Steampunk Omnibus: A Galvanic Century Collection

by Michael Coorlim

  Redvers snorted. Alton ignored him.

  "Upon my return I was greeted with open arms by my family, my father, my mother, my sisters. It'd been over a decade since I'd seen them, and I was hardly in a state to do more than try and assimilate back into a civilian life and forget the things I'd seen."

  "They call it exhaustion," Robert said, his voice carefully level. He raised his eyes, locking gazes with Alton. The two shared a single moment of unspoken communication, of pain, and the other man looked away again.

  "I wasn't diagnosed," Alton said. "I simply... went on half-pay and left the service. I drifted for months, it must have been, while my father... while my family enjoyed the pension I'd received."

  He could feel their sympathy, particularly from Robert, and couldn't help but let it lead him. "I didn't care, though. I couldn't. I felt like I was watching myself watch them, staying in my room most days, reading letters from those that welcomed me back to London without seeing any meaning in their words.

  Hector sucked the breath in between his teeth and began to rock a little in his seat.

  "On the advice of a friend I made an appointment with Doctor Paddock. He wasn't director then, just another alienist. He... helped me work through some things. I am ever grateful to him, though I am ashamed to say that we haven't much kept in touch this last decade, beyond the odd card now and again."

  Baden cleared his throat. "Thank you for sharing with us, Alton."

  Alton nodded. "It comes as a shock to hear that Paddock is dead. He was such an important part of my healing process. I wouldn't be the man I am today if it wasn't for his assistance."

  "Does anyone else have anything to say about the Director?"

  Hector raised his hand. "Paddock helped me. Helped me. He, uh. When I was young my parents would thrash me. Thrash me for the way that I spoke. Before the Director, before Bedford, the doctors thought I was wilful. Wilful!"

  "Calm down," Baden said. "Take your time."

  Hector nodded and poured himself a glass of water. He took a long sip from it, then wiped his mouth on his sleeve. "I'm sorry, I'm just upset. As with Alton, Doctor Paddock helped me a great deal. Helped me realise that my child-self was compulsively repeating what it had been punished for."

  "Your child-self," Alton said. "Was this some sort of hypnotic regression therapy?"

  "Nothing of the sort," Redvers said. "Director Paddock had his machine."

  "The one in his office?" Alton asked. "What does it do?"

  "It allows you to confront yourself," Robert said. "The parts of yourself that you cannot bear to face. You sort of..."

  Baden picked up where he trailed off. "Go within."

  Alton glanced behind himself towards Doctor Teague, who had ceased her note-taking and was watching the discussion avidly. "Perhaps that's what we need."

  "I'm sorry, I don't know the science of it," Robert said.

  "That's quite alright," Alton turned back to the group. "I've a good friend who does."

  "I'm sorry to interrupt," Doctor Teague spoke up.

  "Not at all," Baden said.

  "One other matter. There has been some concerns raised that patients have been experiencing some abuse at the hands of the staff. None of you have experienced any mistreatment, have you?"

  Alton glanced from the doctor back to the others in the therapy group.

  "Not me, personally," Baden said.

  Redvers snorted and looked away. Robert shook his head.

  "N-no," Hector said. "Th-the doctors have b-been nothing but kind."

  "And of the orderlies?" Teague asked.

  "F-Foster can be rough," Hector said.

  The others stared at him.

  "H-he. He yells. A lot."

  "That he does," Redvers said with a chuckle.

  "He's a hard man," Robert said.

  "It's bluster," Redvers said. "The more a dog barks, the weaker his bite."

  "You don't say," Alton said.

  "Not just at us," Robert said. "He's one to yell at the staff, too."

  "This is news to me," Doctor Teague said. "I've not had dealings with the man."

  "I even heard him havin' a row with Paddock," Redvers said.

  "But Paddock's so nice!" Baden said.

  "From what I 'eard Paddock was givin' as good as he got," Redvers said.

  Alton made a quiet eye contact with Doctor Teague.

  20 September, 1911 - 12:35 pm

  Had Aldora been any less nimble I daresay I would have broken her neck.

