Chapter 21
Never look outside for what you need, until you have made use of the whole of yourself. Gerard Dorn
There was a sudden clang of the doorbell. I cursed silently the mischance of an interruption at this crucial moment. It was probably the men from the mortuary. Well, there was a body upstairs for them. I had to stay here. Then I heard footsteps in the hall above. How could that be, when I had locked the door after Mrs. Fisk? It sounded as though someone was approaching the door to the cellar stairs. Hocks, it must be Hocks! I have to keep him out of here!
I glanced at West. He was breathing normally, to all appearances only asleep. I left the room, carefully closing the door and the hinged section of shelves that concealed it. Then I ran up the stairs.
In the hall I nearly collided with Andre. “Mr. Milburn!” he said. “What are you doing here? Where is the Doctor?” He looked more disturbed than I had ever seen him.
“Andre, I have some bad news for you, I’m afraid. Dr. West died early this morning.”
“He is dead?” He set his bag down on the floor. His face grew still and closed. “How did it happen?”
“It was something called a brain aneurysm. A blood vessel bursts in the brain. It can happen unexpectedly and is nearly always fatal.”
“May I see him?” he asked.
“Yes, of course,” I said. “He is in his bedroom.”
I followed him up the stairs even though I was on fire with impatience to get back to the laboratory. Here was another complication! That Andre knew about the laboratory in the cellar I was aware, but I did not know whether I could trust him with the secret of West’s revivification. Why was he back so soon, anyway? I was certain West had said he would be away until the late afternoon.
I watched him as he approached the bedside. His face was impassive as he looked at the corpse of West’s double, lying serenely on the bed. To my surprise, he stayed only a few moments before rejoining me. “I’m ready now,” was all he said.
Ready for what? I wondered. “Are you all right, Andre?” I asked.
“I am all right. There will be a funeral, yes? Let me put these things away. Then I will begin the preparations.” He started down the hall towards his quarters.
I didn’t know whether to admire his stoicism or to regard it as some strange after-effect of his own death and revivification. Just then, the door bell rang again and Andre came back to admit two men who said they were from West’s Funeral Home.
They were youngish fellows, dressed in black suits that seemed at odds with their cheerful everyday faces. I had never seen either of them before, but evidently they had been advised of my existence, for one of them addressed me by name.
“Mr. Milburn? We’re here to pick up Dr. West’s body now, if that’s convenient.”
“Yes, I was expecting you.” I hoped my appearance was not too wildly dishevelled. I conducted them to West’s bedroom. “The body is ready for burial,” I said. “His housekeeper, Mrs. Fisk, and I have done all that was necessary. Dr. West told me several times that in the event of his death he did not wish to be embalmed. So all that is needed is to select a suitable casket. I imagine his brothers would prefer to do that.”
“But we’ve been given instructions to embalm the body,” said one of the fellows. “By Mr. Hiram West himself,” said the other.
“I will speak to Mr. West,” I replied, wishing I felt as calm as I sounded. “I was a close friend of Dr. West’s, and I am confident that I understood his wishes in this matter.”
They did not object further. After all, it was nothing to them, as long as there were no negative consequences from their employer. West had been quite clear on this point. “The fellows from the mortuary won’t care. The less they need to do, the better. It’s Hiram you’ll have to deal with but I think you’ll be able to convince him quite easily. He’s used to my contrary notions. And if he and Jeremy have been planning my exit, they’ll have other things to think about.”
The undertaker’s men went back to their vehicle and returned carrying a stretcher. With practiced ease, they transferred the body of West’s double onto it. I held my breath lest something make them realize that it was already embalmed. That would be a matter for gossip and speculation, all right! I could see the headlines: Arkham Doc Embalms Self Before Death, or more likely, Body Was Already Embalmed, Doc’s Friend Arrested. But they made no comment, and I saw nothing unusual in their expressions as they carried the corpse down the stairs and to the waiting hearse.
Finally, I was able to return to the laboratory. Andre was nowhere in sight. I assumed he had gone to begin his preparations, whatever they were. I opened the doors with hands that shook once more with fear and hope. Would he speak to me? With horror, I remembered my promise to kill him if he was intellectually or physically impaired. Almost I hoped that he was dead, rather than that I should have to make this terrible decision.
The table was empty. There was no body on it, dead or alive. There was no sheet. The apparatus and the two flasks, one empty, the other full of blood, were the only things to show that the revivification of Herbert West had not been a hallucination on my part. For a long minute I could only stand and stare. It took my mind that long to absorb the fact of his absence. Then, frantically, I began searching. What if he was delirious, or demented? Visions of a shambling form on the Aylesbury Road came to mind, and the look of crazy glee on John Hocks’s face.
