The Angel of Highgate (21 page)

Aurelia’s words squeezed Thraxton’s throat like a giant hand. His chin quivered and his eyes pooled so that he had to turn his face away.

“What is wrong?”

“Dear lady, you make me ashamed. You have so little for yourself, and yet your first thought is always for the happiness of others.”

She touched his shoulder. “Please, do not take on so. I know you are a good and kind person.”

A mirthless laugh ripped from Thraxton’s lips. “Truth is I am not. I have spent my entire life in idleness, indulging every base appetite without restraint or thought as to whom I may injure. I am a wretch, and it is only in this moment that I have come to realize the full depth of my wretchedness.”

Aurelia put a lace-gloved hand to Thraxton’s cheek and turned his face to hers. “No. I know you are not a bad man. I see goodness in you. You are brave and fearless. You risked your life to save mine.”

Thraxton pulled her hands from his face and kissed them.

“Surely you are an angel. Perhaps you have come to redeem me.”

* * *

Maggie banged down a sixpence on the bar and knocked back the glass of gin the barman set before her to wash away the taste of her last customer. Then she pushed her way through a throng of drunken men who casually groped her and took up her place outside the gin shop, hoping for another customer. From up the street she heard footsteps approaching, and then a man shambled out of the fog, head down, hands in pockets, and Maggie stepped out to block the pavement.

“Cold out, ain’t it, dearie?” she called. “But it’s warm inside!”

However, the man tossed her only the slightest of glances and weaved around her. She watched him disappear into the fog and sighed, but as she turned to look back, a hand clamped over her mouth and shoved her back into the wall so hard her head smacked hard against the bricks. When she saw who was holding a hand over her mouth, her eyes widened more from fear than pain: Mordecai Fowler, flanked on either side by his two main cronies, Barnabus Snudge and Walter Crynge.

“Hallo, Maggie me old gal,” Fowler said. “How’s business?” Fowler’s free hand rummaged through Maggie’s clothing until he found a single coin and snatched it out.

“I’ll be blowed,” he said, looking at the coin. “A gold sov! Who give you this?” He pried his grimy hand loose from her mouth, allowing her to speak.

“A toff give it me. Hour ago. He’s still in there.” She indicated the gin shop with a jerk of her head.

Fowler’s lips peeled back from a twisted snaggle of yellow teeth. He tossed the gold sovereign and caught it again. “You was gonna tip this up to me, wasn’t ya, Maggie?”

“Yeah, Mordecai… straight up I was.”

Just then the toff, a well-dressed man in top hat and frock coat, reeled out of the gin palace.

“There he is now, Mordecai,” Crynge said. “In his cups from the look of it.”

Staggering drunk, the man collided with the lamp post and hung from it while he regained his equilibrium, then weaved away up the street. Although Fowler didn’t yet know it, the gent was in fact Tristram Lloyd-Babbage, a venerated judge and pillar of the law. It was not uncommon to see such high-borns jostling shoulders with the poor, for many affluent gents had a penchant for “slumming,” where, far from society’s prying eyes and protected by anonymity, they could indulge their appetites for underage prostitutes and lethally strong liquor.

“A bleedin’ toff!” Fowler spat. “I hate bleedin’ toffs.”

Fowler gave a nod and he and his two compatriots hurried after the man and fell in lockstep. Fowler stepped forward and threw an arm around the man’s shoulders like they were old friends. “Allow me to help you, sir. Bit dodgy around here at night… especially for a gent such as yourself.”

“Damned decent of you, old man,” the magistrate slurred. “Perhaps you could hail me a hansom cab?”

“Oh, yes, sir,” Fowler said. “As luck would have it, we are right close to where one parks. It’s down here, sir.”

Fowler steered the drunkard into the obsidian mouth of an alleyway. Snudge threw a look both ways as he pulled out his cosh, and then followed them in. The cadaverous Crynge took up a position at the entrance to the alleyway, keeping lookout.

“It’s black as a coal pit!” the judge slurred. “Are you certain this is right?”

