The Friendship of Mortals

by Audrey Driscoll

  Chapter 7

  Early in January of 1912, Dean Allan Halsey held a reception at his home for the faculty of the Medical School, its benefactors and its graduating class, as well as the University administration and selected other Miskatonic faculty. I fitted into none of these categories, but Alma procured for me a special invitation.

  “It’s time you met my parents,” she said. “And this is the ideal occasion. There will be so many people milling around that you’ll be safely introduced before you know it.”

  “But won’t that give them the wrong idea? They’ll start thinking I’m a prospective son-in-law.” Occasionally I said things like this to tease her, knowing her aversion to marriage.

  “Not they!” said Alma, with a bitter little laugh. “Mother has given up on me, and as for Papa, he’s been introducing me to hand-picked students for years. Perfect little gentlemen, all of them, and dull as pencil stubs. So that doesn’t matter. But you must meet them, Charles. We’ve been seen together enough that Mother’s friends are asking her about ‘that young man I saw your Alma with.’ You know the sort of thing. We have to establish a link between you and my parents, find some common ground they can be comfortable with. Once you’ve been safely slotted into a social niche it will be all right, but right now you’re a loose end that Papa will feel obliged to follow up.”

  I remembered West’s suspicion that someone had been watching him on Dean Halsey’s orders, and agreed to attend.

  On the appointed Sunday afternoon, I put in my appearance at the Halseys’ Georgian mansion on Saltonstall Street. I was shown into a large bright room full of people. At one end was a table laden with food and drink. At the other, among a knot of other guests, the senior Halseys held court. I knew both of them by sight, but took the opportunity to observe them before going nearer.

  Allan Halsey was a tall man who obviously wished to appear distinguished. Everything about him proclaimed this, from the precision of his iron-grey hair to the polish of his shoes. Unfortunately, the effect was a little diminished by a rather weak chin. Mrs. Halsey was very much in the mould of the society woman. Alma bore a strong resemblance to her, in terms of facial features, at least. Involuntarily, I thought of our most recent meeting, two nights before, and felt myself beginning to smile.

  “There you are, Charles!” said the object of my thoughts, startling me. “How long have you been standing there with that vacant look on your face? Come along and I’ll introduce you to your hosts.

  “Papa, this is my colleague Charles Milburn,” she said. “Charles, this is my father, Dr. Allan Halsey.”

  I extended my hand. “I’m pleased to meet you, Dr. Halsey.” I wondered what this rather pompous man would do if he knew the true nature of the relationship between his daughter and her colleague and experienced a moment of irrational fear lest my thoughts communicate themselves to him by proximity. Then he was making the usual social noises and the moment was over.

  Alma directed me toward her mother. Up close, the resemblance between them was less pronounced, due primarily to the calculating expression in Mrs. Halsey’s eyes. As she looked me up and down, I could see her processing my name through her personal social index. “Milburn, you say? From Boston?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Halsey. My father was George Milburn. My mother was Helen Devereaux, from New York City.” I gave her these leads to save time. In her presence I felt only discomfort. Her husband had at least made a show of cordiality.

  “Ah yes, I remember now,” she said. “Your poor mother. It must have been most unpleasant for her.”

  I nearly said, “His blood and brains were splattered all over his study. Yes, it certainly was unpleasant.” But I contented myself with noncommittal affirmative sounds.

  Having put me into the category of people who didn’t matter, Mrs. Halsey was clearly finished with me. Gratefully, Alma and I made our escape.

  “There, it’s done,” she said. “Charles, I apologize for my mother. She’s a hopeless snob. I’m sorry I had to put you through that.”

  I reassured her that I had survived intact. Soon after, in keeping with our code of absolute discretion in public, she left me to greet some of the other guests.

  Looking around, I spied West by a distant window. The low winter sun was behind him, turning his hair into a halo of gold. I made my way over to him. “Herbert, I’m glad you’re here. I feel like a fish out of water.”

  “Not only that but gutted and ready for the pan. You barely survived your inspection by the formidable Mrs. H.,” he said with a sardonic smile. “I saw the way she raked you over, chewed you up and spat you out. Lucky for you the lovely Alma was there to pick up the pieces. Congratulations, by the way.”

  “Congratulations for what?”

  “Your… what shall I say? Friendship isn’t the right word, exactly. Damn it, why must one always resort to French for these things? Your affaire de coeur, Charles. Your liaison. I thought you’ve been looking especially content lately, but had supposed it was a side-effect of helping to further the cause of science. I can see now that was naïve of me.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said.

  “Charles, I’m no romantic, but I’m not unobservant. It stands out all over the two of you. It’s the way you so self-consciously resist getting too close to one another. And the way she protected you from that Gorgon of a mother was touching in the extreme.”

  With the light behind him I could not make out his expression. His tone of voice was the same ironically bantering one with which he had greeted me.

  “Well, yes, all right, Herbert. Alma and I are more than friends. I hope you’ll be discreet, though.”

  “Perfectly. My only concern is that you don’t suddenly decide to abandon our cause.” He moved over to my other side, so that the light fell slantingly on his face. But its reflection from his spectacles hid his eyes, and I still could not read his expression. I reassured him that he could count on my assistance, as always.

  West excused himself, having noticed someone trying to attract his attention from the other side of the room. Cut adrift, I began to feel the all too familiar sense of being an invisible visitor in a crowd of people enjoying themselves. I noticed a white-coated waiter presiding over a large punch bowl and decided to fortify myself.

  After a while, I began almost to enjoy my invisibility. Sipping punch, I wandered among the guests, overhearing snatches of conversation.

  “Don’t you trust him! He’s in the Dean’s back pocket.”

  “I saw her myself, I tell you! Naked as the day she was born!”

  “It’s the chloride, not the sulphide. Makes a big difference.”

  “It’ll kill more than half of them, you can be sure.”

