Brother's Ruin Read online

  He just continued to stare at the cage, unmoving. She couldn’t make him out very well in the dingy room, through filthy glass, but she could only assume he had some sort of hearing impediment. After trying once more to get his attention, Charlotte decided to go home.

  She went out the way she came in, back through the alleyway, ignoring the way the cat hissed at her when she passed. There was a woman leaning out of the window of the house she passed earlier, watching a man running off.

  “And don’t you darken my door again, ’Arry Barker, else I’ll give you what for!”

  Charlotte waited until the man was out of sight before leaving the alleyway. As much as she hoped the woman wouldn’t see her, it seemed that luck wasn’t of a mind to favour her today.

  “Dunno what the likes of you is doin’ ’ere,” said the woman, scratching a mole at the top of one of her huge, doughy breasts threatening to burst from their confines. “But I wouldn’t go anywhere near that place.” The woman jutted her chin at the house Charlotte had just been looking into.

  “Why do you say that?” Charlotte asked, aware of how soft and quiet her own voice sounded in comparison to the woman’s harsh rasp.

  “Thems what go in there like this”—the woman held a hand up, fingers pointing at the sky—“come out like this”—she tipped her hand until the palm was horizontal. “Carried out in a box. Ten of ’em last month, you mark my words. You get off ’ome to wherever it is you live, and don’t come back.”

  Charlotte didn’t need any more encouragement. She bobbed a nervous curtsey of thanks, realised that was probably the most ridiculous thing to do and hurried off to the sound of the woman’s creaking laughter.

  Chapter 4

  AS SOON AS SHE SAW George, Charlotte knew she’d made the right decision to go to her fiancé’s office rather than straight home. The woman’s warning about how people died at that house had clung to her like wet clothes, making her feel shivery and in need of comfort. The thought of going back home and trying to work out what to say to her father—even whether she should pass the letter on—made her feel anxious. When she saw an omnibus heading towards Piccadilly, she’d hopped on that instead. It was the one she took to meet George for lunch sometimes, and the familiarity of it made her feel better.

  George was calm and dependable. He never, ever got ill. He wasn’t particularly tall, nor particularly strong, but he was kind and caring and he loved her. She stood in the doorway to the office, taking a moment to examine his profile. He might not be the most handsome man in London, but he had a strong chin and a splendid set of mutton chops that put many others to shame, and he always groomed his hair well. It fell in loose waves to his collar, a shining dark brown, with a few locks that flopped down as he was bent over the huge book he wrote in. She smiled at the way his tongue poked out from between his lips as he concentrated and waited patiently for his pen to return to the inkwell before alerting him to her presence. He concentrated so deeply, she’d learnt never to speak whilst the nib was scratching across the page; otherwise, he would jump and make an ugly mark that he’d fret over for days.

  Just as he reached for the inkwell, Charlotte coughed quietly. George’s head snapped round and his brown eyes crinkled at the corners as he smiled broadly at her. “Charlotte! What a splendid surprise!” He rested his pen and came over to her to kiss her hand.

  Charlotte’s toes curled in her boots at the feel of his lips through her gloves. “Where’s Mr Dougherty?”

  “He has the ’flu!” George said cheerily. “I wouldn’t wish it on anyone, of course, but it has been so peaceful here. I’ve cleared all the backlog from the merging of the parishes and this afternoon I’ll have time to work on my personal project. I’m certain that I’ll be able to present it when I apply for registrar. Don’t you agree?”

  George’s personal project was another reason she’d decided to visit. She’d always felt it was rather morbid and didn’t like talking about it very much, but it seemed to make him happy. “Isn’t it rather outside a registrar’s remit?”

  “We record births, deaths and marriages, my dear. It seems such a waste to not track the information in a more useful manner than limited summary reports. And the distribution and frequency of deaths tell us so much more than people think! John and I were talking about it just the other day—oh, did you hear? He’s been accepted into the Royal College of Physicians!”

