Bell and a companion were having afternoon tea when he entered the dining room.
“Ah, you are looking decidedly better, Mr. Erceldoune, and you have managed the stairs. Progress, indeed! Come, sit, dine with us. Cook has a way with sandwiches and biscuits like none other. Might I introduce my cousin, Dr. James Bell?”
Gaelan nodded in the cousin’s direction before sitting. James grunted a terse “Good afternoon, sir,” before returning his attention to the Times.
Beyond the curtains, there was the green of the garden, the soft melody of birds, all so foreign now. Perhaps in time, these pleasant images, sounds, and aromas would obliterate the terror of his dreamscape.
Naught seemed at all real, yet the cool silver-plate spoon balanced in his right hand seemed solid enough, the tea piquant and sweet, the ham sandwich salty and rich. How long it had been since he’d tasted real meat! But is any of this real?
James Bell snapped Gaelan from his thoughts. “Imagine that undersized popinjay Bean firing at Her Majesty! And with paper! Can you imagine? And why else but to aggrandize himself with notoriety? Shall be a pity if he does not swing for this outrage. I do not care what the prince recommends; I venture that hooligan shall not be commuted to transportation for his outrageous act!”
Gaelan had read the accounts in the morning Times left at his bedside. A homeless dwarf—an outcast, even from his own family—poor, unfortunate sod. “If you will forgive me, Dr. Bell, perhaps you judge him harshly since you do not have an acquaintance with the sort of life Mr. Bean endures—”
James’s glare evinced nothing but disdain. “Mr. Erceldoune—”
“Mr. Erceldoune,” interrupted Simon, changing the subject in an obvious attempt to quell an imminent argument. “I’ve most wonderful news for you. Knowledge of the cruelty you endured, along with letters from myself and others brought before the Crown, and James’s most excellent intervention, exonerated you.”
“I see. And you expect me to . . . what? Thank you?” Gratitude was the last thing he felt. Exonerated for murder he may well be, but the sentence meted out by Handley and his minions would torment him for lifetimes. “And what of Handley and his disciples, the esteemed foppery of London society?”
A satisfied grin materialized across James’s face. “That barbarian? Rest assured he has lost his commission as director of that institution.”
“And his financiers, most especially Lord Braithwaite?”
James folded his newspaper, passing it to Simon. “There is little can be done about Braithwaite. Besides, he is—”
Simon spoke over his cousin. “Oh, and you should know, Mr. Erceldoune, Mr. Tremayne no longer bullies the good folk of Smithfield.”
“Aye?” Gaelan urged Simon to go on.
“Murdered. Two years ago. A man came to his establishment to procure a tart, whereupon he was shown to the room of his own daughter. Went after Tremayne with a kris knife. Died upon the spot, the newspapers said.”
“Poetic justice, I grant,” Gaelan remarked without emotion. “Dr. Bell—” He turned toward James. “You were about to say something regarding Lord Braithwaite. Besides . . . what?” Gaelan observed the wordless conversation between the cousins. “Besides . . . what?” he demanded, impatience flaring.
Simon held up a placating hand, his eyes darting everywhere but toward Gaelan. “What James means to say . . . I . . . The abhorrent Lord Richard Braithwaite is . . . I can barely get the words past my tongue, sir. . . . He is married to my own dear sister.”
“Braithwaite is your brother-in-law?” Holy mother of God, how is it possible? Gaelan’s breath caught in his throat. The room spun as his heart crashed against his ribs. Air. He needed air.
What incredulous bit of fate had entrapped him in this labyrinth so near the Minotaur? Gaelan stood shakily, groping along the table to steady himself, until he reached the French doors to the garden.
Erceldoune was sitting on a low bench deep within the garden when Simon found him. “I thought you might fancy a stick,” he said, holding out a gold-tipped cane. Erceldoune waved it away, peering into the gravel path.
Simon sat. He well understood Erceldoune, far more than he cared to admit. “Braithwaite is an appalling, monstrous man. My sister despises him, for what it is worth.” An exaggeration, perhaps, but what else might he say to ease Erceldoune’s mind?
