Chuck Rothman

@chuckrothman.bsky.social

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Historical fantasy/horror author of "The Cadaver Princess." "Hooked me on the first page. Like Dickens crossed with Poe, there isn't anything else quite like it" -- Alan Steele, author of the Coyote series https://is.gd/BOOQ1L chuckrothman.com

The servant had opened the door as though he expected a tiger inside. The Duke of Newcastle gave him a look that should have told a smarter man to leave immediately. But the servant -- Newcastle was unsure if his name was Tom or William -- did not leave. The duke was a pleasant looking man when not sporting the glare he showed when something displeased him. And the interruption clearly did. "Did I not tell you that we were not to be disturbed?" The man cowered. "Yes, Your Grace," he stammered. "But -- " "I cannot think of any good reason for you to ignore my orders," the duke said. "The man insisted," said the servant. "The man? What man?" "He said his name was Sir John Conroy." Newcastle paused. His guest finally spoke. "Perhaps you should send him up," he said mildly, the mildness that bespoke of iron command. He sat with the stiffness of a lifelong soldier, his clothes immaculate, his gray eyes taking in things that others might miss. Even the blue jacket he wore seemed to be standing at attention. It was best not to argue with the Duke of Wellington. "Send him up," said Newcastle.
Sir John gave her a look as though she couldn't see the obvious. "She was nothing. A girl from the streets. She would know not to defy her betters. It's how she is born." The words confused her. "It would seem to me -- " He drew her hand to his lips and kissed it. "Don't you worry about this, my dove. This is politics, and politics is a man's profession." She pulled back. His tone irritated her. "Victoria will be queen someday," she said coldly. "Which is exactly why she needs someone like me to guide her." "I would be regent," said the duchess, her voice icy. "Not you." "Of course. Of course." Sir John finally sensed her irritation. "But that is a big task. You can't be expected to know everything." "And you can?" she asked. "It's well known that men are better able to handle it. This is no reflection on you. You are far more capable than others of the fair sex. My whole goal is to have the Princess depend on us, so we can both guide her to the correct decisions." The duchess wasn't sure this was just smooth talk, but she decided not to press the issue.
"The Cadaver Princess" by Chuck Rothman (cover by Ron Miller).
"What do you mean you're going to hell?" Pablo asked, picking up the two necklaces automatically: they were something that could be sold, couldn't they? "I am a terrible person," whispered Victoria. She began to weep. Pablo had no idea what to do. "You? How?" "I lied." Pablo had to suppress a laugh. "I wouldn't worry about it. I've lied often enough in my life. If that puts you in hell, well, we can both meet there." Victoria looked up. "This is not a joke. I told Charlotte they could keep her alive if we switched back. But I do not like being dead." "’Tis not surprising," said Pablo.
"It ain't our problem," said May. "That's what's wrong with you, Jimmy. You ain't got ambition. If it ain't for me, you'd still be cutting up sheep. No, there's something awfully queer going on." "None of our business," said Williams. "Besides, it ain't smart to make waves. We got a good thing going here. We wouldn't want anyone to catch on. Then it'd be the wooden mare for us." "Bah," said May. "Only if they catch us. And the rozzers couldn't catch a cold on a rainy day." Williams laughed. "Maybe not," said Bishop. He was also smiling. "But a blind squirrel finds a nut sometimes. Better to be safe." "All right," said Williams. "Maybe something is strange about the girl. What are you going to do about it?"
Sir John shrugged. "My feelings are clear. You are a poor influence on the child." "Why is that, Sir John? Because I urge her to speak her own mind? To be strong so she shall be ready to rule?" Sir John reddened. "Because you were born without a title. Easily led. A poor example for the princess." Lehzen got the point. Her title had been given to her by King George so Victoria would be taught by a peer. "And what about you?" she said sweetly. "You were also born without a title." "I may not have had a title," said Sir John, "but at least my father was something more than just a cowherd." Lehzen was flabbergasted. Where on Earth did he come up with that? Complete twaddle! "My father was . . . " No, it wasn't worth it to get drawn into his game. "And I am descended from the kings of Ireland." The claim was even more absurd. "You are just an upstart." Sir John's face turned red. "Don't you dare call me that!" Lehzen realized she had gone too far. "I humbly apologize. I should never have said that. I will endeavor to do better," she said, wanting to end the confrontation. "See that you do," said Sir John. "Good morning."