  Charlotte smiled, glad for George’s friend who had some very strange ideas about the transmission of illness. “George, there’s a word you’ve mentioned before, relating to your project, that I wanted to ask you about.” The way his eyes brightened was simply adorable. “Um . . . clustering? Is that the right one?”

  “You mean when several deaths occur in a tight, localised area or over a very short period of time?”

  “Yes, that’s it. I . . . I overheard a lady on the Piccadilly omnibus talking about a property in New Road, Whitechapel. She was . . . telling her friend that people who go there alive leave in a coffin.”

  George’s eyebrows shot up. “Good grief! What a subject to discuss on public transport. Is that why you look so pale? Come and sit down, dear.” He led her to his chair. She was so glad his supervisor was unwell, and immediately felt guilty for thinking so.

  “Thank you. Yes, it was rather unpleasant. But then I thought of you. Oh! Heavens, that sounds terrible! What I mean to say is that I thought of your project, and how what she talked about sounds like a cluster and . . .”

  “And so you came here straightaway to tell me?” At her nod, he gave her the sweetest smile. “That’s so thoughtful.” He went to a shelf, plucked down a huge leather-bound tome and looked something up. “I thought so . . .” he muttered and replaced it. “That parish was in the backlog. Can you indulge me for a few moments whilst I find the record?”

  Charlotte nodded and let herself lean back in the chair. She watched the wheels of the carriages clattering by from the window, appreciating for the first time how strange it was to work in a basement office with only a small window out to the street. No wonder George was always keen to meet her at lunchtime for a stroll outside; working down here by gaslight was not particularly pleasant.

  The local clock tower chimed eleven o’clock and she listened to the different tones of the bells ringing out across the city, forming its own beautiful harmony. She wondered which magus was responsible for that tower and whether the baker’s son would specialise in clocks and fine machinery once he was tested. Perhaps one day he would be responsible for timepieces across the city, as the most powerful magi were, able to work the magic necessary to keep perfect time across disparate devices. She sighed, wondering where the poor boy was now and whether his mother would be able to cope without him.

  No matter how hard she tried, Charlotte couldn’t stop her thoughts returning to the barred cell in the back room of that awful house. Without knowing the amount her father owed, she couldn’t calculate whether a commission would be enough to get him out of trouble. And what about the interest on the loan mentioned in the letter? Did that mean more needed to be paid back over time? She wasn’t certain. With no one at the property, the only option was to ask her father directly, but the mere thought of it made her cringe.

  All the mental churning wasn’t going to change the basic fact that if she actually came clean about what she was, her family’s financial troubles would be over. Charlotte wrapped her arms about herself and chewed her lip. Perhaps her selfish desire to marry and have children had to be put aside for the good of her family.

  “Here we are!” George cheered from the doorway, carrying a huge book. “What was the address again?”

  “Number six, New Road, Whitechapel.”

  “She was very exact, then?”

  Charlotte nodded.

  “That makes it more likely to be true,” he said, not suspecting her flimsy story about a woman on the omnibus at all. Dear, sweet, trusting George.

  He flipped through a few pages, then retrie
ved a notebook from his desk, pausing to place a tender kiss on her cheek before returning to his work. Charlotte rested her head on the back of the chair and the next moment, George was shaking her by the shoulder.

  “Charlotte? Wake up, dear. I have something interesting to show you.”

  She blinked, briefly disoriented. She was more tired than she’d realised. Nursing her brother always took it out of her. She went to George’s side and saw that he’d slipped book marks into at least a dozen places.

  “It is a cluster!” he said with an excited grin. “One that I didn’t notice. Over the past six months, no less than fourteen people have died at number six, New Road.”

  Charlotte clamped a hand over her mouth to trap the frightened squeak inside.

  “All heart attacks,” George went on. “All certified at the scene by Dr Stephen Ledbetter, who is one of the more reliable practitioners. He covers Whitechapel and a couple of other parishes.”

