Blood Autumn Page 16

  If it were a disease that was causing the deaths in London.

  How curious had been Emily Grant's reaction toward Tommy's widow. Vehemently she had warned him against having anything to do with August. Mrs. Grant had called August evil and beyond redemption. An interesting choice of words. Could Emily Grant be the daughter of a missionary? Was it simply that she thought August was a woman of loose morals? No, he thought it went beyond that. Lady Ashford, as well as her daughter Bethany, had not liked August Hamilton, either. Did no woman like her? Why, when every man was fascinated by her?

  Every man except himself.

  He had no chance to think further on this, for at that moment a sharp knock sounded on the door, and before he could answer, the door was flung open and Dr. Napier rushed into the room. Behind him stood an irritated-looking Edgar. Lyttleton waved the butler away. Dr. Napier, his face flushed, was slightly out of breath.

  "Lyttleton, cancel whatever appointments you have for the next few hours!" he said briskly.

  Lyttleton started to rise from behind the desk. "Why? What's the matter, Dr. Napier? Has something happened?" The doctor seemed greatly agitated.

  "I've just come from talking with the doctor," Napier said. "The Hamiltons' doctor, that is." He sat heavily in the chair vacated by Grant and drew out a handkerchief to mop his damp face. He shook his head as Lyttleton pointed to a wine decanter. "Dr. Fillowby did not examine the body of Tommy Hamilton after his death, Lyttleton. At the request of the widow, the doctor simply signed the death certificate."

  A chill touched Lyttleton. "Then that means — " Napier nodded adamantly. "She lied, damnit, she lied. And thus, we have an appointment this afternoon." Somewhat overwhelmed, Lyttleton said, "We do?" "Yes, damnit, I've made all the arrangements necessary, and I'll just need you along as a witness." "Where are we going?"

  "To the cemetery. We're digging up the remains of Lieutenant Hamilton."

  *

  Lyttleton watched solemnly as the two burly men hired by Dr. Napier plied their shovels, swinging the loads of dirt up to the sides of the hole that was deepening with each minute.

  The light had all but fled the afternoon sky as the workers, Dr. Napier, and Lyttleton arrived at the cemetery where Tommy Hamilton had been buried such a short time before. Evening was approaching, and now, in the grey twilight, a slight wind had sprung up, dispelling the heat of the day and bringing with it the chill and smell of autumn-to-come and the tangy, slightly sour odor of newly overturned dirt.

  The workers traded pleasantries between themselves, joking and occasionally laughing, and never missed a stroke of the shovel, while Dr. Napier, and Lyttleton stood to one side. Both men looked glum now that they were at the cemetery. The doctor's excitement had dimmed as the shovels tore up the grass over Tommy's grave, and as the metal ate through the earth the moods of the onlookers became decidedly more subdued. Lyttleton little liked exhuming his friend's body, but no other alternative had offered itself. Even when Dr. Napier examined the body and even if he found the blood gone, what did that prove?

  Sighing heavily, Lyttleton glanced at Napier, who was studying the gravediggers. Poor Tommy. He can't even find rest after death, Lyttleton thought, and now here we are about to dig him up and poke through his remains. He shivered, as much from the wind as from what they were doing. He wasn't superstitious, though, and knew they had to do this, but he still didn't like it.

  Napier had said nothing to August Hamilton, for he knew she would try to stop him.

  In the past few minutes the remaining light had died, and blackness fell across the cemetery. Thick clouds hid the early moon's light, while occasionally streaks of jagged lightning pierced the cloud cover. Off in the distance came a faint rumble of thunder; the air was oppressive, heavy, and Lyttleton wondered if it would rain. Surely, if it did, Napier would call this madness off; they couldn't continue in the rain. Or could they?

  One of the workers lit a lantern so that they could continue digging; Dr. Napier lit a second one and placed it atop a flat tombstone. The yellow light cast strange elongated shadows across the ground, shadows that seemed to stretch toward Lyttleton, and he felt his flesh creep. He'd never been in a cemetery at night, and he wished they could have postponed this until daylight, but Napier had insisted that they couldn't delay, even for a few hours. Nearby the low branches of a tree scraped against a tombstone, and Lyttleton's fingers curled at his side.

