The Reckoning of Noah Shaw Read online

  Just as I take a step to go look, dark tendrils creep beneath my feet, curving and folding over each other, forming another branch, and then letters, and then a name:

  Samuel Milnes

  Christ. We are related, then. “Goose,” I say, staring at the floor. “Come look—”

  The shadows keep growing, though, forming an outline of a rope that hangs from his branch. A noose is looped around the neck of the limp body beneath it, wearing the clothes Sam wore when I saw him, when he jumped to his death at my father’s funeral.

  “Are you seeing—”

  “Jesus fuck,” Goose says, just as the shade rises. Sam’s body is translucent, nothing more than grey smoke. His eyes are open and hollow.

  “What the fuck—”

  Sam’s mouth opens, and a cloud of winged insects swarms from the hole. Goose swats at them furiously. The door slams behind us, and a gust of dead air blows the shade away.

  I haven’t been able to hear the sorts of sounds that I shouldn’t in days—weeks, perhaps, but the racing, thundering sound of our heartbeats fills my ears now.

  “This is completely fucked,” Goose whispers. A flash of lightning beyond the window illuminates the ruins of the old abbey, confirming that somehow, we’re still in the manor. But where?

  Wrong question, Mara’s voice teases. When are you?

  The stale breeze sweeps leaves onto the floor, and, impossibly, breathes life into a great fire, roaring and crackling, barely contained in its hearth.

  A long table is in the centre of the room, set with bone china and flowered porcelain on a tablecloth of vines and skeletal leaves. The panelled wooden walls bear elaborate carvings of grotesques, and the elaborate arcading on the ceiling is nearly indistinguishable from the vines that have risen from the ground to overtake it. The room has no windows, but antlered chandeliers hang from iron chains, weeping cobwebs. It is a dead house, wholly silent—not even our footsteps echo on the floor. A flickering glow moves just beyond our line of sight, through a doorway. I follow it.

  The room opens into a hall, the great hall, of this same house. The balustrades cut from stone, the twisting banisters, the classical figures above the lit fire, the printed wall coverings, the ornate plaster moulding—all the same, but for the rot and corruption. Once-red paint is browning, the plaster is crumbling, the carpets are damp with mould. The glass eyes of dead animals beheaded and mounted on the walls have clouded over with dust, and a thick fog blankets the gardens beyond the windows, which are nearly thatched with vines and ivy.

  I feel something crunch beneath my feet—the face of a porcelain doll, painted, clownish, even more wretched with age. When I look up, Goose is no longer beside me.

  I try calling out for him, but before his name leaves my throat, a glow appears ahead, descending through the air.

  A man holds a candlestick aloft in the near distance, casting light on the gilt-framed portraits that hang from bright red painted walls—not yet rotted through to reveal the wood and brick beneath. He moves swiftly down a staircase—away from the foyer, toward the East Wing of the house, if indeed it is the same house. I follow him through Gothic arched doorways, and when he shifts the candlestick to his other hand, the light reveals him to be a candlelit copy of the man in the portraits; the young, vigorous version.

  He looks in both directions, as if checking to see if his footsteps have been heard, before coming to a stop at a plain wooden door. He sets the candlestick down and withdraws a key from his pocket, turning the lock.

  When he opens the door, the professor stands behind it.

  Part IV

  Before

  Remembrance of things past is not necessarily the remembrance of things as they were.

  —Marcel Proust

  26

  SEEMS AN IMPOSSIBILITY

  St. Thomas’ Hospital London, England 17 XX

  THE FIRST TIME THE PROFESSOR and Simon meet, Simon doesn’t know who he himself is, or at least he can’t articulate it.

  He awakens in a room filled with beds, lined up in little rows, each filled with the dead and dying. With so many bodies crowded together, one would think there would be noises, but the room is mostly silent save for the groans of the unfortunates who still have the strength to express, but not the self-control to contain, their agony.

  There’s no telling whether it is day or night, as the room has not a single window open. Simon is scarcely aware of the shadows that enter the edges of his vision, but their voices, somehow, are clear.

  “It is highly irregular to grant visitation to this ward,” one man says.

  “I understand,” says another. His voice has a rich, deep, Etonian quality to it. “But as I explained to the president and the Court of Governors, I am here on business of the Crown.”

  The first man huffs a bit. “Yes, well, the Governors are hardly physicians, are they?”

  “Nevertheless.”

  The first man sighs. “We have two foule wards here, strictly segregated to prevent further contagion. Though we have strict procedures in place, I hope you were informed of the potential risk to your own health in coming here.”

  “I was.”

  “Is this an inspection, then?”

  “No. But I would like to know more about the hospital, if you would be so kind.”

  “Very well, then. You’ve noticed, I’m sure, that given the hour, it is the night-watches now that primarily take care of our patients, making regular rounds of the wards to give proper and careful attention to those who are most ill.”

  “And how many patients are there, exactly?”

  “I would have to consult our records, I’m afraid, to be absolutely certain, but my guess would be about three thousand in-patients, though it is our policy not to admit incurables.”

  “Incurables?”

  “If, after three months, a patient has not responded to the best efforts of our surgeons and physicians, he is dismissed.”