Pablo was about to say something, but stopped himself. The business of buying corpses was ugly. Mr. Sheppard said they were needed to advance society, to allow young doctors to learn their trade. The need was acute: 500 cadavers a year to go under the knife for the edification of the eager doctors-to-be. It saved lives, Mr. Sheppard had said. For a moment, it looked like Sheppard would object and put an end to this ugly business. "You do that," said Sheppard tiredly. It was late; the resurrectionists only plied their trade in the dark hours. "Thankee, sir," said the man. He vanished out the door. Sheppard looked again at the slab holding the corpse. "Poor girl," he said. "I wonder what your name was." But the corpse opened her eyes. "My name is . . . " She struggled to sit up and paused for a moment before saying more, as though unsure of how to talk through her missing teeth. "Bictoria. And dat little ruppian killed me."
"I beg your pardon?" asked Sheppard. "What do you mean you're not you?" The girl pointed at the mirror. "Dat girl! It's not me. The hair's de wrong color. Da nose is too big. The pace is too . . . oblong." Pablo was amused. He had long ago taken on an attitude of ironic glee at the twist and turns life had thrown at him, and always liked to see what happened. He was often content to sit back and observe, laughing quietly to himself. It was often the most he could do, anyway. "And what do you look like?" asked Sheppard. "Do not condescend to me," said the girl in a frosty tone, clearly upset. "No," said Sheppard. "But how could you ask me to believe something like that? Everyone knows their own face." "Exactly," the girl said. "Dat is why I can state that dis is not mine." "Whose is it, then?" The girl replied. "If I knew, wouldn't I have said so?"
The door swung open to reveal Pablo. "Here are the clothes. Bought them from an old clothes man, I did, just as you asked." He held up a stained pink dress and a chemise that was only partly torn. Sheppard nodded. "Give them to the girl." "Where are you from?" the girl asked. "I hab neber met a Nubian bebore." "I don't know nothing about Nubians," said Pablo. "I was captured by slavers." "Slabery is ebil," said Victoria decisively. "I don't disagree with you," said Pablo. He handed her the dress.
He had long ago stopped wondering about the habits of Londoners. Sometimes he thought he understood them, but then something new came along to confuse him. He should have been used to it by now. He had lived here well over half his life, and his time in Nri was only a vague childhood memory. Once the slave traders captured him, nothing made sense. He was luckier than his parents. He rolled up his left sleeve without thinking to look at his tattoo. It was an image of a girl, representing his sister Ogechi, who had died when the slave ship was captured. Pablo was taken to London and to Mr. Pounce, who ran a penny gaff in the back of his grandiose-named Alhambra public house. Mr. Pounce took him under his wing, dubbed him "Pompey" and put a roof over his head. In return, he ordered Pablo to show the customers a "savage African dance." Pablo had never danced before in his life, but he was smart enough to know that you were better off there than on the streets. So he leapt and jumped and twisted his hips back and forth, and chanting tuneless songs he made up on the spot. The customers loved it.
The Cadaver Princess by Chuck Rothman Art by Ron Miller.
The tavern was half-full, mostly men who smelled of beer and sweat. One sat with a pair of crutches by his side. Another had a rag covering his right eye. There were a few women whose costume and demeanor showed that not just food and drink were on sale here. Lehzen regretted taking Charlotte inside. She should not be exposed to such coarse behavior. Only, she realized, she probably had. This wasn't Victoria. It was a girl who had probably entered places like this as second nature. "Who's the hackneyman?" Lehzen shouted. She could barely be heard over the sound in the room. It would have to be another tack. She reached into her reticule. "Who wants to earn a crown?" The voices quieted down.
His thoughts were interrupted by a new voice joining them. "Are you bringing in more strays, then?" Pablo jumped. The voice was coming from a head that sat on one of the shelves and which looked like plaster. "Quiet, Homer," said Hawthorn. He nodded toward Victoria. "You may be seated. Are you hungry?" Victoria shook her head. "I do not seem to get hungry anymore." "Anymore?" "Since I died." Pablo expected Hawthorn to scoff at the words, but he only nodded. "That explains much," he said. "Well," said Pablo. "I'm hungry."
He stepped into the alley. The morning light barely shone in the narrow path. The smell of rotting food and urine filled the air, though it was hardly any worse than any other street in London. The air felt thick and heavy, as though a storm was about to break. Biswell peered into the gloom, trying to see what had scared Jacob so badly. There was the squeak of a rat in the darkness. The slight tension he felt vanished. Biswell knew how to deal with rats: it was his stock in trade. He took out his knife, just in case it was something dangerous. He stepped forward. He usually didn't need a weapon: it was simple enough to catch rats with just his bare hands. But Jacob never ran when faced by the rodents, so there had to be more. Then the rats fell silent, as though they had all vanished from the world. Biswell didn't like that.
