I replaced the cover over the child and left the study, careful to lock up tight. In my pocket I carried a small vial of laudanum. The solution was 20 per cent opium. Before leaving, I looked into the parlour to see Margaret in a deep sleep. I placed the full vial on the table by her side, reached down to kiss her and took my leave.
Five.
Charles observed the scene from the bustling street. Standing in the murky light of the summer evening, he was able to see his mark in the coffee house gaslight with ease. He watched Blessing get up, leaving his beautiful companion sitting.
He tucked his hands into his pockets and squinted as the structure of the building shielded Blessing from view. Blessing was only gone for a brief moment, for suddenly the coffee house door burst open and the doctor was there, heading straight for him at pace.
Charles turned away and lowered his eyes, fumbling for some change to hand to a pauper. He rolled his eyes left and saw Blessing break into a run. This was of great interest to him. He looked to the right and could see the woman still sat there, comfortable, clearly expecting Blessing to return.
But why such a hasty exit? Why the break in composure? Charles had never even heard of, let alone seen, a doctor running anywhere or for anybody. But here was his dilemma: should he follow Blessing, or should he take an interest in the beautiful young woman Blessing had abandoned? He decided to stay and observe the woman. She had, after all, provoked such a reaction from the doctor.
Who was she? A lover? A relative? There had been the briefest of physical contacts between them during the time he had observed them, thus lover seemed unlikely. A relative, a sister perhaps, would surely show, or be shown, more affection. So who the hell was this young woman?
Six.
Primed for her mission, Mary watched from the corner of O’ Grady’s Coffee House, hoping to see the holy man enter. What information did this man have? How was it that he, a man of religion had come to serve De Omori, and furthermore, to align himself with a businessman like Burton, who had, it was rumoured, a dubious history.
Mary detested waiting, she preferred direct action. Waiting afforded her too much time to ponder. She tried to fit her questions and wonders into compartments in her mind, tried to subdue her curiosity. If I can not control my focus, then what use am I as an agent of De Omori?
Then it occurred to her. An agent of De Omori. A very new agent of De Omori. This was the excitement. The thrill of the hunt.
Around her, she could see the eyes of the men, leering, imagining her naked, sprawled out before them. She could hear their words, although they tried to hush them. Do normal women hear this? Do they see this? She could only wonder, as it was impossible for her to block it out. She had to hear and see these things, as they might save her life one day. The training was both her boon and her blight.
It was that training that set her apart from normal women – freed her from their daily routines and tribulations, allowed her adventure and excitement. But it also meant that the entire world was seen through the filter of a threat that most people could not acknowledge even existed.
She saw a man sat at a table, conversing freely with a friend, fumbling for money and counting it on the table. There were strangers all around him. That man considered himself free from a world where crime existed, let alone blood-drinking creatures of nightmare.
So while her training allowed her to operate in that world of nightmare, where others would instantly perish, she was deprived the comforts afforded a normal woman. The luxuries of hearth and home. Images of home immediately snapped into her mind’s eye and she wrestled to suppress them, to return to the mission.
And then a newspaper twitched, as it had done so several times, and the man behind the paper checked his watch again. He was waiting for someone. He was waiting for her.
Seven.
Before very long at all I was standing in O’ Grady’s Coffee House, I ordered a cup of Burton’s Imported Special Tea, paying tuppence for it, which included use of a much-thumbed copy of the London Illustrated Times, and took a seat. The paper was perfect cover as I sat with my back to the corner of an alcove. With all stealth, I commenced to look about the coffee house, in the hope that the person Haddon had arranged to meet, would reveal himself.
I glanced at my pocket watch to see the time was five before seven. I was early. I read the news from Paris. More missing persons attributed to the dastardly work of a murderous governess chased to her death by British investigators. I read on until ten minutes had passed and looked around again.
A great many patrons filled the coffee house, and so I reasoned that I should be on guard for anyone who seemed impatient, waiting for a man who would never turn up. I glanced at my watch.
It was then, all on a sudden, that a lady approached me at my table. “Father Haddon, I presume,” she said, offering a kidskin glove.
I took the young woman’s hand as I rose to my feet. She thought I was the priest! Could I deceive her?
“Yes,” I replied, “and you would be?”
“Did they neglect to give you my name?”
I cleared my throat, and perhaps in doing so, cleared the last shred of decency and honesty in my body. “I am afraid they did. I was given simply a note with the where and when, but not the who. I must admit to expecting a man.”
We took our seats and the lady set her drink on the table. I thought it highly improper that she carried a drink around the coffee shop in such a fine dress – all to approach a man. She introduced herself as Mary Brigham.
“I must attest,” she said, almost to allay my fears that she would approach just any man, “to being somewhat surprised myself. I was expecting to see a white collar. It was your furtive glances at the pocket watch that gave you away. You looked like a man due to meet someone.”
Damn! I thought. She beat me at my own game. Of course, the thought was preposterous – spying was not my game. But perhaps, I deduced, it was hers.
“I am told that you have some information for me,” she said, leaning forward slightly.
