Merciless Reason (12 page)

“Good afternoon, Inspector. And
was
it an accident?” Daisy responded.

“Have you any reason to think otherwise?”

“I'm sure I don't know, not having witnessed it. All I have heard so far is that a man has been killed under the feet of one of the family's engimals, while under the direction of my
dear cousin
here.” She tried not to refer to Oliver with too much sarcasm. “Would you mind very much providing me with the full facts of the case?”

“Oh, for God's sake, woman!” Oliver snapped at her, barely keeping his voice low enough to prevent the people around them from hearing. “The bloody fool ran back into the house after the bailiffs had dragged them all out. Trom was almost on top of the shack when the noodle dived inside. There was no helping it, that's what I say. Everyone could see that, eh? And this is no concern of yours anyway. Why don't you go back to your papers and leave the harsh realities of business to the men who can deal with them?”

“And when you start dealing with them, will you let us know?” Tatty inquired, looking very pointedly at the waste ground around them. “We eagerly await the day when we will see your management skills come into full bloom.”

“These are the facts as I see 'em so far, your Grace,” Urskin said to Daisy, choosing to ignore Oliver's protests. “Mister Wildenstern here had requested a police presence to provide support for his bailiffs, as he suspected the tenants to be Fenian rebels, or rebel sympathizers. His suspicions were passed on to me in Dublin Castle, and they concurred with some reports I had received from informants in the area. I arrived accompanied by some of my own men, and a detachment of soldiers from the local barracks, whom you see here around us.

“Mister Wildenstern brought a team of bailiffs and this engimal, with a view to removin' the occupants of the houses and demolishin' said houses. They ejected the families with some force.” He glanced over at Oliver. “A level of force, sir, that bordered on the excessive, in my opinion.”

“I didn't ask it,” Oliver retorted.

“I'm givin' it anyway,” Urskin said in a warning tone. Then he continued his narrative: ‘The occupants, havin' been removed, were standing off to one side when the bailiff in control of the engimal set it to smashing down the houses. Whereupon Patrick Ahern—a man in his fifties, with a wife and two children—pulled free of the bailiffs and ran back into the house. It's thought he had some money hidden away in there somewhere and was desperate to get it out before the bull-razer went in.

“But the beast was already up to speed, and Patrick didn't get out in time. He was crushed with the house. The use of engimals such as this in evictions has been questioned for some time, and some legislation may well be in order, but that's not my role here. Patrick ran into the beast's path of his own free will. There'll be an inquest, and I'll make my report. But for now, that's all that can be done.”

“Dear God in Heaven,” Daisy muttered, putting her face in her hands. “Dear God, that poor man. God help his poor family. We must do everything we can for them.”

“Here now, steady on!” Oliver said. “Don't go accepting any obligations, Daisy. Fate played a hand here, that's all. We couldn't have seen this coming.”

“You drove that
thing
over their
house
!” Daisy snarled at him, looking up with a savagery that caused Oliver to take a step back. “A man is
dead
because his family couldn't afford the rent we charge them. And because you deal with such things by swatting a fly with a sledgehammer. You
disgust
me!”

“Actually, they
did
have their rent,” Urskin pointed out. “But your family wouldn't take it, because of where it came from.”

“What?” Tatty exclaimed.

“What do you mean?” Daisy asked.

“They had the money for the rent when the bailiffs arrived today,” Urskin said again. “But the tenants normally pay their rent with their labor, not with money, as you well know, your Grace. If they can't make their quota with the crops they grow for their landlord, they get evicted. Most of these people hardly deal in money at all. So Mister Wildenstern here had reason to believe it had been given to them by the criminal known as the Highwayboy. Mister Wildenstern wouldn't accept the money. In fact, he said their taking the money from the Highwayboy was reason enough to evict them.”

“It's not the first bloody time it's happened, either,” Oliver snorted. “The last few times we've come to evict someone, they've handed over the back rent, happy as you please, after months of not bein' able to pay it. How else would they get their hands on that kind of money, eh? Half of these snirps wouldn't see a coin from one week to the next, let alone a lump of ready money like that. It's obviously robber's loot, that's what I say.”

“That'd be a very generous and considerate robber indeed,” Daisy observed.