“Oh, yes, sir,” Fowler said. “In fact, I got your ride home right here!” And with that Fowler scruffed Lloyd-Babbage by the back of his coat and hurled him forward, sprawling him on the cobblestones. Fowler then leapt on, knees slamming into his chest, pinning him to the ground.

Lloyd-Babbage wheezed as Fowler’s bulk squeezed the breath from his lungs. “See here, you scoundrel, I am a magistrate! Unhand me or you’ll know the law’s displeasure.”

“Oh you is a magistrate is ya?” A sick leer twisted the mobsman’s features. “You shouldn’t oughta told me that. My friend Mister Pierce, he hates magistrates.” Fowler fumbled in his coats, drew the thin metal skewer from its leather scabbard and pressed its needle tip against the judge’s cheek. “Magistrates is liars what talk out both sides of their mouths. But Mister Pierce, he knows how to shut their lying gobs forever!”

Fowler’s pupils dilated wildly as a bestial roar ripped out of him and he plunged the spike into the judge’s face again and again and again and again…

When Lloyd-Babbage’s bloodcurdling screams shattered the stillness of the night, Maggie was still lurking by the gin shop door, afraid to stay, but too afraid to run away. She listened in horror, a hand clamped over her mouth, as the screaming continued, seeming never to end. Finally, she could stand the shrieks no longer and ran sobbing into the night.

* * *

Thraxton and Aurelia had finally reached the City of London proper, and in their travels had crossed the invisible border that separated some of the very poorest in London from the some of the very wealthiest. Now, as they turned to walk up a wide, generous boulevard, lined by trees and fine houses, Thraxton suddenly stopped. “Listen!” he said.

“What?”

“That sound.”

Suddenly Aurelia heard it, too. “Music?”

“Mozart… no, Strauss. They’re playing a waltz.”

This time, Thraxton led Aurelia along the pavement until they found the music’s source: a huge house, candelabras blazing in every window; outside, parked on both sides of the street, a fleet of carriages awaited their owners.

The wealthy homeowners were throwing a ball. Through the windows, Thraxton and Aurelia could see crystal chandeliers, walls lined with enormous paintings with gilt-edged frames, elegant couples gliding across a ballroom. The front doors and windows of the house were thrown open to allow the heat to escape.

“How wonderful!” Aurelia said.

“Shall we join them?”

She looked at him wonderingly. “You know these people?”

“No, but then I only ever attend parties to which I am not invited.” He grinned and pulled her by the hand. “Come. Let’s go.”

But Aurelia drew back, resisting. “No! No, I couldn’t possibly!”

Thraxton would normally have bullied until he got his way, but he caught the flash of fear in her eyes and assumed she declined because she was embarrassed by the simplicity of her dress. “Very well, then. We have music. We can still dance.” And with that, Thraxton slipped one hand around her waist and stretched out the other, ready to dance. Aurelia looked at him uncertainly, and then slipped her hand in his. Together they began to waltz in the middle of the street, ignoring the stares of the carriage drivers huddled beneath their cloaks and stepping carefully to dodge the piles of horse manure.

Standing in the shadows at the side of the front doors was a dour and serious-looking man with graying hair dressed in the formal velvet uniform of a servant. He watched the couple waltzing in the street as he calmly drew on a cigarette. After a moment, he flicked the cigarette away, straightened his attire, and slipped back inside the house.

Thraxton and Aurelia spun and whirled up and down the street until she dissolved in fits of giggles. “Oh! You are making me dizzy!”

Thraxton laughed and waltzed her about even faster. But in mid-spin they almost collided with someone standing in the road—the servant, who coughed into his glove to gain their attention. They stopped. Thraxton instantly assumed the man was there to see them off and grew belligerent. “Now see here, my man. We were simply—”

The doorman said nothing and held out a tray upon which sat two glasses of champagne.

“Oh, I see,” Thraxton laughed. He handed a glass to Aurelia and took one for himself. “Thank you, my man. Damned decent of you!”

The servant bowed from the waist then sauntered back to his post beside the front door. Aurelia and Thraxton looked at each other and clinked glasses, giggling like children as they sipped their champagne.

* * *

“My feet are sore.”

“Mine, too.”

“How far have we walked?”

