“Inspector, are you all right? Are you bleeding?” he asked him anxiously.
Arthur shook his head, wiping blood and sweat from his sooty brow with an equally sooty hand. “Just a cut, sir. Nothin to worry you, Mr. Treves. I wonder if there’s any water?”
Treves shouted to the nearest nurse. “Sister Sebring! Some water!”
“Right away, sir!” she called over the babelous din as she wiped her raw hands on a cotton towel. The exhausted woman filled two tin cups from a spigoted crockery jar, but nearly spilled the contents when a middle-aged sailor with bandages over his eyes bumped her elbow halfway across the lobby floor. He muttered something in an obscure Russian dialect, and the nurse hurried past, an odd sense of oppression clinging to her thoughts.
She handed one cup to France, the other to Treves. “I’m afraid it’s not as cold as it once was, but it will revive you nonetheless.”
Arthur gulped it down, and then returned the empty cup to the helpful woman. “Thank you, Sister. You’re most kind.”
Treves had long since abandoned his formal coat, and stood in rolled up shirtsleeves and an unbuttoned waistcoat: both spoilt by bloodstains, soot, and vomit. The moans and cries of the wounded filled his ears, and he longed to lie down and sleep for just an hour.
“The fire’s finally out, praise the Lord,” France said, getting a second wind. “My men are helping clear the area for a formal investigation. Captain Shaw’s already on scene, sorting through the mess to determine the cause, which makes me useless now, Mr. Treves. Can I help you in anyway?”
Treves smiled wearily. “You look to me like you could use a break not another assignment, Inspector. It’s grown calmer now. Why don’t you and I spend ten minutes over a cup of coffee? Collect our thoughts, so to speak. There’s a lounge down this corridor, where it’s quiet.”
“That would be wonderful, Mr. Treves. Lead the way.”
The hospital’s wards were full to bursting, and plaintive cries for morphine, water, and spiritual comfort echoed throughout each hallway. Stragglers continued to enter the lobby, most of them family members searching for loved ones. Uniformed volunteers from the Salvation Army and the Jewish Men’s Relief Fund stood ready to provide food, water, and spiritual answers that so many now needed.
“In here,” Treves said at a door marked ‘SURGEONS ONLY’.
Inside, they found a bleary-eyed Anthony Gehlen sipping strong black coffee from a blue ceramic mug. He started to stand, but Treves would have none of it. “Keep your chair, Dr. Gehlen,” Fred told his friend. “Have you met Inspector France? He’s been leading the police teams from Leman Street.”
“I’d say it’s a pleasure, Inspector, but that would be a lie,” Gehlen replied. “Nothing to do with you. I’m simply beyond manners at the moment.”
Gehlen’s head ached from lack of sleep, but also from a series of strange and confusing nights. He’d not yet mentioned it to Fred, but no matter how long he lay in bed, he awoke exhausted, as though he’d not slept a wink. Although a robust individual as a rule, his stamina was beginning to wear down.
What Anthony didn’t know was that most nights, he spent hour after hour in backstreet brothels and illegal gambling parlours—or rather his body did. His mind had been put into abeyance by the dark spirit using that body: the devious, bloodthirsty Watcher known as Saraqael.
“How many for you, Fred?” Gehlen asked his fellow surgeon.
Treves poured two cups of strong coffee from a silver server that sat upon a painted oak sideboard. He handed one to Arthur. “Looks like it’s gone cold, Inspector. Sorry,” the physician muttered after taking a sip. “How many? Forty-one I think, but I may have missed one or two in all the chaos. Honestly, it’s like a war zone out there, Anthony. Sixteen surgeries and a maternity case. A healthy boy, I’m happy to say, and the mother is recovering well, despite her anxiety. It was nice to see new life amongst all this death and dying.”
“How many have died, sir?” asked France.
“Over twenty thus far, and I fear we’ll have more before the day’s done. What manner of inferno caused this, Mr. France? I’ve only seen burns like these in industrial cases. Has either of you noticed, they have a caustic, chemical smell and appearance?”
