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

by Rollins, Jack

Giles was present in the parlour, his great paunch supporting the book he was reading in between naps. He kept slipping into a snooze and his grip on the book loosened slightly and the book tipped, causing him to awaken with a start. Giles then invariably glanced around to see if anyone had noticed his slumber, commenced reading the book again and the whole process started afresh.

  Miss Pinchstaff sat sewing a pretty hat that Niamh suspected was to be presented to her as a gift on Christmas Day. She had, on other nights, observed a dress, one which matched the hat, and which Charlotte had insisted was to be a gift for her niece who lived in Wales. Niamh had never heard mention of this niece before the dress had appeared!

  Charlotte, swollen with pregnancy, struggled to find a comfortable position on her chair. She repeatedly rose to her feet and approached Niamh, admired her arrangement and encouraged her.

  “Thank you Mrs Burton,” Niamh said, wanting to sound grateful so that she would not betray how utterly bored she was.

  Charlotte sighed and waddled back to her chair, hands clasped beneath her bulging midriff, attempting in vain to alleviate the strain on her lower back. Occasionally, Niamh saw Charlotte glancing at a portrait of Mr Burton. Charlotte dabbed at her eyes with an embroidered handkerchief before quickly tucking the handkerchief away, hoping that nobody had noticed. But Niamh had noticed, as she had on many occasions.

  “Why do we not play a game?” Miss Pinchstaff suggested.

  Niamh had other ideas and set aside her decorations. “If it pleases you, I would very much like to go to bed.”

  “Are you all right, dear?” Charlotte asked, leaning forwards, filled with attentive concern. “Are you feeling unwell?”

  “A little. Perhaps I am just tired with excitement for Christmas.”

  Charlotte tutted sympathetically and offered, “Can I get one of the servants to bring you something, little one?”

  “No thank you, Mrs Burton. I am sure an early night will make me well.”

  “Should I take her to the sickroom?” Miss Pinchstaff asked.

  “Not at all,” Charlotte replied. “She is not suffering from some terrible disease. She simply wishes Old Christmas would arrive sooner! Am I not right, my dear child?”

  “I s’pose so, Mrs Burton.”

  “Then you sleep well, child. You will be busy again tomorrow, with Grandpa no doubt. We will need plums for the pudding, and I am not quite up to climbing trees!”

  Niamh took her leave and hurried upstairs. She felt she needed to stretch her legs. It seemed as though the walls of the Burton house were closing in on her.

  No sooner had Niamh moved into the Burton home, than it became apparent why the doctor felt he could not return. Since the hospital had burned down, a number of rumours began to circulate. Rumours of madmen roaming the streets of London at night, rumours of a disease infecting animals and humans alike. Rumours that Dr Blessing’s hospital had been the source of the disease.

  As the news of more deaths rolled in, so more rumours emerged. More accusations. Niamh and Mrs Burton had been openly derided in the streets, spat at and threatened.

  Niamh had heard the coachmen and the servants discussing the state of the city. She had heard that certain parts of the city had become uninhabitable because of the monsters or the madmen or the disease.

  Mrs Burton tried to protect her from the stories, and had acquired the services of Miss Pinchstaff to school her, to try to occupy her mind in this oasis, this sanctuary.

  Niamh knew what they were trying to do, and she appreciated it, but it was not working. She craved adventure. She was a street-runner at heart. She had seen the horrible things that men could do to women of the night. She had lived in enough fear to last her a lifetime, until she met Dr Blessing. He brought the fear to an end, until she became fearful for him.

  But she had not been afraid for herself.

  She opened the drawer of the small dresser in her bedroom and pocketed the coins she had been saving. Anytime she was given a ha’penny she saved it in the drawer. Her plan was simple. Giles had taken her to a pharmacy in the city the day before, when he picked up his medicine. In there, Niamh had looked at lovely, coloured glass bottles filled with wonderful, flowery scents. She thought that perhaps something from the shop might make Mrs Burton happy. It would be both a Christmas gift, and a thank you for her kindness and protection.

