The Cabinet of Dr Blessing (The Dr Blessing Collection Parts 1-3): A Gothic Victorian Horror Tale

by Rollins, Jack

  Yes, she thought, I am fortunate. For it had been her choice to choose the life De Omori offered. To own little, to attach oneself to little, was a comfort in itself. Who would wish to die at the hands of some blood-drinking monster, knowing that in doing so, they would destroy the lives and hearts of a family? Better to stay alone. Better to move quickly and freely. Today in London, last month in Paris, and after this business in London, who could say where she would be?

  She thought about the Paris mission. She had still been a novice then, still assigned to shadow an experienced operative. Together they had tracked down a governess who, having succumbed to the way of the vampire, had eaten her way through six wealthy families in various towns and cities. She and Dr McEwan had caught the evil governess halfway through the seventh family.

  “We can not save everyone,” her instructor had told her, as she had sat there in the parlour that looked like a charnel house.

  McEwan had led her from that place, returned her to the hotel. They bathed and changed clothes and met each other again in the lobby. They dined together; as they had done every night on every mission they had seen together since her academic training had ended.

  They had walked the winding streets of Montmartre, and climbed to the summit of the butte Montmartre, where they watched the lights of the city. The beauty jarred against the horrors she had seen.

  “Smile for me, my Mary,” McEwan had said, touching her cheek. “My Black Mary.”

  Mary had shied away from him. “I wish you would refrain from calling me that, Owen.”

  “But I have always called you that,” McEwan had said, frowning.

  “And now so does everyone else.”

  He had christened her that on their first mission together, in Edinburgh, when during a seek and destroy mission in the slums, she had become separated from her tutor. She had found herself surrounded by blood-crazed vampires, a family of them. Mary had been trained well, and killed well. When she slaughtered the first two beasts with her blades, the remaining four had retreated into their nest. Mary burned that building to the ground without hesitation, to flush them out. It worked, and her blades twirled amid the smoke and flames and the chaos and the fleeing innocents.

  When McEwan followed the flames to the source, he found Mary, caked in blood and soot. The dirt washed off. The name did not.

  Their kiss in Montmartre had been brief. As far as Mary was concerned, regrettably so.

  As the cab trundled along its way through the dense London traffic, her hands fell to one of the bags. She opened it and took out the letter. She had received it at De Omori’s safe house in Newcastle. The words were practically burned into her brain, but she liked to see his handwriting. It made him seem closer.

  My Dearest, Blackest Mary

  When we parted company in Paris, I received orders to return to Great Britain, to Northumberland, to The Island. It seems I am to become part of the faculty of that great academy.

  For all the action of the field brings with it fresh challenges and excitement, I must admit to growing weary of the hunt at times. I have run out of new ways of destroying the damned and so simply repeat myself, no closer to the annihilation of that race of beings than I was the day I almost succumbed to the fang myself.

  Snatched from the precipice of damnation, it seems there was something of the damned left abrading my soul. Not wishing to lose your confidence I hasten now to add that I am NOT a vampire, nor anything like it. I cannot decide if that dark day enhanced or destroyed my humanity, but one thing is certain, I have had the appearance of a twenty-five year old for a great, great many years.

  So then it seems fitting that my decline in service coincides with your ascent into the great ranks of De Omori and its operatives. You see, dear Mary, I knew when that letter arrived, it signified not only my retraction from active duties, but also the termination of my role as your mentor. I have, of course mentored many other novices, but none with as much promise as you.

  I knew then, that upon my return to Great Britain, your first mission would not be far away.

  First of all, I wish you luck.

  Second of all, I apologise unreservedly for my lack of propriety in Paris. Every ounce of my being strained against all that I had been trained to do, and trained not to do. Let us both agree that our intimacy, however brief, however forbidden, was simply a matter of professional concern masquerading as personal affection. My pride for you as my ward and my admiration for you as my colleague swelled within my chest until it burst forth and the desire to kiss you was overwhelming.

