Finally, after what seemed to be an intolerable amount of time, the cart arrived at the front door of the asylum. As I leapt from the cart down to the gravel rock below, Dr. Winthrop burst through the doors.
“There you are!” he yelled as he approached. “Dr. Harker needs you at once.”
“Why? What’s going on?”
“I wouldn’t even know where to begin,” he said. “I’ll say only you should brace yourself for a shock.”
Dr. Winthrop’s words were as alarming as they were cryptic. We walked quickly inside and up the stairs to Dr. Harker’s office. As we entered, I saw Braddock and the officer I didn’t recognize. Braddock had a strange look on his face, and he simply nodded to me. The young gentleman I saw before was also standing there, while Dr. Harker was hunched behind his desk, looking as if he had aged a decade in the few hours since I had last seen him. His face was buried in his hands, and when he looked up at me, he appeared as if he were gravely ill.
“Ah, Dr. Hamilton, please sit down,” he said weakly. “I am afraid we are going to need to call upon you for a most difficult assignment,” he continued as I took a seat next to Dr. Winthrop. “Dr. Winthrop will supervise, of course, but it appears that most of the burden will fall upon you.”
“What is this about?” I asked.
Dr. Harker just stared at me. Whatever it was, he didn’t have the strength to tell me.
“Perhaps I should take over from here,” the heretofore unknown policeman said. After a moment’s hesitation, Dr. Harker nodded.
“Dr. Hamilton,” Braddock said, “this is Inspector Davenport from Boston. He contacted me earlier today about an incident. I’ll let him explain.”
“Yes,” Davenport said curtly. “Dr. Hamilton, are you familiar with a Dr. Atticus Seward?”
“Of course,” I said with a nervous chuckle. “He was my professor at Miskatonic, and I would count him as a friend. Is he alright?” I asked, looking from Davenport to Dr. Harker. Dr. Harker simply averted his eyes.
“Physically,” Davenport said, “he is fine. This gentleman here,” he continued, gesturing to the man at his right, “is Professor Atley Thayerson. Professor Thayerson found Dr. Seward early this morning.”
“Around two in the morning,” Thayerson interjected. “I couldn’t sleep. I often can’t, it seems,” he said, his eyes wandering with his mind. “In any event, I often take walks around the campus at night. The cold air calms the blood. I was passing by Huntington Library when I found him.”
Thayerson paused for a moment, and it allowed me to ascertain where I had seen him before. He was a young professor, one that had been hired to teach at Miskatonic a few years prior to the beginning of my studies there. I did not know him well; he was a history and folklore professor, and a man of my particular interests rarely found need to engage the disciplines he taught.
“Dr. Seward . . . ” Thayerson began again, though once more he couldn’t find the courage to finish his thought.
“When he found Dr. Seward,” Davenport interrupted, “he was covered in blood.”
“Blood!” I exclaimed, nearly rising from my seat. “Was he injured?”
“It wasn’t his own,” Dr. Harker said, finally speaking. I let myself fall back into the chair, the consequences of his words washing over me.
“Not his own,” I said, more in statement than question.
“No,” Davenport continued. “Not his own. He was covered in it from head to toe, and whoever it came from has most assuredly shuffled off this mortal coil.”
“But this doesn’t make any sense,” I said. “Dr. Seward wouldn’t hurt anyone. He is one of the nicest men I’ve ever known. Surely, he offered some explanation for what happened.”
“He hasn’t said a word,” Davenport replied. “Other than to say he would only speak to you.”
“Me?” I replied, completely befuddled. “Why me?”
“How can we know?” Davenport responded. “He would give us no answers. Frankly, given the circumstances, we would probably have brought him here anyway. But we are most interested to find out the whereabouts of Professor Thacker.”
“Professor Thacker?” I asked. It was yet another name in this morbid play about which I knew nothing.
“Professor Thacker,” Thayerson said, “is a colleague of mine. He is an expert in ancient, near-Eastern languages. A genius, but not one with whom I would expect Dr. Seward to have an acquaintance.”