  “Dismissed to where?”

  “Back into the care of his family, if he has not yet succumbed to his illness.”

  “And if he has no family?”

  “I would encourage you to consult with the Governors about that, or perhaps the Crown. I am merely a physician, sir, and this is a hospital. We are in the business of curing the sick. And at that, we do the best we can. Considering the vast number of patients, the rate of mortality here is quite possibly the lowest in all of Great Britain, due to the expert care and attention we devote to even the poorest of the poor.”

  “Who nevertheless must pay admittance fees, yes?” the second man says.

  “Our resources are not infinite, I’m afraid. Where did you say you were from again, sir?”

  “It’s Professor, actually. And I didn’t say,” the second man says, coming into focus. He has dark skin and darker hair, hanging in loose, thick curls to his shoulders. He is at once familiar and yet, somehow forgettable. His suit is expertly tailored to match his tall, rangy, muscular frame—the physical opposite of the short, rather squat-looking physician beside him.

  “I see,” the physician says, sounding a bit exasperated. “Are you a professor of medicine?”

  “No.”

  “Then if I may ask, what, precisely, is your area of expertise?”

  “I am a man of many interests.”

  “And where do you teach currently?”

  “Currently, I have taken temporary leave from my position to serve the king.”

  The physician’s frustration is palpable, now. “May I have a look at that letter again, please?”

  The professor withdraws an envelope with a broken seal.

  “And what sort of patients are you hoping to examine, Professor?”

  “I am looking for one patient in particular.”

  “Well, as I said, I do not have anything at all to do with the administrative matters of the hospital, but I am certain that come morning, one of our takers-in can help you identify him.”

  “There should be no n
eed for that,” the professor says. His footsteps echo on the stone floor. “I will know him when I see him.”

  “I’m afraid I do not understand—”

  “You don’t need to understand,” the professor says. “As I said, I am here at the king’s directive.” His pace increases as he wanders amongst the beds; the physician has to trot to match the length of his stride.

  As he approaches Simon’s bed, the professor’s face comes into even sharper focus. It is unlined, but there is a wisdom in his eyes that betrays his apparent youth. He bends at the waist, examining Simon with interest.

  “This one. Tell me about him?”

  “Oh,” the physician says sadly. “I’m afraid he isn’t expected to last the night.”

  Simon’s gut twists, but he cannot even cry out.

  “What are his symptoms?”

  “Wasting, fatigue, shortness of breath. Possible deafness, or muteness, perhaps—he does not respond to questions, in any event. We thought addressing the miasmic concerns might aid him, at first, then one of our surgeons suggested he might be in the later stages of a . . . fouler illness, though he lacks the traditional symptoms. He cannot seem to speak, or remember who or where he is. It was suggested by one of the other physicians that he be sent to the Lock Hospital, but as you can see, he would not survive the transport.”

  “So he is incurable, then,” the professor says.

  “It appears so, yes.”

  “Who paid his admission fees?”

  The physician appears perplexed and abashed at once. “I cannot say that I know, sir—Professor.”

  “I do realise the inconvenience,” the professor says. “But I’m afraid my own instructions require an answer to that question.”

  “As I said, in the morning—”

  “The matter cannot wait,” the professor says.

  The physician’s face reddens, and he looks down again at the letter the professor has given him.

  “Very well,” he says finally. “I shall call upon the Court of Governors at once. I do not know how long the matter will take.” He turns on his heel before adding, “You may stay here with him, if you can bear the smell.”

  “Thank you,” the professor says, offering the physician a warm smile. “Your help has been very much appreciated.”

  The physician leaves, muttering to himself. The professor stands tall, his hands clasped at his back, smiling at the physician until he closes the door to the ward behind him.

  “Dalrymple,” the professor says to no one.

  For a moment, the ward is completely silent. Even the moaning has stopped. Then the door opens with a creak, and footsteps approach, quick and shuffling. A round man with a plump, reddened face appears, looking quite out of breath.

  “Professor?” he asks.

  The professor inclines his head at the man in the bed.

  “Oh, dear,” the man named Dalrymple says.

  “Go on.”

  “His name is Simon Shaw. Old family, old money, though it is dwindling as of late. I am not sure how many pounds they have left.”

  “And what of his life?” the professor asks. “How much of that is left?”

  “Twelve hours,” says a third voice, a new one, resonant and dignified. Simon cannot yet see the speaker. “Possibly eighteen.”

  “James,” the professor says with a slight smile. “How was your trip?”

  The owner of the third voice appears in Simon’s field of vision, and says, “More pleasant than I expected, considering everyone I meet here assumes I am a slave.”

  “And have you disabused them of that notion?”

  “When it suits me,” James says, glancing down at Simon. “A rather unimpressive figure, if I may say so, Professor.”

  “For now,” the professor says. “What can you do?”

  James surveys the ward. Slowly, he walks away from Simon’s bed and toward a different one, currently occupied by two grown men. One has bruised-looking skin, the other is sweating and shivering, twisted in his damp sheets.

  “Who is this man, Dalrymple?” James asks.

  “Which one?”

  “The shiverer.”

