The man gazed around the room without a word. His silence was beginning to make Mrs. Clements feel uncomfortable.
“Show me the other rooms,” he said in a slow monotone.
There was a kitchen with a dining space and three bedrooms, one of them situated on the top floor under the eaves. There was also a tiny bathroom with a water closet. Maintaining an incessant commentary, Mrs. Clements pointed out the relevant features of this “very desirable residence” about which she’d had “many enquiries”. On the latter point the man did not believe her, and he was only partially convinced as to the former. She was too eager for the “many enquiries” boast to be true. And he was right.
“The rent is eight shillings a week,” she announced when the grand tour was over.
“I will give you five,” said the man.
She opened her mouth to say something and then hesitated.
“Don’t prevaricate, madam. I have other properties to see. Either you accept my offer or you do not. Five shillings or nothing.”
Mrs. Clements climbed down from her high horse and nodded weakly. “Very well.” And then added, with a spark, “Payment in advance.”
The man gave her a steely grin and counted out some coins. “There is a month in advance. I will move in tomorrow.”
Within a week, Gustav Caligari had settled into his new quarters. He had arranged the rooms exactly as he wanted them, especially the consulting room, and a brass plaque had been fitted outside: “Gustav Caligari, Dr. Med. – Doctor of Mind Medicine”. He had also advertised his services in several papers and periodicals, stating that he could cure all mental aberrations, from insomnia to acute nervous phobias. Within days there had been a trickle of patients, which after a few months became a steady flow. Those who beat a path to his door were, in the main, curious middle-class ladies with too much money and too much time on their hands, but this did not trouble Caligari. They were building his reputation and his financial reserves.
Within six months of taking over the premises, he felt relaxed and happy. He regarded his move to London, his new home, as a complete success. After nine months his medical practice was doing well and, as his celebrity had grown, he had been invited to a number of social events by some of his simpering patients. In London society, any new fish in the pond was regarded as an intriguing novelty, and Caligari had a remarkable facility for the adoption of a pleasant and amenable demeanour. This ability to be intelligent, witty and personable soon enabled him to take a place in this new world. It was not long before he was invited to several gentlemen’s clubs, where he proved to be a fascinating and elegant guest. Slowly but surely he was being embraced by the affluent strata of society, achieving a cloak of eminence which paid well. Now that he had financial security it was time to make his long-held dream a reality.
Chapter Six
In simple dark clothing, Gustav Caligari had made his way down towards the river in Bermondsey. This, he knew, was where many down-and-outs, the flotsam and jetsam of the great city’s population, spent the night. Some camped under the bridges, others made warming fires beneath the arches, while the less fortunate had to make do with the stone benches.
As he glided like a ghost amongst these creatures, whom he detested with a passion, they appeared to take no notice of him. He might have been just another toff who had climbed down from his privileged pedestal to observe life in the raw as late-night entertainment, in the same way that so many people visited the asylums under the veil of charity. The poor homeless wretches merely provided a gory tableau for such sensation-seekers. The veterans among the scurvy crew knew that it was useless to appeal to these nocturnal sightseers for help or the odd coin. They were not there for that purpose, but simply to gawp, with the result that some of them found their pockets picked, or worse. However, voyeurism was not Caligari’s reason for visiting these grim surroundings. He had a more practical reason, and his neutral clothing allowed him if not to blend in, then at least not to appear fair game. He was approached by two sad individuals with an eye to violence, but with a swift blow from his stick to one and a glare which froze the other in his tracks, they scampered away into the darkness.
No, Caligari was recruiting.
Many of the derelicts slept in groups. This was of no use to Caligari. He had to pick out a solitary individual with no friends or confederates to observe his departure, or to care about his disappearance. The man he chose must vanish unnoticed and without trace. He wandered for over an hour in the damp and misty atmosphere without success. There appeared to be no suitable candidate in view. Caligari sneered at the wretches huddling together for warmth, trying to convince themselves that they were part of the human race. Those he spotted sleeping on their own were old, wracked with illness and, it seemed to him, in the last stages of their ravaged life – and therefore unsuitable for his purpose.
Downriver he heard the distant melancholy chimes of Big Ben alerting the city that it was one o’clock in the morning. Pulling his collar up against the chill, Caligari gave a sigh of resignation. He was not going to be successful on this occasion. The search would have to go on another night.
In retracing his steps, however, he passed by an abandoned warehouse. From inside he heard a cacophony of angry cries. Like some raucous incantation, they rang out into the stillness of the night. His curiosity getting the better of him, he approached the aperture that had once been a doorway and peered inside the ramshackle structure. The place was illuminated by a small campfire, the erratic flames sending menacing shadows dancing wildly across the mildewed walls. Some little distance from the fire, Caligari observed two figures, two ragged specimens of humanity, struggling with each other in fierce combat. One held an object in his hand, his arm outstretched away from his assailant who was making desperate lunges to grab hold of it. As the men shifted position, growing nearer the fire, Caligari saw that the object was actually a piece of meat. It glistened eerily in the strange amber light. Great heavens, he thought, these two creatures are fighting over food.
