by Ash, C. B.
Dr. Llwellyn put a hand on the young woman’s shoulder, “heaven above. I’m so very sorry.”
Hunter watched Lydia-Allison for a moment before he spoke. “Lydia … Miss Olivander … she doesn’t know, does she?”
“No,” the pale young woman said with a small shake of her head. “At times, Ah be awake when she is. It like be riding in a carriage. Sometimes Ah can suggest something to the driver, sometimes she won’t pay attention. She thinks Ah be her conscience. At times Ah have been.”
“Why didn’t ya tell anyone?” Moira asked, flabbergasted. “Just someone, anyone?”
“Who’d believe me?” Lydia-Allison replied sadly with a shrug. “Ah’d be called possessed, and never be free of a sanitarium. Ah couldn’t let Lydia be put there. So, Ah kept quiet.”
Her gaze drifted down to her feet, embarrassed, “When Ah realized what happened, Ah cried at first. Ah wanted ta fade away. Then Ah got mad. Ah wrote Lydia a note, but it scared her. So Ah didn’t do that again, instead Ah’d give her a suggestion now and then. Enough to help her, just not so much that she’d think she’d gone mad.”
Rodney took a hesitant step forward, “Allison, I’m so sorry,” he said softly, with a deep sadness in his voice. “I should’ve gone to look, I should’ve gone to find you.” His hands balled into frustrated fists, shaking with long-contained emotions. “I should’ve …”
Lydia-Allison rushed over and put her hands on one of his arms. Gently, she lifted one of his fists and slowly uncurled it. “No, no, no. Ye didn’t know. If ye did, what then? Ye would’ve come to help me and we might have both been caught.”
“Or not,” Rodney said through clenched teeth, “I could’ve located a constable, I could’ve watched out for you.”
“What be done is done, the milk be spilled,” she told him firmly. “This be now. Let’s work out the ‘now’, not the ‘then’.”
Hunter stepped away from the pair, gesturing for Thorias and Moira to join him. “Thorias? What say you?”
The doctor rubbed his eyes, overwhelmed by the revelation. “What can I say? It could be the most pronounced case of dissociation I’ve ever seen. Though, she shows very little of the usual symptoms that I could tell. Even the aches and pains can be explained away due to the transplant vivisection she suffered.”
“So her story could be true, then?” Hunter asked curiously.
“I’ve no evidence either way, other than it’s astounding enough to stagger the mind. I can’t believe I’m admitting this, but as horrific as it sounds, it could be.” Thorias admitted. “If this was revealed, asylum or no, Dr. Hereford would hang for a crime of this magnitude, and our young lady there …”
“Ladies,” Moira interrupted.
Thorias sighed, looking uncomfortable with the term, “ah quite, … ladies there would spend the rest of ‘their’ lives locked away, being studied like a sample of pond water.”
“What do ya think, Cap’n?” Moira asked. “I know it don’t make sense, but I want to believe her, at least some of it.”
“I think,” Hunter said at long last, “I believe that out of this horrible, shambling nightmare, there is a higher power striving to help bring some peace and resolution to it all. Some closure. That is what I believe.”
The captain sighed softly, “She doesn’t seem dangerous, not to herself or Rodney. However, I’m not one to make a final diagnosis. If we make your Dr. Bell aware of the nature of Allison and Lydia, would he be up to the task of dealing with it? With helping everyone … reconcile?”
“Perhaps … yes. After some time,” Thorias replied. “Though, he still might find this a bit daunting. However, he’s done minor miracles before. Our young lady,” he hesitated a moment, “pardon … ladies … there, theoretically, would be able to even take up a somewhat normal life.”
“Well, until then, I’ll press the issue and put up funding to purchase Mrs. Carpenter’s boarding house.” Hunter said thoughtfully. “Until Allison … or Lydia … or even both are ready to decide if they wish to re-open it. It would give me time to sort Hiram’s things and send them to his next of kin while we’re still in port.”
“Bein’ possessed like that. I just can’t imagine. ” Moira asked with the noticeable edge of nerves in her voice.
“There’s so much we don’t know about the mind and spirit, Moira, so very much,” Thorias said wistfully.
