by Paul Stewart
I turned the corner, was let into the building by the concierge and made my way up the flights of stairs to the top floor.
‘Ah, Mr Grimes,’ said Dr Cadwallader somewhat distractedly when he opened the door to see yours truly standing there. ‘Come in and wait for me in my study. I’ve just got a little matter to attend to.’
The little matter, it seemed, was a great wad of banknotes bulging in the inside pocket of his white coat – banknotes which still bore the faint but unmistakable whiff of Madame Scutari’s perfume.
I went through to the doctor’s study, with its large desk and leather chairs, and sat down. Dr Cadwallader disappeared into the room beyond, leaving the door ajar. Silently I got up, tiptoed across the floor and peered in.
The room was dark, and seemed to be padded. It smelled strongly of carbolic soap, which masked an underlying odour of pickling solution. It was quite empty, apart from a large hook which hung from the padded ceiling just next to the shuttered skylight I’d seen from outside. The doctor was in the corner of the chamber, packing his wad of banknotes into a wall safe, chuckling delightedly to himself.
I returned to my chair, but not before noticing the doctor’s medical bag – the one with the initials N.J.W. in faded gold letters – standing beside the desk. Glancing back furtively at the padded chamber, I knelt down and opened the bag.
Nestling inside were six glass and chrome syringes, each one with a plunger at one end and a long needle-point glinting at the other. Then I noticed something else. Five of the six had been used. The plungers had been depressed and the contents expelled, presumably injected into the arms of the good doctor’s patients. The sixth syringe, however, remained unused. The plunger was out as far as it would go and the glass tube was full of a thick silvery-white substance—
Just then, from the padded chamber behind me, I heard the wall safe click shut. Quickly I pulled a handkerchief from my jacket pocket and wrapped it around the needle of the sixth syringe, before slipping it into the deepest pocket of my poacher’s waistcoat.
I just had time to regain my chair when the doctor stepped back into the room – only to silently curse my carelessness a moment later. I had left the medical bag open beside the desk. Luckily Dr Cadwallader didn’t seem to notice. He was relaxed and happy; probably still thinking of the fortune in banknotes nestling in that safe of his. He sat down in the chair opposite and adjusted his pince-nez.
‘Now, what can I do for you, Mr Grimes?’ he asked, his eyes narrowed.
‘I’ve got some bad news, Doctor,’ I said. ‘It’s about one of your patients. Sarah Monahan. She was killed last night, and in the most terrible circumstances—’
‘Killed?’ The doctor stopped smiling and his eyes narrowed. ‘I wondered what had happened to her when she failed to keep her appointment. Killed, you say?’
‘She was caught up in all the mayhem in the theatre district last night,’ I said, ‘and it appears she was kicked in the head by a horse. They found her body in the old Ambassador’s stables.’
The doctor breathed in noisily. ‘Yes, yes, the wolf attack. I read about it in this morning’s paper. Most regrettable,’ he muttered. ‘Most regrettable, indeed. Poor Sarah. My cordial had done her the power of good, restored her to exceptional health … I was so looking forward to our last appointment. Still,’ he said, and shrugged, ‘I suppose it can’t be helped.’
‘There is just one other thing,’ I said, looking up.
‘Yes?’ said the doctor, smiling once more.
‘Aloysius Clink,’ I said. ‘An old client of mine. He didn’t come in to work this morning.’
‘What is this to me?’ Dr Cadwallader demanded.
‘He is a patient of yours, Doctor. I delivered your letter to him. He’s a lawyer – quite wealthy, by all accounts. You know him as Mr Klynkowiczski.’
The doctor’s right eyebrow shot up. He fixed me with a dark look. ‘A wealthy lawyer, you say? But he looked like an old tramp. Lived in that slum you call … the Wasps’ Nest, is it?’
‘His family home,’ I said. ‘Mr Clink – I mean, Klynkowiczski doesn’t bother much about his outward appearance. But he is one of the finest lawyers in the city—’
‘Mr Klynkowiczski did visit me last night,’ Dr Cadwallader broke in. ‘I gave him his final treatment and then he left, completely cured.’ He frowned. ‘Come to think of it, he did say something about taking a trip – to the coast, if my memory serves me well …’
‘A trip to the coast?’ I said. ‘That doesn’t sound like Mr Clink—’
For a second time the doctor interrupted me. ‘My dear Mr Grimes,’ he said. ‘When a patient’s course of treatment has been completed, I wish them a long and healthy life, and take them off my list. But if I’d known this Mr Clink of yours was a wealthy lawyer, I’d never have agreed to give him my cordial in the first place.’
