by Kat Ross
The doctor slowly lifted his head. He didn’t seem surprised or alarmed at the sudden intrusion.
Yes?
You’re to come with us, sir, Alec said firmly.
Dr. William Clarence smiled.
Certainly. If you say so.
“He came along readily enough,” Alec continued. “That in itself was rather peculiar, considering he claimed to be on holiday. But in light of the fact that we had no case against him—either on the Whitechapel murders or anything else—Mr. Sidgwick suggested he be committed to Greymoor. For observation.”
“He’s been locked up here ever since, against my strenuous objections,” Vivienne said.
In fact, she had wanted to cut his head off, but Sidgwick wouldn’t permit it. Not without proof; not after the Harper Dods fiasco.
“The timeline of Ripper killings does fit.” Blackwood thought for a moment. “With all due respect, it’s still rather thin, milady. But I’ll send some extra men to Whitechapel. If nothing else, Dr. Clarence is a confirmed murderer now. Where were his lodgings?”
Alec recited the address and Blackwood went into the hall to notify the officers waiting there.
“The Met will check out Cheapside,” he said when he returned. “Where else would Dr. Clarence go?”
“I haven’t a clue.” Vivienne tossed her cigarette into the hearth.
“What about you? Would Dr. Clarence hold a grudge for bringing him here?”
“I doubt it. He has all of London to terrorize. No, I’m afraid we’ll find out soon enough where he’s gone. Now, perhaps we should see this poor orderly. What was his name?”
“John Davis Pyle. We’ve already taken statements from the staff, but I ordered the police surgeon to leave the body as it is until you had a chance to examine it.”
“Where’s Superintendent Barrett?”
“Upstairs with Dr. Cavendish. He was Clarence’s attending physician. Cavendish arrived just before you did, I haven’t spoken to him yet. Do they know about any of what you’ve just told me?”
“No,” Vivienne said with disgust. “Sidgwick insisted on complete secrecy. I suspect there was some pressure from the S.P.R. in New York. They’re all convinced the iron test is infallible. Anyway, Sidgwick and Barrett were school chums at Eton. I’m sure it helped grease the wheels.”
“Well, I suppose that explains the South Wing. But next time, I’ll thank you to take me into your confidence sooner. I’m not sure what we could have done to prevent Pyle’s murder, but we don’t need another incident like Buckingham Palace. Her Majesty would not be amused.”
“You’re right, Inspector, and I apologize,” Vivienne said. “We should have come to you straight away.”
Somewhat mollified by the sincerity in her voice, Blackwood led them to twin curving staircases at the end of the hall. A grandfather clock on the landing sonorously chimed the hour: half past three. They turned right, away from the quiet, airy north annex toward South Wing where Dr. William Clarence had spent the last thirty-three days in solitary confinement. At the top of the stairs, a burly attendant waited by an oaken door. He seemed to expect them and produced a ring of iron keys.
“I hope you catch him,” he said, unlocking the door. “Pyle was a good man. Didn’t deserve such an end as that brute gave him.”
“Don’t worry,” Blackwood said firmly. “We won’t rest until Clarence is found.”
The attendant shook his head. “He’s the last one I would’ve expected to snap like that. Never gave us any trouble. Quiet as a mouse.” He gave a resigned sigh. “Sometimes I wonder if we aren’t mad ourselves, working in this place.” The attendant stood aside to let them pass. “The other patients have been riled up since it happened. Don’t pay ‘em any mind, milady.”
The heavy door closed behind them, the tumblers echoing in the silent corridor. They passed an empty day room and several offices for the resident physicians. Around a corner, the cells began. Despite the wave of reforms that had swept England’s mental institutions mid-century, Greymoor’s secure wing harkened back to an earlier era when the mad were treated like feral beasts. Alec understood this was less a reflection on the asylum itself than the character of the men it was entrusted with.
Slack, unshaven faces pressed against the small grates of the cells. When they saw Vivienne, a collective howl went up, like chained dogs catching the scent of a hare. Blackwood flushed at the lewd and venomous suggestions hissed through broken yellow teeth. Vivienne didn’t appear to notice. Alec, on the other hand, gripped his cane with such force the silver falcon on the handle bit deeply into his palm.