“A robber nonetheless,” Oliver sniffed. “One who is no doubt intent on sowing the seeds of rebellion by pretending to support the peasants. Throw a few coins their way today, lead a mob through the door of Wildenstern Hall tomorrow.” He glared at Urskin. “And what are you doing about it, eh? Nothing! That's what!”

“He's a slippery customer,” the police inspector admitted. “I'm not on that case myself—at least, not yet—but the lads'll catch up with him in time.”

“
In time
? Is that your idea of a manhunt?” Oliver barked. “Well, while you're dilly-dallying, this wretch is causing unrest, and I won't have it, y'hear? I won't have conspirators on our land, and that's the end of it.”

“We'll have to send our whole family packing, so,” Tatty chirped. “Can I be the one to break the news?”

Daisy was walking over to the Ahern family, with the intention of offering her condolences. The footman dithered between following her with the umbrella, or staying to protect Tatty. One sharp look from Daisy fixed him in his place, and she continued through the rain alone. She was reaching her hand out to the grieving wife when the woman beside her turned and spat in her face.

“You're murderers!” the older woman shouted, her voice already croaking from grief, her eyes and cheeks red with tears. “Don't tink yer any different from dem over dere, yeh high an' mighty witch! Dey murdered my Paddy—and you wit' your grand airs, you just stand by and watch dem get away with it! Dey destroyed his poor body beneat' the feet of dat monster!” She pushed Daisy aside to aim her spite at the police inspector. “And dey're going to get away wid it now too! An' you shillin'-takin', peeler hoors will just let it happen. What abou'
justice
, yiz feckers? What about the
law
? But den wha' do deh rich know about such things? Justice don't matter a spent piss to dem.” She pointed at Oliver and Daisy and Tatty. “Livin' deh life of deh gods, and wipin' yer feet on us poor mortals! Suckin' the blood from our bodies! But yer time will come! Yer time will come, yiz feckin' vampires!”

Daisy stepped back, her hand over her mouth, as the woman broke down crying. The widow's legs gave way and her family had to take her arms to stop her falling to the ground.

“Oh, spare me,” Oliver sighed, rolling his eyes as he waved to his men that they were leaving. “God, if I have to listen to another minute of this claptrap, I'll take a dive under Trom's feet myself.”

“Would you?” Tatty asked, a hopeful tone in her voice.

“Try and show some respect, Oliver,” Daisy hissed at him, striding back through the mud with tears welling in her eyes. “The woman has just lost her husband.”

“Dying all the bloody time, aren't they, though?” he grunted with a shrug. “Gives them something else to moan about. Beats
doing
something to raise themselves up, doesn't it? All mouth and no trousers—that's the problem with the Irish, peasant, and always has been. No matter how riled up they get, let them have a few drinks and a good moan and they'll stick their head right under your heel again.”

He snapped his pocket-watch shut, put it away and stroked his moustache one last time, giving Daisy a self-satisfied smile.

“Your problem, my dear, is that for all your vaunted woman's intuition, you have a very poor understanding of human nature. It is the peasant's nature to suffer their ignominious lives and obey their masters. That is where their happiness lies, and far be it for us—or any Highwayboy—to remove them from it.”

“I wonder, Oliver, if you are just
acting
the swine—I mean, is it merely a piggish air you give off?” Tatty mused. “Or, if a butcher were to cut you in half, would one find pork running the whole way through?”

Daisy did not hear Oliver's reply. She was already back in the carriage, taking deep breaths to hold in the wave of emotions breaking over her. She would do what she could for the evicted family. But wasn't that the problem she always faced? She would come into contact with one case of the human misery the Wildensterns created, and would try to compensate with what could only be a small gesture, instead of achieving any meaningful change in the overall way the family did business.

They were not afraid of her. That was the problem. Even their fear of Gerald could not be made to extend to her in any useful way. They knew Gerald did not pay enough attention to what they did, and she couldn't make him. Once again, Daisy found herself thinking about Nate and where he might be. There had still been no word, and she realized that she still had not told Tatty that her brother was coming home. She must tell her soon.

Tatty climbed into the carriage, stamping her muddy feet on the steps before coming inside. Urskin leaned in the door before the footman could close it after her.

“An unpleasant business, your Grace,” he said softly to Daisy. “And if you'll excuse me for sayin' so, the woman there was understandably upset, though you shouldn't have been the target of her words. People around here … they do know the difference, ma'am. Your efforts don't go unnoticed.”