I did not react. At least, I think I did not react. I raised my cup to my lips. This seemed to make her impatient and she said, “I am told you have information about the death of the shipping magnate Henry Burton.”
I reacted. My tea spurted from my lips into the cup. I placed the cup on the table. Mary raised her cup and drank. I suspect it was a move designed to suppress her amusement at my clumsiness.
I stuttered and fumbled for a handkerchief with which to wipe my lips.
Mary eyed me with a queer look. Her eyes sharpened as she reached for a handkerchief of her own. She handed the frilly square of material to me. I noticed the elaborate, crimson embroidery, which seemed to show the initials D.O.
“I thought you said your name was Mary,” I said.
“I find it alarming that you would fail to recognise the emblem of your paymasters, Father Haddon,” Mary said, her jaw firm, not a hint of amusement on her face.
“I… no, of course. I was not thinking. You must realise, Miss Brigham-”
“Mary.”
“Indeed, Mary. You must realise that I am not accustomed to the company of beautiful young women.”
Mary smiled, her eyes softening. “You are but a young man yourself, Father. Surely you are not so blinded with religious fervour, that beauty is wasted on you? One would assume that London is blessed with its share of beautiful women.”
I flushed. She was clearly accustomed to such exchanges. I instantly regretted my course of action. Instantly wanted to leave. Instantly wanted to die.
“As a priest, I find that the beauty of all God’s works blinding.”
“But not the women,” Mary stated this, it was not posed as a question.
“The beauty of all creatures.”
“You see women as creatures?”
“I mean simply, my dear Mary, that we are all of us beasts on some level.”
Mary leaned closer. I cleared my throat again. I wanted to mop
at my brow with the handkerchief. By God she was beautiful.
“Surely our civilisation, our morality, our rationalisation separates us from the beasts?” she reasoned. “I mean, it would be unseemly to think that we could each of us simply follow any primal urge.”
“Indeed. You quite have the better of me, Mary. I am a simple holy man and you pose some provocative ideas which render me quite incapable of further discourse.”
“Then let us waste no more time. De Omori has sent me to follow up your claim that Henry Burton was killed in a particularly strange manner.”
My eyes must have flashed and betrayed me then, I am sure of it. “Of course. Well, it is said that Mr Burton had no blood in his body. Which is impossible, of course.”
Mary’s eyes narrowed. “You know it to be possible, Father. That being, chiefly, our area of expertise.”
“Yes, well, I simply mean… by conventional means.”
“It is conventional for the thousands of bloodfiends that nest in The Island.”
“There are thousands of them?” I gasped.
“Of course there are.”
“Where is this island?”
“You know the regulations, Father Haddon,” Mary chided.
“I simply ask because… presumably with such unholy creatures around, one would never be beyond the need of a priest,” I added, pleasantly.
Mary was clearly reaching the end of her patience and I was clearly seconds away from being discovered as a fraud. I knew I had to bring this to a close when she said, “The word of God would serve no purpose there. Provided a person can wield a sword and a revolver, then The Island has use for all men, thugs, priests… doctors.”
That damned priest! Clearly some sort of informant to this organisation De Omori, he had not only connected me to Henry’s death, but had given some of this information away already. He had known something all along. Had he been in Charlie’s Gin Palace that fateful night when I was called away to deal with Judith? It was certainly the sort of establishment he had enjoyed. He might have pieced it all together long before I ever showed Panacea to him. Christ! He could have been concealed, could have even seen the baby as I escaped the doss with her – had he been spying on me for this organisation all along?
“If you would excuse me, the old Haddon family curse has struck and I fear I may die of shame if I do not relieve myself.”
Mary huffed at my feigned urgency. I made it out of the coffee house and waited not even a moment. I broke into a run, pell-mell all the way back to my house.
Once through the front door of my house, there was not a moment’s hesitation. I scooped up Margaret from the sofa and carried her up two flights of stairs, to the master bedroom. She murmured only a little and thought she was experiencing some vivid, opium-induced dream. I lay her gently on the bed and wrestled with the covers, tucking her in, fully clothed.
I grabbed an outdoor dress and cap of Margaret’s and raced down to the study. Lily or Annie or whoever emerged from the servant’s bedroom and asked if everything was all right. I turned back to her and called up the stairs, “Yes, all is well. Mrs Blessing is very unwell. I am ministering to her in the study, but fear she will have to be admitted to the hospital if she does not improve. Please stay in your room tonight and get your rest as I fear there will be much work for you in the morning.”
The girl agreed and disappeared back into her room.
May God forgive me for what I did next. I can not describe how I came to the idea, nor how I managed the actual act itself. It is enough to say that I burned the priest’s clothes, white collar and all, in the fire in the parlour. Once done, I hailed a cab, and when I carried Father Haddon over the threshold of my house, he was it was not only darkness that cloaked him. He was dressed as my Margaret.
Off to the hospital we rode. I had the driver take me right up to the door. Down into my laboratory did I go with Father Haddon, to my secret place. Sweating profusely, I took out my surgical kit and looked to my various glass cases about the room. Before long, Father Haddon was in several of these cases, a hand here, a leg there, his head! My God! A feast for the creatures in the cases. How they devoured his face. How they devoured all of him!