I looked first in the annexe. It was empty. Neither there nor in the main room was there any place where something as large as a body could be concealed. Next, I ran down the passage to the incinerator. I opened the heavy door and looked inside. Nothing. I called his name, many times I called, but heard nothing in reply. I was forced to conclude he was no longer in the cellar. So he must be elsewhere in the house. The main floor offices were locked. So was the rear door, to my relief. But I had left the main door unlocked while I was upstairs with the undertaker’s men. It was possible that he had gone out that way. But why? Naked but for a sheet? Disoriented? I was completely perplexed. In all my speculations I had not considered the possibility of his disappearance. I sat down in the hall and tried to think.
Laying aside any thoughts as to his motives, I tried to reconstruct the sequence of events. West must have left the laboratory while I was upstairs with the two men. But where had he gone? The only logical possibility was out the front door. The rear door and the one to his offices were both locked, and I should have seen him if he had gone up to the living quarters. A man wearing nothing but a sheet should be easy to find, I reasoned, and a man who had returned from death only an hour before could not be very fast on his feet. I ran upstairs and shouted to Andre that I had to leave. I thought I heard a reply but did not stay to make sure.
Intending to be methodical, I began by circling the block. I would then proceed in an increasing radius. As I rounded the corner onto narrow Hill Street, a figure emerged from an overgrown lot that adjoined the woods near Hangman’s Hill. My heart lurched with hope, but it was dashed when I recognized the emaciated, rag-clad form of John Hocks.
He must have been lying in wait for me. “Ha, it’s you, you running man! I watched you run away, like you were scared of me. Stupid you, because I knew what I had to do and I did it. I watched. I saw them take him out. They put him in a… one of those things with wheels, and they went away. He’s gone!”
It took me a moment to comprehend what he was saying, because of the hollow, whispery quality of his voice. It was as though the organs that produced it were deteriorating. “Yes, Dr. West is gone. They took him away to bury him. Does that make you feel better?”
A crafty look stole over his features. “I didn’t see anyone bury him. Who knows what those men are going to do with him? They could make him alive again, just like he made me. How do I know they won’t do that, huh?” He thrust his face toward mine and leered at me, releasing an indescribable stench.
I had never been less inclined to talk with this creature
, but had no choice. This was yet another part of the price I had to pay. “You have to believe me. They’re going to bury him. If you watch at Christ Church Cemetery, three days from today, you will see. My word on it.”
“Your word as a gentleman?” he said, obviously aping something he had heard once. He stuck out a dirty, skeletal hand, and in my eagerness to be done with him, I took it in mine. It felt like a bundle of sticks in a bag, but his grip was surprisingly strong.
“My word as a gentleman,” I said, and tried to withdraw my hand. Hocks laughed and squeezed it more tightly.
“Not so fast, you! I know how to do this. You know my name. Will. What’s yours?”
“Charles.” I hoped he would be satisfied with that.
“All right, Mister Charles,” Hocks said, relinquishing my hand after a final squeeze. “But if I don’t see a funeral at Christ Church, I’ll come looking for you.” He turned abruptly and shambled away into the trees toward Hangman’s Hill.
I continued my search for West but was soon completely exhausted. A black certainty grew in me as I lurched wearily up and down the streets that I would not see him again, especially if Hocks saw him first and recognized him. I needed to rest before I could do anything more. Once home, I lay down on my bed without bothering to undress, and fell asleep.
I awoke with a start. My watch had run down, but I thought it was early morning. The chiming of the mantel clock had awakened me. Six o’clock. I got up and put myself in order once more, but failed to do the same with my thoughts. I could not stop wrestling with the conundrum of West’s disappearance. Where could he have gone, so soon after emerging from death, naked but for the sheet I had wrapped him in? The added complication of Hocks made me groan aloud.
Feverishly, I scanned the morning newspaper as soon as it came, fearing to see a story about a mutilated corpse found in an unlikely place. Except that this time it would not be an itinerant farm labourer or an unknown tramp, but a prominent physician of the town. But there was nothing of the sort. Relieved and anxious at the same time, I went back to my brooding.
The problem was that to the rest of the world Herbert West no longer existed as a living entity. To everyone except me, he was dead. His body was at the mortuary, awaiting burial. This made it impossible for me to tell to anyone about his disappearance, to ask for help in my search for him, or even to make any but the most cautious inquiries. If I revealed the secret of his revivification to anyone and was believed, I would negate the entire purpose of this terrible adventure. And if I added that the escaped Wild Man of Arkham was the dead and long-forgotten John Hocks, who was seeking the missing man with evil intent, I would very likely end up in Sefton myself.