“Thank you, Inspector,” she replied. “I appreciate your saying so. And I'll see to it that a new home is found for the family. But it's not enough, is it?”

“It's a start, ma'am. It's a start. Have a safe journey home, your Grace—Miss Tatiana. We'll tidy up here.”

They said their goodbyes in return and he closed the door. The footman took his perch beside the driver and the carriage set off. As they moved away, Daisy heard one of the policemen ask Urskin about Ahern's body.

“We're all done here, son,” the inspector answered. “Dig him out. But whatever you do, don't let his missus see what's become of him. It won't be a pretty sight.”

The miserable scene fell away behind the carriage as it rolled down the rough mucky road. Daisy took out her handkerchief, wiped her eyes and blew her nose. Tatty gazed out the window, looking unsettled, or even angry, rather than upset.

“I wish Nate was here,” she said quietly. “I wish he'd come back and hit that bloody Oliver right in the nose. Frankly, I'm of a mind to do it myself. Or perhaps Cathal would do it for me. I think if he'd been here, and heard Oliver talking that way, he'd have knocked his bally head off. I don't think it's fair that a man can lose his temper and hit someone, but a woman must maintain her composure at all times. I need a jolly good loss of composure, so I do.”

Daisy nodded, and was about to throw caution to the wind and tell her sister-in-law that Nate was on his way home, when a thought occurred to her.

“Where
is
Cathal?”

“And where's my
bird
?” Tatty added. “If I find Gerald's taken that for his experiments too, I'll … I'll … I'll make him wish that Nate had thrown him off a higher bloody cliff.”

XIV

THE UNDERGROUND LAIR

CATHAL SAT ON THE BENCH
in the dark, tiny room, listening to the sounds of heavy machinery nearby. The walls of the room were solid rock—not built of blocks, but actually cut out of stone. He must be underground, possibly in one of the oldest, deepest parts of Wildenstern Hall—the old disused dungeons under the South Wing, perhaps. The walls were damp in places, and there were more damp patches on the bare floor. The door was made of slabs of oak or some other hardwood, reinforced with bands of iron. It was very securely locked.

The throbbing in the back of Cathal's head had started to subside, allowing him to think a little easier. He was gagging for a drink of water. So far, his newly-recovered ability to think had not improved his situation in any way. His hands were bound behind his back. He hadn't seen anybody since he'd woken up, and the only light came from the gaps around the door. It was impossible to tell how long he had been here, or even how much time had passed since he had woken up.

The feeling was returning to his left arm. He had woken to find himself lying on his left side. Because of the way his wrists were tied, his arm had gone completely numb and now the feeling crept back into it with the tingling of pins and needles. The ropes which bound his wrists had been expertly knotted. He could not undo them. He had no means of picking the lock or forcing open the door, and had no way through the solid stone walls.

The noise he could hear from the other side of the door was obviously some distance away, but there was no mistaking the rhythmic rumble, hiss and clank of large steam engines driving pistons and presses. They seemed to beat in time with the pounding in his bruised head. These industrial sounds did not belong in the foundations of Wildenstern Hall.

Well, he wasn't dead, at least—that was something. Cathal rubbed the inside of his right elbow against his side, feeling a familiar itch in his arm. Gerald had taken some blood again. Chewing the inside of his lip, he recalled the last voice he had heard before he was knocked unconscious—the voice of a cold-blooded murderer named Red. There was a man he had hoped never to meet again. Casting his mind back to when he had first run into that hard case, he remembered being hunted through Dublin after the death of his mother.

Red and his partner, Bourne, had been working for a secret society known as the Knights of Abraham. One of the key members of this society had tasked them with finding Wildenstern women who had been exiled from the family. The two criminals led a team of men who captured and drugged these women—and then drained all the blood from their bodies. The miraculous blood of the Wildensterns had been used to help cure the rich members of the society of a variety of disabilities and illnesses. Unfortunately, the process was quite fatal for the blood donors. The perpetrators had eventually been tracked down by Nate, Gerald and Daisy. Bourne and his boss had been killed, but Red had escaped.

