The Lazarus Engine – Chapter 5
The Second Victim
They found Dr. Percival Hale dead at dawn.
Not in his townhouse. Not by the engine. He had walked to St. George’s Church in the middle of the night, climbed the bell tower, and hung himself from the rafters. A note was pinned to his coat: “I could not wait for her to find me. Forgive me. – P.H.”
But it was the second victim of a different kind.
As Gray cut Hale’s body down, Thorne stood at the tower window, staring at the churchyard below. Among the gravestones, someone had arranged fresh flowers in the shape of an hourglass. And in the center of the hourglass, a brass engine no larger than a thimble.
“It’s not for Hale,” Thorne said.
Gray joined him at the window. “Then who?”
Thorne pointed to a grave near the church wall. The headstone was old, lichen-covered, but the name was still legible: Charlotte March, Beloved Daughter, 1838–1853.
“She died at fifteen,” Gray said.
“So did her namesake. Victor March’s daughter was named after his sister. The sister who died of scarlet fever when he was twelve. The sister he swore to resurrect.”
Gray frowned. “You think the killer is the ghost of a dead girl?”
“I think Victor March built the first engine to bring back his sister. He failed. Then his daughter Charlotte—the living one—disappeared. Now someone is using his work to kill the remaining Order members. Someone who signs with a ‘C.'”
Thorne pulled out his pocket watch. It was 7:00 AM.
“We need to find the living Charlotte March. Before she finishes what her father started.”
The records were kept in the basement of St. Bartholomew’s Hospital, in a room that smelled of damp paper and formaldehyde. Gray had used her badge to gain entry. Thorne had used his memory.
“March’s daughter was placed in a mental asylum after his death,” he said, pulling a dusty file from a shelf. “Bethlem Royal Hospital. Bedlam.”
Gray winced. “They sent a fifteen-year-old to Bedlam?”
“She was catatonic. Wouldn’t speak. Wouldn’t eat. Just sat in a corner, staring at a brass gear she held in her palm.” Thorne opened the file. “She was released after three years. Deemed ‘cured.’ No record of where she went after that.”
“Someone erased her.”
“Someone protected her.” Thorne turned the file around. The last page was blank except for a single stamp: Transferred to private care – Vane.
“Lord Edgar Vane,” Gray said. “The founder of the Order. He took her in.”
“Or took her away.” Thorne closed the file. “We need to find Vane’s estate. His daughter, Isolde, inherited everything. She runs the Order now from the shadows.”
Gray was already heading for the door. “Then let’s go see Lady Isolde.”
The Vane estate was a sprawling manor in Surrey, two hours by train. Thorne and Gray sat in a first-class compartment, the brass engine in Thorne’s satchel ticking softly.
“Tell me about your patient,” Gray said suddenly. “The one you revived.”
Thorne was silent for a long moment. Then: “His name was Samuel Briggs. He was a dockworker. Heart attack. Dead for four minutes when they brought him to me. I used a galvanic apparatus—a battery, copper wires, saline solution. I sent a current through his heart.”
“And?”
“His heart restarted. His eyes opened. He looked at me and said, ‘I saw the clock.’ Then his heart stopped again.”
“Saw the clock?”
“I don’t know what he meant. I’ve spent ten years trying to understand.” Thorne looked out the window at the gray English countryside. “Perhaps he saw the engine. The one that ticks inside us all. The one that stops.”
The train rattled on.
Vane Manor was a Gothic nightmare: towers, gargoyles, ivy strangling the stone. The iron gates were unlocked. The front door stood ajar.
“She’s expecting us,” Gray said.
“Or she’s already dead.”
They stepped inside.
The foyer was dark, lit only by a single gas lamp. On a table in the center of the room, a brass engine ticked softly. Beside it, a note:
“Dr. Thorne. Constable Gray. Please proceed to the library. Lady Isolde awaits. But be warned – she is not what she seems.”
Thorne picked up the engine. It was warm.
“The killer was here,” he said. “Recently.”
They drew their weapons—Thorne a small revolver, Gray her truncheon—and walked toward the library.
The door was closed. Through it, they heard a voice: a woman’s voice, singing a lullaby.
“Hush little baby, don’t say a word. Papa’s going to buy you a mockingbird…”
Thorne pushed open the door.
Lady Isolde Vane sat in a wingback chair, facing the fire. She was dressed in white, her hair unbound. In her lap, she held a brass engine the size of a human heart. It was ticking.
“Lady Vane,” Thorne said. “We need to talk about Charlotte March.”
Lady Isolde turned.
Her face was young—thirty at most—but her eyes were ancient. And in her hands, the engine ticked faster.
“You’re too late,” she said. “Charlotte is already here.”
The fire went out.
And the room went dark.