  Suddenly, I heard someone speaking to me, and returned to earth with a small jolt. Dr. Armitage was with a group of serious-looking men, veterans of many receptions, to judge by the dexterity with which they manipulated drinks and hors d’oeuvres, all the while talking and nodding portentously.

  “Milburn, it’s good to see you here!” Dr. Armitage said, as I approached. “I’ve always thought that my librarians should get out more in the University. Especially you cataloguers. I daresay it was that young fellow got you an invitation – the one that asked to see the Necronomicon a year or so back. I saw you talking with him just now. East, is that the name?”

  I had not realized that Dr. Armitage could be so chatty. “Not exactly,” I said. “It’s West – Herbert West.” I felt a sudden surge of goodwill toward my director, so glad was I to see a familiar face.

  “Actually,” I continued, “it was Miss Halsey that arranged for my invitation.”

  “Of course! I should have realized. Miss Halsey.. mm-hmm.” He looked toward the Dean and Mrs. Halsey, and began to say something, but thought better of it. “She’s a cataloguer too, of course,” he said, finishing with a sip of his drink. He turned abruptly to the man beside him, a bald-headed, alert-looking fellow who appeared to have been l
istening to our conversation.

  “Dr. Hobson,” Dr. Armitage said, “I would like you to meet one of my librarians. This is Mr. Charles Milburn, of the Cataloguing Department. Dr. Hobson is in the Surgical Department at the Medical School.”

  Hobson clamped my hand in a hot paw that seemed entirely the wrong sort of equipment for a surgeon and looked at me hard, as though he suspected me of deception before I had even spoken. “So you’re a cataloguer, are you?” Without waiting for a reply, he rushed on. “Any educated person should be able to put a few books in order and keep them that way. I couldn’t believe it when Armitage told me there’s a whole department of you librarians in his shop, just to catalogue the books. Maybe that’s why I can never find anything in that place of yours. Too many cooks, eh? Do you suppose that’s it?” He gestured rhetorically with a miniature sausage on a stick.

  My feeling of warm conviviality drained away, quickly and completely. I was beginning to wish I had left while I was still invisible. Now there was no escape. Hobson wasn’t making social small talk. He wanted an answer.

  “Dr. Hobson,” I began, “there’s quite a difference between a departmental reading room and the University Library. The more books you have, the more diverse their subjects, the more expertise it takes to organize them. But I’m not sure I could help you, in any case. I know next to nothing about medicine. My field is classics.”

  “Classics! Hmph! Well, maybe that’s different, but I doubt it. So what are you doing here, with all of us medical men?”

  “I have a friend in the Medical School,” I said. I didn’t want to bring up Alma’s name. The last thing she needed was for Hobson to be reminded that she catalogued in the area of medicine.

  “Oh, and who might that be?” Hobson demolished the miniature sausage in a single bite.

  “Mr. Herbert West,” I said, wondering if I was starting something I would regret.

  “Oh ho! The dangerous Mr. West! I should have guessed.”

  “Why do you say that?” I asked. “Dangerous in what way?”

  Hobson laughed, a harsh sound like a dog barking. “He’s a renegade, that’s what! One of those smart young whippersnappers who can’t resist showing off. Those kind are always trouble. I know because I was one myself. So you’re a friend of his, are you? Well, if you’re a good friend, you’ll advise him to play by the rules.”

  “But I would expect that a.. questioning attitude would be welcome in an educational institution such as the Medical School. As long as it’s an informed one, that is. Wouldn’t you rather have students who engaged in debate, rather than supine receptacles for orthodoxy?” I noticed that my glass was empty once again and wondered if there was any punch left and whether anyone would notice my fourth trip to the punch bowl.

  Hobson moved closer to me and made a gesture that looked vaguely threatening. “Supine receptacles? You can’t say that about anyone at the School, young man. But your friend West, well, he’s sure he knows better than anyone. And he doesn’t stop at debate. Do you know that in his first year he actually wanted to do experiments with corpses? Thought he could bring them back to life or some such nonsense. Well, I have to credit Dr. Halsey with more patience than I would have had. He didn’t expel West, although he could have. But I have to admit, he’s got the technique. Good hands – he’s lucky that way. But he has to cultivate the right attitude.”

  “Perhaps you’re right, Dr. Hobson.” I wondered what he would do if I said what I was thinking, which was, Oh, he’s got technique, all right. I’ve watched him use it many times, to do things you couldn’t imagine. Suddenly, I knew I had to get away from him. I fancied that West was watching me from somewhere in the room, could almost feel his eyes boring into the back of my head. And I was ravenously hungry. “Excuse me, please, I just remembered another engagement.” I hoped I sounded convincing. “It was good to meet you.”

  “Tell your fellow librarians to stop making everything so complicated! Logic, it’s all logic!” he said, turning away. I resolved at all costs to avoid a second encounter with him.

  Proceeding toward the buffet table, I had to change my plans when I spotted Peter Runcible hovering over the savoury delicacies. He was not someone I would choose to seek out at a social occasion – or any other occasion, for that matter. I began to feel that I was surrounded by enemies – the senior Halseys, Dr. Hobson, Runcible. Even Dr. Armitage couldn’t be trusted not to deliver me into another uncomfortable situation.

  Alma was some distance away, talking with a couple of women and a professorial-looking man. I tried to catch her eye, but failed, which was probably just as well, because I was by now more than a little tipsy. It was time for me to leave. I looked around for the door, wondering if the Halseys would notice or care if I departed without formal farewells and expressions of gratitude.

  Someone approached me from behind. I expected it to be West, ready to interrogate me about my conversation with Hobson, but I was surprised to see Prof. Quarrington. His diminutive, bobbing form reminded me of a bird or a small rodent.

  “Good day to you, Charles Milburn!” he said. “I’m glad to see you here, yes I am. Doing your job, just as a good friend should. My commendation to you, young man.”

  “Thank you, Prof. Quarrington,” I said. “But I’m not certain just what you mean when you say I’m doing my job.”

