by Jay Lake
Sir Julian scowled at that, but Mathieu moved to fill yet another Pravaz syringe from the contents of the warm flask, and made ready to reinject the baronet’s blood, hoping to distract his attention and soothe his quick temper.
“I can assure you that my patient is not suffering from syphilis or any other life-threatening disease,” Mathieu was quick to say, as he connected the syringe to the needle that was still in place and began to depress the plunger.
“That’s very good news,” said a voice from the doorway, in a pronounced Irish brogue. “Indeed, we could hardly have hoped for better.”
Mathieu, Sir Julian and Thomas Dean turned simultaneously to the man who had just stepped into the room, carrying Sir Julian’s revolver carelessly in his right hand. He was as tall as Thomas Dean, and somewhat broader. Mathieu recognized the man that Dean had earlier put to flight. He was not alone, this time; he had brought reinforcements with him.
It occurred to Mathieu, somewhat belatedly, that he had locked his front door after bidding farewell to Judy Lee, and that the “sneak-thief” from whom Thomas Dean had saved him must therefore have had some way of turning the key in the lock from the far side of the door, without making any appreciable noise, other than the click of the latch when he actually opened the door.
He guessed, too, that the man who had been watching the house in Holland Park—this man or one of his companions—had not followed him to the house at all, although he must certainly have followed him home, in spite of all his precautions.
“Never fear,” the newcomer said. “I’m no hooligan, and I’ve not the least intention of using this toy—although I confess that I’d rather have it in my hand just now than see it in someone else’s.”
“Who the hell are you?” Sir Julian demanded.
“I’m Sean Driscoll, Sir Julian, the president of your tenants’ association—or our tenants’ association, at any rate. My friends here are my deputies, Michael MacBride and Padraig Reilly. You’ve long been acquainted with Mr. Reilly’s great-uncle, I believe, although I met him for the first time myself last night, under circumstances that were admittedly awkward. We’ve been engaged in talks with your steward for some time, and have urged him as powerfully as we could, but in vain, to fetch you back to our estates so that we might include you in the negotiations. Now, we’re following the advice of whatever wise fellow it was who said that, if the mountain will not come to Mahomet, then Mahomet must go to the mountain—although I hasten to add that we’re all good Catholics.”
“Get this thing out of my arm,” Sir Julian said to Mathieu, tersely. Then, to Driscoll, he said: “What on Earth do you think you’re doing, coming after me here, of all places?”
“Well, sir,” the Irishman said, “that’s a slightly embarrassing matter—although I have to confess that we weren’t sure what sort of a welcome we’d get if we rang the bell at Holland Park, even though young Padraig here is kin to your gatekeeper. The truth is that there are all kinds of rumors running around your estate, sir, about your having made a deal with the Devil, selling your soul in exchange for eternal youth. I never believed them for an instant, of course, being a man who can read and figure as well as most, but I had to admit that I was surprised when I caught sight of you last night, for the first time in twenty years. I knew your father, you see, and I had abundant opportunities to observe you in the days when you used to favor us with our presence over the water, although I doubt that you ever noticed me. I did not mistake this gentleman for the Devil, of course, even though he’s a foreigner, but I was curious to discover what dealings you had with him. It’s a wise tenant who knows his landlord, sir—especially when he has protests to lodge and polite requests to make. I’m truly glad to find that your friend is no more than a physician, and that your unnatural good looks are purely attributable to good health—if that really is the case.”
“You’ve got a damned nerve,” Sir Julian retorted. “I think you’ll find that Irish rebels are by no means welcome on English soil, and that you’ll likely end up in jail if I call the police.”
