Chapter Two
Portia peered around the heavy door into the kitchens that were part of the first level beneath Harbury Hall. In her guise as Mary Jones, maid, she’d befriended several staff, foremost amongst which was Mr. ‘Enry, the cook.
“Mary, lass.” The cook beamed from ear to ear and beckoned. “Come to the fire and warm yourself. ‘‘Tis good to see you lookin’ so chipper again.”
She smiled and crossed the room, bending to give the portly man a big hug. “’Tis lovely to see you too, Mr. ‘Enry. I was hopin’ I might be in time for a cuppa. And maybe a biscuit or two? Nobody makes ‘em like you do.”
“You know ‘ow to sweet talk a body, that’s fer sure.” He laughed, his body shaking in his well-worn chair. “Go on then. They’re in the tin on the shelf, like always.”
She walked to the pantry, casually glancing around as she crossed the large room. There were only two cups on the table, and one next to Mr. ‘Enry.
She came back and poured herself tea with the ease of one who had performed that homely chore many times. “It’s quiet. Used to be a bit noisier after elevensies.” She glanced over the rim of her cup. “‘Twas nice, hearing the voices of a morning.”
He sighed. “After that…business, well we lost a maid. ‘er dad came for ‘er and I can’t say as I blame him. Another lad went up t’Hall. They never got us replacements.”
She frowned. “What about the scientists?”
“Only got one at the moment, and ‘e don’t need much since ‘e’s got rooms in the main ‘ouse. Then a couple of the patients passed when it got real cold. Down to eight now.” He turned his face away from her toward the fire. “’Tis not a good thing, Mary girl. Not a good thing, all this dyin’. They oughta let those poor lads down there go. Go ‘ome to whoever might be left to welcome them.”
“They are getting food, though, right?” Portia gulped at the thought that if not for her, Devon would be one of them. She knew how emaciated he’d been when he’d escaped.
“Oh aye. We make sure of that.” He leaned toward her. “Even made sure they was warm. Got some extra blankets down there for ‘em without making much of a fuss ‘bout it.”
She touched his arm. “That was good of you, Mr. ‘Enry.”
He shrugged. “Each one is somebody’s lad, Mary. If I ‘ad a lad I’d like to think someone would do the same for ‘im if needed. Like that Inspector took care of you.”
She nodded. “I agree. It was good to have him here when…” she paused, “well, you know.”
“And now that nice Mrs. Howell. You’re taken on as her companion then?”
“She’s very kindly asked me to stay with her, yes.”
“That’s a good thing, lass. After what ‘appened, you’re better off anywhere but ‘ere.”
“I miss you all, though, Mr. ‘Enry.” Portia realized it was the truth. These were honest folk making a living. The terrible secrets lurking beneath Harbury Hall were none of their doing. “Is there any word on her Ladyship?”
He stared at the fire for a few moments, as if gathering his words. “Nay. Nary a word from t’ Hall. Just that she’s not spoken. She’s better, in ‘erself, I’ll warrant. Good food and good care. ‘er maid’s a solid lass and there’s women from the village bringing ‘er the best of their kitchens. Dunno why. We can cook for ‘er just as well ‘ere.”
“I know,” she soothed him. “But there’s fresh chickens in the village, and good smoked meats. We buy from them, don’t we?”
He nodded.
“So this is a chance for them to show her they care about her in the only way they can.”
“I suppose.”
She patted his shoulder. “But I’ll warrant there are no biscuits anywhere near as good as yours. Did you send some over?”
He looked at her. “D’you think I should, lass? Should I? I been thinkin’ I’d like to do summat from us, but t’Hall might not be likin’ it…”
“I’m sure they’d be very pleased. Any time the staff show attention or respect…well, it’s got to be a good thing, hasn’t it?”
Mr. ‘Enry looked at her, a slow and appraising surveillance, as if he was seeing her for the first time.
“Mary, I’ve long wondered where you come from, but as you know we keeps to ourselves, and don’t pry into the lives of others. But I’m gonna say that you’re as fine a lady as any I’ve met. Don’t care what your real name is, although I’ll bet me last groat it ain’t Mary.” He grinned then. “You got a warm ‘eart and a good mind. And whatever you’re doing ‘ere, I don’t wanna know. I’m just glad to know you, lass.”
