The Midnight Witch (7 page)

“You don’t suppose … no, Fordingbridge, that is, I fear, a major part of the problem, your not supposing. You see, I imagine you took no trouble supposing how many people might also observe you noticing the article at the bottom of the page, and that they might have registered your interest in this piece, and that they might have become aware of the haste with which you sought to bring this news to my attention, suggesting that the article was, therefore, of no small interest … to me. Do you see where this might be leading us, Fordingbridge? Do you?”

The look of terror in Fordingbridge’s eyes suggests that he knows exactly where this might be leading them, and it is somewhere he wishes with all his being not to go.

“Oh, Mr. Stricklend, sir, I promise you, I was careful, truly, I was,” he whines, clasping and unclasping his hands, bending his feeble body even farther forward so that he is almost bowing before his master.

“But not careful enough,” says Stricklend. “I think you would agree, wouldn’t you, Fordingbridge? Or are you going to stand there and compound your stupidity by questioning my judgment on the matter, hmm?”

“Oh! No, sir, please…”

An expression of tedium passes over Stricklend’s face as he sends the Suffering Spell across the room. He finds it tiresome in the extreme that he has to so frequently admonish his servant and remind him of what will happen if he fails in his duties.

He watches as Fordingbridge endures his punishment and decides that, if nothing else, the wretched creature is learning to accept painful penalties as his due. He does not cry out when the skin on his hands starts to bubble and bulge but rather stares at them, almost fascinated to witness his own torment. It is only when the agony inflicted by the phantom burrowing worms reaches the tender areas of his neck and his face that he emits a pitiful, high, whining noise. Stricklend judges the point has been made and reverses the spell. Fordingbridge gasps, taking some moments to regain his composure. When he has done so he swallows hard.

“Well?” Stricklend asks. “Have you nothing to say to me?”

“Thank you, master!” he splutters. “Thank you.”

The permanent private secretary nods, satisfied, and dismisses his clerk with a wave of his hand.

4.

I allow Withers to help me from the hansom cab and instruct the driver to wait for us. He is predictably reluctant to linger in such a street, but a few extra coins persuade him it is worth the risk. In fact the place I ask him to halt is some way from Mr. Chow Li’s house. Shame enough that a stranger should be involved in recovering my brother at all. There is no necessity for him to see the actual premises. Or its clientele.

We make our way through the filth of the narrow alleys as hastily as we are able. The district of Bluegate Fields falls considerably short of the bucolic image conjured up by its name. The houses lean against each other like so many listing tombstones. Some are terraced rows with mean windows, but most are single story, little more than shacks, with swaybacked and makeshift roofs, and doors that open directly onto the muck and muddle of the unlit passageways and streets. As we draw closer to the river there are also tall, dark brick buildings, some as high as four floors, built as warehouses for merchandise brought up and down the Thames. Such is the gloom, that had Withers not had the foresight, born of experience, to bring a lamp, our progress would have been both halting and hazardous. Drunken men and women lurch from the shadows, calling abuse or suggesting ways in which they might assist one another. I pay them no heed but stride on, lifting my cape to avoid the worst of the mire. Withers is a large man, and his size and purposeful step go some way to warding off unwanted attention. I know, however, that the fact we are able to pass unmolested is due mainly to the guardian presence I summoned to accompany us. The protection I receive from the spirits who answered my call for help is not visible, not to those who are not witches. Should a witch be walking in Bluegate Fields this night, however, and happen to glance in the direction of the slender woman in the deep green cloak with her sturdy butler, they would clearly see the three long-dead soldiers marching, swords drawn, at my side. They would notice their feathered hats and short, silk-lined capes which marked them out as Royalists fallen in a war over two centuries earlier. And they would have registered the fierce and determined expressions which told of their loyalty to the young witch they now serve. The ordinary folk who reside alongside Mr. Chow Li see none of this. It is not what they
see
that makes them keep their distance and let us pass, it is what they
feel
. An indescribable sense that something stands between themselves and the curiously out of place woman in their midst. Something bold and dangerous. Something they had best keep away from.

We will stay close, mistress. Have no fear.

