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

by Rollins, Jack

  Charlotte sat up and stared at me directly. “George, is something wrong?”

  “Is something wrong, Charlotte? Is something wrong?”

  “George?”

  “First you send that beastly man out to seek me and now you send another of your agents to my house! My house! What game is this you play?” I could see that my raised voice had caught the attention of the trio by the fountain.

  “Another agent?”

  “That woman! Do you plan to destroy my marriage, too?” I cried. I had a nerve, considering I allowed the same creature to kill both Charlotte’s husband and my wife.

  “I must confess to being at a disadvantage, George, now I suggest you just-”

  I raised a warning finger. “No. Allow me to make a suggestion. Keep that man, those men, and that woman away from me, and away from my house. Fail to heed me in this, and I swear, Charlotte, I will not be responsible for my actions.”

  “You dare? You dare to threaten me?”

  I continued, enjoying the strange feeling that pulsed through me. I felt like someone else was saying the words and I was sat back, as at the theatre, enjoying the whole scene. “Do not raise your voice at me Charlotte. It does no good to get excited in your… fragile condition.”

  “You know?”

  “I am a doctor, Charlotte. And one of no small degree of talent. The faint tinge of vomit in the air. Your swollen breasts. Charlotte, your cheeks are flushed and I feel you have seldom looked more beautiful.”

  I could see that I had shocked Charlotte and thrown her mind off-balance. “George, you confuse me.”

  Excited and emboldened I leaned forward, down on one knee and grasped her hands in mine. “That night, with Judith Cloonan, you struck me as a remarkable woman. Oh, I love my Margaret, but you have this other quality to you. A worldliness, yes, experience. There were times, while we created the hospital together, Charlotte, I felt I would have taken you, right there, over my writing table. Henry, Margaret, everyone be damned!”

  Charlotte was breathless now, and I felt the strands connecting the spiritual me to my corporeal form breaking one by one, like the moorings of a dirigible, snapping away unexpectedly, uncontrollably. Only a few tethers held me back – soon I would ascend.

  “George, how can you say these things?” she asked, with a modesty I had rarely observed in her before.

  “Mrs Burton, is everything all right?” Charles called, revealing that he had covered most of the ground between the fountain and the terrace.

  “Yes Charles,” Charlotte assured him, waving Charles and the other men away. “I need some privacy.”

  The men skulked away, along the lower terrace until they were obscured by tall box-hedges.

  “George, this is highly improper.”

  I kissed her swollen lips and squeezed my hands against her hips, then grasped impertinently at her breasts. The gamut of emotions played out on her face, for all to see. Charlotte’s guilt for her dead husband’s memory was visible yet her response to my kisses, her probing tongue, revealed that she was enjoying this moment. Her pain as my hands treated her tender breasts roughly, juxtaposed against the thrill of the idea that the hands belonged to her dead husband’s friend. Her abandon as her thighs opened, her greedy kisses, despite her friendship with my wife. She did want me – perhaps she had all along!

  I stepped away, leaving her flushed and sweating. “That is quite enough,” I muttered.

  “What? George, what are you doing?” Charlotte asked, confused and desperate.

  “Also, you should know,” I stated, straightening my clothes, “that our partnership is disbanded. The hospital can burn for all I care. Remember what I said: leave my father alone.”

  “Your father?” She looked puzzled.

  “I said, leave me alone.”

  And with that, I left, no longer making it up as I went along, but moving in accordance with a plan. The next part of the plan: Niamh.

  I arrived at Niamh’s lodging an hour later and found her sewing a hole up in one of her socks. “Leave that, darling child. I shall buy you all the fine clothes you could possibly want, if you would do something for me.”

  “Anything, doctor.”

  “Here is some money. Go to the rag market and bring your dear old doctor a full set of clothes.”

  The poor child looked confused and said, “But Doctor, you can afford those nice clothes, ones that just you have worn.”

  “Yes, and that is the point, my dear. Now, do your best. Take this note of my measurements. I am sure you will find me something suitable. And remember this: your dear old doctor likes to stay warm when outdoors.”

  “Should I get me a pair of socks, too, doctor?”

  “No, child. Not from the rag market. Did I not say you would have all the fine things?”

  “You did,” she replied.

  I pulled her in close, embraced her for a long moment and kissed the top of her head. “And I meant it. No more rag markets for you. Now, do as I asked and bring the clothes to my house.”

  Eleven.

  Charlotte’s coach was as comfortable a transport as any Charles had been privileged enough to ride in. He had followed the doctor’s hired carriage from the Burton home, to the streets near the clinic. Charles was surprised when they turned left off Oxford Street and did not head right, for Poland Street, and the clinic – where the hell was Blessing going?

  The coachman drew the carriage to a halt and spoke into the tube that enabled his voice to carry clearly into the coach itself, and informed Charles that Blessing had entered a building. Charles climbed down to the street and the coachman pointed out the boarding house into which Blessing had gone.

  The mistress. This had to be where she lived.

  Charles looked about the place. The woman he had seen at the Coffee House with Blessing looked too classy to live in a boarding house on Wells Street. Was this yet another woman?

