My Clockwork Muse

by D. R. Erickson

~ * * * ~

  "So what am I looking at?" I asked.

  "Hematite ore," Witherspoon said. "You will also find there trace elements of mercury and gold. You should have consulted a geologist and not a chemist!" Witherspoon sniffed with laughter. He looked up from the microscope and surveyed the little group gathered around my stool. When no one shared his mirth, he adjusted his pince-nez and turned his attention back to my observations.

  "I will have to take your word for it," I said, looking up with my uninjured eye from the eyepiece. "It is all a meaningless jumble to me."

  "Oh, it's far from meaningless, Mr. Poe. Go ahead, have a look." He motioned to Gessler and Olimpia and they each took a turn examining the substance through the microscope. "There are traces of other elements there as well. But I'm afraid our sample is too small and degraded to make anything more than broad observations."

  "You have detected no opium," I said. I needed assurance that what he had already told me was true: the substance was not laudanum.

  He shook his head. "No opium. The label on the vial is an obvious attempt to mislead."

  "To hide the substance in plain sight, no doubt," Gessler said. "One laudanum vial among many."

  "And to frame me," I added. "That is, after all, my handwriting. Inexpert, yes, but an attempt at forgery all the same."

  "Then what is it, if not laudanum?" Olimpia asked.

  Witherspoon blushed as he did whenever Olimpia addressed him directly. He busied himself by removing the glass slide from the microscope and placing it in a flat dish. He covered it with a lid, and then turned. "If my suspicion is correct, gentlemen," he began, avoiding Olimpia's eye, "the substance in that vial goes by many names: Liquid Gold; Pool of Nectar. The Hindus call it Amrit." He surveyed our puzzled expressions, and then intoned in a hushed whisper, "The Drink of the Gods."

  No one spoke for a moment as we tried to digest what we had just heard. Witherspoon seemed to think the names would mean something to us. They didn't. Finally, Gessler broke the silence.

  "Hindus be damned! What is it?"

  "The Elixir of Life," Witherspoon said, clearly awed by his pronouncement.

  Gessler threw up his hands. "By God, the man speaks in riddles!"

  "Not a riddle, Inspector. Immortality!" With a stiff, bent-legged gait, Witherspoon ambled across the room. He stopped at a ceiling-high bookcase where he pulled a thin, ragged volume from the shelf. "The riddle of the ages. The ultimate riddle of Mankind. Immortality, sir. The Elixir of Life."

  Gessler guffawed. "Really, Witherspoon! Are we supposed to believe that vial contained the secret to immortality?"

  I agreed with Gessler. "The context in which I found it may be more firmly established as belonging to the realm of the dead, Mr. Witherspoon, and not of eternal life."

  "Oh, it doesn't work," Witherspoon said. "But that never stopped anyone from trying." He held the moldering volume up for us to see. It reminded me of one of those from Coppelius' laboratory. "My own ancestor." He paused, thumbing through the brittle pages. "Old Elias. Escaped Cromwell's England only to run afoul of the Inquisition on the continent. Quite a colorful fellow. The Witherspoons have always been men of science. These are our notes, begun by the unfortunate Elias and elaborated upon ever since."

  "And there is something of this elixir in that volume?" I asked.

  "Oh, yes. I have the recipe right here. That is how I was able to piece together the nature of the substance. As I said, the sample is too degraded for one-hundred-percent certainty, but I am satisfied that this is what we have here."

  "Based on your ancestor's notes?"

  Witherspoon nodded. "Once I found one or two of the elements, I was able to predict the others based on Elias's formulas. I would find more still if I had a better sample. I know what to look for, you see—now that my suspicion has been aroused." He glanced at Olimpia, blushed and averted his eyes.

  Gessler was still shaking his head. I don't think he had ever ceased. "Well, if it doesn't work, then what is the point of the substance at the murder scene?"

  "I cannot deduce a reason for it, Inspector. I can only tell you what it is. And believe me, it is what I say it is."

  "The Elixir of Life."

  "Yes."

  "Well, let me ask you this, Mr. Witherspoon. What would be the effect of this elixir if administered to a human being?"

  "As constituted per Elias's formula? Death, most likely."

