Chapter One
Devon Harbury shook the snow off his thick coat as he entered the warmth of the cottage he shared with his good friend Inspector James Burke. In his current position as Burke’s “assistant”, Devon was reacquainting himself with the Harbury estate—a property that was rightfully his and would be once again, he knew.
But for now, it was owned by Lord Randall Harbury, Devon’s uncle. Along with Alwynne Harbury, Devon’s aunt, Randall had appropriated Harbury upon the alleged death of the rightful heir. Of course the heir himself, Devon, wasn’t dead at all, but very much alive and had been incarcerated in the depths of the laboratories beneath the Hall, until a small party of resourceful friends had rescued him.
There were seven levels of underground facilities buried deep in the hillside. The locals knew there was scientific research done at Harbury. In a way they were quite proud of that fact. After all, they lived in Little Harbury and many were dependent upon the Hall for their livelihood. It was an odd familial kind of relationship that was not uncommon in English villages during the extensive reign of Her Majesty Queen Victoria.
However, of late there had been things, dreadful things, happening in and around Harbury.
There had been explosions, fatal accidents, disappearances—and most recently the unspeakably horrid and brutal murders of several London gentlemen and the women who were entertaining them.
The heinous outcome had been the savage atrocities committed upon the person of Lady Alwynne Harbury, resulting in her current state of complete incapacitation. It was still a hot topic of conversation at the Dead Boar Arms where the villagers gathered to exchange news and gossip over a pint and a game of darts.
It was also where Devon had spent the last two hours playing—and losing—a couple of games, while downing one of those pints and quietly listening to what people were discussing.
“You were right.” He walked into the snug parlor and found Burke in his favorite chair, feet up in front of a bright and warm fire, with a tumbler of rich amber liquid on a side table. A book was there, open and face down. Devon deduced the man had been reading. He was priding himself on his growing observational skills. “Reading?”
Burke raised an eyebrow. “Playing detective again?” He chuckled and sipped his whiskey. “What was I right about?”
Devon sighed and took the opposite seat, leaning forward and holding his hands to the fire. “Well, firstly it is damned cold, and secondly nobody knows what on earth happened to McCardle. There are plenty of ideas, of course. Wild ones.”
“Like what?” Burke looked interested.
“My favorite is the one where some strange brain-eating monster, created at Harbury, escaped and devoured him from the inside out.”
“Good God.”
“Precisely.” Devon bent his neck from side to side, stretching it. “In truth, nobody has a solid thought or comment about this other than it is the worst thing they can ever remember. Especially coming on top of Lady Alwynne’s tragedy.”
“The timing is not good, that’s certain.” Burke stared into the flames. “I know it’s been a couple of months since then and the Christmas season diverted everyone’s thoughts into happier paths. But this…” He glanced at the younger man. “Did you see the body?”
Devon shook his head. “It was already in the coffin. Nailed down very well too. I checked. The service is this Sunday.”
“I can understand that. There are always one or two nosy folks trying to get a glimpse of something they shouldn’t ever want to see.”
“Agreed.” Devon stood and walked to the small bureau where he helped himself to a matching glass of whiskey. “I did learn that the victim, Finlay McCardle, was a newcomer and he’d only been in Little Harbury for a couple of months. He was working as a jack-of-all-trades, it seems. A strong arm for hire. But a bit of a weak mind, it’s rumored.”
Burke’s eyebrow lifted. “Slow?”
“Apparently.”
Both men fell silent as Devon returned to his seat and appreciated the bouquet of the liquor. It was a troubling thought…that somebody could take advantage of a lad who did nothing but help and work hard around a winter-locked village.
And that they had taken more than advantage. They’d taken his life.
Burke broke the silence. “Why the back of the head?”
“What?”
“Why a hole in the back of his head?” Burke frowned. “The Doran lad has good powers of observation and his statement was detailed. A large round hole in the back of his head, he said. Perfectly round. Round as a guinea coin.”
“I read that too.”
