“We all make mistakes, Dr Seward, especially when the case is so personally affecting. Your duties here, as well as the great mental strain, must have left you exhausted.” I did not want to mention the man’s drug use unless I had to, though I suspected it had something to do with his lapses of judgement.
“Which is precisely why I called upon Professor Van Helsing to guide me. I would not risk the life of any of my patients for the sake of pride.”
“I am sorry, Dr Seward, but one only has to look at the case of Mr Renfield to know that is not entirely true.”
Seward leant forward across the desk, his fingertips pressed together. “You return to the topic of Renfield, Dr Watson. Perhaps I misjudged your visit—perhaps you are here to talk about him, after all.”
“Among other things, Dr Seward. His story is a rather pathetic one. The treatment he received here appeared, at least to me, improper.”
“Improper how?” Seward had now adopted a sardonic smile, as though he were toying with me. I could not fathom the man—he seemed inconstant and irrational in the extreme.
“You provoked Mr Renfield; you encouraged his mania.”
“The better to understand his condition. One man’s singular discomfort, put under the most intense experimentation, may derive a cure for similar cases of madness in the future.”
“Is that also why you drugged him, in order to steal his pocket-book?”
“It is. And the contents of that book, which were jealously and violently guarded by Renfield, were invaluable to my research.”
“What about the man’s family?”
“He had none.”
“Someone must have admitted him to your care. Was there nothing from his past you could glean that would have answered your questions, rather than feeding him spiders, and promising him a kitten for his depraved appetites?”
“Perhaps I did delve into the man’s past, Dr Watson. Perhaps what I found was irrelevant.”
“You described Renfield as an undeveloped homicidal maniac,” said I. “Surely something must have triggered these tendencies?”
“Something did, Doctor. Count Dracula.”
“Ah. And when Renfield broke free, on more than one occasion, he was somehow impelled to run to Carfax, the home of Dracula?”
“You see, Doctor, you have read the papers, and yet you feign ignorance.”
“Not at all, Dr Seward. I only try to clarify those events not explicitly described by the Dracula Papers, and yet of singular interest to a detective. For instance, Renfield was supposedly a man of great physical strength, prone to violent outbursts, unpredictable in the extreme, and, you say, under the malign influence of a vampire. And yet you kept him here, in conditions not suitable for containing such a man. The other patients here do not appear dangerous. Why, many of them walk about the grounds perfectly harmlessly. The walls surrounding this property can be scaled quite easily by a determined man—hardly sufficient to hold back lunatics who might prove a danger to society.”
“Are you quite finished, Dr Watson?” Seward said, with a raised eyebrow.
“That depends, Dr Seward, on whether you have any answers.”
“I shall do better than provide answers. Come, Doctor, let me take you on a little tour of my establishment, and you will soon see for yourself the measures that were taken to contain Renfield, and how his death was a tragedy, albeit an unavoidable one.”
He opened the door and held a hand out to indicate the corridor beyond. I stood, took up my hat and bag, and followed.
Our tour took us deeper into the hospital, which was more sprawling than it appeared from the south front. The primary block, containing staff quarters, consulting rooms and operating theatres, led to two long, narrow wings, which jutted northward either side of a paved quad. One wing was for female patients, and another for males, and it was into the latter that Seward led me. He droned a practised patter about the merits of his establishment, until finally we reached a small stairwell.
“And here, Dr Watson, we reach the part of the hospital that most visitors do not get to see. But if it will put your mind at rest, I shall give you the extended tour. I have nothing to hide.”
I followed Seward down the narrow stairs, which led to a basement level where no natural light permeated. Electric lights were affixed to the walls, but they were dull and yellow compared to those upstairs. At the foot of the stairs was a heavy, reinforced door, which Seward opened by the means of three separate locks, using his ring of great iron keys. As the door swung open, we entered a dimly lit corridor, all stone floor and bare-brick walls, with a musty odour of damp pervading the air. A steward sat at a desk before us, with a paraffin lamp burning away so that he could better see his copy-books and charts.