  It was a terrible thing for me to do, distracting you with personal feelings, affections and desires. I would not forgive myself if I in any way caused your attention to waver from our glorious mission.

  I grew soft with my age, Mary.

  You remain young, and vital, and strong. You remain Black Mary.

  And until I see you again, I remain

  Your loyal friend

  And proud mentor

  Dr Owen McEwan

  Mary slipped the correspondence back into her bag. In telling her how he ought not to feel, McEwan had told her exactly how he did feel, and how his feelings mirrored her own. Since receiving that letter, she had been locked in turmoil. She had felt like throwing all of her years of training away. She wanted to get on a boat and return to that island and tell that Dr McEwan exactly what she wanted from him.

  How improper. But then, she wondered, had the hardness instilled in her by her training, trained her innermost secret self to be as brash as any soldier? She dressed in fine things and made a handsome salary, but she was no gentle lady. She was schooled in such proprieties as would enable effective infiltration into the inner circles of the upper crust, but she could handle beer and gin as well as any common navvy, that she might infiltrate the public houses, brothels and alleys in search of her prey.

  When she was summoned for the mission, Mary had been grateful for it. Some action to take her mind off things. A De Omori informant, a priest named Father Haddon, had reported that a well-known shipping magnate named Henry Burton had been fished out of the Thames drained entirely of blood. That smacked of the very essence of vampire, of course, and arrangements had been made for Mary to take a train to London, and for her to meet with the priest shortly after arrival.

  By reputation, Father Haddon was known to be a heavy drinker and fond of concealing that he was a priest – Mary could imagine what sinful activities he pursued. His information was generally considered to be good, despite his fondness for gin. He had made clear in his report that he and the deceased shared a mutual acquaintance in a doctor. Dr George Blessing was his name, and the priest reported that he had eaten at the doctor’s home on many occasions, and that at some point the doctor and the shipping magnate had come to a disagreement.

  Mary remembered a reference case from the library on The Island about a liveryman who was enslaved by a vampire and who, under the monster’s spell, did kill and dismember over thirty Christians before he was stopped. The dismembered bodies had been kept in water troughs and the vampire had enjoyed slaking his thirst from these remains.

  She wondered if some similar fate had not befallen Henry Burton, drained by a familiar, rather than by a vampire. Vampires themselves tended to be less discrete about the disposal of bodies. Someone had tried to conceal Burton’s death – the behaviour of a familiar who had to maintain the pretence of a normal life, as a husband, a father, a liveryman, or even a doctor.

  “The Seraphim, m’lady,” the driver called as the cab drew to a halt outside the grand columned edifice of the Seraphim Hotel.

  Mary paid him and he quickly assisted her with her possessions. Before very long at all, Mary was settled in her room, which was richly decorated with heavy burgundy curtains and carpeted with a huge rug, which stretched almost from wall to wall. Mary sat at the edge of the bed and stroked the clean, crisp bedding.

  She resisted the urge to read the letter again.

  Churc
h bells penetrated the noise from the street; the sound told her it was three O’ clock in the afternoon. Her meeting with the priest was not until seven in the evening.

  She closed the curtains and unfastened her dress. She removed her corset, but there was little change in her figure. Her physique was impeccable. She observed her reflection in the mirror at the washstand and enjoyed the way her porcelain skin looked against her white undergarments.

  She lay back on the bed an allowed her fingertips to run from her cheeks down over her small breasts, down her abdomen, to the bare skin at the tops of her thighs. When the pleasure of the tickling sensation subsided, she closed her eyes, emptied her mind and rolled her eyes upwards.

  Breathing deeply, Mary found herself in a state of deep relaxation. Lying perfectly still, her blood pumped through her muscles, replenishing them, cleansing her of fatigue.