“Then, what does he have to do with this?” I asked, still not comprehending the totality of the situation.
“We believe,” Davenport answered, “it was his blood.”
“His blood?”
“Professor Thacker left his house late last night. When he did, he told his wife he was meeting with Dr. Seward. He hasn’t been seen since.”
“But what do you want me to do? I’m a doctor. I know nothing about being a detective.”
“We understand that, Dr. Hamilton. But Dr. Seward is quite mad. Find out what you can. We have every expectation Professor Thacker is dead, but we would like to recover his body if possible. It will make the legal proceedings, which surely must follow this incident, much easier.”
“I’ll do what I can,” I said, looking around the room. “But understand Dr. Seward was more than a teacher to me. He was a mentor, an expert in his field, and a brilliant man, as well. If you expect me to somehow trick him into giving away information, it won’t work. No matter what game we play with Dr. Seward, he will always run the show.”
“I’m afraid the young doctor is right,” Dr. Harker said. “I’ve known Atticus all my life. He will give us nothing he doesn’t want to give us.”
“Understood,” Davenport replied. “Just do your best, Dr. Hamilton. We will leave Dr. Seward in your care for as long as I can manage. We will delay the investigation to the extent we can, but at some point Seward will have to stand trial, if for no other purpose than to confine him to your care for the rest of his days. Good luck, gentlemen,” Davenport said as he placed his hat upon his head. “Wire me if you learn anything.”
A moment later, Davenport, Braddock, and Thayerson were gone.
“I’m sorry, Dr. Harker,” I said timidly. I knew Dr. Seward was his oldest friend, and Dr. Seward had often spoken lovingly of him in our meetings together.
“It goes without saying,” Dr. Harker said without acknowledging my comment, “we have a difficult situation on our hands, gentlemen.”
“Yes, it does. A strange one, too,” I replied. “None of this makes sense; from a man like Dr. Seward committing murder, to this Professor Thayerson and his story of how he found him. And now bringing him here? It just doesn’t add up.”
“No,” Dr. Harker said, “it doesn’t. But all we can do is attempt to discern what did occur. As you are no doubt aware, Dr. Seward had many friends in Boston. This whole incident is an embarrassment to them and Miskatonic University. If Dr. Seward were anyone else, he would be sitting in a jail cell right now. No, it’s not just about finding out the truth. They want an excuse, a way to cover this up. But that’s not what we are going to do. Dr. Hamilton, I want answers. I want to know how we came to this.”
“But, why me, sir? Why not you?”
Dr. Harker frowned. “I do not believe Dr. Seward is a murderer. But he is deeply involved in this. He will no doubt attempt to gain an advantage over you, to use your friendship and admiration of him to his advantage. As you so accurately told the detective, Dr. Seward has the edge.”
I looked from Dr. Harker to Dr. Winthrop, but there were no more words of advice. This challenge was my own, and I would face it alone.
Chapter
25
Darkness had long fallen on Danvers Asylum, but I knew no matter my misgivings, I could not put off the inevitable. I made my way to the west wing where the male patients were held.
The incurables ward was particularly chaotic, and I wondered if they somehow sensed the tension among the doctors, or if Robert’s bizarre death still reso
nated with them. But when the door to the incurables ward closed behind me, the heavy silence of the criminally insane was upon me.
I remember thinking, back on that first day when I arrived, it was peaceful. How things had changed in the fleeting months that had passed. Now it chilled my blood. Dr. Seward was in the last room at the end of the hall. As I walked down the hallway, I tried to avoid looking into the cells — and they were cells — that housed some of the most deranged men in New England.
But it was impossible to avoid them all. Justice Mastis had his face pressed up against the bars of his door. Mastis was an abomination. In a former life, he had been a puppeteer, and I suppose in his own way, he brought joy to an untold number of children. But something evil had stirred within him, and Mastis snapped. He killed his wife, but killing her had not been enough. After he chopped up her body, he gutted her. They found him sitting on the floor, his hand shoved up her stomach cavity, fingers working the mouth and jaw of her corpse.