The corridor was lined with metal doors, each of which had a grille inset at eye-level, which could be covered and uncovered to look in upon the patients. A hatch in the centre of the door was positioned so that the steward could push the inmates’ meals into the cell. I hesitate to use the word “cell”, but there is no better description for these chambers. Not all of them were occupied, but as we passed by the ones that were, Seward directed me to the grille, so that I could see the poor devil within while he gave a commentary of their condition. My presence at the door invariably encouraged a terrible wailing, or a physical protest as an inmate threw themselves against the door, while struggling within a strait-waistcoat.
“This poor devil has a morbid fear of his own flesh,” Seward said. “He thinks there are invisible insects crawling under his skin. It is a fascinating mania. If his strait-waistcoat is removed for more than a few minutes, he begins to tear at his own face quite violently. The scars you can see are from a time when he was able to acquire a knife from the refectory, with quite gruesome results. Ah, this next one is a favourite of mine.”
I peered through the grille to see a scrawny man, with a filthy glove-puppet on his hand. Though I could not hear what he was saying, he appeared to be in deep conversation with the puppet. When it “replied” to him, the man’s lips did not move at all.
“Terrence is a talented ventriloquist,” Seward explained with a chuckle. “He communicates mostly through the doll. It tells us that it is the heir to a fortune, trapped in a doll’s body by a jealous family. I have no idea of the cause of this particular story, for the man himself is not rich at all. It is a queer tale indeed. Anyway, come, Dr Watson—Renfield’s old cell is just up here.”
We walked on, leaving the howls of the mad echoing behind us. We reached the end of the hallway, where a second steward was stationed, and the corridor took a left turn. Here there were two further cells, one of which Seward unlocked and opened. It was a small room, perhaps six feet by eight. A small window, grubby and barred on the inside, was sited near the ceiling, letting in scant light from the quad above. A cot-bed, latrine bucket and small locker were the only furnishings. It would be much like the berth of a merchant vessel were it not for the padded walls. “You see, the room is presently unoccupied, but I doubt it shall be so for long. I have several intriguing cases clamouring for my attention—the result of some small notoriety since the Dracula Papers became public knowledge. I can take my pick of the finest lunatics.”
I stared at him aghast.
“Oh, don’t be censorious, Dr Watson.” He smiled. “The patients upstairs represent my primary income, and no expense is spared in either curing them or keeping them comfortable for the duration of their stay—whichever the family desires. I would do nothing whatsoever to cause them discomfort. Those down here, however, are lost causes. They represent my personal collection of acute mental disorders, which I study in the hopes of one day finding a cure for others like them. If that proves impossible, then at least I can say I had in my possession a truly unique specimen.”
“Renfield… was he such a specimen, in your eyes?”
“Naturally. Renfield was the first—the one who showed me that only the close pursuit of madness would ever lead to the c
ure for madness. He was much disturbed, and his illness incredibly specific. Were it not for the influence of Count Dracula over his poor mind, I imagine he would have been a crowning glory in my catalogue of manias. As it was, his brain afforded me an interesting study, though alas I could find no physical signs of psychical manipulation within the grey matter.”
“You dissected his brain after his death? To find what? Physical evidence of psychical phenomena?”
“Precisely!” Seward’s eyes lit up. “And I shall do the same with all of these subjects when the time comes. Imagine if I could find the exact part of the brain that causes a man to think himself possessed, or the reincarnation of Napoleon, or infested with insects like our man back there. With a simple insertion of a needle into the affected area, the condition could be cured. Or perhaps even induced… now there’s a prospect!”
“I remind you of that Hippocratic Oath again, Dr Seward. ‘Into whatsoever houses I enter, I will enter to help the sick, and I will abstain from all intentional wrongdoing and harm, especially from abusing the bodies of man or woman, bond or free’.”
“Wonderful, you quote it verbatim. But of course, I did not enter Renfield’s house. He entered mine.”
“Hmph. Melius anceps remedium quam nullum.”
