“And Gévaudan?” asked Charles, regaining his strength. “Did he speak to her with such frankness?”
“Oh, yes. He and Mademoiselle Gévaudan seemed at ease in one another’s presence, for they laughed often, whispering together as though sharing intimacies. They touched one another as lovers might.”
“Charles, what is this all about?” insisted Aubrey. “Why are you so interested in this physician’s personal life?”
“For one thing, he claims to be a teetotaler who shuns night spots! Look, I’ve had enough of second-hand information. I want to see the man for myself. Edmund, continue with your report whilst I’m gone.”
Without another word, Sinclair left the library and crossed through the busy corridors to the foyer. Standing outside the Cumbria Room, he could hear Henry MacAlpin shouting phrases that were anything but friendly. They were, in fact, filled with accusation and outrage.
“How dare you say such things?” answered Gehlen as Charles opened the door. “It’s clear you’ve decided to hire another to look after the duchess, Your Grace. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll take my leave.”
“Not yet,” Sinclair ordered his guest. “Sit down. I’ve questions of my own before you return to Whitechapel, Dr. Gehlen. Many, many questions.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
“Just what is this all about?” demanded Sinclair. It seemed to the duke that the two physicians were ready to come to blows, and he suspected he knew the reason why.
Elizabeth.
Henry’s face was flushed with outrage. “Shut the door, Charles, just in case Beth returns. I don’t want her to hear any of this.”
“I don’t understand why you’re treating me with such disdain,” Gehlen objected. “I only came to see to the duchess’s welfare. I am her doctor of record. How am I suddenly a pariah here?”
“You can ask me that?” accused the viscount. “After you behaviour last night, you have no right to ask questions!”
“Stop it! Both of you!” shouted Sinclair, his head pounding. “Henry, what do you mean by last night? Is there more I should know?”
“Oh, yes, indeed!” exclaimed Henry, scarcely keeping his temper. “The liar insists he knows nothing of what happened, and I’m absolutely certain he does!”
“Do you mean his relationship with Gévaudan?” enquired the duke, trying to sound calm. “Dr. Gehlen, do you know a singer named Antoinette?”
“Of course, not!” answered Gehlen angrily. “Why do you keep asking me that? Henry’s clearly mistaken someone else for me. I was nowhere near the Lyceum last evening. I was in my rooms at the London’s residence hall, if you must know; sleeping, or trying to do so. I’m sure the matron can vouch for me. I saw her at ten o’clock, when I made a cup of cocoa in the kitchen.”
“Cocoa!” shouted Salperton. “That was not cocoa on your breath last night. Charles, this man dared to refer to the duchess in an insolent, thoroughly inappropriate manner, and he’d been drinking heavily. Very strange behaviour for a man who claims to abstain from alcohol.”
Confused and exhausted, Anthony collapsed onto the sofa. Dark circles rimmed his eyes, and his ordinarily robust complexion had a dull, pale aspect. Charles noticed that his hands trembled as he spoke.
“I tell you both, as God is my witness, I was in my bed last night. All night. Please, believe me! Someone else must have been there; someone who bears a striking resemblance to me. Dark hair and eyes are hardly uncommon in London.”
Sinclair offered the troubled visitor a glass of water and then sat in the opposite chair. “Take a seat, Henry. Please.”
The viscount reluctantly obeyed, for an energetic sense of indignation ran through his nervous system, and he longed to pace or strike out. His friend Elizabeth had been wronged, and he wanted satisfaction.
“Very well, but talking will accomplish nothing, Charles. In fact, I’m tempted to go to Treves today and unmask this man as a devious bounder and a bald-faced liar!”
“I assure you both that I’m not lying,” Gehlen entreated. “Have you a Bible? If so, let me swear to it. I am telling the truth!”
An odd sense danced on Charles’s skin, and he found himself believing the man. Silently praying for guidance, he decided to pursue a different path towards truth. “Anthony, have you noticed any strange moments of late? Times when people treat you differently? Misunderstandings regarding your actions? Even running into someone who claims to know you, when he’s unfamiliar?”