‘You wouldn’t?’
‘Of course not, Mr Grimes.’ The doctor adjusted his pince-nez and fixed me with those steel-grey eyes of his. ‘My cordial is for the poor and needy, the downtrodden and easily overlooked. But then, having delivered my reminders, Mr Grimes,’ – he shot me a wolfish grin – ‘you should know that all too well.’
I smiled back as casually as I could, and rose to go. ‘You are a true philanthropist, Doctor,’ I told him.
‘I shall need your services again the same time next month, Mr Grimes,’ he said. ‘I trust I can rely on you.’
‘You certainly can, Doctor Cadwallader,’ I said, though as I left his consulting rooms, I knew that I’d be seeing Dr Cadwallader far sooner than that. Only when I did, he wouldn’t be seeing me …
Over the next week or so I followed the good doctor everywhere. From up on the rooftops I watched his every move as he ventured into the poorer parts of the city, stopping and chatting to everyone he met. Some he seemed to dismiss after a moment’s conversation. Others he spent hours with, listening to their stories of ill-health and misfortune. Standing on a ledge or concealed in a doorway, I listened as the doctor set to work.
‘Such misfortune, my dear,’ I heard him say to an old washerwoman in Slaughterhouse Lane. ‘And no one to look after you?’
‘No, no,’ I heard the old woman saying, her voice weak and faltering. ‘Not a single person in the world. Live on me own, I do. Always have done – well, ever since my Alfie died …’
‘And that, of course, must make everything even more difficult for you,’ the doctor said, his voice low and solicitous. ‘Do you not have neighbours who could help you out? Friends, perhaps? Relatives?’
‘I’ve told you, Doctor Cadwallader, sir,’ she said. ‘There’s no one.’
‘Well, I think that’s very sad,’ the doctor said, and from my hiding place, halfway up the wall in the adjacent alley, I saw him open his bag and remove one of his blue bottles of cordial. ‘You give me your address, Lily Wagstaff, my dear,’ he said, ‘and I’ll give you one of my special cordials. You’re to take a spoonful of it every day for the next three weeks, then come along to my surgery for your final treatment …’ He smiled. ‘I’ll send you a reminder.’
‘That’s very kind of you,’ said Lily, ‘but I can’t afford it, Doctor. I struggle to make ends meet as it is, what with the washing and my bad back—’
‘Oh, I don’t want payment,’ he said with a smile. ‘It’s enough for me to know I’ve helped out someone as deserving as your good self.’
He noted her address in his little black book, tipped his hat and went on his way.
The second bottle of Dr Cadwallader’s cordial went to a toothless rag-and-bone man he encountered scouring the streets with his horse and cart on the east side of the city. A widower with neither brothers nor sisters, sons nor daughters, he was only too happy to try the free tonic which the doctor assured him – pointing to the words on the label as he spoke – was ‘an efficacious elixir for the enhancement of mental and physical powers …’
‘I don’t know about the mental stuff,’ the man laug
hed. ‘Never been that gifted in this department,’ he said, tapping his finger to his temple. ‘Not like your good self, Doctor. But it’d certainly be a treat to have some of those there physical powers you speak of.’
‘My pleasure, Mr Lester,’ smiled the doctor. ‘My pleasure, indeed!’
Lily Wagstaff and Ed Lester were soon followed by Eliza Hunter, Victoria Draper, Molly Suggs and a tall, stooped undertaker by the name of Ferdinand Cripps.
I returned to Hartley Square the day after Dr Cadwallader had presented Mr Cripps with his cordial, and the day after that. And, for good measure, the day after that as well. But the doctor made no further trips to the Wasps’ Nest, to the Eastern Quay or any of the other poorer areas of the city – which was just as well, because I needed time to prepare for what lay ahead.
