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Chapter Five: The Mad Hatters

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Life and its experience. It shapes and moulds us, constantly evolving us into the people that we are. The hands of fate manipulating us into the beasts that we inevitably become…

 

Some believe there is no control over life, for preordained fate is a story written out well before we are born; each step along the way played out exactly as it was intended. Like a perfectly played piper's tune. Others believe life is simply a random hand they are dealt. Some hands are luckier than others; people making best do with what they have, playing the game wisely, while others gamble with theirs more recklessly. A simpler rationalisation perhaps, but seemingly more apt, for no person was born equal. Not one hand was ever the same. Not one life experienced likewise. Surely if there was a reason for a person's character and the path they travelled, it was more likely a situation of consequence rather than divine foreordination?

 

The child born into a family of eight, all living in one small room in the cold lodgings of the Old Nicol, an infamously poverty stricken area of housing in the East End of London, would experience a life comparatively different to that of a child born into a middle class family of Kent. While the child living in the Old Nicol had both parents working for bare scraps in a factory, the child living in Kent may have a father who worked as an accountant, earning proper wagers, and living in a comfortable townhouse. The life of a poor orphaned child would never be similar to that of the child born of wealthy parents. One would perhaps live in a workhouse or orphan asylum until they reached the age of four, only then to be forced into servitude of perhaps a chimney sweep, risking their life from falls, lung damage and cuts from their black soot prisons. Some poor souls remained trapped in the chimneys and were forgotten entirely, left to die a miserable death. If that child was fortunate to survive through those dangerous years of unpaid manual labour, they would then face a life being turned out homeless onto the streets when they were too big to sweep the chimneys. Out of the frying pan and into the fire, finding themselves vulnerable to further exploitation in a cold and unforgiving world. Meanwhile the child born into a wealthy family would likely enjoy every privilege money could offer. Nourishment, a warm fire, toys, fine clothing, and stimulating outings exploring the parks of London with their governess.

 

As the intricacy of the situation grew, one must add to the equation the matter of love, nurturing and security. The poorest child in the world may be born to the most affectionate of parents, whilst another child born into wealth may be neglected and abused by their very kin.

 

Indeed, it was the environment one found oneself in, the people one found oneself surrounded by, and the character of one's very nature that all determined the final result. Of each kind or cold hearted person encountered, of each illness or good health endured, of each moment one felt their environment safe, or perhaps otherwise. Each and every moment of experience continued to shape the person, and built them into their present being.

 

To add further complexity, when a child finally became an adult, even more situation and circumstance moulded the character. Of one's education, intelligence, wisdom and general understanding of the world. Of one's desire to learn through experience, whether good or bad, to broaden one's mind. To deter ignorance with the constant pursuit of knowledge, to avoid the weaknesses of human kind that constantly held a firm grip on so many. Of the seven cardinal sins; greed, pride, envy, wrath, gluttony, lust and sloth. To live a life where none of these dominated and inevitably led to one's decline. To rise above a society driven by material trappings, status and self-absorbed narcissism. To endure all the above and still maintain an open heart…

 

Yes. There were too many factors in play to say a person merely turned out the way they did purely by chance. It was too simple to claim some were born bad while others were born good. Or that fate formed people into the way they were. No. Not one person lived the same life, and perhaps this simple observation explained why people never saw eye to eye. It explained why there were brutes and brigands, charitable sorts, criminals, nurturers, lechers, kind natured folk, ill-tempered abusers, spirited people and depressed souls. It explained why the world was the way it was.

 

Being somewhat of a philosophical idealist, Lord Craven De'Montmoray thought often upon the intricacies and complexities of human nature. He considered situation and circumstance to be the true cause of human nature...almost. For in his utmost shame there was a small stirring, a slight flutter deep inside, that whispered of the romanticism of destiny. Of fate determining the reason behind all things that happened, and were yet to happen. He did not like to entertain the idea, considering it an ignorant superstition held by the dreamers of the world. Yet for all his dislike of the concept he could not shake it away entirely upon reflection.

 

Logic or not, the adult Lord Craven De'Montmoray was soon to discover destiny may play a far greater part in the scheme of things than he had ever thought possible.

 

When Craven was ten years old, a long and tedious journey in their stagecoach brought his sister, father and himself into the county of Devonshire for a small break during the early month of May. Anticipating warm weather and with a sunny disposition of his own, Craven was disheartened to find an approaching storm when they arrived, the skies as black as night even though it was only midday. They were greeted at the cottage door by shivering staff that hurriedly rushed them inside from the chilled air and warned the newly arrived tenants not to venture out. Craven's father, Lord Edward, instructed that Craven and Cathryn remain indoors for the day. Being bored, naïve to the dangers a violent storm could bring, and somewhat defiant in nature, Craven refused to be house bound after a long journey entrapped in a stagecoach. He snuck out of the cottage in search of adventure through the rain and winds, curious as to what mysteries he could discover in the county of Devonshire.

