Heart of Perdition (2 page)

“Yes, I understand.” James gave a mighty heave and broke Shaw’s grip on his neck.

Shaw fell still a final time. His eyes drifted shut, and his chest ceased to rise and fall.

James rang for Belkins and readjusted the sheet to cover Shaw’s face. Though he suspected it was a futile endeavor, he muttered a quick prayer for the repose of the man’s soul before wheeling himself out of the room.

He met Belkins in the corridor and informed him of Shaw’s death. “See to it the body is removed first thing in the morning. I believe burial arrangements are already in place.”

“Very good, m’lord. Will there be anything else?”

“No…yes. What have you done about that street urchin?”

“I gave the parish priest a ten-shilling note and asked him to look after the boy. The man seemed willing enough, but the child threatened to balk. I expect he’ll have taken to the streets again by this time tomorrow.”

“I see,” James sighed. “Well, we’ve done what we can, haven’t we?”

“Indeed, sir. Not every man in your position would bother.”

“Good night, Belkins.”

“Good night, m’lord.”

But as his wheelchair shot down the corridor with a rude expulsion of compressed air, James felt not altogether at peace with himself. Certainly it wasn’t Shaw’s agonized death that plagued his conscience, for he’d done his best for the man in providing access to his troop of personal physicians and a soft bed on which to expire.

Can it be Belkins’ account of the little beggar boy that pricks at me so?

It hardly mattered. James had more pressing concerns.

Three months, at most. I may not survive to see the turn of the century. Shaw’s artifact is all that lies between me and the pathetic, contemptible death of an invalid.

By the time the lift arrived to ferry him to Shaw’s laboratory in the wine cellar, James had forgotten all about the ragged little boy in the window well.

7 October 1899

On the day the news of her father’s death reached St. Kilda, Elspeth woke to find Mrs. MacGillvrey’s gray tabby sniffing at her hair.

“Scat!”

The animal ignored her and rubbed its chin against the crown of her head. Elspeth sighed and lifted the cat into her lap, meaning to carry it to the door of the bedroom and toss it into the hall. Instantly, the beast nestled itself in her arms and began to purr. Elspeth froze.

“Never should have allowed you in the house. Far more trouble than you’re worth.” But she sat on the edge of the bed and let the tabby knead at the bodice of her nightdress with its outstretched paws.

Mrs. MacGillvrey had sworn they must have a cat for the mice in the pantry. And no, a mechanical creature selected from a catalogue, built in a factory and shipped by dirigible simply would not do. Elspeth, for her part, had promised herself to make a point of treading on the animal’s tail once or twice, for surely it would avoid her as a result. But she hadn’t been able to bring herself to do it, and now…

With a resolute shake of her head, she swung her legs over the side of the bed, marched to the door, opened it and dropped the cat at her feet. With a twitch of its tail, it stalked to a spot some three feet away and sat. Then it turned, lifted its hind leg and began cleaning itself in a most unseemly manner.

Elspeth laughed. “I comprehend your meaning entirely, and wish you well in spite of it.”

The sun lingered below the horizon, but she stripped off her nightdress in the pre-dawn dimness, determined to greet the day with good spirits…or, at least, stoic resignation. She fumbled with the laces of her corset, the twisted crinoline, the proper placement of the bustle. She might not pine for Mrs. MacGillvrey’s company, but in the absence of a proper lady’s maid, the older woman’s nimble fingers were sorely missed. Worse, the housekeeper’s month-long sojourn to the village—twice the agreed-upon interval, by the by—and the resulting near-perfect silence of the house had begun to wear on Elspeth’s nerves.

A rap sounded on the bedroom door. Without waiting for the command to enter, the house-servant called “Chloe” burst in and made its creaky way across the floor to the windows. Elspeth watched as it yanked on the drapery cord with far too much force, snapping it in two. The servant’s shoulder joint gave an alarming screech, and Elspeth could see where a seam at the back of its gray-and-white-striped uniform had given way. Chloe’s inner workings would need adjustment before the machine pitched itself down the stairs again.