  Niamh peered out of the bedroom window, watching for the lanterns of the guards. She could see two glowing orbs flitting between the dark shapes of plants on the lower terraces of the grounds. Niamh knew that it would be cold, but her coat was downstairs – she did not want to risk being caught. She decided she would go without, like she had years before. Anyway, she thought, I need to be light and nimble for climbing, and a coat would only get in the way.

  Silently she slid open the window and reached out to the creeping vines that grew on the trellis on that end of the mansion. Even in her cumbersome dress, she managed to scurry down to the ground, and broke into a run for the orchard, where she was safe from the light of the house. She knew that, within the orchard, she could easily hide from the guards’ lanterns should they approach.

  The chilly night air made her shiver as she pressed her back against an apple tree. For a moment she wished she had brought her coat, but then remembered the winters where she had shared the coats of the women who had protected her. Women like Judith Cloonan, the woman who had died on the night Niamh met Dr Blessing.

  Those frozen nights suddenly came back to her. Waiting on the streets while the women worked, sneaking into baker’s shops to steal the heat and a piece of bread if she could manage it. She thought of the end of so many nights, with six or seven of them huddled together in a doss, all together in a bed, or out on the hard floor. They were hard times, but not all bad times.

  Niamh was pleased to commence an adventure as she feared comfort had made her soft.

  The lanterns and voices approached. The guards were nearing the orchard. She caught the whiff of a sweet pipe tobacco. Inching her way around the tree she saw the lantern about ten feet away. She saw the two bearded men.

  She became aware of her hot breath in the cold night and pressed her lips together, not wanting to release a jet of steam that would catch the light. When she could hold her breath no longer, she released tiny amounts of air through her nostrils and drew in only a tiny amount of air in exchange. The effect was dizzying after a minute.

  Gravel crunched as the men began to move again, back in the direction from which they had come. Niamh knew she could breathe easily once more as the men had turned their backs on her.

  Twigs glistened as moisture turned to frost. Niamh was careful to place each footstep where she could make the least amount of noise.

  A vixen cried out in the grounds, or the grounds of a neighbouring mansion. The blood-curdling sound was like a woman being attacked - a sound with which she was only too familiar. The sudden cry had caused Niamh to duck, knees bent and head low.

  The guards, who had also been startled by the noise, chuckled. One man chided the other playfully for showing fear. They moved on.

  Niamh hitched up her dress to the knees and commenced to climb a sturdy beech tree close to the perimeter wall of the grounds. Midway up the tree, a hefty limb drew level with the top of the wall. As Niamh scampered along its length, she remembered a lady she had met during the summer: Mary Brigham, whom she had witnessed besting three men in combat and who had shown no shortage of athletic ability. That was a woman of interest to Niamh – a woman who could handle herself with assurance.

  Perfectly balanced, Niamh felt the bow of the limb upon which she moved. It was then that she leapt, knowing that were she to continue, she ran the risk of snapping the branch, falling, and creating such a noise as would alert the guards immediately. Her torso hit the top of the wall, arms fully outstretched. The collision knocked some wind out of her. She kicked her toes to the wall, scraping her shoes terribly as she worked her arms and managed to rise to the to
p of the wall. She peered down at the pavement on the other side. The street was in utter darkness.

  Niamh looked back at the lights of the warm, comfortable mansion. She thought for a moment of the terrible explosions she and the others of the house had heard the previous night. Grandpa had told her they were mere fireworks, being tested in preparation for a huge New Year celebration, when the city would return to normal. Now that she had heard for a fact that the monsters were real, Niamh realised that the explosions probably had something to do with all of that.

  She thought of the explosions and how frightening it had sounded. Thought of the safety of the house. Thought about Mary Brigham, and adventure. She thought about the cannibals or monsters or whatever was meant to be out there. Thought about how worried Mrs Burton would be if she was not back by morning. Thought about the good, bad old days, of slipping into the shadows of the city. She thought about how pleased Mrs Burton would be with a nice present on Christmas morning.