A girl no older than ten stood in a ragged linen dress, barefoot in the cold street, her bonnet askew on her head. She had a shallow basket filled with potatoes and was shouting, vainly trying to get above the din. "Buy some potatoes, sir," she importuned the passersby, "Eight for sixpence, eight for sixpence. Will you buy? Give me a hansel, you shall have fourteen — that's a bargain — fourteen. . . " Pablo didn't think anything of it. She was like thousands of children that age, finding a way to earn a few shillings so she could eat. He had been one of them once. "Sound like you ain't got around much," said Pablo. "No," said Victoria.
But Fanny had reached her dress and was putting it on. "I could not. Not now." "But my dove . . . " "Don't 'my dove' me. You have a sweet tongue, but you're a madman." She looked him up and down. "An old madman. I wonder if you put me under some sort of alchemical enchantment to bring me here." "My . . . " Franklin paused. Homer wondered if he was at a loss for an endearment other than "my dove." "Good night, Dr. Franklin," said Fanny as she exited the room. Franklin watched her leave. Then he shrugged. "Oh, well," he said. "The night is young, and there are other women." He began the process of putting on his boots.
It was then that he recognized what he saw. It was not totally unfamiliar: the Alhambra had the head of one stuffed and hung over the bar, ratty and gnawed on by mice and moths over the years. "We need to go back," he whispered to Victoria. "Why?" she said. "We have only just got here, and I am ever so delighted." Pablo pointed. Victoria saw what he was indicating. "A lion?" "It's spotted us, I reckon." "Is it real?" "I'm thinking it ain't wise to find out directly. Move slowly. We can't outrun it."
Sheppard examined the corpse, its modesty protected only by a wrap of rough linen. The girl was probably no more than 12. Honey brown hair. A thin face and oversized nose. Pablo figured that if you scrubbed the London street dirt from her face, she might have been judged pretty. No teeth. Bishop always brought them without teeth. Probably sold to a dentist for a few shillings. Pablo knew that, to Sheppard, the beauty was not in the outward appearance, but in the bones and organs underneath. Many times, he had listened to the anatomist speaking glowingly about how they were what his students would need to understand as doctors. "Five pounds," he said. Bishop laughed. He smelled of garbage and manure and Pablo thought it might just be worth a pound or two to get him out of the hospital. "St. Barts will give me eight." "Then I suggest you go to St. Barts," said Sheppard. He turned away. "I shall not haggle prices like a London fishmonger."
"For what you did to me, I forgive you." "Forgive me?" said Niviane. "What to forgive me for?" "The hawthorn bush, obviously." "You deserved it. You were getting too full of yourself." More silence. Then, "Don't joke. That wasn't the real reason." "It is as far as you're concerned. "I love you, Niviane." The words wounded. "You're a fool." "Perhaps I am. But one can't control one's heart." "God," said Niviane. "Such drivel. You're like a mewling baby." "Perhaps. But I know my heart. Don't you love me at all?" "Not a whit," said Niviane without having to think about it.
"That's the only problem?" said Homer. "How about getting into the palace and finding that instrument?" "One at a time," said Pablo, raising his hand. "I don't know much about music," he said, his experience only in playing a fiddle -- badly -- in the Alhambra. Mr. Pounce had told him to stick to singing, which could only be slightly flat. "But if we could figure out that chord, we're a step ahead." "I know what it is," said Victoria. Everyone looked at her, surprised she had spoken up. "Well?" said Mrs. Lake. "Tell us." "It is probably the Devil's chord. I learned about it in my lessons. Mr. Campanelli called it a tritone."
Bishop lived in a cottage of three small rooms, its walls made of wood that had been patched so many times that it was likely that none of the original material remained. He sat at the rickety table in the kitchen, a small room with a hearth that was covered with years of soot and grease. Bishop counted the coins Mr. Grey had tossed to him. Eight pounds, six shillings and ten pence. Nowhere near the amount he had been promised. But it would be good enough for now. Bishop sensed that Mr. Grey was not the type of person you should be demanding more money from
"Your Royal Highness," the lions had said. Pablo was beginning to get used to seeing wonders. They seemed to follow Victoria around like fleas following a dog.