I telephoned St. Mary’s Hospital and asked the person who answered whether there had been any emergency cases brought in the previous night. No, she said, it had been exceptionally quiet. I thanked her and hung up before she could ask me to identify myself. I considered sounding out Sarah Enright, but had no heart for the circumlocutions that would be necessary. She knew me well enough to see beyond my surface wretchedness and guess that something troubled me besides the sudden death of an old friend.
About mid-morning my telephone rang, causing me to spring up in a near-panic. Perhaps it was West! It was, but not Herbert. Hiram West had arrived in Arkham and was at his late brother’s home. Would I please come over immediately, he said. I did not like the tone of the summons, but decided to go, if only to resume my search along the way.
I took a circuitous route to Boundary Street, peering behind fences and hedges, detouring down alleys and paying special attention to vacant lots, but to no avail. Too soon, I was at West’s house.
Both Hiram and his younger brother Jeremy were there. They had made themselves at home. Jackets and hats had been deposited on the furniture, suitcases reposed on the floor. Jeremy had obviously investigated the liquor cabinet. As I entered the sitting room he greeted me by raising a glass and asking if I would like a ‘snort.’
The two elder West brothers favoured their father in looks, being rather stocky, with dark hair and prominent eyes. Looking at them, I remembered West’s uncertainty about his parentage.
West had explained to me some time ago that on their father’s death, Hiram Jr. had assumed control of the above-board business enterprises, while Jeremy managed the less savoury ventures. This certainly seemed to be reflected in their appearance; Hiram was dressed as soberly as a banker, while Jeremy wore a suit whose stripes were a little too wide and lapels a little too generously cut for good taste. His manner was jovial, altogether in contrast with his brother’s laconic style.
Hiram motioned me toward an armchair. He sat down on the sofa next to Jeremy, facing me. He looked at me hard with eyes that I noticed for the first time were an odd light shade of hazel.
“Who killed him?” he asked.
It took me a moment to understand, so unexpected was this question. “No one killed him, Mr. West. He died of a brain aneurysm.”
“That’s the official explanation. I want the truth.”
“Why do you think that isn’t the truth?”
“Because Herbert was only thirty-six. And he had never been sick, as far as I know.”
“Except in the head,” said Jeremy, lifting his glass to his eye and peering at me through the amber liquid. “But at least he always had good booze on hand. So here’s to Herbie.” He raised the glass in a mocking toast and drank.
Hiram ignored him, except for an eloquent chopping motion of the hand in his direction. “Well, Milburn?”
“I know of no one who would have wanted to murder your brother,” I said. “Listen, I’ll describe exactly what happened. That’s all I can do.” I told them what I had told the police the previous morning, about the dinner and my late departure on Monday, and our agreement to meet again on Tuesday morning. My arrival at the house only to get no response and my subsequent decision to summon the police. Their investigation and that of Dr. Tillotson. “After they left I telephoned you,” I finished.
“Yes, and after that?”
“After that Mrs. Fisk, Herbert’s housekeeper arrived, and she and I laid out his body.”
“Why did you do that?” asked Hiram, giving me another keen look. “You should have known there was no need for that.”
“Forgive me, Mr. West, but I believe I was your brother’s closest friend. Several times during our association he mentioned to me that when his time came to die he wanted only the simplest treatment. ‘I want to make sure that I dissolve to my fundamental elements and return to the earth,’ was how he put it. Of course, he was speaking in a purely theoretical way then, but when he died I saw no reason not to comply with these sentiments.”
“Yeah, that sounds like the sort of wacky idea that Herbie would have,” said Jeremy, earning himself another chop from Hiram.
“All right, but why not just give those instructions to the undertaker’s men? Why on earth would the two of you trouble yourselves that way? It’s so… primitive.”
“Mr. West, I understand that as one connected with the undertaking business you would naturally think that. But for Mrs. Fisk and myself, it was a way to do one last thing for him. And I think it’s what he would have wanted.” I stopped, realizing that what I was saying was too sincere for these men.
Hiram continued to look offended. Jeremy smirked at me unpleasantly. I remembered, too late, that I was still wearing West’s emerald ring, and that I had been turning it around and around on my finger as I spoke. Had these two ever seen it before? I curled my hand into a less conspicuous position.
“What about that French fellow who worked for Herbert?” asked Hiram. “Where is he?”
“Andre Boudreau. He was in Boston. Herbert sent him on an errand on Monday morning. He was to return yesterday afternoon.”
“Well he didn’t. At any rate, he wasn’t here when we arrived this morning. Only that housekeeper, Mrs. Fish.”
“Mrs. Fisk. Andre isn’t here now, you say?�
��
“We haven’t seen him.”
“Maybe he killed Herbie,” said Jeremy. “That would explain why he’s taken off.”
