Ancient Appetites (30 page)

'Pardon my intrusion,' he said, only just remembering his manners. He should show some sensitivity to the mourners before trying to wangle a horse out of them. 'What is the name of the deceased?'

'Duffy,' the landlord replied. 'Eoin Duffy.'

Nate drew in a sharp breath and his face dropped. Off to one side, Francie went pale.

'The moneylender?' Nate asked.

'He had a number of businesses,' another man in a grey tweed suit answered him. 'I'm his brother, Eamon. May I ask why you are interested, sir?'

Slattery had disobeyed him. Nathaniel had walked out of the dungeon and the bailiffs had completely ignored his instructions to release the moneylender. And now the man was dead. Nate put a hand to his brow and closed his eyes for a moment. He seemed to be surrounded by death, and he was sick to the pit of his stomach with it all. Looking up at the unfriendly faces around him, a thought occurred to him. He had no intention of obeying the Rules of Ascension any more . . . or any other laws for that matter. He just wanted to rescue Tatty, Berto and Daisy. Gideon and the rest of the older generation had too much influence with the British for Nate to trust the authorities, but the Fenians hated his family almost as much as he did. Perhaps his enemy's enemy could be his friend.

'How did your brother die?' Nate asked, ignoring Duffy's question.

'He was murdered,' the man told him. 'He was found floating in the Dodder River with the guts hanging out of him. Now what can we do for you, sir?'

His tone was polite but insistent. He was a square-built man with a stern face and grey hair flecked with black. A silver watch chain hung from his waistcoat pocket. He stood taller than Nate and with the confidence of a self-made man. It was clear he was a figure of authority in this room.

'He was killed by Patrick Slattery,' Nate told them, watching for their reaction. There was precious little. A few of the women exchanged puzzled glances, but nothing more. Everyone's expression seemed frozen in place.

'We know,' said Duffy. 'And it's a strange admission coming from you, Mr Wildenstern, seeing as it's Slattery who does your father's dirty work.'

'My father is dead,' Nate replied. 'And Slattery is working for his murderer. If there are men here who will aid me in my fight against the traitor, I will give you Slattery in return.'

That caused a stir. A wave of mumbling carried around the room. Duffy held up his hand and there was quiet again.

'Slattery will pay for his crimes – come hell or high water, he'll get his,' Duffy said. 'But why would we want to help you? Your family can simply hire a dozen more like him. Nothing will have changed.'

Nate bridled at the man's stubborn attitude. It sometimes seemed to him that the Irish peasant cared more for the dead than for the living. Perhaps that was the reason why so many of them seemed so apathetic about their lot in life.

'This is in your own interests!' he appealed to the people in the room. 'There have been some terrible changes in my family over this last night. The man who has taken over our estates is a fiend of the worst kind. He has taken my sister and sister-in-law as hostages and I am sure he means to kill my brother. They are all I care about. I can get you past the guards and into the house, do you understand? You can strike a telling blow for your cause by assassinating him and anyone who defends him. It's in your own interests. This man will make life a misery for all those beneath him. He has no conscience and his greed knows no bounds – he will
bleed you dry
! If this tyrant is allowed to gain control of our businesses, you will all be reduced to living in misery!'

His plea was met with a brooding silence. Then a woman's voice piped up from the far end of the room.

'Sure, the British will protect us!'

The crowd burst into a roar of raucous, drunken laughter. Even Francie was trying to suppress a smile. Nate stood there helplessly as the hysterics lasted nearly a full minute before everyone settled down and wiped their eyes. Duffy rubbed his red, sweating face with a handkerchief and gave a final chuckle, followed by a sigh.

'It doesn't sound to me like anything will change at all, Mr Wildenstern,' he said. 'Not a thing. Your family have always gone about your bloodthirsty ways and the rest of us have endured one tyrant after another for centuries. Another change won't mean anything to us.'

'I know . . . I know that my father was not always fair,' Nate pleaded with them, to a chorus of snorts and stifled laughs. 'But whatever you think you've endured before, this will be much worse. This man is a fiend, I tell you. An absolute monster. You have to help me!'

'We have to do no such thing.' Duffy shook his head. 'Now if you'll excuse us, sir—'

'I understand that life is hard here,' Nate cut him off. 'But I—'

'You understand
nothing!
Duffy snapped at him. 'What do you know? You think because you've seen a ruined cottage or two on your rides through the country, or taken a tour through the inside of a factory, that you know what life is like on your estates? You have no idea.' His face twisted in a grimace of hatred. 'You – who takes his sugar in lumps and each meal in a different room, and has his footman take the warming pan to his bed-sheets before retiring for the night, and has a freshly pressed change of clothes laid out for him every morning. What do you know—?'