“Poor wretches like John William Bean go to prison, whilst the Handleys and Braithwaites suffer not at all.” Erceldoune studied his injured left hand, the bandages no longer stained pink. “Peculiar. It is almost as if they are yet attached. I can feel them throb with every heartbeat, and when I look down, of course . . . One at a time, he severed them. For the last, he gave the knife to your brother-in-law, who was only too delighted to play at being Butcher of Bedlam. I cannot rid myself of that morning; it ever plays in my mind, an incessant cycle of images. I fear I will never be rid of it.”
Simon couldn’t fathom it; he’d never amputated anything. He envisioned Erceldoune: held down, unable to fight back . . . Braithwaite’s wild physiognomy, his undisguised delight in the barbaric act. Simon clamped down hard on the nausea as it rose up through his gullet. Nothing he could say would be enough. “I am sorry little more can be done about him. I—” If only he had spoken up at Erceldoune’s trial . . . Would it have made any difference at all? Might he have spared Erceldoune nearly five years of inhuman treatment? “You asked me the other day how I came to be at Bedlam that day, and more to the point, how I happened to chance upon you.”
“I did.”
Simon thrust the point of the stick into the soft dirt, tapping nervously as he regarded Erceldoune. “Do you recall the railway catastrophe a few weeks past here in London? All those people killed?”
“And how,” Erceldoune snapped, brittle and bitter, “might I have any knowledge of that?”
Stupid question. Simon looked up into the branches as a large woodpecker landed awkwardly on a sturdy limb. He watched it edge toward the trunk. “Of course. Forgive me.” He paused. “Twenty-seven men, me amongst them, were trapped beneath tons of iron. All died of their injuries. Excepting me.”
As Erceldoune impatiently brushed his foot along the gravel, Simon wondered if he was really listening at all.
“It was then I began to recollect other times when injuries healed not in days, but in a matter of hours, illnesses that should have, but did not, befall me. I realized I’d had not so much as a sniffle in more than four years.”
A furious rat-a-tat-tat came from above their heads; Erceldoune startled at the noise, anxiously scanning the tangle of branches, his face ashen.
“Are you all right, Mr. Erceldoune?”
Erceldoune nodded tightly, his hand trembling. “You were saying . . . ?”
“Around this time, it came to my attention that there lived a man within the gates of Bedlam who was reported to possess a remarkable ability to recover from even serious injury. Beyond remarkable.”
“You did not, then, have an inkling it was me?”
“The source of this information was—”
“Your brother-in-law. Of course.” Erceldoune glanced briefly at Simon, who nodded in affirmation. “Aye, they all loved to watch Handley’s exhibit of human curiosities and experiments, as he called it, and none more so than Lord Braithwaite.” Erceldoune stood unsteadily. “I might have need, after all, of that stick you so kindly offered.”
Simon handed it over. “Better?”
Erceldoune nodded, leaning heavily on the polished staff. “Perhaps . . . in this . . . accident of which you speak, you were not so badly injured as you thought. It would not be the first time someone robbed death of its due!”
“Hear me!” When Simon stood, he caught Erceldoune’s eye, holding it in his own gaze, speaking each word as sincerely as he might to be understood unequivocally. “I was unconscious for days, yet when I awoke, there was little evidence that I had been injured at all! Not even a bloody scratch!”
“And what, pra
y tell, has that to do with me?”
There would be no better time to broach the subject. “I must ask you something about your elixir—”
Erceldoune glowered, remaining silent.
“It cured her, Erceldoune, even as . . . even as she . . . died. The tumors vanished within an hour of administration. Astonishing!” The image, even four and a half years later, seemed not possible. Simon observed Erceldoune’s expression change, as the import of it dawned. “I’ve never spoken of it to anyone until now.” There had been no point. So what if the tumors had receded? Sophie was still dead. But Erceldoune should know.
Simon sat again on the bench. “I regret that I’d not spoken on your behalf . . . back then. I . . . I was angry, furious, and torn by grief over my wife’s death—”
“Four and a half years of torture I suffered at the hands of a madman whose cruelty and barbarity knows no bounds, and you were . . . angry,” Erceldoune spat with quiet contempt.
