Hounds of Autumn (22 page)

“It wouldn’t be something someone bought at the market,” said Mrs. Block. “Oh God, no. No.” She shook her head in horror. “There’s a mushroom that grows on the moor …” her eyes filled with tears.

Chloe dug through the stacks until she found Harrod’s
Mycologia
and flipped to the table of contents.

“What is the damned thing called?”

“The Destroying Angel.”

Chapter 36

C
hloe stopped short as she
opened the book. “Where’s the doctor?”

“In the kitchen,” said Mrs. Block.

Chloe raced down the stairs and burst into the kitchen. Doctor Michaels looked up in shock. He had a half-eaten sandwich in front of him and a book open on the table. So he had been investigating, as well.

“It’s Destroying Angels,” she said.

“What?” She saw his confusion, and then he grew thoughtful, weighing the symptoms.

Chloe heard Mrs. Block yell for someone named Sarah, but she did not look away from the doctor.

“There were mushrooms in the soup,” said Chloe. “And Mrs. Block said she didn’t put any in. Do the symptoms match?”

Doctor Michaels shook his head and blinked in confusion. “Well, I would have to check, but I believe so. But everyone who lives around here knows what the poisonous mushrooms look like. Everyone knows not to bring it in the house or even touch it.”

“But people have eaten it before?”

“By accident. I’ve heard that sometimes some fool eats one, but it’s always someone out on the moor who makes a mistake. It wouldn’t be someone like Mrs. Block—”

“Never mind that. What is the cure? How do you treat it?”

“I—There is nothing. Some people die and some survive. It depends on their age and constitution as well as random chance.”

She was not going to entrust Ambrose to random chance.

“What about Doctor Fleming? Would he know? Have you ever personally treated someone who ate them?”

“No, I haven’t been in practice that long. But yes, Doctor Fleming would know. But who would be fool enough—”

“For God’s sake, man, fetch Doctor Fleming!”

The doctor rose from his seat, furious at being addressed in such a fashion. Chloe glared at him, but then muttered an apology. She was clearly overwrought and could not afford to be.

Mrs. Block yelled again, this time for someone named Billy. A boy appeared in the door and she told him to have Doctor Fleming summoned.

“Destroying Angels,” she said. “Don’t forget it. Destroying Angels. Now repeat it back.”

He did, and she sent the boy running out the back door toward the stables. Chloe turned back to the doctor.

“That book there,” she pointed at the doctor’s book which lay open beside his plate. “Would it have information on how to treat him?”

The doctor shook his head. Chloe turned to Robert. “Get the mycology book, the red one.”

The boy ran out the door. A maid came in as he left, the young woman who was Mrs. Block’s niece.

“Sarah, you are the one who brought up the soup to Mr. Sullivan, yes?” said Mrs. Block. Her voice was shaking.

Sarah nodded. Her eyes were wide.

“And were there mushrooms in it?”

“Yes. They were in the pot when I dished it out, just like you told me to. You told me to give it to him.”

“I know. And you’re sure there were mushrooms?”

“I’m sure. I remember thinking you put them in for extra flavor. I thought nothing of it.” The girl’s hands were clasped at her chest and she looked terrified. “And I served the soup for that poor little girl. She ate it right up.”

“And the soup was simmering for hours,” said Mrs. Block. “Any time from when I put it on the stove to when it was served, someone could have put the mushrooms in.”

“Just a moment,” said the doctor. “You are saying that someone intentionally put Destroying Angels in the pot? That’s madness.”

But Chloe knew it was beyond madness. Someone in the household knew that Ambrose was sick and would be the recipient of the soup. It was no accidental oversight.

“We need to find out who did this,” said Mrs. Block.

“More importantly, we need to make sure the patient survives,” said Doctor Michaels, turning toward the door.

Robert appeared with Harrod’s
Mycologia.
He already had it open to the page on
Amanita virosa
. His expression was grim. Chloe grabbed the book.