He was interrupted by the sound of horses' hooves clattering across the ground outside. The landlord peered out of the window.

'It's Slattery and two of his louts!' Hanratty growled. 'One of 'em's goin' round to the back door.'

Nate pulled the revolver from his jacket pocket.

'Help me or stand back,' he said, his jaw tight with tension. 'I'm going to put an end to the bloody cur right now'

But Duffy stood up and gently pushed the gun towards the floor.

'Show some respect for the dead,' he said sternly. 'Hanratty here'll hide you. We'll see them off, don't you worry. But there'll be no shooting here this morning.'

Francie melted into the crowd as Nate allowed himself to be led to a door behind the bar that opened into a storeroom. It had only one tiny window that offered no escape. Hanratty closed the door behind him, just as Slattery strode into the pub. Nate knelt down and peered through the keyhole.

'Well, if it isn't Eamon Duffy and his mob,' Slattery declared as he stood, looking around the room. Nate observed with some satisfaction that the bailiff was still walking stiffly 'And who's in the box, then?'

'My brother, as if you didn't know,' Duffy replied coolly.

The man who came in with Slattery walked past the bar and stepped in behind it to open the back door and look out. He was only a few feet from the storeroom door. Nate could feel the floorboards settle under the man's weight.

'I'm sorry for your troubles,' Slattery said, without a hint of sincerity. 'I'm looking for a tall blond gentleman about eighteen years old. The young Master Nathaniel Wildenstern. Has anyone seen him?'

'Aye, I've seen 'im,' a man said from the other side of the room. 'Up yer arse, pickin' daisies.'

There was some nervous laughter. Nate couldn't see the bailiff's expression through the narrow hole, but his tone told him all he needed to hear.

'That's Charlie Fitzpatrick, isn't it?' Slattery retorted. 'Sure, I never knew you were such a sparklin' wit, Charlie. Maybe you can spare some more of it when I come to collect your rent this Tuesday? You do have the rent money, don't you, Charlie?'

There seemed to be no more wit forthcoming. Slattery was silent for a moment, and Nate could guess that he was giving the crowd the evil eye. The man at the back door closed it and walked in behind the bar. Nate gripped his pistol, wincing as he pulled back the hammer as quietly as he could.

'Get on with your drinkin',' Slattery said at last, throwing some money on a table. 'Drink away your troubles. Drink away your worries and drink away your sad little lives an' all. The more you all drink, the easier my job is, so have a round on me. And put some into poor dead Eoin there as well, why don't you? Don't want him meetin' the Almighty without drink on his breath. Give the Irish a bad name.'

And with a shuffle of boots on the wooden floor, they were gone. Nate eased the hammer home on his pistol and let out long breath. Slumping down with his back against the door, he stared up at the light coming through the tiny window.

Listening to the sounds of the men mounting their horses, he felt as if he were in a daze.

'Master Wildenstern?' Hanratty's voice called through the door. 'It's all right, they're gone now.'

Nate did not hear the landlord. This latest turn of events had finally overwhelmed him. He had never known the dead man, and yet the news of Eoin Duffy's death had been more than he could cope with after everything that had happened. He had thought that all he had to do was get away from the family – go to some far-flung corner of the world where he and the others could stay out of the way of the Wildensterns and live their lives in peace. But it could never be that simple.

'He's not answerin',' Hanratty said to somebody else. 'Do y'think he's all right?'

'Maybe he's fallen asleep – he looked knackered,' somebody suggested. 'You should have a look in and see.'

Now Nate had a man's death on his hands because he hadn't cared enough to ensure his instructions were carried out. Servants were never permitted to think for themselves, but people like Slattery were given more slack. It meant the family could wash its hands of any inhuman acts that he committed.

'I'm not stickin' me head in there,' Hanratty exclaimed. 'He was bit jumpy with that pistol if y'ask me. If I woke him up, he might get a fright and start squirtin' lead all over the place.'

'Best leave him to wake up on his own, so,' the other voice concluded helpfully.

Nate had known how his family worked even as he stood in that dungeon looking at the battered face of Eoin Duffy. And yet he had turned his back and walked away. And Clancy too was probably dead by now, because Nate had been stupid and careless, and because he lived in fear. Sitting in that tiny storeroom, he swore to himself that was about to change. He understood now what Clancy had been trying to tell him. He had been born into a privileged position . . . now he had to earn it. It was time to claim his inheritance.