  Charles could have spat on the ground with temper. This murderous, deceitful monster had attempted to take advantage of Charlotte – oh, Charlotte may have dismissed him, but Charles had one duty, and that was to protect her. He had watched that beast’s hands all over Charlotte’s breasts, his mouth crushing her lips. At the time, his hand had gripped the revolver. He would have intervened had he not seen Charlotte’s thighs part shamefully. She had allowed herself to be seduced. She wanted that doctor to take her.

  Observation was the key. Surely the answer would present itself soon enough, but Charles was growing impatient. The matter at hand was that of Henry Burton’s sudden and mysterious death, not the affairs of a depraved doctor. That the doctor was guilty was not for debate, so far as Charles was concerned - guilty of Henry’s murder, and guilty of the butchery done to that prostitute. In a normal investigation, Charles would want to get to know as much as possible about the man to ensure he could build up a picture of his movements and lifestyle – but Charles knew enough.

  That night, that fateful night, when Judith Cloonan died, Charles had stood in uniform with his lantern, holding the crowd back, so moved by the woman’s piteous, animal howls, that he had had to suppress the urge to take his truncheon over the doctor’s head in the vain hopes that the woman could be saved.

  He had seen the doctor and Henry Burton steal something away, in one of those glass containers used for pickling organs and deformed babies. Doctors! Charles thought, ruefully. Butchers, every one. What had the doctor discovered that he had allowed that woman to die a horrible, agonising death? What secret had Burton concealed that had driven the doctor to kill him those years later?

  It was then that the doctor emerged from the boarding house, with a small girl who looked about ten or eleven years old. A daughter? Blessing himself looked only to be in his late twenties, so he would have sired this child particularly young. What a shameful secret, what a burden to carry, through the years of studying his art.

  Would a woman carrying the child of a man wealthy enough to practice medicine allow herself and h
er child to live in such meagre circumstances? Unlikely. Blessing’s father would have been shamed into parting with such monies as would buy silence and raise the fallen woman’s status.

  Charles concluded: the child is not Blessing’s.

  Therefore what is the link?

  The child is another lover? Charles tensed his whole body and felt his suit strain at the seams as his chest and shoulders expanded. That. Damned. Beast!

  The doctor and the child parted company. Blessing headed back along the road towards where Charles stood, but across the road. Charles stole back to the coach and climbed in. “Wait here for me. I’ll follow him on foot, driver.”

  “Aye, sir,” came the reply.

  Blessing was absolutely oblivious to Charles’ presence as he weaved his way down Wells Street, across the bustling Oxford Street and down Poland Street to the clinic. Blessing had stopped only once along the way, to buy some matches from a scruffy street-pedlar.

  Charles looked at the ragged crowd of people outside the clinic, appealing to the doctor, imploring him to heal them or a child, or a sick friend. The doctor stopped and addressed them.

  It certainly jarred against the image of a murderous madman, the knowledge that this man had helped to form a hospital with the sole aim of healing the downtrodden. Charles could feel almost admiration swelling in his breast, tempering the hatred that had thus far rendered him incapable of objectivity.

  Charles seemed to be in a trance, staring at the ground, wondering: have I got this right? The charitable visage masks a monster? Or is he a monster at all? Does he hurt people? And if he does, does he help more people than he hurts? Does he only hurt people to achieve a greater good?

  He could see the benefit to the many at the sacrifice of the few. He could understand it easily; it was the principle upon which almost all religion was based. But when one considers the individual, he thought, does it make it right? Individual people used as matchsticks, expended to light a fire to warm the many. And, if he continued on his own present course of action, what would happen to the many? What would become of the poor, tatty wretches who appealed to the doctor if the doctor was in gaol, or dead?

  A dizzying sensation of pressure came down on Charles’ skull and he turned to move away, glancing back at the clinic only enough to notice that the doctor was gone, probably inside. He staggered across Oxford Street, sickened by his own anger and obsession. How can I bear him such ill-will, when the widow Burton saw fit to allow him to paw her so? If we were all so convinced that he had killed Henry Burton, then why would she behave that way? The doubts collected and spiralled. His exhaustion became apparent. Indeed he had barely slept over the last weeks, since offering his services to Mrs Burton. He had been certain that in assisting the widow, he would untangle the mystery that had taken over his life. The same mystery that had consumed him, and poured drink down his neck and eventually taken away his uniform.

  He climbed into the coach and instructed the coachman to take him back to Kensington. The coachman turned the carriage expertly and made for Oxford Street once more. They both noticed that a panic had broken out on the street. People were running past them, back for Poland Street.

  “There’s something wrong, sir,” the coachman called through the tube.

  Charles had already detected it, for the smell of smoke had already reached his nostrils. Shouts of “Fire!” reached him from the street.

  “There’s a fire, sir! The hospital is on fire!” the driver called.

  “My God! Take me there!” Charles ordered.

  Poland Street was blocked by the crowd and almost inaccessible from Oxford Street. “I can go no further!” the driver called.