“Cap is white in color.” She skipped ahead. “Symptoms include violent vomiting, diarrhea, intense stomach pain and cyanosis of the extremities.”

“What is cyanosis?” asked Robert.

“His hands and feet have a bluish tinge,” said the doctor.

Chloe ran her finger down the page. “Poisoning causes complete disruption of metabolic system, and symptoms mimic that of Asiatic Cholera. Patient experiences periods of consciousness mixed with insensibility. Jaundice and degeneration of cardiac muscles, organ failure in kidneys and liver. Some victims survive, depending on age and previous state of health. In most cases, the victim lapses into a coma and dies.” She stopped. “There are no known antidotes.”

No known antidotes. She felt Robert’s steadying hand on her arm and someone took the book from her hands. The victim lapses into a coma and dies.

“Are you going to be all right, mum?” asked Mrs. Block.

Chloe blinked. No known antidotes. But some people survived, depending on age and previous state of health. Ambrose was not elderly. He was still active, and he was much larger than little Josephine. So his dose of the poison would have been relatively smaller in proportion to his mass. Perhaps he would survive. Perhaps.

“Of course I’ll be all right. I just needed a moment.”

Doctor Michaels headed out the kitchen door to tend to his patient.

“We should go with him,” Robert suggested. He was the one who had taken the book from her and now held it with his finger holding their place. He offered his arm, but she shook her head and strode up the stairs beside him.

The doctor was examining Ambrose. He was conscious, though the whites of his eyes were now more yellow, as was his skin, except for his purplish hands. The doctor got him to take more of the tonic and tablets. He forced Ambrose to drink half a glass of water.

“If he can pass fluids, there’s a greater chance that he can expel the poisons,” he said.

Later, Doctor Fleming arrived and talked with Doctor Michaels in the hallway. She could hear their voices, but could not make out anything they were saying.

Doctor Fleming entered. “So he was vomiting and had the diarrhea at the same time as the girl?” he asked Chloe.

“Yes. Mrs. Block said they found him right after Ian and I brought Josephine to you.”

He nodded and rubbed his beard. “Good. That’s good.” At the look on Chloe’s face, he explained. “He vomited a few hours after consuming the mushrooms. That means the poison was in his system for a shorter period of time than if it had been a full day. Sometimes patients do not exhibit symptoms for a day or two. By that time, the damage is worse.”

“So there is hope that he’ll survive?”

“It depends on how much of it he ate and other factors. We need to encourage him to drink, as Doctor Michaels has told you, to get the poison to pass out of him. After that, we just hope that his body is strong enough to overcome the damage done to it.”

The doctors came and went through the day. Robert rarely left her side. He helped the doctors administer more of the drugs and checked Ambrose’s breathing and pulse occasionally. He also made Chloe eat a little.

Chloe tried to get Ambrose to drink more, and managed to get him to take some broth. Giles sat on the bedside table, barely moving as people came in and out and tea trays were brought and replaced.

Members of the family came through to check on Ambrose throughout the afternoon. Beatrice came with her mother, who stood silently gripping the end of her elephant-headed cane. Dora came with Alexander and their father. William asked the doctors twice if they were doing everything they could. They said they were.

Mr. Frick and Miss Haynes came also, and sat with her until supper, when they left to attend to their evening duties. Doctor Michaels visited again after supper, and from his expression, she knew Ambrose was not progressing as he had hoped. By that night, they could not wake him.

She held Ambrose’s discolored hand and laid her head on his pillow, murmuring comfort to him. She told him how they would take a walk on the windy moor when he was better. He had papers to write and books to publish. There were still so many plants and animals to study and books to read and things to learn.

After everyone else had gone and when dawn approached, she told him all the stories of heroes and enchanted animals and adventure that she could remember. Then she sang him songs that her mother had sung to her when she was a little girl.