  She hung from the lip of the wall for a second or two, then dropped to the pavement and broke into a run to get across the road. Niamh knew to pick a route past St James Park that would take her close to Buckingham Palace. She reasoned that if anywhere in London would be fortified, it would be there. She wanted to be close to the Palace in case she found trouble, but not so close to the Palace that the authorities guarding the Queen would find her and arrest her. Or worse, find her and take her home to face trouble from Mrs Burton!

  The fringe of Hyde Park had been a frightening sight for two reasons. The first, the fence and trees had resembled great black claws and teeth. The second, there was nobody else abroad. This meant that either nobody dared go there, and she was the only person mad enough to pass, or that people had been passing, or attempting to do so, but had been dragged into the shadows, to be roasted and eaten in the park.

  She imagined the Serpentine running with blood, and her being able to walk from one side to the other on the backs of the dead who bobbed, swollen and green, in the murky water.

  Along her way, Niamh began to notice that some of the Kensington mansions were guarded like the Burton house. When she had passed in daylight this had not been as obvious to her. The guards eyed her suspiciously as she scurried on her way.

  Niamh finally saw Londoners on the move when she reached the turnpike at Hyde Park corner. A ragtag group of men had created a wide barricade of carts, crates, barrels and stalls. Through the barricade, they had made a narrow passage – the only way for Niamh to pass into the city proper, in this direction. The men stood by a fire, rifles by their sides. They challenged anybody who approached them from any direction. The only item to pick them out as a uniformed unit was the scruffy bandage of material they each wore around their foreheads.

  Niamh observed the small militia, of about a dozen men in total, as they stopped men, women and children. They asked a series of questions, and as one man spoke, two others pointed their rifles. They let the people pass and then turned to the next group, then the next. The scene was one of organised chaos – dozens of men calling orders and instructions, scurrying about the barricade and dozens of travellers trying to pass, chattering with each other as they waited in line. Niamh hoped that in the darkness, her scuffed shoes would not give her away, as she sidled up to the turnpike.

  Her keen eyes had spotted a well-dressed couple who were walking into the city, from almost the same direction as her. Their fine clothes marked them as Kensington people. Her fine clothes marked her as a Kensington child - their child, as she hoped to appear.

  The first flakes of snow fell as she followed the couple into the opening of the barricade. Extending her fingers, she felt the icy droplets land, melting quickly. The thought of the cold and the snow had caused her, involuntarily, to stand closer to the lady and gentleman, wanting to share the heat of their coats, regretting once again that she had decided to leave her own at home.

  “Visiting a sick relative,” the man said.

  “Who?” the guard asked.

  “My mother in law, if you must know!” the man replied, his tone telling of his impatience. He wrapped an arm around his wife, and drew her closer to his side.

  “The little girl with you?” the guard asked.

  “Little girl?” the man asked, turning to follow the stained, crooked finger that extended past his shoulder, pointing straight at Niamh.

  “Of course not! No child of mine would be out here without a coat! And with those things abroad! The very idea!”

  Niamh was about to turn and flee from the barricade, when she heard a screaming whistle from over to her left. The guard’s dirty face turned suddenly in the direction of the sound. He grabbed a whistle from the chain around his neck, placed it between his lips, and blew one loud blast. “Hurry, hurry through!” the guard ushered, patting the couple on their backs as they passed. “Come on, girly! Get yourself through!”

  Niamh’s eyes widened in shock as two other guards brushed past her. They grasped two crates and toppled them into the passage, forming a low blockade.

  She could not turn back; there was only one way to go.

  A guard shouted, “Over there! I saw two of them by the railings!”

  A shot roared out into the night. A shiver ran down Niamh’s spine, like cold water. She ran for the boundary of Green Park and could see the opening for Tyburn Lane to her left before she and the others who had fled the turnpike even dared to glance back.