 

Cheeks and nose bright pink, and bones frozen to the core, the young lord was nevertheless determined to explore the nearby woods. By the time he had reached the edge he could hardly see a tree around him as the rain pelted down heavily. It felt like he was trapped in a blurry painting of grey as the forest groaned wearily from the howling winds, the sharp blast of air whipping hard against his body. Furiously the branches, leaves and twigs lashed chaotically about him, brushing across his face and hands as he desperately tried to protect himself. Craven recalled a loud crack sounding above him as one giant limb snapped off a particularly large and wrangled dead looking yew tree, the branch nearly the same size as he himself, and he watched on in horror as it fell besides him, so close that a jutting part of the wood ran a deep cut along his forearm. Had it landed an inch or two closer he would most likely have been crushed by the heavy branch and died out there during the raging tempest.

 

As one could imagine, Craven never forgot that experience of near death. He could never forget the sensation of that first exhaled breath of relief when he realised he still remained in the land of the living. Mere chance had saved him from death and never had he felt so grateful, or so lucky. Somewhat traumatised by the experience, Craven had tried to put the event out of his mind in later years, but something his father had said when he returned to the cottage during the storm never left his mind. Furious yet relieved beyond words that his son was spared from death, Lord Edward De'Montmoray simply stated 'Well my lad, the fates have spared you for a reason. It seems you are destined for greatness.'

 

Destiny…

 

The business card that Helena Rose had presented Craven at The Afternoonafied Affair on the evening they had met had remained in his waistcoat pocket for near on a week now, the fine article of clothing slumped carelessly, like a limp rag, over the French chaise in the guest bedroom of his manor. Concealed partly from sight, but never from mind. Like sunlight peeking in through the small slit of a curtain, the recollection of the conversation disturbed the darkness within him. Distracted him from his blackened thoughts, if only for the curious nature of the entire affair. Craven had pondered the strange encounter on more than one occasion since he had met the Scottish woman six days prior, and yet still he did not know what to make of it.

 

Of course riddled with grief and laudanum, any thought that wandered into the lord's cloudy mind often strayed before too long and he was able to dismiss the odd encounter easily enough. Puzzling as the meeting may have been, he was not about to venture into some mischievous scheme at Ludgate Hill.

 

Curiosity killed the cat.

 

Several days went by, and Craven continued to frequent his beloved opium den each evening. Becoming somewhat of a regular, he began to smoke opium with other well to do socialites also fond of the recreation. His new friends scoffed at his bottle of laudanum, turning their noses up at the concoction with a oho! They referred haughtily to laudanum as commoner's tonic, and with a knowing smile introduced Craven to their preferred and proper drink of class distinction; The Afternoonafied Affair's Magical Tincture. Although questionable as to what magical properties it actually contained, it was a tincture nevertheless and not so unlike laudanum in its combination of alcohol and opium. The difference remained in the significantly higher concentrate of opium that the magical brew held over common laudanum. The Afternoonafied Affair's Magical Tincture was made of sweet sherry, two ounces of opium, one ounce of saffron, and a dash of bruised cinnamon and cloves. As one lady had described quite aptly, it felt like one was drinking all the festivities of Yuletide in one crystal glass. A merry and spirited tipple to be certain!

 

Combined with the pipe, the den's special tincture brought Lord De'Montmoray into another realm altogether, where time stood still and yet every sense of his was trembling in ecstatic confusion. He could smell the vibrant colours of the dark den, the taste of the velvet chaise on his fingertips, which was soft as a deep and sensual kiss. His tongue danced in a song of wet and smoky sweetness, and each breath exhaled from his angelic golden trumpet was a soft and fluffy divine cloud of the heavens.

 

With a stumble, Craven found himself standing immersed in the warm sun in a brilliant blue sky above. as he walked through a rose maze encased by four tall stone walls. Traipsing past blooms of vibrant purple, yellow, pink and white, he bathed in sybaritic splendour, inhaling the deeply intoxicating fragrance of sweet rose. Soft whispers of the blooms beckoned him forth, and as he drew near the velvet petals begged him to touch them. Yet as he attempted to do so their thorns lashed out suddenly, viciously scratching him with the sharp sting of blades, over and over again. Looking down in fear, he bore witness to his wrists slashed open, blood dropping crimson tears onto the petals, painting the garden entirely in red. It was horrifically beautiful to see all the red roses, to be surrounded in a doomed forest of red, red roses. Bewilderment soon transformed into terror as the crimson continued to spill from his body. Pouring wildly like a raging waterfall of blood, Craven watched on helplessly as the maze revealed its true self; a stone prison filling deeper and deeper with his sanguine fluid. Higher and higher it rose, filling like a pool, as he desperately gasped for breath. He tried to swim upwards, but his legs were ensnared by the vines of the blooms that held him down as the blood rose higher and higher above his head….

 

After several hours of consuming The Afternoonafied Affair's Magical Tincture and several pipes, Craven suffered from a severe series of convulsions before collapsing onto the ground with no ability to be woken. The staff of the opium den sent word immediately for a local physician, one who happened to know Craven from former calls to his own residence, and arranged a stagecoach to take Lord De'Montmoray back to Ashcombe Manor where he attended to him there. Unaware of the entire affair, Craven awoke from his unconscious state late the next evening in his bed, an entire day already having passed.

 

With moist eyes, Craven's maid informed him that the physician had come several times over the course of the day and advised that the lord had consumed too much opium and suffered a seizure of the cerebral. Since Craven had not shown any sign of response of waking that afternoon the physician had concluded the seizure was a type that the lord was most likely not to wake from again. He left with condolences and a bill, while the household fell into hysterics, overwhelmed by the sudden news that their master was likely to die. Already the staff had dressed in mourning black, a priest had been called, and morbidly the employees of Ashcombe Manor at Fifty-Five Hastings Street waited for the macabre event to unfold.

