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

by Rollins, Jack

  With Charlotte settled and satisfied for the moment, Giles, Francis and Edward made their way to the drawing room. Giles strode through the house ordering the staff to make preparations as though the child was healthy and well.

  “This house will be cheery, damn me! I promised that child a wonderful day, and so it shall be! Miss Pinchstaff, dry your eyes and set about making the best plum pudding you can. Edward has brought us prized treasure; grapes and oranges. They are the centre piece for tomorrow’s feast!”

  He ordered two guards to collect the goose he had ordered at a nearby butcher’s shop. Charlotte protested, not wishing to send two men and two guns, at that, away.

  “Those creatures come out at night. We are quite safe for the moment. And when night comes, let them come. Let them find a house that is as prepared for Old Christmas, as it is for them!”

  Once in the drawing room, Giles distributed cigars which he lit for each man. He poured three glasses of an excellent brandy, and bade them all take comfortable chairs, which they did. Before commencing to drink his brandy, Giles took a swig from a small brown medicine bottle.

  “Feeling under the weather, Giles?” Francis asked.

  Giles glanced at the bottle and tucked it back away behind his waistcoat once more. “Me? No, I am in rude health. Never better. This is merely a little fortifying tonic that I have taken a liking to. I have heard a great deal of things called a cure-all to date, that never cured a damned thing, but this stuff… well, there is simply nothing quite like it.”

  Edward and Francis glanced at each other surreptitiously, each man’s eyes confirming to the other that they suspected that the bottle, like every other cure-all they had heard of, contained mainly an opium derivative and alcohol.

  “Back to business, gentlemen. Before we take the coach into the city, I must ask, Francis, if you could spare me an advance on my allowance from the Company.”

  Francis sipped his drink and frowned. “Giles, you barely take a penny. You have funds available for you to draw upon, as would make King Croesus weep with envy.”

  “All right then, very good, very good indeed. I would use my money to equip a local militia unit with as many of the rifles and bullets as I can buy from our warehouses. I want to pull as many of our hardy young lads as we can into this city; I want to arm them to the teeth.” Giles’ face was as stern as either man had ever seen. Edward and Francis knew that something had changed him.

  “A noble enterprise,” Edward said, using the thumb and forefinger of both hands to raise his brandy to his lips. “Francis, I wish to make a contribution to the cause.”

  Francis thought about this for a moment and smiled. “You know, I think Annie and I might just have a spare shilling or two we could put to the cause, too.”

  “I saw this city’s folk burning their dead like heathens. Men, women, children, stacked high. I can not bear it. I will see this child restored to good health, or if God sees fit to take her, then so be it, but when her suffering ends, I will be out there myself with a rifle until the city’s suffering ends.” Giles had become very red with anger. “I would have little or nothing said to Charlotte on the matter. She would worry too much. I want none of the Company money involved, you understand, simply my own allowance. I want to make sure the men of this city have the tools for the job.”

  “Then as Edward seeks out George, so we shall set about our business,” Francis agreed.

  “Let us not waste another minute,” Edward insisted, finishing his drink.

  When the men left the drawing room and made for their coats and the front door, they interrupted one of the house maids who busied herself tying bundles of seasonal foliage she had collected from the gardens, holly, ivy and mistletoe.

  Giles was delighted with this and called, “That is the spirit! This must be the most cheery house in London!”

  The housemaid continued as encouraged by Giles, whom she believed had completely taken leave of his senses and who was entirely inappropriate given the gravity of the little girl’s health in the sickroom.

  When the coach approached the turnpike, Giles muttered, “What on Earth is going on here, now?”

  As they drew closer, they could see unarmed Londoners, wrapped up warm against the chill of the winter air, dancing about and slapping the white-bandaged militia men on their backs. A vendor proclaimed that he was giving away roasted chestnuts in celebration, but of what? The passengers of the coach could not tell.