  I was already a bit on edge, being surrounded by potentially murderous lunatics as I was, so when the slender arms took a hold of me as I passed the alcove it was my natural impulse to grab them, pivot their owner over my hip, grab them by the sides of the head as they sailed past, and give a sharp twist. Only Aldora is quite quick enough to use that momentum as a counterbalance to pull me into the alcove, pinning my wrist up between my shoulder-blades to hold me against the wall.

  "Calm yourself," she whispered into my ear.

  "What are you doing here?"

  "Looking after my husband, as you seem incapable of remaining by his side."

  "Doesn't look as if you've had much more luck sticking with him."

  She shook her head. "He'll be staying put for the moment, in a meeting with that Teague woman and some of the other patients. While they've been busy with the two of you, I've taken it upon myself to find out what I can while unobserved."

  I peered out into the hall, where my giant escort had continued towards the lobby, oblivious to the fact that I was no longer following him. "I doubt they'd take much notice of you either way."

  "It's the killer I'm concerned with." She produced a cloth-wrapped bundle. "Someone here did murder Paddock, and they're no doubt most keen on your comings and goings."

  She had my attention. "What have you discovered?"

  She unwrapped a bloodied knife. "I came across it in a study. On the floor, as if dropped there carelessly."

  I pulled a pair of vulcanised gloves out of my coat pockets, slipping them on one after another, the snap echoing loudly in the asylum halls. I took the knife in hand and held it up, noting the dried blood along its edges, the smooth shape of the blade, the weight of it in my hand.

  "Ordinary carving knife," I muttered, flipping a magnification monocle down from the brim of my hat. "Most likely appropriated from the kitchen. If I get it back to the lab I can run some tests upon it, but I suspect we'll simply find that the blood is Paddock's."

  "There's more."

  "More?"

  "More blood. Traces of it in the control room."

  "There's a control room?"

  ***

  The control room was cramped, little more than a booth. There was scarcely room for the uncomfortable chair amid the panels of levers and knobs, lights and diodes. Under the control dash there were more pedals, and exposed piping on the walls dripped with condensed water.

  None of it was labelled, but given sufficient study I had little doubt I could discern the instruments' purpose. The pressure gauges indicated some sort of pneumatic system, which I could only assume belonged to the cell doors, explaining how they could have all been opened at once. A cursory investigation failed to reveal any flaws that might have lead to an accidental release, meaning that the mass opening had been intentional.

  "This no doubt dates back to when the facility was more of a prison," I said.

  "There, by those central lights," Aldora said. "See that? The reddish smear?"

  I lowered the magnification monocle on its accordion scaffold once more and peered at the indicators. I'd missed it at first – a red stain on red glass – but there was what might have been dried blood on the bulbs above the door controls.

  "You've quite the eye, Mrs. Fiske," I said, duly impressed. I'd looked at these very indicators at least twice without seeing it.

  I brought forth a small file and scraped a small quantity of the substance into a vial I kept for the very purpose. "I can ana
lyse this in my laboratory. For now, you should go and advise Mr. Johnson as to our progress."

  "Oh, no, I could never," Aldora said, twisting the wedding ring on her finger.

  "I'll not take credit for your deductive prowess."

  "No, James, please," Aldora said, slipping into the familiar. "You must promise me to keep my involvement from Alton or anyone else."

  "Whatever for?"

  "Alton has been concerned for me since the wedding, and as for the others... it would not be proper for a Lady to conduct herself so."

  "Proper?" I could scarcely believe my ears. "You must forgive me, Mrs. Fiske, but there are a great many social conventions I have little use for, and I am afraid that this is one of them. I have seen you, again and again, portray yourself as far less capable and competent than you actually are to avoid bruising the delicate sensibilities of your intellectual inferiors. I keep my silence because if I were to speak out on every such foolishness our society burdens us with I would soon run short on words, so it will have to suffice to say that I think that your reservations are a needless handicapping that you burden yourself with unnecessarily."

  A half-smile quirked at Aldora's lips, and her voice lowered, softened. "Oh, James. Please. Never change. Just please, promise me that you'll concede to this small deception."