Undoubtedly another case of rusted gears caused by this excessively salty sea air. I’ll have to dismantle its workings entirely and—

A shaft of yellow light pierced the gloom, breaking the line of Elspeth’s thoughts and drawing her irresistibly to the windows.

Below, the icy crust of snow that had covered the ground for weeks had melted overnight to slush and mud. The grass remained brown and dead, but the sky was a pale, arid blue unmarred by a single cloud. In the village at the foot of the hill, people moved to and fro, not so small as ants but certainly no bigger than field mice from this vantage point. As Elspeth watched, a medium-sized dirigible floated into view over the sparkling bay—the first such transport to reach the island in many weeks.

Brimming over with delayed letters and packages, no doubt.

All at once, Elspeth was seized with the desire to breathe fresh air. Such a rare day was not to be squandered, after all, for who knew when the weather might turn again? And she could use the opportunity to inquire after her wayward housekeeper.

Her mind made up, she went about the distasteful business of selecting Chloe’s key from the cluster she wore at her waist in Mrs. MacGillvrey’s absence and inserting it in the keyhole at the back of Chloe’s neck. She gave it a brisk turn to the right, and the servant slumped forward, folding itself in two. The hiss of air seeping from its mouth made Elspeth grimace.

“You’ll be fine here till I get back,” she whispered and gave Chloe’s back a pat, knowing full well such niceties were both unnecessary and bordering on unhealthy. Then she fetched her boots, bonnet, cloak and gloves from the closet in the front hall and prepared herself to leave the house for the first time since the close of summer.

* * *

“Really, my lord, I must protest this potentially deadly whim. You do not comprehend the possible consequences!”

“A sudden, irreparable irregularity in the rhythm of my heart, followed by instant death—is that not the general idea?” James checked his appearance in the mirror, pausing to tilt his black bowler at a rakish angle. His yellow curls bristled from beneath it, subtracting substantially from his dignity. “A damn sight less objectionable than choking out my last days in bed, wouldn’t you say?”

Colgrave grimaced. “You see fit to jest, but I—”

“Will be out your yearly retainer and much the sadder for it, I’m sure. Don’t fret, old man. I’ve left you a little something in my will.” James turned from the mirror to regard his physician. “Let us be on our way. The break in the weather over St. Kilda may last another day, at most, and my business is urgent.”

“As you wish, my lord.”

James insisted on walking the few yards past Colgrave and the ever-patient Belkins, through the front door and down the steps. The rising sun gave the empty street an otherworldly glow. He moved to the waiting carriage, only to find the coachman had abandoned his post and was threatening a small child with his raised crop.

“I say, what are you about, Deavers? Have you lost your mind?” James took a moment to lean against the closed door of the carriage and catch his breath.

“Blasted brat was tossin’ cinders at the horses’ legs, m’lord.”

James insinuated a hand beneath his topcoat and pressed it firmly against his misbehaving heart. He focused his gaze on the brat in question. “You, young sir,” he wheezed. “Yes, you. Present yourself, if you please.”

The child complied, and James gazed down into his smudged face. “Why do you assault my horses?”

The boy grinned, gap-toothed and insolent. “Wanted to see if they was mechanical, is all. The cinders make a lovely noise when they strike on the iron legs.”

James frowned. “Why, any soul with two good eyes can tell a genuine beast from its automated brother.”

“Beggin’ yer pardon, sir,” the boy replied, his smile somewhat dimmed, “but me peepers ain’t what they used to be.”

With some effort, James bent at the waist for a closer look. True enough, the boy had a dreadful squint. James straightened and made a gesture that brought Belkins down the front steps and to his side.

“Is this the same urchin?” he asked the servant. “The one you delivered into the care of the parish priest?”

“He is, m’lord.”

“Hmm.” James tapped a finger against his chin and leaned more heavily against the door of the coach. He’d need to get off his feet soon, or risk collapsing in the street. “Summon the junior member of Colgrave’s practice and have him see to the boy’s eyes. A pair of spectacles will likely make all the difference.”

“Of course, sir.”

“Then find him some occupation in the stables and a place to sleep.”

“Yes, m’lord.”

