Intermusings

by David Niall Wilson

  "This is quite impossible," I stated. "There is no way this can be the same Michael Adcott that I examined earlier in the week. That man had sustained a direct stab wound to the back, penetrating a lung, and he lay dead in the street at least an hour before I arrived on the scene. There was a constable on the spot, Johnston was his name."

  "And yet," Jepson said, holding up one hand to silence me, "Michael Adcott stands and breathes before you, a very alive, and suddenly destitute man. Only your intervention, Dr. Watson, can prevent a horrid miscarriage of justice."

  This was a strange situation, to be certain, but I fancy that I’ve acquitted myself well in any number of odd happenings over the years. Without hesitation, I stepped closer and stared at the man before me. He wavered back and forth, as if his legs barely held him upright, and I squinted, trying to find some fault between my memory of the dead man, and he who’d disturbed my evening.

  "Impossible," I muttered, stepping back. "Preposterous."

  Jepson eyed me coldly. "And yet, a fact that is difficult to deny, I suspect," he said shortly.

  At this, the plump man, who’d remained silent until that moment, stepped forward, fumbling a monocle from his breast pocket and perching it on the bridge of his nose with a palsied hand. The lens teetered, and I was nearly certain it would drop from its perch before he could steady it, but miraculously the man got it under control. He lifted a small sheaf of papers, bringing them closer so he could glance at them through the lens.

  "It would seem," he spoke, the words slow and forced, "that we have a situation before us requiring the utmost in haste and discretion."

  "You would be Mr. Jeffries," I stated, not waiting for an answer. "I would expect, sir, that of all gathered here you would be first to note the absurdity of the claim lain before me. Dead men do not pry themselves from the grave, no matter the fiscal windfall it might provide themselves or others. This man cannot be Michael Adcott."

  Jeffries glanced up from his papers quickly, nearly sending the monocle flying. "I assure you, Dr. Watson, that he is. I have served the Adcotts for the past twenty years as solicitor, and I know my client when he stands before me."

  "Which would lead me to believe, sir, that you have mistakenly pronounced Mr. Adcott dead." Jepson folded his hands in front of him and peered down his nose at me.

  I must say that I would rather admit to an error in judgment than to the possibility of the walking dead. All evidence and proof aside, I needed them gone just then.

  "Return here tomorrow at four sharp and I'll have the answers you seek," I told them, shoving the papers at Jepson and marching them forward.

  Holmes had grown contemplative, his eyes were focused, but not, I think, on any point in the reality we shared. Leaning forward in my chair, hands on my knees, I gazed at him anxiously and finished.

  "With the house again empty and my heart still beating a savage rhythm in my chest, I could think of only one thing to do, and that was bring the matter to you."

  Holmes eyes shifted, and he rose suddenly. "And well you did, my dear Watson, well you did indeed."

  He was already walking toward the door, wearing an uncharacteristically distracted expression.

  "I must see to some things, Watson," he said suddenly. "And you must rest, old friend. When the sun has risen a little higher in the sky, we shall see what we can find."

  "But, have you no thoughts on this matter?" I cried.

  "Thoughts are often all that we have, Watson. There is nothing that I can say for certain, but I do have – thoughts. That is for tomorrow. Go and get some rest."

  With that, he opened the door, and I could think of nothing to say or do, other than to stumble out into the night and off toward home, wondering if my old friend now thought me daft. The sky had already stained a deep, blood-red with the sunrise.

  Jepson glanced furtively to either side, then slipped through a massive wooden door and into the depths of the squat, monolithic building beyond. The exterior was dingy brick, even the soot and grime seemed soiled, and there was an oily sheen to the place, gleaming sickly in the early morning light.

  He carried a case under one arm, and he’d come on foot. No coach waited outside that door, nor did any spot his entry. There had been precious little traffic through those doors in recent years, and what there was, men tended to ignore. Such knowledge was best left to others, or to no one at all. It was a dark place, and the screams of those who’d entered and never been freed echoed through the air surrounding the place like a hum of electricity. So it seemed to some.