“Black African whore,” one of the inmates growled.
Alec’s stride didn’t slow as he passed the man’s cell. He kept his eyes straight ahead. But a smile spread across his face as he heard a soft thud and cry of surprise.
“Witchcraft!” the man choked from the dark recesses of his cell. “She done hit me with an invisible cudgel!”
The other inmates erupted in loud laughter at this, and the vicious mood seemed to lighten. “Shut up, the lot of you!” an excited voice yelled. “She’ll think we’re all as barmy as poor Hobbes. Fer feck’s sake, mind yer goddamn manners. There’s a lady present.”
“I ain’t barmy,” Hobbes moaned. “Somethin’ clobbered me.”
His fellow inmates began to debate the relative merits of Hobbes’ sanity as they reached the end of the corridor.
“Really, Alec.” Vivienne glanced over her shoulder.
He raised an innocent eyebrow. “What?”
“I think Mr. Blackwood would agree that we should exercise discretion.”
Blackwood shrugged, sharing an amused look with Alec. “I didn’t see anything. The fellow’s quite mad, of course. I doubt anyone will believe him.”
They turned another corner. The smell of boiled cabbage grew stronger, then faded away. The cells in the furthest part of the ward sat empty, except for one at the very end, where a pair of constables guarded a door that stood slightly ajar. The light of a lantern spilled through the crack. Vivienne rushed ahead, long skirts rustling like dry leaves in the wind. There’d been no time to change and she still wore the sea green evening gown she had on when the messenger boy arrived.
“It’s not a pleasant sight,” Blackwood warned. “Not at all. Perhaps Mr. Lawrence….” He trailed off under Vivienne’s cool gaze.
“I’ll be perfectly fine, Mr. Blackwood.”
The inspector nodded to the constables, who stepped aside so Vivienne and Alec could enter.
The cell was bare save for a rusted iron bedframe and mattress. Someone had placed a lantern just inside the door. Rainwater pooled on the floor where it swept in through a broken window set high in the opposite wall. The bars had been bent to either side, leaving an opening just large enough for a man to squeeze through and drop to the ground outside.
Alec had a sudden vision of Dr. Clarence wiggling between them like an eel, his light blue eyes fixed on the damp grass below.
John Davis Pyle sat against the bedframe with his chin resting on his right collarbone. He would have been handsome in life. Strong jaw, dark wavy hair. A boyish face, with faint laugh lines at the corners of his mouth that spoke of an amiable disposition. Pyle’s eyes were half-open, lips parted, in a posture that suggested a man dozing off in his favorite armchair.
Vivienne cautiously approached the body, skirting the large pool of blood. The attendant’s navy blue uniform had soaked up a good deal of it. The only visible blood on his person was a large swath on the left side of his neck. It had flowed down from the ear, where a fountain pen had been embedded to a depth of five inches or so.
“Goddess,” Vivienne murmured. “It looks like Clarence must have caught him by surprise.” She studied the angle of the wound. “He attacked from the side and slightly behind, I would think.” Her face softened with pity. “Oh, Henry Pyle. What on earth did he say to convince you to open the door?”
Alec turned away from the gruesome sight and moved to the win
dow to examine the bars.
“There are no tool marks,” he observed. “Bring over the lantern, would you?”
Vivienne obliged, while Blackwood watched from the door. Alec’s keen eyes took in every inch of the twisted iron. What he saw made his breath catch in his throat. He stared at the patterns, willing them to go away or rearrange themselves into something less horrifying.
“What is it?” Vivienne demanded.
“There are finger marks burned into the bars,” he said in a low voice. “Clarence did this with his bare hands. Some sort of heat transference, just like the Brady case.”
Blackwood laughed weakly. “But that’s—”
“Impossible?” Vivienne let the word dangle in the air.
They turned at the sound of footsteps approaching in the corridor.
“Lady Cumberland!” A small man with a wispy ginger mustache that quivered like a shy animal peered over Blackwood’s shoulder. His gaze landed on Pyle and darted quickly away. “Terrible business. Where is Mr. Sidgwick? I’d expected him to come personally.”
“Superintendent Barrett,” Vivienne said, moving quickly away from the window. “Mr. Sidgwick has been unavoidably delayed. He asked us to come in his stead.”
