And I led Sarah out by the hand, hearing Lower murmur—in the next room, Locke. It is a long shot, but it may serve.”
Although there seemed little wrong with her, Sarah was still unable to speak or do anything except sit, staring into space as I followed my instructions. It is hard cutting off hair without a scissor, and the result would have done no credit to a woman of fashion. That, however, was not Lower’s intention, whatever else he had in mind, and within a short while I had done as I was told, then tried my best to clear up the mess.
Then I sat down beside her, and took her hand. There were no words I could say that would have answered my need, so I said none. But I squeezed lightly, and eventually felt the very slightest of squeezes back. It was enough; I broke down in the most complete of sobs, bending my head down across her breast while she sat there immobile.
“Did you really think I would leave you?” she said in a voice so soft and weak I could barely hear her.
“I could hardly hope for anything better. I know I did not deserve as much.”
“Who am I?”
It was the most glorious moment of my life. Everything before built to that question, everything after, the years of life which I have had since and still hope to have, are the merest coda to it. For the first and the last time, I had no doubts and had no need of thought or calculation. I did not need to consider, or assess evidence, nor yet to use any of the skills of interpretation needed for lesser matters; all I had to do was state the manifest truth without fear, and in perfect confidence. Some things, indeed, are so obvious that examination is redundant and logic contemptible. The truth was there to be believed, the most perfect gift because so undeserved. I knew. That was all.
“You are my Savior, the living God, born of the spirit, persecuted, insulted and abused, known to the Magi, who died for our sins and is resurrected as happened before and will happen again in every generation of man.”
Anyone who heard me would have thought me mad, and in that sentence I stepped forever out of the full society of my fellow men and into a peace of my own.
“Tell no one of this,” she said softly.
“And I am afraid. I cannot bear to lose you,” I added, ashamed of my own selfishness.
Sarah seemed scarcely to pay any attention, but eventually leaned forward and kissed me on the forehead. “You should not be afraid, and should never be afraid. You are my love, my dove, my dearest and I am your friend. I will not forsake you nor ever neglect you.”
They were the last words she spoke to me, the last I ever heard from her lips, and I sat by her side, holding her hand and staring in awe at her until a noise from below roused me once more. Then I rose from the bed where she sat, staring blankly across the room, and went back down to Lower. Sarah now seemed completely unaware of my existence.
The carnage in that room downstairs was truly diabolical, and even I, who knew the truth, was appalled by it. How much greater must Cola’s shock have been when he forced his way in, and saw what he thought to be Sarah’s body. For Lower had taken the corpse he had acquired in Aylesbury, and roughly hacked it into unrecognizable fragments, so brutalizing the head that it was scarcely recognizable as human. He himself was covered in blood from a dog Locke had slaughtered to complete the illusion, and the stench of the alcohol in the room was unbearable, even though the window was wide open to allow the winds into the room.
“Well, Wood?” he said, turning to me with a grim expression. Locke, I saw, had resumed his languid, absent pose, and was standing idly by at the door. “Will anybody spot our imposition, do you think?” And with a knife, he levered an eyeball out of the skull on the table, so that it hung by a thread from its socket.
“I have cut her hair, but the experience has so affected her she is hardly capable of moving, I think. What do you suggest we do with her now?”
“Boyle’s servant has some clothes in the cupboard next the chamber,” he said. “At least, he normally keeps them there. I think we must borrow them. Dress her up, and get her out of the building so no one will recognize her. Meantime, keep her upstairs and quiet. No one must see her, or even suspect there is anyone there.”
Again I mounted the stairs, found the clothes and began the lengthy process of getting Sarah into them. She spoke not a word during the whole operation, and when I was finished I left her and went out by Mr. Crosse’s back door and followed a little lane down to Merton Street and my house.
First, however, I called into the Feathers, as I needed a few moments to steady my nerves and collect my thoughts. And was approached by Cola, looking tired and worn out himself, who wanted news of the execution. I told him the entire truth except for the one detail of importance and he, poor man, took it as confirmation of his theory about blood transfusion, that the death of the spirit in the donor must inevitably cause the death of the recipient as well. I could not, for obvious reasons, illuminate him on this point, and demonstrate that his theory had a fatal evidential flaw.
He also told me of the death of the mother, which grieved me greatly, for it was yet another burden for Sarah to bear. But I forced myself to put it aside as Cola went to remonstrate with Lower, and I went myself to my house to discover my mother in the kitchen. She had been greatly affected by Sarah’s fall, and had taken to sitting quietly by the fire when she was not praying for the girl. This morning, as I arrived—for despite everything it was still scarcely eight—she sat all alone in the chair no one else was allowed to occupy, and I saw to my astonishment that she had been crying when no one was there to see her. But she pretended not to do so, and I pretended not to notice, as I had no wish to humiliate her. Even then, I think, I wondered how something of normal life could continue despite the wonders I had just witnessed, and could not understand how no one had noticed anything, except myself.
“And it is done?”
“After a fashion,” I replied. “Mother, I must ask you something in all seriousness. What would you have done to help her, had it been in your power?”
“Anything,” she said firmly. “You know that. Anything.”
“If she had escaped, would you have assisted her, even though it meant breaking the law yourself? Not given her up?”
“Of course,” she said. “The law is nothing when it is wrong, and deserves to be disregarded.”
I looked at her, for the words sounded strange on her lips, until I realized it was something I had once heard Sarah say herself.
“Would you help her now?”
“She is beyond my help, I think.”
“No.”
She said nothing, so I continued, my words blurting out once I had gone too far to retract. “She died and is alive again. She is in Mr. Boyle’s apartment. She is still alive, Mother, and no one knows of it. Nor will they ever, unless you say something, as we have all decided to try and help her away.”
This time even my presence did not provide enough incentive to spare her dignity, and she rocked back and forth in her chair, clutching her hands together and muttering “Thank God, thanks to God, all praise to God,” with the tears welling up in her eyes and rolling down her cheeks until I took her by the hand and got her attention once more. “She needs hiding until we can get her out of the town. Do I have your permission to bring her here? If I hide her in my study, you will not betray her?”
Of course she gave her absolute promise, and I knew it was better than any I might make, so I kissed her on the cheek, and told her I would be back after nightfall. I last saw her bustling about the kitchen, dragging out vegetables and our last winter ham for a celebratory feast when Sarah should come again.
It continued a strange day, that one, for after all the frenzied activity of the first few hours, all of us—Lower, Locke and myself—found ourselves with time on our hands, and little to do until night came. Lower realized that the events at least had made up his mind about journeying to London, for his reputation amongst the townsfolk would never be the same again, such was the disapproval of his supposed activities. He now had no choice but to risk all and begin the long task of establishing himself elsewhere. The remains of the girl he had bought in Aylesbury were taken off to the castle and burned on the pyre—Lower’s humor returned sufficiently for him to remark that she had been pickled in so much alcohol it would be fortunate if she did not blow up the entire building—and I had been given money by Cola to ensure the decent burial of Mrs. Blundy.