“And I you, Mr. ‘Enry.” She daringly leaned over and touched his wrinkled cheek with her lips. “Harbury needs more like you.”
He colored a little at the unexpected caress, but shrugged off the compliment. “I just does me job.”
She crunched a biscuit and made an exaggerated moan of pleasure. “And you do it so well.”
He chuckled as she’d hoped. It must be difficult for him to work under these circumstances, but every kitchen needed an anchor and for the time being, the Harbury laboratories had Mr. ‘Enry.
“So what do you know about the scientist that’s left?”
“Not much.”
“No strange machines, no shipments of exotic creatures? No purple rabbits running loose?”
“Gawd, no.” He blinked. “Purple rabbits? Lawd above, girl. I gotta ‘ope we never get that far with them experiments. Fair put me off my favorite stew, it would.”
She smiled. “Agreed. So he must be a quiet researcher, then.”
The cook thought for a minute, then nodded. “You’d be right there, lass. ‘e did have a few boxes of stuff when ‘e arrived, but since then, naught but a bushel or two of dried ‘erbs and such.”
“Any odd noises?”
“None I’ve noticed. Barely even a smell of him.” Mr. ‘Enry frowned. “But then again, he’s a furriner.”
“Really?” Portia sipped her tea, memorizing every word.
“Yes’m, really. And not only that…” he turned his head and stared at her, “’e’s got a title to boot. Some kind of aristocrat, I’m thinking.”
“Goodness.” Portia tried to look impressed. “Well, perhaps he’s a friend of his Lordship’s, then?”
“Mebbe. One o’ the lads ‘eard either Robert or Arthur call ‘im Baron something. And seein’ as ‘ow ‘e’s got rooms in the big ‘ouse then yes, I reckon ‘e’s got some kind of connection at least.”
“Hmm.” Portia thought over the assumption. “Perhaps he’s German. Although there are a lot of countries with Barons.”
“Wouldn’t know, lass. ‘e’s no bother for us. We don’t even need to cook for ‘im much. Just a fresh loaf of bread now and again and the occasional breakfast. Likes his sausages, he does.”
“The way you cook ‘em, I’m not surprised.” Portia finished her tea. “But I must go, I’m afraid. Can’t stay here gossiping, much as I’d like to.”
“You’ll come back, lass?”
“Of course.” She dropped a hand on his shoulder as she rose. “You know I can’t live without a few of those biscuits of yours now and again.”
“They’ll be ready for yer.” He grinned. “You bring a bit o’ light with you, girl. ‘Tis good for me.”
“I’ll see you soon then. You take care of yourself.”
“I will that.” He waved and nodded at her as she whisked herself out of the room.
It was still cold outside and she pulled her coat tightly to her neck against the chill. She had more information now, at least, and perhaps it was something that Devon and Burke could work with.
Information, they all agreed, was the foundation of an investigation. She hoped she had a few blocks to add to the one they were building against Harbury Hall and its owner.
She was disappointed there was no news on Lady Alwynne. If she was up and around, she might be discussing the events of that terrible night. And if she pointed a finger at her husband…well, Devon’s case would take a rapid turn for the better.
Not inclined to linger on the walk back to the cottage, she covered the distance with rapid steps and an increasingly cold nose. The warmth that hit her in the face as she opened the front door was a welcome caress that made her eyes water.
“Lord above, it’s cold. But the trip was worth it.”
Devon, who had come into the hall at the sound of her arrival, grinned as he helped her unbundle herself. “Been at those famous biscuits, I see.” He flicked a crumb off a cool lip, then followed it up with a quick kiss.
She sighed with pleasure. “Not as tasty as you.”
He held her tightly, his grip growing firm. “God, Portia. We have to get all this settled soon. I want you as my wife and I’m really terrible at waiting.”
“I’d marry you today if it were possible, love. You know that.”
He nodded, closed his eyes and rested his forehead against hers. “I have to get Harbury back. For you, for me and for the people who depend on it. I just wish it was over and I could sweep you off into a quiet place for about a week or two. Just us.”