  Giles barely registered the deliciously sweet and earthy mix of smells from the chestnuts as he brushed past some of the revellers, one of whom offered him a drink from his small silver flask.

  “No, thank you,” Giles growled. “What is the meaning of all of this?”

  One of the militia men pointed into Hyde Park. Giles’ eyes followed the man’s finger and it took a couple of seconds to register what he was seeing. At first he wondered why people were celebrating the park becoming another ghastly pyre site, then he realised that it was a collection of the ragged creatures stacked up by militia men, ready for the flames.

  “How is this possible?” he asked.

  “Two strange men came last night. They brought us some supplies and stood to fight with us. We went on the hunt and put bullets into as many of them as we could find.”

  “You hunted them in the park at night?” Giles asked.

  “Yes. Those men were fearless, so some of us went along with them. Those we didn’t shoot dead crawled away and were found lying dead this morning.”

  “The tide is turning,” Giles muttered, staring into the snow-covered park.

  The militia man handed Giles a bottle of brandy. “It has turned. Drink to it.”

  “A miracle,” Giles whispered, taking a swig of the brandy.

  “’Tis Christmas, good fellow. A miracle we needed, and one was delivered.”

  Freddy, who had driven the cart the previous night approached with his large friend, who was known as The Bear. Both wore the tatty, ragtag uniform of the turnpike militia and had been drinking heavily. “Ahhh, Mr Burton,” Freddy slurred.

  “Freddy. I am pleased the day finds you well.”

  Freddy slapped Giles on the back, his drunkenness causing him to overestimate their affiliation. “I saw you come back through last night with the little girl, Mr Burton. How is she?”

  “I am sorry to report that her condition is quite grave.”

  “Sorry to hear it, Mr Burton. Right sorry to hear it.”

  “I appreciate your concern, Freddy. I came here to talk to the watch commander. I said last night I wanted to supply your men, but it appears I am too late.”

  The Bear spoke next in his deep, rough tone, “Not necessarily, sir. If you go through the barricade there you shall find the commander. He is talking to the gentlemen who assisted us last night. It appears they have grand plans.”

  Giles did as The Bear suggested, and weaved his way through the merry throng. He hoped the commander would help him to guide the coach through the crowd and gates as those assembled around the turnpike wanted to revel, rather than press on into the city as he and his companions wished.

  A young boy passed Giles, pattering to sell his penny-blood pamphlets of ‘The Battle for Hyde Park’. It amazed Giles that no matter what the event, the ink was always dry before the blood.

  The watch commander and his two benefactors conferred at a makeshift table formed of a plank and two barrels. Stretched over the plank was a map of London. The men marked various locations on it and discussed each one. Giles recognised one of the men almost immediately as the detective from Dundee he had met at the pharmacy the night before.

  “Well, look here, it is our friend, Mr Burton,” the Scotsman announced. “How is the wee lassie?”

  Giles noted that the Scotsman’s attitude was a happier one than the previous night. “It pains me to say she is in an appalling condition. No doctors will treat her.”

  The Scotsman frowned. “And why wid that be, now?”

  Gi
les shrugged and feigned ignorance. “Perhaps they are afraid she is to become a creature of the night. A vampire. Who knows? I just pray I can find her some help before it is too late.”

  “If the doctor you met last night, was not so busy himself, I would have sent him to you, to see if there was anything more he could do. But things being as they are,” the Scotsman gestured behind him toward the rest of London and trailed off.

  “I appreciate the thought anyway,” Giles replied, remembering that the doctor in question had been plain in his opinion that they should not take a chance. Had the doctor his way, Niamh would have been a pile of ashes. “Do you know of Stanley Sacks? How is he?”

  “Ahh, the pharmacist. He is remarkable well. Yes, remarkable well.”

  Giles was concerned at the use of remarkable, not in that he used the word instead of remarkably, rather the insinuation that the Scotsman was suspicious of the pharmacist being quite sowell. “Did he… turn?”

