The Cabinet of Dr Blessing (The Dr Blessing Collection Parts 1-3): A Gothic Victorian Horror Tale

by Rollins, Jack

  I stayed firm to my point of view: the common street-urchin can only be introduced to so much comfort, before he or she becomes uncomfortable with the luxury itself. A degree of poverty is ingrained into their very being. I could not bear to cause social and psychological damage to this child.

  This had caused a number of rows between us, and Margaret had laid down many ultimatums. Several times she had cried, “Either give me a child, or give me that child!” Often she pointed out that my interest, even my work, had always been to encourage social mobility. She argued that my involvement in Burton’s hospital was an attempt to elevate the living standard of the sick and injured poor. She asked me with suspicion, why it was that I strove to improve the situation of the poor except when it involved directly making her happy.

  She was, of course, quite right to be suspicious. What I referred to as “my point of view” was, in truth, nothing of the sort. I simply had to keep Niamh away from the baby in the bell-jar. Panacea had some sort of hold over my mind. Sometimes I felt that I was some sort of automaton and it was Panacea who steered me. Were I to be right, I could not expose Niamh to that; it was bad enough that Margaret and the maid were in the vortex with me. But I had to continue. What gifts I could bring to mankind from this remarkable creature…

  In any event, the laudanum had controlled Margaret’s fits of wilful temper quite well; it was her other fits which had become a concern to me. Over the course of the three years since I tended to Judith Cloonan, Margaret had taken to ever more frequent bouts of apoplexy. Again, a little laudanum seemed to do the trick, but it seemed a curious condition, with no obvious cause. She had not suffered a head trauma. She had no history of such violently altered states of consciousness. It puzzled me.

  I returned my attention to Niamh. “Whatever would I do without you, Niamh? I am in good health, however, and I simply became overly involved in some experiments of great medical import.” I smiled at Margaret, who I could see at the bottom of the stairs.

  Margaret joked, “Doctor Blessing became overly involved in a bottle of brandy with his friends, he should say!”

  “Margaret! Niamh knows that I am a paragon of restraint and respectability. The excesses that tempt other men make no impression on me,” I returned. I turned back to Niamh and asked, “Be a dear and bring your old doctor a dish of water, would you?”

  Niamh rushed away with all enthusiasm as I climbed the stairs to the master bedroom where I oriented myself to time once more – it was almost half past ten. After carrying out a shortened toilet routine, I made my way to the dining room, where Margaret was smearing jam onto some warm, buttered bread for Niamh.

  I was about to make a jovial reprimand for indulging her, but a stern look from Margaret deterred me. I could see that she really adored the girl, at least as much as I did myself.

  Besides wishing I could change Niamh’s situation, I was wishing many other things that morning. Wishes of flying and escaping jarred against wishes of permanence and family. Wishes of making a lovely family home smashed against more urgent wishes of finding a way to get rid of that dead body.

  After a short breakfast, a hansom cab carried Niamh and I to Oxford Street, which was choked with cabs and carriages of all descriptions. We disembarked there, turned off Oxford Street and walked the length of Poland Street, to the hospital. I saw patient after patient until well after noon. Diseased whore. Septic knife wound. Diseased whore. Falling sickness. Miscarriage. Severed toe (nothing I could do but stitch and clean the wound). Sailor with syphilis. Breast cancer diagnosis. Rheumatism. Diseased whore.

  I worked, but felt like a ghost. Words came out of my mouth, but I felt like I was listening in on someone else’s conversation.

  I sent Niamh to fetch us each a pie from a nearby baker’s shop and decided to break for an hour.

  This seems like a good opportunity to tell you about the hospital itself. The death of Judith Cloonan made Charlotte Burton and I consider how better we could empower the poor. The result was that Henry Burton bought up some property on Poland Street and the Henry Burton Foundation Hospital for the Gratuitous Treatment of Accident and Disease was born.

  The hospital was modest, with beds for fifty patients. Ten of these beds were for private, paying patients. The first building purchased by Henry had swiftly been adapted for our use and I had been able to treat a great many outpatients, but only ten inpatients at a time. Burton’s own pocket had been enough to create the original hospital, to which all of his workers were subscribed automatically. He then began to extol the benefits of a hospital plan with other businesses in trade with him. “Fewer days missed owing to sickness,” he had told them. “Less need to replace injured men,” he promised.

  Any businessman with an ounce of sense tried his best to emulate Henry Burton in any way that he could. And so it was not very long at all that dock workers, warehousemen, rail workers, builders, factory workers and anyone else you care to think of, began to pay one penny a week for a right to treatment at the hospital.

  All the while, Henry had his men working on the neighbouring buildings in the terrace, which at the last he connected to the original building.

  From then, the inpatient beds were moved out of my original building which thenceforth served only as an outpatient clinic, and where I retained my office and a laboratory at basement level. I served as General Physician In Charge – to govern the whole hospital. Most other hospitals were run by a board of governors, who had the power to refer or decline patients as they saw fit. Generally, those hospitals would refuse to treat terminally ill patients, whereas I would occasionally take them in for treatment.

  The dying were of great interest to me as I began to develop my interest in pharmaceutical research, as well as perfecting my rudimentary surgical skills.

