The Resurrectionist by James Bradley Read Free Book Online

the fire her dark hair is the colour of burnished metal, and her face seems to shimmer as it did that night.
    ‘And Mr de Mandeville?’
    ‘He will not return tonight,’ I say.
    At this she turns her head, and all at once I see she is younger than I had thought, perhaps not much older than myself.
    ‘Please,’ I say, ‘what is it you need?’
    She looks undecided. Her eyes are that deep brown one rarely sees, more like those of a deer or some wild creature.
    ‘A child,’ she says at last. ‘A dog has attacked him.’
    ‘The child is your own?’ I ask, feeling a sudden pang, but she shakes her head.
    ‘A friend’s.’
    ‘His injuries are serious?’ I ask.
    She nods. I think for a moment, then gesture for her to accompany me.
    ‘Then I will take you to him,’ I say.
    Outside Charles’s rooms I strike the roof of the cab, and telling her to wait I climb out. A light is visible in Charles’s window three floors above; lifting my hand to the door I strike at it, then step back and urgently call his name upwards. Almost at once a figure appears behind the glass, drawing back the drapes before vanishing again. A few seconds pass, and then the street door opens, revealing not Charles’s valet, Holroyd, but Charles himself, a lamp held in his hand.
    ‘Gabriel,’ he says, holding the lamp higher, ‘is there some emergency?’ Before I can answer there is a step upon the stones.
    ‘Arabella?’ he asks. ‘What is this? What are you doing here?’
    Though he seeks to hide it there is something in his voice, some fear, and it is in her face as well, that sad, warylook we reserve for those with whom we have shared an intimacy which is now gone.
    ‘Is it Kitty? Has something happened to her?’
    ‘Not Kitty,’ Arabella says. ‘Oliver.’
    At this Charles falls still. When he speaks again his voice is softer.
    ‘Dead?’
    She shakes her head. ‘Hurt, most grievously.’ Her words are spoken in a flat voice which seems to speak of private meanings.
    Charles hesitates. ‘Let me fetch my coat,’ he says then.
    It is some moments before he returns, moments we spend standing in silence in the darkened street. Now we are here Arabella does not look at me. When Charles returns he places a hand upon my shoulder.
    ‘Thank you, Gabriel,’ he says. ‘I will speak to you tomorrow.’
    ‘I will ride with the driver,’ I volunteer, the cab only being large enough for two. Something in my manner must give Charles pause.
    ‘Very well,’ he says.
    The cab delivers us to a street near Drury Lane. Although it is not the worst street in the district, it is a dilapidated place, the buildings stained almost black by the soot, broken windows gaping here and there, some left unrepaired, others boarded shut. Underfoot the road is rutted and muddy, and even in the cold a foul smell hangs over the place, as if a privy has overflowed.
    The house Arabella leads us into was once a better place than it is now. Pale shapes on the wall still show where paintings hung, but any trace of luxury is long vanished, its rooms divided into a warren of individual lodgings, thepaper on the walls peeling and spotted with mildew. Charles says nothing as we ascend the stairs; his mouth set, face closed.
    On the third floor we come to a room which must have been a study once, or perhaps a bedroom, for its walls are decorated with frescoes, much damaged by the damp, and heavy curtains musty with age hang across the windows. Now it is a parlour of some sort, furnished with a faded divan and two chairs. At the sound of our arrival a maid appears at a door on one side; she is thin and poorly dressed. Seeing Arabella, she motions to us to enter the further room quietly.
    Inside a woman lies upon a bed, the child’s form cradled in her arms. As we enter she looks up, and though her eyes are swollen with tears there is no mistaking the anger in the gaze she fixes upon Charles.
    For a moment Charles stands, staring back at her. Once, perhaps not long ago,