“I’m not a rebel, sir,” Driscoll replied, equably. “I really don’t care one way or the other about Home Rule. What I do care about is justice between landlord and tenant. If I’m fairly treated, it doesn’t matter overmuch whether the land I work is owned by an Englishman, an Irishman or a Chinaman—but given that I’m not being fairly treated, in my opinion, then I feel obliged to make my position clear. You may call the police if you wish, sir—but if my guess is right, that’s not something you’re overly enthusiastic to do. This other gentleman sent me packing a little while ago, when I thought myself outnumbered again and made another tactical retreat, but if what I’ve overheard in these last few minutes is anything to go by, he has grievances of his own against you, and against your physician too. I have sisters myself, and daughters too, and I know well enough how a man’s ire can be roused when he loses one, or finds one in dire straits through no fault of her own. Would it interest you to know, by any chance, Mr. Dean, that the man sitting in front of you is fifty-nine years old, and that he looked a great deal older and far less good-looking when he was thirty-and-one than he does now.”
Mathieu could tell that Thomas Dean was, indeed, interested to hear that item of information, even though he did not know quite what to make of it.
While the seaman was still puzzling over the unexpected revelation, Driscoll handed him the revolver. “I think this had best be committed to the care of a neutral party,” he said, “while my companions and I explain our grievances to our landlord. With all due respect to the owner of all this fine apparatus, this room seems to me to be a trifle cramped and gloomy for our purposes, so I think it might be best if we and Sir Julian removed ourselves to somewhere more comfortable—perhaps a public house if, as I suspect, he does not care to invite us to his home.”
“You can get drunk wherever you please,” Sir Julian said, getting to his feet now that he was no longer unencumbered by Mathieu’s apparatus, a little unsteady on his feet but evidently determined to stand as firm as he could. “I have no intention of negotiating with you, on English or Irish soil. Any grievances you might have must be taken up with my steward. If you do not leave this house immediately, I shall certainly summon the police—and I think you’ll find them unprepared to take your word for it that you have no rebel sympathies or criminal intentions, given that you’re guilty of breaking and entering.”
Sean Driscoll’s florid face put on a fine show of feigned distress in response to this declaration, but Mathieu had the impression that the big Irishman had little or no idea what to do next. He was far from home, and must know very well that he would be in a weak position if his contest with an English baronet really did become an issue for English law to settle. Mathieu noticed, too, that there was now only one man standing behind him—although the two of them were just as capable of blocking the door, should they see fit to do so, as three. The man who had disappeared was the one who had been introduced as Michael MacBride.
“I broke nothing,” Driscoll said, mildly. “The key was in the lock, and it has too long a shaft, allowing it to be turned from the wrong side. What you need, my friend, is a strong bolt, or a sturdy bar.”
“Just a minute,” said Thomas Dean, finally. “Are you saying that Dr. Galmier really has discovered an elixir of youth? That he’s stealing the health from the blood of young girls and injecting it into his paymaster?”
“Well, now,” Driscoll said, with a slight spontaneous smile, “Dr. Galmier’s certainly not injecting it into himself, is he? Unless, that is, he’s a hundred years old instead of thirty-some.”
“It’s not as simple as that,” Mathieu was quick to put in.
“Be quiet!” Sir Julian commanded him, intemperately. “That’s our business, and no one else’s. All these men are trespassing, Professor, having invaded your lodgings uninvited, whether they broke your door or not. This one has held a knife to your throat and now has a gun. Will you go
to Goldhawk Road, if you please, and find a policeman. Tell him to summon help, and to come armed, prepared to meet violent resistance.”
Mathieu eyed the route to the laboratory door apprehensively, not at all sure that he would be allowed to walk out without meeting violent resistance himself. Nor was he sure that he wanted to leave his apparatus—but he knew that he could hardly round on the baronet and tell him to go in search of a policeman himself if he really wanted one to come. Instead, he opened his mouth to say that there was no need for any trouble, hopeful that he might be able to find further arguments to support that assertion, but he was interrupted by the noise of movement in the hallway. Padraig Reilly came further into the room as Michael MacBride reappeared in the doorway, in company with another person, who was definitely not a policeman.