 

The lord was lost for words. Craven's consuming desire of his own demise had almost been granted and now faced with the reality of the aftermath he was not in the slightest bit comforted by it. Naturally a part of him wished he had never woken up, yet strangely enough another part was extremely relieved that he was awake. That relief that he had experienced of escaping death as a boy stirred within him ever so softly. The salve of a second chance was somewhat of a comfort. A confusing contradiction if ever there was one for a depressed man who had nothing to live for. With a shaky breath, the lord dragged his hands through his black hair and thanked the maid for her help, falsely assuring her he now felt better.

 

That was the moment Craven heard Helena Rose's words in his head.     

 

'Put down the poison and re-join the living, if only for a chance…'

 

Taking a little bone broth and nothing more, Craven fell into a deep sleep that night that was once again plagued with dreams of his wife and child. Although his mind felt a little clearer upon waking the next morning, he found himself feeling very much alone once more in his manor. Knowing his staff would only agitate him by fussing and fretting over him if he remained in his residence, Craven procured the card from his waistcoat, called for his four-wheeled horse drawn landau carriage and set off to Ludgate Hill to visit the shop Le Cabinet des Curiosities.

 

As the black elegant carriage glided across London and finally onto the cobblestoned Ludgate Street, Craven felt it somewhat ironic that he was travelling to a place that once beheld the Ludgate; a gate that provided access to Ludgate Prison where the petty offenders of London resided. No longer did the prison stand, or even the gate itself, but Craven found it somewhat wry that he was to meet with his new associates at a such a place. An omen perhaps? Of course, he also knew that in its place, St Pauls Cathedral now stood and perhaps he was being too cynical when, if anything, he should have perceived it as a positive sign. A heavenly omen.

 

Craven laughed bitterly to himself, shaking his head cynically as he gazed up into the gloomy grey skies threatening to rain at any moment. What had God done for him except take away everything that he had loved in the world? No, this meeting was inevitably destined to be troublesome and nothing more. That was the path of life he now travelled.

 

Turning into Pageantmaster Court, the carriage slowed down as it approached its destination. As the lord awaited the doors to open by his coachman, he peered out his window to observe a black brick shopfront with a wide glass window displaying an odd collection of furnishings and collectables. There were sketches, maps, bottles filled with spices, old books, and a collection of small statues in a decadent silver display case with lion claw feet. A large roll of exotic red and gold fabric lay against an oriental styled cupboard, and beside that a large wooden butlers tray was laden with a variety of china plates, pewter tankards and goblets.

 

Stepping out of the carriage, Lord Craven looked up to see an ornate wooden sign swinging overhead with gold cursive writing; Le Cabinet des Curiosities.

 

Somewhat carefully, as if stepping on eggshells, the lord walked to the door of the shop, pushing it open hesitantly as he ran his eyes across the room. A woman sat at a polished deep brown mahogany counter, head resting on her hand as she idly gazed across the crowded room in the opposite direction of the door, looking utterly bored. Her brown hair was half pinned up messily, a nest of birds, and she wore a black lace dress that made her blend in suitably well with the rather dark and shadowy nature of the shop.  It was the woman who Craven had met at The Afternoonafied Affair; Helena Rose.

 

Turning her head to the tinkle of the bell on the shop door, her bored face suddenly transformed into one of sprightliness as she jumped up from her seat.

 

'Craven!' Helena blurted out unceremoniously, more startled at the sight of the man than perhaps by one who was merely greeting an acquaintance. Flashing a brilliant smile, she added 'You have come! It is so good to see you once more!'

 

Apprehensively Lord De'Montmoray stepped over the threshold, black boots tapping loudly on the tired wooden floorboards as he made his way into the middle of the shop, looking around in slight perplexity at all the obscure items surrounding him. Of gold adorned mirrors that certainly fared from some place of royalty, and vivid watercolour and oil paintings adorning every part of the tired white washed walls. There were shelves stacked high with plates and glasses, ships decanters, creamers and jugs. Bookcases filled with volumes of books, filling the air with a dusty and tantalising aroma of musty pages bound in leather. In addition, the warm scent of honey overwhelmed his senses, the yellow beeswax candles emitting a soft glow in exotic looking glass lanterns scattered across the room on tables and cupboards. Three large wooden chests sat sturdy on the ground with large brass locks, chests that looked like they had leapt out of some swashbuckling pirate tale, and Craven half expected them to be filled with gold sovereigns, rubies, crowns and diamond necklaces.

 

A deep chime filled the room, sounding eleven times as Craven turned to behold the magnificent culprit. An eight-foot-tall longcase clock stood to the side of him, with beautifully carved cherry wood surrounding the clock face which resided at the very top. The piece reminded him of an elongated version of a gothic cathedral, the bonnet ending in pointed arches not unlike the ones he had seen at Durham Cathedral.

 

'Le Cabinet de Curiosities.' remarked Craven as he turned back to his smiling companion, before his attention was diverted once more to a collection of small and large wooden boxes before him on a marble top table.

 

'They're puzzle boxes.' informed Helena hastily, patting down her dress neatly as she drew away from the counter and closer to the lord. With a wide grin on her face she picked one wooden box off the table, approximately one foot in length and width. 'Go ahead,' she added with encouragement 'try to open it.'