  "As you wish. You know my reservations. I'll not speak on it again."

  She wasn't so bad, not really. She played the role expected of her, that of "mere woman," so well that I quite forgot how sensible she could truly be. If I stop and think about it, I'd attribute my dislike of her for a dislike for the masquerade she played... a deception similar to that of hiding my own intellect and self-education from my own brutish father so many years ago.

  She straightened her hat, sniffing. "What now?"

  "Collect Bartleby. Back to the lab." I slipped the vial into my inner jacket pocket, next to the where I'd strapped the knife in its cloth sheath. "But first I'm going to take a look at the study. See if there are any other forensic samples. And you?"

  "I'm going to return to the cordon. They'll notice my absence soon enough. Might I impose upon you further?"

  I buttoned my jacket. "Yes?"

  "Just... mind Alton. Keep him safe where I cannot."

  "Your husband is a capable man. He can take care of himself."

  She shook her head. "James, you know Alton perhaps better than any, but do you know of how his father came to be here?"

  "You alluded to this before. I've spoken to some of the doctors, but..."

  "I know little enough of Dennis Bartleby, for Alton does not speak of him. Rumours abound, though, among the upper classes."

  "I pay little heed to rumour."

  "A freedom I envy you. While it is common knowledge that Alton had his father committed, the reason varies with the teller. Some say congenital madness. Others say degeneration brought on by years of alcohol abuse. Alton does not speak of it, and I do not pry."

  I frowned. Given the scandalous rumours my partner did encourage, his silence on the matter was noteworthy.

  "There is another matter, perhaps more serious."

  "Oh?"

  "Now that he's being treated as a patient, I'm worried about how this environment is going to affect him."

  "You needn't. Alton is the most adaptable man I've ever known. More adaptable than his wife, even."

  A small smile crossed her face. "That's precisely why I worry. My poise comes from years of study, but Alton... his gift is almost instinctive. His life has brought him to many different stations, from the scrabblings of genteel poverty, to the regimented life of a Naval officer, to the heights of London aristocracy, and his gift, his social savantism, gives him an instinctive grasp of the social orders within which he finds himself."

  I nodded. I'd seen it myself.

  "But it's more than that. He can integrate himself seamlessly, and eventually learn to pull its strings--"

  "Like a puppeteer."

  "Like a musician. He plays. People dance."

  "I yet fail to see your concern."

  She pursed her lips and turned away. "Perhaps I'm being overly cautious, James, but I don't believe it's a talent that he has a sense of control about. His drive to assimilate is irresistible, his need to fit in, to play the role of the social chameleon is instinctive. Here, in this place, surrounded by minds so malleable, so shifting, so hungry for a strong will..."

  She trailed off, and my own heart sank with the possibilities. Who knew what this place might make of Bartleby. Who knew what he might make of this place.

  When I turned to address her again, the woman had gone.

  ***

  I returned to Dennis's office, and I was pleased to note that Bartleby seemed none the worse for wear after his therapy. Doctor Teague gave me a small wave. I nodded.

  "I trust that your investigations have been progressing fruitfully?" Dennis asked.

  "Quite," Alton said. "I've a fuller picture, I believe, of Doctor Paddock's therapies. And you, James?"

  "Some new evidence."

  "You managed to evade Dunstan most effectively," Dennis said. "I'm afraid it upset him. He feels that he's failed in his duties."

  "I can't say that I'm sorry."

  "Nor should you be. It is not your prerogative to assist him in his tasks. I trust that your deception was fruitful?"

  "That remains to be seen, until I am able to bring the Director's body down to my laboratory for a full forensic autopsy--"

  Dennis tensed. "Out of the question."

  "Father, I can assure you that such an examination is a vital part of our investigation," Bartleby said.

  "I am afraid that removing the Director is quite impossible. The body is the most important evidence we possess, and I'll not have the Metropolitan Police tampering with it."

  "Sir," I said. "I can assure you that the Director will remain in my custody at all times."