  He did not speak but grasped my sleeve and pulled me around to face in the opposite direction. Chuckling, he nodded toward a corner of the room, where West was talking to a man I did not recognize. “Keeping watch, that’s your job. Look at him, over there, showing off, proving to everyone what a scientist he is! He has great gifts, that young fellow, and the pity is that he knows it too, at least about some of them. Someone has to make sure he doesn’t go up in flames before his time, and it just happens that you’re that someone. I knew it, and here you are, which proves I was right.”

  “You’re referring to Herbert West? You believe I should.. watch over him?”

  “Yes, of course! He’s an absolute phenomenon, more than anyone guesses, except me.” He chuckled again. “As for why, well, think back! The Necronomicon! Both of you read it, I know that. You can’t turn back the pages.”

  “Why does it matter that we both read the Necronomicon?” I asked.

  “Because it’s a catalyst, that’s why! Don’t you know what a catalyst is? Ask him; he knows.” Another nod toward West. “You just have to take what comes, and keep faith. Don’t worry, I’m on your side!” He gave my arm a weak slap and moved away, surprisingly fast for one with his peculiar gait, and I lost sight of him in the crowd.

  I decided again that it was time to leave, propriety be damned. I scanned the room once more, and saw West not far away. He saw me at the same moment and came over.

  “Fleeing the field already, Charles? I must say, you did rather have to run the gauntlet, didn’t you? The formidable Mrs. H., then Hobson, then Quarrington. Well, if you want an accomplice, I’m available.”

  I hesitated. I had an idea that what he really wanted was to question me about what I might have said to Hobson. What had I said to him about West? My memory was already growing fuzzy on this point. I looked around for Alma, but could no longer see her. Escape was paramount. “All right, Herbert,” I said. “Let’s go.”

  After a flurry of brief encounters with some of West’s professors and fellow students, he and I left the Halsey residence together. “I’ve had a bellyful of this posturing,” he said. “I would suggest a brain-clearing session, except that my brain is still clear from the last one. But come along to my place, and we can kill the afternoon in some agreeable way. I think it needs killing. I go on duty at the hospital at eight, so that gives us several hours. I have some new gramophone records. And I can come up with a meal of some sort. Or did you partake of the bounty we are leaving?”

  “Actually, I didn’t eat a thing,” I reassured him. “And yes, I am rather hungry.”

  “I saw you talking with Hobson,” West observed
as we reached the sidewalk. “He seemed excited. What was he going on about, anyway?”

  “The Library,” I replied. “He claims he can’t find anything there, and thinks we librarians should use logic. Oh, and he says you have good hands.”

  He gave me an amused look. “Good hands, eh? That would be a supreme compliment, coming from that old ogre, if he weren’t the most ham-fisted of a bad lot. Hobson won’t admit it, of course, but he’s learned a thing or two from me. What did Quarrington want?”

  “I’m not sure what he wanted. He’s certainly a character, isn’t he?”

  “A veritable paragon of idiosyncrasy,” said West, who seemed to be in an extraordinarily good mood, for some reason. “He didn’t say – or ask you – anything about me, did he?”

  “You? No, not at all. Why should he?” He really is full of himself, I thought.

  If he was disappointed, he didn’t show it. “Oh, no reason,” he said. “It’s just that with Quarrington, you never know what might come out.”

  “What’s a catalyst, Herbert?” I asked.

  He frowned, then looked amused. “Why on earth would you need to know that?”

  “No reason, I just heard someone back there use that word. It sounded like a scientific discussion, so I thought you might know.”

  “A catalyst is an agent that precipitates a reaction, but without taking part in it. It makes something happen, but itself remains unchanged.”

  I thought about this for a while. “Thank you,” I said. “It’s still Greek to me though, or rather, if it were Greek, which I suspect it is, I would understand it, better than chemistry, anyway.”

  He laughed. “I do believe you’re tipsy, my friend.”

  On the way to West’s rooms, it occurred to me that I knew next to nothing about my friend’s dealings with women. Newly alive to the delights of love as I was, I wanted others to experience them too. But he had never spoken of any romantic connection, except that vague reference to an Italian lady who had taught him how to cook. And yet he was exactly the sort of young man who would be considered a good catch – intelligent, articulate, wealthy and good looking.

  I pondered this matter during our meal, which consisted of a rather good soup West called minestrone, and cold roast beef. As we were washing up the dishes, a mischievous impulse made me say, “You’ll be a blessing for some emancipated woman, Herbert, when you get married. In between patients you can cook supper for her when she comes home from her work.”

  He gave me a strange look. “I have no plans to marry,” he said. “My brothers are entirely capable of carrying on the family name.”

  “But there’s more to it than that,” I said. “What about… companionship, and love?”

  “Sentimental nonsense!” He had regained his usual ironic manner. “I would rather put my energy into my scientific work.”

  “All right, but what about the physiological side of things? I know how keen you are on physical fitness and health. Isn’t it true that a man has certain needs that must be fulfilled if ill-health is to be avoided?”

  He busied himself in the pantry, evidently finding a pressing need to reorganize its contents. “Don’t you concern yourself about my health, Charles,” he said indistinctly from its depths. “I know more about physiology and anatomy and all that stuff than you ever will, and I assure you I’m perfectly healthy. Now, look what I found.” He emerged triumphant, holding a bottle. “A survivor from my latest brain-clearing. Not enough to do any damage, but it will nicely accompany that new gramophone record by Caruso, don’t you think? Find some glasses.”

  “But you’re going on duty in a couple of hours!”

  “No matter, Charles. Moderation is my watchword. Glasses.”

  While the great Italian sang arias by Verdi and Puccini, we sipped Scotch and West spoke of his researches. He was growing impatient to make some progress, but had no control over the availability of suitable research material. “Ah well, winter is a good time for deaths. Corpses resulting from death by exposure might be especially suitable for our purposes. So we should keep our hopes up.”