  "Well, there it is, then!" Gessler exclaimed, turning to Olimpia and I. "A dead end."

  Olimpia raised a finger as a thought occurred to her. "Mr. Witherspoon," she began, "could the formula be altered in some way so that it might cause a kind of deathlike trance in the subject—without actually killing him?"

  "But Miss Coppelius," Gessler objected, "you heard the man. He said himself that the substance is fatal." Gessler seemed relieved to be rid of Witherspoon's elixir.

  If so, then it was Witherspoon himself who disappointed him. "I had not considered that. But now that you mention it, there was one thing..."

  We all looked at him, but he seemed lost in thought. "Well?" I asked at last, snapping Witherspoon from his reverie.

  "Yes," he said. "Curious. I did find something strange, but I dismissed it as a mere contaminant. Considering the circumstances under which the vial was found, I naturally assumed—"

  "What did you find?" Gessler prompted impatiently.

  "Human blood, and ... well ... lymphocytes."

  "What's a lymphocyte?" Gessler asked.

  "White blood cells," Witherspoon answered. "Killer cells. These are produced by the lymph nodes. They protect the host from infection and what-not."

  "And you found that in there? Mixed in with the elixir?"

  "Yes. But in quantities far greater than would occur naturally in the blood." Witherspoon replied meditatively. "Oh, goodness..."

  "What is it?" I asked.

  "I had not taken into consideration that the biological materials may have been introduced intentionally."

  "And what effect would these materials have on the elixir?" Olimpia asked.

  "That is what I must find out, Miss ... Olimpia." His excitement had made him bold. Not only could he meet Olimpia's gaze but could call her by name as well. "This will require more study."

  "Then study this, too," I said, pulling Coppelius' vial from my pocket. Witherspoon raised his eyebrows and I told him what it was. "It is the vial I took from your father's laboratory, Olimpia. And you were right, Inspector Gessler. It was hiding in plain sight, one vial among many."

  Gessler smiled. "'The Purloined Letter', Mr. Poe. You forget: I have learned from the master."

  "An investigation should always start with the obvious. Don't you agree, Inspector?"

  "That I do, Mr. Poe! But I must say I rather prefer the obvious to this lunacy about magic potions. God only knows where we will end up."

  Witherspoon had taken the little bottle and was holding it up to the light of a lamp, examining it closely. The liquid inside was a translucent red, a color only hinted at by the dried crescent in the base of my original vial. The chemist then took it to his table and, carefully drawing out a sample with an eye-dropper, prepared a slide for his microscope. His hands were shaking as he slid the glass plate onto the viewing stage and clamped it down. He removed his spectacles and squinted into the eyepiece. We gathered round him as he began rotating the focusing mechanism.

  He abruptly raised his head. "Please!" he snapped. He must have felt us breathing down his neck. We straightened and took a step back. He peered into the eyepiece again and soon began cooing with satisfaction.

  "Well, what is it?" Gessler prompted anxiously.

  But Witherspoon only continued turning the focusing knob with his knobby fingers. In the absence of a reply, I prepared myself for disappointment. "Best not to get your hopes up, Inspector. I had believed we were dealing with some sort of home-brewed laudanum. But we have strayed so far afield, I rather doubt much will come of this now."
r />   Witherspoon looked up suddenly. "Oh, it's not laudanum," he said.

  "Then what is it?" I asked.

  He held up my original vial with its torn label and crescent of dried liquid in the base. "It is this," he said, smiling broadly. "The substances in the two vials are identical, Mr. Poe, lymphocytes and all."

  Chapter 18

  Olimpia gasped.

  "Coppelius!" Gessler exclaimed angrily. "I knew I should have paid more attention to that rascal!"

  "But Father could have had nothing to do with this."

  "It is only where the evidence leads," I said. "The substances from the murder scene and your father's laboratory are the same, Olimpia. What does that tell you?"

  "It tells me there has been a mistake!"

  "The only mistake was when I didn't arrest the old coot when I had the chance," Gessler retorted.

  Olimpia turned and bolted for the door. We gave chase and caught up with her in the sales room. One of the cops who had accompanied us to Witherspoon's shop had been reading a newspaper. He looked up with a start. The other, leaning placidly on the counter, turned and regarded us coolly. "Don't touch me!" Olimpia snapped when I grabbed her arm to stop her.