 

With a somewhat confused smirk, Craven hesitantly accepted the box from the woman. It was a simple and sturdy object; with a plain wooden top and bottom, sides adorned with multiple vertical panels of wood, and each bottom side of the box lined with a long horizontal panel of wood.

 

Looking over it and carefully turning the box to examine each side, pulling at every part, Craven finally conceded with a shake of his head.

 

'There is no opening to this box.' he replied with a frown.

 

Helena giggled, obviously amused. 'Aye 'tis puzzling, is it not?' she grinned, taking the box back off Craven 'Look here then.'

 

On one side of the box, the Scotswoman moved the bottom horizontal wooden panel slightly to the left, before turning to the next side of the box and shifting another bottom horizontal panel across, where a small hole revealed itself from inside the wood. Tipping the box forward, a small brass key fell out of the hole and into her hand. Craven held an amused smirk as Helena continued to push the panels back to where they initially resided. She then proceeded to push the bottom horizontal panel inwards, and instantly one of the vertical panels on the side of the box moved down, revealing a key hole. Placing the brass key in the hole and giving it three turns, the top of the box instantly sprung open.

 

Craven and Helena laughed, both amused by the trick.

 

'How on earth did anyone come up with that?' remarked Craven, shaking his head in disbelief.

 

'Someone with too much time on their hands, or too many thieves.' chortled Helena 'Evans found this particular puzzle box in Turkey. And those over there are from Japan.'

 

'How utterly...curious?' replied Craven, a small curl on his lip.

 

Helena chuckled at the comment. 'Oh aye,' she replied with a sigh 'I wish that was the extent of curiosities that beheld this shop.'

 

'Helena! Helena Rose!' sounded an irritated male voice from upstairs 'I cannot for the life of me locate my leather journal. Have you moved it?'.

 

Helena rolled her eyes at Craven, revealing a mischievous grin. The pair looked up at the stairs as the voice started calling out again.

 

'I could have sworn I left it on the window ledge last night, in the attic mind you.' remarked the man 'You have gone and read it again, haven't you?! Do they not understand the concept of privacy in Scotland? Journals are the very essence of one's very being!'

 

'Typical,' Helena chuckled, shaking her head as Craven looked over to her curiously 'apparently a miserable old leather journal trumps a soul when it comes to the essence of one's very being.'

 

'Did you take it?' inquired Craven with a raised brow, acknowledging the mischievous face of Helena that refused to relent.

 

'Oh aye. It is the most boring read in history.' she whispered 'I find it helps at night for it puts me to sleep after one page.'. Clearing her throat, she looked towards the staircase. 'Edgar, come here!' called out Helena, more than a little excitedly 'I have a new acquaintance I am certain you would like to meet.'

 

The upstairs sounds of shuffling through cupboards ceased, and the pacing of footsteps halted for a few moments, pausing in silence a little longer before starting again at a hastened pace towards the stairs. Evans appeared at the top of the staircase, brown eyes wide as he descended, almost leaping off the steps with an enthusiasm that could not be contained in his delighted demeanour.

 

'Lord Craven De'Montmoray, let me introduce you to my associate and owner of this shop, Mr. Edgar Robin Evans.' announced Helena, arms crossed smugly as she took in the smile on Evan's face with amusement. The shopkeeper looked beside himself, as if in the company of a divine presence, ecstatic at finally being introduced to the man he had wanted to meet for so long.

 

The gentlemen joined hands, Lord De'Montmoray's firm cold shake met with a warm and gentler version from his new acquaintance, Mr. Evans.

 

'Well met sir.' replied Craven forwardly 'I confess I am still entirely confused as to the meaning of your requested meeting. Nevertheless, I have come.'

 

'Indeed you have, indeed you have!' beamed Evans with a clap of his hands, looking even more excited than the grinning Helena standing beside him.

 

It was the moment they had both been waiting for.

 

Evans turned back to the lord, suddenly looking at a loss for words 'Forgive me, Lord De'Montmoray-'

 

Craven waved his hand 'Please, just call me Craven.'

 

'Well then Craven, please call me Evans.' replied Evans graciously 'Everybody calls me Evans.'

 

'Except for me.' taunted Helena 'Depending on whether I am annoyed with the man.'

 

'She calls me Edgar a lot, as you can imagine.' remarked Evans in jest. With a serious nod, casting his full attention back to Craven, Evans momentarily froze again before the lord. Rubbing his hands together, the shop keeper starting to pace the room nervously 'I have played out this meeting in my head so many times and now I find myself unable to say what it is that I have to say. I apologise.'

 

Craven threw a confused look to Helena, hoping perhaps that she could shine some light on the odd behaviour of the man.

 

'What he is trying to say is there is no easy way to tell you what you need to hear,' explained Helena just as confusingly as her partner 'and we both know you will most likely label us mad once we have told you our story.'

 

Craven tapped his fingers agitatedly on the table beside him, the tremors in his hand starting up against his will as his mind wandered to thoughts of opium. 'Well will someone say something? Out with it! This is about money. I was right, was I not?'

 

Evans raised his brows in surprise 'Money? Heavens no my dear fellow, not in the slightest! It is about an item I have come across in my travels. More specifically, that cabinet over there.'