“Believe me, I did not know. Had no idea—”
“What? That I was yet living?” Erceldoune hobbled back toward the house through the hedgerow maze.
Simon followed, stopping him with a hand on his shoulder. “As for my silence—”
Erceldoune turned, facing him. There was no glimmer of warmth or understanding in his eyes.
“A terrible injustice, unforgivable for what it did to you. I cannot even presume to beg your pardon for it.” What more could he say than this plea for comprehension?
Erceldoune dropped his gaze to follow a small tree frog as it hopped along the path and into the hedge. His voice when he spoke was barely above a whisper, resigned and weary. “It likely would have done me little good in any event. You’d no real evidence to present, only an overheard conversation, with no authoritative way of knowing whether I had poisoned Lil or not.”
Simon held his breath, considering whether to broach the subject of gravest concern. Erceldoune seemed less agitated; perhaps it was the best opportunity Simon might have. “There is more. Concerning Sophie’s death, that is.” They had come back to the bench. “Might we sit? You look as if you are about to keel over—”
“Yes.” Erceldoune eased himself onto the bench, still in obvious pain. He looked up, shading his eyes against the sun. A hawk soared above their heads, scrutinizing its quarry.
“It opened. The bottle, I mean. I was in my laboratory and—”
Recognition dawned slowly on Erceldoune’s face. “Did you not grasp the instructions? The writing was quite clear—”
“It was not intentional, I assure you. The glass bung came loose and shattered on the floor. Not a day goes by that I fail to consider it was something I’d done that killed her by exposing—”
“The oxidation of it would change it, yes. And if she was ill enough or . . . Yet I cannot know with absolute certainty. So much of medicine . . . is art, not science.” Erceldoune looked away.
“In my head, with the perspective of now nearly five years, I know she was better for dying quickly. I do not blame you for Sophie’s death. I have too often seen the ravages of cancer, and I would not have . . . Not to say I would have hastened her death.” Simon exhaled. “I had, once she was gone, nothing else left to live for—”
Out with it, man! Simon strode several yards, coming to an abrupt halt, his back to the bench. “I drank it, Mr. Erceldoune. I drank it. All of what remained, and—”
“What! But why would you—”
Simon turned, staring at Erceldoune, waiting for him to come to the obvious conclusion, but the apothecary sat in silence, impassive.
“I’d seen what it did to her and desired only to follow her. Yet here I am, confounded at each futile turn, seemingly unable to end my life . . . I only broach the subject with you because of—”
Erceldoune nodded, comprehension dawning. “‘Many have said of alchemy,’” he began softly, “‘that it is for the making of gold and silver. For me such is not the aim, but to consider only what virtue and power may lie in medicines.’ But the power of it is not always virtuous, and wrongly used—whether by intention or error—it can cause many ill or strange effects: some wondrous, others horrific.”
“Paracelsus again. You are fond of him, Mr. Erceldoune, it would seem. This is not the first time you have quoted him to me.”
“Paracelsus. Yes, his wisdom is well-known to me; it defies the turn of three centuries for its inherent good sense. An alchemist, an apothecary—a healer, he was, but uninterested in the Elixir of Life—immortality—or the transmutation of cheap metals into riches untold, as were many of that trade. And so it was with my own family, akin to the thinking of Paracelsus. My own grandfather, his valued correspondent.”
“Your grandfather, did you say? But that would have been more than three hundred years ago!”
“Aye.” Erceldoune waited, saying no more. The hawk had disappeared somewhere beyond the hedgerow.
Simon froze, emotions overwhelming him. Is it possible? Is it then true? But how?
“That book, the one with the ouroboros on it . . . The one in my shop . . . that night . . . Do you recall it?” Erceldoune asked.
The wretched manuscript’s cover had long since burned itself into Simon’s memory. “Yes.”
“Mind, it is but legend . . . but that book is quite singular, I have been told, and not of our known world, but from a different place, a different time.”
