Ruler of the Night

by David Morrell

  “I need white vitriol to clean and shrink the tissue,” Emily told him. “And a small mirror. Father, you haven’t stopped shaking.” She touched his forehead with concern. “You have a fever.”

  “I need my medicine.”

  “I have no medicine here,” Dr. Wainwright said, handing Emily the vitriol and the mirror. “Half the people I treat are sick because of the noxious pills their physicians prescribe, concoctions that are nothing more than powdered cabbage mixed with paste or chalk blended with licorice.”

  “This is the medicine I need.” De Quincey showed the empty laudanum bottle. “Harold knocked it out of my hand, spilling its contents. I had another container in my room, but Harold wouldn’t allow me to…” De Quincey trembled.

  “That medicine in particular is something I don’t allow. This is the medicine you need.” Dr. Wainwright picked up a pitcher, poured water into a glass, and handed it to De Quincey.

  “If only this were enough.” De Quincey swallowed from the glass, his hands shaking.

  Emily poured white vitriol into a bowl, then dropped the needle and catgut into the astringent. “Dr. Snow has been helping my father to reduce his laudanum consumption.”

  “You’re familiar with the queen’s physician?” Wainwright asked, impressed.

  “We lowered Father’s intake to eight ounces of laudanum per day.”

  Emily found a clean cloth in a drawer and poured white vitriol onto it. Wincing, she wiped the cloth over the cut.

  “I thought your father’s reputation was exaggerated, but obviously not!” Wainwright exclaimed. “Some people might die from swallowing even a tablespoon of laudanum.”

  “My habit was long acquired and hard-earned,” De Quincey said, his face beading with sweat.

  Emily picked up the mirror with one hand and the dripping needle with the other. “Lord, help me to avoid a scar.” She threaded catgut through the needle.

  As blood swelled from the cut, she drew a breath, pierced her cheek with the needle, winced, and pulled it through.

  “Emily, I’d give anything to be the one who required stitches instead of you,” De Quincey said.

  “I’m thankful that it didn’t come to that, Father.”

  “But you do indeed require treatment,” Dr. Wainwright told De Quincey, watching him clench and unclench his hands.

  “In the morning, as soon as the shops open,” De Quincey said, “someone needs to go into town and buy—”

  “I can’t recommend it,” the doctor warned. “Besides, that’ll be several hours from now. You need immediate help. Since Dr. Snow’s method hasn’t been successful, perhaps you’ll agree to try one of mine.”

  The treatment room had white tiles and a drain. Two attendants held long, thick sheets drenched with water.

  “It’s called the wet-sheet method,” Dr. Wainwright said.

  “Anything that will help me to stop trembling,” De Quincey told him.

  “It will also reduce your fever. You can leave your wet clothes on. No matter what you wear, they’ll soon be soaked.”

  “Dr. Wainwright,” Emily asked, “did you ever consider that the term hydropathy is composed of the words for ‘water’ and ‘suffering’?” Her left cheek was red and swollen, two dark stitches now at the center of the wound.

  “That’s very clever. But the word can also easily imply that water chases away suffering.”

  “Let’s not talk about suffering,” De Quincey said, shaking.

  The doctor motioned for the attendants to wrap the wet sheets around De Quincey. Briefly, the little man continued trembling. But soon his arms and legs became immobile. Except that his face was exposed, he resembled one of the mummies in the British Museum.

  The attendants picked him up and set him on his back on a table. After raising metal guards so that he couldn’t roll off, they poured pails of water over the sheets that enfolded him.

  “What do you feel?” Dr. Wainwright asked.

  “Cold.” De Quincey’s voice continued to shake.

  “Not for long. The heat of your body should create considerable warmth beneath the wet sheets.”

  The attendants brought thick wet blankets and placed them over the sheets wound around him.

  “Yes,” De Quincey said. “Now I’m starting to feel warm.”

  “Soon the toxins in your body will pour out of you,” Dr. Wainwright said. “All the poisons that you’ve accumulated, especially from laudanum, will be expelled.”

