by Kat Ross
Blackwood steered them into the parlor, which was marginally warmer, and closed the door. Fading rose-printed wallpaper provided the only color in the room. The rest of the furnishings were dark wood, and the paintings arranged above the fireplace—all of bearded men with somber expressions who were either alienists or benefactors of the asylum—did little to enliven things. Alec assumed the parlor served as a waiting room for the patients’ relatives, although the place had such an untouched, almost desolate air, he suspected visitors to Greymoor were a rare event.
Alec shrugged off his coat and hung it on a rack. Vivienne leaned against the mantel, letting the heat of the flames dry her sodden cloak. For an instant, he envied her ability to bask in the warmth and light. It was an experience he would never share.
“I have a dead orderly upstairs,” Blackwood said unhappily. “And if you two are here, I suppose I can expect things to get worse. Barrett says the patient who did it was voluntarily admitted at the personal request of Mr. Sidgwick.”
“Has Clarence escaped?” Vivienne asked.
Blackwood nodded. “Through a window. He must have used a prying tool. We have bloodhounds combing the grounds, but the rain isn’t helping any. Time of death was about eleven o’clock. The body was only discovered two hours ago. He’s had a head start.”
Alec and Vivienne shared a look. “You must tell your men not to approach Clarence under any circumstances,” she said. “Should they find him, we’ll deal with him ourselves.”
“I already did, as soon as I heard the S.P.R. was involved. We know the protocols.”
Alec nodded approvingly. Commissioner Warren had been astute to put Blackwood in charge of the Dominion Branch. He didn’t take chances.
“What have they told you?” Vivienne asked. “About Dr. Clarence?”
“Practically nothing,” Blackwood muttered, dropping heavily into an armchair. “Only that he was admitted four weeks ago after complaining of migraines. No one seems to have an adequate explanation of why he was placed in South Wing. He was the only patient there without a criminal record.” He gave them both a level look. “If this is a matter of interest to the S.P.R., I would like very much to know why the Yard wasn’t informed earlier.”
“The short answer, Inspector? Dr. Clarence is a surgeon with the New York Police Department. Or was, until a few weeks ago.” She paused for dramatic effect. “It would cause them a great deal of embarrassment should the newspapers learn he’s a suspect in the Whitechapel killings.”
“What?’ Blackwood sat up straight. “The Ripper? I hope you’re joking. We’ve been tearing the city apart for weeks—”
“He’s not an official suspect,” Alec interjected, shooting Vivienne a quelling look. “There’s no physical evidence. None at all. Only circumstantial, and of a nature that cannot be made public, if you get my meaning.”
D.I. Blackwood took his cap off and sighed. “Let’s have it then.”
Vivienne withdrew a cigarette from a silver case and tapped it twice on the lid. Blackwood waited with barely suppressed impatience while she produced a Magic Pocket Lamp, then took a long drag and exhaled a wreath of smoke. “There’s a connection between Dr. Clarence and the Jekyll and Hyde case in New York.”
“I heard about that,” Blackwood said thoughtfully. “Nasty business. They caught him with a little boy in the Beach Transit Tunnel. But I thought it was solved?”
“The man’s name was Leland Brady,” Alec said, taking a seat on a sofa by the window that was about as cozy as a slab of granite. Lightning flashed in the low skies outside, followed by a rumble of distant thunder. “A perfectly respectable real estate agent who killed five people. Dr. Clarence was present when Brady took his own life. He was treating the suspect’s gunshot wound. Shortly afterwards, the doctor quit his post and boarded a ship for England.” Alec hesitated. “He arrived just before Polly Nichols was butchered on August 31st.”
D.I. Blackwood said nothing. He knew there was more to it than that.
“Before he died, Brady wrote a letter to his wife,” Vivienne said, flicking ashes in the general direction of the fireplace. Alec, ever fastidious, tried not to wince. “It expressed his belief that he was possessed by a demonic entity, and contained the words ‘From Hell.’ The letter was written in early August. You do see the significance?”
Blackwood rubbed his chin. “Aye. The note with that same phrase from the Ripper wasn’t sent until weeks later. Christ, it was the one with the piece of kidney, wasn’t it? What else?” He rested his hands on his knees. “Are you saying Clarence is a ghoul? That Brady somehow infected him?”
“He passed the iron test,” Alec said quietly.
“Definitively?”
“Yes. He also spoke to us quite normally, although he admitted to suffering from headaches. What about the dogs? How did they react to his scent on the bedclothes?”
“No frenzied barking, not like they would for a ghoul. One or two did whimper rather strangely. I wasn’t sure how to interpret it. But you say Clarence passed the iron test. And he carried on a conversation. Doesn’t that settle it, then?”
“Not for me,” Vivienne said. “There are too many oddities in the Brady case. Evidence that doesn’t quite add up. And now we have another killing.”
Blackwood stared at her uncertainly. “But if it’s not a ghoul and it’s not a man…what is it?”
“Something different.”
“Such as?”
“I’ve no idea, Inspector.”
Vivienne’s tone remained level, but Alec sensed her frustration. This was essentially the same conversation she’d had with Sidgwick a month ago.
“All right.” Blackwood pressed a hand against his forehead as if it pained him. Alec understood. It was a lot to digest in one lump. He still wasn’t sure what to make of it all himself. “You say there were oddities in the New York crimes.”
“A few. The report claimed that fingerprints were burned into one victim’s throat,” Alec said, earning a grateful look from Vivienne. “An actress named Anne Marlowe.”
The inspector leaned forward. They’d caught his interest. “Have you seen anything like that before?”
“Never,” Alec conceded.
“Who wrote the report?”
“An amateur detective in New York named Harrison Fearing Pell.”
“Fearing Pell? As in Myrtle Fearing Pell?”
“Harrison is the younger sister.”
“I’ve heard of Myrtle. The Yard called her in last year on a rather bizarre extortion case involving the Duke of Argyll. Solved it in record time, apparently. Is the sister any good?”
“Well, she managed to catch Mr. Brady, so I’d say she’s quite competent,” Vivienne said. “Her summary of the case came to us through Arthur Conan Doyle. He thought the Society would be interested because of the occult features.” Her mouth tightened. “Unfortunately, Miss Pell’s report sat under a heap of papers on Mr. Sidgwick’s desk for nearly three weeks before he read it and passed it on. Had we known about it sooner, Mary Jane Kelly might still be alive.”
They were all silent for a moment. Kelly had been the last of the Ripper’s victims, and the most savagely treated. She’d died on November 9th, bringing the number of confirmed murders to five. Fear still gripped the city of London, although the man who called himself Jack appeared to have vanished as suddenly as he’d arrived.
“We found Dr. Clarence on November 12th in Cheapside,” Alec said. “He wasn’t hard to trace. The lodgings had been rented under his own name.”
Alec had a sudden memory of that night. Kicking open the door of a squalid room. William Clarence sitting on the edge of his bed, neatly dressed in a dark suit, black leather bag between his feet—the same bag Leland Brady had seized a scalpel from to cut his own throat.
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 window 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?”