“Miles… over half the city.”

Thraxton and Aurelia trudged the last few steps to the front steps of her house. To the east, the rising sun stained the fog a ruddy crimson.

“I don’t want to go,” Aurelia said.

“Then don’t.”

“But I must. It’s dawn.”

He took her head in his hands.

“You are my dawn, bright and glorious.”

He brought his face close to hers. His lips barely brushed hers. More a promissory note than a real kiss—he did not want to frighten her. But to his surprise she leaned in and kissed him back—her lips closed, but the kiss both soft and warm. When she pulled away, Aurelia’s violet eyes were sparkling.

When he spoke, Thraxton’s heart was overflowing. “Aurelia, you’ve shown me your world, now I want to share my world with you. I can take you to the finest balls. I can take you rowing on the Serpentine. We could tour Europe. The Americas. Anywhere. I can take you to Italy… to Tuscany, away from the damp and fogs of England. The sunlight there is the most wonderful thing you can imagine—”

He stopped as Aurelia’s smile collapsed and she pulled away.

“Nuh, no,” she stammered breathlessly. “I was wrong. This was wrong. It is impossible. You do not know me. I cannot do these things. I simply cannot!”

He reached for her but she tore from his grasp, ran up the steps, unlocked the front door and vanished inside without ever looking back. For some time Thraxton stood there, staring up at the door, dumbfounded. Finally, his shoulders slumped, his head dropped, and then he turned and walked away up the street.

F
rom outside the tent came the concussive boom of artillery and the steely clash of armies colliding. Inside, the muddy tent floor was strewn with hundreds of dead, dying and grievously wounded soldiers packed so tight it was difficult to step between them. Doctor Jonas Hooke bent over a rickety operating table, the front of his gown sprayed with blood, sawing off limbs, probing pliers into gaping wounds, ripping loose jagged chunks of shrapnel, sewing slippery coils of intestine back into place. The smell was atrocious, the ground the tent was pitched on little more than churned-up muck weltered with gore and the filthy boots tracked from the latrine pits. Through it all, he floated at the center of a sickly sweet cloud of chloroform that numbed and blurred everything and reduced life to a ghastly dream glimpsed only in snatches of fitful sleep.

After each surgery, the body on the litter before him would be hauled off and a fresh one slapped down. Soon the faces merged in an anonymous blur of flesh tone. All he saw were wounds to suture and mangled limbs to amputate. He grew adept at holding the scalpel in either hand, so as cramp set in he would transfer it from one to the other. In truth he was more butcher than surgeon, and quickly learned the slaughterhouse tricks for removing a hand with a few quick scalpel cuts, a leg or an arm with the frenzied violining of a bone saw, a mangled hand with a dextrous whack of the cleaver. Orderlies dragged away arms and legs to be stacked in piles. Carts laden with torsos missing heads and limbs were dragged from the mud in carts pulled by whinnying horses, eyes rolling and crazed from the incessant gun and cannon fire.

The earth ceased to exist. He stood with one foot astride heaven and hell, severing the silky fibers that bound human souls to the earthly plane.

One day he was sewing up a soldier after pushing the man’s guts back into his body, when he looked up to see a strange and uncanny apparition—a tall, thin man in a black frock coat with a bone-white top hat. Unseen and ignored by the orderlies and doctors rushing back and forth, he stood among the dying wounded littering the tent floor.. His face was elaborately mustachioed with bushy sideburns. The man wore rose-tinted pince-nez and was staring directly at him. He seemed uncannily familiar and now he smiled and raised his hand, covering one eye with something square: a Tarot card, the Hanged Man.

Suddenly, all sound drained away, as if his ears had been stoppered with wax. For a moment stretched to breaking, he no longer heard the shouts of the doctors and nurses, the moans of the dying or the skull-numbing concussion of heavy artillery.

Then the sound returned in a rush. He heard a
plooooooomph
sound and looked up to see a bright star shining through the surgical tent’s canvas roof as an incendiary shell exploded directly overhead. Instantly, the canvas roof dissolved into flames and a cataract of fire swept through the canvas structure, burning alive wounded soldiers, nurses and surgical officers alike.