“Well, my mind’s stayin’ right were it should, in my own head,” She said firmly, but quietly.
“Between Dr. Bell, Detective MacTaggart, Rodney, and ourselves,” Hunter said, “we’ve more than enough ability to ensure they won’t be prodded like a frog.”
The captain looked over at the young woman next to him. “Moira,” Hunter said quietly, “be so kind as to hail a coachman. Miss Olivander and Miss Newt both need their sleep. We promised Miss Olivander that we’d make sure her friend was safe, and that’s what we’ll do.”
Epilogue
It was late morning when the black hansom cab pulled to a stop in front of Blake Hospital. The weather had been reasonably calm for the past two days, with only the ever-present clouds of yellowish soot and smog hanging over the city in scattered clusters.
Sunlight streamed down, warming the cobblestones lining the street. The driver, a middle-aged man in a slate gray coat with red lapels, tugged back on the reins until the horse stopped fidgeting.
Captain Hunter stepped down from the cab to the stone walk outside that ran along the front of the hospital. For a moment, the captain looked up at the building – tan stones graced by the kiss of a warm, clear sunlight. He smiled thinly, remembering the harrowing escapes of the past few days, particularly the ones involving the Blake Hospital, itself.
“Guv’?” The driver asked after a moment. “This be the place,” he said as a veiled suggestion.
“Hm?” Hunter replied, torn from his morbid memories. “Oh, yes. Four pence, you said?”
“Aye,” the driver replied with a smile as the captain dropped the coins in his hand. “Hope ye be enjoyin’ the stay. Don’t be takin’ to hospitals me own self, but mind ye, this one be quite nice. Ah hear they be pretty thorough?”
A fleeting humorous smile crossed Anthony’s face a moment, “one could say that. They’ve been known to keep after a person from cradle to grave, and beyond.”
The driver gave the captain a quizzical look, then tipped his hat, “A’course guv’. Well, top of the day.”
Hunter nodded silently in reply as the driver snapped the reins, easing the horse and cab away from the curb. Once the driver was well on his way, the captain turned back to the now-familiar steps of the hospital, climbing them and pulling open the front door.
Inside, Miss Milligan glanced up at the captain’s approach. With her most charming smile she sat up straighter, “Why, Captain! He’s been expecting you all morning. He’s in room 102, not far from where you visited last time, I believe.”
“Indeed,” Hunter said with a polite smile. “Thank you, Miss Milligan.”
“Oh, Captain?” Miss Milligan said quickly, as the captain turned to leave. “I was just reading over the exploits of you and your crew,” the nurse said, lightly tapping a morning edition of an Edinburgh paper. “I just wanted to say thank you for helping the police. Everyone here had seen the bodies coming in more frequently, and we all suspected the worst. It’s a comfort to know that it’s at an end, even if it did wind up involving poor Dr. Belker.”
Anthony glanced at where she was tapping. There, on the front page, were bold letters splashed across the front page: ‘MURDEROUS FIEND AND ACCOMPLICES CAUGHT! POLICE ENLIST LOCAL PRIVATE DETECTIVE AGENTS!’
He glanced briefly at Miss Milligan, and rubbing his eyes, repressed an exasperated sigh at her grateful look. The captain managed a polite smile, “Quite welcome, Miss Milligan. We were only lending a hand as needed, that’s all. Now, if you’ll pardon me?”
“Certainly,” she replied cheerily, returning her attention to the papers at her desk.
>
Walking briskly from the reception area, Hunter retraced his steps from before, this time stopping at room 102, only a few doors away from where Thorias and Krumer had been the other day, as Miss Milligan had said. He lightly tapped his knuckles on the door.
“Come in,” came the reply. The captain gently opened the door.
The room was brightly lit, its blue velvet drapes pulled back to admit the morning sun. Light streamed in, warming four beds – only one of which was occupied – that sat equally spaced around the edges of the room.
Detective Oren MacTaggart, dressed in a cream nightshirt, pushed himself upright in the plain white hospital bed, favoring the broad cotton sling that cradled his bandaged, broken right arm. The Scotsman winced slightly, adjusting his body until he reached a moderately comfortable position.