  The Asylum of St. Elian had been closed for reasons never released to the public. There were rumors of dark experiments, of torture and sin, but they were not often repeated, and usually died before reaching the level of a good story. There was nothing good in the building, and if it hadn’t required actual contact with the place, most would have been happy to wield one of the hammers that brought it down.

  Jepson had found no trouble at all in renting a portion of the fading edifice, and with Jeffries handling the legalities and paperwork, had managed to do so with near anonymity, the solicitor having been granted the right to sign on Jepson’s behalf. The laboratory of St. Elian’s, and the ward nearest that foul place, had come under Jepson’s control easily and without contest. Even the homeless and the drunks had avoided the place. It was empty and lifeless as a tomb, and that suited Aaron Jepson just fine.

  Now he made his way down the dark main corridor and fumbled a large skeleton key from one pocket of his jacket, balancing the leather case precariously under one arm. He’d cleaned up as much as was possible – or necessary – but the old lock ground it’s metal tumblers together in a sound near to disbelief at the intrusion of his key. St. Elians hadn’t welcomed him gladly.

  Once inside, Jepson wasted no time. He moved about the room, bringing the dim lights to life and placing the wooden case carefully on a bench just inside the door. The laboratory was much as he’d found it. There had been a great deal of equipment left behind when the building closed, and none had felt the urge to return and clear it away. The thought of the use it might have seen was enough to slap away even the greediest of fingers. Jepson had carted in, late at night and under cloak of the deep London fog, the last remaining bits of what he’d dragged from his father’s home – his inheritance.

  Despite the hum and glow of the lamps, shadows clung like swamp lichen to every surface and bit of furniture. Jepson shivered, then, irritated with himself, drew forth a box of matches and lit the large oil lamp on the table beside his case. Turning up the wick, he watched as the flame licked upward, flared, and settled. Standing in the pool of light this created, he felt a little of the spell of the unease lifting and drew a deep breath.

  There was little time, and there was no room for delays, or hesitation. Jepson flipped open the case and stared down at the contents. The interior was lined in rich velvet. In slots manufactured to accommodate their exact shape and size, a line of six vials rested. The first three were empty. In the next two slots, a greenish liquid roiled. It was not quiescent, as it should have been, sitting still on the table. It swirled and curled toward the edges of the vial, reaching up the sides and falling back down – as if trying to escape. The third and last of the vials contained a flat red powder. Jepson stared for a few moments longer, as if mesmerized.

  Then, as if recovering his senses, he reached for the next full vial and drew it forth, along with the third vial, containing the powder.

  With one deft movement of his thumbs, he uncapped both vials. Inside the first, green, liquid and light, the solution ceased its movement. He tilted the second, angling the lip of it toward the first, tapping gently, mentally ticking off grains of the powder. The green liquid devoured it, changing color slightly, then regaining its normal appearance almost as though the powder had been – digested. He re-capped both vials, and returned the sandy substance to its place in the wooden case.

  To the right of the case, further along the bench, sat
an open carton. Jepson carefully laid the vial down beside the box and reached inside, drawing forth a small leather bag. It might have been easier to work had he unpacked his things, but there was something about the old laboratory, and the asylum walls surrounding it, that made even Jepson want to avoid deeper connection with the place than was absolutely necessary. The less he unpacked, the less he’d have to pack when his work was done.

  Jepson opened the bag and pulled out a small kit. The kit contained a syringe, a bottle of alcohol, and a small pouch of glittering blades and tools. He grabbed the syringe, which sported a hideously long needle, picked up the vials once again, and turned toward the door.

  At that precise moment, a low moan echoed through the corridors beyond that door, and Jepson froze. The sound was deep, rolling up from the stone bowels of the asylum and rising to a banshee wail that reverberated and echoed back onto itself, forming waves of sound without rhythm or reason. The sound was drenched in pain.

