Boneseeker: Here Walk the Dead

By Brynn Chapman

Arabella Holmes—yes, daughter of that Holmes—wants to return to her job as a purveyor of abnormal science. She has temporarily been demoted to a botanist, until her love interest, Henry Watson—yes, that Watson—can help her get her less-than-professional outbursts in check.

Henry is tired of his new role as doctor, tired of the lack of adventure, and tired of keeping Bella's escapades out of the papers.

Five girls are missing. Gone from locked rooms in their own houses. Arabella and Henry are called upon to help solve the kidnappings, but all they unearth is more danger.

Bella ventures undercover into a lunatic asylum, where a mute woman assaults her and scrawls the chilling words—Here the dead wake. Plus, a vial of Bella's research poison has gone missing. Bella and Henry must find it, and the missing girls, before charges can be brought against her.

• Language: English
• Publisher: The Wild Rose Press
• Release date: Jan 14, 2019
• ISBN: 9781509224432

Brynn Chapman

Brynn lives in Pennsylvania with her husband and three sons. She also works as an occupational therapist for children with autism. She is the alter-ego of R.R. Smythe, author of the Young Adult novel, Into the Woods. She's penned the historical manuscript, Bride of Blackbeard, and the sci-fi thriller, Project Mendel.

Book preview

retailers

Frostbite can occur at zero degrees within five minutes for the first stage, which results in pain and tingling and most likely a full recovery. The second degree, the body pulls blood away from the extremities, resulting in blisters that may harden and blacken.

I then recall the moulages he crafted of stage-four frostbite. My heartbeat goes wild. Find! Newton! Find!

He yips.

Newton bounds out of sight, and we all stumble forward, awkwardly plowing through the gathering mounds of snow.

A yelp, then Newton begins to bark in earnest and a smile breaks free beneath my balaclava. He’s found something.

As we turn the corner, my heart falls. Newton is…digging. Digging at the ground.

I turn to meet Henry’s eyes and Inspector Giamatti bounds forward, the remaining blood draining from his already pallid complexion.

Henry and Giamatti expect the worst. They immediately begin to help Newton dig.

My photo-mind flips through pictures and I turn away to face the clock tower. I pull out a compass and swallow. I have seen this view before. The first time I snuck into the asylum.

They are about to discover…

I’ve struck wood! Henry yells.

I fly to his side, in time to help them heave open the hidden trapdoor, buried beneath snow.

A round, frozen face stares sightlessly forward. She perceives the change in temperature and screams.

Praise for Brynn Chapman

Something dark and ominous is afoot in early 20th-century Philadelphia, but Arabella Holmes and Henry Watson are up to the task in this fast-paced, thrilling mystery.

~Lea Nolan, USA Today Bestselling Author

Boneseeker: Here Walk the Dead

Translated by

Brynn Chapman

The Boneseeker Chronicles

Book Two

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

Boneseeker: Here Walk the Dead

COPYRIGHT © 2019 by Brynn Chapman

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

Contact Information: [e-mail]

Cover Art by Debbie Taylor

The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

PO Box 708

Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

Publishing History

First Crimson Rose Edition, 2019

Print ISBN 978-1-5092-2442-5

Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-2443-2

The Boneseeker Chronicles, Book Two

Published in the United States of America

Dedication

To my mom, Sandy.

This is all your fault for reading me Jerome The Frog.

I have frequently gained my first real insight into the character of parents by studying their children.

~Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

~*~

And though she be but little, she is Fierce.

~Shakespeare, A Midsummer Night’s Dream

Prologue

The Lost

The reek of chloroform.

I thrash, instinctively wrenching away from the stench of the cloying rag, but too late. There is a simultaneous prick and burn as a needle jabs the crook of my arm.

I’ve had too many inhalations. I battle my eyes open.

Two men rummage through my personal effects.

The carriage—gone. In an instant, I am slung over one of their backs, dangling limp as a child’s rag doll.

I don’t wake, not precisely. I know not how much time has passed. My eyes are stuck open wide, dry as dirt. The world merely clears, brightening into focus as my mind revives.