  "Now, don't do anything rash," I warned.

  "Rash? Like convicting a man on the basis of strange vials and microscopes? I will talk to him. As my father, he deserves that at least."

  "You don't mean to confront him?" I asked, aghast.

  "Of course," Olimpia said. "Do we not owe him the opportunity to explain the coincidences of these vials?"

  "I cannot allow you to go. It might be dangerous."

  "Dangerous? But he's my father, Eddy!"

  "Mr. Poe's right," Gessler said. "When Coppelius discovers that we're on to him, who knows what he'll do?" He clapped his hands and both cops straightened. "You men accompany Miss Coppelius to the doctor's house. See that no harm comes to the lady—and arrest that scoundrel when you get there. Then we'll let him talk all he wants."

  Olimpia started to protest, but then, perhaps sensing on some level that we were right, relented to have the policemen escort her home. I wanted to accompany her as well, but Gessler had other plans.

  "Miss Coppelius is in good hands, Mr. Poe. And as soon as the doctor is clapped in irons, that old scoundrel's not going anywhere."

  "And us?" I swallowed, scarcely wanting to hear the answer.

  Gessler eyed me gravely. "We have an appointment at the 'Berenice' house." I wished he had not decided to call it that. The name sent a chill through me. "I want to have another look—now that I know what we're looking for."

  "What we're looking for?"

  "Of course." Gessler winked. "You, me and Dupin."

  "Oh, joy," I said.

  ~ * * * ~

  Two hours later in Gessler's carriage, we found ourselves bouncing along a dirt road through the village of Fordham. Once past the campus of St. John's College—a brand new collection of squat stone buildings enclosed by an iron picket fence—traffic had diminished to such an extent that we soon found we had the road all to ourselves. Gessler urged the driver to hurry. We sped along the dusty track, following it down into a gloomy wooded vale through which ran a swift stream banked on either side by craggy rock bluffs. The air was noticeably cooler as we passed under a leafy canopy of hickories and oak and across the little stone bridge that spanned the waterway. I had taken walks along this very path on many an evening during Virginia's illness. For me, the route was full of melancholy, a feeling unrelieved by the purpose of my return. I had never ventured further than the bridge and no sooner had I commented upon this fact than we had surmounted the incline beyond and, arriving back in the sunshine, spied the manor house of a large agricultural estate in which, Gessler informed me, the 'Berenice' crime—for even I had begun calling it that now—had been committed.

  We rang the bell and were greeted by a servant and shown into the parlor. We were soon joined by the master of the estate, a Mr. Landor, a broad, weathered-looking man perhaps twenty years my senior. His wife—whose name had indeed been Berenice, a fact that had far more meaning to Gessler now than when he had first learned of it—had recently died of consumption and had been laid to rest in the family crypt built into the cellar of the house. It was her remains that had been disturbed by the unknown intruder.

  The clockwork Burton, if I were to have my guess.

  "Facts have come to light, Mr. Landor, that the defilement of your wife's remains may be connected to other crimes that have been committed in the city."

  A shadow passed over Landor's face. "A lunatic grave robber on the loose?"

  "Far worse, I'm afraid: a murderer. Connected to your case, nevertheless."

  Landor knit his brow. His graying side whiskers grew profusely along the lines of his jaw above a high collar. Though careworn, he looked a vigorous and healthy man, despite his age. "I am at your service," he said after a pause. "Whatever I can do to help." He clasped his hands behind his back and paced in thought, before turning. "What I don't understand, Inspector, is that whoever did this would have had to break in and find his way down into the crypt. This was no crime of opportunity committed by some passing madman. But a deliberate, calculated act." He shook his head in disbelief.

  "That is precisely what has brought me back here," Gessler said.

  It was not lost on me that Gessler did not confide to Mr. Landor just how calculated the crime had been. Just as the 'Rue Morgue' murderer had carefully selected his victims based upon my description of their abode, the same fiend had chosen to victimize the Landors due solely to the misfortune of the lady's shared named with that of my story and the close proximity of her residence to my cottage. It was a fact that all of their fates had been sealed by my pen. It was hard from me to regard Mr. Landor knowing this horrible truth.