For a start, as well as my usual work there was the important research I’d undertaken at Underhill’s Library for Scholars of the Arcane; research which was proving very interesting. Also, there were some extremely complex experiments I had got PB working on, which involved me running all over town buying up patent medicines by the sackful …
It was in the middle of the night before my next – and what I intended to be my last – assignment for Dr Cadwallader when I heard the professor’s voice ring out.
‘By Gad, I think I’ve got it!’
The pair of us were up in his laboratory. I was dozing on the couch. I’d been reading through the most recent notes I’d taken in the library, trying to piece together the bits of information before I dropped off. Meanwhile, the professor had been stooped over a tangled mass of interlinked glass flasks, copper pots, bell jars and test tubes, a teat-pipette clutched in his hands, adding a drop of a yellowish liquid into the bubbling test tube in front of him.
‘Are you sure?’ I asked, leaping up from the couch.
‘As sure as I can be, Barnaby,’ he said, holding up a small vial of dark-green liquid to the light. ‘Now, according to my theory, the photo-lycanthropic susceptibilities can be blocked at the sub-folic level quite effectively with an orally delivered solution …’
As I listened to the professor describe the intricacies of the experiment he’d been working on, I found myself hoping against hope that this was one theory that would prove to be right …
The following day I highstacked across the city to Hartley Square, presenting myself to Dr Cadwallader at seven o’clock on the dot.
‘Punctual as usual, Mr Grimes,’ he said, his eyes twinkling. ‘I have the envelopes here waiting for you.’
I thanked him and, thrusting the six letters into a pocket of my poacher’s waistcoat, took my leave of the good doctor.
I climbed back onto the rooftops and made my way across the city until I’d put a reasonable distance between myself and Hartley Square. Then, stopping beside a small crenellated turret, I sat down and pulled out the letters Dr Cadwallader had given me. As I had suspected, the names were all familiar.
Lily Wagstaff. Ed Lester. Eliza Hunter. Victoria Draper. Molly Suggs. Ferdinand Cripps.
I looked at their addresses and copied them down. Dilapidated hovels in rundown streets, all of them. Then, my heart thumping beneath my waistcoat, I did what I had never done before – what no tick-tock lad worth his salt would ever do intentionally.
I tore them up.
The envelopes, together with the letters they contained … Tear after tear, turning them bit by bit into a thousand tiny scraps of paper which I cupped in my hand and, standing on the very edge of the building, threw to the wind. They fluttered down, like feathers over a grouse moor.
Then, sitting down once more, I pulled out six new envelopes, together with six handwritten cards, from the inside of my jacket, along with six glass vials of the dark-green tincture. I put a card and one of the small stoppered bottles into each of the envelopes, and copied out the names and addresses onto the front. Then I set off for the first of my six drops.
They fluttered down, like feathers over a grouse moor.
Lily Wagstaff seemed to be expecting me. ‘You’ve come from that nice Doctor Cadwallader, haven’t you?’ she said.
I told her I had.
‘I’ve got to tell you, that doctor, he’s a miracle worker,’ she said, her face creasing up in a great big grin. ‘Never felt so good in all my born days.’
I handed her the envelope.
‘Ooh, read it for me, there’s a good lad,’ she said. ‘I never was good with words myself.’
I opened the envelope and took out the card: ‘Find enclosed your final treatment.’ I handed her the small bottle.
‘Please take immediately. Your appointment has been cancelled,’ I read as Lily Wagstaff unstoppered the bottle and drank its contents. ‘Doctor Cadwallader is unwell.’
Dr Cadwallader was no fool. He’d made sure he was well connected. He’d ingratiated himself with the chief constable, and taken on Madame Scutari – the mayor’s cousin – as a business partner. So long as he was discreet and kept his evil deals confined to the poorest quarters of the city, he believed that he was untouchable.
Well I, for one, wasn’t going to stand for it. Never mind the chief constable, the mayor or Madame Scutari; this was my city and I was going to protect it! I intended to confront Dr Cadwallader with what I knew, and if he refused to pack his bags and leave that very night, I was going to shout his dirty secret from the rooftops if necessary.
And when it comes to rooftops, as I’m sure you realize by now, I know a thing or two. Nevertheless, it was with a sense of foreboding that I made my way back to Hartley Square that evening as the sun sank low in the sky.