I struggle to sit. Nothing. My body…does not respond. My arms and legs feel as rigid and inanimate as the towering evergreens glowering down on us.

I try to blink. Nothing.

It’s as if the connection between my brain and body has been severed.

The smaller villain hauls another tiny girl over his shoulder. You piece of filth, don’t touch her.

No words have escaped. I am incapable of speech.

That one’s awake. The smaller man’s bulging blue eyes are boring into my face. A jagged scar, tinged purple from the cold, slashes across his chin.

The taller one spins to regard me. He’s donned a mask, the coward. He smiles, white and wide, as chills explode all over my crumpled body.

My chest tightens, like a slip-knot is cinched around my lungs. My breathing is slowing. Darkness presses on the fringes of my vision like the burning edges of a photograph.

Not to worry. She may watch the show. He hoists another body over his shoulders, gaze roving over my chest as if counting my breaths. It shan’t be long.

He turns to follow the other man down the path and murmurs over his shoulder, It is your choice. Come along quietly or pray for death’s sleep. He glances about the forest, which grows ever more dim. There are animals afoot.

Chapter One

College of Physicians and Surgeons, Fall, 1911

"You must do a better job of containing her, Henry."

Dr. Earnest’s mutton-chop sideburns waggle and his eyes are bloodshot and bleary—no doubt from another lost night of sleep. His meaty paw slaps the Philadelphia Herald down on the polished wood table.

Since the exposure of the Brotherhood of the Revolution, and the public catastrophe in the train station, the press keeps a keen eye on the Mütter—more specifically, on Miss Arabella Holmes.

One reporter in particular was quick to note not only her unique curation position, but her oddities, leaving her fodder for an interfering, ever-more-sensational, press. The man, Albert Whiffy, much like an expert switchboard operator, knows precisely which buttons to push in Bella’s personality. Which has resulted in more than one public screaming match—complete with vivid photographs of Bella in all her manic glory.

The man is either infatuated with her or detests her. I suspect it’s both. The contrast of her beauty and her complete lack of regard for it draws men to her. She’s been reprimanded more than once for wearing trousers—but Bella is the walking, talking essence of practicality.

But chaps like Whiffy merely want to possess her, to tame her—ride her and put her out to pasture—or more accurately, damn her to their hearth—to join the overwhelming majority of her sex.

I swallow my anger and dig my fists into my thighs.

Squaring my shoulders, I meet Dr. Earnest’s gaze.

You would do well to keep in mind all the new revenue the hothouse shall soon infuse into the Mütter. Its potential success is the sole reason you now have three digs running simultaneously. I nearly blurt, none of which I am on. Bella and I are up to our proverbial necks in bloody plants. We were told this project temporarily took priority over my moulages and Bella’s curation.

Earnest’s eyes widen, but it’s barely perceptible, lost in the basset-hound flesh surrounding his eyes. "Potential is the precise word, Henry. Until the hothouse is up and fully functional, we are operating in the red. It is a risky venture despite the funding."

The newly formed Watson-Holmes Foundation funds an elaborate greenhouse and conservatory where Bella might explore and maintain botanicals from all over the world in the hopes of drawing in a genteel clientele.

And this philanthropical endeavor is no doubt a thinly veiled bribe to assure her ever-teetering curation position remains secured.

The grand opening is but three months away. The conservatory itself is thus far amazing, but not one I am entirely sure Philadelphians shall embrace.

Plants from the 1893 Columbian Exposition in Chicago, housed for a time at Pittsburgh’s Phipps Conservatory, are soon to arrive.

Lavish stone walkways traverse and wind through climates ranging from the Amazon  complete with massive lily pads—to the desert and beyond. And Arabella is overwhelmingly in charge of it all, the added responsibility the final snip on her already fraying nerves.

Earnest looks ever more grave. Just so. The hothouse is an expensive and serious project, no matter who is its patron saint. And at times, Miss Holmes is… He clears his throat. Your…feelings for her cloud your judgment, Henry. I thought other measures necessary to assure her success.

He stands.