  The poor man's grief was plain to see. Out of sympathy, I told him that my own wife had passed away from the same damnable disease. "Despite Dr. Coppelius' best efforts," I found myself adding vaguely.

  Landor's eyes lit up in recognition. "Coppelius? Why, he also tended my Berenice."

  Gessler cocked his head. "Coppelius was your wife's doctor?"

  "Indeed," Landor said. "An eccentric man, to be sure, but a capable physician."

  "Yes," I agreed, noting the dark look Gessler shot me.

  An idea seemed to occur to him. "I would like to speak to the maid again, if you don't mind, Mr. Landor."

  "Maggie. Why, yes, of course, Inspector. I will fetch her for you."

  "Coppelius was the doctor," Gessler said as soon as Landor had gone. He paced the room lost in thought, stroking his moustache. "What sort of foul game might he have been playing here?"

  "It is beyond coincidence," said I. "And yet..."

  Gessler stopped pacing and looked at me. "And yet what?"

  "And yet I can see no possible connection between Coppelius and the dead lady's teeth."

  Gessler began stroking his moustache again. "Nor can I." He went to the window and looked out on the garden. "The maid, Maggie, saw the culprit here in the garden. I believe we should inquire about a big man, agile, athletic. Don't you agree?"

  "Burton," I said.

  "He alone knew of your story, Mr. Poe. Besides you, that is."

  We heard a feeble throat-clearing and turned to see the maid standing in the doorway.

  "Ah, Maggie." Gessler smiled, striding past me towards the young woman. "I hope you don't mind if I ask you just a few more questions?"

  "Of course not, sar," she said, with a hint of an Irish accent —her 'sir' sounding a little like 'sar'. "It is nice to see you again, Inspector. And you, sar—" She looked to me and the words seemed to catch in her throat. I thought I noticed a look of recognition in her eyes—possibly even fear—but she averted her gaze quickly. I was sure Gessler caught the look, but he said nothing. I felt puzzled.

  Gessler had her recount the night in question, how she had seen a man in the garden and had been too afraid to raise an alarm
. This last caused her some embarrassment, and she muttered, "It was cowardly of me, I know."

  "Quite understandable, Maggie. Was the man armed?"

  "I couldn't rightly say. He was carryin' a little bag. That's all I could see from my window. It gives me a chill, sar, knowing now what was in it."

  "The lady's teeth," I said, and Maggie lowered her eyes, nodding.

  "You say you saw the man from your window. You're speaking of your window upstairs."

  Maggie nodded. "I was waked up by a noise and when I looked out my window there he was."

  "May we?" Gessler asked, gesturing toward the parlor door and the staircase beyond. Maggie agreed and led us up the thickly-carpeted stairs and through dark corridors to her room, our feet making scarcely a sound as we moved. Gessler immediately went to the window and, pulling back the curtain, looked down into the garden. I followed suit and saw a man with a hoe—the gardener, I supposed—appear from out of the house and saunter bow-legged among the rows of vegetables and flowers.

  "How would you describe this man?" Gessler asked, turning from the glass.

  "Come again, sar..."

  "The man in the garden that night. Was he a big man? Tall, agile, burly...?"

  "Oh, no," Maggie said with certainty. "He was wee man. Slight, I would say. But he was wearin' a hood or a mask over his face—"

  A jolt passed through me as I recalled my Rue Morgue assailant. "A mask? What kind of mask?"

  "Black as the night itself." Maggie had lowered her voice as if she were surreptitiously peering at the man still. "At first, I thought I was seein' things, or dreamin'. A headless man in the garden, I thought."

  "You could see nothing of this man's face through the mask?" Gessler asked.

  "No, nothin'. It was black as night, as I say. No eyeholes nor nothin' like that."

  "But he unmasked at some point, did he not?" Gessler must have learned this from his previous meeting with the girl.

  She nodded. "That he did, Inspector."

  "And did you get a look at him then?"

  "I saw him clearly—just as I'm lookin' at you. He was a very pale man. After that mask, his face seemed pale as death itself in the darkness."