His hands drifted around her slim waist as he pressed her closer than ever.
She shuddered, and not from the cold. “I want that too.”
A loud throat clearing interrupted the interlude and Portia groaned as she moved away from Devon’s embrace. “I know, Burke. I know. Not ‘til we’re wed.” She made a face at him and stalked past into the parlor. “Come on.” She tossed the invitation over her shoulder as she neared the roaring fire. “I’ve learned that there’s only one scientist left. Possibly German. A baron, ‘tis said.”
Burke and Devon joined her.
“Baron Gerolf von Landau.” Burke looked smug. “Found out this morning when I went to the Dower House for a final evidence check. That Arthur lad was there. Got him chatting.”
Portia’s eyes widened. “You had a conversation with Arthur?”
“Well, I did have to work at it. But it turns out that his mum comes from my part of Hertfordshire. Gave me a bit of an edge in the chat department.”
“Well, I’m impressed. I always thought that the only person he ever spoke to was Robert, and vice versa. You know, the RobertandArthur thing.” She paused. “And to be honest, they made me quite nervous.”
Devon rested a foot on the hearth. “I haven’t seen them yet, but I’ve heard things. You’re right to be wary of them, Portia. I don’t think they’re very nice men.”
“Probably not.” Burke shrugged. “But at least I got a name out of Arthur. Now I can do some research on this von Landau fellow and see what he’s up to.” He turned to Portia. “No news on her Ladyship?”
“None.” She gulped, remembering the last time she’d seen Alwynne Harbury—or what was left of her after the savage attack. “She’s still in her rooms and not talking at all, so I hear.”
“It’ll take time, I’m sure.”
There was silence for a few moments, each of them busy with their own thoughts. Then Burke glanced at Devon. “I have to wonder what sort of connection this Baron might have with the Harburys…”
“Time to find out, I think.” Devon nodded. “Your machine?”
“Yes. Definitely.”
The two men walked out of the room and Portia knew within a few minutes they’d be standing in front of the complex piece of copper, wire and gears that connected Burke to his London office.
Lord only knew how it worked. Portia loved science and scientific things, but when it came to this particular creation, she was ready to admit her shortcomings since there were other matters occupying her thoughts these days. She’d even felt comfortable enough now to remove her Jallai at night, placing the delicately ornate arm weapon on the bedside table.
The security offered by the knowledge that Burke and Devon were also sleeping in the tiny cottage made her feel safer than she’d ever felt before. Of course it was dreadfully improper…or would be until she and Devon could be wed…
She swallowed. Good God. She was becoming an English miss. Oh dear, this would never do.
*~~*~~*
In the silence of the underground laboratory, Gerolf von Landau pored over his notes. There was a rudimentary set of heating pipes running around three-fourths of the chamber, but given that the walls were thick stone, it wasn’t exactly what anyone would refer to as toasty.
He folded his hands into his armpits to warm them as he read, his tweed jacket and thick woolen shirt working hard to keep his body comfortable.
However, he wasn’t really aware of the conditions; he was focused completely on the material before him. Three lamps provided additional illumination, spilling their light over the large, leather-bound notebook in which he had been recording his thoughts, his results, his theories and his ideas for further research.
It was, in many ways, a von Landau bible, chronicling his life’s dedication to an examination of the human mind.
His body of work revolved around the hidden aspects of man’s psyche; the ability to be mesmerized, or the insatiable desires for food, passion and— in some cases—mayhem.
A successful mesmerist in his own right, Gerolf had been able to penetrate many of these hidden layers during his experiments. He had learned of the deep terrors, pains, pleasures and hatreds that lurked in dark places within the minds of so many otherwise ordinary people.
He had correlated these secrets to any behaviors that fell outside the norm, and had a lengthy section in his notebook on aberrations and their related psychological deviations.
In fact, his insightful theories and revelations had caused a sensation when he had read a paper based on them at the Munich meeting of Allied Physicians of the Mind.
But that was several years ago. He had moved forward since then, into an area that would have caused a lot more than a sensation had it been made public to anyone at all.