  “Not at all. In fact, he is plying his trade for us now, hoping to perfect some sort of elixir or tincture for the plague.”

  “Good luck to him,” Giles offered. “Now, let me explain why I am here. Perhaps, Commander, you will remember my offer last night?”

  “I do indeed. And a generous offer it was.”

  “Is, Commander. For I still extend it to you. I see the Battle for Hyde Park, as it were, has been won. I wanted to ascertain if your fight continues.”

  The Scotsman turned to the other two men and smiled. The third man, a man in a suit similar to the Scotsman, whom Giles had not met, and who spoke with a crisp, educated London accent, said, “Our fight continues, sir.”

  “We aim to hunt the creatures down wherever they nest in the city, and bring about their end,” the Commander added.

  Giles smiled with relish at the blood-thirsty notion. “I am right pleased to hear it. All I would ask, Commander, is if we could allow my coach to pass, this being daylight, and things having taken a turn for the better, and I will make arrangements as promised.”

  The Commander yelled out immediately for two of his men to come to attention. “Get this gentleman the help he needs, lads!” he turned back to Giles, approaching him with his hand extended. They shook hands vigorously and laughed. “A true man of your word… a true man of your word, indeed!”

  Summerscale rode the carriage all the way to the Priam Theatre. It was slow going, but it gave him plenty of time to consider what he would say if and when he saw George. The last he had seen of him, and the last he had heard of him directly, was in Richmond, where he was pursued by a sympathetic woman - an agent of some sort, and a brutal thug of a man whom he had learned was a disgraced policeman. It was this man who had severed his fingers when torturing him for information.

  He had, in the delirium of the torture, somewhere between the third and fourth finger let slip the name of Smokey’s Rolling Sideshow. Charles, his torturer, had continued to sever fingers, seeming to suck blood from each digit in his madness, before moving on to give chase.

  The only saving graces Edward could consider when he emerged from unconsciousness, were that he had locked the sympathetic agent (who had been badly injured) away, hidden from Charles, and that the sideshow’s movements were unknown to anyone but Smokey.

  Smokey gathered beautiful performers who could not, for whatever reason, make a big name for themselves on the stage, or who were shunned or disgraced, and provided a safe haven for the deformed and misshapen. He offered all safety, and money, at the price of a thick skin.

  Edward had seen some of the members of Smokey’s freak show. He wondered how they had not killed themselves, having been born so hideously distorted. There was not a day went by that he did not consider ending his life, and he had not been born with a disfiguring mark on him. The loss of his fingers had been a cruel and unnecessary turn for him.

  It was then that he realised that there was a day he had not considered suicide: today. He had a mission. He had started out with the intention of giving gifts, and planned to end it with the reunion of Dr George Blessing and his child. If only for a short while, he thought.

  Edward had received occasional letters not only from George, but from Smokey. Smokey had always given the impression that George was well - busy, wrapped up in his work, but well. The creature, too, seemed to be thriving. There were times when George would ask Smokey where they were headed next, and he and the creature would remain in a town for a day or two, as he tended to a sick family, only to catch up with the sideshow shortly afterwards. Smokey had remarked that George had been fitting in well and was a remarkable healer. He made various concoctions and medicines to hawk at fairgrounds, always to an eager crowd who would lap up his wares. George had commenced to work with an old Chinaman who had no shortage of skill as an apothecary and the pair were quite a success, from what Edward had read.

  “Wouldn’t be surprised if all of them are blood-suckers,” a sailor muttered to his companion, leaving the Priam. Edward assumed they had taken in Smokey’s freak show.

  A woman in a grey coat and blue dress clutched her husband’s arm and drew him close, shivering at either the cold, or the memory of something she had just witnessed. “Did you see that creature? No eyes, that skin… I thought I was able to see right through it to the intestines!”

  “Those teeth!” her husband gasped.

  Edward made his way around the side of the theatre and picked his way through the tents. All around him, performers were taking off makeup, warming soup at fires, pouring hot tea, chattering and joking. Their dark red skin told of a hard life out in the sun and the elements, but they were happy.