“Never mind that now,” said Hiram. “All right, Milburn, let’s see if I have this straight…” For the next half hour we went around and around the events of the previous two days. The brothers fired questions at me in a way that seemed entirely practiced, as though they did this sort of thing frequently. They were far more thorough than the policemen had been. I concentrated hard on my simple narrative and did not deviate from it. Finally, I became annoyed, and decided it was time to show it.
“Look, Mr. West,” I said to Hiram, “I can tell you no more than I already have, several times. I suggest you speak to Officers Hatch and Foskett, and Dr. Tillotson. Mrs. Fisk also, if she’s still here. I’m sure she can confirm some of what I have told you.”
Hiram looked at me as though he suspected some kind of trick. “Stay here,” he said to Jeremy, and went off toward the kitchen. I had no fears on Mrs. Fisk’s account; from what I had seen of her, I was certain she could handle Hiram West. I was less certain about myself and Jeremy.
He was smirking at me again. “So are you one of them too?” he asked.
“I’m sorry, I don’t know what you mean.”
“You know, like Herbie.” He assumed an exaggerated, limp-wristed pose. “Pansies!”
I remembered what I had read in the Quarrington papers and felt a burst of anger at the brute before me. “I don’t think you could have known your brother very well if you can make a suggestion like that,” I said. “And you’re hardly in a position to accuse others of wrongdoing.”
He ignored the second sentence. “I’ll bet you knew him really well, didn’t you?” he said, still smirking.
The return of Hiram fortunately spared me from making the reply I wanted to make. I knew that it would do no good to show my antipathy to Jeremy. That would change his casual baiting of me into active enmity, which would complicate matters in a way that could only be harmful.
“The housekeeper can’t tell us anything more than Milburn has already,” said Hiram. He turned to me. “So what was he up to anyway?”
“What do you mean?”
“Herbert. What were all those experiments of his about?”
“He had several areas of research. I suppose the primary one had to do with how wounds heal and how body parts can be reconstructed. He acquired this interest during the War and managed to develop it into a specialty of his own.”
“Like that opera singer,” interrupted Jeremy. “I didn’t think Herbie had it in him to play in that league.”
Another chop from Hiram. “Herbert was doing some sort of experiments with corpses. I know that because he used to take unclaimed bodies from our mortuaries sometimes. You know about that too. I remember you from that fight ten or eleven years ago. A man was killed in the ring and you and Herbert took the body away. So what was he doing? Working on a cure for death?”
I laughed weakly. “That would have been a good one! He wanted that fighter’s body so he could do tests on physiological changes after death. He was still a student at the time, if you remember. As for other bodies, I don’t know. Perhaps he needed them as dissection cadavers for his students. I know they’re difficult to obtain.”
Hiram gave me a look that suggested he would have liked to dissect me if that would help him get at the truth. “Milburn, did you murder him?”
“No!” The word burst out of me with more force than I had intended. “He was my friend. The last thing I wanted was his death. You insult me by suggesting that.”
This time he made the chopping motion at me. “Never mind that. When there’s enough at stake, friendship doesn’t matter so much. I know that. So do you. What’s in it for you, now that he’s dead?”
I had little experience with men of this type, whose first consideration in any issue was the weighing of profit and loss. They believed I thought that way too. Taking a deep breath, I said, “Mr. West, you are mistaken. I was your brother’s friend, not his business associate. I didn’t understand his research and he didn’t tell me much about it. I gained nothing by his death. If you believe that I was engaged in some kind of criminal activity, murder or anything else, you should talk to the police. I’ve told you everything I know and will not take up any more of your time. Now I must have a word with Mrs. Fisk.”
As I went down the hall toward the kitchen, I heard Jeremy mutter, “What did you expect? Goddamn pansies.”
Mrs. Fisk was preparing lunch for the guests. She looked grim but greeted me cheerfully enough. I commiserated with her on her recent encounter with Hiram. Then I asked, “Mrs. Fisk, where is Andre?”
“Gone. When I came today he wasn’t here, and his things are gone.”
“But where would he go?”
“I don’t know. Andre was a good enough fellow but he didn’t talk much. He did love Dr. West, no question about that. Maybe now that he’s dead Andre decided to go back to Canada.”
“Perhaps, but I would have expected him to stay for the funeral. Unless he knew – ” I broke off suddenly, realizing what I had nearly said. But Mrs. Fisk had other concerns.
“Mr. Milburn, these two… gentlemen, are they married, do you know? Will it be just the two of them, or should I expect some ladies to arrive?”
I replied that I thought both of the West brothers had wives and reassured her that I would ask them to tell her of their plans. I also said that if it didn’t occur to them to pay her for her time I would make it good to her, at whatever hourly rate she had been used to receiving. “Because you’re under no obligation to them.”