  Dr. Napier caught his eye. "An uncanny place, is it not? It will be our home once we're dead, but we fear and despise it while we're yet alive."

  Lyttleton nodded, little cheered by the doctor's words. Shivering, he thought he heard voices in the moaning wind and wished the workmen would hurry. Then Dr. Napier could do what he had to, and after that they could leave this place of the dead.

  "How much deeper?" Dr. Napier asked.

  " 'Bout a foot, sir, or so," the man said as he swung his shovel over his shoulder. Dr. Napier stepped back just in time to avoid dirt and pebbles raining on his trousers and shoes.

  "Here now, Bert, it's less 'n that," the other said.

  For a few minutes longer the men dug in silence, then Lyttleton heard metal scraping across wood. "We're down to the coffin, sir," Bert called. Dr. Napier went to the edge of the hole, while Lyttleton stood still. He was reluctant to go closer.

  "That's good. Now pry the lid off."

  One of the men worked the blade of the shovel under the lip of the coffin and pushed down. The nails in the lid pulled up slightly. When he was tired, the other worker took over.

  "Stop it!"

  The low voice was angry, and both Napier and Lyttleton whirled around to see August Hamilton standing some feet away from them. A black shawl was draped around her shoulders and her long hair blew wildly in the wind. Her dark eyes seemed to smoulder.

  "You must stop this, for it is wrong. It's my husband whom you are disturbing."

  "Mrs. Hamilton, please," Dr. Napier said.

  She looked at Lyttleton. "How could you allow this? You were his friend."

  "I do it precisely because Tommy was a friend, Mrs. Hamilton. We need to know if Tommy died from the same thing that killed the others."

  She laughed, a strident sound that rasped Lyttleton's nerves. The two workers gaped at her.

  "I hadn't thought you would profane a grave."

  "We're not," Dr. Napier said. "We're not profaning your husband's grave, Mrs. Hamilton. It's important that we stop others from dying, and I think your husband would have wanted us to exhume his body."

  "My husband wanted many things before he died," she said, looking once again at Lyttleton. For no reason he thought of the note that Tommy had sent hours before his death. "Man dies from the moment of his birth," she said as she came closer and drew her shawl about her shoulders. The yellow light from the lantern cast waxy shadows along the planes of her face. "You cannot do anything about that, Doctor."

  "No, but we can stop some from dying."

  Lyttleton said nothing, for he was remembering the dreams in which she had appeared. Almost as if she had sensed his thoughts, she curved her moist lips into a smile, and he felt the warmth stirring in his loins. He cursed mildly under his breath.

  "You won't stop?" she asked.

  "No, Mrs. Hamilton," Dr. Napier said Firmly.

  "Very well, then," she said, her voice so low they could scarcely hear it. "I warn you now. You will suffer the consequences, gentlemen. Particularly when the deaths do not end."

  With those cryptic remarks she turned and left as silently as she had come. Lyttleton thought it odd he hadn't heard the sound of a carriage or horses, but perhaps he'd been too engrossed to mark any unusual noises. Perhaps.

  Dr. Napier cleared his throat. "Continue your work."

  The scraping continued until finally a worker called that the lid was loose.

  "Bring it up," Napier directed. He and Lyttleton backed away as the coffin was lifted up to ground level by the two sweating workmen. With a deep groan ea
ch they set their burden down, then looked to Dr. Napier.

  He picked up the bag he'd set down earlier and went to the coffin while Bert pushed back the lid and backed away. Lyttleton drew out a handkerchief and pressed it to his face, then looked at what lay in the coffin, He swallowed quickly and closed his eyes, wishing he hadn't looked.

  Undisturbed by the effluvium and the unpleasant sight, Dr. Napier knelt and took a surgical knife from the bag. He slit the corpse's collar and directed Lyttleton to hold the lantern above the coffin; then he cut the material around the corpse's groin, then finally pressed the blade into the arm. He pulled back the skin and muscle.

  "Take a look, Mr. Lyttleton."