James turned again to the child. “You’ll do an honest day’s work in exchange for regular meals and a warm bed, or you’ll be turned out upon my return. Do we have an understanding?”

The boy somehow managed to appear sly and ingratiating in the same instant. “If you say so,
m’lord.
”

James watched as Belkins led the child away. Then, with the assistance of both Colgrave and coachman, he climbed into the carriage and took his seat.

“Allow me to commend your generosity,” Colgrave remarked when they were well on their way. “But why didn’t you ask the boy’s name?”

“His name?” James let his head fall back on the seat in exhaustion. “Why the devil would I care to know that?”

* * *

Elspeth stood at the side of the muddy street. Ignoring the bustle of villagers headed home for their afternoon tea, she reread the letter from her father’s solicitor.

“Regret to inform you…on the second of October 1899…sole heir…will contact you again regarding disposition of personal effects…”

She looked up and blinked into the late afternoon sky. The sun was on its way down on the western side of the island, leaving the street in shadow. Nearby, the church bell tolled half past four.

Now I am well and truly alone.

She waited for some surge of emotion to overtake her—sorrow, or despair, or perhaps even relief—but she felt nothing beyond the strange sense of foreboding she’d been experiencing for months.

Which only goes to prove Father right. I am unnatural.

“Miss Elspeth?”

The sound of her own name startled her, and the two letters she held fell from her hands into the mud at her feet. She bent to retrieve them. When she straightened, she found herself face-to-face with her housekeeper.

“Mrs. MacGillvrey, how good to know you’re still among the living.”

The older woman had the good grace to flush an ugly, mottled red. “I thought it best to keep to the village till the weather cleared.”

“Of course. And are you prepared to return this evening?”

“I am.” The grim lines of the older woman’s face bespoke her reluctance. “But I’d ask a favor of ye, if I might, miss? Nothing too extraordinary, you understand.”

Elspeth wasn’t accustomed to such a conciliatory tone from the housekeeper. “Yes?”

“I’d take it as a kindness if I could bring along my sister’s youngest, Agnes, to help in the kitchen. She’d draw no pay, of course—”

“Mrs. MacGillvrey—”

“Beggin’ yer pardon, miss, but the little half-wit’s gone and got herself in a fix, and her father’s thrown her out. She’ll starve if I don’t take her in hand—she and the mite inside her.”

Foolish. Pathetic. Utterly beyond my realm of concern.

“You will agree to be responsible for your niece?”

“Oh, yes, miss.”

“And she will be gone from the premises well before her period of confinement?”

Mrs. MacGillvrey’s mouth turned down, as if she’d tasted something intolerably bitter. “If you insist, miss.”

“I do.” Elspeth refolded the letters in her hand. “You should know that my father has died.”

“Oh, miss, such a shock! I
am
sorry.”

“It changes nothing, although it seems we are to have visitors to commemorate the occasion—his lordship, the earl of Falmouth, and a physician by the name of Colgrave.”

“Bless us, another shock. And when will these visitors be arrivin’?”

“If the weather holds, perhaps as soon as tomorrow.”

A cold wind picked up along the now deserted street, howling through the narrow spaces between the houses and tearing at their skirts and bonnets. Elspeth shifted her gaze to the eastern sky whence the gale blew and shivered against a thrill of apprehension.

“Or perhaps that is their vessel approaching the island now.”

“I beg your pardon, Miss Shaw,” James began as the servant set before him a plate heaped high with mutton and boiled turnips, “but am I to understand you’ve been living in solitude on this island for the better part of ten years?”

At the far end of the dining table, Miss Shaw lifted her water glass to her lips. Her small stature, plainly coiffed dark hair, and black mourning gown—easily twenty years out of fashion—lent her the air of a miniature daguerreotype come to life. James did his best not to stare as he awaited her reply.

“Yes, my lord. I’ve lived in this house for almost ten years.”

“Without any sort of chaperone or companion of your own class?” Colgrave sounded positively scandalized by the idea. “Quite,
quite
alone,” he continued, “save for your housekeeper?”

“Quite.” The word was clipped short, plainly marking an end to Miss Shaw’s patience with the topic.