  “I’m perspiring.”

  “Excellent! We’ll make a new man of you in a couple of hours!”

  “Dr. Wainwright,” Emily asked, “how long have you practiced hydrotherapy?”

  “After receiving my medical degree from the University of Edinburgh, I went to study water cures with Vincenz Priessnitz at his spa in Gräfenberg.”

  “And when did you open this clinic?”

  “Two and a half years ago. Members of the peerage persuaded me, feeling a need for my services. Why do you ask?”

  “I’m only trying to distract Father. How do you feel under there, Father?”

  “Warm. Very warm.”

  “Excellent indeed,” Dr. Wainwright affirmed. “Every toxin will be eliminated.”

  “I do definitely feel them being eliminated,” De Quincey told him, encased within the tightly wound, dripping sheets.

  “Doctor, the original plan was for Mrs. Richmond to bring us here to meet you tomorrow morning, which I suppose is now today,” Emily said. “The gentleman at whose house we’re staying in London has an extensive library. When I learned that we were going to have the honor of meeting you, I read some books about hydropathy.”

  “I applaud your curiosity, Miss De Quincey.”

  “It puzzles me that Mr. Priessnitz, who adhered to his water-cure principles, expired when he was only fifty-one, whereas Father, who frequently drinks sixteen ounces of laudanum per day, is sixty-nine and walks at least fifteen miles each day.”

  “But I didn’t walk yesterday,” De Quincey said in distress. “That may be why this relapse is so extreme.”

  “Some constitutions are stronger than others,” Dr. Wainwright noted. “You’re a medical miracle, Mr. De Quincey.”

  “Perhaps the laudanum preserved me. I wish I could move my arms and legs under these sheets.”

  “In three hours, my attendants will unwrap you.”

  “Rats,” De Quincey said.

  “What?” the doctor asked.

  “They gnaw at my stomach.”

  “The wet-sheet method will smother the rats, I assure you.”

  De Quincey groaned, his features contorting, the fine cracks in his face seeming about to fracture. “What time is it? How soon will the shops open? Emily, when can you buy—”

  Dr. Wainwright raised his hands in objection. “I don’t believe we’re ready to surrender yet. As long as we have a few more hours, what’s the harm in continuing your treatment?”

  “It’s very hot under these sheets.”

  “Perfect!”

  Ignoring the rain, the Russian stopped at the side door of the middle building. Most locks could be opened with one of a half a dozen of the most commonly shaped keys. He was successful with the third attempt. He pushed the door open warily, satisfying himself that only darkness awaited him. To avoid being noticed, his two companions pressed themselves against the building. He stepped inside.

  “Harold, put on your overcoat,” Ryan ordered. “You’re coming with us to the clinic.”

  “I’m not going anywhere.”

  “Understand, now that you’ve been arrested, you and I have a different relationship,” Ryan told him. “You’re a peer and I’m a laborer, yes, but if you resist me, I’ll say that you attempted to escape. My partner will agree with me. Is that true, Detective Sergeant Becker?”

  “Absolutely, Detective Inspector Ryan. He tried to escape.”

  “Harold, not only will I be able to justify doing whatever’s necessary to make you comply, but your
attempted escape will make everyone believe that you had a reason to flee, that you are in fact guilty.”

  “But I didn’t kill my father!”

  “Certainly. Every man and woman who steps onto a gallows insists that they’re innocent.”

  “Gallows? Wait! All right, I admit I reshaped the pillow and brushed the snuff from my father’s chest, but that was just to prevent me from looking guilty.”

  “What you accomplished was making yourself look more guilty,” Ryan said.

  “I swear I wasn’t in the room when my father died!” Harold told him. “She must have taken some of my snuff and…She did it.”

  “She.”

  “Stella. She killed my father.”

  “Why would she do that? Was your father’s property entailed?” Ryan referred to the standard practice of establishing a trust that bequeathed land to the oldest male heir while preventing him by law from selling it. The new owner would then establish a similar trust that prevented his own male heir from selling the land.