  Lyttleton forced himself to open his eyes and stare. The veins were empty. Where blood would normally have coagulated after this length of time, none was there.

  "Only residue left, as with the other bodies," Dr. Napier said. He stood, dusted his hands off with a clean linen handkerchief, and put his surgical knife away in his bag. He directed the men to reinter the coffin and to fill in the hole. Once they were finished, the doctor spoke to them in an undertone, then passed an envelope to them which Lyttleton suspected contained money. He and the doctor walked away from the freshly opened grave and paused by the massive gates of the cemetery.

  "It all comes back to Mrs. Hamilton, doesn't it?" Lyttleton asked. He wanted away from these eerie grounds.

  "I'm afraid so."

  "We could go to the authorities," Lyttleton said.

  "Yes."

  "But she would have to have an accomplice. I know someone who's been acting oddly and who is in her thrall." Dr. Napier did not speak. "My friend Henry Montchalmers. He's been rather strange lately and seems uncomfortable whenever someone mentions the deaths." Lyttleton could well remember how Montchalmers had been that morning at the club.

  "Have you seen him within the last day or so?"

  "Yes, and he didn't look . . . right."

  "Then I think we should pay a call upon him early tomorrow morning. Perhaps, because of friendship, he'll confess to you — if he has anything to confess."

  "Perhaps you're right. We can try. I'll come by for you at eight. Is that early enough?" Dr. Napier nodded.

  The moon broke through the clouds just as the doctor climbed into the coach. He paused to stare up at the swollen orb. "A new month begins tomorrow."

  "November 1," Lyttleton said, having forgotten the date in the midst of everything else.

  "All Saint's Day," the doctor said with a faint smile. "All Soul's Eve. The night when the demons and witches mingle with the living. Where I grew up, they believed the dead came back from the grave on this day."

  Nervously Lyttleton looked back at the dark cemetery behind them. He climbed into the carriage and closed the door and wished they were back in the city.

  "Nonsense, though, eh, Lyttleton?" the doctor said, laughing. "Well, we have a lot to do tomorrow. I don't know about you, but I don't imagine I'll be able to sleep much tonight."

  Lyttleton, remembering the look on August Hamilton's face, whispered, "Nor do I." And wondered then how the woman had known to come to the cemetery to find them.

  *

  Lyttleton woke to darkness. Had he heard something? A sibilant whisper? Was it his imagination? A dream? He listened intently, and when he heard nothing, he closed his eyes and burrowed deep into sleep, and did not wake when the hand touched his shoulder and drew back the coverlet. Cool lips brushed his mouth, and his eyes opened.

  "August."

  "Yes." Her hands trailed across his chest, slipped down his arms, caressed his stomach with a fluttering gesture that made him suck in his breath. Her hands hesitated just above his groin.

  "I-I didn't think I would see you so soon," he stammered from nervousness and from the sudden arousal of his body.

  "Why? Because I was angry with you at the cemetery?" He knew she had tilted her head to one side. "All things pass, my dear, all things of the human body." She kissed his lips again, and he moaned.

  "No, please, I don't think that we should." He stopped, tried again. "Mrs. Hamilton."

  "August," she murmured, nuzzling against his neck, j her tongue tickling the warm skin there.

  "August." Heat roiled in his loins and veins, inflaming his long-denied passions, and he wanted her now, without waiting. Horrified at his thoughts, he tried to push her away, but she had the advantage of position as well as having more strength than he would have thought possible, and he was pinned.

  Together they rolled across the bed, fighting for domination, and at last he lay back, spent, while she straddled him. He felt her wetness slide across his loins, and he ached as he had never before for any woman. He clutched at her bared breasts, and she leaned forward to brush the crimson tips against his clawing fingers. He cried out as she nipped his chest with her sharp teeth, then dragged her nails down his sides.

  He reached up to bring her face down to his so that he could kiss her. Her long hair swept across his face and neck and chest, tickling him, and he wanted her lips on his, and then she lifted her hips just once, then twisted down upon him, and the exploding heat surged through him, rising and rising, destroying his veins, his body, and he screamed out to her. Pain assaulted his neck, his chest, his groin, and he was dying. He cried out and fought against her, trying to push her off his body.