“Ye got the message, then, Ah had been worried the inquiry might have missed ye,” MacTaggart said, smiling. “Glad ye could be comin’ by. Ye’ll have to pardon me for not makin’ the trip to the docks. The doctor not be of any mind to let me out for a few days while Ah be recoverin’.”
“Quite understandable,” Hunter replied, “I’ve recovered from a gunshot or two, myself. I and my crew will be here some days, yet.”
“Oh?” MacTaggart replied.
“Despite the excitement, there’s still work to do with the Griffin,” the captain explained at the detective’s concerned expression. “She’s been due for a refitting for some time now. She’ll be in dry dock for at least a week more. We’ll need the time, however, what with resupply and some overdue rest.”
“After what’s happened, we could all be usin’ some rest,” the detective commented.
“Oh, I understand you’ve been given a commendation? Good show.”
“Och, the Chief Inspector’s more glad to have the case closed than anything. The thanks goes more to ye and your crew,” Detective MacTaggart replied modestly.
“Rubbish, we merely sped things along,” Hunter said dismissively.
“How be the lad, William?” Detective MacTaggart asked.
“Recovering,” Hunter answered with a sigh. “He took quite the beating. However, Dr. Llwellyn tells me Will’s just needing a good stretch of rest.”
“He’ll be fit enough for duty when ye refit’s done?”
“I’ve lined up some smaller shipping contracts along the coast,” Hunter explained, “it’s light work, enough to get his strength back. Although, I doubt you asked me over here to just inquire after my crew.”
The detective considered Hunter for a moment, then reached over to the small nightstand next to the bed. Sliding open the top drawer, he withdrew a thin journal. It was canvas-bound, stained and smudged with old dirt and oil. A single word, ‘Journal’ was written across the cover in a now faded, smooth handwriting. MacTaggart offered this to Captain Hunter.
“Constable Martin had some of the lads down under that factory,” the detective explained, “and he found that journal in some of Dr. Hereford’s personal items. It be quite a bloody nightmare down in that basement. That doctor kept herself quite busy. The lads found dated letters puttin’ her in London a few years back. Somethin’ Ah’ll be passin’ along, to be sure.”
The detective hesitated, pushing his glasses up from the end of his nose, watching the captain carefully, “Ye can’t keep it, sorry to say, but as you’ll be here and about Edinburgh for a few days more, ye can read it as long as it stays within’ me sight, as it be evidence. It’ll be processed through last. Ah saw to that, so you be havin’ time to read it.”
Hunter nodded thoughtfully, then began to open the journal to the first page.
“There’s plenty of empty chairs about,” MacTaggart suggested, “ye might want to borrow one.”
Anthony frowned quizzically at the detective, then retrieved a plain wooden chair, adorned with a lone flat emerald green pillow, from next to an empty bed. He pulled the chair over to the detective’s bedside and sat down, opening the journal. At the first page, the captain’s breath caught in his throat as he read:
“Sara Hunter Whitcomb – 1881”
He glanced sharply up at the detective. “Have you read this?”
MacTaggart carefully adjusted his broken arm in its sling to a more comfortable position. He glanced over the top of his glasses at the captain. “Ah had to, and … it wasn’t at all what Ah expected. Ye had one brave sister, Captain.”
Captain Hunter looked back down at the journal in his hands. Slowly, carefully he flipped through the pages, stopping at the last entry. He could hear his own heartbeat hammering in his ears while he read quietly to himself.
“October 20, 1881 –
The summer has been dreadful in the factory, as has the situation. So far I’ve failed to convince anyone of the plight I witnessed. Young Marie was found just this morning, collapsed, overcome by the heat. At least that’s what is being said … I know better. I saw the faint stitches along the back of her neck. That horrible woman’s medical work is improving – if anything so hellish should be improved-upon.
I have heard her rants for an ‘improved’ state of being. I have seen the young girls at the factory who work alongside me grow weaker with each of Mary Hereford’s so called ‘medical ministrations’. I can no longer sit idly by trying to recruit help. Already, I suspect Hereford has put some toxin in the dyes being used. Everyone is slowly becoming lethally ill. Even now, I, too, have the bloody cough.