No way out. Which means, thought Lehzen, we have to stay in. "Charlotte?" Lehzen looked around the room. Not many hiding places. There was only one other option. "Get into the bedchamber and stay there. Get under the bed and don't speak or come out no matter what happens. Understand?" The girl nodded. "But what if -- ?" "Just stay there. I'll let you know if you can come out." She paused. What if she couldn't give a signal? "And if I have to leave you, you are to go to St. James Palace. Do you know where that is?" "No," said the girl. Lehzen took out four shillings. "Take these. It will cover the cost of a cabriolet." After a moment, she added two more. "Just in case."
"I have no doubt of it." Wellington sipped his own sherry. "Even if the dowager duchess were reluctant, Conroy has that certain charm that is toward women as nectar is to a bee. It is inexplicable, but there it is." He sipped again. "I wonder what he's here about." "If it's about the bloody Reform talk, I shall show him out the door." Wellington laughed, a small giggle that sounded more like a young girl than a military man. "More likely, it is to inveigle his way into a peerage." That was even funnier. "He knows we have no influence over the King." "He just might not. People like him usually think they're more clever than they really are. The obvious flaws in their plans do not occur to them." After the laughter died down, Newcastle said. "Let's make a small wager, Arthur. I say he will bring up the Reform. You say it will be a peerage. Let's say . . . twenty pounds." "Done," said Wellington. "But what if he brings up neither?" "Then we will both be better off and we will use the money to buy a good claret." There was a gentle knock and the servant opened the door. "Sir John Conroy, Your Graces." Newcastle stood. "Good evening to you, Sir John." He gestured toward Wellington. "Have you been introduced to the Duke?"
"There's no need for that, Mr. Bishop," said the monstrous rat. "I have been asked to offer you a job."
The newcomer was a woman whose age was difficult to discern. Certainly mature. Maybe in her forties, but with a smoothness to her movements that indicated someone much younger. She was short -- just an inch or two over five feet -- and thin as though she rarely had time for food. Her hair was blonde and reached naturally to her shoulders underneath a green bonnet that had seen better days. But there was a patina of fading beauty in her face and manner. "Are you . . . Daisy?" Sheppard asked. The woman frowned and he could see Victoria shaking her head as though to say, "How could you make such a mistake?" "No," said the woman. Her eyes lit on Victoria. "And I am here to kill you." Pablo began to laugh.
Lehzen had drawn back to the door. What sort of madhouse was this that left a corpse -- a naked one, she perceived -- lying in the center of a room? "Pardon me, ma'am," said the figure, rubbing his eyes. The light revealed a man's features, light brown hair and dark eyes filled with sleep. "But you shouldn't be here." Lehzen gained back her voice. "I am looking for Mr. Sheppard." "At your service," said the man, touching his brow as though he were tipping a hat. "But I must repeat myself: you shouldn't be here." "I realize that now. That boy led me here." "Then I apologize. Eli has a rather crude sense of humor. My regular assistant is . . . well, I don't know where he is right now. And who are you?" Lehzen stood up straight, eyes away from the dead man on the table, reminding herself that this breach in etiquette was only because he didn't realize who she was. "Permit me to introduce myself. I am Lady Johanna Clara Louise Lehzen. And you?"
The lodgings were on the third floor. Lehzen had expected rude lodgings, but the apartment was decent enough, if a bit small and spare. The drawing room was barely ten feet square with a wooden table and a chair that showed plenty of wear, but was otherwise serviceable. The only light came from a small window overlooking Meloir Street. She pushed open the door to the bedchamber. It was no bigger. A rickety wooden nightstand held a pitcher, a bowl, and a bourdaloue for its residents to relieve themselves. The mattress was of straw that gave a sour smell to the room. The window looked out on another building, with only a small alleyway between them. It was oppressive, especially since Lehzen was used to the view from Kensington. "Well?" said Mrs. Kybert. "I ain't got all day." Lehzen realized she was waiting for her money. She reached into her reticule and took out a crown. "Thank you," she said, putting the coin in the woman's hand. "Nothing to thank me for," said Mrs. Kybert. "It's just business."
There was a short silence before Homer spoke, his voice soft and gentle. "Do you still love her?" The question was serious. Homer clearly knew Hawthorn's heart. "It's been such a very long time," he said. "What she did was inexcusable. It took me ages to get free, and so many things were destroyed during that time. She's headstrong and manipulative, and betrayed me so terribly that I should be planning to come back with her head in a basket, like the French do." Homer was quiet for a moment, then said, "You didn't answer me." "Damn it, yes! It makes no sense, but yes!" Homer gave a knowing look. "Sometimes the heart doesn't make sense." "How would you know? You don't have one."