  I thought as I raised my glass to this sentiment that, given his peculiar preoccupations, it was perhaps just as well that West was not romantically inclined. Not many nice young ladies would be eager to socialize with this elegant fellow if they knew what he did in his free time. But then I remembered that on a few occasions he had disappeared for several days, saying that he was going to Boston on business. Perhaps the ‘business’ involved female companionship he did not wish to talk about. In any case, the matter was, for the time being, closed.

  Soon after this, we had news of the Wild Man that even West could not ignore. After a week of extreme cold, the absence of smoke from a farmhouse five miles from Arkham attracted the attention of neighbours. On investigating they found a scene of horror: the farmer lying dead in a pool of blood in the upstairs hallway of the house, his wife in a similar condition on their bed. A mattock, doubtless the very one stolen months before from Summers farm, lay on the floor. And in a corner of the room, cowering as though trying to push himself through the walls, was a hairy, grotesque creature with blood in his hair and beard and splashed liberally on the ragged clothing he wore. He was making inarticulate animal sounds and clutching something to his chest. It was an infant, evidently the child of the dead farmer and his wife. It too was dead, with bite marks on its neck and face. One of the ears was chewed and torn.

  Sickened, the neighbours left two of their number to make sure the creature did not escape. The others returned as quickly as possible with reinforcements, including members of the Arkham police force. The man in the corner did not try to run away, but went with his captors willingly. The only time he showed any resistance at all was when they took the child’s corpse away. Then he seemed inclined to grow savage once more, but was quickly subdued.

  Questioning was useless, for he never spoke. If the grunts and ululations he emitted had any meanings, they remained known to him alone. He was declared insane and incarcerated in Sefton Asylum.

  A week later, I had an unexpected visit from West. He looked pale and wretched. If it had been anyone else, I would have thought him unwell, but West was never sick. I prepared to broach once more the subject of John Hocks and the murders. It had been a few weeks since we had done an experiment, and I was determined to clear things up between us before I would participate in another.

  I need not have bothered. “It was Hocks after all,” he said, and I understood that his sickly appearance must have been the result of having to admit that he had been wrong.

  “How do you know that?” I asked, more gently than the circumstances warranted.

  “One of my professors consults to Sefton occasionally. He was there when they brought in the so-called Wild Man, and for some reason decided that it would be instructive for us students to see him. So we made a little field trip to the ward for hopeless cases. Each of us took a turn at peering through the little window in the door of his cell. By that time they had cleaned him up and shaved off the beard, so I recognized him. It was Hocks, all right.” He stopped speaking and sat staring at the floor, chin propped on hands, elbows on knees.

  I digested this information for a few moments. “Did anyone else recognize him?”

  West shook his head. “No, fortunately for us. When the police arrested him at that farmhouse, I suppose he was unrecognizable. No one else made the connection between the terrible Wild Man and the late John Hocks, itinerant labourer. With luck he’ll never regain the power of speech. You pray, don’t you Charles? So pray that Hocks remains mute. And that the good people at Sefton don’t let him escape.”

  “Yes, I suppose that would be – ”

  He continued as if I had not spoken. “He stared right at me.” West looked more unsettled than I had ever seen him. “Charles, he knew me.”

  He got up and left without another word.

  It was surprising how quickly the matter of Hocks faded from our minds o
nce he was incarcerated. West resumed his experiments, and I continued to assist him. Hocks could do no further harm, I reasoned, and by remaining in West’s confidence I could perhaps intervene to prevent another horror.

  The rest of 1912 passed in a happy blur, largely due to my liaison with Alma, with its exciting mixture of openness and secrecy.

  There were long periods when I saw little of West. He was entering the final stretch of his medical education, and what with upper-level classes at the Medical School and interning at St. Mary’s had little time to spare. “I think they try to eliminate the weakest of us by sheer volume of work,” he said once, laughing. “Fortunately I am equal to it, but only just.” Indeed, he looked thinner and a little worn.

  During this time, West’s attitude toward Allan Halsey changed from a good-humoured contempt to something approaching hatred. His references to the man became quite vitriolic. When I asked him as to the reason for this he replied only that the Dean’s unprogressive attitude toward research was increasingly galling to him, as his own knowledge of medicine increased. He could see further possibilities for scientific progress if sufficient boldness were employed. “It’s not just me he has thwarted,” he said. “There are one or two fellows in the School with great original ideas they haven’t been able to test, all because Halsey won’t let them use the resources here at Miskatonic. You may not realize it, Charles, but this college has first-class facilities for medical research, and they’re being wasted because of this nincompoop Halsey and his antediluvian ideas.”

  I had never allowed myself to use my relationship with Alma for West’s sake, but I did so now. Discreetly, I inquired as to whether she was aware of any increase in the antipathy that had always existed between her father and his most troublesome student.

  “You know I don’t usually discuss such things with Papa,” she said, frowning a little. “But now that you mention it, I overheard him tell one of the other professors recently that “if West manages to graduate before I find it necessary to discipline him again it will be a miracle.” Then he said that his hands are tied by Hiram West. Do you have any idea what he could have meant by that?”

  I said I did not, but I had suspicions, which I voiced the next time I saw West. “So Father is putting pressure on Halsey,” he said. “I wasn’t aware of that, but I’m not surprised. You know he’s been making generous donations to Miskatonic since last year. Being what he is, it’s natural that he would take a proprietary attitude. I suppose Halsey thinks I’ve been taking advantage of the situation. Well, I suppose I have, but in ignorance.” He fell silent, looking thoughtful.

  I wondered if West was engaged in unorthodox activities besides those of which I was aware. When I ventured to ask him, he was cagey. “Well, it depends on what you would consider unorthodox. I do use my lab for other things besides the revivifications, you know. And Halsey thinks anything is unorthodox if he wouldn’t do it himself. Which includes just about anything worth doing.”