“Ah, you are from that school of thought. ‘It is better to do something than nothing’. But I am doing something, Dr Watson. I am giving these wretches a greater purpose.”
To my mind, the real Jack Seward had now materialised. For all of his fine manners and unctuous fawning, I now saw Seward as a reptilian fellow. For him, everything was a calculation, an experiment; ethics be damned. I wondered that he could display such depth of feeling for Lucy Westenra, or such fierce loyalty to Van Helsing. Such erratic, almost compulsive behaviour would have made it easy for Miss Westenra to spurn him, and easier still for Van Helsing to use him. I saw now that this was a machine playing at being a man, without a true understanding of what that meant. He was Holmes without genius, without empathy.
“And what purpose did Renfield serve?” I asked. “Your study of his brain yielded no clues. Your literal feeding of his obsessive mania only prompted him to escape, more than once, and eventually sped him to his end.”
“Dracula sped him to his end, not I.”
“There were no witnesses to the terrible fate of Renfield… bar one.”
“You are about to make a serious accusation, Dr Watson, against one of my oldest and dearest friends. Be careful what you say.” Seward remained cool in his manner. There was no outburst as when I had questioned him about Van Helsing earlier. This was altogether more disconcerting, for I had no idea what the man was thinking.
“What other conclusion am I to draw? To the outsider, it would appear that Mr Renfield was driven beyond his endurance, his fragile grip on reality torn away. And it was you who allowed that to happen. In the end, utterly lost to madness, he could just as well have killed himself. He could have assaulted Professor Van Helsing, leaving your friend little choice but to act in self-defence. Or…”
“Or what?”
“Maybe Van Helsing was acting to protect you, so that none would learn just what a wretch you had made poor Mr Renfield.”
“Protect me?” Seward got to his feet and looked down his nose at me. “No, Professor Van Helsing taught me self-sufficiency, resilience, and objectivity. He nurtures such qualities in all he meets. In fact, there is only one man he has ever coddled as long as I have known him.”
“Oh?”
“You must surely know that the professor holds my good friend Arthur—that’s Lord Godalming, of course—as dear as his own lost son.” Seward’s tone was noticeably bitter.
“I have met Lord Godalming recently, and it did not seem so to me. It was quite to the contrary, in fact, given his lordship’s condition.”
“Really?” Seward looked almost pleased at the news that his friend was suffering. “Then maybe Arthur will now learn to stand on his own two feet, lest he end up in my care.”
“A fate I’m sure he would do well to avoid,” I muttered. This drew a fierce glare from Seward.
“I can see, Dr Watson, that I am not going to convince you of the efficacy of my methods, the value of my establishment, nor of my innocence of whatever crime you imagine I have committed. As such, I’m afraid I must, with regret, ask you to leave.”
“I apologise if you are insulted,” I said, deliberately mealy-mouthed. “I would hate to outstay my welcome.” We walked back along the corridor a little way, before I paused and said, “The cell in which Renfield dwelt has bars at the windows—they all do. How then did he come to escape through the window, as stated in the Dracula Papers?”
“When Mr Renfield first came to us, we did not know what a danger he could be. He was kept upstairs. After his second escape attempt, we made a home for him down here. There is a simple explanation for all of your suspicions, you see.” Seward said nothing further to me, but instead spoke to one of the attendants. “See Dr Watson out, would you? I think I shall stay and have a chat with our puppet-man. Or, rather, with his puppet.”
I was ushered from the dank cellar, the rattle of Seward’s keys at a cell door behind me making me shudder as I thought of what might befall those poor lunatics in Seward’s care.
I left the steward behind as we reached the entrance hall, and intended to depart straight away, but I was intercepted by another man, a stout fellow, with auburn moustaches. He held out a large, freckled hand in greeting.
“Dr Watson, is it? I’m Dr Hennessey. Pleased to make your acquaintance. I heard the friend of the famous Sherlock Holmes was here, and could not resist coming to meet you. I’ve read your reports in the Strand. Fine stuff, eh? Could I detain you for a few minutes?”