When I had ceased vomiting, I managed to steel myself long enough to inspect the progress of my creatures. The sound of tooth grinding bone will haunt me for the rest of my days.
Oh Jesus!
Jesus Christ!
Eight.
Charles watched as the woman drank her coffee with a serene look on her face. She reached the end of her drink, glanced at a small watch she held in her elegant little bag and rose to her feet.
This woman had expected Blessing to return, of that, Charles was sure, although she hid her anger, or disappointment well. She had not meant to disturb him, perhaps. A misunderstanding? A guilty conscience? She was preparing to leave the coffee house. Once more, a dilemma. He could gamble and make a direct attempt to discover the nature of their relationship, or he could follow by stealth and uncover more about the woman herself by studying her actions. If he was wrong then following her would mean a wasted opportunity to watch Blessing.
The woman emerged from the coffee house and glided along the street with an elegance that made Charles wonder if her shoes did not float above the city muck.
He decided to be somewhat direct. At the very least he might find something he could use as leverage to force Blessing to confess.
“Excuse me, Miss,” he found himself saying, having caught up to her.
The woman stopped and turned side-on to Charles. The posture was almost a defensive combat stance. “Yes?” she asked, eyeing him with suspicion.
“I saw the man you were with before. Dr George Blessing. I wondered if you knew where he might be headed. He appeared to be in a hurry. I don’t wish to seem impertinent,” Charles said, removing his derby and holding it to his chest. “You see, he looks after a friend of mine in Belgravia and he left with such haste… well, I have had a vision that my friend has taken a turn for the worst.”
The woman concealed her shock well – it had been apparent for only a moment. She replied, “I swear I would have no idea of his business. Now, if you’ll forgive me, I had best be on my way.”
With that the woman hurried away. Charles grinned to himself. Lover. Lover’s tiff. She is shocked at having the affair discovered.
He certainly is a man of secrets, this Blessing. Adulterer. Murderer. Deviant.
Waiting had not proved entirely fruitless. Charles could dismiss the lover for now. His next move was to hurry to Blessing’s home – to try to get back on his scent. Doubtless he would have scurried off home to his little wife, Charles reasoned, to make up some time with her and salve his guilty conscience.
Upon arriving at Blessing’s terrace, Charles hung back. There was a commotion at Blessing’s front door. What was this? Blessing was carrying his wife out to a hansom cab. She looked terribly unwell, lifeless. Had he revealed his affair to her? Had she fallen into some sort of swoon or stupor? Where was he taking her?
Assuming that same authority that had come to him with years in uniform Charles stepped onto the cobbled road and called a cab to stop for him. “Get out,” he snarled at the terrified old man and woman huddled on the seat.
“You can’t just do that, Guv!” the driver called.
Charles pointed a thick finger at the man. “Shut it, or I’ll put a bullet up your big, fat nose. Now you two, get down now!”
The old couple complied and Charles climbed into the cab. “See that cab up there, driver? Follow it. Lose it and I swear you’ll suffer!”
“I should take this whip to you, you ignorant bastard!” the driver yelled. He quickly lowered his voice and addressed the elderly couple once more, saying, “Sorry, m’lady. It’s this dog, here!”
Charles gripped the roof of the cab and leaned forward, craning his bulging neck around so he could just see the driver’s head. “I said move!” he growled.
The driver
could see that Charles was not to be trifled with and did as he commanded.
It came as no surprise to Charles when he stopped the cab on Poland Street. Whatever was wrong with Mrs Blessing, the doctor had obviously wanted to deal with it in a hurry. The doctor had needed something from the hospital and had not the time to retrieve it and take it home. But to take his wife out in that state? This seemed more than just a fit of anxiety, her condition must have been gravely urgent.
Charles climbed from the cab, but grasped the reins that ran over the cab’s roof. He tugged hard and dropped to the cobbles. The driver was snatched forward, the horse shied.
Charles was at the driver in an instant, grabbing him from his perch, down onto the street. He kicked the man’s back and backside, knocking him prone. Charles picked up the whip and cracked it several times over the driver’s back, causing the man to howl, more with fright at Charles’ savagery, than pain as his thick pea coat protected him. Charles kicked the driver once more, leaving him sprawled out on the ground. Out of sheer spite, he whipped the horse, sending it off down the road at pace. Dropping the whip next to the driver, Charles said, “I don’t believe you’ll call me a dog again.” And with that he left the scene, thinking it imprudent to enter the hospital and walk straight into the doctor and his wife.
The night had not revealed anything about the Burton matter, but much about the private affairs of the doctor. If anything, it was clear that, affair or no, he had enough concern for the wellbeing of his wife to race to the hospital with her. Was she normally a sickly woman, Charles wondered? Was it this condition that had made Blessing seek comfort from another woman? No matter, he thought, I am on the right track. It is a matter of time before there would be enough material to blackmail the murderer into a confession.
The Cabinet of Dr Blessing (The Dr Blessing Collection Parts 1-3): A Gothic Victorian Horror Tale Page 6