  He opened the book to show one of the death certificates, pointing out the doctor’s signature.

  “Fourteen in six months? Isn’t that”—Charlotte tried to swallow away the lump in her throat—“rather unusual?”

  “It depends. It might be a private clinic for those with heart trouble, though unlikely in that area.”

  “It’s a financial services company.”

  George frowned at her. “You didn’t mention that.”

  “It slipped my mind. That’s why the errr . . . the woman on the omnibus knew about it. Her husband . . .” Charlotte trailed off, unable to keep the lie coherent in her mind, let alone spoken aloud.

  “Oh, well, that explains it,” George said, oblivious. “Probably one of those shady operations where they put the thumbscrews on if someone can’t repay a loan.”

  “Thumbscrews?” Charlotte yelped. “Like what they did to Guy Fawkes?” The thought of her father in that cell was bad enough; the speculation about him being harmed made her knees tremble.

  “Not literally! But it might be that the debtor is held there before going to the magistrate. I imagine some can’t take the strain and they keel over. Dreadful business, and an interesting cluster, but not the sort that Dr Snow and I are particularly interested in. No questions about miasma to address there, I fear. But I do appreciate you taking the time to come tell me about it. Good heavens, Charlotte, you really do look the worse for wear. May I suggest I hail a cab for you, to see you home? As much as I enjoy your company, I can’t exploit Mr Dougherty’s absence indefinitely and I do think you need a lie-down.”

  He was giving her the look she often gave Ben, and she really didn’t like it. No wonder Ben got so irritable when she fussed over him. But she couldn’t deny that she needed to get home, even though rest would be elusive. “Thank you, George, dear. Will I see you tonight?”

  He shook his head. “I have a meeting with John and a couple of his friends he’s managed to bring round to his way of thinking. I do have Friday afternoon off, however. How about I collect you at lunchtime?”

  Would she still be a free woman then? She forced the worry from her face and gave him her best smile. “I shall look forward to it.”

  Chapter 5

  THE RIDE HOME in her second hansom cab of the day was not long enough for Charlotte to resolve her dilemma. Whichever decision she made, it would end in heartbreak, for both herself and someone she loved. If she stayed the silent coward, her father might end up in that cell, perhaps even dead. If she gave herself up to the Royal Society of Esoteric Arts for testing, she would save her family but lose her chance of a happy life and break George’s heart in the process. But if her father died, how could she enjoy married life, knowing she could have prevented his death? When she looked at it that way, surely she had to give herself up?

  The magi had wealth, yes, but hardly any freedom. A person confirmed as a magus wasn’t permitted to marry, nor to pursue any interests outside those endorsed by the Royal Society, including art. She would rather be penniless than lead that sort of life. But it wasn’t just the fact that she and George wouldn’t be able to marry if she were recruited into the Royal Society—of which there was no doubt if she gave herself up—it was also the fact that she’d lose her autonomy. All magi were expected to do their upmost for the Empire and their own personal wishes were secondary. Not only would it be the end of her engagement, it would be the end of her career; the Society would never permit a magus to earn money from anything but the practical application of their magical arts.

  Then there was the problem of fame. Fellows of the Society were regularly written about in the press, talked about over meals by people who didn’t know them and sometimes approached by complete strangers on the street. Books were written about them; one of her father’s latest commissions was illustrating the biography of Magus Anneline Royston. Her personal timepiece was currently in his study, one of the many objects lent by the Royal Society for an exorbitant fee. Charlotte’s nose wrinkled at the thought of people drawing her personal possessions, writing about her, presuming to know her! No, she didn’t have the sort of character that would serve her well in such a prominent position. But would she rather watch her father be carried off to a debtor’s prison than be a magus?

  No. She wouldn’t.

  She paid the driver and let herself into the house. As soon as she stepped inside she could hear her mother shouting in the living room. Shocked, she didn’t notice Ben sitting on the lowest stair until he reminded her to shut the front door.