  Jepson staggered, bringing one hand to his brow to brush away the sweat and nearly poking out his own eye with the syringe. He cried out, ducking away from this own hand, and cursed softly.

  "Damn you," he said softly. "It’s too soon. I should have hours." He stared at the doorway, and the dark, shadowed hall beyond. "I should have hours," he whispered.

  The moans rose again, louder than before, and there was a deep metallic clang. He could almost believe the solid stone floor shook.

  Under his breath, Aaron Jepson began to pray. He prayed in the ancient Hebrew, the words he’d committed to memory, the charm his father had brought to him from the mind and faith of his grandfather and his grandfather’s father. He thought of the ancient, torn shred of canvas, soiled and worn, the spidery lettering etched into that cloth. With his eyes closed, he could see those letters burning brightly – as if they had a life of their own. He could sense the madness behind the verse, could almost see the wild, skewed eyes. He had heard them described so many times they seemed part of his own memory, and not that of his father’s father.

  Jepson spoke slowly and very softly, trying not to blend his voice with that other – that horrible, hate-filled sound.

  Entering the hall, he took a single deep breath, released some of the pressure he was putting on the vial before he crushed it in his hand, puncturing his skin. Fresh sweat broke out on his brow at the thought of that green, glowing slime slipping into his veins. He had a sudden image of the case in the laboratory behind him, the vials and the thick velvet. This led to further memories, journals and stories - stories that would be impossible to believe - were the proof not waiting one floor down in a stone room barred with iron.

  Jepson shook it off and stepped into the hallway, moving quickly and purposefully toward the sound. Nothing mattered but the vial in his hand, the syringe that would empty it, and the words. He had to speak the words, had to repeat them from memory, just as he’d learned them, or it would all be for nothing. The madness that echoed through the halls would become his own, and the money . . . all that money.

  There were dim lights strung along the hall, leading down a wide stone stair, and into the shadows below. Jespon took the steps at a trot, ignoring the sounds, which had grown to a constant shriek of madness and a grinding rattle of metal. As he went, he grasped the syringe tightly and plunged it into the lid of the vial. His footsteps grew quicker, and the heaving of his breath threatened to steal the words from his lips, but he couldn’t wait any longer. It had to be now, and it had to be quick.

  He hit the bottom step, stumbled, righted himself and hurried down the hall. The sounds were close now, immediate and maddening. To his right, barred doorways loomed, cells that had lain empty for long years, their iron doors latched and rusted. He passed the first two cells without a glance, but as he came abreast of the third, he slowed, backing toward the center of the hall. Fingers gripped the bars of that third cell, long and sinewy – strong. The bars shook again.

  Jepson took a step closer, raising the syringe like a dagger over his head. The words flowed from his lips, but he had no more control of them now than he did of the tremble in his wrist, or the rubbery sensation that threatened to deny him use of his legs. He slipped toward the barred door, and suddenly a face slammed into it, too-wide eyes glaring at him, framed in wild, unkempt hair. The skin was sallow and pale and the bars shook harder than they had before, threatening to tear loose from the stone of the walls.

  With a cry, Jepson plunged the syringe down and slammed it into the flesh of one of the arms groping through the bars, fingers wide to seek his throat. He felt the needle bite and brought his free hand down on the plunger, jamming it home with a grunt and stepping back, leaving the needle deeply imbedded in its target, watching in horror as the arm was jerked inward, catching the syringe on the bar and snapping it off near the center of the too-long needle. Green liquid glittered in the air, splashing the walls and floor in droplets that glowed and hissed. Jepson stepped back further with a gasp. His heart slammed too quickly - too violently - in his chest, and he feared it would stop. He couldn’t get breath to slip past the knot in his throat, and only the intervention of the wall at his back prevented his toppling to the stone floor.

  The screams tore through the air at inhuman volume. Jepson slapped his palms to his ears and closed his eyes. Nothing could have blocked that sound, but he muted it, and, blessedly, within moments the sounds began to fade. The screams receded slowly to wails, the wails to moans. Jepson’s eyes snapped open wide, and he pushed off the wall, moving toward the bars of the cell. His voice rose instantly, returning to his chant, bringing the ancient Hebrew to life through his voice, and trying to imagine that he was in control of the situation.