  Several weeks later, I was surprised to be called into Peter Runcible’s office, and even more surprised to see Dean Allan Halsey there. Despite my alarm, I managed to retain a calm exterior.

  “Mr. Milburn, I understand you’re acquainted with Dean Halsey,” said Runcible. “He has asked me to allow him to use my office this afternoon so that he may confer with you.”

  He made effusive farewells to Halsey and left, giving me a look of mingled amusement and curiosity. If he had not closed the door, I would have presumed to do it myself, remembering the acoustical quirk that allowed listeners in the main office to hear what was being said in this one.

  Halsey looked at me in silence for a moment without speaking. His rather muddy grey eyes were surrounded by wrinkles. I thought he looked older and wearier than the man I had been introduced to several months before.

  “Mr. Milburn,” he began, “I came here to talk to you, instead of summoning you to my office, because I wish to approach a delicate matter with the utmost discretion.”

  I said nothing. After a moment he continued, “I believe you are acquainted with Mr. Herbert West, a student at the Medical School.”

  “I know Mr. West, yes,” I replied, wondering where this was leading.

  “You may be aware, then, that he is in a rather equivocal position at the School.”

  “No indeed. My impression is that he is nearing the completion of his studies and hopes to qualify as a physician next year.”

  “Quite so, Mr. Milburn. But only if we at the School are satisfied that he does not violate the standards of conduct we demand of our students.”

  “I’m not sure I understand you, Dr. Halsey.”

  “Let me put it plainly. Herbert West is suspected of unorthodox, indeed, illegal activities in connection with some extracurricular research he has taken on. Naturally, this would prejudice his chances of qualifying as a licensed physician.”

  I was not sure what response he expected, so I made none, merely looked attentive and a little puzzled. Strangely, I was not nervous. After a moment, he went on.

  “What we need is proof of West’s involvement in these activities. At present we have only suspicions.”

  “I’m sorry, Dr. Halsey,” I said. “I do not believe I can help you in any way. As you know, I am a cataloguer here at the Library. My field is classics. I am acquainted with Mr. West, but have no other connection to the Medical School.”

  He smiled. “Mrs. Halsey recently reminded me of your somewhat… unfortunate family circumstances, Mr. Milburn. I seem to recall that your father left very little after his sad demise.”

  “That’s my private business, sir. I don’t see what it has to do with this ‘delicate matter’ of yours.”

  “Now, now, Mr. Milburn. This is no time to pretend ignorance. I don’t imagine that Miskatonic pays its junior librarians a very princely salary, does it? I believe you may be in a position to furnish me with information, in which case I think you would see a small but significant increase in your earnings. What do you say?”

  I felt exactly as though I had been wrapped in warm dreamy sleep and was naked and shivering with cold water dripping from me. It took me a while to find my voice.

  “Dr. Halsey,” I said, getting to my feet. “I will not dignify your suggestion with a reply. I consider it an insult. I think this interview is at an end.”

  “Not so fast, young man,” he said. He was grinning unpleasantly. “You’re not lily-white yourself, you know.”

  I stopped and waited for him to continue. I could feel my entire body shake with each heartbeat, and wondered if he could see that.

  “On a certain night last October, you were observed in attendance at an event which included illegal fighting and gambling. Do you deny this?”

  “Yes, I do deny it.” I thought quickly. There had been students from Miskatonic at the prizefight, and even some faculty members. If Halsey was trying to use information from such sources against me, he was grasping at straws. But the knowledge that someone had bothered to notice and report my presence was troubling.

  It seemed that Halsey was aware of how ineffectual his half-threat was, for he did not pursue it.

  “Very well, Mr. Milburn,” he said, standing up. “But should you reconsider, my offer stands. I can be reached at the Medical School. And let me offer you two pieces of advice as well. First, stay away from Herbert West. He’s not a good companion for a young fellow who has a long way to go if he wants to rebuild his standing in the world. And second – ” he paused in the doorway, giving me a baleful look, “stay away from my daughter.”

  I felt an eruption of rage. I wanted to hit him, to deliver to that self-satisfied countenance just one punch of the sort that Buck Robinson had landed on Kid O’Brien. I relished the crunch of cartilage, the spurt of blood. But of course I did nothing of the kind. Instead, I said, “Dr. Halsey, I would like to make two things clear to you. First, Herbert West is my friend. Second, your daughter Alma is also my friend and colleague, and is of an age when s
he no longer needs your permission to choose her associates. Now I will bid you good day.”

  I returned to my alcove on legs that had turned to rubber. My limp had worsened and I was glad I had no farther to go before I collapsed in my chair. I did not know what I would do if Halsey followed me, but I heard the outer door of the office slam, so assumed he had gone.

  I left a note in West’s mailbox on my way home, asking him to come see me about an urgent matter. Several hours later he entered my door, bringing with him a wave of rain-washed air. He had just come from the hospital and looked as tired as I had ever seen him. But the weariness fell away as I began my story.

  When I came to the part about the opportunity I had been given to better myself at his expense, he jumped up and exclaimed, “The devil! He tried to bribe you! This is serious, Charles. He’s never been this methodical before. Go on.”

  He paced around the little room while I continued my narrative. When I had finished he said, “This has gone too far, by God! Until now I’ve treated Halsey like an obstacle to be circumvented. But this calls for something more.” He fell silent, obviously deep in thought.

  “Why do you suppose he’s doing this? After all, you’ll be finished at the School in less than a year. Then you can do whatever research you like. So why should he persecute you like this?”

  “It’s exactly because I’m nearly finished that he’s redoubling his efforts,” said West. “He knows it’s his last chance to blacken my reputation.”

  “But why? Why should he want to blacken you?”

  “Allan Halsey is revered as the Student’s Friend and Mentor, a real father figure. Well, he’s that only for the students who toady to him and do everything his way. For them he opens the laboratories, hands out the money, makes the introductions. But should anyone suggest that there might be another road that should be tried, one that may or may not prove to be a dead end, he tells that person not to waste his time, but to return to the well-traveled Halsey Highway. And yet it is exactly on those side paths that real scientific progress is to be made.”