Gehlen looked as though he might break down weeping. “Yes! Yes! But how did you know? Charles, I do not drink. I cannot! My constitution doesn’t handle it well. I become violently ill, if I drink even one glass of wine, and the effect of spirits is worse. Ask Fred Treves, if you don’t believe me. I once had a small whisky at his home, and I passed out.”
MacAlpin’s hands slowly relaxed, and the physician and healer’s part of his nature took over. “You passed out? Have you noticed anything similar of late? Lost time, blackouts?”
Gehlen nodded, trembling all over. “Yes. Many of them, but I didn’t dare tell anyone.”
“Did you ever suffer such spells before you moved to London? Without drinking, I mean.”
“Only once, when I lived in France. In ’79. I’d gone there on a fellowship with the Sorbonne to study neuro-anatomy, and for weeks, I’d suffer from memory loss and unaccountable skips in time. Finally, a colleague diagnosed me with an unknown type of brain fever, and I spent six weeks in a private clinic near Rouen. My doctor, a brilliant man named Emile Sandoval, determined the cause might lie in alcohol and advised me never to partake again. I followed his instruction, and I’ve been healthy since. Fred knows all about it. I hid nothing from him when I came here.”
Henry grew kinder. “Forgive me for my outburst, Anthony. But appearances spoke against you. I hope you understand; we’re only concerned with Elizabeth’s welfare.”
“Yes, of course, you are. And so am I, which is the reason I stopped by. Is she doing well?”
Charles poured the distraught physician a second glass of water. “I can bring tea, if you prefer.”
“No, just water. Thank you.”
“Beth’s doing much better,” the duke told Gehlen. “Her nausea is less taxing, though it comes and goes without warning. She’s gained a little weight, I’m pleased to say, and it’s clear that our unborn children are growing well.”
“I’m very glad to hear it.”
“Look, here, Gehlen, it seems to me that Henry should give you a thorough examination. Would you submit to him and follow his advice?”
“Yes, of course, I would. All I want to do is teach, and Fred’s been kind enough to grant me the chance. I’ve no wish to disappoint him or either of you. I wonder, though, would you promise to keep this confidential for the present? I’m on probation until next year, which means any infringement of the hospital rules could be my last. Gone before I can even make a start. For years, I’ve dreamt of teaching other doctors about properly managing pregnancies and newborns. It’s such an important specialty, but very few physicians understand it. Women are dying every day for lack of informed physicians, and I want to reduce that number, if God allows it.”
He drank the water in one gulp and then held the empty glass as he continued. “The past fortnight has been hell, you know. Is it possible the brain fever has returned?”
“I suppose so, yes,” replied Henry gently. “Brain fever is a catch-all sort of diagnosis. I’ve never been in favour of it, to be honest. There may be a more concrete cause which is treatable. When do you begin lecturing?”
“Middle of January.”
“Then, come stay with me at Montmore until then, and we’ll work through this together. What was the French doctor’s name again?”
“Emile Sandoval. He’s of French and Spanish descent, I think. Dark hair and eyes. Looks very Slavic, strangely enough.”
“Quite tall. Six and a half feet or near to that. Taller than you or Aubrey, certainly. Forgive me, I’m very tired suddenly.”
Gehlen looked as though he might fall apart, and Charles placed a comforting hand on the man’s shoulder. “Anthony, you’re not alone in this. Allow us to help you.”
“That’s kind of you, Charles. I’ve felt alone since my uncle’s death. As I’ve told you, Father and I don’t get along. But I could move into his London home, I suppose. My lawyer has the keys.”
“Pencaitland House, isn’t it?” Charles asked. “It’s close to Uncle James’s home, just west of here. Anthony, is there a staff there presently?”
“Not that I’m aware. Father’s a miserly sort of fellow. His brother was much kinder. Look, I’ve taken enough of your time already. I should go.”
He started to stand but nearly collapsed.