Thank you, my loyal Cavaliers.

As we approach the familiar red door we find the alleyway blocked by a small gathering of agitated people. The commotion appears to center around a ferocious-looking man with a wild beard and even wilder eyes. As I draw closer I recognize him. I glance at Withers, but can see that he is not as familiar with the outlandish creature as I. It is none other than the artist, Richard Mangan, one of our more colorful coven members. He is clearly drunk, and to let him see me now, to have him talk to me in such a state, would be risky indeed. It is an accepted rule of being a Lazarus witch that, when one unexpectedly encounters another in the Outerworld, we take great care not to reveal that we are acquainted unless we have previously been introduced to one another in society. To do so would raise many awkward questions. I am not surprised to see him in his cups, but I am surprised to find him here. Can it be that he, like my brother, is in thrall to the pernicious substance on offer in this place? I pull my hood a little lower over my face and turn slightly into the shadows.

Withers comments, “Not the usual behavior of one of Mr. Chow Li’s customers, my lady.”

“Indeed not.”

For the most part, those who frequent the Chinaman’s establishment arrive in minor states of agitation or deep despair, and whatever their private torment, leave at least quietly. While the artist is clearly being asked to leave, and encouraged to do so by his friends, he is doing it with considerable noise.

“A man is only as good as his word!” he rages. “If, then, a man’s word will not be taken as good, not even by one who knows him, what should we make of him? Of either of the fellows?” The bear of a man reels as he rants, his arms flinging wide, one hand clutching an empty brandy bottle. “I offered my promise of payment by the week’s end, but I was not believed! Not trusted!”

A slight man with light brown hair makes a feeble attempt to calm his friend, but to no effect.

“I will not be silenced!” bellows the inebriated Mangan. “My honor is at stake! I will defend myself as I must!”

A slender woman with striking red hair flowing loose almost to her waist puts a hand on his arm and says something I cannot catch. For a moment it looks as if her words might have struck home, but then the Mangan begins to argue the point with her.

I grow tired of waiting and turn to the nearest of the troublemaker’s acquaintances.

“Would you kindly tell your friend to allow us to pass?”

The young man looks as if he is surprised to be asked such a thing. Even in the patchy lamplight I can see he has a strikingly handsome face and dark, dark eyes. It occurs to me that I have seen him before, though I am unable to say when or where. When he speaks his voice is deep but gentle, almost hard to discern above the general din of what is going on around us. His slight accent suggests he is not a Londoner, but heralds from the north of the country.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “We are doing our best to persuade him to come with us.”

Mangan increases the volume of his protestations.

“It seems your best is not sufficient.”

“I’m afraid he is a little the worse for wear,” says the young man.

“You are pointing out the obvious. Better you and your friends had not thought to come here with him in such a state.”

At this the man appears to bridle a little, though I cannot imagine anyone in the habit of using what Mr. Chow Li provides is in a position to defend extreme behavior, his own or anyone else’s. He is prevented from responding by being summoned by the red-haired woman, who demands his assistance in grappling with the artist as he staggers about. With a great deal of struggle and more noisy complaint from the drunkard, the party lurch and sway up the narrow alley. I watch them go, wondering, not for the first time, how apparently well-spoken and educated people come to find themselves prepared to stoop to such a condition. I also make a note to speak with this errant witch, discreetly, next time we meet in the coven. Such behavior is unacceptable.