His eyes wandered around the little room with its shelves of boxes, cans and paper parcels. It was nothing like the huge cellars at home, with their massive stores of fine food and drink. A milk churn sat in one corner, with a bag of potatoes leaning against it, some of them already sprouting shoots out of their brown skin. The whole room had a musty smell of vegetables on the edge of decay. In another corner was a small meat-safe, a cupboard with a wire gauze front used for storing meat. The Wildensterns were one of the only households in the country with the modern refrigerators. On top of the meat-safe lay a few sheets of paper and a pencil. Somebody had been doing the accounts. They were very small numbers.

Standing up, Nate picked up the pencil and a blank sheet and wrote out a short message on it. Then he opened the door. The crowd of mourners were looking on in interest.

'Francie,' he said. 'I need you to take this to the nearest telegraph office and send it immediately. Wake them up if you have to – tell them it's a matter of life and death.'

Francie looked at the message in confusion.

'But—'

'I need you to send it exactly as it is, do you hear me?' Nate insisted.

Francie nodded. Handing the note and some coins to the boy, Nate turned to Eamon Duffy.

'Sir, we need two horses. I can pay well.'

'We'll loan you the horses,' said the man, holding up two glasses of whisky. 'All I ask, Master Wildenstern, is that you drink to my brother.'

'It's the least I could do,' Nate replied, taking the glass and holding it up. 'May he be in Heaven an hour before the devil knows he's dead.'

'Amen to that,' the dead man's brother answered.

And so Nate rode away from the pub with the taste of whisky burning his parched throat. Like the bitterness of Eoin Duffy's death, it would take a long time to fade.

A
t Daisy's urging, Roberto was carried on a stretcher down to Gerald's laboratory. She did not trust Dr Warburton's loyalties; it felt as if the whole house was against them now. Hugo had come down with them – accompanied by Elizabeth and a couple of the Gideonettes – and was looking thoroughly amused by the whole affair. They found Gerald up and dressed, stitching up a wound in the chest of Nathaniel's manservant, Clancy Daisy wondered which of the family's lunatics had caused that injury.

'You have a new patient,' Hugo announced, looking disdainfully down at the unconscious servant as they came through the door. 'Someone more deserving of your attention . . . Though for how much longer, I couldn't say.'

Gerald looked up, his exhaustion evident on his face. His eyes closed for a moment in dismay as he saw Berto on the stretcher.

'He can't feel his legs,' Daisy told him tearfully, still holding Roberto's right hand. 'And his left arm is numb. We think his back is broken.'

'Put him on the table there,' Gerald said, pointing. He quickly washed his hands and then wiped them with a cloth. 'Lay him on his front.'

The two servants did as they were told. Gerald took some scissors and cut up the back of Berto's waistcoat and shirt. The trousers were soiled, but he made no mention of it. He ran his fingers up his cousin's spine, pressing gently in places.

'Here,' he said finally, touching a spot halfway up the back. 'A broken vertebra, maybe two or three. I . . . I'm sorry, Berto. It's a grievous injury. I don't know if there's anything that can be done.'

Roberto stifled a sob. Daisy pressed her hand to his cheek and kissed him, crying for him.

'I can't live like this,' Roberto gasped hoarsely. 'I can't face being a confounded cripple. If you can't fix me then
end
me, Gerald. I won't live like this!'

'Don't say that!' Daisy said softly to her husband. 'You'll be all right. You'll be fine. Won't he, Gerald?'

Gerald said nothing, avoiding her eyes. Hugo looked on with a bored expression, fiddling with his cufflinks.

'Is this ready?' he asked, nodding towards another body lying on the table nearby.

It was Edgar's naked corpse, its decapitated head stitched back on. The claw was missing from the right arm. At Hugo's insistence, Gerald had used the engimal limb to replace Brutus's missing hand.

'Yes, the servants can take it to the refrigerators,' Gerald replied. 'The collar of a dress suit will hide the stitches . . . whenever you decide to hold a proper funeral.'

'Excellent,' Hugo grunted. 'You are a talented boy. What of Brutus?'

'His recovery proceeds,' Gerald said coolly. 'Your blood has helped. There's no movement yet, but his breathing and colour are better.'

Hugo went over to stand by his brother's bed. His face softened and he knelt by the bedside. Gold needles were visible, protruding from Brutus's arms and neck, but they had been removed from his face. He had recovered much of his muscular bulk and now looked as if he were just sleeping. Hugo tenderly placed a hand on the huge man's brow.