They returned to the hallway, where a second man in a tweed suit stood wringing his hands. “I see.” Barrett gestured to his companion. “I believe you know Dr. Cavendish?”
Vivienne inclined her head. “We met briefly following Dr. Clarence’s admission.”
Barrett introduced D.I. Blackwood, and Dr. Cavendish shook the detective’s hand. He was tall and grey-haired with a perpetual look of injured surprise, as though someone had just slammed a door in his face.
“There was no indication he would do something like this,” Dr. Cavendish burst out in a defensive tone. “He stopped speaking entirely three weeks ago, but he never behaved in an aggressive or self-destructive manner. Quite the opposite. The man was practically catatonic.”
“If I may ask,” Blackwood said politely. “Where did he get the fountain pen?”
Dr. Cavendish studied the ceiling. “I’m afraid it came from my office.”
“He was to be kept in total isolation,” Vivienne said, her voice cold. “I thought that was unambiguous.”
“This is a mental institution, Lady Cumberland, not a medieval dungeon.” He puffed his chest out, a primate asserting home turf dominance. “It’s my duty to carry out periodic assessments of my patients. I assure you, he was accompanied by four attendants at all times. I’m not sure how he managed to steal it.”
“No one’s blaming you, Dr. Cavendish,” Barrett said, frowning at Vivienne.
“I last saw Clarence this afternoon. Very briefly, for fifteen minutes perhaps. I asked him a series of questions and received no response. Frankly, I couldn’t say if he even heard me.” Dr. Cavendish paused. “Something rather odd did happen. I was just signaling to Pyle and Stokes to take him back to his cell when he mumbled a phrase.”
“What was it?” Blackwood asked eagerly.
“I can’t be certain, but it sounded like, ‘They’re here.’ That’s all. Then he resumed his catatonic state.”
“They’re here,” the inspector repeated. “Was he looking at anything in particular in your office when he said it?”
“I believe he was looking out the window.”
“Did he have any visitors while he was at Greymoor?” Alec asked.
“None.”
“Do you know how he spent his days?”
“Whenever I looked in on him, he’d be sitting on his bed, hands folded. Staring off into space. We only had one troubling incident, near the beginning of his stay here. The patients are not permitted writing materials of course”—he seemed to remember Pyle and paled a bit—“but that doesn’t prevent them from…communicating in other ways.” Dr. Cavendish glanced at Vivienne with obvious discomfort. “I don’t think it’s appropriate to relate in front of a lady, begging your pardon.”
“It’s all right, Doctor,” Vivienne said in an amused tone. “I won’t be offended. Please go on.”
He took a breath. “Well, he did write something on the walls of his cell. In…” Cavendish coughed. “I’m afraid it was his own feces. Over and over. It was at that point that Mr. Barrett and I agreed he should be kept indefinitely.”
“What did he write?” Blackwood asked.
“A Latin phrase.” He searched his memory. “Pervadunt oculus, I believe it was.”
“They come through the eyes,” Alec said softly.
“I see you know your Latin, Mr. Lawrence,” Dr. Cavendish said approvingly. “I assumed he meant the headaches. Migraines are often accompanied by a phenomenon we call auras. It’s a shimmering light viewed in the peripheral field of vision. They commonly precede onset.”
D.I. Blackwood shot Alec a questioning look. Alec gave him the barest nod.
“Well, you’ve been very helpful, Dr. Cavendish,” the inspector said briskly. “If there isn’t anything else, I think we’re done here for now. I’ll write up your statement. You can sign it later.”
Dr. Cavendish seemed relieved to be off the hook. “Indeed. Such a tragedy. I do hope your men find him quickly. Good day, gentlemen. Lady Cumberland.” He gave a brief bow and fairly scampered off down the corridor, eager to get away from the macabre scene lurking behind Clarence’s half-open cell door. Alec didn’t blame him in the least.
“The morgue wagon is waiting downstairs,” Blackwood said to Superintendent Barrett. “I’ll have Mr. Pyle removed now.”
“Poor Pyle.” Barrett shook his head. “He has three children, you know. I’ll organize a collection for the family.”