It appeared he had found new employment, with Mr. Gerald Gordon. Gerald had learned a great deal about the intelligent particles from the Knights of Abraham. Cathal shifted uneasily on the bench, wondering if his former mentor was adopting some of their techniques. Was he done fooling around with small samples? Did he intend to take all of Cathal's blood in one go? Cathal tried the ropes again, with no more success than last time. He cursed, looking around the room in the dim light to see if there were any sharp edges he could use.

A key turned in the lock and the door opened. Cathal came to his feet, but then swayed unsteadily as a wave of dizziness came over him. Someone with an oil lamp looked in. Cathal had to squint against the light, temporarily blinded by its brightness, but he caught a glimpse of a revolver held in the man's other hand.

“Deh boss wants to see yeh,” Red's voice growled, his hand rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Yer goin' to walk ahead of me down deh passage. You try any more of yer fancy moves, or look at me funny, or do anytin' I don't loike, and I'll put a bleedin' bullet through yer kneecap, y'understand? I only 'ave to keep you alive. Boss said nothin' abou' keepin' yeh whole.”

Cathal walked towards the door. Red gave him plenty of room and kept the gun trained on him. The cove had a new scar. It was a weal—most likely caused by a blade—that started over his right eye and traced a line diagonally across his nose to his left cheek. Cathal was careful not to stare at it—or smile at the sight of it.

Captor and captive walked up the passage like that, the way lit by lamps hung every six or seven yards from the wooden joists supporting the ceiling. The dull glow between them allowed his eyes to adjust, and Cathal was sure now that this was not Wildenstern Hall. It was more like a mine, though what type he could not tell. They continued up the tunnel for three or four more minutes. As they walked, another sound reached Cathal's ears—the delicate strains of violin music. As they grew stronger, they had a disturbing effect on Cathal. They relaxed him. He knew he should not be relaxed in this situation.

“Right, then left,” Red grunted, and Cathal followed the directions.

The music became clearer as they followed the branches to a wider chamber. Cathal did not know much about music, and could not identify the piece, but it was a classical tune with an Irish lilt to it. The chamber was about forty or fifty feet square, with massive wooden columns reinforcing the middle of the roof. The walls, ceiling and floor were still stone, but this room was furnished as if in a house. There were rugs on the floor, bookcases against the walls; even some framed paintings and drawings hung from the stone surfaces. Two armchairs, a sofa and a stove sat on one side of the room, while a large desk, some filing cabinets, a plans chest and a couple of worktables took up the rest of the space. The most bizarre feature of the chamber, apart from the fact that it was obviously underground, was the small church organ standing against the wall at the far end of the room.

Gerald sat upright in one of the armchairs, playing his violin—though Cathal wasn't sure that word could actually be applied to this particular instrument. The sounds it emitted were more or less what one would have expected, and it was the same essential shape, but there all similarity ended. For it was clear that Gerald had made this instrument himself, and had used the body of an engimal to do it. The creature's head formed the scroll. Four pegs for the strings had been inserted into its skull. Its long neck served as the fingerboard, its backbone widening slightly as it joined the body. The curling sound-holes looked like they might once have been gills, or mouths. Four strings of engimal gut were stretched from the creature's skull, along its vertebrae, to the scaly hump near its tailpiece.

Cathal felt a shiver run though him at the sight of the thing. Despite the sweet, soothing music that Gerald was playing upon it, the thought of how it had been made turned Cathal's stomach. Gerald obviously had no such misgivings. The warm expression on his face as he played was marred by the slightly misshapen bones beneath the flesh, and the scars that threaded across its surface, but he seemed to be relishing the experience.

“Cathal,” he said, pausing for a moment, and looking up with that tired smile of his. “Welcome to my underground lair.”

“What the bloody hell is going on?” Cathal demanded.

But he was not feeling as aggressive, as fearful as he should have. In fact, he felt quite at ease as Red untied his hands and ushered him into the other armchair. Gerald continued his playing once more and Cathal sat down, closing his eyes to listen.

“In a way, I'm glad I had to bring you here,” Gerald said in a very reasonable, affable voice as he stroked the bow across the strings. “Red and his men are a competent bunch, but are not given to theoretical thought. Elizabeth is an intelligent woman, but her modes of thought are old-fashioned, and ill-suited to understanding what I'm about. Simply put, Cathal, I have nobody to talk to about my work, secret as it is. I would involve Daisy, if I did not think her small-minded religious beliefs would drive her to constant interference. And Tatty, of course, is a feckless ninny. It is at times like this that I quite miss Nate. But our friendship is long over and his destruction is entirely necessary.