“There now! Don’t be so hasty,” said Henry as he and Charles helped the distraught doctor back to the chair. “Living on your own is a bad idea. I insist you come back with me to Montmore. We’ll send to the London for your belongings. Just tell Fred that I require your help during the Christmas season.”
“This is a bad time for me to leave, Henry,” answered Gehlen. “The London’s teeming with wounded and dying. I can’t abandon Treves now.”
“You’re no use to him in your present condition,” Henry argued. “Look here, Anthony. I insist you take time to heal.”
“Please, do this,” Charles implored. “Beth and I need your experience and knowledge, especially now that Michael Emerson’s in Edinburgh. If this is a decline in your health, then you must address it right away. If it’s something else, then Henry will uncover it. There’s no better man, in my opinion.”
“I’ve failed you, Charles,” Gehlen whispered, his voice filled with regret. “How can you place any trust in me?”
“We all fail sometimes, Anthony. I bear you no ill will, and neither does Henry. Do you?”
Salperton smiled patiently, the former anger vanished. “No, of course not. Charles, I wonder, might we ask MacPherson’s opinion on this?”
“Ed’s not a physician, Henry.”
“No, but he represents a healing of another kind. Trust me on this. I think it’s a good idea.”
“Give us a few minutes, Dr. Gehlen,” said Sinclair. “We shan’t be long.”
The two men stepped into the foyer, moving away from the doors, down towards the main staircase. “What is it you suspect? Is he ill or not?”
“He’s very ill, Charles, but I’m not sure brain fever is an accurate diagnosis,” replied Salperton. “I’ve a little experience with demonic possession, but...”
“What?” exclaimed Sinclair. “You think him overcome by a dark spirit?”
“Charles, you saw that creature attack Paul last night! And you’ve said again and again that the spirit realm is placing pieces into position. Now, whilst I sense nothing supernatural in him today, last evening at the Lyceum I saw a spiritual entity glide past me just seconds before running into Gehlen. Anthony’s behaviour was entirely different, as though another controlled him—or used his form as a mask. His mental state seems consistent with possession, or at least external influence. I’d like MacPherson to examine him further.”
“Very well, but not here. There are enough dangers in this house as it is. I’ll not have some creature released in our corridors because it’s fleeing a human host!”
“I’m not really sure it works like that, Charles, but Mac’s the expert, not I. May I speak to him?”
As a man who commanded entire divisions of police detectives, Sinclair was accustomed to making quick decisions, and he made one now. “We leave for Branham in a few hours. Take Gehlen to Montmore then, but keep him separate from your other patients. If there is a demonic spirit involved, you must protect them.”
“I can put him in the gardener’s cottage, now that it’s vacant again. Poor old Jack!”
“His body’s been removed?”
“Oh, yes. Mr. Rush, the attendant in charge overnight, called the police immediately, and they removed the body to a waggon and kept it there for me to examine. I declared it suicide, because of the self-inflicted marks on his arms, but it’s my conviction that some darkness influenced his mind, causing him to self-harm.”
“Be careful, Henry. That spirit might still be there.”
“Another reason for bringing in Mac. My attendants are cleaning the cottage. And Mac can help anoint all the lintels and rooms. The cottage will be ready for a new occupant by evening.”
“Very well,” Sinclair agreed. “Mac’s on leave from college duties until after the new year, but you’ll need my uncle’s permission to second him for more than a few days. Mac’s still the pastor of Drummond Chapel.”
“I’ll make sure he addresses that. I doubt James will refuse so great a cause.”
“I’ll send a footman to the London to collect Anthony’s clothing and other personal items,” Charles suggested. “How long will the process take?”
“I’ve no idea,” Henry admitted, scratching his head. “I’ve had other patients with spiritual attachments, but never a case of possession. Honestly, Charles, I may be in over my head.”