Chapter 37

A
mbrose waited beside the railing
at the edge of the Thames. It was the precise spot where he had proposed to her, and she liked the familiar feeling of the place. A large black dog sat beside him, its ears alert and its eyes watchful and appraising as she approached. It was not threatening and she was not afraid. A foghorn boomed in the distance where a barge toiled upriver, its hulking form indistinct in the mist. Though it was foggy, she did not feel any chill.

Ambrose took her hand and she looked into his eyes, brown flecked with amber. He looked younger somehow, the picture of health and vitality. An overwhelming feeling of well-being emanated from him and somehow transferred into her, and she felt pleasure and warmth. She did not ever want the feeling to end. She could stand here with him forever.

The dog nudged its head up under Ambrose’s hand, and when he looked down, the animal made a short chuffing sound in its throat.

Ambrose took her hand, and she felt all of him, his thoughts, his feelings and his soul through the touch of his fingers. She was aware of every part of his being, every cell of him thrumming with life. She felt his contentment and his sorrow, his love for her, both fierce and gentle. And there was something else, a pulling feeling. He bent to kiss her hand, and afterwards he did not release it, but held it in both of his.

Then, without a word, he let her hand fall. He touched the brim of his black top hat, turned and walked away. The dog trotted beside him and Ambrose’s long coat flapped around his legs as he vanished into the swirling London fog.

“Wake up, dear.”

Someone was shaking her shoulder.

“You have to wake up now, love. He’s gone.” It was a woman’s voice.

Chloe raised her head. Someone had pulled a sheet over Ambrose. No, he wouldn’t be able to breathe like that. She reached over and tore it off. He was asleep but something was wrong. She climbed up next to him and put her arm behind his head and shoulders to raise him. She tried to wake him and pressed her cheek against his forehead, and then froze. He wasn’t there. His body was lifeless.

Her Ambrose had gone. She had seen him by the river. She cradled him there on the bed, holding him to her body. His head lolled back and his mouth was slack, the lips pale. His eyes were closed, but he did not look asleep. Not at all.

He was still limp. He would stiffen in time, she knew. There was a word for that, but she could not think of it. Oh God, her Ambrose, dead and stiff and cold. His arms had been folded over his chest, but now fell to the sides. His discolored hand lay palm-up on the covers, a hand that would never wrap hers with warmth and reassurance. A hand that would never hold his stomach as he laughed his easy rolling laugh.

She crushed him against her, wrapping herself around him. People came into the room. There was a terrible sound, high and keening, but she did not know if she made it or if it came from somewhere else. She wanted it to stop, but it was the sound of her heart, crying out. It would always be crying out.

Someone pulled her backwards and off the bed. She was being held against someone. It was someone large, a man. She was being held against his chest, and she clung to him. It was not Ambrose. No, this man smelled different. He felt wrong. His voice was not the right voice, though it spoke reassuring words.

She turned to see Alexander pulling the sheet over Ambrose again. The cloth poked up where his nose was and she could see the line of his chin. Mrs. Block was nearby. She had been the one to shake Chloe awake.

The air would not come into her lungs properly. She couldn’t breathe. She gasped and pulled air into her lungs with heaving effort. She recognized the man’s voice as he made soothing sounds. He shushed her, like one would do with a young child. A small sensible part of her told her to breathe deeply and slowly. She tried.

“Brrr?”

She looked at Giles, sitting on the side table. He turned to the bed and leapt up beside Ambrose. He let out a long, high yowl, a sound like the one she had heard a few moments before.

Alexander snatched up the cat and tossed him out the door, slamming it closed. Chloe almost called out not to break him, but the words did not come. Giles could be repaired over and over. His parts were interchangeable with other parts. He could be fixed.

The arms around her loosened and she relaxed against the man who held her. The terrible sound in the room was gone, and she stepped back from William, who kept his hand on her shoulder. Faces peered into the doorway, and a few people entered.

Mr. Frick and Miss Haynes were there, and the valet stood close to the younger woman as she wept, but did not touch her. He was speaking quietly into her ear. They had lost their master, Chloe thought. Mr. Frick had known Ambrose for decades, Miss Haynes less time. But she knew they both considered Ambrose a good employer and a good man. There were others who would mourn.