  “Yes, the property was entailed,” Harold replied.

  “In which case, you’re the only person who could inherit the estate and benefit from your father’s death,” Ryan continued. “What could Lady Cavendale have gained? Nothing. Like most widows, she depended on the goodwill of the male heir, and we know how you handled that responsibility. You threw her out into a hailstorm.”

  A servant hurried down the staircase carrying two travel bags. “Mr. De Quincey and his daughter left these when they departed.”

  “Thank you,” Becker said.

  Ryan opened the bag that had De Quincey’s name on it.

  “What are you doing?” Becker asked, shocked by the invasion of privacy.

  Ryan sorted through the bag’s contents. “Making certain that something is safe.”

  He held up a laudanum bottle. “Three months ago, would you have guessed that I’d concern myself with delivering opium to Emily’s father?”

  “Things have indeed changed.” Becker laughed, then winced, touching the blood on his mouth.

  “I’m sorry for striking you, Joseph. You were right. I did something that I regret.”

  “I’d rather have you regret this than something worse.” Becker glanced down at Ryan’s right trouser cuff and the slight bulge where his knife was hidden.

  “Thanks for being my friend,” Ryan told him.

  As the emotional moment lengthened, Ryan turned to Harold. “Put on your coat and hat.”

  “But…but it’s raining outside,” Harold objected.

  “Imagine that.”

  “And carry one of these bags,” Becker told him.

  “What? That’s a job for a servant.”

  “If you’re carrying a bag, you’ll be less able to run away. In fact, you’d better carry both bags,” Ryan decided. He opened the door and studied the dark, gusting rain. “A fine night for a walk, don’t you agree, Harold?”

  The Russian closed the door and stood motionless in the dark. He listened intensely but heard only the storm. He withdrew a lantern and a box of matches from beneath his overcoat. The scrape of a match echoed as he ignited it and revealed narrow, dusty wooden stairs upon which footprints were evident. He lit the lantern, blew out the match, removed a revolver from a coat pocket, and began to climb.

  De Quincey lay on the table, feeling the weight of the numerous layers of thick, wet sheets wrapped around him. His arms were pressed tightly to his sides, and his legs were squeezed together, leaving him unable to move. Even his fingers were immobile.

  “I feel I’ve become cocooned,” he said.

  “A new man will emerge,” Dr. Wainwright assured him. “It isn’t necessary for me to remain while the wet-sheet method works its cure. Allow me to leave the two of you alone for a few minutes while I see if Lady Cavendale and Mrs. Richmond require attention.”

  The doctor stepped outside and closed the door.

  Emily peered over the guardrail on the table. “Do you feel warmer under there, Father?”

  “Considerably.”

  Initially he’d felt so cold that he shivered. But as more wet sheets had been wrapped around him, the movement of shivering wasn’t possible. It was as though he’d been given a drug that paralyzed him. Soon, his body didn’t need to shiver, as the heat from his body became trapped. The sensation was briefly comfortable, but then the heat increased until he was sweating.

  Some of the sweat trickled from De Quincey’s forehead into his eyes.

  “Emily, please wipe my brow.”

  As she did, she frowned. “You feel very hot.”

  “Is that a pitcher of water on that table?”

  She poured some into a glass, put a hand behind his neck, and managed to lift his head enough so that he could drink.

  “When this is finished, you should acquire the habit of drinking more of this,” she told him.

  “At the moment, the rats in my stomach demand more than water.”

  “Dawn will soon be here,” Emily said. “The shops will open. I never imagined that I’d be eager to purchase laudanum for you.”

  “It can’t happen quickly enough. Does your cheek hurt? With those stitches, it looks very painful.”

  “It’s numb.”

  “Well, sometimes that’s the best we can hope for.”

  “Father, did you notice that Dr. Wainwright referred to Carolyn and Stella by their first names when he came down the staircase and saw the condition they were in? But a minute later and also just now, he referred to them as Lady Cavendale and Mrs. Richmond.”