“Oh, it’s all right. I want to do it for Dr. West’s sake. But those two are a pair of prize petunias, and no mistake.”
When I was halfway down the stairs to the ground floor, Hiram leaned over the banister. “We’ll be watching you, Milburn, so don’t think you can get away with any funny business.”
I turned and looked up at him. “I have no intention of doing that, whatever you might mean by it. I plan to be at Herbert’s funeral. I’ll see you there.”
The funeral of Herbert West was held three days after his death. For some reason, his brothers had decided to make a spectacle of the event. A charitable interpretation was that this was their way of atoning for their unworthy intentions toward him. But it was more likely that they saw it as an opportunity to advertise the services offered by West’s Funeral Homes. “This is the deluxe version,” they were telling Arkham. “Show the world how much you care. Make a splash!”
The service was held amid the gloomy splendours of Christ Church, the Episcopalian cathedral, which was decked out with massive floral arrangements. A large choir had been recruited and several of the Wests’ establishments must have contributed their staffs to serve as ushers and ornamental place-holders. I was surprised not to see a brass band on the premises.
For the citizens of Arkham, the funeral was the occasion for a great outpouring of curiosity. The church was full. Nearly everyone who was anyone in the University, medical, or business communities was there, including many who had known West only by repute or not at all. I saw Mrs. Fisk in the crowd, accompanied by a youngish man I assumed to be her son.
Sitting together was the group of elder professor-doctors who had been West’s real or perceived enemies since his student days, among them Drs. Shortt and Hobson, and Allan Halsey. I do not know if I imagined it, but the latter seemed to wear a look of triumphant satisfaction. I turned away, not wishing to see any more of it. For the first time I was glad that Alma was not there.
I was shown to a place immediately behind the seats occupied by Hiram and Jeremy. Everywhere I saw examples of the duplicity and evil of human nature. It was in me too, in the burden of dark knowledge and lies I carried. This very ceremony was one gigantic lie perpetrated by Herbert West and myself.
A magnificent casket of mahogany and brass occupied the focal point at the head of the cent
ral aisle. I wondered what West would have thought of it. Perhaps it was a kind of loss-leader, having outstayed its welcome in some showroom due to high price and over-ornamentation.
A clergyman unknown to me before that day, and probably to West as well, delivered, in practiced, unctuous tones, well-worn sentiments on the mystery of death and the bliss of the life to come. The choir delivered the appropriate hymns at the appropriate intervals.
No fewer than three eulogies were given. Dr. Welburn Bright, now over seventy and long retired, spoke sentimentally about young Dr. West and his brilliance, including his war record and innovative surgical techniques. I detected some muttering at this from the professional old guard. Then the current Dean of Medicine, who also happened to be the president of the Massachusetts Medical Association, which West had said was preparing to expel him, intoned a few platitudes whose perfunctory nature made me squirm. Then it was my turn.
I mounted the pulpit and stood for a moment regarding the congregation. The hundreds of faces merged into a blur, from which only four stood out – Sarah Enright, Mrs. Fisk, Hiram and Jeremy West. It was to them that I addressed my words.
In an episode of black humour, West had written a eulogy for himself as a kind of joke. In a way I wish I had been able to deliver it, but I could never have said with a straight face things like, ‘Even as a student at Miskatonic University Medical School, Dr. West displayed a laudable concern for public morals, including those of his Dean.’ Or, ‘Dr. West was anxious to ensure that every citizen does his utmost for the cause of medical research, to the extent that he employed several individuals in this capacity after their demise, thus extending their productive lives.’
Instead, I spoke of his devotion to the prolonging and improving of life and his generosity. To those who could not afford specialized surgery, he had delivered his services at no cost. In conclusion, I said that with his death, a certain energy and optimism had vanished from among us.
To end the service, I had hired three students from the Miskatonic University Music School to perform excerpts from the string trio arrangement of Bach’s Goldberg Variations. The brothers had objected, arguing that it was secular, irregular and a waste of time, but I insisted, emphasizing that it would take only ten minutes.
They did well, my three young players, considering how short a time they had rehearsed. They played the aria and the first three variations, then the aria once more. As the measured, beautiful melody unfolded, flowered and returned to its initial simplicity, I found myself giving in to the grief that had haunted me since that terrible morning, only three days before. I thought again of the deliberation with which West had gone about planning and executing his suicide. I thought of his final refusal to evade the horror of the things he had told me in his confession and his entire willingness to accept responsibility. Had this been courage or madness? I found that I no longer cared.