What was Erceldoune talking about? He made no sense. Simon could only shrug.
“Are you familiar, perchance, with the romances of a certain Lord Thomas Learmont? The Rhymer, he was called. It was said by some in his day he had the gifts of a Merlin—”
“I cannot say I do, but what has that to do—”
“He was my ancestor and had been bestowed a ‘gift’—that book—by one fairy born. A Celtic deity. Airmid was her name. The book is said to be from the land wherein she dwells, perhaps still now, but beyond a portal in another realm, an otherworld.”
This was absurd. Utter madness. Fairies? Portals? If Erceldoune was trying to bedevil him, he was doing a first-rate job of it.
“To speak true, I know little else of its origins, but I was knowledgeable in some measure of its contents. The recipes described within its pages have differing effects, depending on how they are prepared, the dosage, and when, during the progress of the illness, they are administered. It is precise, and all set forth in the book’s pages. When you—”
“When I drank it, the elixir changed me, did it not, like a magic potion of some sort?”
“Magic! Understand, sir, that this book has no magic. It is science. It is medicine—chemicals and herbs and that is all—at play in the human body, amongst its organs and cells, vessels and bones,” Erceldoune barked.
Simon had clearly upset him. “I only meant, sir—”
But Erceldoune was not to be interrupted. “My own father was burnt as a sorcerer owing to that misbegotten understanding of the manuscript.” He winced, cradling his left arm, taking a moment before going on, less agitated. “It is science, not magic, that has made it impossible for me—and apparently you—to succumb to injury or illness.”
Hearing this truth spoken aloud was an unwelcome validation of all he’d feared these past weeks. Simon nearly crumbled beneath its weight. Erceldoune said no more, propelling himself from the bench and toward the house, leaving Simon staggered and in shock to numbly consider this incredible turn of events.
Simon pursued Erceldoune across the lawn, catching up easily with the hobbled man. “It is unbelievable, Mr. Erceldoune, what you confess to me—all of it. Beyond comprehension. I cannot fathom it, if what you say is true!”
“It is. My two hundred and fifty . . .” He paused, counting to himself. “Two hundred and fifty-six years of living is testament to that. To be honest, I’ve no clue about what caused your . . . condition, and without the book, I fear I never shall.”
“But you must solve this puzzle. Then reverse it, and posthaste! Delay not another minut
e. I’ve a laboratory in the house, and you may make full use of it as you desire.”
“I cannot.”
“What do you mean you cannot?”
“Without the book—its formulas, recipes—it would be but a useless occupation, I’m afraid. And I have no idea where my book has gone, or whether it yet exists.” Erceldoune glowered. “Last I saw it, I was being hauled to the Old Bailey, and I’ve not seen it since. Perhaps it is . . . in a safe place here in London, perhaps not. Had I only not been convicted of Lil’s murder, I might yet be able to do something to help you, but I am afraid it is quite impossible.”
CHICAGO’S NORTH SHORE, PRESENT DAY
CHAPTER 29
Gaelan Erceldoune wanted only to be left alone. And that was the problem. They knocked on the door, calling out his name at all times of day and evening, hoping to get a glimpse of the “Miracle Man” as if he were some sort of Promethean monster.
The Instagrams and YouTube videos multiplied like cockroaches in every corner of the Internet. Even CNN’s site had a small piece, thankfully buried in the human-interest bits below the fold. He thanked the reliable idiocy of American politics for the latest dire warning of a government shutdown, which claimed the news in endless cycles, pushing the story of his miraculous recovery further and further down into the dregs of Google News.
Simon assured him it would all eventually pass and Gaelan Erceldoune would fade into the annals of unexplained medical recoveries. Until then, he was trapped, afraid to venture past his threshold, where religious groupies had now set up camp. A string of votive candles was lined up along his building, flowers, wreaths, sticky notes—a bloody shrine. What, for fuck’s sake, did they want with him? He could hear them murmuring, chanting at all hours.
The universe wasn’t totally bleak. Two weeks had passed since the article on the Bedlam diaries, and nothing more. Perhaps Simon had been right.
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