Camille (18 page)

“John, I’ve been thinking,” I said.

Dr. Bennett’s face lifted and a bit of the
sadness disappeared.

“They use trace doses of smallpox to induce
immunity to the disease. Could we not try something like that?”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand, Cami.” It was
the first time he’d used my nickname in two days.

“What if the blood of the man who bit
Nathaniel could work in the same way as the smallpox
inoculation?”

He shook his head. “We are dealing with a
mutation not a disease. I don’t see a connection.”

“Well, I believe it’s time to try something
else. We’ve less than a fortnight and your theories are proving
worthless.” I couldn’t seem to stop myself from being hurtful, and
the look on his face assured me I’d been exactly that.

“I know every grave digger in London,”
Strider said. We both looked at him. “If you can find out the
cemetery where the man is buried, I can get you into his grave.” He
lifted a two sailed paper boat in the air and admired his
handiwork.

A long silence followed as we contemplated
the grotesque deed of robbing a corpse of its bodily fluids. “Do
you think it possible, John? Or has too much time passed?”

Dr. Bennett took the book from his lap,
placed it on the table, and sat back. “The weather is cold and the
ground damp enough to have slowed decomposition considerably. The
corpse would still have flesh and fluids. But I don’t know,
Camille. It seems wrong to go into the man’s grave.”

I sat forward. “Why the bloody hell would
that bother your conscience? You sent the man there!” My anger was
coming out in all the wrong ways. Dr. Bennett rose from his chair
and plodded out of the room.

Tears burned in my eyes as I stared at the
flames jumping in the hearth.

“Well done,” Strider said before leaving the
room as well.

Curled into a ball, I’d cried myself asleep
in the upholstered chair. I slept soundly until the gloom of the
cloudy day had descended into the gloom of a stormy, black night. A
few red coals sat atop a nest of gray ash in the hearth as I
stretched up and rubbed the cramp from my neck and shoulder.

The wavering light of a candle grew brighter
as footsteps traipsed through the hallway to the sitting room. Dr.
Bennett’s silhouette filled the doorway. “You’re awake. I was
afraid you might sleep there all night, and we’d have to free you
from that twisted position.”

I glanced at the mantle clock. The light was
dim but I could see I’d slept for hours. A flash of lightning lit
the room. A clap of thunder followed, and although it was expected,
the loud cracking sound startled me. “Where’s Nathaniel?”

“He left several hours ago.”

I sat forward and realized both my feet were
numb with sleep. I stomped them hard on the floor. “Left? On a
night like this? Where did he go?”

“I imagine he’ll be back shortly. He went to
see a few friends about a grave.”

“Do you think my suggestion plausible then?”
A part of me wanted to apologize for the harsh words I’d spoken
earlier, but I still could not convince myself to do so.

He stepped into the room with Father’s
journal tucked beneath his arm. His blue eyes were bloodshot and
framed in dark circles. “At this point, we must try anything. Time
is running out.” He sat at the table. “Camille, I see the way you
look at the boy. I know you’re in love.”

I turned away and stared at the window pane
watching the sheets of rain sliding down. All this time, I’d
thought him too logical, too scientific to know about love and
passion. All this time, I’d thought he was married to his books and
science. All this time, I hadn’t known the man at all.

My face turned back to him. “We’ll not hunt
this one down. I don’t care if he terrorizes and murders Londoners
for the next hundred moons, I’ll not let you harm him.”

Before Dr. Bennett could respond the front
door opened and closed. I jumped up from the chair and ran to the
entry. There was always something about seeing him dripping wet,
drenched through to the skin that made him extra appealing. His
long black hair was plastered to his face and neck and his faded
coat looked more dashing soaked with water. There was a puddle
beneath his feet. “You must be hungry. Get changed and I’ll fix you
a bite.”

The three of us leaned over the tall kitchen
table eating soft cooked eggs and cold ham in the candle light. A
wind raged outside rattling the doors and windows in the house.
“The storm should let up by morning. I promised them a bottle of
gin and a pound note for one hour at the grave site. We’ll need
shovels and a lantern.”