  In this state of meditation, her unconscious mind took over and a hundred encounters were fought and won, a thousand blocks and strikes, feints and counters were performed. The fighting patterns were not only ingrained into her mind but into her muscles, which were at complete rest, soothed, calm, waiting in readiness as always, to do battle.

  Four.

  I returned to my home by hansom cab, entirely unable to stand the din of an omnibus in my present state of mind, which was to say, disturbed.

  Upon entering the house, I was greeted by the maid of all work, a pleasant girl – vouched for by Charlotte of course. What was her name? Lily or Annie, or something like that. Whatever she was called, she immediately told me that she had prayed all night that I would find a cure for Mrs Blessing soon.

  “Prayed, my dear girl?” I asked her.

  “Oh, I heard you with her in your study. She must have had another of her turns. It sounded terrible!” Lily or Annie explained.

  I almost jumped with fright when I understood it was the commotion of Father Haddon’s demise she had heard. “Do not worry yourself at all. I strive for that cure with my every waking moment, now if you will excuse me…”

  “Begging your pardon, Doctor,” the maid added, her fingers reaching out for my coat sleeve in barely restrained desperation. “If you could spare the time, could I impose upon you for some advice?”

  “Advice?”

  “I have been suffering terrible headaches. And bleeds. My nose bleeds something chronic in the mornings. Some mornings I find I can barely lift my head and I am terrified that I will be dismissed-”

  I interrupted the maid with a raised finger. “Of course, dear. I shall find some time to look you over, but first I should look in on Margaret.”

  “Of course, Doctor. Please pardon my impertinence. My grumbles are nothing compared to the sufferings of dear Mrs Blessing.”

  “Quite so. And you and I shall both do well to remember that fact, and I shall prioritise my attentions accordingly,” I said, with such pomposity and guarded threat that I knew this poor maid would die before asking me for help again. I strode through to the parlour and there, lounged across the sofa, beautiful and pale, was Margaret. The empty glass vial on the table by her side was telling ofher state of mind, which was, to say the very least, troubled.

  “My dear,” I exclaimed, hands raised before me. I reached down and kissed her lips with the lightest touch. Margaret was talking and all I could think was I need to get upstairs and damn your slurred speech, Margaret, damn your intoxication. I needed a distraction for her so that she would let me go. “You look positively exhausted, Margaret! Have you eaten?”

  “You look dead tired yourself, George,” she moaned. “Are you? Are you dead tired?”

  “Am I dead, did you say? What sort of a question is that?” I cried.

  “I asked if you were tired.”

  “I should say you’ve had quite enough of what was in that bottle!” I grabbed the empty vial and inspected it. A small paper label indicated the strength of the tincture was 20 per cent opium. I wondered at this; I was sure I had only been issuing Margaret with a 10 per cent tincture. My mind began to fog over; I fought to retain control.

  “You know what was in that bottle, you gave it to me,” she replied.

  “Am I dead? Well, I never! I think I shall retire to my study! Lovely welcome, that was!” I huffed and stepped away to the parlour door with a spring in my step – my God, I practically danced with eagerness to get to my study. That body! The blood! A flourish of both excitement and terror struck me at the thought of hanging for the death of a priest. My God! Excitement? At the thought of swinging from a rope! I had to wonder: had I become some sort of damned deviant?

  “What did you call me?” Margaret groaned, running her fingers over her face. “A deevy-what?”

  “Deviant, Margaret. But not you! No, I did not say it about you.” I grinned and rolled my eyes to the left as though I expected to see someone else there, another Dr George Blessing who was looser-tongued than I. “I did not mean you, my love. You are certainly no deviant… simply a slave to opiates.”

  “I did not ask if you were dead, earlier,” she droned. “Or did not mean it, if that is what I said…”

  I started to scour the dark corners of my mind. I thought of maniacs I had sent to the asylum at Oakbridge. Men whose personalities had split into different characters, with different motivations. Had some part of me turned this whole cursed affair into a protracted, elaborate suicide plot? I became conscious of my words, the perspiration, the clumsiness and fidgeting at Charlotte’s house. Did some warped aspect of my being want to get caught? Was that my way to bring an end to this? Self-destruction? I steeled myself against such thoughts, filling my cheeks with air. Of course not!