It was direly difficult to tell, at first glance, exactly what the other person might be, given that he or she was clad in a capaciously-hooded cape which, in combination with a thick woolen scarf, hid every feature of the face within, save for the faint gleam of feverish eyes. Mathieu, however, was not in the slightest doubt that the person must be female. The hood testified to that even more clearly than her short stature. Set between the three burly Irishman she looked incredibly frail, even though the bulky cape blurred the sharp lines of her emaciated frame.
Mathieu’s heart sank, and he had a vertiginous feeling of being utterly lost. This was by no means the first time that one of his former “volunteers” had returned in search of help, having run out of other options, and they almost always returned in this part of the evening, when the cover of darkness was fully secured but before the London streets became truly hazardous for those incapable of self-defense. He never let them past his front door, though, and none had ever come when Sir Julian was present. Cormack was the only other person involved to have set eyes on one of them, and Cormack’s heart was even harder than his master’s, at least in some respects. Mathieu found himself with his mouth open, in expectation of having something to say, but quite incapable of speech.
“Girl wants to see the doctor,” MacBride reported, laconically. “Hadn’t the heart to tell her that he was busy. Best take her to another room, though, sir, if you have one.”
Mathieu felt dizzy, and feared that he was about to faint. He could not help staring at those fugitive eyes hidden in the shadows of the hood, even though he was terrified by the idea of meting their accusatory stare.
He felt a peculiar surge of relief as he realized that he did not have to do that. The gaze of the terrible eyes was not fixed on him at all but on something else—someone else.
Three seconds of awful, pregnant silence went by, while Mathieu observed strangely similar expressions of puzzlement forming on the faces of Sir Julian Templeforth and Sean Driscoll, neither of whom had begun to comprehend what was happening.
Then the girl spoke, and her voice, though inexpressibly feeble, struck Mathieu with all the impact of a bomb—because what she said was: “Tom? Is that you?”
Thomas Dean’s Caroline, Mathieu realized, was definitely not the girl who had died. Thomas Dean’s Caroline had presumably vanished from her family’s ken because she simply had not been able to bear the prospect of going home. In a way, that was good news—but in another way, it was anything but good. Thomas Dean was still holding Sir Julian’s revolver.
The seaman did not waste time with idle repetition of his sister’s querulous question. He had a more direct means of discovering whether the girl in the hood was known to him, and he only had to take one long stride reach out his arm to push back the hood.
She flinched, reflexively. She actually raised her hands in order to try to fight him off when he tried to pull down the scarf, but she could not do it.
Mathieu anticipated the general gasp of astonishment and horror a split second before it actually sounded within the room, and the anticipation made it even worse. He stepped backwards, pressing his spine against the wall in a narrow gap between two sets of shelves.
Thomas Dean’s automatic response was to exclaim: “You’re not Caroline!”
The girl made no attempt to assert her identity, and seemed to be biting her bloodless lip in anguish over the fact that she had given herself away. She tried to turn and run, but MacBride and Reilly were still blocking the door, and were too stunned to remove themselves from her path.
San Driscoll swore, softly. Sir Julian’s handsome face was uniformly white, save for the red stain on the dressing applied to his cut—which did not make it any less handsome, but somehow contrived to augment the insult.
“Caroline?” said Thomas Dean, helplessly, admitting the truth in spite of what must have seemed blatant evidence to the contrary. Then he raised the gun, and pointed it at Mathieu. “You did this,” he said, hoarsely. “You really are the Devil.”
“You don’t understand,” Mathieu protested, although it was obvious that everyone in the room understood the fundamental fact perfectly well, however incredible they had found the possibility when voicing it before. They had been no more able to believe in any kind of elixir of youth than they had been able to believe that Sir Julian Templeforth really had made a bargain with the Devil, despite Sean Driscoll’s observation regarding the remarkable transformation of the baronet’s appearance. In isolation, even given what they knew about what went on in the laboratory, that appearance had merely seemed an oddity, a strange stroke of luck. Now, juxtaposed with its counterpart, it seemed something very different, and literally diabolical.
Except, Mathieu insisted to himself, it was not diabolical at all—not literally, or even metaphorically. It was authentically hopeful: a highly significant step on the path of progress; a staging-post en route to the Age of Miracles. That was the understanding he had to convey to them—not just to the dangerous man with the revolver, but to all of them—if they would only give him time.