  He stepped closer. The light was very dim, and the bony wrists and yellowed, skinny arms no longer groped between the bars. In fact, the cell’s occupant had retreated to the far wall and slid down to a sitting position on the floor, knees drawn up and head back.

  Jepson spoke more clearly, enunciating carefully. There was no reaction within the darkened cell. No motion, no sound. Jepson grew calmer, gaining confidence, and he stepped to within an inch of the bars, staring down fixedly at the man cowering against the back wall. The final words of the chant tumbled from his lips, resonant and strong. For just an instant, as the hall fell silent, Michael Adcott raised his head, staring into the eyes of his captor. The captive man’s eyes blazed with something beyond insanity, beyond rage or pain.

  But only for a second. Then those eyes were dead. Blank. Nothing more reflected in their dull black depths but the dim light of the torches in the hall. Jepson watched a moment longer, letting his breathing catch a normal rhythm and straightening his jacket, running one hand back through sweat-soaked hair.

  Reaching into one pocket, Jepson retrieved a ring of keys and inserted a large iron skeleton key into the cell’s huge old lock.

  "Come along then," he said, his voice cracking once, then steadying again. "Come along Michael. We have work to do, and I’ve had enough nonsense for one day."

  Adcott didn’t move. Not until Jepson’s fingers gripped his upper arm and tugged. Then, with slow, mechanical movements, he levered himself from the floor, leaned against the wall for support, and found his feet. The man did not turn to Jepson, nor did he answer. When Jepson turned toward the door of the cell, Adcott followed as if drawn in the other man’s wake.

  It was nearly three o’clock by the time Holmes made his way to the door of my flat. He stood outside the door, and when I invited him in, he shook his head impatiently.

  "Your coat, Watson, and hurry. Timing is crucial, and we have several places to be before evening."

  I didn’t hesitate. Long years as Holmes’ companion have removed several layers of my natural hesitation. There were only two choices, follow as best I could, or be left behind and miss whatever was to come. My coat over one arm, my hat in the other hand, I slipped out the door, and Holmes pulled it tight behind me.

  Just as I was turning to
go, I saw him bend at the waist, reaching down to run a finger along one of the cracks in the sidewalk. Straightening, he removed a bit of paper from his pocket and carefully folded whatever he’d scraped from the ground inside. I thought to ask what he was doing, then thought better of it. All in it’s time, he’d say. Why force the words?

  There was a carriage waiting at the curb, and Holmes slipped inside. I followed, and without a word from Holmes, the driver was off. I should have liked to have asked where we were bound, but experience told me the words would be wasted. Holmes had the predatory, hunter’s gleam in his eye I’d seen so many times before, and I knew he’d speak to me only when he was ready. I contented myself with slipping into my coat and leaning back to watch the streets as we passed.

  The carriage headed into the center of the city, and it was only a short time before we pulled to the curb. A quick glance out the window confirmed my suspicions. We had pulled up in front of the morgue.

  "Why have we come here?" I asked in surprise. "I’ve told you the man was in my flat, alive and standing as you, or I."

  "If, indeed, the man you saw was the same Michael Adcott you pronounced dead," Holmes replied, exiting the coach and motioning the driver to wait, "then I would expect without doubt to find that body here. The fact you met a man you believe might be Adcott does not mean the Adcott for whom you signed the death warrant is not dead."

  He fell silent then, leaving me to follow the trail of his thoughts to their obvious conclusions. A brother? A close cousin? Why hadn’t it occurred to me? My ears were burning with the sudden realization I’d acted the fool, but I followed Holmes into the morgue entrance nevertheless. What had I been thinking? That dead men walk?

  It was late in the day, and it was unlikely that many would be walking the halls of that dark place, but Holmes entered with familiarity and confidence. There was nothing to do but to follow.