Caligari was held transfixed by this primal scene, the two men alternatively grunting and cursing each other as they circled the campfire as though involved in some weird pugilistic dance. And then the man who held the meat managed to thrust the other to the ground. In an instant, he had snatched up a piece of wood and begun beating his prone opponent with it, still clutching the meat aloft in his other hand.
Caligari took a step forward to intervene but stopped. Why should he? He licked his lips. He would watch this dark and entertaining pantomime to the end. The victim’s cries died away and he lay still, but the man kept beating him long after he was dead. It was as though he was releasing all his anger and despair in those ferocious blows. Eventually, he stopped, sank to his knees and started sobbing.
Caligari began clapping his hands as though applauding a seasoned performer. The man gazed up at him, his dirty face streaked with tears. Caligari could see that he was very young, probably only in his early twenties. “Well done. You deserve your food,” he said silkily.
“He’s dead,” grunted the man, appalled at his own actions. “I… I’ve killed him.”
“Never mind. You have your meat.”
Instinctively the man looked down at his prize and let it slip from his grasp.
“What is it?” Caligari asked, moving closer still.
“Cat,” said the man. “It was mine. I caught it and skinned it. Mine.”
“I think I can offer you something better than… cat. Come home with me and I will give you some proper food.”
The man got to his feet and raised the piece of wood defensively.
“Now, now, there’s no need for that. I mean you no harm,” said Caligari. “You are in no danger from me.”
Like a frightened rabbit, the man shuffled backwards, staring wide-eyed at the stranger, his expression revealing a mixture of bewilderment and terror.
“What is your name?” asked Caligari softly.
The man blinked furiousl
y. “My name?” he replied slowly, as though he did not quite understand the question.
“Yes, what is your name? Have you forgotten it?”
“No, no. I… I just can’t remember the last time I used it. What do you want with me?”
Caligari would answer that question later. For the moment, he persisted. “What is your name?”
The man thought again before replying “It’s Robert. Just Robert.”
“It is good to meet you, Robert. I am Gustav.”
Robert blinked uncomprehendingly at the stranger.
“I want you to come with me, Robert,” Caligari continued. “I can offer you shelter and food and some simple occupation. And you should make your escape from here before they discover the body.” He inclined his head towards the battered corpse on the ground.
Robert followed his gaze and flinched at the sight. “Why? Why would you do this?” he asked, a note of panic rising in his voice.
“Out of pity. Out of charity. No man should be forced to eat a dead cat for food. It is my small way to serve humanity as all good Christian souls should. Shelter and food. I have enough to share. Think of it, Robert. You will have no further need to sleep out in the cold or go hungry.”
Robert’s features creased with concern and doubt. “I… I don’t know. Why me?”
“I am looking for a strong young man to assist me in my work. Simple tasks for the benefits I mentioned.”
Beneath the rags he wore Robert’s pale arms were lean but powerful. He had certainly wielded the piece of wood with great strength.
“You may mean me harm.”
Caligari flashed one of his encouraging benign smiles. “Of course not. I repeat, you have nothing to fear from me.” He withdrew a silver flask from his coat pocket, unscrewed the cap and offered it to the youth. “Here, have a drink of brandy and then we can be on our way. Think of it, my dear fellow. Later tonight you will be sleeping in a warm bed with soft sheets and a deep pillow.”
Robert’s face brightened at the thought and with trembling hands he stepped forward, tentatively took hold of the flask and drank.
Caligari smiled. The simple action of drinking the brandy clearly indicated that the young fellow was now his. It was as binding as signing a pact. Robert was now his creature, to do with as he wished. At no point could he rebel until he was safely imprisoned in Caligari’s lair.
The drug swiftly did its work. In less than a minute the flask slipped from the youth’s lifeless fingers and the head lolled as he dropped to the ground, feet away from his bloody victim.
Scooping him up and draping his arm across his shoulders, Caligari enfolded the boy in his cloak and half-carried, half-dragged him out of the building and along the street as though he were a drunken companion. He progressed through the darkened thoroughfares for some little time until he spied a hansom for hire.
“Been in the wars has he, eh?” observed the cabby, somewhat suspiciously.
“Indeed, indeed. My friend fell foul of some footpads. Luckily I was able to scare them off. Now I need to find him some medical attention,” replied Caligari as he stowed Robert in the far corner of the cab.
The cabbie shook his head. “He’s not the first to fall foul of ruffians round here. Take my advice: stay away from these streets after dark, it ain’t safe. Where to, guv’nor?”
Within the hour the youth was lying on the single bed in the room at the top of Caligari’s house. It was a room that was to become Robert’s for the rest of his short life: his domain and his prison. It had been carefully prepared for the occupant: there were bars on the window and a stout wooden door with the bolt on the outside. It was, to all intents and purposes, a cell.
