by Peter Rawlik
Chapter 9.
THE MISKATONIC VALLEY
MEDICAL SOCIETY
With the arrival of Dr. Muñoz I was faced with a most uncomfortable dilemma. The practice that I shared with Dr. Wilson still occupied the offices that were essentially located just upstairs of Muñoz’s refrigerated quarters, and it was unlikely that I would be able to keep his presence secret for very long. Thankfully, the bitter cold winter allowed Muñoz to leave the basement apartment and thus avoid raising any suspicions concerning his condition. I introduced him as a distant maternal uncle, and he took to this role with some fervor and soon, even in private, Muñoz would refer to me as his “brilliant nephew”.
Those first few months, we devoted ourselves to familiarizing him with the customs and fashions of Arkham. To this end we attended many social and academic events, which Muñoz thrilled at, and soon we were regular attendees at the weekly Miskatonic Valley Medical Society Lectures. At these semi-formal affairs, visiting physicians and researchers would give perfunctory talks on various aspects of clinical or experimental facets of medicine or surgery. Afterwards, the society would host a reception in honor of the speaker, complete with substantial quantities of food and drink. It was at these social gatherings that I introduced Muñoz to the medical practitioners of Arkham, Bolton and Kingsport, and all the outlying communities, including Innsmouth, Aylesbury, and the little hamlets that dotted the countryside such as Misty Valley, Witches Hollow, and Martin’s Beach. It was here as well that I pointed out to Muñoz the two men responsible for the death of my parents and other atrocities, all committed in the name of reanimation, the dreaded Herbert West and Daniel Cain, who attended on occasion.
Despite the periodic presence of those I considered my foes, I generally enjoyed these lectures and soirees, and made a point of complementing the organizers, Doctors Alfred Morris and Evan Beaumont, half-brothers who had opened up a practice in Kingsport catering to the summer tourists and more affluent members of the sleepy seaside town. Yet while I enjoyed these events, Muñoz bloomed, often holding court on a chilly porch or veranda, entertaining the younger set with his tales of European cities and exotic women with even more exotic afflictions, both real and imagined. It wasn’t long before he had a regular following which included many of the area’s rising stars, including Paul Rigas, Henryk Savaard, and Richard Cardigan. While most of this clique was welcome, one was particularly annoying, but thankfully only an occasional attendee. Francis Flegg was a mere medical student who would often accompany his mentor, the surgeon Maurice Xavier. Whether Xavier had invited Flegg or the overeager youth had simply invited himself was never clear, but it was only out of respect for Xavier that young Flegg’s presence was tolerated, for he was perhaps one of the most sycophantic I had ever had the displeasure to encounter.
Now, one would think that such social gatherings would have little to do with the work that Muñoz and I planned on doing. Circumstance however conspired to bring our studies in reanimation crashing into the world of the Miskatonic Valley Medical Society, forever changing the face of medicine as we know it.
It was late December, the last meeting before the holidays, and Muñoz and I had spent the better part of the evening at an upper class home delivering a bouncing baby boy whom the proud parents named Edward Derby Upton. As a result, we were late to the lecture, and entered the Miskatonic Club with the reception well underway. The guest speaker was a Frenchman rumored to be in line for a Nobel Prize, Dr. Alexis Carrel. Carrel was a surgeon noted for his achievements in vascular surgery and the grafting of tissues, so it came as some surprise to both Muñoz and myself that the subject of conversation in the room was in no way related to Carrel’s acknowledged specialty. Instead he was speaking about cellular senescence, immortal cell cultures, and even the artificial reactivation of long-dead tissues. By all that I held dear, Carrel was talking about reanimation.