“Please allow me to contribute,” Vivienne said immediately, offering him a card. “I…well, we brought him here. I feel responsible.”
“That’s kind of you, Lady Cumberland, but I don’t blame you, nor Mr. Sidgwick. I’ve been superintendent of this asylum for more than twenty years and know better than anyone how difficult it can be to predict human behavior.” He stroked his mustache. “The soul of man is larger than the sky…ah, deeper than ocean or…or….”
“The abysmal dark of the unfathom’d centre,” Alec finished quietly.
“Yes, that’s it! You’re an admirer of Hartley Coleridge, Mr. Lawrence?”
“I enjoy poetry,” he admitted. “Though my soul may set in darkness, it will rise in perfect light. I have loved the stars too fondly to be fearful of the night.”
“Splendid. I’m not sure I know that one. What’s his name?”
“It’s a woman, actually. Sarah Williams.”
“Indeed.” Barrett seemed to lose interest. “Well, I can vouch that the mind is a strange and confounding place. We may never know what drove Dr. Clarence to this unspeakable act.”
“Perhaps. But I still wish to help his family,” Vivienne said, and Alec understood that she would carry her burden of guilt no matter what anyone said.
“I’m sure it will be appreciated, thank you, Lady Cumberland. Shall I accompany you out?” Barrett looked down the corridor, in the direction of the other occupied cells. “They’ve been worse since Clarence came. I can’t fathom why. He kept to himself.”
“Thank you, but we can see our own way,” Blackwood replied. “Good day, Mr. Barrett.”
They made their way back through the cells. Dim wall sconces cast pools of alternating light and darkness. No bright electric bulbs, Alec thought. Not here, in this forgotten place. The usual cacophony of deranged voices accompanied their progress, but it was more subdued this time around, as though the men shared their foreboding.
It was in one of the pools of shadow that he heard a whisper from the cell next to him. Alec stopped, facing the grill set into the door at head height.
“What did you say?” he asked softly.
Ahead, Vivienne and D.I. Blackwood turned to stare at him.
“Alec?” Vivienne called.
He could see nothing beyond the grill but more darkness. Wh
oever was inside didn’t respond.
“Never mind,” he said.
Alec limped toward them, the iron tip of his cane clacking on the stone floor. Vivienne watched him for a moment, then followed Blackwood to the stairway. Alec glanced back once. The ward had gone quiet again, but he was certain of what he’d heard.
Two words.
They’re here.
Alec retrieved his coat and hat from the parlor. Barrett paused at the front door. “Pervadunt oculus. You’ve heard that phrase before.”
“It was in the Brady report,” Alec said. “He scratched it on the walls of the Beach Transit Tunnel.”
“What in blazes are we dealing with?”
“Not a ghoul.” Alec needed to think. To talk with Vivienne. “Something worse, I fear.”
“It might not be in Dr. Clarence anymore,” Vivienne said. “You should be aware of that possibility.”
Blackwood swore under his breath. “Then how do we catch it?”
Neither of them replied. Alec leaned heavily on his cane. His knee throbbed from all the stairs. For some reason, going down was always worse than going up.
“Well, that’s the problem,” he said at last. “I think we’ll have to get very lucky.”
“I’ll need a copy of that Hyde report,” Blackwood said.
“I’ll have it sent over straight away.”
“Stay in touch. If you come up with something.”
Outside, the rain had eased to a light mist. Alec scanned the grounds as they waited for Henry to bring the carriage around. He could still hear the faint baying of the dogs, but knew in his bones Clarence was gone.
“What do we tell Sidgwick?” he asked at last.
“The truth,” Vivienne replied, lighting another cigarette.
“Those are bad for you, you know,” Alec pointed out. “No matter what they claim.”
Vivienne rolled her eyes. Alec turned away, but a faint smile played on his lips.
Chapter 2
Dawn broke as they joined the flow of traffic back into London. Even at this early hour, the streets were jammed with carriages and omnibuses and people walking to their jobs in factories or shops. At Vivienne’s request, Henry took the Bow Road back into the city, which became Mile End Road and finally, Whitechapel Road. The thoroughfare itself was broad and busy, but the maze of alleys and side streets to either side concealed some of the worst slums in London. Clarence’s old hunting ground.