Finishing the last of his coffee, the bleary-eyed physician answered his fellow healer. “I noticed the caustic signatures as well, Fred. As though an accelerant were used to set the blaze. I’ve seen my share of burns, but honestly, Fred, this takes the biscuit. We’ll run out of morphine before nightfall at this rate.”
“I’ve sent to a supplier for more. It should arrive this afternoon, if the waggon can get through. The streets are utter mayhem.”
Gehlen sighed in relief. “Tell me, Inspector France, have we seen the last of the injured?”
“Most likely, sir. My men tell me that all the refugees in the docks have been removed from the area. Six ships and two smaller pleasure boats caught fire. That old Russian frigate where we think the fire originated, three spice traders from India, another from the Argentine, and the sixth ship belongs to an American tobacco firm. The pleasure boats were paddle steamers that ferry locals from one side of the river to the other. Thankfully neither of them had many passengers aboard. However, all the commercial vessels were packed to the masts with goods, sailors, and immigrants of every size and nationality. One of the dockside warehouses caught alight, and several of their workers were trapped inside. All are dead, I’m afraid. This has been a day of unthinkable tragedy, gentlemen. It truly breaks my heart.”
“Fred, you should call for a meeting of the hospital governors,” said Gehlen. “We don’t have nearly enough beds to go round when something like this hits. We must find a way to expand.”
Treves wiped his dark eyes and stretched out on a leather divan to elevate his feet. “I fear the governors have no wish to increase our capacity, which means the East will need the duchess’s new hospital all the sooner. As I recall, you’ve moved into Haimsbury House, Inspector. Has she spoken to you about it?”
“I don’t really talk with the duchess all that much, other than a quick word now and again, Mr. Treves. But the commissioner says she’s been meeting with architects, and I believe she’s chosen the location.”
“Commissioner?” asked Gehlen.
“Ah, that’s Haimsbury’s newest professional title,” explained Treves. “He’s heading up a special investigatory branch of the Home Office, though he reports directly to Prime Minister Salisbury. It’s all very hush-hush, and I rather think his actions will be off-book. Isn’t that so, Inspector?”
Arthur smiled. “I’m not to say much, sir. Commissioner Sinclair keeps his activities to himself.”
“Well, so long as the duchess makes good on her promise, then let her husband do as he likes. And it cannot come soon enough for this quarter!” declared Treves. “We see an endless stream of starving refugees entering our ports every day from Russia’s killing fields. They bring heartache, fear, despair, and physical ailments.”
“Not to mention religious differences,” observed France. “Perhaps, it would help to hire a few Jewish doctors, sir.”
“It is my hope to do so, Mr. France,” replied Treves. “Perhaps, the duchess will consider doing so as well. Gehlen, are you serving as Her Grace’s physician?”
“I’ve no idea,” Anthony answered, his brain an unsettling jumble of half-remembered opium dens and whorehouses. “I believe so. I saw her several times here, of course, but I’ve not been called to Haimsbury House for anything as yet, which either means all is going well with her pregnancy or another man looks after her. How’s she feeling these days, France?”
“Well enough, sir, from what I know. Her Grace and the family are travelling to Kent tomorrow for the Christmas season.”
Gehlen yawned. “Christmas. This will be a very lean celebration for anyone employed at St. Katherine’s, I should
think. You say they’re leaving tomorrow?”
“So I understand. Around five tomorrow afternoon.”
“Well, then, I’ll drop by Haimsbury House in the morning to see how everything’s going before they leave—just to make sure of her health. However, I require a good night’s sleep before I do anything.”
“Don’t we all?” Fred remarked. He left the couch and bent forward, touching his toes to stretch out the kinks in his lower back. “Ah, that’s better! Nothing like getting the blood moving to sort out the knots! I say, Inspector, how long do the Sinclairs intend to remain in Kent? Is there any chance the duke might return to London in the next few weeks?”
“I’m not sure, sir. He did mention a meeting of the ICI for after the new year.”
“ICI?” asked Gehlen. “Is that a men’s club?”
“Not exactly,” laughed France. “It’s that private investigatory organisation Mr. Treves mentioned earlier. Inner Circle Intelligence. ICI. His Grace is the Director General, but in a similar capacity, he’s also Commissioner of the Home Office’s Intelligence Branch. The two organisations work together.”