Two of the undertaker’s men opened the casket so that the mourners could file past the body before they left the church. The crowd surged toward it with an eagerness that offended me. I hung back and scrutinized all individuals that were of a height and build similar to West’s. It would be just like him, I thought, to turn up in disguise at his own funeral. There was no one that could have been he, but a pair of men, strangers to me, lingered for several minutes. One appeared to be urging the other to look at the corpse. Eventually they moved on.
The casket was carried out of the church by four minions of West’s Funeral Home, large burly men curiously similar in appearance to one another, as though they had been selected for their physiques over other criteria. The pallbearers performed a largely symbolic role. They were men I remembered from West’s dinner parties, John Billington among them. I looked at the odd combination of solemnity and excitement on their faces and wondered what they would think if they knew the truth.
Only his brothers and I went to the graveside. They had decided that he should be buried in the Derby family plot, beside his mother. On discovering that I was acquainted with Robert Derby, Hiram had asked me to negotiate this point with him. He had agreed easily, too easily, I thought. Looking at him, I realized that the lugubriousness I had seen several years ago had become a deep melancholy. I wondered how long it would be before he followed in his cousin Anna’s footsteps, to Sefton Asylum or some similar place.
As I watched the casket being lowered into the earth, I noticed a movement some distance behind the onlookers standing across from me. A deeper shade had formed beneath the nearby trees, like a localized mist, except that there were faces in it, emerging and receding. In front of this shifting crowd was John Hocks. There was a kind of solemn triumph on his face and when he recognized me he nodded and winked. When I looked again, he was gone, as were his misty companions.
At first I allowed myself to interpret this weird visitation with hope: if Hocks had believed me when I told him to watch for West’s funeral, he must not have tracked down and killed the true West. But surely he and his tribe of ghosts would have sensed that the man they sought was still alive. In that case their presence and Hocks’s mocking wink may have signified that West was dead.
Later that day I attended a reception at the Boundary Street house. Mrs. Fisk and an army of helpers had been hired to prepare the rooms and provide refreshments. I remained in the background and observed the other guests as they engaged in their social pavanes. Several of them came over to me, eager to talk about West’s passing. Most were sincere, but in a few faces I thought I saw an expectant curiosity.
One of these individuals was John Billington. “I have to admit,” he said, “that I was shocked to hear of his death, especially after that talk we had. It’s occurred to me since then that some of us who were friendly with him should have rallied around and helped him instead of leaving him at the mercy of his own extreme tendencies.”
I thought: Too bad you didn’t have these noble ideas a few weeks ago, when they might have done some good. After all, he only made you a gift of the practice that’s providing you with a living. Aloud I said, “I’m sure Herbert would have appreciated that, but surely it couldn’t have made any difference to the aneurysm that killed him?”
“Don’t tell me you believe that aneurysm explanation,” said Billington. “I’m as certain as I can be without evidence that he killed himself. It’s only logical.”
“Just because something is logical doesn’t mean it’s the truth,” I replied. “And you’re right about there being no evidence to support that notion. In fact, Billington, if I were you I wouldn’t go around making allegations like that. You could get into trouble.”
He was annoyed and soon went on his way. I decided I was tired of the charade and was about to make my farewells, when I came face to face with Professor Hobson. I intended to elude him after the barest of social amenities, but soon realized that he wanted to introduce me to someone. “Sir Edward,” he said, “this is Charles Milburn. He was a friend of Dr. West’s. Mr. Milburn, I would like you to meet Sir Edward Clapham-Lee.”
I studied the Englishman’s face as I shook his hand. Yes, there was a resemblance between him and my memory of the officer I had met in this very room nine years before. He had the same narrow, quintessentially English face, with its high forehead, long nose and receding dark hair. Then I turned my gaze to the older man who stood a little behind him, a man whom Hobson had not troubled to introduce. He seemed old, but could not yet have been sixty, surely? His manner was vague and he did not engage in any conversation, merely gazed about with an amiable but empty look on his face. His face… I studied it as closely as politeness permitted, but saw nothing that suggested a family relationship between him and the younger man. But neither could I see any evidence that his features had been altered surgically. Was this the man who had been found wandering nameless and without memories in a military hospital in France? Was this in fact Sir Eric Moreland Clapham-Lee?
Edward Clapham-Lee regarded me with as much curiosity as I had him and his companion. �
�I’m delighted to meet you, Mr. Milburn,” he said. “My associate here was in France with the Canadian Army at the same time as Dr. West. Unfortunately he’s an amnesiac as a result of his war experiences. I’m trying to help him recover his identity. I thought that perhaps Dr. West might have mentioned something in his letters to you that could be of help. It would have been late in 1917 or early 1918.”