  “Dr George Blessing?” he asked a young woman with dark brown, curly hair.

  She turned to him and fixed him with beautiful, sparkling blue eyes. Edward could think of a time, not so long before, when he would have been in that woman’s tent with her at a moment’s notice. He could try again, but if she was not horrified by his destroyed hands, and if she unfastened his trousers as he barely able to, then the lack of vigour within would surely fail to impress her.

  “The doctor?” she asked, her voice heavily accented. Austrian, Edward thought. She pointed the way to a tent further up the lane.

  Edward thanked her and pressed on, momentarily startled as a strapping porter appeared, carrying a rod upon which was tied three fat, plucked geese. Edward knew that Smokey and his performers would enjoy a real feast for Christmas.

  He noticed a large, tall tent further along the lane and made for it. Two more bulging porters emerged from the tent, one of them pushing a low trolley.

  Edward entered the tent, calling for George. The sight that welcomed him was less than encouraging.

  George was indeed present. Whereas five months earlier, George had shaven all of his hair and moustache off, he presently lay on a bed of wood, straw and blankets, his head still shaven but with a bushy moustache and beard. Edward thought that George, wrapped as he was in his heavy blankets, looked like a fur-coated Russian Tsar.

  An elderly Chinaman was knelt next to George and was in the process of removing a long opium pipe from George’s lips. A moment later there issued forth a great plume of grey smoke from Blessing’s mouth.

  “George!” Edward cried.

  George shifted on his bed slightly, but remained settled, with his eyes half-closed.

  Edward shook him and called for him again.

  “Too late,” the Chinaman said. “He has gone to the land of dreams.”

  “Land of dreams? I need him awake and alert!” Edward demanded.

  The Chinaman placed the pipe into a long, wooden box with a sculpted inlay into which the pipe fit perfectly. “Impossible. The doctor is a haunted man. He must escape, or face madness.”

  Edward gestured towards the door of the tent. “Madness? There is plenty of madness out there, and we must all face it. Who granted him the right to escape it?”

  The Chinaman glanced at a shrouded object at the back of the long tent. The
object, covered in a grubby white cloth, measured around ten feet tall and about three feet across. Edward noticed a small set of wooden steps before the object. A chill ran through him. He knew what he would find there, but longed to see what the creature looked like in its present state and requiring such a spacious container. He began to walk slowly towards it.

  “Leave alone. Not safe for you,” the Chinaman warned.

  “I have met the creature before,” Edward said, never taking his gaze off the obscured tank. “She was a baby then. It appears she has grown.”

  “Stay back. She sleeps!”

  Edward reached out with a gloved hand, making to grasp a corner of the drape between his thumb and forefinger.

  A searing pain tore through his brain, seeming to slice it in half. He fell to his knees with one eye open and one closed. Staggering on all fours, he crawled away from the glass tank, the plaster fingers breaking with a soft, popping noise as he moved. White froth spewed from his lips, where it mingled with a stream of blood from his nostrils.

  “Warned you,” the Chinaman sighed, moving to help Edward put more distance between him and the tank where he had more chance to recover.

  After a few minutes, Edward had cleaned his face with a cloth offered by the Chinaman. His senses seemed to have returned fully. “What happened to me?”

  “She does not trust you. She will not let you see her, unless she trusts you.”

  Edward stared at George’s prone, slumbering form for a long while. “It is all right for him. Vacant. Unaware of the horrors out there. When he wakes, give him this.”

  Edward then curled his thumb and finger around a pencil and scratched out a message for his old friend. “Tell him that this is a matter of great importance. It concerns Niamh. Did he tell you about Niamh?”

  The Chinaman’s face was overshadowed with concern. “The girl. Yes, he mentioned her. Sometimes, when he is in the land of dreams, he talks to her.”

  “She is gravely ill. She may not survive. Tell him to leave his bloody pipe here.”