Colgrave appeared not to notice. “My dear woman, it’s a miracle you haven’t run mad!”

Miss Shaw regarded Colgrave down the length of the table, her dark eyes unreadable. Although she said nothing, her fingertips whitened where they gripped the stem of her glass.

“You must forgive the good doctor,” James interjected into the tense silence. “Our journey from London was not an easy one, and his manners appear to be somewhat worse for the wear.”

This much was true, as far as it went. The very fastest train from London had taken no fewer than five hours to reach Glasgow. Then had come the bother of disembarking, traveling by hansom cab to the airfield and seeing one’s luggage loaded onto the ship. Another two hours in the air had done nothing to soothe the perpetual agitation of James’ heart, though even Colgrave admitted he’d fared better than expected.

“’Twas the last bit that was worst,” Colgrave said with a tipsy grin, and now James observed that the doctor had drained his wineglass for the second time and was reaching again for the decanter. “I’ve never been carried in a handcart before this evening. Is it true there are no horses or other beasts of burden on the island?”

“Not a one,” said Miss Shaw. “The islanders accomplish all transport of goods and visitors through sheer brute strength. As a people they are well-known for their physical endurance.”

“Astounding. And they keep no cattle for beef? Do you truly subsist solely on fish and mutton?”

Miss Shaw shrugged—an unusual and somewhat manly gesture for such an obviously well-bred woman. “And the occasional seabird, though I prefer observing to consuming them.”

The conversation lagged again, and James could only be grateful for the reentry of the servant. At first glance, he’d been shocked at the appearance of the automaton—its obvious lack of human features, its stiff and graceless manner of movement, the audible creak of its joints and whirr of its gears. Such a machine had been the best of its kind a decade ago or more.

“You employ a large mechanical staff?” he asked, for lack of a better topic.

Miss Shaw blessed him with a tight smile. “Rather an army, my lord, although most of them are in poor repair and virtually useless for anything more exacting than beating the odd carpet. I do send to London for replacement parts, but they’re so dear for the older models, you know.”

This was quite the longest speech they’d had from their hostess, and James was struck by the lilting melody of her voice.

Like a waltz in a minor key.

He shook his head to rid himself of fancies. “However do you keep up with the news from London?”

“Oh, our intrepid dirigible pilots bring us reports from the world at least once a month in good weather, although I sometimes doubt their accuracy.”

“Do you? Why?”

Miss Shaw inclined her head. “We’ve heard the queen has been replaced by a mechanical waxwork, and the heir to the throne is syphilitic and of less than average intelligence. Can you verify these rumors?”

James answered the twinkle in her eye with a smile of his own. “I must defer to Dr. Colgrave on the matter, as I don’t get out as much as I’d like.”

She laughed—no silly, girlish giggle, but a deep, provocative chuckle that sounded too large for her trim figure—and James’ heart gave a great, twisting heave. He pressed his fist against his breastbone and reached for his water glass.

“Do what you can to avoid my daughter… Do not observe her too closely, nor converse with her at length. She’ll be the death of you, otherwise.”

The echo of Aurelius Shaw’s words reverberated in James’ head, drowning out the irregular thud and lurch of his heart. He sipped his water and coaxed himself to breathe at a slower pace.

Superstitious tripe. I’ll not let myself be governed by the ravings of a dying man.

“Are you unwell, my lord? Shall I have one of the servants see you to your room?”

He looked up to see his hostess regarding him with what appeared to be genuine concern. He forced the frown from his brow. “Quite the contrary, Miss Shaw. Indeed, I look forward to exploring more of this grand and unusual house before I retire for the night.”

* * *

An hour later, James stood before the library windows, his breathing steady and his heart quiet for the moment. The eastern sky had darkened to the color of ripe plums, and smoke rose in dusty blue plumes from the peat fires that heated the villagers’ homes.

Colgrave had begged off further entertainment at the close of the meal, pleading exhaustion and headache. James left the doctor in the clearly capable hands of the housekeeper, and allowed his hostess to propel his wheelchair as far as the drawing room, which was dominated by a grand piano of uncertain age.