As I do not know how much longer I have, I will place all that I have deduced about ‘Doctor’ Hereford’s ‘process’ and the hellish alchemy she has performed in my journal. Then I will go to confront her myself. Perhaps I can speak to whatever shred of humanity remains inside her deranged mind and bring a stop to all this.
If I do not, whomever finds this journal … I implore you. Please, give it to my brothers. They will know what to do. Especially dear Anthony, my rock I have always leaned upon. He’ll see it through to the rightful end. He’ll know the right thing to do.
Sara McKenzie Hunter Whitcomb”
For a long moment, neither Anthony or Detective MacTaggart spoke. Hunter sat silently staring at the page, the faded words written in his sister’s familiar, fluid handwriting speaking to him across a gulf of five years. Finally, Hunter searched the back of the journal. There he found complex chemical formulas, diagrams and other highly detailed observations dutifully drawn out in great detail. However, there were no more journal entries from Sara.
“It be the only journal we recovered from your sister,” Detective MacTaggart said carefully. “It seems Dr. Hereford took ‘trophies’ from those she dealt with. Your sister be the only one who took such an accurate accounting of Mary Hereford’s activities.”
Oren cleared his throat, “Ah took it upon meself to ask one of our doctors about what all be detailed in the back. They can’t be sure, but your sister seems to have cracked a part of the secret of Dr. Hereford’s wee process.”
“Is it enough to help the victims?” Hunter asked with a suddenly hoarse voice, “enough to help Miss Olivander and Miss Newt?”
The detective glanced down at his broken arm, as if in search for the right words, finally he gave the captain a sad, remorseful smile. “The other factory workers, to be certain. Miss Olivander and her ‘condition’? Ah just can’t say.”
Hunter nodded sharply once, then looked down at the journal in a deep silence.
“If it be any consolation, ye sister be quite the hero,” MacTaggart offered. “What she put down will help dozens here. Might be helpin’ close some cases in London, too. Her accountin’ of the events five years back … well … Ah don’t see that havin’ to come out. No need to drag your sister’s memory out like that.”
“I see your point,” Anthony said, somewhat distracted.
The detective shrugged, then winced from the pain in his wounded arm, “Besides, the workers at the Monkhouse factory have been willin’ to speak up now. What they’re tellin’ us alone be enough grounds for the courts
to punish Dr. Hereford and her accomplices to the full list of the law.”
The captain glanced at the detective, considering what he said. Without a word, Hunter looked back to the journal, his eyes wandering over the last words written by his sister while a flood of memories washed over him. He took a slow breath, then released it.
“My family received a letter from Sara during early October of 1881. She mentioned some of her illness, but blamed it on the unusual weather. Thomas, having taken a brief holiday from his medical practice, was concerned over Sara’s vague description of her symptoms. As my own career prior to this one had come to a stormy conclusion, I found myself with free time on my hands. So Thomas and I took ourselves to London to check on her.”
Hunter slowly closed the journal and placed it gently in his lap. His eyes looked out across the brightly lit room, however he was watching a place five years ago in time.
“When we arrived, we discovered that Sara had been left penniless when her husband died of cholera two years before. Stubbornly, she took work in a factory and told no one. That is, until she fell ill. It was only proper, of course, what with her being highly ill and alone, to return her to the bosom of her family. Thomas would see to her treatment. I would manage her belongings, and with Robert’s exceptional skills as a barrister, we would deal with any legal matters left doing,” the captain said sadly.
Anthony paused a moment, lost to his memories. Then he frowned, “When we arrived, she was not in the spartan room she rented at the boarding house. We likewise discovered the cesspit she worked in. Sara had collapsed just the day before. We found her in a poorly-run clinic on the edge of Whitechapel. She was alive, but lost to a fever. We stayed for five days while I assisted Thomas at the clinic, boiling sheets, preparing salve, dressing wounds and treating what illnesses we could. During that time, we alerted the authorities to the abuse and other atrocities we found at the clinic and the dye mill.”