  I had heard this, or variants of it, many times before. But it wasn’t the answer to my question.

  “I know that, Herbert, but what is it that he has against you specifically? You’ve said that there are others in your class who want to do unconventional research, but were discouraged. Does Halsey go after them like this?”

  “No he doesn’t. As to why he singles me out, I think there are a number of reasons. One is that he doesn’t approve of the parvenu son of an undertaker presuming to join the ranks of the medical elite. And the fact that my father has become a benefactor of Miskatonic galls him.

  “Another thing is that I got started on my revivification work early – in my first year. Halsey has this notion that first year students should speak only when spoken to and think only what they are told to think. Anyone who dares to suggest something – anything at all – is branded a renegade. So when I started with the animals practically the minute I got into the lab he nearly went apoplectic. Luckily for me a couple of the less fossilized professors spoke up for me – he’s just a boy, there’s lots of time to shape him into the correct mould, etc., etc. ad nauseam. Well, I didn’t agree with them, but at least it got me a reprieve. Anyway, ever since then Halsey has had it in for me personally, and now he’s realized that this is his last chance to squeeze me.”

  Again he fell silent. Some moments later he said, “I think I have it. For the next few months we’ll have to avoid experiments, unless we’re lucky enough to get a perfect specimen. The dubious ones aren’t worth the risk. And I’ll be a model of discretion, toadying to Halsey every chance I get. In the long run it will be worth the lost research time. Also seeing the old bastard’s disappointment at the failure of his plot. But that’s not enough…”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, to put it bluntly, I want revenge. When the Dean of the Medical School stoops to such sleazy measures to pursue a personal vendetta against one of his own students, avoidance is not enough. I have to give him something to remember me by.”

  He took several more turns around my room, occasionally muttering things like, “No, that’s no good – too crude, for one thing,” and, “That would take too long.” At one point he threw out an observation, “Every man has a secret or two. Even you, Charles. So don’t imagine Halsey is exempt. It’s just a matter of…”

  A moment later, his eyes lit up. “That’s it, of course! And he owes me one, I think. Absolutely! Look, Charles, I must go now. Don’t worry, I don’t think he’ll trouble you again. Not as long as I keep my nose clean, and for the next three months it’ll be the cleanest nose in Arkham!”

  I heard him laughing as he ran down the stairs.

  In the next several months, West and I did only one experiment. The subject was the victim of a factory accident. His arm had been cut off by a piece of machinery and he had died of blood loss.

  “We can’t pass this one up,” said West. “You see, the only thing wrong with him is blood loss. And the missing limb, of course. But the essential mechanism is intact. The only thing I’ll have to do is tie off the blood vessels to the arm before we run in the fluid.”

  We were more than ordinarily cautious, reconnoitering the situation scrupulously before our every move. We blocked any cracks through which light could leak out of the laboratory with fanatical care. We not only fastened restraints on the corpse, but one of my jobs was to stand by with a carefully fashioned gag, in case of untoward vocalizations. We thought our chances of escaping undetected were better than average, since Dean Halsey was out of town that week.

  The subject, Albert Whidbey, was one of our more promising cases. Under the influence of West’s revivifying fluid, he readily showed signs of life. Even though I had seen the phenomenon several times before, I felt once again that jolt of the miraculous at the fact of life coming from death under the hands of my friend.

  I was able nearly to have a conversation with Whidbey, although it was rather like trying to hold an intelligent dialogue in shouts with someone a hundred yards away. Much was lost in some cognitive gulf that lay between him and me. In response to my questions and promptings, he spoke of a light, of flying, of heavenly music. He spoke of seeing his mother and father, “…so lovely, they looked, all young and happy.” Then his face creased and he began to cry.

  Shortly after this began the drifting away that we had seen several times before. Although the vital signs had been strong and stable, an inexorable weakening began, which continued despite all of West’s efforts. He had developed a substance that he had hoped would counteract this fading, but it proved utterly ineffectual in this case. I hoped Whidbey had managed to find his way back to the place of light and music, but the look of terror that came over his face in his last seconds made me shiver.

  After we had returned the body to the morgue and cleared away the evidence of the experiment, West said, “I wish I knew what causes that fading away. It almost seems willed, but that can’t be…”

  Still thinking about Whidbey’s words, I said, “Perhaps they want to go back to… whatever lies beyond. Maybe once someone has disconnected from the world he doesn’t want to come back. Don’t you think that suggests there’s something besides the physical mechanism? You seem to be able to re-start that, but without the participation of the person’s so– the will, I mean, life simply cannot be sustained. Maybe you need to find a subject with more force of will.”

  West gave me a look of mingled annoyance and amusement. “Certainly something interferes with the physical mechanism, but I’ll bet you anything it’s a physical something. The interesting thing is that it manifests the same way, regardless of the cause of the first death.” He sighed. “It’s too bad we have to be so damned careful these days. I’d like to gather a lot more data on this phenomenon. Oh well, just a few more months.”

  “You don’t intend to stay in Arkham after graduation, surely?” My question sounded casual, but I wa
s certain that he would be keen to get away from the place where his talents were undervalued. With his abilities, the field would be open to him, whatever the blots on his academic record. I tried not to think of how empty Arkham would be without him.

  “Why not?” He seemed puzzled at my question. “For one thing, it would be a good place to set up a practice, for an energetic fellow like me, anyway. Bolton is growing fast and will supply no end of patients. Foreigners, of course, but so what? A body is a body. From what I’ve seen, they’re all pretty much the same inside. Miskatonic’s facilities are superb, and old Halsey can’t last forever. So it will do for a start.”

  Herbert West graduated from Miskatonic University’s Medical School in the spring of 1913. The commencement ceremonies were held at the beginning of June. Knowing West’s dislike of what he called posturing, I was surprised to receive an invitation to attend the function as his guest. I was even more surprised that he had invited Alma as well, and furthermore, that she had accepted.