  De Quincey felt more constricted as the sheets became heavier, absorbing the considerable perspiration from his body. “Yes, he’s closer to Carolyn and Stella than he wants us to know.” De Quincey drew a difficult breath. “Do you still have some of the money that my publisher sent to me?”

  “I’ve been careful with it.”

  “Then you’ll be able to send a telegram when you go into town to buy the laudanum.”

  “A telegram?”

  Blinking sweat from his eyes, De Quincey explained where the telegram should be sent and what she should put in it.

  “We ought to have a reply by this afternoon,” he told her.

  The feel of Emily’s hand against the side of his neck distracted him, her fingers so refreshingly cool that at first he thought she was comforting him. But then he realized that she was feeling his pulse.

  “Can you count quietly to sixty, Father? At the speed of one thousand and one, one thousand and two, and so forth?”

  “Yes.”

  “Start now.”

  Concentrating, he managed to distract himself from feeling smothered.

  “Sixty,” De Quincey said.

  Emily took her hand away from the side of his neck. “Your heart has a rate of one hundred and forty beats per minute.”

  “The look on your face suggests that isn’t a good number.”

  The pelting of the rain on the attic’s roof diminished. Lying on his cot in the darkness, Dr. Mandt hoped that the silence would allow him to sleep.

  Think about boarding the fastest train to Liverpool, he told himself. Think about getting on the speediest ship to America, a steamship, not a sailing ship, only sixteen days from England to the United States. Think about the fortune waiting for you in a New York City bank. Think about—

  Stairs creaked outside his door.

  The Russian came to the topmost level of the narrow steps. He’d climbed slowly, passing a door at each level, listening, climbing higher, trying to make a minimum of sound. But despite all his caution, the bare wood creaked beneath his weight.

  He put his ear to the final door and heard nothing. Gently, he worked the latch. The door didn’t move when he pressed against it. He tried the various keys that he carried. One of them fit the lock, but when he twisted the key, he discovered that the lock had already been freed. The only explanation for the door not moving was that someone had bolted it from the inside.

  When th
e creak of the footsteps paused, Dr. Mandt rose nervously from his cot and directed his attention toward the attic door. He shouldn’t have been able to see it in the dark, but the light from what seemed to be a lantern glowed through the door’s cracks.

  He felt along a wooden crate and touched the basket in which Dr. Wainwright had brought food, its bread, cheese, and boiled ham long since eaten, its bottles of what Wainwright called tonic water long since consumed. He picked up one of the empty bottles in case he needed to defend himself. Then his trembling fingers touched something else that was in the basket, and in his fright, Mandt decided to rely on that instead.

  His heart raced when he heard fingers scratching at the door.

  “Dr. Mandt,” a man’s voice whispered in German. But he had a Russian accent, all too familiar after the considerable time that Mandt had spent in St. Petersburg, attending to the czar. “I know you’re in there.”

  Mandt felt an invisible hand pressing against his chest.

  “Doctor.” The Russian kept his voice as low as he could and still be heard. “There’s no need to make this situation difficult.”

  Again, he scratched his fingernails against the door, a sound that could be heard only by someone inside the attic.

  “No reason for unpleasantness,” he whispered. “You did your best to escape. Nonetheless, we found you. It’s time to admit defeat.”

  He waited but didn’t receive a response. He unbuttoned his overcoat so that he could lean even closer to the door.

  “Doctor, I promise that no harm will come to you. It’s in our best interest to keep you safe. My orders are to take you back to Russia, where you’ll tell various foreign ambassadors and newspaper writers the details of the British plot against the czar, including the amount of money that Queen Victoria’s government paid you to poison him. You won’t be injured in any way. After all, how persuasive would your testimony be if there was even the slightest suspicion that we coerced you? You’ll be given the best lodging, the best food and drink, anything you desire. After you convince the world that the British committed a crime against God and nature, we’ll release you, not to the wealth that you were no doubt promised but at least to a reasonably comfortable existence.”