He spotted Victoria disappearing into the door of the pawnshop. He joined her inside, wondering what she had in mind. "Hey, you, Pompey!" It was the pawnbroker. He was at the side of the shop near the selection of coats. A customer was with him. "Keep your hands in your pockets." "Do you ignore me for everyone who drops in?" asked the customer, one of the men who were there when Bishop had pawned the ring. "Beg pardon, sir," said the pawnbroker, giving a slight bow. "But you see his type ain't trustworthy. Havers his age would as soon as steal as earn an honest wage." Pablo spotted Victoria standing by the back counter. She looked back at him and grinned. The ring was in her hand. "Beg pardon, sir," said Pablo, who understood his role was to keep the pawnbroker looking at him. "Have you seen my dog?" "No, I ain't seen your dog. Now get out of my shop or I'll call the peelers and have you pulled." "I'm leaving," said Pablo. He backed out of the shop. Jacob was waiting for him outside. He was lying in the muddy street, his eyes glued to the tavern where Bishop was. In a moment, Victoria emerged. She spotted Pablo and walked to him. She handed the ring to Pablo, who put it in his pocket. "I do not think he saw me." She had a big grin on her face. "I have been good all my life. This is the first time I have done something bad." She stood up. "I have committed a crime, have I not?" Pablo nodded. "It was exhilarating," said Victoria. Then her face fell. "But it was terribly wrong. I shall send the man twenty pounds when I am Queen. Do you think that is enough?" "More than enough," said Pablo, aware of the precariousness of their position.
The bust of Homer spoke. "What are you so thoughtful about?" He didn't look up. Homer always knew what he was thinking. "Magic," he said. "So you are planning to do something about it," said Homer. It was spoken flatly, as though he knew the words were the truth. Old habits die hard, and his were far older than most. You can't avoid them, even if they caused nothing but trouble. Hawthorn had tried to live life in the shadows. This new world of science and steam had no place for his skills. But magic was his milieu. "I'm not sure I can even do anything," he said. "This all smells of fate. You only get in trouble challenging fate." "You know you don't believe in fate," said Homer. Hawthorn didn't reply. Homer always knew him better than he knew himself. It was why he kept him: someone to remind him when he was giving in to folly or despair. It was too bad that sometimes folly was the right thing to do.
"Mr. Sheppard says I am already dead," said Victoria. "Only I do not think so. If I were dead, would I not be in heaven or . . . the other place? Yet this seems to be London." "It is London," said Mrs. Lake. "I have not had much chance to see too many other people," said Victoria, "but I assumed that the dead don't usually walk and talk." She smiled, just slightly. "They don't," Mrs. Lake agreed. "I do so want things to be set right," said Victoria. "I want to be a princess again. Can you help?" "I will see what I can do," said Mrs. Lake.
May shrugged. "So they was generous." "But why? The dress ain't all that much, and that silly bit of tin even less. Yet they acted like they was valuable." "It ain't our problem," said May. "That's what's wrong with you, Jimmy. You ain't got ambition. If it ain't for me, you'd still be cutting up sheep. No, there's something awfully queer going on." "None of our business," said Williams. "Besides, it ain't smart to make waves. We got a good thing going here. We wouldn't want anyone to catch on. Then it'd be the wooden mare for us." "Bah," said May. "Only if they catch us. And the rozzers couldn't catch a cold on a rainy day."
The Cadaver Princess by Chuck Rothman (art by Ron Miller)
The corpse was suspiciously fresh. Pablo had been working for Mr. Sheppard for almost two years and had seen many a body showing up in the middle of the night. But this one looked almost like it was still alive. Mr. Bishop had said it was a distant cousin who had expressed an interest on her deathbed to leave her remains to medical science, but Pablo didn't believe a word of it. Bishop had been here before, and seemed to have a lot of cousins with similar public spirit. Still, it wasn't Pablo's place to say anything. Assisting Mr. Sheppard let him earn his keep, spending his nights in the room, lit by smoking oil lamps, with its soot-stained walls covered with medical instruments. The odor of death was in the air, as the resurrection men brought their trade. It was unpleasant, but a far sight better than begging in the streets. The body parts sitting in jars in cabinets and on shelves no longer bothered him.
