Renegade (18 page)

I resisted the urge to turn on my heel, to leave him there alone.

“I’m Arabella Sharp, sir,” I said, putting the knife back into my boot. Only then did I think about the problem of finding Simon’s carriage again. I doubted the driver had waited for us on High Holborn Road. “I’m the granddaughter of Lady Charlotte Westfield. But you know all that.”

He said nothing, merely stood there, irritated and perplexed as he held his wounded hand.

“Watch your back, Abberline,” I said as I scanned the street and tried to decide whether to return to High Holborn Road or not. I didn’t know what else to say to him. He needed the warning, but I needed to think. I began to walk away, rapidly.

Max was most certainly back. Everyone I loved would be in danger.

Something made me pause and turn toward Inspector Abberline. I knew he wouldn’t stop—he would keep pursuing this until he was in too deep. At this point, I might, just might, be able to save his life. He still must not know enough yet, or Max would have already killed him. This would be his last chance.

I had to be direct. “Where did you see that symbol you asked me about, Inspector?”

He paused, as if sensing the foolishness of discussing classified evidence with a seventeen-year-old girl, a girl who had been merely a pawn for him when he’d tried to solve the Ripper murders. I saw the indecision in his eyes.

“Abberline,” I said quickly. “I remember, last autumn, you warning me that I was caught up in a dangerous game. Now it is my turn to tell you that you are the one in grave danger. You had better tell me where you saw that symbol.”

His response came out gruff and defensive. “You know, of course, that the symbol is on a small picture in the laboratory closet of Whitechapel Hospital.”

Yes, of course. I remembered Simon’s suggestion that Abberline might have seen the Conclave’s symbol on that painting.

He continued. “I also saw the symbol on Dr. Bartlett’s arm once, during the autopsy on Annie Chapman.”

He paused, hoping that I would say more, but I said nothing. I was beginning to see that he truly did not understand the significance. This was a great relief to me.

Abberline sighed and lowered his voice. “The same symbol was found on a tomb in Highgate Cemetery, close to where the bodies of the resurrection men were discovered. Only myself and a few others know of this. We also found it on a tomb near the bodies at Brompton Cemetery. We are doing our best to keep it out of the
Times
; in fact, we will go to great effort over the next few weeks to keep this out of the newspapers, as much as possible. We don’t want a massive panic.”

My heart pounded with this information. The symbols in the cemeteries indicated, possibly proved, a connection between the recent graveyard murders and the Conclave. My mind swirled, this would also explain why Abberline knew about the symbol and was still alive. Max wanted him to know. For some reason, he was playing a game now with not only me, but also with Scotland Yard, just as he had done last October.

“Miss Sharp?” Abberline pressed.

“Yes, I know about the symbol, Abberline. In fact, I know a great deal.” I looked at him sharply, and I saw from his expression that he had no idea how much danger he was in, even now, having lost a finger. “You have to trust me. You’re involved in something much larger than you can imagine. If you choose to proceed in your investigation … watch yourself. I can’t always be around to protect you.”

“Miss Sharp … ” He wanted to press me for more. He sounded angry, frustrated, and undoubtedly thought I was being cheeky.

“Be careful, Inspector,” I said once again, walking away, knowing instinctively that he would not listen.

“Abbie!”

I heard the loud halt of carriage wheels on the cobbled street. Then I saw Simon’s tall figure leap out of his carriage as he ran toward me. When he reached me, I told him quietly what had happened, and I saw his gaze move past my head toward Inspector Abberline, who was approaching us in the darkness with his wrapped hand.

“Miss Sharp refuses to give me any information regarding these graveyard murders.” Inspector Abberline cocked his head under the dim streetlight. “Perhaps you can help me, Dr. St. John.”

“Wait for me in the carriage, Abbie,” Simon said quietly. I ignored him and stayed where I was.

“I will look at your wound, Inspector,” Simon said quietly to Abberline; the Inspector appeared almost annoyed that everyone seemed to care so much about his severed finger. I couldn’t help feeling a bit impressed by his continued disregard for it.

Gently, Simon took his hand and unwrapped the bandage. “The cut is clean, the flesh not torn too severely. It should heal well. Go to Whitechapel. Or to London Hospital. It must be cleaned to prevent infection and then sutured. I can take you there myself if you would like.” Simon’s voice, as usual, came out cool and reserved, but outstandingly polite.

Inspector Abberline said nothing, but he looked hard at me, then at Simon.

“Would you like us to take you to the hospital?” Simon repeated, his expression unphased by Abberline’s agitation.

“No,” Abberline growled. I knew he realized that I would not help him, and Simon would aide him only in the capacity of a physician. “I can get there myself. Good night.”

On the ride back to Kensington, Simon said, “My driver returned to tell me what happened. He knew the general direction where you had run. Abbie … ” His voice trailed off as he shook his head in disapproval. “I advised you to be extraordinarily careful.”

In the darkness of the carriage, I turned away from his disapproving gaze. Then I felt his fingers lightly on my chin as he gently turned me back toward him, forcing me to face him.

“I couldn’t ignore the vision,” I said quietly.