“And something to draw and collect blood,”
Dr. Bennett added. I dropped my spoon, and it clattered on the wood
table. “How else do you expect me to collect a fluid sample?
Although after several weeks, most of the fluids will have
collected on the bottom.” Now Strider’s spoon fell to his plate.
“Oh really? With the carnage you’ve witnessed, Camille,” he turned
to Strider, “and as I recall, the first time we saw you, you were
slicing the finger off a dead woman.” He lifted his own spoon and
slipped a dripping piece of egg into his mouth.

Two lanterns provided us with the only light.
Earlier that day, a brisk breeze had blown through moving the herd
of stubborn clouds out to sea and leaving behind a clear, black sky
with a thick slice of moon. The graveyard on the northeast end of
town held far fewer adornments than the last cemetery. The markers
were rough stone with no distinction between them aside from the
names carved there. Strider had made payment to the two men
watching over the cemetery, and they’d pointed us in the direction
of the grave.

Dr. Bennett held the lantern up over the
stone. “Samuel Chase,” he read quietly. It would be the first time
he saw one of his victims deceased. There was a certain hesitation
in his movements. Strider placed his own lantern on the ground and
plowed the shovel into the wet ground.

“With the grave still fresh and yesterday’s
downpour, this shouldn’t take long,” Strider said between blows
into the soaked earth. Dr. Bennett joined in with his own shovel,
and I stood watch.

The only other signs of life besides the
three people desecrating a man’s grave were the vermin who
inhabited the cemetery grounds. The lantern light weakened, and I
stepped closer to where they dug. A pile of dirt flew onto my shoe
and I shook it off. Anxiously, I glanced around the deserted yard.
The outline of tombstones began to resemble an audience standing
watch over the whole scene. I shivered and peered down into the
hole. “Do hurry.”

Dr. Bennett glanced up with a raised brow.
Dark smudges stained his forehead and chin. He didn’t say a word,
but I clamped my mouth shut.

“I think this is good,” Strider’s voice
floated up from the pit. I looked over the side again. The top half
of the coffin had been exposed. Like a man who’d done this many
times before, Strider covered his nose and mouth with his black
neckcloth and used the end of his shovel to pry open the wooden
lid. Swollen with moisture, a chunk of the wood splintered off. He
lifted it a crack then looked up at me. “You might want to cover
your nose and back up. Death is not pleasant smelling.” His voice
was muffled by his cloth. My hand flew to my face, and I backed
away.

For a moment the tops of their head
disappeared completely. My eyes darted around the graveyard, my
ears pounding with the horrible silence that filled the air. How
lonely and dull death must be, I mused.

A few minutes later Strider ascended with
shovels and a small bottle of fluid. He turned and reached a hand
down for Dr. Bennett. They went immediately to work covering the
coffin. White puffs of air spurted in front of their faces as piles
of wet soil flew into the pit. This idea had to work. I was long
overdue for having something turn out right.

****

A large dose of sunlight summoned Strider and
I out of doors and onto an omnibus headed toward Marylebone Rd and
Regent’s Park. Dr. Bennett had given enough hints that his work
went better without anyone in the house, and with the inviting
weather, we were more than pleased to oblige. We’d picked up the
omnibus at Charing Cross with only two other occupants inside, a
mousy woman with tawny hair and her sour-faced companion who wore a
great deal of perfume. By the time we passed Piccadilly and were
rumbling over Regent Street, the inside of the buss was packed so
tightly, we would’ve stayed put in our seats even if the vehicle
had overturned. However, being crushed in close quarters with
Nathaniel Strider was not altogether unpleasant.

The two original passengers departed at
Cavendish Square, although they hardly looked fashionable enough to
belong there. Three others exited at Devonshire Terrace, leaving
plenty of space for the remaining few blocks to Regent’s Park. But
Strider’s thigh and shoulder stayed pressed against me. Or, it was
possible that, I stayed pressed against him.

