Monday 4th August 1879: Highbury Hall, Birmingham

I am reconstructing this diary entry as best I can, having spent a large part of it dead to the world. Suffice to say that just when it seemed over, it really wasn’t, thanks in large part to my stubborn but protective companions.

“The door downstairs is locked,” Blackwood reported, “So no medicine I’m afraid.”

Silas sighed and hauled himself to his feet, searching the room for anything that might help. All he found were two more syringes full of Chamberlain’s magic potion.

“We could try it?” I said, semi-hopefully, but Silas was having nothing of it. Doctors and their oaths! The bodies of Chamberlain and Van der Valk were similarly bare, though Jack was pleased to find a brace of shells for the shotgun, and Silas gathered up Chamberlain’s rather effective pistol.

The two unopened doors revealed Macbeth’s bed chamber, and, more interestingly, a spiral staircase that led up to a minaret that looked over the rooftops. Aston, our final target, was nowhere to be seen, but there was another similar tower on the far side with a rather obvious door: our way out.

Before venturing forth, Blackwood, naturally, had to repair the stopped clock that stood in our tower. “Just the pendulum,” he explained, setting in motion again and generating a horrible chafing noise. “Needs oil.”

“Can’t this wait?” Silas pleaded.

“No. We don’t track later, we only track now,” Blackwood declared rummaging through his ever-present tool-bag. Moments later the clock was purring.

A set of fresh grubby footsteps—Aston’s—led us to the far doorway, which opened into a large ballroom, or what might once have been one. It was full of all manner of abandoned furniture, some rather nice, much old and decrepit. Two doors led from the room; I headed to the further one, Blackwood the near.

Finding it locked, Blackwood kicked open the door rather than bothering me—his hackles were still up, it seemed. He was rewarded with the sight of Mrs Macbeth and Martin, both pointing shotguns in his direction!

“My friend, young Mr Aston, might miss from this range, but I’m not likely to,” Macbeth announced with cold certainty. “Why don’t you come out nice and easy, Mr Blackwood. And you too Dr, and where is Ms Harrow?”

I had slid out of sight and was working my way quietly to the second door. Blackwood jumped behind a large lounge before anyone could shoot. “In your own time, Mr Blackwood, you sweet fool,” Macbeth said, her lingering fondness for Jack evident, though fast fading.

“What’s your plan, Macbeth?” Silas called, having secreted himself behind a large wardrobe.

“You come out with guns down like a good lad, and then we’ll see.” She didn’t sound angry or unreasonable, no doubt believing she had the upper hand.

Unfortunately for her she wasn’t familiar with Blackwood’s darker moods. He held his shotgun and hammer aloft. “There’s two of you, and three of us. And we’re better armed,” he growled.

“It seems we’re at an impasse, Macbeth,” Silas added.

“Oh no, no, we’re not. You come out and we’ll take it from there. You’ve got nowhere to go…”

Jack’s observation that there were only two of them struck me a moment too late. I opened the door ahead of me and stepped through, and was immediately clobbered by Macbeth’s third ally—Aston!—who knocked me out cold. I fell with a plaintive shriek as the door slammed behind me.

From here on events are recreated from a narrative provided by Mr Blackwood and Silas.

“Gideon!” Silas cried, risking his life by crossing Macbeth’s sightline to hurry toward me. He flung the door open to find Aston, ready with another shotgun, standing over me. Silas ducked out of sight and yelled. “Wait! Don’t hurt Harrow and I’ll come out!”

“Throw down your weapons!” Aston demanded, and Silas, to his great credit, did so, sliding the pistol through the doorway.

“Blackwood! Aston has Harrow at gunpoint!” Silas hissed.

“Come on out now, Mr Blackwood,” Macbeth said, enjoying this.

“Yes Blackwood, we’ve got your woman,” Martin taunted, joining the fun.

Jack’s face was blank, and if had seen it I know it would have been just as it was before he removed Peter Abernathy’s jaw. He shoved his cover-providing chair forward, leaning his weapon on the arm of the couch and letting fly at Macbeth. She cried out in surprise and pain as the buck took her fair and square.

“Stop or I’ll blow her bloody brains out!” Aston cried on hearing the blast. Silas bravely stepped into sight, hands aloft in the doorway. “Stop right there!” Aston spat, “And drop the stick!”

Silas leant his cane gently against the door frame and raised his hand again. “Aston. What’s the plan? The master of the house and Van der Valk are both dead. As far as I’m concerned they were killed in self defence—our self defence.”

Before Aston could answer, another shot from Blackwood echoed through the room, this time catching Martin. Macbeth and Martin retaliated in turn causing Jack to stagger, badly wounded, his chair near-disintegrated.