“A drill?”
“God, I suppose so. I can’t imagine anything else that could cut bone like that.” Devon shuddered a little. “It’s a very bad thought, though. I can’t think of any medical reason for it. Not when most of his brains were gone. And his eyes, Burke.” Devon drank again, steeling himself. “Gone. Completely gone. Just like…how did Doran put it? Like something inside his head had blown up.”
Burke sighed. “Of the many things I’ve seen at Harbury, including explosives, nothing would make a neat round hole the size of a cricket ball. That’s really annoying me. It’s an anomaly. I dislike anomalies.”
Devon drained his glass. “I dislike the entire thing, of course. Killing like this is…inhuman.”
“Agreed. But, we’re dealing with warped and twisted science, lad. So we have to push aside our instincts toward humanity and civilized behavior. We have to ask ourselves if this could possibly result from some kind of abhorrently bizarre experiment.”
Once again, Devon shuddered. The memories flooded back. “You’re right. I’ve been free for so short a time you’d think I would immediately see the connection.”
Burke laughed gently. “You’re healing, Devon. That’s a good thing. Some of our experiences are best forgotten as much as possible. The war. Level Seven at Harbury. Death…things like that.”
“Yes.” He turned at a sound outside the room. “And it would seem our ladies have arrived.” He smiled at Burke. “She’s helping, you know. Portia is. Just being around her makes me feel alive again. She’s helping me lay all that horror aside.”
He smiled back. “I had a feeling she would.”
“And Charlotte too,” added Devon. “She helps both of us, I think.” He grinned.
“She does indeed.” Burke rose as the ladies themselves erupted into the room.
*~~*~~*
Charlotte Howell hurried into his arms and hugged him enthusiastically. “My goodness, James. It’s bitter out there.” She snuggled into his warmth.
He grinned and hugged her back, rubbing her shoulders with his hands. “It’s January. Probably has something to do with it.”
A snort came from the other side of the room where Devon was hugging his own cheeky armful, Portia Fielding. “Flippant, Inspector. But accurate.” She disengaged herself from the strong arms around her. “How about pouring us poor frozen females a small drop of that lovely Scotch you rather selfishly hog to yourself?”
Burke rolled his eyes. “Very well. Sit down, Miss Nuisance, and I’ll pour while you spill the gossip.” He turned. “Or is that your task, my dear?”
Charlotte shook her head. “No. I’m all talked out. It’s not easy being a shallow-minded female with little on her mind but men and dresses.”
“I agree. If I had to giggle one more time, I’d have hit somebody.” Portia audibly ground her teeth. “I don’t mind being part of the intelligence-gathering contingent around here, but at least let me do it with people possessed of at least a little intelligence themselves.”
Devon laughed, then wisely turned it into a cough as Portia shot him what could well be termed a “speaking” glance.
“Anyway.” She accepted the glass from Burke and took a sip. “Charlotte and I spent the afternoon at Mrs. Onslow’s millinery. Her niece was there, sorting through things, and once the lights went on in the shop…well it was like a red flag to an assortment of curious cows.”
Burke winced as he followed the slightly confusing analogy. “Lots of company?”
“More than we needed.” Charlotte added. “Mostly ladies of Little Harbury who had, or wanted, a hat from Louise herself. She was very good at what she did, you know.”
“Yes, she was. There were some lovely fabrics in her storeroom.” Portia nodded.
“But nothing about those twin girls?”
“No. Not a thing.” Charlotte frowned. “They had a room over at the Dead Boar Inn, but it had almost nothing in it, apparently. What there was…a spare petticoat or two, a couple of baubles…went to Mrs. Clark to offset the rent.”
Devon shrugged. “Well, that makes sense. The Clarks do quite well from the Inn, but nobody can afford to lose money these days. I don’t begrudge them the chance to make up a few pence here and there.”
Portia glanced at Burke. “From what I understand there was little to say who they were or where they were from. Nothing at all about the other woman who arrived just before…before that night.”