  It would amaze you, or perhaps it would not, what a dying person will allow you to do to his or her body in the hope of defying death. It was the ideal setting for experimentation, grasping into the darkness to find cures where no other doctor had dared look before.

  Also on my staff were: half a dozen nurses – all hard, impatient women; a physician, Dr Collier; a surgeon, Mr Boorman; and two training doctors, Dr King and Dr Flynn.

  The success of the Henry Burton Foundation Hospital had generated much interest, and importantly, many willing patrons, who wished to help Henry with his next project. So it was that ground had been broken on a new hospital in Marylebone, built to a pavilion design, with various wings for different classes of condition. I had specified that two particular wings should be included: one to specialise in gynaecology; the other to investigate birth defects.

  Charlotte Burton had thought this a marvellous idea, and had convinced Henry to do as I wished. Henry had seemed reluctant. I always suspected that he had fathomed my true intentions: to increase my likelihood of finding another creature like the one in the bell-jar. I had sugared the prospect for Charlotte, by planting the idea that women might be educated to the level of doctor in such a facility. She had run with this – I knew that she would not take no for an answer and that Henry would have been harangued into submission had he shown any hesitation.

  So it was, then, that Henry had managed to create a successful hospital, and had laid the foundation (both metaphorically and actually) for a much greater establishment in what was now, following his untimely demise, to be known as the Henry Burton Memorial Hospital. Who knew how many people would ultimately owe their lives to Henry Burton’s generosity?

  The Bilbao Devil, it seemed, had become an angel.

  Niamh returned with the pies, but an expression of worry was firmly fixed on her face when she entered my office.

  “What is it, child?”

  “A man is asking for you outside, Doctor. I do not know his face, but he has come with Mrs Burton’s coach and driver.”

  I stepped outside to meet the man. He was a burly brute dressed in a brown woollen suit, with a brown derby perched on top of his large, square head. His manner was
brusque and by the way he wore his too small hat at the front of his head (making him peer down his nose, with jaw slightly jutting and raised) I could tell he was either a police detective, or had been a constable at some time.

  The brute handed over a black outlined envelope, and said nothing.

  I opened the envelope and found the black-rimmed letter within. It was from Mrs Burton, surely enough. She requested my presence immediately.

  “Niamh, fetch Dr Collier and ask him to man my station. Apologise to our patients for the delay and inform them that an emergency has presented itself.”

  Niamh moved to do as I asked as I climbed into the coach. The brute got in beside me, and said nothing on the twenty-minute ride to the Burton home.

  Mrs Burton - Charlotte - received me in the parlour of her luxurious home. Henry had bought the small Kensington mansion two years ago. It seemed ostentatious at the time, without children to fill it and even more so now, without Henry.

  “You may leave us, Charles,” Charlotte said, smiling at her hired thug.

  When Charles had left the room, I took my time to look around, noticing that, although Charlotte wore the black crape and mourning cap that befit her loss, the curtains were open, letting in light from the expansive gardens to the rear of the property.

  “I must say, Charlotte, even in mourning you look… well.”

  Charlotte eyed me with a curious look. I immediately fumbled with my derby. I ceased the fidgeting almost immediately – had she noticed it? Did she think I was nervous about something? My God! Could she know that I was responsible?

  No, of course not.

  How could she?

  I steadied my hands. Breathed. And steeled myself, prepared to issue forth lie after lie to this woman, or to Jesus Christ himself, should it be necessary.

  “I will assume your remark was meant as a compliment, George.”

  “You assume correctly, Charlotte. I bear nothing but compliments for your person.”

  “And yet it took a letter edged in black to bring you here.”

  “Your grief, Charlotte. I was showing you respect by allowing you time to mourn, without the need for worry about the hospital. I knew that the last thing you would want would be the suffering of those wretches out there.” I cleared my throat and chanced, “Or did I assume incorrectly?”

  “Not incorrectly, no,” she responded. “But you did make an assumption. Surely our acquaintance is strong enough for a more direct approach?”

  I knelt before her chaise-long, desperate to repair any damage I had caused to my mask of innocence. “Charlotte, I do believe I am not representing myself very well. And let me tell you, it is simply because of my own personal grief. At being here, seeing you, here at home, without him. This feels like half the home it once was.”

  “Then I shall have to become accustomed to that division of homeliness.”

  My eyes flashed at the sheer coldness of the woman. This woman, who had at one time held my respect – such respect… a level I only reserve for certain men of achievement, had become a cold hard thing in her grief. I felt as though I was stood in front of a different woman entirely.

  “Charlotte, is there anything I might prescribe you for your grief?”

  Charlotte shook her head, and waved a dismissive hand to me. “I require only one thing from you, George.”

  “Yes, Charlotte?”

  “The truth.”

  I gulped and blanched. The urge to turn the derby around in my hand was overwhelming. I fought the sensation back.

  “The truth, dear Charlotte?”

  The dam broke, Charlotte collapsed into a flood of tears. She reached forwards and placed her trembling hands around my neck, clasping them behind my head, drawing me close.