I looked him straight in the eye and lied. As far as the world was concerned, Herbert West was dead. I had not gone through the anguish of the past week only to turn around and help his enemies, no matter how good their cause. “I’m very sorry,” I said. “I have no recollection of his mentioning such an individual in any of his letters to me. And unfortunately, I have not kept the letters, so it’s impossible to go back and look.”
After this, there was little between us to sustain a conversation, and the pair soon departed. I realized as I watched them go that it must have been they who had paused so long by the open casket. No memories had been triggered, it seemed, by the sight of West’s double, but my last sight of the two Englishmen was revelatory. From behind, with their faces invisible to me, the resemblance between them was unmistakable – it was in their stance, the way they held their heads, the way they moved. The younger man held his father’s arm to help him down the stairs. I watched them out of sight, but I had no intention of following them with my burden of knowledge.
The day after the funeral, once I was sure that the West brothers had left Arkham, I went to Herbert’s house again. Thoughts of the flask containing his blood had been troubling me. I would have to dispose of it somehow, for left as it was, its contents would undergo the loathsome changes of putrescence. I had dreamt more than once that West had stood before me, pale and gaunt, looking at me reproachfully. “In the blood is the life,” a voice intoned. But it was not his voice.
The prospect of returning to the scene of his revivification filled me with a mixture of dread and irrational hope. In truth, I still expected to find his corpse.
To my relief, the electricity in West’s house was still working. I switched on the lights over the cellar stairs and descended. In the laboratory, my eyes went immediately to the table where West’s body had lain.
A body lay there again. I nearly screamed when it sat up and turned toward me. Then I recognized John Hocks. “What are you doing here?” I asked, masking my fear with anger.
He looked better, less cadaverous and decently dressed in a suit, with shirt, vest, necktie and all. My first thought was that he must have taken the clothing from West’s wardrobe. His voice was distinct but faint, as though it came from a distance.
“Well, well, it’s Mr. Charles, Dr. West’s friend! Good evening to you, sir! As for what I am doing here, well, I was resting. In peace. No harm done, I assure you. And what about you? Why are you here? Looking for your friend? Don’t you know he’s gone? There’s no one here but us.” He grinned at me, sitting tailor-fashion on the table.
“I’m here to make sure everything is in order, the way Dr. West would want it to be,” I said. “How did you get in, Hocks?”
“Oh, I have my ways. And that’s a good thing, since no one tells me the truth. Not even you, Mr. Charles.” He slid off the table and came toward me, shaking a finger.
“I figured it out, even before I came in here, and when I did, well, it was crystal clear, in a manner of speaking.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Dr. West, of course. I would have said ‘the late Dr. West,’ but he isn’t, is he? Not late at all, but alive again. That wasn’t him they put in that hole in the ground. You can’t fool me, not anymore. We’re going to hit the road soon, we Friends of Herbert West. We’re going to find him and make him remember us. We’ll be with him every night, sing him lullabies, tell him stories, give him interesting dreams. Some day he’ll know he shouldn’t have interfered with us.”
“He already knows that, Hocks. He told me so, before he died, and I told you.”
“But he didn’t tell me, or the others. It’s not your business any more. You have other concerns now.”
His manner had changed; he was stern and dignified, and I realized that I could see shelves and a bunsen burner that were behind him, as though he was transparent. He reached over and picked up the flask containing West’s blood. “This is what you came for, isn’t it? I said I would give you a present. Well, here it is.”
I tried not to look at the flask, but I could tell that its contents were a very dark colour.
“What makes you think I came for that? What is it, anyway?” I wasn’t prepared for Hocks to be so perspicacious.
“His blood, of course. The blood of the necromancer. A precious substance. As his assistant, you are the inheritor.”
“And who are you? You’re not really John Hocks, are you?”
“It took you long enough to figure that out, didn’t it, Charles Milburn? Yes, I know your name, but you don’t know mine. Not all of them, anyway.”
“Where is he?” I asked, trying to keep my voice steady. “Since you know so much, can you tell me that?”
“Where is who?” said the Hocks-thing, mockingly. He grinned. “All right, I’ll stop playing games. You want me to tell you where Herbert West is, so you can go rushing after him. Well, I won’t do that. He has to remake himself without you. He’s finished with you.”
“Will I ever see him again?”
“Maybe. It depends.” He held out the flask. “That’s enough talk. Take this and listen to me. Come back here in ten days and you will see what there is to be seen. If you choose. It’s up to you.”
I had to obey. I went over and took the flask from his hand. As my fingers closed around its neck, he vanished. I heard a sound like a gust of wind, and the clang of a distant door closing.
The flask felt warm in my hand. Moments before, it had been full of dark red blood, but now the liquid was black, bubbling and heaving behind the glass. I set it down with a shudder and ran for the door.