Her voice trembled a little at the memory of rooms reeking of blood and the unspeakably terrible sights of savage chaos they’d contained.
“How about Louise’s accident?” Burke turned her thoughts away from that horror as best he could.
“Nobody is treating is as anything other than just that. A terrible accident.” Charlotte was there with him, joining him in diverting their conversation. “She was known to walk everywhere regardless of the weather, and it was particularly bad and icy a night or so before they found her.”
“Do you have any suspicions, Burke?” Devon glanced at the older man.
“I’m always suspicious of everything, lad. You should know that by now.” He settled himself back in his chair, smiling as Charlotte moved to rest her hip on the overstuffed arm next to him.
“However, this woman met an untimely death at around the same time her two apprentices were at Harbury Hall. Or at least planning on going to Harbury Hall.” He finished his whiskey. “I dislike anomalies, which I think I mentioned a short time ago. I dislike coincidences even more, but I have nothing but a handful of odd happenings to connect anything.”
His gaze fell on a thick notebook lying closed on one of the bookshelves. It contained his thoughts on a variety of topics and dated from his arrival at Harbury. It was getting thicker all the time and he’d recently added some notes on gaseous substances, mostly ending in question marks, since he’d not heard anything from London regarding his enquiries. Now he’d have to add a new section on strange head wounds. He sighed.
“Are you looking for connections to this latest incident? The McCardle business?” Charlotte gazed at him curiously.
“Possibly.” Burke tugged on his lower lip and stared at the fire for a moment or two. “But for the moment, I can only see one connecting thread between all these events.”
Silence fell in the room.
Then Portia spoke. “You’re right, Inspector. The only thing linking all these terrible occurrences is half a mile away.”
She looked at each of them. “It’s Harbury Hall.”
*~~*~~*
The gaming room was glowing with the light of many candles and a few oil lamps strategically placed near the table upon which rested an ornate chessboard. A roaring fire sent its warmth over the colorful Aubusson carpet, and heavy curtains kept the bitter January night outside the luxury of Harbury Hall.
“Check, I believe?”
Baron Gerolf von Landau leaned back and reached for his brandy, his gaze on the board and the arrangement of figurines.
His opponent was doing the same thing, staring at the array of white pawns as his tapered fingers tapped silently on the arm of his chair. With the lighting arranged so well, it was nearly impossible to tell that half of this man’s face was missing.
Gerolf knew, of course. He’d been a friend of Lord Randall Harbury for several years. But these days, since Gerolf had arrived in England and renewed their acquaintance, the disintegration of Randall’s features had become more pronounced. Now—although he hated to use the word—his Lordship was monstrous in appearance.
His manners, however, were impeccable on this particular evening, and he merely allowed a slight smile to curve what was left of his mouth as he neatly moved a knight, protected his own King and put Gerolf’s bishop in jeopardy.
“There. I believe that takes care of the imminent threat.”
“Damnation. That is quite brilliant. A maneuver I never anticipated.”
Randall acknowledged the compliment with a brief nod. “I enjoy doing the unexpected. It keeps life interesting.”
“Without doubt,” agreed Gerolf. He could do no less, since Randall Harbury typified the unexpected—in the worst possible way. He perused the board, mulling over his next move.
“How are your laboratory facilities, Gerolf? Are you finding them to your satisfaction?” Randall’s tone was mild and casual.
But Gerolf, cautious and aware of his audience, did not mistake it for an idle question. His response was carefully considered. “The rooms are excellent for my purposes, Randall. Especially the insulation which, the workplace being beneath the ground, is ideal. And your staff, by the way—very efficient.”
Lord Harbury nodded. “That is good to hear. Several of them have been with us for some time, in spite of our recent…difficulties, shall we say. I made sure to raise their wages at the New Year, because I do believe loyalty deserves rewarding. Would you not agree?”
“Wholeheartedly.”
“Good.”
Randall waved a hand at the board. “Your move, I think?”