 

With a sharp thrust of his finger, Evans pointed to the tall oak wardrobe standing in the shadows under the steps, looking rather ominous as it remained all alone. There was something sinister about the piece, and if furniture could indeed have character then this one would have been filled with malevolence. An underlying chaotic complexity that perhaps alluded its owner, although the other two people in the room sensed it and looked upon it with unease.

 

Evans drew near it, running his hands over the frame in fond fascination, as if even now the wardrobe wholeheartedly intrigued him whenever he looked upon it. 'I found this cabinet in Scotland approximately two years ago.' he informed the lord.

 

'And you wish to sell it?' replied Craven dryly.

 

'I dunna think God himself could pry that object away from the man.' muttered Helena 'He brought the cabinet back here to this shop, so attached to it was he.'

 

'I sell antiquities you see.' added Evans, throwing his hand around the room.

 

'I can see that.' replied Craven, growing more impatient 'Why else would I be standing in a store full of them?'

 

'Aye first let me tell you how I came to meet Evans.' intervened Helena hastily, knowing the shop keeper was struggling desperately to hold the lord's attention as Craven was growing less patient by the moment. 'My full name is Helena Rose Kinninmont.' she begun 'I come from the village Dysart in the lands of Fife on the east coast of Scotland.'. She paused, momentarily distracted as Craven continued to cast his piercing black gaze on her. 'I was born in the year 1728.' Helena added confidently.

 

A few moments passed before Craven managed to register what Helena had proclaimed. He shook his head.

 

'Forgive me, I could have sworn you just said you were born in 1728.'

 

'Aye, I did say that.' she replied adamantly.

 

With a look of daggers, Craven turned for the door 'Thank you Mr. Evans and Mistress Kinninmont for wasting my time. Let it be known I do not entertain people who play me for the fool.'

 

'She is telling the truth, I swear it Craven.' called out Evans swiftly 'We told you this would be difficult for us to tell, and for you to hear. Please listen our story, if nothing else.'

 

'Aye please do.' beseeched Helena 'I know you must think me unsound but 'tis the truth. All we ask is that you hear us out. You are free to choose what you do with what we have to say. All we want to do is talk.'

 

Sighing heavily, Craven turned back to the party. Had he not detected the profound sincerity in their two voices he would have left in an instant, and yet some small part of him was inquisitive as to what was behind such earnestness. Most likely there were only three possibilities before him; lies, insanity, or the truth. Each prospect was unnerving as the next.

 

'Then talk.' replied Craven impatiently 'I will give you a few minutes to say what it is you have to say and then I will walk out that door. I never want to see the pair of you after that, am I understood?'

 

'That sounds reasonable enough.' replied Helena with a nod 'Well I'll start at the beginning. I used to work as a personal chamber maid for Lord and Lady Bayliss at Fort Augustus in Scotland. 'Twas the former place of Castle Lon Dubh, held by Clan Kirkellean. When the clans were disbanded after the battle of Culloden, the English took up residency at the castle and Clan Kirkellean were expelled from their home. An Admiral of the British Army, Lord Bayliss, and his regiment of soldiers became the new tenants, furthering establishing their influence in our lands. A ploy done throughout Scotland to weaken our ties to our culture, ye ken. Lord Bayliss decided 'twas more fitting to rename the castle to suit a more English sounding fortification, so it became Fort Augustus.'

 

'Augustus does not sound very British?' muttered Craven. 

 

''Named in honour of King George II of England.' explained Evans 'George Augustus Hanover.'

 

'Aye ye know your history well Evans, no surprise there.' grinned Helana, looking towards her companion in amusement before turning back to the lord. 'I was allowed to remain working as a maid, not being apart of Clan Kirkellean myself.' continued Helena 'One day a new arrival of furniture came to the castle, it happened all the time, clan items from all over the area given in lieu as taxes. A Scottish Laird would look over his tenants and they in turn would pay in coin, grain, animals and such. But the English? They demanded the surrounding villagers do the same, but there was nothing in return. No protection, no aid. All our land and possessions taken from us.'. Helena laughed bitterly 'Sorry, I meant surrendered over to the rightful British occupiers of Scotland. Our homeland, our Alba.'

 

Both men remained uncomfortably silent as Helena glared at the pair of Londoners before her, a great deal of disapproval on her face.

 

Eventually she continued 'As I was saying, one day we received a wagon full of furniture and tapestries and such at Fort Augustus. Her ladyship claimed this grand old oak wardrobe for herself, that one there.'. Helena flung her hand half-heartedly at the wardrobe under the staircase, as if she was utterly sick of the sight of the item. 'It was taken into her chambers and it was my duty to clean it and place her dresses in there. Aye, so I grabbed a cloth and noticing how dusty the old thing was, proceeded to wipe it down. I had to climb into the damn deep thing to clean the inside, ye ken? Well once I was in there the door slammed shut behind me, scared me half to death as I sat there in the dark. I tried to push the door back open, but it would 'na budge. At first I thought it was the Bayliss children playing a trick on me, but that idea went out of my head fast. Sitting there in the dark I could feel the very hairs on my skin tingle, like I wasn't alone in there. Nay, there were no giggles from children outside the door. There was no one in the room…but there was something in that wardrobe.  I started screaming and pounding on the door, and the next moment it flung open and I fell out of it onto the ground into…this shop.'

 

Craven shook his head, looking at Helena's solemn face, then to Evans.