I remembered Dr Patrick Hennessey from the Dracula Papers, for his sworn statement appeared in the manuscript, detailing one of Renfield’s escapes to Carfax whilst Dr Seward was away tending to Miss Westenra. The inclusion of his account in that collection of lies and elaboration led me to be suspicious of the man. However, his request upon my time was delivered earnestly, such that I was certain he had some pressing business that he could not state publicly. For that reason, I acquiesced and followed him to his office.
The room was on the first floor, next door to the hospital library. It was far more lavishly appointed than Seward’s, and I remarked upon it.
“Ah, yes. Traditionally this is the administrator’s office, but Dr Seward likes to lead a monastic existence downstairs, close to his patients. He is a man of singular habits.”
“I had noticed,” I said.
Hennessey offered me a cigar from the box on his desk, and I accepted gratefully. While we smoked, he came down to business.
“I will speak plainly, but quietly,” he said, in an Irish lilt. “The walls have ears in this establishment, and no one is to be fully trusted. Not the nurses, not the orderlies, and certainly not the administrator.”
I nodded my understanding.
“What do you make of this Dracula business, Dr Watson?”
“I… remain unconvinced,” I ventured.
“As well you should. For sure, I saw some queer goings-on with regards to Renfield, but that’s par for the course in a place like this. I had no reason to suspect any ‘supernatural’ cause for Renfield’s mania until Dr Seward called Professor Van Helsing in for a second opinion. And what an opinion he gave!”
“Unbelievable, some might say.”
“I do say,” Hennessey scoffed. “Look, Dr Watson, I do not know you, save for what I have read. I do not know Sherlock Holmes. If either of you are not what your reputations suggest, then I am damning myself by what I am about to tell you. But if you have even half the integrity and decency that your stories suggest, then perhaps there is hope for me, and for the inmates of Purfleet Asylum.”
“I can only endeavour to be the best that I can be,” I said. “As can we all.”
“It is harder for some than for others, trust
me.” Hennessey took a puff on his cigar. I saw now the worry lines upon his round face; the weariness of his expression. Something weighed greatly upon the man’s mind. “What did you make of Dr Seward’s collection?” he said.
“To be frank, Dr Hennessey, I found it troubling, and unethical.”
“Then you are a man after my own heart.”
“Begging your pardon, but why then do you work under him? I am not sure I could be party to such cruelty at any price.”
Hennessey winced. “I have wrestled with my conscience for some time, Dr Watson, and in truth I feel the same way, but there is more here than meets the eye. I could say that I stay for the sake of the other patients—those who have not yet experienced the crueller side of Seward’s treatment. I could say also that I stay out of loyalty to the friendship I once shared with Dr Seward, before he became… changed. Both of these things are true, but I know that they are not reason enough. In truth, Seward knows things about my history that, should they come to light, would see me out of work, probably for ever.
“I was not always an alienist, or ‘mad-doctor’, as some call us. I was once a physician, like yourself. I do not know you, Dr Watson, and will not confess all my sins; I only ask that you believe me when I say I once made a mistake, and one of my patients paid for that mistake gravely. When it seemed my career in medicine was over, Dr Seward offered me an opportunity here. Unfortunately, what I took for altruism was actually something more sinister.
“With the arrival of the lunatic, Renfield, Dr Seward’s behaviour became steadily more erratic. The man who once swore never to perform any treatment that might agitate a patient’s mental disorder, upon his oath, began to do exactly that, provoking violent turns and fuelling Renfield’s dangerous delusional fantasies.
“It was only when Renfield escaped to the empty house next door—Carfax—that I realised the extent of Seward’s cruelty. I apprehended the patient with no small difficulty, and once he was sedated I wrote my report for Dr Seward, who was away on some other business. I delivered my report to Seward’s desk, and whilst there, something caught my eye. I saw his notes concerning Renfield, strewn across his desk. What I read there sickened me to the pit of my stomach.
Sherlock Holmes--A Betrayal in Blood Page 16