  Dalrymple shuffles over, but recoils upon reaching the shared bed. “Oh, my, my, my. Violent temper, that one.”

  “His name?”

  “John William,” Dalrymple says.

  “He is recovering,” James says to the professor. “From his current outbreak.”

  The professor arches an eyebrow. “How much time does he have?”

  “Sixteen years,” James replies. “Possibly eighteen.”

  The professor nods once. “All right, then.”

  But James shakes his head.

  “He has no family,” Dalrymple interjects helpfully.

  “And is working his way up to murder,” the professor adds. “He’ll spend the next sixteen years thieving, whoring, and beating others, unless . . .”

  James sighs. Glances back at Simon, curled up in his bed.

  “And that one?”

  “He has a role to play.”

  “For good or ill?”

  “Both, as with most men. But he cannot play it without you.” The professor walks over to James, placing his hand on his shoulder. “You know I would never ask if there were any other way.”

  James searches the professor’s eyes. “What are you asking for?”

  “Time,” the professor says. “As much as you can give him. For him to become who he is meant to be.”

  27

  I AM NOT WORTHY

  SIMON SHAW AWOKE THE NEXT morning in one of the three foule wards of St. Thomas’ Hospital in London to find himself with his memory, his health, and his power of speech restored.

  He awoke screaming.

  28

  SUCH WORSHIP

  North Yorkshire, England

  THE DAY OF LORD SIMON’S wedding to Sarah Hargrove brought with it unseasonable warmth, sunshine, and two uninvited guests.

  The presence of the two men was all the more notable due to the small size of the affair. Simon’s own father had died more than forty years ago, and his mother thirty. Simon himself was fifty-five years of age. The two men knew it. His bride did not.

  Simon still looked like a man in his thirties—he checked, quite obsessively, every time he passed a mirror—but he didn’t feel like it. His bones ached, for one thing, and he dreamt of lost teeth and hair. Any cough or sneeze plunged him into a secret terror which he would disguise as melancholy or ennui to the servants or whomever else he had to deal with. He’d taken to having portraits done of himself every time he imagined his age was beginning to catch up with him, so he could soothe his fears by comparing them. He earned a bit of a reputation for vanity as a result.

  That hardly prevented him from receiving far more than the usual amount of attention a wealthy, unmarried lord of his (apparent) age could expect in London society. And he enjoyed it, perhaps too much. Simon tended to fall in and out of love (and lust) easily, and there had been a few incidents over the decades, the most serious of which involved one of his mother’s lady’s maids. Simon would have married her, but his mother forbade it. He received a letter six months later, informing him of his son’s birth.

  The letter was from the professor.

  If you do not make better use of your time on Earth, you may well find yourself short of it.

  Simon made arrangements to provide handsomely for the boy and his mother—he wasn’t a monster, after all. But he burned the letter. And decided to study medicine, after that. Just in case.

  Every now and again, he would receive a letter from the professor—sometimes writing as Abraham Locke, other times as Augustin Langley, and still other times as Armin Lenaurd—curiously, the initials were always the same. The letters were always short, and always useful, if cryptic.

  You might consider an appointment with—

  Your presence would be most welcome at—

  An appointment led to a role in the East India Company, a
nd as such, an opportunity to reestablish his family’s fortune. His presence at a ball nearly a year ago resulted in his introduction to Miss Hargrove—Sarah—whom he adored more than his own life.

  But he hadn’t seen the professor in person, not since the day he walked out of St. Thomas’, to the astonishment of the physicians and surgeons and nurses who attended him. The professor was standing outside the gate, past the green, in front of a waiting carriage. Next to him stood the African, whose name Simon could never remember.

  Simon had thought it had been a dream. A nightmare. The professor informed him of the truth, and the hair rose on the back of his neck at hearing his voice again.

  “Simon Shaw,” the professor said to him, “you owe James, here, your life.”

  Simon didn’t hesitate. He bowed to James immediately. “I am forever in your debt, sir. And I will remain exceedingly grateful all my life.”

  The professor smiled at that. “I expect that you will. And you can expect to hear from me again, about that debt.”

  Simon had got into that carriage forty-three years ago and had seen neither man since. Not until today.

  The ceremony began quite ordinarily; Sarah, a vision in her white muslin dress, with tiny white flowers braided into her blond hair, seemed blissfully happy both before the wedding, and during. She beamed as the vicar opened the Book of Common Prayer and began to recite his lines.

  Simon let the words drift past him as he lingered on Sarah’s face. She was exquisite, but more impressively, she was good. A good person, modest and charitable. He knew he didn’t deserve her.

  “Secondly, it was ordained for a remedy against sin, and to avoid fornication—”

  One of Sarah’s sisters giggled and was quickly hushed by her mother.

  The vicar cleared his throat. “That such persons as have not the gift of continency might marry, and keep themselves undefiled members of Christ’s body.

  “Thirdly, it was ordained for the mutual society, help, and comfort, that the one ought to have of the other, both in prosperity and adversity. Into which holy estate these two persons present come now to be joined. Therefore if any man can shew any just cause, why they may not lawfully be joined together, let him now speak, or else hereafter for ever hold his peace.”