  He wanted her away, wanted to live, but she wouldn't move; she kept sucking his life out of him, out and out, and then he was screaming once more as his body shook with tremor after tremor of release, and he was shaking and shaking and someone was calling his name. Through the haze of white heat the pain and the pleasure, he began to breathe deeply, and the heat dimmed, and the passions cooled, and he opened his eyes to see his manservant standing by his bed.

  "I'm sorry, sir," Edgar said stolidly, "but you did leave implicit instructions last night for me to awaken you at six, and it is now five past the hour."

  Lyttleton blinked as he stared around the darkened chamber. Edgar had not yet opened the drapes. He brushed the damp hair back from his forehead and sat up somewhat unsteadily. The memory of the dream — if it was that — remained. It had seemed so real. He touched his neck and checked his chest. Nothing came away on his fingers. Edgar coughed discreetly and Lyttleton looked up.

  "Would you care for breakfast in bed or the other room?"

  "The other room, Edgar. Two eggs and a beefsteak, please. I'll be along shortly. I won't take long this morning."

  "Very good sir." Edgar nodded and left to make his employer's breakfast.

  For a few minutes longer Lyttleton sat in bed, his back propped against his pillow. What must Edgar have thought as he'd entered his employer's bedroom to see a twitching, moaning heap? With little effort Lyttleton relived the dream. She had come to him; she had actually been there. He threw back the covers to look for an imprint of her body, but he found nothing. It was too vivid to have been a dream; he had felt her presence more than ever before. Had felt her physically more, too, and that thought brought a sudden darkening to his cheeks.

  There had been such agonizing pain, too, and he did not like pain with his pleasure. He shook his head and eased out of bed, realizing he felt stiff. He washed, dressed, then went to eat his breakfast. He wasn't accustomed to rising at this ungodly early hour, and yawning, he reached for the volume of poetry he'd purchased at the bookseller's.

  The book fell open, and he glanced down at the book as he brought a forkful of eggs to his mouth.

  " 'O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,/ So haggard and so woe-begone? ... I see a lily on thy brow/ With anguish moist and fever dew/ And on thy cheeks a fading rose/ Fast withereth too/ I met a lady in the meads,/ Full beautiful — a faery's child;/ Her hair was long, her foot was light,/ And her eyes were wild.' "

  He blindly reached for his tea as he continued to read the poem.

  " 'And there she lulled me asleep,/ And there I dreamed — ah! Woe betide!/ The latest dream I ever dreamed/ On the cold hill si
de./ I saw pale kings, and princes too,/ Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;/ They cried — "La Belle Dame sans Merci/ Hath thee in thrall!" ' "

  Lyttleton dropped the cup with a clatter. "La Belle Dame sans Merci," he murmured aloud. "The beautiful woman without mercy." His face burned, and momentarily his eyes dimmed, and when they cleared, he read Keats' poem again from beginning to end.

  The beautiful woman without mercy. The beautiful woman. Without mercy. Her hair was long; her eyes were wild. August. A faery-woman. A faery-woman of the poem. Or worse. A demon-woman. A woman who came to men, who held them in thrall — he could have laughed, although he knew it would have been a wild, mad sound, but hadn't he used that word before to describe the hold she had over men? Hadn't he? Well, hadn't he? He nodded to himself and found his cheeks were damp. He rubbed at them, then ground the heel of his hands into his eyes.

  A demon-woman. A woman who came to men without a sound, as she had come to him. Come to him in his dream, he'd thought so innocently, but it hadn't been a dream. It had been real. No dream, but rather a nightmare, a nightmare that could kill.

  Yes, he thought, yes, she was the one who killed, who murdered. She had murdered Tommy, and Gerald Ashford, and Timmy Cleveland, and the little seven-year-old boy, and all the others. He didn't know why. Perhaps there was no reason except that she enjoyed it. There were no accomplices; there was just one woman, the demon-woman, who killed, who killed only men. Young men. Healthy men. Strong men. Like the knight of the poem.

  And he was in danger, and Dr. Napier was in danger, and Henry Montchalmers was in danger. All men were in danger; he had to warn them.