The constable who stumbled upon that scene shot him on sight. It
was unfortunate for all that he lived, but he kept mostly to himself. He spoke only to the puppet he had created out of a pillow case and some buttons from his clothes. He called the puppet by the same name as his dead wife.
In the cell next to Mastis was the Butcher of Bedford. I grew up in Massachusetts, and I remembered his story from my youth. He was famous, from Newbury to Bridgewater, Boston to Springfield, for his pork sausage. People would come from every town and village, from neighboring states and foreign lands, just to try it.
There was a secret ingredient some said, something that separated his wurst from all others. Then somebody noticed Bedford was a town without a problem that plagues modern man. There were no vagrants, no poor, no wandering homeless. I don’t know how they found out, how they discovered the secret, but one day they stumbled upon where Bedford’s downtrodden had gone. My mother would sometimes say how glad she was she had never purchased any sausage from the Butcher. I remembered better.
It was that type of man who inhabited this place — the most vile, the most disturbed. The darkest of man’s imaginings can never match the reality of the depths of his depravity. In some places, one may see the human race’s finest character, its greatest heights. Not here. I stood in front of the door to Dr. Seward’s cell. This was the man I had called friend and had admired; the man in whose image I would have mirrored my life.
“Alright, Jacob,” I said quietly. “I’ll go inside. Please don’t disturb us unless I call you. Dr. Seward was very specific in his instructions. I am to go in alone, and frankly I am not sure you should even have come this far.” I turned and looked over my shoulder at the door behind, and in that moment I was glad Jacob was there. “But the danger is real,” I finally said, “and I would not venture inside alone.”
Jacob nodded once to show he understood. He slid the key into the cell door and pulled it open. I stepped inside and heard it slam behind me. The feeling of oppression was instant. The room was dark, and the fear I felt made it darker. But it wasn’t so dark that I could not see the man I had known in a radically different world, one that seemed very far away at that moment.
“William!” he said brightly. He smiled, and the blood caked on his face cracked like gruesome paint on a deranged clown. “I would get up, William, but as you can see, I am a little indisposed.” He gently shook the chains that held him. They jingled lightly, like the bells on Fortunato’s cap.
“They chained you?”
“It would appear so,” Dr. Seward replied matter-of-factly.
He sat, held back by the chains, looking so pitiful that, for an instant, I almost forgot why he was there, why I was there. But then I looked at his tattered clothing, stained crimson in blood that was not his own, and I recovered my poise. I decided to make a gesture to further ensure his trust.
“Jacob!” I called. I saw Dr. Seward stiffen. He wanted us to be alone, and a little bit of the friendliness he had shown to this point faded. I heard the key slide in the cell lock, and Jacob stepped inside.
“Yes, doctor? Is something wrong?”
“Jacob, I want you to unchain Dr. Seward.”
“But sir, Inspector Davenport was very clear Dr. Seward was not to go without restraints.”
“Jacob, I have no doubt in his domain, Inspector Davenport’s word holds sway. But this is not his domain, and Dr. Seward is my patient. Unchain him. If I need you, I will call.”
Jacob hesitated for a second, but my gaze was stern. Finally, he nodded. He walked over to where the doctor sat, unchaining him gingerly. Though Jacob was prepared for violence, Dr. Seward made no aggressive move. Jacob backed up to where I stood, never taking his eyes off of Seward.
“That will be all, Jacob. You can leave us now.”
“Are you sure, doctor?”
“Yes, Jacob. I am sure.”
“Right, sir,” he said, stepping towards the door.
“And, Jacob,” I turned and said, “after I leave, please ensure the doctor has a bath. He is not a prisoner here.”
“Not yet, at least,” the doctor said with a smile as he rubbed his now unencumbered wrists. Jacob and I both turned to look at him. For another moment we hesitated then Jacob jammed the key into the lock and stepped outside. I had a feeling he didn’t go far.
“That was very kind of you, William.”