“What’s going on!” Aston cried in a panic, “Tell him to stop!”

“Blackwood stop!” Silas called, fearing for his friend and for me.

Blackwood of course had no such intent. With another gutteral grown he stood and unloaded a twin shot into Martin.

Aston had hear enough. He lowered his shotgun to rest on my fallen head. “Make him stop or she dies!”

“How can I?” Silas begged, “I’ve asked!!”

The gunfire continued out of their sight, Blackwood nearly killed by a point blank blast from Martin after Macbeth missed her shot. But Jack had one more trick up his sleeve. “You’re both empty,” he snarled, standing, covered in blood. “Put down your weapons or I’ll give you both barrels!”

Macbeth spat on the floor disdainfully and quickly retreated, whilst Martin, suddenly seeing his life about to end, dropped his weapons and turned.

“If you run I’ll kill you where you stand,” Blackwood warned.

Silas spun back to Aston. “Aston man—Macbeth has run off and unless I’m very much mistaken, Blackwood has your friend Martin in a very similar position to what you have my friend in.”

Aston swung his weapon wildly between Silas and me. “Why don’t you get down on the ground!” he said, sweat pouring from his brow.

Silas, badly wounded himself, saw no option. He dropped to his knees, speaking softly as he did. “You will have to take my word for this—if you take this any further Blackwood is going to kill Martin, then Macbeth, and then you. So if you want to live you’ll have to put your gun down now and we can all have a bit of a chat.”

Outside, Blackwood picked up Martin’s gun and jammed it into his gut, whispering. “Walk forward please. You’re lucky. You’re very lucky. Do you know there were tribes in Abyssinia who killed people slowly. A terrible experience. I was thinking of doing that to you and the lady. I think I would have enjoyed it. You made me so angry. They skin people too—I’ve never done that but I am curious.”

As he started to walk him over toward Aston, Macbeth suddenly appeared below, surprising Jack. “Drop it Blackwood!” she cried firing wide from the foot of the stairway.

“Blackwood?!” Silas called, fearing the worst.

“I’m fine! This is fun!”

“Aston, for the love of god man, that was another shot and Blackwood is still alive. Put the gun down!”

Yet another blast thundered out, followed by a menacing cackle from Blackwood.

Silas was practically begging now. “Aston run for god’s sake, I can’t stop him!”

Aston, finally, saw reason. He backed away from Silas then turned and sprinted. Silas ran into the room and saw that I was stable, the blunt force trauma to the back of my head not enough to finish me for good. I was groggily starting to come around, barely aware but alive. Knowing I was good, Silas ran after Aston, hoping to round on Macbeth.

Blackwood, under heavy fire from Macbeth, turned to Martin. “You should run too before I kill you!” Martin obeyed without question, scurrying away. Jack swung his gun down and fired wildly at Macbeth. Both were on their last legs and missing badly, but each knew one true shot would end this.

Alas for Jack, the one true shot came from elsewhere. Aston, who had managed to work his way back to the battle, fired the near-fatal round, making up for his misses in the fight with Van der Valk. Blackwood dropped to the floor in agony, holding himself together by willpower alone. Silas, out of sight, was horrified. First me, now Jack. But he saw one last chance: take down Macbeth. He bade his time as he heard her climbing the stairway.

Aston looked shocked, looming over the fallen Jack. “Is he dead?” Macbeth stepped to his side, chuckling triumphantly. “Foolish little man,” she snorted, just as Silas emerged from behind and clubbed her with his cane, trying to knock her down the stairs. She teetered on the top step but managed to maintain her position, grabbing Silas’s stick.

Silas struck again, but she met his blow with a strength that belied her form. She swung with the butt of her shotgun but Silas parried it away. Aston shot wildly into the melee, so Silas grabbed Macbeth and locked her arms, breaking one, then swung her around to be a shield against Aston’s next shot. “Aargh not me old bones,” Macbeth wailed.

Silas briefly considered his Hippocratic oath—first, do no harm—before thinking better of it, recalling something his father-in-law once told him which seemed a better idea at this moment. He tightened his grip on Macbeth, drawing a howl of pain, then glared at Aston. “This is done now! You can shoot her if you like.”

“Stop!” Aston cried, eyes darting wildly.

Silas, momentarily off guard, was dismayed to find Macbeth had wriggled out of his grasp. “Shoot him!” she cried.

“Put your hands up, Doctor!” Aston cried, perhaps wary of shooting a man of medicine despite Macbeth’s order.

“Yes, do,” a second voice said—Martin, arriving back at precisely the worst moment.

Realising the situation was hopeless, Silas raised his hands with a deep sigh. “This is…pointless.”

Macbeth smiled widely. “Alright boys—take them to the cistern!”