“So that leaves you as the only other possible partner for informed conversation. And as you can double as a valuable resource into the bargain—I naturally refer to your blood—I consider your arrival quite timely.”

“Mm,” was all Cathal could manage. The words were clear to him, but he paid them little attention. The music was like a warm pool of water that he could float in—a gentle sunshine dappled across his face. And then it stopped abruptly and he tried to splay his hands and legs out as if he were falling. “Uh! What? What …?”

He was still sitting in the armchair, but there were steel shackles around his wrists and ankles. Glaring at Gerald and then up at Red, who stood over him swinging a bunch of keys, Cathal gritted his teeth and pulled uselessly at the chains.

“You know, you talk an awful lot o' shite,” he growled. “Have yeh got so borin' that yeh have to chain people down to listen to yeh now, or wha'?”

Gerald put down the bizarre violin and stood up, his smile gone.

“I'm sorry this is necessary. There's no possibility of you escaping from this place. Only Red and I can operate the means of entrance. The chains are merely to dissuade you from doing anything rash. You are here for the duration, Cathal. The sooner you acknowledge that, the sooner we can establish a proper working relationship once again.” He came over to Cathal and took his left hand. Squeezing it gently, he leaned in closer to the young man's face. “We are in one of the mines owned by the Company. It's a honeycomb of tunnels beneath the mountain of Camaderry. The rock above and around us is rich in lead, zinc and silver—but I have closed the mines for my own purpose—”

Cathal lunged forward, trying to ram his forehead into the bridge of Gerald's nose. But Gerald had been waiting for the attack. His grip on Cathal's hand tightened with inhuman strength, so hard and so fast that the pain pulled the young man up short. Cathal cried out as his thumb dislocated. The vice-like, crushing pressure on his hand continued and Cathal yelled in pain as he felt the bones of his hand begin to crack. Then Gerald released him and shoved him back into the seat. He gazed down without hostility at the younger man, who was clutching his hand, tears of pain in his eyes.

“Again, a demonstration to dissuade you from doing anything rash. You're quite like Nate in that respect—you act before you think. But I am a living example of the full potential a human being can achieve, Cathal. Don't think that you can win in a physical confrontation. You are trapped here. We can make it intellectually stimulating, or we can make it unpleasant. It's up to you.”

He took Cathal's hand again, holding the dislocated thumb with the right and the back of the hand with his left. Cathal hissed breath out through his teeth as Gerald pulled the joint back into line. A clicking sound could be clearly heard as the bones of the knuckle joint popped across one another and found their place again. Gerald let go and Cathal felt the tingling in his joints that told him his accelerated healing process was already beginning. The hand should be fully recovered within a few hours. But the pain wasn't going away just yet.

Red was standing off to one side, rubbing the scar over his nose, a smirk on his face. Cathal remembered the threat the man had snarled in his ear, back in his bedroom, before knocking him out: “
I've been a few years waitin' for this, so I'll be takin' me time and me pleasure with yeh. Not to worry, dough, I'm not here to kill yeh. But by dee end, you might be wishin' I was
.”

When they had last known each other, Cathal had hurt and humiliated Red on two separate occasions, but he wouldn't have thought that enough for such vindictiveness. And it was a long time to bear a grudge, even for an Irishman. He wondered if Gerald knew about Red's intentions.

Cathal grimaced and flexed the fingers stiffly. His wrists turned in their heavy steel bands, testing the weight of the shackles. His face was drained of color and the usual defiance was missing from his eyes.

“What are you doing down here, Gerald?” he asked hoarsely. “And Daisy says you're building something in the new church too, but nobody can tell what it is. What's so secret you have to hide it from the family? God knows, there are more than enough secrets in that house—one more isn't going to make any difference.”

Gerald paced away for a few steps and then back again, an expression of hopeful excitement lighting up his face. Finally, he had someone who might comprehend the scale of his achievements.

“What I'm doing is for the good of mankind,” he declared. “The family wouldn't understand. There's hardly a man among them who is capable of thinking beyond their petty greed. They would only get in my way, or misuse my discoveries to try and make short-sighted gains in money or power. I am focused on an altogether bigger picture. Come with me, Cathal. Let me show you.”