  Most uncomfortable with this sudden improper proximity, I tried to stand and eased her hands away.

  “My dear, Charlotte. My dear, dear Charlotte. Tell me what I must do.”

  “They say he leapt from the bridge, George, but I do not believe it for a minute. They say he must have taken his own life.”

  I seized the chance. “Well… he was under a lot of pressure…”

  “Pressure? The business was thriving.”

  “The debt of the house, perhaps?” I glanced at the walls and ceiling.

  “Bought outright. With cash. He could have bought three of these houses without stopping for breath.”

  “Quite.” My mind cast about for anything I might use.

  “I know you were not on the best of terms before the end, George. But did he ever say anything? Did he give any sign at all that he was suffering?”

  I closed my eyes for a long moment. I wanted to conceal my search for a lie and make it appear as though I was plucking up the courage to tell the truth.

  “There was one occasion, only a few weeks ago, around the time of his disappearance, actually, when I discovered him drunk. In his drunken state he was pleased to see me… and he and I temporarily set aside our differences. He confided that for all the money, for all his success, for all the ships and tea and silver and opium in the world, his only desire was to have the ability to sire a child. He said that without an heir, he felt like an incomplete man, less than a man.”

  Charlotte’s head rocked back on her neck. She stared at me with eyes full of disbelief. “He said that? Truly?”

  “He did. He was very bitter, and drunk enough that he wished to restore our friendship, but in truth we never did.”

  Charlotte sat in silence for a few moments. “George, I believe I will have the rest of the day to myself. This has all taken a terrible toll on me.”

  “I apologise for not attending Henry’s funeral, Charlotte. Given the terms he and I were on by the end, I felt he would have wanted it that way.”

  “I completely understand, George. I received a card from Margaret. It was most welcome.”

  I nodded and stepped back towards the door. “Then I shall be sure to convey that to her. We shall pay you a visit quite soon. Until then, should you need anything…” I was about to tell her to send her messenger, but I stopped myself. I thought: if that messenger was this Charles character, I would rather be of no use.

  As I moved to the door, Charlotte asked, “What was it you and Henry quarrelled about, George? What was it that made you drift apart for these last two years?”

  I stopped at the door, my fingers clenched around the doorknob. What could I tell her that would perhaps deter her asking again in the future? She could never know the truth - that Burton had grown scared of the creature I harboured. That he had feared for mankind should the creature escape.

  “We argued over you, Charlotte. As you and I worked on the hospital together, Henry became terribly suspicious of my motives. He believed that I loved you and that I intended to leave Margaret to make you mine.”

  Charlotte raised her eyebrows at this. “Really? That is most unlike Henry. I always thought it had something to do with the night Judith Cloonan died.”

  My departure from the house was the very meaning of alacrity.

  Two.

  Charlotte turned as Charles entered the parlour once more. “He has gone, madam,” he said, waiting by the door.

  “I want you to follow him, Charles. Keep an eye on his movements, especially in the evenings.”

  Charles nodded. “Am I to assume your suspicions now match my own?”

  Charlotte nodded almost imperceptibly. “George Blessing has changed, Charles. He was a good, caring, guileless man. Now he has made a liar of himself.”

  “At the very least, madam.” Charles wanted to add murderer and madman to his account, but saved his remarks out of respect for the lady.

  Charlotte’s hands smoothed her dress over her midriff.

  “Your state suits you, madam,” Charles commented. “I’m sure Mr Burton would have agreed.”

  Charlotte smiled weakly at him. “Henry was ever so pleased when I told him. He always wondered what people thought of him, having no children for so lon
g. He worried about it, George was right in that. So when I told him I was with child, he was ecstatic. There were occasions when I would catch him in melancholy moods. Those moods were mainly about the loss of his friendship with George, actually. And I used to tell him off. Used to tell him to get in the coach and visit silly George and all of us could have dinner together like we used to.”

  Charles straightened up at the door. “Something happened that night, madam. I am sure that Henry was not aware of the greater part of it. That doctor, I am certain he stole something away. I think it was a part of that whore girl.”

  Three.

  Mary Brigham stepped off the train in King’s Cross and was immediately thrust into the frantic scramble for survival that was life in the capital. A porter brought her luggage from the coach and, being an attractive, twenty-one year old lady, fresh-faced from years of Northumberland coastal air, she found no trouble in attracting a strapping young man on the platform, to haul her luggage through the masses and out into London proper.

  Her assistant managed to hail a hansom cab and Mary thanked him as he heaved her travel chest and two smaller bags into the cab beside her. She slipped the man a shilling, which he accepted gratefully, with a doff of his tatty cap. The driver cracked his whip and the horses surged off along the street, heading for Tyburnia, where her mission would truly begin.

  Mary looked over her containers of possessions and was amused at the thought that she had never travelled so laden before. The realisation that in these three items of luggage were all of her worldly possessions made her all at once feel both frugal, and frivolous. Who on earth travelled carrying all that they possessed? And on the other hand: who on earth possessed so little?

  Looking out from the cab at the Londoners going about their daily business, she saw the well-heeled and the down-trodden. She wondered if those scruffy, ragged men huddled around small fires in the alleys and lanes owned more than she.