What? Whatever do you mean? I shoot up so quickly my chair tips and I scrabble around to catch it before it clatters onto the polished hardwood.

Might I present Dr. Audra Clifton.

A woman enters, the click of her sensible shoes muted by the insulating multitude of books lining the library’s walls.

She is British.

I know before her mouth even opens.

The cut of her business suit, the posture. Approximately our parents’ age, I would guess. She is attractive, but as her shrewd eyes narrow at me; this is by origin of nature, as this woman will have nothing to do with the realm of nurture. Her face is entirely unadorned except for the slightest brush of lipstick.

Earnest clears his throat, and I realize her hand hovers in the air, thrust out in greeting.

"Really? This is the intrepid doctor’s son? Perhaps you exaggerated his mental abilities, Dr. Earnest?"

My mouth drops, a shudder coursing up my spine.

It is as if Sherlock Holmes himself has somehow managed the ultimate disguise—to alter his sex—and infuse his infuriating spirit into this feminine shell, then drift across the great pond to arrive, size me up, and pronounce me lacking as usual.

I assure you, Dr. Clifton, his mind is more than useful. I am afraid he is a little worse for wear. Henry has taken to lighting the entire candelabra at both ends of late.

Earnest refers to my obstetrical studies, on top of my antiquities position at the Mütter, and my full-time care of keeping Arabella safe. And out of the papers.

"Dr. Clifton?

Striated blue eyes pin me. You have a problem with a female doctorate?

I snort. "Obviously not. Have you ever met Bella?"

The daggers intensify. "No, I have not had the unmitigated pleasure. My dealings with the family were long before Bel-la was an issue." Her tongue drags over the name.

An issue.

The love of my life is an issue, then? Right, Queensbury rules do not apply here. Gloves and etiquette are off, woman or no. The heat of anger flushes my cheek and I welcome it, and hurtle back my own daggers. My teeth snap together and I force the words from between them, delivered in my best velvety tone. "Might I be so bold as to enquire what sort of doctorate, Madam?"

You may. Biology. Forensics and botany specifically.

Earnest hovers, plainly out of his league, his gaze volleying back and forth between us like a Wimbledon match.

So you might be able to help us with Miss Holmes’s…behavior? Earnest inquires.

"Never fear. The English cavalry has arrived. I have been dispatched by the Foundation to assist you…and Dr. Earnest. And Bel-la." She’s so smug.

I cock my head, ignoring the tightness about my collar. Sorry?

Do keep up, Henry. She arches her eyebrow perfectly.

She is your superior, dear boy. And Arabella’s as well. Dr. Clifton has degrees from Oxford and then from our very own Women’s Medical College of Pennsylvania.

Merciful heavens. A combination of Watson and Holmes, wrapped in feminine form.

She nods. The Mütter has hired many new professors, Mr. Watson.

I interrupt. "I am Dr. Watson, now."

She inclines her head at Earnest.

He gives confirmation. Very newly acquired, but yes.

Very well, Dr. Watson. You and Arabella should report to my classroom tomorrow at dawn. Much, much to go over and be done prior to the hothouse opening. I shall want to inspect all the new specimens, check temperatures, soil readings—all of it. She nods again. Dr. Earnest.

He stands, obviously intent on accompanying her.

She shoots up her slender white hand. I require no escort. I look forward to wandering these halls, and I’ve already seen my quarters.

For a moment Earnest looks as dumbfounded as I feel, but he quickly recovers.

Anger burns my nose, flaring my nostrils as I wrestle to contain it, my hands dancing a jig at my side as I wait for her footfalls to fade.

"Why, Dr. Earnest? Have you any idea the strain I am under, trying to deal with Bella and the vermin of the press intent on her destruction? Now you add—I turn around to stare at the space recently vacated by the intuitive force of nature—this? The phrase, ‘heaping burning coals upon one’s head’ comes to mind!"

Earnest eases his bulk into the ornate captain’s chair, reminding me of a massive sailing ship scraping into port. There have been many new appointments, Henry. Not all to my liking. A new board of directors has taken control, so my opinion no longer carries the weight it once did.

