugly man at all, just a trifle hard, perhaps, jowly and one eye a bit askew. In his morning coat and frilled shirt he looked very much the gentleman. She was already in his debt; it would be uncivil to spurn his offer. “I’d be happy for your protection, sir. It is my idea to return to Jamaica at the first opportunity, unless I’m persuaded otherwise.”

“Then I’ll do my best to persuade you.”

They turned up Whitefriars Street now, and then around onto a byway that ran between a scattering of lavish homes enclosed by high walls and iron gates. The coach drew up outside one of the richest, a many-windowed mansion that might have housed ten families. There were curtains drawn across most of the windows – not a cheerful house, it seemed to Miss Bracken, although she couldn’t quite say why.

“Whatever place is this?” she asked, seeing two men lounging within the dim confines of a carriage house. One of them stood up, and she was shocked to see that it was Mr. Hillman – or at least that it appeared to be, although his forehead was wrapped in a bandage.

“This is my own domicile,” Mr. Smythe said. “Elegant, ain’t it?”

“You told me that you were a commercial gent,” she said, “in from Manchester.”

Hillman came down the drive and unlatched the gate, looking in through the window of the coach with a broad smirk visible through the bandages. Two of his teeth were missing. She heard him laugh out loud.

“That was my little lark,” Smythe said, grinning at her. “I’m actually a non-commercial gent from Shoreditch.”