“We’re all in over our heads, Henry. Every last one of us, but regardless, God is still in control. Nothing surprises him.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
5 Fitzmaurice Place, the Wychwright Home
Stephen Algernon Allendale was typical of successful London solicitors. His clothing was tailored on Savile Row. He wore elegantly expensive jewellery: watch and chain, tie pin, collar button, cufflinks; all designed to match. He seldom added finger adornments of any type, although he did possess a masonic ring that he put on when visiting fellow lodge members. Now, as he sat in the Wychwright’s dining hall, he gave careful consideration to his manner of speech, the way he conveyed ideas, and even the sound of his voice. He’d read a hundred wills during his twenty years in the Ames, Groves, and Allendale firm, and he’d learnt to be wary of surprises.
He did, in fact, know the family were about to receive a very large one.
“Yes, yes, all that language is typical and tells us nothing,” the eldest son and presumptive heir was spouting from the seat opposite the lawyer.
Allendale had summed up the man quickly upon meeting him fifteen minutes earlier: Self-absorbed and rude. A man who expected life to hand him a ripe apple filled with sweet juices, the seed of which would produce evermore ripening, golden fruit—all for the cost of a few magic beans.
Instead, he was about to receive a very sour lemon.
“Time, sir! Give me time, please,” the lawyer replied. “The entire will must be read, as I’m sure you’re aware. As I’ve said, your late father bequeathed all the usual properties to you, as is the requirement due to the entail.”
“Meaning, my dear, that you get the title and all the property and money,” said Wychwright’s mother soothingly. “As it should be.”
Allendale cleared his throat. “Not exactly.”
“What the devil do you mean by ‘not exactly’?” the impatient son shouted.
“I mean that there is an addendum, sir. A codicil, dated two months ago.”
“Two months? Addendum? No, I’ll not have it! Mother, what do you know of this?”
Constance Wychwright had already begun to amend her drab widow’s weeds with hints of colour, adding a bright red comb to her upswept hair, as well as shedding her veil. She shook her head in dismay, using a soothing tone as she patted her son’s hand.
“I’m sure it’s nothing important. The last time your father and I discussed the will, he told me that everything would go to you, my darling. I’m sure this addendum merely emphasises that fact. Do now, let’s all listen, shall we? Mr. Al
lendale will explain.”
Ned Wychwright said nothing, certain he’d receive little if anything, and Tom was nursing a bang-up hangover from an all-nighter at a Soho men’s club. Cordelia looked like a ghost of her former self, wishing she could awaken from the nightmare her life had become.
“Thank you, Lady Constance,” the solicitor said smoothly. “I shall now read out the specific bequests, so that we are all sure of the late baron’s wishes. As I said earlier, the barony, as entailed, passes to the eldest son, Captain William David Wychwright. This includes the title, and I have a copy of the letters patent, should you require them. You also inherit the house in which we now sit and all its furnishings, Windermere Hall in Cumbria and all its furnishings, a hunting lodge on the Isle of Skye called Plover’s End with all its furnishings. A seaside cottage, which is somewhat rundown, but...”
“Yes, yes, we know all that! What of the money?” William interrupted. “How much is there, and does it all come to me?”
“I’m getting to that, sir,” explained the solicitor. “Plover’s End and all its...”
“You’ve said that already!” the new baron shouted. “And that damned seaside cottage is a miserable little shack. Get to the rest of it!”
“Of course, my lord. Regarding liquid assets, there are several bank accounts to mention. One at Barkley Brothers in Carlisle containing 14,236 pounds, nine shillings and seven pence. This account is used by the estate steward for management and sundries, staff wages, building maintenance, and taxes. I shall leave a detailed report of expenses for your own accountant to peruse. Barings Bank keeps an account with a current balance of 12,649 pounds, twelve shillings, eight pence, which is available for your personal use. There is a forty-seven pound cheque against it currently, payable to a Mr. Silas Winchester, which has not been presented. As before, I have those details in my briefcase, and they’re also available at your accountant’s pleasure. A third deposit is held at Silverman’s on Finsbury Circus. This is an investment account, and is not entailed to the barony.”
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