  "Can you?" Dennis asked, still rigid. "My son vouches for you, but how can you claim to speak for the police? I say you cannot."

  "You're being ridiculous," Bartleby said.

  "I am afraid that it's quite out of the question," Dennis said.

  I knew better than to argue with the mad. "So be it. I'll just have to see what the knife tells me."

  "Knife?" Bartleby asked. "You've found the murder weapon?"

  "Unless the place is littered with bloody cutlery," I said. "It was in the study. Dropped in haste, near as I could tell."

  "May I see it?" Dennis asked.

  I pulled the weapon from my coat, laying its cloth on the desk. Bartleby, Doctor Teague, and Dennis gathered around it.

  "It's just a standard knife from the kitchen." Dennis gave a bitter smile. "Anyone could have taken it in the confusion."

  "What can your tests tell us about it?" Doctor Teague asked.

  A mind eager to understand was always a pleasure. "Forensic sciences can tell us quite a bit. I do have a sample of Paddock's blood, so I can determine if they're of the same type. I can also look for any traces that point to the killer, and discern how long after the murder the knife was abandoned from samples taken near where it fell."

  "That's fascinating. I had no idea."

  Bartleby nodded. "Forensic science has become James's speciality."

  "I'd hardly call it a speciality," I said. "Oh, that reminds me. I found samples of blood in the control room."

  "The control room?" Teague asked.

  "Yes. Near the toggles to operate the cell doors."

  "Then the patient release was no accident," Bartleby said.

  "If the blood is Paddock's," I said. "I can determine if the doors were opened before or after the murder."

  "Do you mind if I go with you?" Doctor Teague asked. "I'd love to see how it works."

  Teague? In my laboratory? I'm normally not comfortable with others present while I'm working, but she was a scientist. Of a sort. Perhaps if I showed her my methods I could convert her to the ways of physical science.
I'm not sure why, but the thought made my skin flush and elevated my heart rate.

  "Of course you can," Bartleby said, nudging me with his elbow for some daft reason. "Right, James?"

  "I suppose," I said.

  "Be quick about it," Dennis said, checking the nearby mantle clock. "Scotland Yard's deadline draws nigh. Many innocent lives hang in the balance."

  "We've not forgotten," Bartleby said. "We won't tarry."

  Dennis held up a hand. "You're not going."

  "What?"

  "You're a patient, boy," Dennis said. "You'll be returned to your cell until Mr. Wainwright and Doctor Teague return."

  Alton tapped his fingers together rhythmically. "Father, I've had just about enough of this game."

  "You think this is a game?" Dennis asked.

  "These rules of yours are hampering my ability to identify the true killer," he said through clenched teeth.

  "Imagine that, son, commitment is making things more difficult for you."

  "Father--"

  "My soul doth weep." He flapped his hand at his son.

  Bartleby scowled, then turned to me. "Be quick."

  "As quick as I can manage."

  He glanced towards Doctor Teague, then leaned in to me. "But not too quick, eh, lad?"

  I had no idea what he was implying, but I did not care for his tone.

  "Oh, one last thing," Bartleby said. "There's an orderly here. A Foster. The patients mentioned him having argued with Paddock."

  "Carlton Foster?" I asked.

  "Yes, I believe that's his name," Doctor Teague said.

  "He's mentioned in the journal." I pulled the book out, flipping through it. "Paddock mentions having to confront the man. Something about disagreements in policy."

  "Perhaps you'd best have a word with him before you depart?"

  I nodded. From the journals Paddock had portrayed Foster as a difficult and obstinate man. It'd be nice to have a problem I could address directly for once.

  ***

  "You've got questions for me, then?" Foster asked.

  I'd sat with him in his cell for some few minutes, watching him, observing while the Giant stood silent sentinel behind me. Upon first blush I took him as a brutish man, dull and surly, the sort you'd more commonly find selling their muscles to extortioners on the East End or working for Inspector Abel. Such a man would find the systemic abuse of patients alluded to in Paddock's journal difficult. He would have to put up with their disrespect when it occurred and strike back at them in small ways. He'd have to be measured, clever, and of easy temperament.