Stepping forward I knock smartly on the red door, which is quickly opened by a diminutive Chinese woman who, to my knowledge, has never uttered a word of English. I understand her to be a relative of the proprietor, rather than his wife. As soon as Withers follows me over the threshold the door is bolted behind us. Once again I stand in the darkness, but this time the stairs in front of me climb steeply upward, and are of worn and splintered wood. Mr. Chow Li’s property had, in an earlier incarnation, been used to store and distribute grain. All that remains of such industry is the thick coating of dust which clings to everything, including the stale air in the stairwell. The ground floor seems abandoned, and the first, from what I can discern, contains the living quarters for the owner and what family he has. Visitors are compelled to climb to the second floor, where the stairs open into a long, low-ceilinged room which spans the length and breadth of the building. A powerful fug of smoke, a singular smell, sweet and sickly, and the odor of warm bodies assails me as I enter the fetid space. On either side, the room is lined with low beds against the wall, some with curtains drawn about them, others open to view, exposing the slumbering occupants. There is little light, save for two lanterns hanging in the center of the room. Beneath these sits Mr. Chow Li, cross-legged, his walnut face scrunched in concentration as he prepares another pipe. He is sitting amid the paraphernalia of his trade—small dishes and pans, a little stove, and a selection of plain pipes set about him. His assistant, another Chinese woman of indeterminate age, wordlessly hands him this package and that spoon, seeming to know exactly what it is the old man requires at the precise moment he needs it. Becoming aware of the presence of his visitors, he looks up from his work and his features are transformed by a grin of convincing sincerity.

“Ah! Lovely Lady!” He springs lightly to his brocade-slippered feet and hurries forward to greet us. “Pleasure always to have Lovely Lady come Chow Li’s home,” he gushes. I hear a gruff snort of derision behind me from Withers, who does nothing to conceal his contempt for the opium master.

“I received your message.” I have no desire to enter into pleasantries or small talk with the man, today of all days. “Please take me to my brother.”

“Ah, Mr. Freddie not good this night. I told him ‘Too much wine! Too much wine!’ But he say, ‘Oh, no matter, Mr. Chow Li,’ and he say he bury his father today. ‘Be kind to me,’ he say. Ah! Very sad. So Mr. Chow Li give him what he want.”

“And your ‘kindness’ has made him ill,” I say curtly. A kindness that can be bought easily enough for the right amount of money.

Impervious to my anger, the old man scuttles ahead, beckoning, leading us to the far end of the room. I do my best to ignore the recumbent figures I pass. I feel as if to breathe here is almost an intimate act, as if I were sharing something forbidden and low with these unknown men and women. The large windows on the river side of the building are open, but the night is so close, so steamy, that there is no fresh air to relieve the thickness of the atmosphere in the den. I have been forced to retrieve my brother from one of these very beds on numerous occasions, and each time I have left the property feeling sick and lethargic, my mind dulled and my will sapped. What must it be like to smoke one of Mr. Chow Li’s pipes? How can I hope to pull my brother back from the clutches of something so tenacious and overwhelming?

Freddie is sprawled on his back on a low couch in the corner of the room. The sight of him so stricken makes my heart lurch. Each time I witness him in such a state my reaction is the same. It is as if I am seeing him dead. I lean over and grip his shoulder, shaking him gently.

“Freddie. Freddie, it’s me, Lilith. Can you hear me?”

His response is a low groan. I feel his brow and am shocked to find him running with sweat. I take the lamp from Withers and hold it over the grubby cot. Even in the unnatural light I can see that Freddie’s skin is almost green, his lips blue-tinged, and his pulse, throbbing in his forehead, dangerously slow.

“How long has he been like this?” I demand of Mr. Chow Li.

“Mr. Chow Li send message. Very busy here today…”

“How long?”

A stiff shrug is all the answer he gives.

“Quickly, Withers, help me raise him.”

Together we haul Freddie up off the bed. As always, I am thankful for my butler’s strength. I know he hates having to come to such a place, but he is fiercely loyal, and he adored Freddie as a small boy, teaching him card tricks when Nanny was not looking, and even letting him slide down the laundry shoot on occasion. I know it pains him to see that same playful boy grown into such a lost young man. We will take him home, making certain Mama does not see him in so disturbing a state, and I will summon the gentlest healing spirits to come and help me ease his suffering as the hateful poppy loosens its grip upon him. I will mop his brow, and murmur soothing spells and soft words, and watch as he suffers once again. And I will be there, steadfast and calm, in the difficult days when he returns properly to reality.

Mr. Chow Li hastens to clear a path for us as we navigate the room. The stairs are too narrow for me to be able to help Withers, so that he is compelled to lift Freddie and carry him, like a babe in arms, with painful care and slow progress, down the dusty staircase. At the door, I round on the bobbing Chinaman.