“Dr. Seward,” I said, stepping forward, “I want you to know I am terribly sorry about all this, but I am sure you understand . . .”
“Oh, I’m well aware,” he said quickly, in an almost manic style to which I was not accustomed. “They think me quite mad, yes?”
“Yes,” I replied, drawing out the word. “Dr. Seward, are you aware of your situation?”
“Of course!” he replied brightly. “When a man is sick, you take him to the doctor. You are a doctor of the mind, and apparently my mind is not quite what it used to be.”
“Dr. Seward,” I continued, ignoring his last comments, “we are very concerned about Dr. Thacker. Dr. Thacker is a friend of yours, right? I am sure you want nothing ill to befall him.”
“Oh, no harm will come to Dr. Thacker.”
“He is alright, then?” I asked, a sudden feeling of hope in my heart. It was quickly dashed.
“It’s hard to harm the dead. No, I wager whatever suffering Dr. Thacker may have endured in his final moments is now over.”
Dr. Seward laughed. It chilled me, that laugh. I had heard it before, but never from a man who was sane.
“Dr. Seward,” I said solemnly, “I need to know what happened last night. I need to know what happened to Dr. Thacker.”
We stared at each other. Dr. Seward’s eyes narrowed, and I had the sinking suspicion everything that had transpired was merely a part of an act, the first part of a play Dr. Seward had written.
“Are you familiar,” he said without the mania that had crept into his voice before, as if I was sitting back in his office at Miskatonic, “with the history of this place?”
“I am not.”
“This asylum was supposed to have been in Boston, you know?” he asked in the manner of one relaying some interesting, but trivial, fact to a friend. “Near the old hospital that closed down. I was one of the men charged with designing this place. We determined a rural location would be more appropriate. And so we built it here.”
“Well, that is very interesting, Dr. Seward, but . . .”
“I am not finished, Dr. Hamilton,” he said sternly. I fell silent, cursing myself for allowing him to take control.
“We picked this hill, this out-of-the-way outcropping. A beautiful place. We wondered how it remained deserted, wondered about the abandoned structures overlooking the village below.”
“Danvers?”
Dr. Seward chuckled. “Yes, Danvers. That’s what they call it now. But two hundred years ago it went by a different name. Two hundred years ago, it was known as Salem. Yes,” he said, seeing my mouth drop in surprise, “witc
h-haunted Salem. There is a tree on this hill. I am sure you saw it when you arrived. A great Oak tree, tall and strong, with branches that point straight down to Hell. It was from that tree they hanged the first of the witches, before it became clear a more permanent fixture was required.” Seward waited for a response, but I gave him none. He smiled. “But that’s not all. Do you know the name John Hawthorne?”
“Of course,” I said. I doubt there was a man or woman alive within a hundred miles of Boston who had not heard that accursed name.
“Then, you know what he did? The great jurist? The high inquisitor of Salem? He who kindled the flames of the Burning Time? He who stood like a great, pharisaical god, the zealous fire raging in his eyes as the innocents were hanged before him? Where you stand now was once his house. Yes,” he said, seeing the chill roll through me, “that great devil of a man called this his home. It is no wonder it was judged cursed by those around it.”
I listened as Dr. Seward spoke. His words were fevered now, coming fast and hard. He was stern, too, lucid and logical. But it was the passion in his voice that scared me.
“What do you know of Giles Corey?” Seward asked. I simply shook my head. Nothing would have been my only answer.
“Ah, the state of education these days,” he said dryly. “Giles Corey was charged by John Hawthorne with witchcraft. He was adjudged guilty, of course, by all the learned men of Salem, John Hawthorne being only the most zealous amongst them.
“But Giles Corey knew his innocence, in the face of the certainty of those who accused him. And, despite the efforts of his erstwhile friends and neighbors to convince him of his guilt, he refused to confess. So the great and just John Hawthorne ordered he be pressed, right here on this hill, perhaps where you stand tonight, so he might come to recognize the truth of the charges against him.
That Which Should Not Be Page 17