Gerolf’s heart was beating a little faster as he moved his hand to a pawn, ready to sacrifice it for the greater good. But it wasn’t the chess game that had accelerated his pulse. It was the larger game he knew his host was playing.
And sure enough, as soon as the move was made, the next question came right on schedule.
“And your experiments. They are progressing well, I hope?”
Gerolf was ready. He’d been anticipating this inquisition for the last few days and part of him was relieved it had begun.
“They are. Thank you for your interest. The herbal tinctures, especially, are proving to be most…efficacious when added to the chloroform.”
“Good, good.”
Lord Harbury overlooked Gerolf’s slight hesitation with the awkward English words he used.
“The concentrations here at Harbury seem especially pure, and with them I have been able to induce a tranquility unsurpassed in any of my previous experiments. Once a subject is that calm, then the process of delving into his mind is quite simple.”
“And?”
Gerolf paused. This was a dangerous area and he knew one wrong word or comment could cost him dearly. The man across from him held the reins to Gerolf’s groundbreaking scientific research. He was funding it and providing a location for it to continue unhindered.
He was also the most brutally savage and amoral being that Gerolf had ever met.
“Thus far, I have progressed beyond any of my work to date. I have valuable research to analyze, and it has been only a few weeks. I am eagerly anticipating the results of such analyses and already developing ways to apply this new information.”
He paused, knowing that the man with half a face was hanging on his every word. “There have been…drawbacks, of course.”
“To be expected. I would talk of omelets and eggs, but perhaps that might be viewed as inappropriate given the circumstances.” Harbury dismissed the “incident” with a wave of his hand.
Gerolf swallowed. “It was unfortunate, and I hold myself responsible. Rest assured it will not occur again.”
His host nodded. “We must pay the price for scientific research, must we not? Otherwise how will great discoveries be made? How will our world advance to the next level of knowledge and existence if not for the building blocks scientists such as yourself create, discover and design?” Harbury looked at the chessboard, then stood and shrugged. “It was a good game, Gerolf. I believe we would do well to declare it a draw for this evening. I tire easily these days.”
“Of course,” von Landau rose quickly. “I will bid you good night.”
“I trust the new week will see even more advances, my friend. I look forward to hearing about them very soon.”
The thing that was Randall Harbury turned toward his guest, revealing all the grossly terrible details of his disfigurement.
The pale ligaments twitched slightly, the surrounding flesh unpleasantly gruesome and flecked with blood. The eye, lacking any lid or brow, stared frighteningly from a darkened socket and there was little left of a mouth to hide the yellowing teeth and the discolored gums.
Lord Harbury was a nightmarish apparition, and he was aware of it. He used it to good effect, knowing full well that Gerolf would depart with that image burned into his brain.
“Good night, Gerolf. Sweet dreams.”
Exchanging a brief bow, the scientist left, aware of the manipulation, even admiring it on a certain level. Thankfully, his field of expertise was the human mind. He knew what Harbury was doing, and why. He had quickly learned the man’s tendencies to toy with those around him, especially those—like Gerolf himself—who were considered worthy playthings.
All that knowledge was well and good, but it still couldn’t make Harbury anything more human, because the man was a monster both on the outside and on the inside. He had no barriers, no moral compass or guidelines.
He would kill anyone in his way, and if he could mutilate them first, he was even more satisfied.
Gerolf did not want to be mutilated or killed, but he was in a very risky kind of partnership with this madman.
If he couldn’t deliver on Randall’s request—he’d better have a plan to escape Harbury Hall, or his life would be forfeit.
The Baron found himself trembling as he reached his quarters. It was bothersome and he would need some quiet meditation to soothe his anxieties. This wasn’t an imagined terror, though. Not something that one could set aside gradually, like a bad dream.
No, this was real. This monster existed, and the threat he posed to Gerolf was every bit as real.
The proof could be found in a room on another floor; broken, battered and viciously marked by her husband who had carefully carved one word into the soft white skin of her back.
Whore.