“Then how is it private?” enquired Treves as he unlocked a cedar closet and selected a clean suit of clothes. “If the ICI is run from the Home Office, then aren’t you beholden to the government?”
France finished the last of the cold coffee before answering. “That’d be a question for Commissioner Sinclair, sir. I only know what I’m told.”
“Ah, well, it’s always the way with Whitehall,” said Treves as he removed his stained waistcoat and shirt. “If the duke has time, ask him to come see me, Mr. France. It’s about Alexander Collins. I’m afraid his condition continues to deteriorate, and Gehlen here recommended we bring in an alienist to consult. I know the commissioner believes Collins is malingering, but if he is, then he’s a consummate actor. If it were a broken bone or an enflamed appendix, I’d find it easy to repair, but the mind is not my area. London has very few men with trustworthy credentials. Dr. Kepler from Castor Institute is one, but as he’s a close colleague to Collins, that might present a conflict of interest. Honestly, Dr. Collins seems mad as a March hare these days. Yesterday afternoon, we found him running through the corridors, not a stitch on his body, shouting about dragons of all things! It happened just as Miss Trivoli came through. She’s one of our most faithful benefactors; a spinster with a delicate frame of mind. I thought the poor woman might faint from shock!”
Gehlen found this amusing. “Shock? I’ve met Trivoli. The woman could use a good shock. She claims to understand human nature, but only if that nature confines itself to a very narrow set of definitions. She’s a Regency-era prude, Fred. Plain and simple.”
France wiped his eyes and poured a second cup of coffee. “The commissioner has an alienist friend named Henry MacAlpin. He might be of help.”
“The viscount?” asked Gehlen. “I know him by reputation, and we met once here, I think. He was visiting the duchess. Is he still in London?”
“He runs a private asylum near Fulham. Lord Salperton’s a fine fellow, Anthony,” Treves said as he buttoned a set of brown braces to the waistband of the clean trousers. “There’s none more qualified in London, in my opinion.”
“Lord Salperton? I’ve never heard of that title. Is it English?”
“Welsh, actually,” he told Gehlen, “though it probably has Norman roots. It’s a relatively young viscountancy, but Salperton’s father is the Earl of Lasberington; which means old Scottish money. I hear he’s not doing well, so Henry’s likely to become Lord Lasberington before long. I’d be happy to ask him to consult, but it’s my understanding Henry will be at Branham over Christmas.”
“Then, you’ve spoken with him recently?”
“No, but Duke Charles is arranging to take Joseph Merrick to Kent on the twenty-third, and he’s asked Henry to keep an eye on our star resident during the visit. Lord Aubrey’s even offered to provide a private train for the journey. Joseph’s quite looking forward to it.”
The door opened, and a nurse with thick, silver hair worn in a tight rosette beneath a ribboned cap entered the lounge.
Treves had just finished buttoning the new collar. “Yes, Mrs. Aldershot?”
“Forgive the interruption, sir, as I see you’re trying to freshen up, but there’s trouble with Dr. Collins again.”
Treves sighed as he stared into the mirror, tying his cravat. “What now?”
“I’m afraid he’s trying to leap out the window, sir. Claims there’s a monster after him.”
“Another dragon?” the surgeon asked, only half joking.
“Not as he mentioned, sir, but he’s quite alarmed by this apparition all the same. He says it walked through the wall and threatened to eat his soul.”
Gehlen stood, leaving the empty cup on the side table. “I’ll go, Fred. You stay and enjoy another cup of coffee with the inspector. Nice to meet you, France. Perhaps, we can share a meal at a later date and become better acquainted.”
“I’d like that,” replied Arthur.
Anthony left the lounge and followed the nurse down the busy corridor to a quieter section of the hospital; near the far east end of the ground floor. After passing the same men’s ward where Blinkmire and Riga had recuperated from their castle fire injuries, and then the women’s ward where Ida Ross and the other Castle Company ladies had slept, they finally stopped at a windowless door marked with a placard that read ‘NO VISITORS’.