'Not long now, my brother,' he whispered. 'Our prayers are with you. We will be together soon; it is God's will.'

'I seriously doubt it,' Daisy muttered under her breath.

Gerald took her elbow and led her aside. She felt a cold cylinder of glass and steel being pressed into her hand.

'Hugo likes you,' he said to her in a hushed voice. 'We can use that against him – you can win his confidence . . . get close to him. He's damned near invulnerable; I don't think we could kill him with bullets alone – perhaps with explosives or the right kind of blade . . . who knows? And now he's wearing bloody chain mail too . . . But this syringe contains a poison that can kill him if you can get close enough to stick it into his heart.'

Daisy gave him a sharp look, checking to ensure that Hugo was still intent on Brutus's unconscious face. The others were on the far side of the room, looking at Edgar's corpse. She eyed the hypodermic syringe in her hand. It was filled with a dull, greenish liquid and had a rubber cap on the needle.

'Aren't the Wildensterns immune to poisons?'

'This is different,' Gerald whispered. 'It's made from the toxins produced by the dead flesh in Brutus's hand – gangrene, you understand? Now that their bodies are revived, their own dead flesh can infect their blood, I'm sure of it.'

'I . . . I'm not like all of you,' she said. 'I don't know if I could kill someone. And besides, I can't leave Berto now.'

'Do you want to spend the rest of your days living under a man who thinks the world is flat and his brain is in his chest? Because I cannot!' Gerald hissed. 'What would you do to save Berto's life? Hold his hand or kill his enemy?'

She didn't answer, but she could feel her resolve growing. Elizabeth was looking over at them now and Daisy's heart started to beat faster.

'Why don't you do it, if you're so sure it'll work?' she retorted.

'Because
I'm
not the one he's making eyes at, woman!' Gerald said, almost too loud. 'You need to get him alone . . . get him to take off that bloody armour and drop his guard. But you have to stick the needle in his
heart.
Anywhere else and he could take hours, even days to die. You understand what I'm telling you?'

Daisy hesitated, and then nodded. If she tried to kill Hugo and failed, his revenge would be terrible. Clutching the syringe in the folds of her dress, she edged towards the Patriarch. Elizabeth's watchful eyes followed her, the leaf-light cloak giving off the faintest glow in the low light at that end of the room. Daisy glanced over at Roberto for a moment, and then touched Hugo gently on the shoulder. He looked round and up at her.

'My lord,' she said haltingly. 'Gerald tells me that . . . that if Roberto is to survive, he will need expensive medicine and surgery and . . . and a long convalescence. I realize that you two have had your differences, but . . .' She paused to compose herself, keeping her gaze lowered. 'I wonder if I . . . if we could speak in private? Perhaps I could convince you to overlook his disloyalty and see that he gets the help he needs?'

'What are you doing?' Berto growled, trying to raise himself from the table on which he lay. 'Daisy? What's going on?'

Elizabeth's eyes narrowed in suspicion, but Hugo stood up and gave a lascivious smile

'Daisy?' Berto asked again plaintively.

It hurt her like a wound to ignore him, but she did. Instead, she fixed Hugo with a pleading, wide-eyed expression. He opened his arms in a generous gesture.

'Every great leader knows when to show mercy' he said. 'Come, my dear. Let us retire to more comfortable surroundings and see if your beauty is matched by your persuasive powers.'

Taking her arm, he led her from the room without a second glance at Roberto. As they passed Elizabeth, the two women locked eyes.

If there's anything left of this poison when I'm done, Daisy thought, I'm going to drive the rest of it into your rotten heart, you witch.

Gerald watched them leave. He instructed his footman to fetch a nightshirt, dressing gown and some more blankets for Berto and then waited until he was alone with his injured cousin. Then, taking a clean syringe, he strode over to Brutus's inert form and inserted it into the ancient warrior's arm. Berto watched as the young doctor drew blood into the syringe.

'What's that for?' he asked.

'It's for you,' Gerald told him. 'I've already given some to Clancy. His wounds were so serious I was at my wits' end. I would have given up on him, but Nate wouldn't have it. So I decided to see if our ancestor's blood could do anything. Thought it would finish him off, to be honest – he's a commoner, so he has no
aurea sanitas
of course.' He pulled out the needle. 'But it didn't. He may well make it after all. And if it can help him . . .'