  “Who is Mother shouting at?” she whispered to him.

  “Father,” he replied.

  “How could you have done this without telling me?” she heard her mother through the living room door.

  Father must have told her about the debt.

  “It’s because of the letter that came today,” Ben said. “Father didn’t tell Mother what he’d done and you know what she’s like about not knowing what’s going on. Where have you been?”

  “I went to see George,” she said, putting her hand into her pocket to check that the letter about the debt was still there. She could feel the corner of the envelope prickle her palm through her gloves.

  “He should have told her,” Ben said. “And whilst I don’t usually agree with Mother when she gets shrill, asking the Royal Society to come and make an evaluation without telling anyone is a rather—”

  Charlotte felt the blood drain from her face. Tiny pinpricks of light peppered her peripheral vision as an awful high-pitched whistling sound pressed in her ears. “But . . . how did he know? Why didn’t he warn me?”

  She felt her back hit the inside of the front door and she used it to brace herself as she drew in a few deep breaths. Ben stood and came to her side. At least he looked better for his rest. “I’m fully prepared to undergo the test, Charlie. And it was because of the watch. He didn’t warn you because . . .” He stopped. “Wait a moment. You thought he had sent for you to be tested. Oh, Charlie . . .”

  He didn’t look angry, that was something. He mostly looked concerned. Their mother’s voice was getting more shrill and less comprehensible, and was doing nothing to help Charlotte restore her own balance. “Let’s talk upstairs.”

  It felt like it took years to climb the stairs, and it still wasn’t enough time to plan what she was going to say. Then she was in her room, sitting on the bed next to him. “I should have told you,” she said. “But I couldn’t. I don’t want to be one of them, Ben, I can’t imagine anything worse!”

  She covered her mouth. What a thoughtless thing to say when he was soon to be tested.

  “I don’t feel the same way.”

  “But you’re not a magus, Ben! We’d have known by now, surely?”

  “I had no idea you believed yourself to be gifted until just now.”

  Gifted? Cursed, rather. “So have you been hiding it, too?”

  He shrugged. “Not exactly. I just . . . didn’t have any faith in my own suspicions.”

  Charlotte frowned. “But you have to be c
ertain before you take the test. If you fail it, Father will be tried for false reporting. The fine alone would cripple us, and if he were jailed—”

  “Credit me with some sense, Charlie. I would have refuted it and begged for the application to be withdrawn in person if I thought it were false. I don’t think I’m very gifted, but the Royal Society takes in individuals with the weakest ability. Apparently some of the most powerful magi were late developers.”

  The lump in her throat was back and Charlotte kept swallowing in an attempt to dislodge it. Had she done something near Ben without realising and accidentally fooled him into believing he was one of them? But when he was ill, the most she did was sit at his bedside and read to him, feed him broth when he was at his weakest and fetch water. She hadn’t even cooled the flannel for his brow using her . . . burden.

  “But don’t you want to be a civil engineer?”

  Ben’s smile was so sad. “Dear heart, do you really think I would complete the degree?”

  “Have you been hit over the head? What makes you think that being dragged away to the Royal Society will be any easier than a degree?” Her vision blurred as tears welled up, hot and furious at their father. How dare he risk Ben’s health? He knew as well as they all did that twice Ben had left the house in fine health, to live in another city and acquire a trade, and both times he’d returned gaunt and barely able to walk. “What if you fall ill again and need to come home and they don’t let you? Who will look after you there?”

  He reached for her hand, took it and wrapped it tightly with both his own. “I’m not going to deny that that concerns me, too. But we know things can’t continue as they are. I’m a constant drain on the family—and on you! Don’t you have any idea how ashamed I am to have to beg my sister for money?”

  The first tear fell and splattered on her lap. “I don’t mind, I’m glad to help you! I would rather send you every penny I earn than see you be dragged off by those monstrous people!”