  “Of course not, dear! I must have misheard you is all. I shall be in my study, all the same.” I hurried from the room and up the stairs, tripping over the third step, righting myself and continuing at pace.

  Once safely ensconced in my study, I slammed the doors behind me and twisted the key in the lock. As a doctor, one should never be relieved at the sight of a dead body. I was, though. Thank God he was still there. Knowing I had the only key to the study was not enough anymore. I learned that there is no comfort to any man hiding a corpse, until it is well and truly beyond discovery. How I would manage that, I had no idea.

  Panacea was in the corner, the cloth draped over her glass home. I stepped quietly to her side and peeled away the material, not wanting to shock her with the light. Having no eyes it was not the shock of the brightness that concerned me, but in my time with the child, I had found her to be most lethargic, almost sickly, in daylight.

  “There, my pretty, there,” I said to her.

  She was aware of my affectionate tone, I am sure of it. She seemed to turn her head in the fluids in the manner of a timid virgin.

  “I see you learn your feminine wiles early, my child!” I said to her, unable to suppress my smile. “You have your silly old Doctor wrapped around your finger, do you not?”

  I pressed my fingers against the glass. She pressed the translucent skin of her bony cheek against her side of the glass.

  I could almost hear her purring. How like a woman! To have me wrapped around her finger so.

  She looked taller, the effects of last night’s feast even more apparent than they had been in the morning. A swell of sadness burst in my chest. My baby was growing up. How many more bell-jars would hold her?

  Her teeth scraped the glass and I realised that my hand had fallen away to my side, away from her. I smiled, and pressed my face to the glass, adoring her.

  She watched me as I stepped over the priest and moved to the side table. I poured myself a large measure of whisky, moved over to my desk and slumped into the chair. I gazed over at her. One had to wonder how she saw the world. With no apparent eyes I wondered how she had any spatial awareness at all. And when she detected me, did she recognise me as a man, or did she determine only the blood coursing through my veins and arteries?

  I suppose one does not look at a cow and see a dinner. More t
o the point, one does not look at one’s own father and imagine him as any sort of meal.

  I pondered the dead man on the floor. What could I do with him? Curiosity struck me. I got off my chair and crouched over Haddon, unfurling the rug to observe him fully. For the first time, the terror imprinted on the man’s face registered with me. There was no way he had anticipated his death, no way that he could have recognised the drinks we had together were to be his last. He had fought in the gloom against a foe he did not understand. The struggle had been brief - the outcome, inevitable.

  I reached into his jacket and searched his inner breast pockets. I found a small rosary, some slips related to the priest’s gambling, and a scrap of paper. On the scrap of paper was written:

  O’ Grady’s Coffee House, Bayswater Rd

  Tuesday, 7 O’ clock pm

  Who was the priest meeting? And to what end? I decided that perhaps a walk in the early evening air was in order after all.

  A plan was forming. Perhaps answers would come if I could find out what this slip of paper meant. That was assuming that the slip referred to a current appointment, and not one in the past, or future. Had it been a future appointment, surely he would have noted a specific date. It was worth a chance. The lack of detail implied urgency, immediacy.

  It was then that I noticed an envelope by the study door. It had obviously been slipped under there when I had been at work, and I had missed it when I entered. When I inspected the envelope, I found it addressed simply to George. The handwriting was Margaret’s. At my desk, I slit the envelope with my silver opener and inspected the document within.

  Margaret had obtained, with the assistance of Francis Flanders, adoption papers for Niamh. All that was required was my signature. It was then that my brain became foggy again, and before I knew anything at all, the document was shut away in my desk drawer.