He walked over to Berto and wiped the crook of his cousin's arm with some cotton wool and alcohol.

'I have to say, I think I'm getting the hang of this miracle business—'

'Gerald,' Berto said in a choked voice. 'Look.'

Gerald turned round in time to see movement by Brutus's bed. The fingers of the giant's left hand were twitching.

'Oh, bloody hell,' he said.

Nate left the horse tied to a gate, where it would be picked up by Duffy's people later that morning. In the first misty glow of dawn, he was able to slip by the guards patrolling the wall of the estate and climb over, making his way through the forest towards Wildenstern Hall. Dew dripped from the trees and strands of mist lay in the undergrowth, wetting his clothes and shoes, the cold making him shiver as his fatigue began to catch up with him. It wasn't fear that made him tremble, he was sure of that. For the first time in his life he was doing what he had been bred to do.

A bizarre sight awaited him on the lawn as he came to the edge of the forest. Standing on the grass not far from the house were two enormous shapes, their feet shrouded in mist. At first the light of the low morning sun made their shapes indistinct against the grey walls of the house, but as his eyes adjusted, Nate recognized Trom and Colossus, the juggernaut. They stood perfectly still, as if awaiting orders. He gaped at the sight in amazement.

Trom could never be left alone like that without wandering and Colossus . . . Colossus was too wild – too
insane
to be let out of its enclosure. Nate stared, bewildered, until he remembered what Gerald had told him. One drop of blood in an engimal's water and they were yours to command. He had found it hard to believe it would work on the simple mind of a toast-maker, never mind the tortured brain of the juggernaut.

He was under no illusions as to who was in command of the huge engimals. Creeping up along the hedge to the stables, he was careful not to attract their attention. Their eyes were dimmed, but he was sure they could come alert at any second. Unlatching the side door of the stables, he stepped inside and closed it after him. The stable boys were already up; he could hear them moving around upstairs. He knew the grooms would be here any minute too, to start feeding and exercising the horses. He had to be quick. He needed his velocycle, and then he had to find Abraham and his brothers. There was a plan to be hatched.

Flash was in its stall and looked up timidly as he leaned over the door. It whimpered and turned its face to the wall.

'Bloody right, you should be ashamed,' he snarled at the velocycle as he opened the door. 'You're a downright liability . . . But I need you now, so you're getting one more chance.'

Looking down at the beast's water trough, he thought about adding some of his blood to the mix. And yet there was something about Flash's cantankerous spirit that he loved. Even though it meant taking the chance the velocycle might disobey him again, he preferred to leave it with a will of its own. He knelt down to look into the engimals eyes.

'We have to save my family today, Flash,' he said softly. 'We have to save the people I love. I could feed you my blood and make you my slave, but I won't. I need a friend now, not a servant . . . But if you let me down this time, I'll have your bloody wheels cut off, you understand?'

Daisy sat on one of the sofas in Hugo's private living room, with one hand resting on the secret pocket which held Gerald's syringe. The curtains had been drawn to hide the morning light, and instead, candles burned in silver holders around the room. The late Duke had indulged his morbid taste in decor with oil paintings and tapestries of gruesome Old Testament scenes in ornate frames, and had equipped the room with outlandishly carved ebony furniture that might have pleased the devil himself, upholstered in blood-red velvet.

She had freshened herself up and changed into a scarlet taffeta gown with a low-cut bodice and suggestive embroidery. It was one of her most provocative dresses and had the added bonus of a hidden pocket in the folds that she normally used for a compact or a handkerchief. It served just as well for concealing a syringe full of gangrenous poison.

As she waited for Hugo to appear, her hands shook, her stomach knotted up and her teeth chattered. She had never been so scared in all her life. Even now, she wasn't sure if she could go through with this. Daisy did not want to kill and she certainly didn't want to die. Left sitting there alone, images flashed through her mind of what Hugo would do to her if she tried to attack him and failed. She found it difficult to breathe. This was no good; if she was to fool him into thinking she was attracted to him, she had to—

'My dear!' he cried. 'Sorry to keep you waiting.'

He was standing at the door of the hallway that led to his bedroom. Dressed in a burgundy smoking jacket, he had his hair oiled and curled, and a cigarette in a holder in his left hand. The leather collar and chain mail were gone. It seemed she was to have her chance. Stroking his goatee with the fingers of his right hand, he glided across the room and sat down on her left side.

'So, what's your scheme?' he asked, smiling.

'I'm sorry?' she replied, her right hand unconsciously brushing over the syringe.