He was surrounded by a small group, including Xavier, Darrow, Clapham-Lee, Armwright, Cardigan, and Rigas, amongst others. This crowd was laughing, speaking jovially and clearly being entertained by whatever was occurring in their midst. Intrigued, Muñoz and I worked our way over and infiltrated the gathering. In the center next to Carrel, and holding his attention, were Doctors West and Cain. Between the two of them they were holding a large glass specimen case which contained a young chicken. The beast was frantically trying to get out of the case. It was enraged, and repeatedly bashed itself into the glass walls, tried to peck through the glass, and leapt at any sudden movement. It was behavior I had seen before, in the rats that I had subjected to experiments in reanimation. West and Cain were showing off a reanimated chicken, and by all of its behavior it was yet again a vile bloodthirsty revenant.
While Carrel and the younger generation were transfixed by the monstrosity, the older, more genteel doctors were horrified, disgusted by what had been done to a living creature in the name of science. There were cautious furtive glances followed by disapproving scowls and whispered statements of contempt. The little clique of young professionals was so enthralled by the horrid little creation, that they were oblivious to the machinations and the wave of rebuke that was mounting in the rarified pools of senior fellows and department chiefs. Only Muñoz and I seemed cognizant of what was happening and were able to distance ourselves from the crowd of gawkers and their morbid entertainment.
We sidled over to a gathering of the more senior physicians of the area, including Dr. Waldron, the University doctor, and the retired Arthur Hillstrom, from whom I had inherited many of my patients. Both not only served as trustees for the medical association, but also on the review board of St. Mary’s Hospital. We arrived just in time to overhear these two distinguished gentlemen finish a most interesting conversation.
“The truth is,” said Waldron, “we’ve let this morbid little group get out of hand. It is long past time that we dealt with it.”
Hillstrom nodded in agreement. “It won’t take us long. There’s more than enough evidence, and with the proper incentives we can purge this festering cancer from our beautiful town. I’m thankful that Carrel’s visit was able to flush them all out into the open.”
What they had been talking about was not clear at the time, but within weeks it was made plain. A sudden influx of new patients revealed that Savaard’s office had suddenly closed. Xavier had been told his services were no longer needed at the teaching hospital. Darrow’s grant extension was revoked. Rigas was threatened with revocation of his license if he didn’t leave Massachusetts. By February of 1912 nearly every doctor who had formed any sort of friendship or relationship with West and Cain had been forced out, made to relocate out of state. Only Armwright and the despicable originators of the reanimation process remained in the area. I can only assume that Chester Armwright’s family connections served to protect him.
With the influx of new patients, the practice of Hartwell and Wilson had no choice but to expand. We weren’t the only practice in Arkham, but certainly we were one of the most successful. Muñoz began seeing patients, mostly Spanish and Portuguese immigrants and Negroes at first, but as time went on any illusions we had concerning the need for separating our clients soon went to the wayside. Any clients who objected were welcome to obtain services elsewhere. As for West and Cain, there was no protection for them at all. Their privileges at the hospital were revoked, but they remained in practice serving the poor and ignorant folk of Bolton as they saw fit, experimenting on what specimens they could. Hillstrom made it clear that the two were not welcome in Arkham and that, were they to ignore his warning, certain facts would be made available to the authorities both locally and in Bolton. That Hillstrom made regular visits to the offices of Hartwell, Wilson and Muñoz, and would on occasion spend an inordinate amount of time staring at the little Spanish doctor, who seemed so polite, but whose hands were too cold, worried me at first. In the end it came to nothing and whatever Hillstrom suspected, he took to the grave when he died in March of 1912. That his regular physician was
out of town, and that it was I who came to Hillstrom’s bed has no relevance to this tale. Nor will I reveal what he told me as he lay there dying, but he knew enough to beg me for his life.
And I knew enough to let him die.
And stay that way.
Chapter 10.
THE DISASTER AND
THE DETECTIVE
The end of March and then April came, and Muñoz and I found ourselves immersed in efforts to do just what Peaslee had suggested so many years ago: develop a vaccine against death. Indeed, preliminary trials with rats proved quite successful, with our test subjects showing significant resistance, if not immunity, to a variety of traumas, poisons, and other fatal conditions. It seemed apparent that we would have no choice but to begin clinical trials, trials that would use the citizens of Arkham themselves as test subjects. We laughed maniacally at our devious plot, for it sounded so much like something that West and Cain would conceive of, and the macabre humor of it all was not lost on us.