 

'You are serious?' chortled Craven 'Do you really expect me to believe that this is how you travelled here? Irrespective of the ludicrous time difference you claim, the entire concept is implausible. Impossible. There is no such item that can do what you suggest this cabinet can do.'

 

Evans nodded seriously 'I was here to witness it, standing by that very window when it happened. There was nothing in that cabinet since I had purchased it from Scotland a few months prior to that. Definitely no stow away.'

 

'Well she obviously has been deceiving you.' replied Craven to Evans 'She is probably some homeless woman seeking lodgings at your expense. So she came into the shop and hid in the wardrobe when you weren't looking, and you in your gullible nature believed her.'

 

Helena crossed her arms in offence, her lips pursed in disapproval. 'Well then! That is one theory to be sure.' she replied sourly 'Like I said, I was a chamber maid from Fife. Never have I travelled out of the county in my entire life. When I fell out of that thing I had no idea where I was and half thought I had been caught by one of the aes sídhe.'

 

'A what?' asked the lord.

 

'The fair folk.' replied Helena, noticing Craven was still frowning at her in confusion 'Faeries, ye ken? They usually live underground but some have been known to inhabit water, tree and stone. Fierce protectors of their abodes, and well look at it! That cabinet there is solid oak, more tree in it than a wee forest. There was a chance one of the aes sídhe had ensnared me in their dwelling, taken me to their realm.'

 

'I am sorry madam, I do not believe in village superstitions.' dismissed Craven, shaking his head in judgement.

 

Helena waved her hand 'Aye I forget ye English know it all. We grew up on stories of the folk of the mounds. You may not believe in things unknown, but it does not mean they do not exist. Anyway 'twas only for a moment I thought I had been captured by one of the aes sídhe before I realised I was not in the Otherworld. I was in a shop, but no shop I had ever seen before.'

 

'I did not know what to think,' added Evans 'but she was dressed in clothing that no person in London I had ever seen wear. Or abroad for that matter, and I have been everywhere!'. He shook his head 'No Craven, I was prepared to believe it because not even the best actress in the world could have reacted the way Helena did when she stumbled out of that door.'

 

'You have been had sir, I am sorry that is the only logical explanation.' replied Craven bluntly, looking in disapproval towards Helena 'Some women are so deceptive they can fool the smartest of men, I would not feel bad for being deceived so.'

 

The Scotswoman scoffed at Craven's comment, rolling her eyes as she tried with all her might to not insult the man.

 

Evans looked sincerely upon the unconvinced lord 'Craven, I am the first to confess I am not the most…normal of people. Yet where I lack your average qualities in a person, I make up for it in my profound knowledge. I am an extremely well educated man of the world. I am not gullible I assure you, having come across enough swindlers in my time here and abroad. Being a merchant you meet your fair share of those willing to tell untruths. What Helena says is the truth, and there is more to the story to prove it is so. However, I should first mention as to why I came across the wardrobe in the first place. Like I said, I am somewhat of a unique character. Ever since I was a child I knew I was different. I saw spirits. They are everywhere, as plain to me as you and Helena stand in this room.'

 

'You talk to ghosts?' mocked Craven, apparently growing more unconvinced as the conversation proceeded 'Are you a gypsy now also? Do you tell fortunes as well?'

 

'Well no I am British,' replied Evans plainly, as if completely unaware he was being taunted 'and clairvoyance is not my area of speciality. However, I do speak to the dead and see them in their physical state. They never let me be, and trust me when I say if you had the ability to see them you would will it away in the first few minutes of experiencing it. Dark and terrible souls live amongst us, filled with anger and hatred for those that have done them wrong in their former lives. Why sometimes they hate those that they do not know at all, just choosing innocent mortals to damn for their own pleasure. Wretched beings trapped in this plain forever, perhaps it is their hell? I do not know, but I find those that are trapped in this world tend to latch onto those mortals that sense them. I am one of them.'

 

'He speaks to the Sluagh.' nodded Helena gravely 'Sinners trapped in this world, not welcome in heaven or hell.'

 

'Well that is always where we disagree though, isn't it?' pointed out Evans 'Your Scottish beliefs of the Sluagh are somewhat biased towards the spirits being only destructive entities. That is not entirely true in my experience. Most are destructive yes, but some I have found to be quite placid.'

 

Helena shook her head 'All I ken is that the spirits trapped in this world have no purpose but to cause mischief and malevolence. Good souls dunna stay trapped without a reason, Evans.'

 

'If it is true what you say, can you speak to any spirit?' asked Craven suddenly, his interest tweaked 'Could you contact my wife and child? Are they here now?'

 

'No…' replied Evans gingerly, a look of regret of his face '…there is no one here, I am sorry.'

 

'But you could see them if they were?' Craven nodded, his hard demeanour now softening slightly 'I think they haunt my manor in Bloomsbury. I sense them every night.'

 

'It is…possible.' remarked Evans hesitantly 'The spirits I come across are almost always souls that have been so traumatised in their final moments in this world that they are unable to accept they have died. Or they are driven by such hate that they refuse to leave until they have their revenge. Then again, some just choose to stay for their own reasons.'

 

Helena crossed herself, whispering under her breath in Gaelic.

 

Craven looked away, his black eyes growing even darker. 'Then let us hope they are in my head and not in my house.' he murmured coldly 'They died of consumption, I bore witness to no peace in either of their deaths.'