Charlotte rose to her feet. The corridor was dark, but she could barely make out the figure of what had to be the other girl. She approached. Her foot kicked something made of metal. Looking down, she spotted the lantern Pablo had been carrying. The candle in it had gone out. She could sense the faint smell of rotted meat, then then the sound of a belch. Victoria lay on her side, curled into a ball, a shadow among the other shadows. "They're gone," said Charlotte. "I think we're safe." "Something bit me," said Victoria. Charlotte peered at Victoria's arm. It was difficult to see in the dim light, but there was clearly a chunk of flesh bitten out of her wrist. No blood, though. "They wanted to eat my face!" said Victoria. "Yes," said Charlotte. "Rats do that to corpses." She held out a hand. "Let me lift you up."
The Cadaver Princess by Chuck Rothman (art by Ron Miller)
Mrs. Lake stopped. For a moment, Pablo thought she was about to faint, but steadied herself by holding onto the chair by the desk. Then her eyes widened as though she were frightened by something horrible. Pablo looked where she was looking. A small rat had poked its head from under the door. Mrs. Lake stood up, clearly disturbed. That was strange. One cannot live in London without seeing rats, but the sight had clearly shaken her, as though this wasn't the usual rat. Then Pablo noticed something more. The rat had the face of a human. As Pablo gaped, it vanished into a dark corner.
Command. Sir John thought about the word. It meant a peer. Definitely Earl Grey. "I will be right down." He checked the look of his coat and cravat. The dark purple was perfect for the occasion, dignified but not ostentatious, with the subtle hint of royalty. He slowly paraded down the stairs to the drawing room. There were three figures in the room. Lehzen, who greeted him with an expression of utter contempt, the African, and . . . "Close your mouth," said William IV. "You look like a fish." Sir John somehow managed to blurt out, "Your Majesty?" "You seem surprised to see me," said the King. "I was not informed of your presence," Sir John said. He focused on the Baroness Lehzen. "I told you -- " Sir John began. "I order you . . . " began the King. "No, we order you to keep her on as the princess's governess." That discomfited him even more. "Your Majesty! She took the Princess from the palace without an entourage!" "I often go abroad without an entourage," said the King. "Yes, but -- " "And you claimed I would be dead today." "Your Majesty! I . . . I . . . "
The Cadaver Princess by Chuck Rothman (art by Ron Miller)
The Cadaver Princess by Chuck Rothman (art by Ron Miller)
There was a short silence before Homer spoke, his voice soft and gentle. "Do you still love her?" The question was serious. Homer clearly knew Hawthorn's heart. "It's been such a very long time," he said. "What she did was inexcusable. It took me ages to get free, and so many things were destroyed during that time. She's headstrong and manipulative, and betrayed me so terribly that I should be planning to come back with her head in a basket, like the French do." Homer was quiet for a moment, then said, "You didn't answer me." "Damn it, yes! It makes no sense, but yes!" Homer gave a knowing look. "Sometimes the heart doesn't make sense." "How would you know? You don't have one." "Do you really want to continue in that vein?" "No," Hawthorn said. "But I do want to see her. I'll figure out why when I do."
If Jacob had thought of such things, he would have considered himself brave. He fought the rats in the ring, tearing at their throats and shrugging off their bites. He would finish blooded, but the rats would be dead. But he had run in terror when Master needed him most. He dimly felt that that was wrong. If he had done what he'd been trained to do, Master might still live. Jacob whimpered. Dogs don't usually plan, but a vague idea came to mind: If Master had died because Jacob hadn't protected him, maybe he would come back if Jacob killed what had murdered him. He remembered the scent, the vision that had made him run. Jacob stood up. There were millions of scents in the world, but he knew he would remember the scent of the creature who killed Master. He would find it and bite through its throat until the blood flowed like water in a drainpipe. It gave him strength and purpose, though he didn't know the concepts. He sniffed at the ground, trying to pick up the scent. It led off and down the street. Jacob's course was clear. He would follow the scent. He would find the murderer and make him suffer and die. If he were human, he would call this a thirst for revenge.
Owen spotted Josiah Flight along the rail of the pit. "How do you do, Joe?" Flight smiled. "How do you do? Come to see the baiting, have you?" "What else? I reckon to put a few bob on Jacob tonight." "Ain't ye heard? Jacob ain't here." "He ain't? Ain't like Biswell to miss a chance." "I'm afraid Mr. Biswell is unavailable this evening," came a raspy voice. Owen looked. It was a man who seemed hunched over. He wore a gray cloak and hood that hid his face. "Who are you?" asked Owen. He knew most of the regulars here, but this one was completely unfamiliar. "Someone who came for the spectacle," said the man. Something about it made Owen shiver. Flight must have sensed it, too. "So, Owen," he said. "You shall have to choose someone else." He looked toward the newcomer. "Who do you favor, friend?" "The rats." The gray man vanished into the crowd. "Queer fellow," said Flight.