  On a perfect June day, rare in misty, muggy Arkham, Alma and I found ourselves in Miskatonic’s Convocation Hall. Alma was beautiful in a white dress of some filmy material, discreetly ruffled, with a neckline that fell just below her collarbones. With this she wore a pair of shoes of white kid leather. I can still visualize those shoes, with their squarish toes, ankle straps and louis heels. At the sight of them, and of Alma’s neatly-turned ankles, encased in white silk stockings, I felt a wave of pure lust wash over me. If it had been anyone but West who was graduating that day I would have murmured to her that we must go, immediately, now. I would have taken her arm and marched her out of the hall and to my rooms. Instead, I looked studiously at the floor and told myself that anticipation would sweeten the fruits later on.

  The dignitaries of the Medical School, in full academic regalia, had assembled on the stage. Also present were a number of ladies, chief among whom was Alma’s mother, splendidly hatted and gowned. Her imperious glance raked over the lesser females around her, as if she was on the lookout for an excuse to banish a non-conformer from the ranks of the elect. In the audience I saw Hiram West with his two older sons and the usual entourage. At the back of the hall I caught a glimpse of Professor Quarrington.

  The University Marching Band struck up one of Elgar’s Pomp and Circumstance marches, and the graduates filed in to take their places in the front rows. Several speeches followed, full of sonorous phrases and venerable platitudes. I listened only to the rise and fall of the speakers’ voices, amusing myself with the notion that it was rather like following the bass line in a piece of Baroque music. I looked at Alma’s shoes, and at the firm line of her jaw, and the sweet curve of her neck and the way the little tendrils of flaxen hair had come loose from the knot at the back of her head. My thoughts were very pleasant, and later I was glad to have had this drowsy interlude, because shortly afterward, all Hell broke loose.

  The graduates were called in alphabetical order, so it was some time before West’s name came up. I sat watching the Cranes and the Edgars and the Fillmores and the Jacksons go up to the stage to receive their diplomas from the Dean. West had not spoken to me again of his plan for revenge on Dean Halsey, but I knew him well enough by now not to suppose that he had abandoned it.

  Finally, I heard the name Herbert Francis West. I had not known what his middle name was, and while I was pondering this detail, West stepped lightly onto the stage and walked toward the Dean. His academic gown fitted him as though it had been custom made, which it probably was. The black formal drapery, and even the ridiculous ‘mortar board’ suited his fair colouring to perfection. Standing before Halsey and the other dignitaries, he put me in mind of some prince of Renaissance Italy, a Medici or a Borgia.

  He took the diploma from Halsey with a courtly bow which was entirely proper, if a little flamboyant. But here the familiar ritual was broken, for instead of grasping the Dean’s hand briefly in his own and departing, West handed something to Halsey. It was a flat rectangular object, nearly a foot square. I wondered how West had managed to conceal it so well throughout the proceedings. Was it perhaps a peace offering of some sort? That seemed unlikely.

  Now he was saying something to the Dean, who was beginning to look flustered. West wore a smile as angelic as I had ever seen on his face, and was utterly at ease despite the slight disturbance he had created, that was even now escalating into something else.

  For as Dean Allan Halsey looked at whatever it was that West had given him, his face turned deathly pale and seemed to crumble. One hand clutched at his chest. He looked wildly around, as though for help which did not come. Mrs. Halsey, pushing aside a gaggle of ladies, rushed to her husband’s side. Moments later she let out a piercing cry and fainted. Two other ladies promptly followed suit. Several professors crowded around to see the cause of the distress. A murmur broke out among them as the object was passed from hand to hand. For a full minute, utter pandemonium reigned on the stage. Finally, one or two of the professors galvanized the others into action. Mrs. Halsey and the other prostrate ladies were carried off the stage, presumably to be revived with smelling salts. Someone took the Dean over to a chair and gave him a glass of water. West, in the meantime, had left the stage and the hall. No one had thought to stop him.

  “I must go to Papa,” said Alma, looking thoroughly upset. I took her arm and helped her to the stage. She bent over her father and asked him if he was all right. I could hear the man who had given him the water reassuring her. He sounded like a practicing physician. Having nothing to do for a moment, I looked around the stage where the dignified order of academic ritual had so utterly given way to chaos. I saw something lying on the lectern, among the few diplomas which had not yet been awarded. Surely this was the cause of all the distress, the thing that West had given to Halsey? I went over, but had only a fleeting glimpse of the object before some professor picked it up with a glare at me and thrust it under his gown. That glimpse was enough, however.

  It was a large photograph, tastefully framed, showing, in unmistakable detail, Dean Allan Halsey, in evening dress which was seriously askew, with a laurel wreath tilted rakishly over one eye. He balanced on his knee a buxom young woman whose lacy costume left very little to the imagination. She held a glass in her hand, and he seemed to be getting ready to let her take a puff on the fat cigar he held in his – the hand that was not busy fondling one of her breasts.

  Alma had finished commiserating with her father. Halsey appeared a little healthier, but not much. I heard some muttering among the professors to the effect that the show had to go on. Finally, the Dean, still in near-shock, was led away. I escorted Alma off the stage, and Professor Hobson called out the name John George Willson.

  “Did you find out what happened to him?” Alma whispered to me. “It was something West gave him. Did you see it?”

  “No,” I lied. “Someone picked it up before I could see. I’ll try to find out later.”

  I was torn between my responsibility to Alma and my intense curiosity as to how West had managed to get that photograph. To my relief, Alma had regained her normal decisive manner. “I’m going straight to the parents’ house,” she said. “They were taking them both there. No, it would be better if you didn’t come. But come to my place tonight.” She hurried away.

  I made directly for West’s rooms. His academic regalia had been flung onto the back of an armchair, and he was stretched out on the sofa, laughing.