  Rifle fire crackled at the turnpike and a cheer rose from the men. Silver speckles of snow drifted lazily to the ground like glitter in the gaslight. Again she caught some flakes in her hand. Some of the speckles melted, but then she noticed that some of the white speckles remained. She rubbed her palms together and noted the grey and black smears left behind. She realised that there was not just snow falling, but ash and soot.

  Wondering why it would snow ash, Niamh hurried along Picadilly and saw Constables with their lanterns, moving with great caution among those who lingered on the thoroughfare. They ordered the Londoners to go home and insisted they were mad for even thinking of stepping out.

  Niamh recognised that the best way to remain unnoticed was to move along, and so she did, hoping to reach the Charing Cross area before long.

  The way was marked by small fires on the pavements, around which the lowly and frightened huddled. Her nicely made clothes, made scruffy from her climb, and the muck of the city roads, created an appearance that confused them and made them suspicious – she looked incomplete, a half-breed, both one of them and something else altogether.

  The streets narrowed and the sense of being crushed by the buildings, and bodies increased as she moved ever closer to the riverside rookeries. Every now and then she noticed the ruins of buildings gutted by fire, or houses boarded up completely.

  A woman selling oysters referred to Niamh as “Princess” as she passed. A gentleman in a top-hat, with a handkerchief pressed to his lips, referred to her as, “A stray bitch” to his friend.

  She considered how easy it would be to dip a hand into his pocket and remove the pocket watch she knew would be connected to the gold chain the gentleman displayed so dangerously. Moving on, it was only seconds before she realised someone else had noticed the chain and the man cried, “Thief!”

  Scuffling feet and fits of giggling rose behind her, then two boys in torn grey shirts and trousers brushed past, inspecting their stolen treasure.

  Women called down from the windows of slums, trying to entice the lonely to come and part with their money. Drunken sailors pointed up to them and talked of giving themselves a little present from Old Christmas.

  The snow began to fall more persistently, the flakes like feathers in the fog, perfect and white until they landed on the carpet of soot, manure and human filth at Niamh’s feet. She crossed her arms and rubbed at her little biceps, hoping to instil some warmth in them.

  Hags and living skeletons, moving piles of rags and yellow-skinned children brushed past her as she continued down
the ever narrowing streets, trying to recall the whereabouts of a little pharmacy she had once seen. She ignored the warnings and inquiries as she passed:

  “You lost, little madam?”

  “Nasty things, abroad…”

  She recognised a lodging house near Charing Cross and turned left into a narrow lane, barely wide enough for two adults to pass each other side-on. She could hear the squeal of a pig further down the lane and could smell the hot, thick scent of wet faeces. She caught a glimpse of the two boys she had seen with the pocket watch, flitting in and out, between the legs of the night’s travellers.

  A scream in the suffocating lane caused many around her to take flight, running against her. She changed direction to avoid the crush, turning on her heels on the slick ground as a wave of screams rose in the direction she had originally wanted to go. She bumped into the man behind her, excused herself and joined the row of bodies on the other side of the lane, moving with the flow once more. She was, before long, back at the lodging house she had recognised.

  Niamh worked a way around, by cutting down two further lanes, taking her back in the direction she had originally intended to travel. She had to admit, in the three years that Dr Blessing had provided her with accommodation, her nose had become a little more delicate to the smells of the city. Her eyes had become less accustomed to the ugly scenes of London at night. She felt unclean and longed to bathe. Niamh intended to buy some rose soap or floral cologne for Charlotte, but wondered if the little money she had on her person would allow her to buy a little treat for herself – something to take away the foul stench of the rookeries at night.

  A man roasted chestnuts in a brazier and Niamh longed to buy a bag and warm herself a little by the hot coals, but she had no idea how much her gift for Mrs Burton would cost and so dared not even spend half a penny. The snow melting against her had made her dress damp and the garment clung to her skin, icy and heavy.

  Whistles sounded in nearby streets, as constables raised the alarm of one incident or another but before Niamh could make sense of this, she noticed a sign indicating the sale of soap, and a green and red sign reading: Sacks’ Pharmacy.