A lighthearted jaunt to Cape Cod was out of the question, but I had to get away from Arkham. After a little thought I gathered together a few necessities and went to Kingsport.
There were a few boarding houses in the old town, mainly for summer visitors. It was to one of these that I went, an old house, seemingly ramshackle but solid enough, clinging to the steep hillside like a barnacle. The landlady showed me to a white-painted room at the far end of the house. One of its two windows looked north to the great cliffs, the other east to the ocean.
When I had unpacked my few belongings, I sat down in a chair by the eastern window and looked out to sea. I felt something like peace for the first time in days – since I had lain on the cliff near here, only one week before.
Then, inexplicably, I had a strong sense of West’s presence. It was as though he had come into the room. The door was closed but the atmosphere was charged with his peculiar energy and the still air rippled with an invisible current.
“Herbert?” I spoke aloud, without constraint. “Are you here? What happened to you? Please tell me.”
As suddenly as it had come, the feeling vanished and I felt foolish, talking to the air. But it had been so strong. I wondered again if he were dead, and this had been the final leave-taking of his spirit.
As I was preparing for bed that first night, I noticed something. The sheets and pillowslips were clean and smelled of sea air and wood smoke but to the counterpane there clung, very faintly, the scent of narcissus.
I slept well that night, and all the subsequent nights of my stay in that place. I had no dreams, or if I did retained no memory of them.
For a week I laid down the burden of speculation and lived only in the present. I spent the days wandering Kingsport’s crooked streets, occasionally talking with some of the inhabitants, or sitting on the wharf, my mind rendered blank by sun and salty air. Once I climbed up one of the cliffs to see the town from above and to feel again the strange charm of the high places.
On the last day of my sojourn, as I walked slowly along the strip of beach that divided the cliffs from the tidal zone, I saw something shining silver among the pebbles and picked it up. It was a button, a rather odd one, with an elaborate pattern of twisting and interlocking shapes. I caught my breath. West had had a jacket with buttons just like this one. He had told me that he had them imported from Spain, and that the pattern was thought to be Celtic in origin, with a connection to a pagan god of medicine. I wondered what the chances were of someone else having buttons like these.
That evening, I sought out my landlady. Had someone else from Arkham stayed in the house recently? No, she said, I was the first visitor from Arkham in several weeks. It occurred to me then that West, if he had been here, must have named some other place as his point of origin. I gave a brief description of him and asked if someone like that had been a guest recently. She thought hard but could not be sure. For several days she had been ill and her husband had dealt with the guests. She would ask him.
A while later, when I had nearly given up, she returned. Yes, her husband remembered a fellow who looked like the one I had described. He’d stayed three nights and left the day before I arrived. Her husband thought the fellow was sick. “Looked like death was peering over his shoulder. Good thing he had that French fellow with him,” was how he’d put it. He had mostly stayed in his room, which, she said, was the one I had now. The other man seemed to be his servant. Where had they gone? She didn’t know. They had settled their bill and left without saying anything about their destination.
Back in my room, I sat by the window, watching darkness gather over the ocean. He had been here, and Andre with him. I realized now that Andre must have been part of West’s plan. He must have coached him in his role, just as he had me. I could not find it in myself to resent this deception. He had been preparing for something that would be unthinkable to most people. Who could blame him for hedging his bets? At least I could lay aside my fears that he was dead in a ditch.
I searched the room thoroughly, looking for another sign of his presence, however trivial, but there was nothing. He could not have known, after all, that I would come here.
When I got back to Arkham, I found a story in one of the newspapers that had accumulated in my absence: Wild Man Dead, said the headline. The corpse of the so-called Wild Man of Arkham, recently escaped from Sefton Asylum, was found in a wooded area near Christ Church Cemetery. The state of the body indicated that death occurred several days ago, probably the result of starvation and exposure. In 1911 this individual was confined in Sefton after killing four people. The true name and antecedents of the unfortunate wretch remain unknown. His body was buried in the potter’s field at Hangman’s Hill.
The next day I forced myself to return to West’s laboratory. It was ten days since the disturbing encounter with the entity that was not Hocks. I hoped it had been a hallucination and for proof went back to look at the flask, fully expecting to find the repulsive results of advanced decomposition.
The flask was where I had left it, but now it contained a substance like wax or resin, pale yellow in colour and faintly aromatic, redolent of spices or exotic herbs. I looked at it for a long time, thinking that someone must have switched flasks, but who?
Wondering if I should have the substance analysed by a chemist, I set the vessel down. As the glass touched the surface of the laboratory bench, there was a faint but distinct crack. The flask broke neatly into three parts, which fell apart with a musical tinkle. Among them gleamed a lump of purest gold.
The Friendship of Mortals Page 33