He was interrupted by a commotion outside the hospital. Six men in blue uniforms had ridden up, and were in the middle of dismounting. There was an urgency in the way that moved that was disconcerting. Five of them had entered the hospital, the sixth remaining to hold the horses. "What is that?" Bishop asked. He had joined Sheppard at the window, glancing at the new arrivals. "I wouldn't know." "I don't like it," said Bishop. "Well," said Sheppard, "I do not think they particularly care what you like or not."
Bishop didn't believe in witches. There was no money in it. "What about the girl, then?" "She's alive." "Don't be daft," said Bishop. "She's in kingdom come and welcome to it. You saw she ain't been breathing when you took her teeth." "That I did. But I seen her alive not an hour ago. In the Fortune of War, with the little Pompey of Sheppard's." Bishop considered. There were some very strange things going on around London. "Yer wrong," he said. "Some other girl who looks like her." "You remember a girl if you're knocking out her teeth. It's like the first bunter, except this is even more -- what do you call it? -- intimate. She reminded me a lot of your daughter. A little older that Lucinda, but -- " Bishop slammed a hand down on the table. "Do not mention her." "I was just -- " Bishop rose and pushed May's bottle onto the floor. It rattled on the dirt, spilling out its contents. May looked on in horror and leapt for it, but Bishop kicked it across the room. "Maybe now you'll remember, business is business and family is family. Don't mix 'em up." "All right," said May. "Ya don't have to tell me twice." "But I do need to tell you twice," said Bishop. "Maybe four times so you might remember when you're drunk. It ain't that girl you see. It's the gin."
"Oh, nothing to tell you, ma'am." She reached into her apron. "Just this, ma'am." Lehzen was amused by the way the girl kept calling her ma'am after every sentence, but kept that to herself. Probably a sign of her nervousness. Bridget had a letter in her hand. "Sir John told me to burn this, ma'am. That don't sit right with me, though. I mean, a letter's a private thing, ain't it? And this is yours. Sorry I couldn't bring it on a proper tray, ma'am, but Sir John might see, and I'd lose my position." Lehzen took it from her. It did indeed have her name on it: The Right Honorable Baroness Lehzen, Kensington Palace. "When did this arrive?" "Last night, ma'am. A lad delivered it. A Negro, if you can believe that!" "Well," said Lehzen. "I thank you. You are an honorable girl to bring it to me."
"And you were able to walk around? Do things normally? Were you cold with only those clothes?" "Mr. Sheppard," said Victoria. "I tire of your questions. You may be a scientist, but you're letting that overrule your manners." She was right. He wondered if she was not as confident as she seems. After all, she was told she was dead, and in a different body as her own. It would take an iron will to remain calm in that. And an even stronger one not to be secretly afraid.
The laughter of the Grey was like sudden thunder. "You are helpless, Guardian." He said the last word with enough scorn to power a steamboat. Pablo looked around, trying to spot the talisman. A flash of greyish pink could be seen a few yards away, with the rats feasting on it. "I wouldn't suggest going to it," said the Grey. "Unless you want to end up eaten, too." Pablo knew that rats rarely attacked the living, but these were not ordinary rats. "But I will make a deal with you. Let me have the ring and I'll let you live." Pablo knew better. "You ain't gonna let me live if I give it up, and you ain't gonna get it from me." The Grey paused. "You are smart, lad. But how about I kill your friends?"
Mrs. Lake lunged for him, but Pablo was too quick. He darted away and she fell onto the dirty cobblestones. "I ain't trusted you since you kept the finger," he said. "It's for England!" Mrs. Lake rose from the stones, her dress covered with mud and manure and took two steps toward Pablo. But the rats stopped her, covering her legs in an instant. She struggled against the gray storm of rodents. "And for England, you would do this to me?" The woman raised her head against the onslaught. "Yes," she said. "I have sacrificed everything for it." "Seems like it ain't worth the effort," said Pablo. "I also reckon it has nothing to do with England and everything to do with you."