“Do you play, Miss Shaw?”

“No, my lord,” was her abrupt answer, but James knew a lie when he heard one. He chose not to press the point.

They moved to the library, which proved to be twice as large as any room he’d seen so far in this great, gloomy house. Its shelves were stuffed with all manner of books, scrolls, crumbling newspapers, pamphlets and atlases—a jumble so confused and out of order that it made his fingers itch to put it right.

A gust of wind brought a musical tinkle to his ear.

“Are those bells I hear?” he asked without turning from the window.

“Wind chimes, my lord. They are made of brass, which—like salt and iron—is said to have the power to both drive away evil and constrain its influence. My father had the chimes hung at every corner of the house for just that purpose.”

James noted the matter-of-factness in her tone, as if such things were commonplace topics of conversation all the world over.

More superstition. And what better place for it than this house, protruding as it does from a hillside like a mausoleum?

“I understand the ancient Vikings called these isles
Ultima Thule
—the end of the world.”

“Yes. A fitting name, don’t you think?”

“Indeed. One wonders why your father chose to make his home here.” When his hostess did not respond, James continued. “I fear I’ve been remiss in not offering my condolences. Your father was a fascinating man. The world of technology and invention has suffered an acute loss with his passing.”

He turned away from the window to find Miss Shaw standing before the fireplace, regarding him with a blank expression. Lifting his gaze to the mantel above her, he spied what appeared to be a clock draped in a length of black muslin. He could hear its muffled ticking from beneath the fabric. An unfamiliar mourning custom, perhaps?

Odd. So many things about this house and this daughter of Aurelius Shaw’s are so very…odd.

“My lord, please don’t think me rude, but—”

“You wish to know why I am here.”

“Yes,” she said simply, and clasped her hands behind her back, mimicking a pose James had seen her father strike a hundred times. “Your visit, while not unwelcome, has surprised us. We see so few Londoners beyond the occasional group of tourists.”

James gripped the arms of his wheelchair, lowered himself into it and swung about to fully face Miss Shaw. “I shall not insult your intelligence by blithering on about some nonexistent desire to see the isles of St. Kilda. Indeed…may I state my purpose in the bluntest of terms?”

“I do wish you would.”

James drew a deep breath. “I have traveled so far, at great inconvenience and in a shameful breach of the sanctity of your mourning period, in order to beg a favor—a very great favor, in fact. One that may save my life, if your father was correct in his hypothesis.”

Miss Shaw stared at him, her eyes so dark as to appear black at this distance. “I do not comprehend your meaning.”

But this was another lie. She showed it in the fidgety way she shifted her weight from one foot to the other and back again, and in how her pink tongue darted out to moisten the pretty bow of her mouth.

“I have in my possession a copy of your father’s last will and testament,” James continued. “As I’m sure you know, you are his sole heir.”

“So I’ve been informed, although I must admit to no understanding of what this means in practical terms.”

Was that a tremor in her voice? He’d thus far seen no show of grief from this strangely self-possessed young woman…save, of course, for the black crepe adorning her frock and her lack of jewelry or other ornamentation. But was she truly so stoical?

“It means you own this house, including the hidden room adjacent to your father’s laboratory and its entire contents.”

Here James paused to watch Miss Shaw’s face. Yes, there it was—the telltale pallor, the tightening of the lips.

She knows about the artifact. Now let us see what we shall see.

“The favor is simply this—allow me to search this chamber for a certain object, and to take this same object away with me. As I’ve said, it may save my life.”

Her small, white hands still clasped behind her back, Miss Shaw began to pace before the hearth. Again James was put strongly in mind of her father. Again his heart gave a lurch in his chest as he watched her and pondered the strange and poignant attraction he’d begun to feel for her heart-shaped face and tiny, black-clad form.

If I were a whole and healthy man, what might I risk to make her mine?

Finally, she stopped and faced him. “I will not pretend ignorance of this object you seek, but I will be so bold as to caution you in the strongest terms to avoid it.”

“Why is that, Miss Shaw?”

“Because the object is cursed, my lord, and the proof of it stands before you now, begging you to leave this house of damnation and never return.”