 

'I am so terribly sorry for both your losses.' replied Evans gently 'I could always go there, to your house, and see if I can sense them? I would know for certain that way.'

 

'Perhaps.' replied Craven with a nod 'I confess when Helena mentioned you spoke to the dead that interested me most of all. All I want is to speak to my wife Emily and my daughter Mercy. Perhaps knowing they are happy will bring me some peace. I never got to say goodbye, the fever took their consciousness before I had a chance.'

 

Helena remained silent, biting her lip. She had once asked the same of Evans, to contact the spirit of Tearlach. A request she soon came to dreadfully regret.

 

'There are numerous ways of contacting the dead to be sure.' continued Evans 'Since my earliest memories as a child, of being five years old, I saw spirits everywhere. Fortunately for me my mother also had the ability, and so my unique situation was understood by at least half of my parents. She comforted me and willed them away when I was scared, and taught me to see them as nothing more than trapped souls. Horrifying beings mind you, some of them. The very blackest of souls and many quite evil in nature. My mother gave me a charm to protect myself from them and it worked, thank God. I was never possessed or harmed, I was even able to will them away as I got a little older.'. Reaching under his white cravat, Evans produced a pendant of a black shiny object shaped like that of an arrowhead. 'Black Obsidian.' he remarked 'My mother came from Pantelleria, an Italian island where they have a lot of this. It works extremely well in protecting the wearer against harmful spirits.'

 

'Peasant tales and paranoid drivel.' dismissed Craven 'You sir sound like you come from the past more than your companion apparently does. An evil spirit warded off by a bit of black rock. Stuff and nonsense!'

 

Evans shrugged, once again oblivious to Craven's mockery or perhaps indifferent to it. 'Well 'tis volcanic glass to be precise, not a rock per se.' replied the gentleman 'My mother, and her mother before her all wore the shards, and not one spirit came to harm them. Whilst to others unprotected, these spirits can cause terrible damage.'

 

Craven looked as sceptical as ever as Evans looked upon the man with an honest and genuine face.

 

'When I was eight,' continued Evans 'my family moved into a residential townhouse in Islington. It was there that I first met a spirit of an old woman who resided in the house. Mother told me she was harmless, just bound to the place out of sentiment. This spirit told me that my destiny in life would be to find an object of such great and terrifying power that it frightened even her. She would whisper this prophecy over and over, telling me I would have to search for it. I would have to go out into the world and seek it. That was my purpose, to find the object. That was my calling.'

 

'This is getting more ludicrous by the moment!' exclaimed Craven 'You expect me to believe some ghost told you that your life's destiny was to find a creepy moth riddled wardrobe?'

 

'Creepy, yes. Moths, no.' muttered Helena.

 

'Well that is the reason I imported camphor back here in the first place.' replied Evans to his Scottish companion 'After seeing the size of the dear old English clothes moth in ones draws I knew it would be a popular item to sell.'

 

'What on earth are you two on about now?' the lord exasperated.

 

'You mentioned the wardrobe was moth riddled, but Helena was right. There are no moths. I specifically use camphor to deter moths from my clothing cupboards.' advised Evans sincerely, as if it were a very serious matter to address 'I came across camphor in India where they extract it from laurel trees. It repels insects, including moths.'

 

'Good to know.' replied Craven sharply 'Back to this nonsense about the old woman spirit telling you to find an object?'

 

'She refused to say what the object was.' replied Evans with a frown 'Perhaps she did not know at the time, or perhaps it was not her part to intervene in such things. I suspect the latter. But then why tell me any of it at all?'

 

'Because she is a Sluagh.' murmured Helena, throwing a sharp look at Evans 'I keep on telling you not to trust the evil old hag that led you to this thing. Mark my words, she has her own diabolical reasons for meddling in your life like she did.'

 

'Who knows what to think?' sighed the shopkeeper 'Oft I would ask her why she could not just tell me? She refused to say and left it at that, only to repeat the tiresome prophecy. Actually it got very tiresome after a while. Well, as an adult I spent years travelling to various places with my father, and then by myself before I stumbled across this cabinet in Scotland. The spirit whispered into my ear at the very moment I came across it…she whispered that I had found the object.'

 

'The ghost left the house in Islington and made a little journey all the way to Scotland with you?' remarked Craven sarcastically.

 

'Spirits can travel here and there as fast as one's thoughts change.' informed Evans 'She was there for but a second. Ah but yes, she was right. I had finally found the object. I could sense it like a bright flame in a dark room. So I brought it back here to London, entirely confused as to what to do next.'

 

'Aye and then I come stumbling out of it from seventy-four years prior.' scorned Helena ''Tis no mere old and dusty wardrobe, Craven. Look I know Evans here comes across as mad as a hatter-'

 

'Do I?' interjected Evans, somewhat wounded.

 

'Nay just a wee bit, luv.' lied Helena with a weak smile, before turning to Craven once more 'But he is telling the truth. I know because I experienced firsthand at what that damn thing can do!'

 

The pair failed to notice the ever growing vexed lord who listened on in furious silence. 'What utter nonsense!' Craven blurted out after a few minutes of quiet seething 'You are both mad hatters. Are you sober? Either of you?'