He freed a hand from its snug nest and turned pages until he reached his current section on the experiments he was developing at Harbury. Re-reading his notes he frowned, wondering yet again why his first attempt should have resulted in such a catastrophic explosion.
He had removed the standard circle of bone from the skull, and used no more than the normal probe insertions. But once he had begun the process of powering up the extraction units, all hell had broken loose and the subject’s brain had literally blown up.
There had been no time to attach the mechanical collar around the neck, which would have kept the bodily systems functioning.
To add to the problem, Gerolf himself had fallen from his stool at the shock and knocked himself out. When he came to, his patient had gone, something he’d never anticipated in his wildest nightmares.
How the man had the strength to not only free himself, but walk such a distance—well it was beyond belief. Although it did testify to the strength of autonomic bodily reflexes.
Unfortunately it was also the worst of bad luck that he’d escaped the Harbury grounds and died in front of villagers.
However, he trusted that Randall’s men would clean up any derogatory social implications as thoroughly as they had cleaned up his laboratory.
He glanced around, looking at the assortment of Leyden jars arranged neatly on shelves along one wall. They were shining; wires, lids and connections ready for work. The power they would require was also at the ready, pipes and cables threading their way from the floors below to terminate at one end of a pristine marble workbench.
Gerolf understood that Harbury offered a unique power supply that relied more on some strange kind of human-generated fuel than coal or wood. He wasn’t sure he fully understood it, and under other circumstances he’d have been deeply immersed in finding out more.
But at this time, he had one goal—one crucially important goal—to keep Randall Harbury happy.
And that meant pursuing his original experiment. One that had almost succeeded in Germany…one that he determined would succeed here in England. Because if it didn’t, Randall would continue to devastate far too many lives and that wasn’t permissible.
Gerolf von Landau had been invited to Harbury to do something impossible. He was to transplant a living brain from a tormented body into a new home, a healthy thriving human home.
He hadn’t, as yet, had the opportunity to mention to Randall that the likelihood of accomplishing the entire process was small. But he believed he could certainly transplant the essence of Lord Harbury into a suitably adapted Leyden jar.
This was his ultimate goal—to remove and preserve the life force of a human, external to the body. It would be a first step toward brain transfers, but Harbury seemed to believe the process could be accomplished all at once.
Gerolf was not ready to disillusion his host, but managed to avoid a detailed discussion of the procedure by dint of his adroit conversation. And his conviction that he could remove a human brain and keep it alive.
There were still a few issues to resolve, however.
He sighed and straightened, his neck bones cricking as he rolled his head around on his shoulders.
There would have to be another trial run, without doubt. The problem with the patients secreted in the lower levels of the Harbury laboratories seemed to stem from their overall health. They were suffering the effects of extended incarceration and seemed weak, drained of any resistance, too…malleable to make good test subjects.
He needed someone vibrant and healthy. The first man, that McCardle fellow, he’d been fit as a fiddle as the English liked to say. But sadly, his mind wasn’t quite as strong as the rest of him, although physically he would have been ideal.
Gerolf had concluded that any kind of weakness in the mental processes might adversely affect the procedure.
He drummed his fingertips absently on the table, deep in thought. Perhaps he would be better off using one of the patients, after all. If there were any more problems, one of those men could at least be contained.
He weighed the pros and cons, then turned to a fresh page and dipped his pen in the inkwell. The scribbling sound of nib against paper was the only sound in the chamber for several minutes, stopping and starting again in rhythm with his ideas as they ebbed and flowed.
Finally, after about an hour of cogitation and calculation, he nodded, blotted the pages a final time, and closed the book.
He had a plan. He had a better grasp of the desirable assets his next subject should possess. And he had all the equipment he needed. Eager to begin, he glanced at the clock and cursed. He had promised Randall he would visit this afternoon.
But then he recalled that he was also going to see if he could obtain his Lordship’s permission to visit Lady Harbury.
His experiments were an ongoing process, so with a sigh of resignation he turned away from the immediate tasks and switched his focus to the dangers of socializing with a fiend.
And the possibility of reacquainting himself with Alwynne Harbury, the most tragically shattered woman he’d ever met.