Then I told Simon about what Abberline had told me—about the symbol appearing in the cemeteries. “We have proof now that the graveyard murders are likely connected to Max. And Max attacked Abberline. He was luring me into that alley, knowing that I would protect Abberline.”

Simon remained silent, his face pale and handsome in the carriage darkness.

“Did you talk to William?” I asked.

“I did.” Simon’s look, as always, penetrated into me. I thought, in that moment as I had so many other times, how much he looked like the archangel Michael in an illustration in Grandmother’s Bible. Beautiful, angelic, too ethereal to exist.

“William is far too indisposed to work safely at the hospital. I am requiring that he take some time off. What happened the other night—those murders—was awful, but it could have turned out much worse.” His voice was stony, and I knew that he had very little respect for William. I suspected that he wasn’t even surprised by William’s current behavior.

William … what was happening to him? He had seemed like a different person when I saw him that night. And yet his behavior only fortified the wall I had built up around my heart, the wall protecting myself from him.

Fifteen

S
eraphina burst into her house, feeling even more invigorated than she had after consuming the French boy twenty years before. She took up her easel and began to paint. Her strokes were fast, furious. She felt her beast form melting away as she became human. Her skin became soft, pliable, again. Her fangs receded.

As with the other portraits, she knew she would not finish this one, but it was more complete than many of her others. She was painting Julian Bartlett. She had not seen him in years, and yet he had been like a father figure to her. He and Robert Buck had been so kind—they were the only physicians who had ever helped her, at least before Robert’s experiment had gone horribly wrong.

But she didn’t think about that part. She felt strong enough now to face her other old memories. To recall Julian’s face.

His trim beard.

His eyes.

Gradually, her pounding heart subsided. She thought again of her keeper’s absence. If he was still angry about her outburst in November, perhaps his long absence was a lesson to her.

After her attack on the fishermen, she knew she would sleep well. There was a calmness in her blood, a bit of an ease from her restlessness. Immediately after the killings, she had swum about the island, then decided in the foggy twilight to fall asleep on her craggy perch. And her sleep had spun such peaceful dreams. No nightmares. Only the roar of waves.

She felt appeased, satisfied. Although she knew it was only momentary contentedness—her hunger was only held at bay.

“Per’aps we should turn around,” one boy said to another.

“Nay, not at all,” the other one replied. They had skipped out of school to fish. At thirteen years old, they wanted to do nothing else but fish on that day. And the day had indeed seemed so perfect for fishing. The sky burned white-bright upon their boat, and the calm sea emitted only a small, salt-tinged breeze.

“Don’t tell me ye’re scared, Timothy, after those mudders, those attacks the other night.”

“Nay,” the first boy said, shrugging. But Timothy was more timid than his companion, Rowan, and certainly the smarter of the two. This was the first time, in fact, that he had ever skipped out of school.

Rowan looked hard at Timothy, leveling his gaze. “The inspectors are saying it is a wild wolf. Perhaps a loosed bear. Nothin’ more.”

“Per’aps,” Timothy said, willing himself to believe it. But now, as he looked toward the land, toward the shore of Bromwell—only a tiny, green, rock-strewn sliver on the horizon—and as he felt the flimsiness of their small dory on these waves, he felt uneasiness creep upon his flesh. He wished they had stayed on land. Or at least closer to land.

Then the boat jolted violently, as if a whale had hit the bottom.

“What was that?” Timothy asked, almost dropping his fishing pole in the waters.

“Dunno.” Rowan said. His right eyebrow lifted a bit in mockery. “Scar’d?”

Something slammed even harder into the boat’s underside. Water sloshed into the dory. Rowan looked frightened now—in fact, terrified. Both boys pulled their poles up.

“We should go back,” Timothy said quickly, taking up the oars. He wasn’t one to break the rules, and he had had a bad feeling about skipping school all day.

Something splashed in the water behind them.

“A whale perhaps,” Rowan said, his voice only a small croak.

Timothy wished it were a whale. It was difficult to see as the noon sun glinted hard off the waves. But from the corner of his eyes, Timothy thought he saw the flash of a webbed hand—lizard-like, with talons. Horror overwhelmed the boy and his throat went dry, parched. Neither he nor Rowan could speak as an eerie calm set upon them and the waters.

They sat silently, breathing hard, staring at each other, frozen, their oars suspended just over the water, afraid to move.

Then the boat tipped, dumping both of them into the sea.

It had been three weeks since the night Inspector Abberline was attacked, and I had only been able to see Simon a few times. But my hours at New Hospital were long, and even now, on Sunday morning, my muscles ached. I spent each and every day at New Hospital, helping Dr. Carmichael and occasionally working alongside Dr. Anderson; then, in the evenings, rather than resting or sleeping, I often stayed up until midnight or even later, studying Dr. Anderson’s anatomy books. Although I did not wish it, thoughts of William seeped into my mind. Sometimes, particularly when I felt weary and vulnerable after those late nights of studying, as I drifted into sleep, I would think of him, my weary mind finding the happily-ever-after ending that my more rational mind could not. In my dreams we would reconcile, forget the past. But I would always wake up, dawn breaking through my curtains, and my concerns about what he had done, and also about what he had become lately—inebriated, irresponsible—arose again. I would force myself to get up, dress, and become lost in the needs of the day.