However dangerous he might be, however, Thomas Dean was not a stupid man. He did not squeeze the revolver’s trigger, although his stance and expression suggested that he would be perfectly prepared to do so. Instead, he said: “Reverse it! Right here, right now. Take back what you stole, and return it.”
Mathieu knew that he must have gone pale in his turn, but he knew how futile it was to protest when he stammered: “No…you don’t understand…it doesn’t work like that….” While he forced the words out, his gaze darted around the company, taking in Sir Julian and all three Irishmen before settling on Sean Driscoll’s face.
Even if Thomas Dean had been alone, Mathieu thought, the gun would have given him the means of backing up his demands, although he would probably have had to put at least one bullet into Sir Julian’s body to force his cooperation. The fact that he was not alone, though, increased his advantage vastly, in moral as well as material terms—and he was not alone in any sense of the term. The Irishmen were outraged on his behalf; thy shared his horror, if not his pain. They had no reason to love Sir Julian, and some reason, at least, to think that they might benefit in the short or long term were the baronet to be robbed of his unnatural virility, but even if they had had no advantage of their own at stake, they would still have sided with Thomas Dean and backed him up. They had never seen Caroline Dean before she had accepted Cormack’s guinea, but they had imagination enough to assure them that she might—must—have been as pretty as any young girl on the brink of puberty. It required little or no creative effort for them to exchange, in their minds’ eyes, Sir Julian’s preternatural beauty for her dismal plainness, restoring her lost purity at the expense of his.
In a single visionary flash, Mathieu saw that it really was going to happen. His four unwelcome visitors really were going to force Sir Julian back into the chair, tying him down if necessary, so as to demand that Mathieu must draw out his blood, as he had drawn Judy Lee’s that afternoon, and Caroline Dean’s some little while ago. Then they were going to force him to inject the filtered produce of Sir Julian’s blood into the girl, just as he had injected the filtered produce
of Judy Lee’s blood into Sir Julian mere minutes before. And he would have no choice but to do it. They would not give him a choice. If he refused, Thomas Dean would hurt him, and keep on hurting him until he complied. They had no fear of the police now; they were obedient to what they considered to be a higher law.
But they truly did not understand the finer details of the situation. They were thinking in mystical terms; they did not understand the way that the natural world was made. They did not understand that this was science, not magic, and what the harsh implications of that distinction were.
“You don’t understand,” he said, yet again, feeling compelled to mount what defense he could. “It won’t work….” He realized even as the voiced the second phrase, though, that nothing he could say would be sufficient to persuade them. Their notion of justice outweighed mere practical considerations. Even if he did explain, and managed to persuade them of the truth, it would not stop them. It would not stop Sean Driscoll, let alone Thomas Dean. This was the kind of nightmare that could not be escaped, from which there would be no awakening—and when it was over, what then? What would become of him—and, more importantly, of progress?
5.
Strangely, given his character, Sir Julian did not put up much of a fight. The three Irishmen subdued him easily, trussed him up and secured him to the chair—after which he did not struggle, seemingly accepting his fate. The baronet seemed to see the awful logic of the situation as clearly as Mathieu did, and to feel the weight of its narrative propriety just as forcefully; he seemed resigned, at least for the moment, to the fact that his hubristic defiance of natural destiny had finally been called to account, and that Nemesis had descended upon him.
Mathieu did not make any attempt at physical resistance either. Nor did he entertain the notion of trying to cheat, by substituting some other procedure for the one they were demanding that he carry out. He was, however, determined to make every possible effort to explain—and he could see that Driscoll, at least, was as hungry for an explanation as he was to see some result. Even Thomas Dean, who desperately wanted to see a miracle performed, was man enough to want to know exactly what had been done to his sister, and how and why. In Mathieu’s estimation, too, Dean was fully entitled to know exactly how and why his passionately-desired miracle would fail to materialize.