  Charles climbed down from the coach and pushed his way through the mob, barely recognising that anyone stood in his path. True enough, the receiving clinic of the hospital was ablaze, and the fire threatened to spread to the hospital proper. Charles could see invalids being dragged from the doors of the main hospital. Glass shattered and flames licked from the ground floor windows, reaching up for the floor above. “Jesus Christ!” Charles cried. “The doctor is in there!”

  His own outburst had surprised him. His fatigue lifted. If Blessing was a killer then he had to be brought to justice. If he was innocent of the crimes he suspected, or if he had the potential to do more good than harm, then he had to be saved.

  Charles raced into the burning building.

  Twelve.

  Mary took an omnibus to Oxford Street, where she disembarked and nodded to the man who had kindly given up his interior seat for her. The man had braved the elements on the roof so that she had not had to.

  She had decided to stay away from the house, not wishing to jeopardise the safety of the doctor’s household unless she absolutely had to. The hospital was a better place to set an ambush, or at the very least, to speak to some of Dr Blessing’s contemporaries and try to piece together more information about the man.

  Oxford Street was abuzz and she was glad to turn off to Poland Street, where she could see the hospital, and the unfortunates gathering outside, waiting for their chance to seek the doctor’s counsel, hoping for a cure, or admission to the hospital proper. Mary slipped unnoticed down the narrow alley between the hospital and the neighbouring tenement building. She continued round to the rear of the hospital, which was littered with the waste of that building and adjacent dwellings.

  A rear door to the building was set within the wall. Mary tried the handle and found it locked. From her bag she produced her invaluable lock-picking kit. The lock was not exotic and was very easily picked. Mary entered the building and closed the door behind her.

  The sun was fighting its way through the soot and smoke of London, but with the windows shuttered, the receiving section of the hospital was still in darkness. She considered lighting one of the oil lamps hanging from the walls at various intervals. She decided against this course of action as with the growing crowd outside, it was clear that the clinic was due to open soon. She might reveal her presence immediately, costing her precious time in which she would otherwise make her escape.

  She walked through the waiting area, which was well maintained considering the filthy state of some of the patients, if those assembled outside were anything to go by. She struck a match and inspected the sign on a door. It was the doctor’s office. She shook out the match and investigated further.

  The doctor’s office was as she expected, with desk, side tables, bookshelves and chairs. She moved to the door at the side of the room, tried the handle and found it locked. Once more, the lock was easily picked and Mary found herself standing at the top of a long staircase, leading down to another floor.

  Grasping the handrail she made her way down the steps. The basement was shrouded in deep darkness and she struck another match, hoping to find an oil lamp. She was surprised to find that gas jets had been installed in the basement. She wondered, why here and not the ground floor of the building?

  She lit the nearest jet and moved to the next, then to a third, creating sufficient incandescence to survey the scene. The room was large, probably a third of the size of the entire floor above.

  The walls were covered in white tile, which aided the illumination, washing the room in bright light. In the centre of the floor was an operating table, which was adjustable, and which was perforated with many holes and scored with gutters. Beneath the table, hoses ran from beneath each hole and bound together by a metal strap. The hoses ran into a large glass container.

  Nearby, a surgeon’s kit was arranged on a trolley and in the corner of the room was a washstand. The mixed smells of coal tar and formaldehyde made breathing through the nose unpleasant. Another door led from this operating room. Mary found this unlocked and moved straight through, unhindered.

  She lit the nearest gas jet and found a room that appeared to be a study, with another door at the far end of the room. The study contained a great number of medical books and journals, besides the many already seen upstairs in the d
octor’s office. Another desk sat covered in notes and sketches. In one corner of the room was a table with a wooden maze built upon it, large enough for small animals to run. Here and there about the maze were dark brown stains.

  Mary noted a pipe projecting from the wall, with a valve at the end. She took this to be the control for the gas jets and realised that she was partially correct, when she saw the large containers of chloroform beneath it. That was it! He could fill a room with the gas, subduing the creature.

  Excited by her discovery, she moved to the door and grabbed the oil lamp hung there from a nail. Clearly the doctor used this to light his way when the gas was off and the sedative was pumped through the pipes. She lit the lamp and opened the next door. There she found herself in a narrow corridor, lined with heavy doors, each with a glass viewing port installed. It reminded her of a prison, or lunatic asylum.

  The lamplight was mostly reflected by the glass and it took time for her eyes to adjust to the gloom beyond. More glass within, and something moving beyond that. A squirming, swirling mass of eyes and teeth. Tiny creatures swarmed over each other, gathering in the corners of the glass tanks closest to her, as though they knew she was there and were desperate to break through, to find a way out to her.

  She moved to the next door. She held up the light.

  Something moved in the darkness, the light shimmered against white flesh and teeth. Mary heard a scream and realised it was her own voice filling her ears.

  Something banged against the other side of the door, a hard, steady pounding. She heard the bang against the outside of the door, saw stars and felt the dizzying pain before she recognised that her head had been struck from behind and that she had hit the door herself. She fell to the ground, dropping the lamp. She heard the lamp shatter and then she was out cold.

  She had not been unconscious for long. The fire from the broken oil lamp had only just reached her dress. Mary patted the flames out and staggered to her feet.