Robert was still in a comatose state and his captor stood over him, a sheen of perspiration gilding his flushed features from the effort of carrying his captive up to the top floor of his house. Nevertheless he was smiling as he gazed down upon his prize. In the soft glow of the lamp, he was able to see the boy more clearly now. He was a good-looking fellow with attractive, finely chiselled features. He was tall, too – almost six feet in height, Caligari estimated. Leaning forward he examined the youth’s hands. They were rough and grubby but substantial, strong and firm with long fingernails – hands just as they should be, just as they had to be.
When Robert regained consciousness, pale daylight was struggling to penetrate the thin curtains at the narrow window. His head ached, his mind was confused and, as he tried to sit up, a series of minor explosions were set off in his brain. He slumped backwards, his mouth too dry for him to utter more than a feeble groan.
A shadow fell over him and a stranger loomed into view holding a glass of water. “Drink this, Robert. You are very dehydrated. You need plenty of liquid.”
The boy needed no further urging. He downed the glass of water in a series of quick, desperate gulps. Caligari replenished the glass from a jug on the dressing table and the boy drank again.
His gaze raced around the room before returning to Caligari. “Who are you? Where am I? What happened to me?”
“Questions, questions, eh? There will be time for answers later, when you are more yourself. For now, some food and further rest and then I will explain all.”
Robert, his mind still fogged by the remnants of the drug, lay back on the pillow. He lacked the energy and clarity of mind to question further. Certainly the thought of food excited him. He could not remember when he had last eaten.
After he had satisfied his hunger, he slept, his mind filled with dreams of his past. It was a cyclorama of misery: the orphanage, the cruel beatings, his imprisonment for stealing food, his life on the streets begging and starving. Eventually a deep sleep borne of tiredness temporarily washed away much of the debris of his wretched life.
Chapter Seven
Within two days under Caligari’s roof, most of it spent in deep dreamless sleep, Robert’s mind had cleared and his strength had returned, along with the chilling awareness that he was a prisoner. The man who visited him, brought him food and emptied his chamber pot was amenable and pleasant, but when he asked him why he was kept locked up in this room, he responded with no more than a bleak enigmatic smile.
Robert knew that he would have to bide his time, wait until the moment was right to break free, to escape. The comfort of a warm bed and plentiful food were glorious luxuries, but to be cooped up within four walls was an anathema to him. It wasn’t Christian to keep someone locked up like this. The seed of fear grew within him daily as his mind considered what his strange gaoler really wanted from him.
Caligari allowed Robert’s strength to return and provided plentiful food, which the boy devoured readily and without suspicion. And so he was easily able, after a week of confinement, to drug his captive’s food. It was a concoction that eased the mind and the body, making both malleable. While Robert was in this semi-conscious state, Caligari dragged the boy from the bed and sat him down on a chair. He slumped in an awkward position like some life-sized rag doll, his eyes open but seeing little. Caligari splashed iced water across Robert’s brow to help increase his alertness before producing from his waistcoat pocket a gold watch. Dangling the shiny instrument before the youth’s face, gently he made it sway to and fro while he hummed gently. At first Robert simply stared ahead, as though he had failed to notice the watch; then, gradually, he began to focus on the bright object before him, and his eyeballs started to flit from side to side in unison with the swinging watch.
“Pretty little thing, isn’t it?” said Caligari in a gentle, mellifluous tone. “Watch it closely, Robert, swaying slowly from left to right, from right to left. Gently moving. Easing your soul. Left, and then right. Follow its movement from left to right. Give yourself up to the bright object. It is there to help you. To look after you.”
He repeated these expressions for some five minutes as the young man became entranced by the watch, leaning forward slightly so that his face came closer to the gently swinging object.
“You are now
asleep and yet you can hear me and understand all that I say. If this is so, say that you understand.”
Robert’s lips trembled and his mouth opened, but it was some moments before any sound emerged. When it did, it was faint and strangely ethereal. “I understand,” he said.
“Good. That is good, Robert. Now stand up.”
Again it was some moments before there came any response to this command, and then, in a stiff mechanical fashion, he obeyed.
“Now walk to the wall by the door,” said Caligari, the softness having left his voice, “and beat your fists hard against the wall.”
Once more, with slow deliberation, Robert did as he was bidden. No emotion registered on those pale blank features as he hammered his fists in a staccato tattoo.
“That is enough. Now return to the chair.”
Once seated, Caligari handed the boy a knife. “I want you to cut the top of the index finger on your left hand until it begins to bleed. You will feel no pain,” he said. “Do you understand?”
“Yes. I understand.”
“Then do as I say.”
Robert pressed the point of the sharp knife and scored a line in the flesh of his finger. Rich red blood began to flow, trickling down his hand. Caligari stepped forward and wrapped a dry cloth around the injured finger after relieving the boy of the knife.
“Hold the cloth in place to stem the blood.” Robert did as he was told.
Now Caligari stood over him and placed his hands firmly on his shoulders. “When I say so, I want you to count backwards from ten to one. When you reach one, you will be fully awake again and will remember nothing that has just occurred. It will be wiped from your memory for all time. Do you understand?”
Robert nodded.
Caligari waited a few minutes then removed the cloth from Robert’s hand. The blood was already in the process of coagulating and the bleeding had stopped.
The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes--The Instrument of Death Page 4