He too looks weary.

I inhale and close my eyes briefly, pinching the bridge of my nose. We are to meet with Dr. Grimm as well? On top of our other duties?

Yes, Dr. Grimm is the temporary new director of medical antiquities. If you and Bella expect to ever be dispatched on digs again, you must continue to meet and confer with him.

Bella is in charge of categorizing antiquities as they arrive and now this ruddy hothouse.

And I deliver the occasional baby, typically on the poorest side of Philly, just for an added laugh.

These turns of events have significantly decreased our chances of being dispatched on digs.

And it has left her bone obsession out in the cold, as it were. Which ensures her disposition has followed suit.

It is as if bones calm her mind; while she assembles their macabre puzzles, it somehow helps her make sense of our confusing world. And they tell her secrets—which more often than not, I am not privy to. What Bella lacks in social niceties, she has in spades for science.

I’ve stared in awe as her tiny, steady hands traverse skeletal remains that would make a seasoned officer flinch. As her fingers traverse protuberances and trochanters, the dead tell her their story. And she is the undisputed master of deciphering bony cryptograms.

Earnest clears his throat.

The Bella images dissipate, and I smooth my hair, then my waistcoat. Does Bella know any of these fascinating developments? Of Dr. Clifton’s new employ?

He shrinks back.

I stifle a laugh. The man is nearly racist; Bella, to him, is an utterly uncategorizable alien. An ambulating foreign brain in an hourglass body.

Thanks for that as well, then. I pivot to leave, but my proper English manners bade me say, Have a good day, Dr. Earnest. I am not happy, but who is, of late?

That’s a good lad. He seems to hesitate.

What is it? My heartbeat picks up. Something in the set of his jaw gives me pause. More bad news? Can this day possibly get any worse?

I trust you, Henry. Despite your youth, you are able to bear heavy burdens upon those shoulders.

I fidget with the edge of my waistcoat. Dr. Earnest?

"Have you seen The Enquirer?"

I shake my head. He points to the headline, Heiress Disappears in Broad Daylight

"That is the third woman in a month. Please keep your eye on Bella. All the women had one thing in common. They were strikingly beautiful. I know she’s a corker, but she certainly fits the bill."

I shall do my level best. I walk out the door, musing on the best way to break this deluge of bad news to Bella.

****

The Bell in Hand Pub, Philadelphia, 1911

Miss Holmes, you all right, then? You look like a goose right walked over your grave?

Brewmaster Herald’s voice brings me back and I blink repeatedly, staring blearily about The Bell in Hand. I tug the bowler further down my brow.

His voice is low and quiet, so as not to give away my disguise.

I fight the memory of the previous evening, but it blazes without my consent.

****

I eavesdrop at the sitting room door and listen to Henry’s voice shake.

He is on the newly installed museum telephone and speaking much too loudly. What do you mean Stygian escaped? He was in custody and being extradited! He pauses, listening.

Once again, Stygian has gone missing. And I fear I will put all I love in danger—as if my very presence evokes the angel of death to hover over the Mütter.

Henry’s hand balls into a fist which he presses to his forehead as a grimace mars his handsome face. I see. I…I don’t know if I should tell her. I will think on it first. Thank you. Yes, of course. I shall ring if anything new transpires.

****

Stygian, my former would-be mentor, was the clandestine leader of the Brothers of the Revolution. Their core belief was that a person’s appearance was the outer manifestation of their inner self. The pseudo-science of Phrenology and a near worship of Darwinism were their hallmarks.

I shake my head and rub the gooseflesh on my arms to banish the memory. Quickly remembering my assumed persona, I take a rough, manly swipe at my bulbous false nose.

Around me, men belt out drinking songs in slurred harmonies. Giggling barmaids and whispered conversations assault my hearing as the pub sounds reorient me, fixing me firmly in the present.

I readjust myself on the barstool. Sorry, Oliver, I was just…thinking.

About gowns and the latest Paris fashions, then?

He says the words so deadpan I have trouble suppressing a smile. He knows me too well.