If only we could have maintained that sense of humor in the days that were to come.
A letter from Peaslee arrived toward the end of the first week of April, postmarked Southampton. He detailed some of his exploits in the Congo with Lord Jermyn, spoke wildly about some incredible archeological find, and hinted at amazing still-extant paleontological bridges. The whole matter was lost on me and I became much more interested in his return to the British Isles in March. There was a visit to Belfast and discussion of a young man named John Coffey. As usual there were a number of photographs, including one of Peaslee and Coffey standing on what appeared to be the deck of an ocean-going passenger liner of some sort, identified only as Harland and Wolff, Belfast. As usual, I forwarded the details of his adventures off to the paper, but kept the more personal pages, those directed toward Dr. Muñoz and me, providing us with instructions and direction, private. Of these there were several, including that he would be sending several crates of valuables to us via ocean liner, and the requirement that we draw up orders of payment for Mr. Coffey’s father. The young man had apparently made some impression on Peaslee, rendering to him services he would not disclose.
It was on Monday, April 15, 1912, that the horror that had occurred the night previous was made public. The ocean liner RMS Titanic had struck an iceberg, causing the great ship to take on water and sink. Of the more than 2000 passengers and crew, only a sparse 675 were reported to be saved, though later this number was revised upwards of 700. From that day on the papers were filled with news of the disaster. Much was made of the survival of J. P. Morgan, who had been scheduled to be on board the ship, but had cancelled his travel because of other business. The paper ran a photograph of Morgan talking about the disaster with his advisors. Much also was made of the young seaman who had abandoned his post on the Titanic and jumped ship in Queenstown. The young man claimed that he had a sudden premonition of disaster, and that he had no choice but to forego his duties.
While such interviews and revelations sold newspapers, I and Muñoz were so involved with our own work that we had little time to trouble ourselves with such things, even if they were disasters of international proportions. The only thing that took time from our project were our patients, and a second communication from Peaslee. Unlike his previous missives, this was a Western Union telegram, and was relatively simple in content. Apparently, the crates of valuables that Peaslee had shipped to us had been aboard the Titanic, and had been swallowed by the hungry sea. Fortunately, Peaslee had taken out a significant insurance policy on the shipment and now sought to recoup his investment. I was astounded to find that Peaslee had significantly overinsured the cargo, using an American company rather than a British one. The contents of the shipment were lost on me, mostly antiquities and the like gathered from his travels, but all confirmed and documented by the company’s European agents. When the insurance check came, it would place in Peaslee’s account more than a million dollars.
It was towards the end of April that the first significant steps in the trial of our new vaccine were made, and while such movement was made purely through circumstance, it was a complete success. Though, as I shall reveal, the success was tempered by a revelation of a greater horror, one that seemed to keep intruding into our lives in the most unobtrusive but repugnant of manners.
Early in the day I received an urgent telephone call from Wendell Atlee, one of my patients, and the proprietor of the Hotel Miskatonic, a rooming house on the far side of the University. One of his female guests had fallen and although the injuries did not seem to warrant a trip to the hospital, Atlee hoped that I would see the young lady just to make sure. I readily agreed, and assured Atlee that I would extend her all courtesies. Atlee thanked me profusely, adding that the couple spoke English well despite the fact that they were Chinese.
It wasn’t long before a taxi cab pulled up in front of the house and released a dapper man who dashed around the car to extract his wife from the other side. He stood about five and a half feet tall, and was dressed in a cream on cream suit, with a cream bowler. As he helped his wife down the walkway, I could see that the two had a significant disparity in age. I placed the husband in his late thirties, but his wife could not be more than twenty-five.
Leaving the office, I met them halfway with an offer to aid in her transport. “I am Dr. Hartwell; would you be offended if I offered to help you carry your wife into the office?”