 

'Aye, we are.' replied Helena accusingly 'Evans told me the year was 1834, and I told him he was mad. It was 1760 where I came from. I was scared and confused. I ran back into the wardrobe, slammed the door shut and returned back to Fort Augustus in my own time.'

 

'You got back to your own home again? So why on earth did you come back again to this time?' asked Craven in bewilderment.

 

'I went into the cabinet after her.' continued Evans quickly, noticing the look of utter despondency on Helena's face in response to Craven's question.

 

'So you too travelled in this, back in time and to Scotland?' remarked Craven in bewilderment. He clearly looked like he thought the pair were more than a little of unstable mind.

 

'Yes, to the very year 1760.' answered Evans 'To the very place Helena came from. Of course the cabinet had been moved by then, out into one of the lower rooms of the castle.'

 

'You still have not answered my question.' observed Craven, looking back to Helena 'Why did you not stay in your village? Why return here after all that?'

 

The woman faltered, looking suddenly uneasy at recalling the memory. 'Nay, forgive me…that part is not so easy for me. I need…I need a moment.'

 

Helena abruptly walked away, passing a surprised Craven and departing the store.

 

Evans waited as he watched Helena walk past the shop window, her face dark as shadows, making her way along the street.

 

'Best not to ask her of why she came back.' replied Evans sadly 'She did so and left her two children and husband. It is a rather delicate matter for her and upsets her greatly.'

 

Craven approached the wardrobe, examining at it with an unconvinced look. 'So what then? The pair of you went back into this and then returned back here to the same time?'

 

'Yes,' replied Evans 'back to 1834.'

 

'Okay, you claim this wardrobe moves people back and forth to one particular time and place.' continued Craven 'Then go there now, or better yet let us both. Prove your convictions sir.'

 

Growing white as a corpse, Evans looked fearful at the very suggestion. 'Craven this cabinet is extremely powerful.' he replied in a low voice, as if perhaps even he believed the cabinet could hear him 'I do not know how it works, but I cannot risk anyone going into it on a whim. Not until I know more about it. I was hoping you could aid us in this riddle?'

 

'How in the blazes would you come to the conclusion that I would be of any help in all of this?' shouted Craven, his eyes suddenly looking wild 'In this, and I must apologise Evans, ludicrous fantasy that you and Helena have created. Even if it were true, why come to me? No! The whole thing is so nonsensical it must be an hallucination of my mind. Some delirium brought on from my overdose.'

 

Lord De'Montmoray stumbled slightly, his body slightly shaking as he shook his head. He looked a little dazed, his eyes drifting shut for a moment.

 

'Overdose?' remarked Evans in concern 'What overdose? Craven are you all right? You look awfully peaky.'

 

Pointing his finger wildly at the shop owner, beads of sweat started to form on the lord's brow. 'Get back sir.' shouted Craven 'What you say is outrageously ridiculous. I am either hallucinating or in the hands of a pair of diabolical schemers. I must leave…I must...why is the room spinning?'

 

'Craven? You are not well.' remarked Evans fearfully, suddenly running forward to catch the man as he collapsed into a limp pile.

 

'Uhhh…' moaned Craven '…stay away from me, fiend. I see your claws, you cannot hide them from me.'

 

'No this is the opium.' replied Evans in concern, carefully cradling Craven's face as he examined his pupils 'You are not making sense. When did you take your last dose?'

 

'What are you doing?' murmured Craven, his eyes running wildly around the room in bewilderment.

 

'Do not have concern, I am a trained medical physician.' Evans reassured 'Your eyes are dilated and your skin is burning up. Why look, even your hands are shaking furiously. I fear you are suffering from another overdose, or perhaps withdrawals. When was the last time you took any form of the stuff? Powder, pill, pipe, laudanum?'

 

Craven groaned as he clenched his stomach 'A day and half ago. I had an incident in a den. The physician said I had consumed too much and suffered a series of seizures. I could not be woken for an entire day.'

 

'Good gracious man! You are more than a little unwell.' exclaimed Evans in concern 'Come, let me take you to rest upstairs, just until the vertigo and nausea subsides. I have ginger tea that will help, come with me.'

 

'No.' protested Craven weakly 'I am fine. My carriage can take me home.'

 

'You can lie to yourself, but not me.' replied Evans firmly 'We can argue about my sanity and agenda at a later point, but for now I need you to rest immediately. You are in no state to be transported anywhere at present. Come, up we get.'

 

Evans pulled Craven up, encouraging his arm around his shoulder as he led the limp lord upstairs. Walking down a narrow hallway, Evans led a crumpled Craven to the master bedroom, now taken over by Helena, and placed him on the bed. Craven rolled into a ball, shivering.

 

'It is so-so-so cold.' the lord whispered, eyes shut tight.      

 

'It is just your body trying to adapt from not having the opium.' reassured Evans, although he looked extremely worried 'This is normal, I can only imagine it feels terrible, but this is an unfortunate normal response.'. Grabbing a blanket from the edge of the bed, he placed it over Craven gently. 'Now rest here while I make some ginger tea.' he ordered softly, casting his eyes to the dresser. Grabbing the empty basin, he placed it beside the lord. 'Use this if you need to.' he added 'I shall return soon.'

 

Craven felt like protesting. He did not know this man, and yet here he was lying in his bed being nursed like a child. With a moan Craven tried to murmur something in protest before the room grew dark and he fell out of consciousness once more.