Hawthorn didn't look at the dress until he returned to his quarters, a single cellar room beneath a chandler's shop in Bishopsgate. He had left his cart in an alley -- no one would think to take it -- and climbed down the steps. The interior was much like the library of a gentleman's country home, though if anyone cared to examine the books, they would have been perplexed by their titles. A gentle light, not unlike sunlight, suffused the room. There was very little furniture -- a carved mahogany chair with leather padding, a maple rope bed in the corner, a cast iron stove, and a small mahogany table the doubled as a desk. A small niche held a bust of Homer -- a poor likeness, but few would notice it these days.
Jamison was cutting through the cadaver's ribs with a saw, the sound a background rasp as Sheppard lectured. "Now, gentlemen," Sheppard said, "pay particular attention to the man's lungs. This was an unusual case and -- " There was a crack as Jamison pulled back the bone to expose the left side of the chest. Curwood fainted. Sheppard paid him no heed. Curwood was a handsome boy, but Sheppard had felt he might not have the stomach to be a surgeon. "Move him aside, Sadler," he said. "He will become conscious presently, and might rethink his future occupation."
"I do have a question for you," she said. "While you slept, your sleeve . . . well, I saw your arm." "That ain't -- " "Why do you have a tattoo of me on it?" "You?" "It looks like me. The real me, I mean. Not the body I currently inhabit." Pablo pushed his sleeve down. "It ain't you." "Who is it, then?" He realized she would not give up the subject. "It's my sister Ogechi." "She looks like me?" "No. I mean." He took a breath. The thought of her still pained him. "She's dead."
"I know, my dove," said Sir John. His voice was as smooth as honey. One good thing about women: they were easily swayed by soft words and attention. "But you saw what I did to Victoria. Has she not changed her attitude?" "Less rebellious," said the duchess. "Exactly. Whenever she becomes queen, my Kensington System will make her our puppet. Even if by some chance she is of age." Once the King died, Princess Victoria would replace him. And he controlled Victoria. Or, rather, the girl who inhabited her body. But she was only a street seller, barely more than a beggar. She would know to listen to her betters. "Do not fear, my dear. Things are set in motion." "Things? What things?" He patted her hand. "Do not worry about it," he said, then gently lifted it to his lips for a chaste kiss.
Dogs don't usually plan, but a vague idea came to mind: If Master had died because Jacob hadn't protected him, maybe he would come back if Jacob killed what had murdered him. He remembered the scent, the vision that had made him run. Jacob stood up. There were millions of scents in the world, but he knew he would remember the scent of the creature who killed Master. He would find it and bite through its throat until the blood flowed like water in a drainpipe. It gave him strength and purpose, though he didn't know the concepts. He sniffed at the ground, trying to pick up the scent. It led off and down the street. Jacob's course was clear. He would follow the scent. He would find the murderer and make him suffer and die. If he were human, he would call this a thirst for revenge.
He stared at the two bob the pawnbroker had given him. Not as much as he wanted, but it wasn't likely anyone was going to give him more. Just a trinket, the pawnbroker had called it and -- to be honest -- Bishop knew he was telling the truth. But it was valuable to Mrs. Lake. He wondered why. Bah, he thought. Wondering gets you nowhere. It's coin that you want. Two shillings wasn't much, but he knew the saying about taking care of the pence. The problem was, there was only so much you can buy with a penny. He would have to talk to Sheppard again. The man was atop a gold mine. Bring the dead back, and the world was yours. And Bishop could be there at the beginning. Sheppard would go along. All men had secrets, and Bishop had been gratified that his comment had gotten such a strong reaction. Oh, Sheppard had pretended that nothing was amiss, but Bishop saw in his eyes that the words scared him.
The Cadaver Princess by Chuck Rothman (art by Ron Miller)
Sir John opened the seal on the letter. Grabbing the candle from Mr. Watson, he started to read. He nodded several times. Then he folded the letter back. It was awkward with him holding the candle, and he dropped it onto the floor, where it floated like a leaf away from him to slip underneath a table not six feet from where Bridget was working. "Bah," he said. "I'm going to my rooms. Burn that letter." Brigid nodded. "Very good, sir."
He stepped into the hallway to lock the door. There was a servant there. She looked very startled to see him. "You!" he shouted. "Who are you?" "Bridget, sir. I'm the -- " Sir John didn't care about her station. "What did you hear?" "Nothing!" "I don't believe you. Your kind will lie as soon as you would breathe air. What did you hear?" Bridget trembled. "Music, sir. Beautiful music." He gave her a look through narrowed eyes. "Nothing else?" "I swear on the grave of my sainted mother," said Bridget. "Just the music." Sir John stared at her for several eternal moments. "If you lie . . . well, I can call up forces that make you sorry you were ever born. Is that understood?"