“Isn’t there supposed to be a constable on guard here, Mrs. Aldershot?”
“Yes, sir, but he was called away to help the fire brigades.”
They entered to find Alexander Collins standing on the narrow bed, dressed only in a white cotton sheet, which he’d wrapped round his midsection like a Roman toga. His arms were raised above his head whilst he shouted to the heavens about a blood-sucking monster with bat wings. The patient’s eyes were round as pennies, and his cheeks an irregular patchwork of pallor and crimson beneath the dark beard. However, as soon as Gehlen entered the room, the distraught former head of Castor Institute immediately fell mute as though some unseen hand had sewn his lips shut. His face went slack, and he collapsed into the bed, both knees buckling beneath him.
He looked dead.
“Good heavens!” the nurse exclaimed as she rushed to the bedside. “Dr. Collins, can you hear me?” Putting her fingers to the carotid artery to find a pulse, she waited several seconds, then sighed in relief. “It’s weak and quick, but it’s there. Dr. Gehlen, could you lend a hand?”
The tall physician helped restore the collapsed patient to a semblance of order, and then drew a chair to the bedside. “If you’ll leave us, Mrs. Aldershot, I’d like to examine the patient,” he said sternly. “In private.”
“But he can be quite dangerous, sir. I should fetch a porter, just in case he has another spell.”
“Nonsense, all the porters are busy. Leave us alone, please. I’m capable of handling it from here.”
Grudgingly, the nurse left and shut the door. Once on his own with the terrified patient, Gehlen spoke softly. “I want to help you, Dr. Collins. Physician to physician. You’re an important man, sir. Head of a great and modern mental health institute. Wouldn’t you like to leave here and return to your former life?”
Collins tried desperately to speak, but the only sounds that escaped his throat were a series of indistinct gurgles. Anthony performed several diagnostic tests: reflexes, pupil size, hearing, ocular accommodation and object tracking.
“Dr. Collins, I believe you may have an undiagnosed brain tumour, which could explain your seizures and erratic fantasies. Tap the bed with any finger if you understand.”
The patient’s left forefinger very slowly moved, and he drummed twice against the mattress.
“Excellent. You clearly understand me, but I assume you’re incapable of speech. Mr. Treves and I c
an help you with any organic cause, but just in case there is an underlying nervous condition, I’d like to have another man consult. His name’s Henry MacAlpin. Tap again, if you understand me.”
The finger drummed twice.
“Very good.” Gehlen felt an odd chill run through his bones, and he thought he heard a chorus of whispers in dissonant pitches, mixed with a strident sort of chirping. Alexander’s finger began to tap without prompting—slowly at first, and then wildly. Anthony feared the patient might be suffering another seizure, and he rose to call for the nurse, but then the tapping took on a recognisable pattern. He paused, staring at the moving finger.
“Can you do that again?” he asked Collins as he returned to the bed.
The tapping repeated, forming an identical series of movements. Some were quick; whilst others slower.
“Dots and dashes! You’re using Morse’s code, aren’t you, Alexander? Sorry, mine’s a bit rusty. I’ve not used it since Vienna. Can you give it to me once more? Let me find a bit of paper and a pencil.”
The terrified patient gulped, his larynx completely frozen, but his mind clearer than it had been in weeks. Gehlen found a pad of paper and a wax pencil in the cabinet and returned to the bed. “Can you repeat the message for me?”
Collins’s entire arm trembled, and his fingers seemed to spasm into knots. Anthony gently touched the terrified patient’s left hand. “Be calm, Alexander. There’s no rush.”
Alexander Collins knew better. They had very little time at all. What Anthony Gehlen didn’t see—what he could not perceive with natural eyes—was the woman standing at his left shoulder. She stared at Collins, speaking the most hideous, vile threats; repeating them again and again. And then she licked her ruby lips with a thick tongue, allowing it to slide hypnotically over her unnaturally sharp teeth. The woman wore a gown of diaphanous black, which caused her pale skin to take on an ethereal, pearlescent glow. Her right hand caressed Gehlen’s hair, and the physician unconsciously reached up, as though he could feel it.
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