The husband, who was heavier than a man of his age should be, bobbed his head in quick agreement and said in perfect, if slightly accented, English, “Propriety is like the speed limit, in emergency it may be ignored.”
I chuckled as I slipped my shoulder under the young lady’s arm and the two of us maneuvered her through the empty front and into one of the examination rooms. As we deposited her on the table, her husband said to me, “Thank you so much,” bowing as he did so. It was then that I noticed the holster and gun hidden under his coat. The man caught my look and quickly buttoned his jacket. “You will forgive me, I am Officer Chan of the Honolulu Police Department, and this is my wife Jinghua. She stumbled on the stairs in Mr. Atlee’s rooming house this morning; I think she may have injured her ankle.”
The young woman smiled and stared at her husband lovingly. When she spoke, her voice was melodious and soothing. “You will forgive my new husband, for he is being disingenuous. He is more concerned over the fact that I felt somewhat ill this morning, and that this led me to lose my balance and my footing. He is foolish, but I love him.”
I leaned Jinghua back onto the table and began a standard examination, which included her ankle, but also her neck and pelvic region. “Arkham seems an odd place for a honeymoon. It is very far from the Territory of Hawaii, and I am sure quite different.”
Officer Chan bobbed his agreement. “We had intended to spend it on a cruise to Europe. Sadly, recent tragic events have forced happy couple to trade Old England for New England.”
Apparently a puzzled look crossed my face, betraying the fact that I hadn’t grasped his meaning. Fortunately his wife provided an explanation. “We had tickets to travel from New York on the Titanic’s return voyage. They were a gift from my father. I assure you, Doctor, we are citizens of the United States. Do you wish to examine our resident permits?”
I shook my head. “Madame, while I appreciate your compliance with the Geary Act, your national status makes no difference. Though I have to say that undertaking such a voyage seems a bold act given the sentiment that some in this country have been filled with,” I remarked.
“Father is not without certain influences, and he and Mother place a high value on travel. Many years ago my father had quite an exploit, traversing through China. It is how he and my mother met and fell in love, but it also opened Father’s eyes to what he calls ‘globalization’. My family has trade interests on both sides of the Pacific, and on many of the islands in between. We are headquartered in San Francisco, where my parents live. My sister and I look after our assets in Hawaii, where I met m
y husband.” She smiled at her doting husband, who seemed embarrassed by his wife’s discourse. “The laws of your country may be oppressive, Dr. Hartwell, and based on irrational fears, but I assure you that compared to the political and economic climate in our homeland, they are quite tolerable. In China, you and I would not even be able to have this conversation.”
I fumbled on the table for a stethoscope. “You’ve been married for about six weeks now. Is this the first time you’ve felt sick or dizzy?”
Suddenly the erstwhile policeman showed his colors. Rising, he gestured with his hat in hand as he talked. “Excuse please. How you know we have been married for six weeks?”
I stood up, removing the stethoscope from Jinghua’s abdomen. “Simple deduction really, based on the medical information available to me. Since your wife is experiencing symptoms of what we commonly refer to as morning sickness, and those usually appear about six weeks after conception, I concluded that you had been married approximately six weeks ago.”
I didn’t think it was possible, but the man suddenly turned pale. “Conception, you mean Jinghua is pregnant?”
The young woman on the table began to giggle. “That is exactly what he means. For a man who wants to be a detective, you have certainly been oblivious these last few days.” And with that, Officer Chan neatly passed out, falling like a tree onto the floor with a tremendous reverberating thud.
I was to his side in seconds, and soon had him on his back. His skin was clammy, and his breathing shallow and labored. As I placed the stethoscope to his chest I saw Muñoz coming through the door. “Help me get him into the other room.” I caught a glimpse of his wife’s panicked face. “Not to worry, Mrs. Chan, a simple fainting spell. We’ll have him up and about in a few minutes. You just lie back and try to relax.”