‘Ah, Mr Grimes, I’m pleased to see you,’ Dr Cadwallader said, smiling as he opened the door to his consulting rooms and ushered me in. ‘I must say, I was getting a little concerned. It is almost sunset and yet none of my patients have presented themselves for their final treatments. You did deliver my reminders, I trust?’
I shook my head.
‘No, Mr Grimes?’ The smile froze on his face, then faded slowly, to be replaced with an altogether grimmer expression. ‘No?’
‘We need to talk,’ I said.
‘So it seems, Mr Grimes,’ said Dr Cadwallader, a hint of steel in his voice. ‘Come through to my office. We shall discuss matters there.’
I followed the doctor through the waiting room. The six red chairs with the gold piping and tassels had been pulled away from the walls and stood now in a convivial circle, in anticipation of the patients who were to have arrived. The periodicals had been cleared from the small table. Instead, there was a lacquered tray upon it, laid out with six teacups. We went through to his office.
‘Sit down, Mr Grimes,’ said Dr Cadwallader.
I did so.
‘Now,’ he said, ‘perhaps you’d like to tell me what is going on.’
‘I rather hoped, Doctor Cadwallader,’ I said, keeping my voice calm and steady, ‘you’d like to tell me.’
The doctor hesitated, his steel-grey eyes staring intently into mine from behind his tinted pince-nez as if trying to read my thoughts. Then he smiled. ‘Quite so, Mr Grimes,’ he said. ‘But first, a nice cup of tea?’
I nodded. The doctor picked up a silver teapot from the tray on his desk and motioned for me to fetch some teacups. I took two from the tray in the waiting room and returned. I don’t quite know what I’d been expecting. A violent rage? An angry tirade? Denials and threats? But if the doctor wanted to be civilized about this, then that was fine by me.
Smiling, he poured the steaming tea into the two cups. ‘Milk?’ he said. ‘Sugar?’
I said yes to both.
‘Now, Mr Grimes,’ he said smoothly as he stirred the tea and set the steaming cup down before me, ‘what exactly seems to be the problem?’
‘The problem, Doctor,’ I began, as calmly as I could, ‘is that your patients have a nasty habit of disappearing.’
The doctor shrugged. ‘When they finish their treatment, they are no longer my concern, Mr Grimes.’
‘Really, Doctor?’ I said. ‘Then what about Sarah Monahan? Or Scaldy Sal. Found dead in a place where a wolf had run amok … The same type of creature that I myself confronted on the night of Old Benjamin’s disappearance – another of your patients, Doctor.’
The doctor’s steel-grey eyes bored into mine.
‘But then, as you know all too well, Doctor Cadwallader, sightings of wolves in cities are nothing new.’
I paused, leaned forward and took the cup of tea in my hand – and sniffed it.
The doctor shot me a knowing grin. ‘You are too clever for me, Mr Grimes,’ he said, removing his pince-nez. ‘The tea is indeed drugged. I find it helps to sedate my patients before their final transformation.’
‘I have done some research, Doctor Cadwallader,’ I said in measured tones as I replaced the cup on its saucer. ‘Or should I say, Doctor Klaus – or, more properly, Niklaus Johannes Westphale, werewolf hunter?’
I tightened my grip on my swordstick, but the doctor continued to smile.
‘N.J.W.,’ I said. ‘The initials on that medical bag of yours.’
‘Yes, yes, Mr Grimes,’ he said. ‘I am indeed Doctor Westphale.’ He leaned forward in his chair and spread his long, thin fingers on the desk in front of him. His face looked pale and drawn. ‘I spent my life ridding the world of werewolves, hunting them down, destroying them … And what thanks did I get?’ He grimaced angrily. ‘A tiny pension and the fear and contempt of my fellow man. Finally I fell ill, and so I did what I’d done all my life.’ He slammed a gnarled fist down on the desk. ‘I fought back. I experimented; refining and distilling – until I found a cure …’
‘Your cordial?’ I said, my mouth dry.
‘My cordial.’ The doctor nodded. ‘Distilled from the saliva of a werewolf, my dear Mr Grimes. It bestowed a savage animal energy and boundless vitality, which to this day, almost a century later, endures – but at a cost. Whoever takes it risks turning into a werewolf if struck by the rays of the full moon. An unfortunate side effect, but one I turned to my advantage. I faked my death and went out into the world all those years ago to profit from my amazing discovery.’