  “It worked like magic!” he cried. “Oh Charles, it was priceless! The look on that smug old bastard’s face! It was one of the best moments of my life.”

  I threw away my nagging scruples and joined in his laughter. When it had subsided a little, I asked, “Herbert, how on earth, where on earth did you get that photograph?”

  “Well,” he began, clearly relishing the revelation. “I wanted to do something that would deflate the pompous old windbag, something public, so the graduation ceremony suggested itself. When I remembered that I would be wearing academ
ic dress, I realized I could smuggle something fairly large onto the stage undetected. Really, it’s a wonder there aren’t more knifings or shootings among academics, given the grudges one finds. At first I thought of something in the anatomical line, an embalmed body part of some sort. But that wouldn’t have redounded well on me, since what I wanted was to make him look bad but leave myself untouched. Then I remembered a rumour I had heard, that Halsey has a roving eye, and enjoys spirited entertainment on occasion. Now, there’s a club in Boston, the Gai Paree Club, it’s called. It caters to an exclusive clientele – businessmen, mostly. And professors too, it seems.” He began to laugh again.

  “But how did you get the photograph? Did you go to this club?”

  “Not I,” he said. “Not my scene at all. But, well, one of my brothers owns the place. I’ve always thought it a vulgar enterprise, but in this case it was certainly useful. Jeremy owed me a favour – don’t ask why because I won’t tell you. I asked him to find out if Halsey was one of his customers. It couldn’t have been easier. You see what I meant when I said that every man has his secrets. Let this be a lesson to you, young fellow,” he said, wagging a finger at me. “Celibacy may be dull, but it has its uses. But now it’s time for a celebratory libation.”

  Even as I raised my glass to my lips, I remembered Alma and began to feel uneasy. She certainly had nothing to celebrate. “You really shouldn’t have invited Alma,” I said. “I know how you feel about Dean Halsey, but she had nothing to do with that bribe and it upset her to see her father like that.”

  West looked a little uncomfortable. “I have to admit I was thinking more of the effect on him of knowing she was there than the reverse. And anyway, she has you to administer comfort and commiseration.”

  “Yes she does, and I would suggest you keep that in mind. In fact, I really ought to be going now.”

  West raised his glass mockingly. “Far be it from me to deny comfort to a lady in distress.”

  But before I left, I could not resist asking a final question. “What did you say to Halsey when you handed him that thing?”

  “I merely commented on how refreshing it was to find that he, too, was doing some extracurricular research of an unorthodox sort, except that his was in the field of anatomy.”

  The Commencement Incident, as it came to be called, had far-reaching consequences for many that were on the platform that day, but not for Herbert West. He had hit upon exactly the right scheme. The target of his revenge had been struck hard, in public, but nothing much could be brought home to him. Diploma in hand, he had vanished, unscathed.

  Feeble attempts were made by the administration to hush up the scandal, but enough people had seen the damning photograph that it was soon general knowledge that the Dean of Medicine had been caught in flagrante delicto. It was not so much that he had been disporting himself in a house of ill-repute (albeit a high-class one), but that his misdemeanour had been displayed to the community. The academic world is prepared to wink at the peccadilloes of its leaders, but not when they are thrust under its collective nose in such an unmistakable way.

  Allan Halsey took an extended leave of absence from his duties, and eventually retired early from the post he had held for twenty years. Mrs. Halsey suffered a long period of ill-health, during which her usually full program of social affairs was abandoned, much to the relief of matrons lower on the Arkham pecking order, over whom she had ruled with a rod of iron. In the present day a divorce would have ensued, but these were uncommon in 1913. The Halseys retreated from the public eye to deal with their troubles.

  Alma took it harder than I ever would have imagined. For all her coolness and flippant remarks about both her parents, her ties to them and to the social order of Arkham, were deep. The worst part of the situation for her was that there seemed to be no one who was clearly the wronged party. As objectively as I could, I explained that her father had pursued a course of action against West that was unethical at best. I agreed that West’s means of taking revenge were unsportsmanlike and demonstrated a lack of maturity on his part but, the fact remained that her father had put himself into the compromising situation shown in the photograph. She was fair-minded enough to acknowledge this, but that did not diminish her resentment toward West.

  “You must tell me, Charles, did you have anything to do with this business?” She looked so downcast, so unlike her usual vivid self, that I answered as honestly as I could.

  “No, Alma. West said something about revenge at one point, when he was angry with your father. But I didn’t realize he was going to do anything until he actually did it.”

  “But surely you must have guessed! You know him better than I, and I know he doesn’t make empty threats. You should have asked him, followed him, something!” She covered her face with her hands. “I just can’t see beyond this thing. Everyone seems bitter and evil and uncharitable.” She looked at me with sudden fierceness. “Charles, you must stop associating with Herbert West! I warned you about him from the first, and now he’s shown just what sort of person he is – absolutely without scruples, who will do anything to achieve his ends, without regard for the harm he does. Consider, why did he specially invite me to that ceremony? So I could see my father and mother in distress, so Papa would know I had been there to see. And you’ve been very cagey when I’ve asked you how he got that photograph, but I’m certain it was through some unsavoury connection. I must ask you, Charles – please drop him!”

  “He’s my friend, Alma. He’s done me no harm.”

  “But he’s done me harm! And I’m more than your friend.”

  I felt a sinking of the heart. From the first, I had feared that some day I would be asked to choose between Alma and West. But I needed them both. I tried to hedge.

  “Look, Alma, I know how badly you feel about all this. I can’t expect you to be kindly disposed toward West after this. But I honestly cannot promise you to end my friendship with him. Please don’t make me choose between you.”

  She laughed bitterly. “Just now I’m in no position to do that. If I drive you away, I’ll be altogether friendless. I’m not strong enough for that.” She sighed. “Well, enough of this for now. I’m too tired to think any more.”

  I saw her to her bed, but did not stay. As I left her house, I considered going back to West’s, but for Alma’s sake refrained and went home instead.