People came and left, one by one, until only she and Mr. Frick remained, along with Doctor Michaels. Mr. Frick closed himself in Ambrose’s dressing room. Perhaps he was packing his master’s belongings.

She felt as if she were not entirely in her body, but was operating it from a distance, like a remote mechanical. She saw and heard and could respond, but she was somewhere else. It was not with Ambrose.

It was full daylight outside. She did not know what time or even what day it was. Robert was there. Then Beatrice was beside her, leading her down the hall to a quiet sitting room. She wanted to stay with Ambrose, but Robert had said something. She couldn’t remember what, but it had been sensible and she had let him lead her away. Beatrice, Dora and Robert sat with her, but she did not know why. They could not help her. All they could do was to offer her a handkerchief, which she took, and cup of tea, which she refused over and over. Finally, she relented and drank.

“How long has it been since you ate or slept?” asked Robert.

She shrugged and shook her head. The clock on the wall read eight thirty. She thought she had fallen asleep just at dawn, but she couldn’t be sure. Ambrose had taken that time to slip away quietly and without fanfare. A gentleman to the last.

She allowed Beatrice and Dora to take turns reading to her, but she did not hear the words, only the drone of their voices. Robert brought Giles to sit in her lap. She stroked him. He was unbroken and whole. There were parts in his legs that allowed him to absorb an impact. There were names for all of the mechanical pieces. Beautiful, scientific names.

They stayed with her for lunch, which she ate. They stayed with her through the afternoon. Robert had tablets from one of the doctors, which he wanted her to take. She obeyed.

Evening came. Miss Haynes, red-eyed and teary, drew a bath for her and she bathed. She dressed in her nightclothes and Miss Haynes combed her hair.

As her maid spoke to her and combed, each stroke gave her the gradual sensation of coming back into herself, back into her body after an absence. It was both better and worse than the previous feeling.

It was time for bed. Miss Haynes wanted her to take a sleeping tonic that the doctor had left for her, but she refused. There was a reason she needed to be awake and alert.

Miss Haynes left the tonic for her if she changed her mind. Then she poked the fire and bid her good night. Chloe turned off the gaslight so the only light in the room was from the fire. She knelt on the rug and watched the flames for a long time. She sat until her hair was completely dry and the skin of her face was overly warm. Fire was hot, and it consumed. It destroyed. She watched it. A log popped.

A flicker of something came into her mind. And slowly, something dark and mighty rose within her, like a leviathan rising from the black depths. The thing was powerful and it was large. Larger than her pain, and larger than her grief. Her agony fed it, and it blossomed, immense and powerful. It was a dragon awaking from a thousand year slumber, its dark wings unfurling, stretching until they blocked out the entire world. Its fury was searing and good. It engulfed her until she felt like she was buried in its heat. It fed her.

Death. There was too much death. She was surrounded by death. Camille had mud in her eyes, her skull bashed until she was dead. Josephine was crying, tortured and helpless in her arms, wishing for death. And Ambrose. Her Ambrose.

A person had done this. Death was not an impersonal force. It was not a ghostly hound at the riverside. It was a person. A person had murdered her husband and a little girl and Camille. And the person who did this would pay, yes. They would suffer as their victims had suffered. It was right.

The law said that the punishment for murder was hanging. But hanging would be an undeserved mercy for a demon like that. It was cheating justice, even if the murder would spend his or her last days contemplating death and the fiery hell that waited after that last dance on the gallows.

The heat of her fury poured down her spine and out her limbs. Her hands felt larger and stronger. Her eyes were keen.

She needed rest. The voice in her mind told her this. To rest. She could not do anything tonight. Her body and soul were exhausted. She needed to replenish them. Even a mechanical required periodic maintenance or it would fail. She needed her wits about her. She needed to be able to think logically, to see.

Deadly bogs and mine cave-ins and drunken men in alleyways no longer frightened her. The dark thing within her did not know fear.