Most visitors prefer the rich pinks and
yellows springtime in the park affords, but I looked forward to the
rusty reds and burnt ambers brought out by fall’s shrinking
daylight. Regent’s was the best of architecture, landscaping, and
sculpture brought together in one huge parcel of land. Without a
plan, we found ourselves meandering along the edge of the lake.
Three black swans floated past as we stopped to stare at the
water.

“Those are lucky birds.” Strider picked up a
stone to skip across the water. “Living in a place like this,
people throwing food at you, and no worries.” He threw the rock and
the three black birds lifted their huge wings and fluttered over
the water, landing a good distance away.

“Except all the worries a bird might have.”
The carpet of fallen leaves littering the grass tempted me into a
leaf crunching dance. A small breeze made it necessary to give
chase to some of the leaves before I could stomp them, and I burst
out laughing. Strider joined me and with much bigger feet, he was
far more successful at mutilating the fallen foliage.

“Your petite feet are not really made for
this.” He dropped onto a clear section of grass, which sloped down
toward the broadest section of the water. “You look pretty, by the
way, in your blue dress.”

I sat next to him, aware that my blue dress
would be stained by the grass, but not caring as long as I was near
him. “You like the dress better than my trousers and hat then?”

He motioned his head to one side. “You wear
those trousers well, too. But the blue looks lovely against your
skin.” His compliment warmed my face. “Especially when you blush
pink.”

Behind us on the road which encircled the
park, a man trotted by on an enormous black horse. The animal
snorted and a puff of steam came from its muzzle. “That’s a fine
mount,” Strider said. “I miss riding.”

“You had a horse?’

“Actually, it belonged to my father, but my
brother and I used to take it right out there.” He motioned to the
same road with his head. “We lived not far from here off Hampstead
Road. My brother taught me to ride when I was seven. He used to
tell me I was a great equestrian, but I needed a healthy dose of
fear.” Strider plucked out several blades of grass and tossed them
in the water. “I took the horse over a high fence one day, and I’d
never jumped before. Landed on my shoulder. I heard it crack as I
landed. My mother refused to call the physician. She said I
deserved it for being so reckless.”

“And your father?”

“My father was only concerned that his horse
was still sound. He forbid me to ride his horse again and thumped
me hard on the same shoulder for good measure.”

I shivered not from the cold but from his
story. “Your parents were wretched people. How in God’s name did
they produce such a child when they had no charm or qualities of
their own?’

He smiled at me and the suddenness made the
breath catch in my chest.

“So you think I’m charming, then?’

“Well, in a surly, scoundrel sort of
way.”

He laughed. Music drifted to us from behind
St. John’s Lodge. Strider jumped up and offered me his hand. “Let’s
go. I haven’t heard good fiddle music since….”

I knew how the sentence ended, but it was not
a day to bring it up. He pulled me along, following the lively
notes, around the inner garden and over a huge expanse of slightly
browned grass to a circle of chestnut trees. Two men, one with a
bushy moustache, a ruddy complexion, and a fiddle tucked under his
chin and one with a wooden leg strapped to his knee and a harmonica
at his mouth, sat side by side on a bench. They played well
together, as if they’d sat there for years producing music.

Strider smiled at me. “May I have this
dance?”

I stepped back. “I don’t know how to
dance.”

“Neither do I, but I’ve never let that stop
me.” He grabbed both my hands. We spun around until the scenery
blurred into a rush of color. Dizzy from it all, I fell against
Strider’s chest. He held me against him. It was brief, but it was a
moment I would not soon forget.

He lifted up my hand high in the air and
twirled me around. For someone who claimed not to be a dancer, he
moved in perfect rhythm to the music.

Strider smiled down at me. “I think you dance
very well.”

“You’re being kind. I’m as ungainly as a
newborn foal.” I stumbled and he caught me.

“At least you haven’t stepped on my toes
yet.”

I laughed. “Give me a chance. I’m sure I can
stomp them at least once.” Suddenly a loud chorus of honking geese
drowned out the music. Some of the water fowl floating on the lake
sprang from the water and flew to the north end of the park where a
vast array of exotic animals was housed.

“I ‘aven’t seen the animals since I was a
boy.” Strider motioned with his head. “Shall we?”