Steampunk Omnibus: A Galvanic Century Collection

by Michael Coorlim

  While some fidgeted or displayed minor physical ticks, most sat still and silent, watching us with a strange solemnity as we passed, moving only their heads to follow our progress. I felt my hackles rise under their gaze, and fought down the urge to break into a run, certain that they would be upon me with biting jaws and ripping nails if I made any such sudden movement.

  Our escort guided us through the doorway into the facility's East wing, a long hall with geometric columns flanked by sturdy steel doors, each with its own small inset window grating. Muffled sounds that might have been sobbing emanated from behind some of them as we passed.

  The Weasel stopped to bang on one of the doors, eliciting a shriek from within. He kept giggling and pounding, growing more and more manic, until the Giant reached out and almost gently pulled him away. The smaller lunatic struggled briefly in his indomitable grip, but soon relented, and the pair continued leading us along.

  They stopped a second time and the Giant removed a key-ring from his belt, unlocking one of the doors and stepping aside to allow the Weasel to pull it open, his giggling and grunting growing once again more frantic. The Giant pulled him aside, holding him still though he made scant attempt to escape.

  A dishevelled woman peered cautiously through the doorway, eyes fixing first on the Giant and the Weasel, then flickering towards Bartleby and myself.

  "Doctor Teague?" Bartleby asked gently, as one might call to a doe encountered in one's garden.

  "Yes?" Her eyes riveted to Bartleby as he spoke, the uncommon scrutiny in their blue depths contrasting with the unkempt frame of golden hair cascading around her shoulders.

  If it wasn't for the stark clarity of her gaze, her dishevelled state would have been unremarkable in these surroundings.

  "I am Alton Bartleby, and this is my partner, Mr. James Wainwright. We're consulting detectives working with the Metropolitan Police. The inmates have agreed to release you as a gesture of good faith."

  She glanced at me briefly, then up at the Giant, and finally over towards the Weasel. "And the other doctors? The orderlies?"

  "They are yet to be held, for now." He glanced at the Weasel's unpleasant interest in the woman. "If you please, Doctor, there will be ample opportunity to discuss the situation once we've gotten you safely off the premises."

  Doctor Teague nodded as if in a daze, her eyes unfocused as she took Bartleby's hand. I watched the Weasel carefully as she emerged, but the Giant held him firmly.

  "Don't mind Earm, he's no danger." She addressed the Giant, her tone becoming matronly. "Dunstan, don't grip him so tightly."

  The giant Dunstan relaxed his grip, and the weaselly Earm wriggled his way free. Bobbing his head he moved to approach the doctor.

  "Remember your exercises, Earm," she said.

  His smile faltered slightly and he closed his eyes, mouth working silently as he recited something to himself. His shoulders seemed to relax, his posture straightened, his fingers uncurled.

  "Thank you, Doctor Teague," he said with a thick tongue.

  "Good lad." She offered her arm to my partner. "You may escort me, sir."

  ***

  The assembled lunatics had vacated the lobby by the time we passed back through it, leaving no trace of their presence behind, something that I found almost as unsettling as their mute observation had been. Dunstan and Earm followed us to the foyer, waiting within while we hustled the disoriented Doctor Teague into the late morning drear. Having given her my jacket I simply girded myself against the cold rain, arms folded, keeping my fingers in the pits of my arms for warmth.

  We crossed the lawn and passed through the wrought gate, where we were met by officers who quickly and efficiently escorted the three of us back towards the cordon. They were particularly protective of the doctor, surrounding her on all sides and casting apprehensive glances towards the asylum.

  "All you at all injured?" Undersecretary Johnson asked the Doctor with what seemed like genuine concern once we had rejoined him in the pavilion tent. "Were you mistreated? Do you require medical attention?"

  "I'm quite all right." She drew the coat I'd lent her about her shoulders. "A little damp, perhaps. A little dazed."

  "What a relief." The official interposed himself between us and the doctor. "I'm Ephram Johnson, representing the Home Office during these negotiations. This is Inspector Abel of the Metropolitan Police. You've met Mr. Bartleby and Mr. Wainwright."

  "Doctor Loni Teague," she introduced herself with the slightest of curtsies.

  She looked quite the drowned rat, hair matted to the curve of her neck, dress under my jacket clinging to the shape of her body. I found it interesting, in a geometric sense of cylinders and spheres, though perhaps I should not have been watching so intently. Bartleby's sharp elbow to my ribs reminded me that this was inappropriate.

  Aldora stepped from the shadows, warm cup of tea in her hands. Doctor Teague took it gratefully. "Mrs. Aldora Fisk, should the menfolk have forgotten my presence."

  "Forgiveness, Mrs. Fiske," the undersecretary said. "You've been so quiet, I'd forgotten you were present."

  "It's no trouble. I took the opportunity to prepare a kettle." She poured a cup for her husband, then one for me, almost as an afterthought. "I would suggest some dry clothing for Doctor Teague, lest she catch her death."

  I set my cup aside. She knows I prefer coffee.

  "Oh, yes. Of course." Inspector Abel said. "I'll arrange an escort home for Miss Teague, that she might recover from her ordeal."

  "It is Doctor Teague, if you please," she said, a glimmer of frost in the disorientation of her voice. "Four years at Girton have entitled me to that much, at least."

  "You attended Cambridge?" Aldora asked. "That's an impressive accomplishment."

  "Forgive me, Doctor Teague." One of Abel's officers handed him a blanket, which he offered to the woman. "Of course, yes."

  She wrapped the blanket around her shoulders, and handed my jacket back to me. It smelled faintly of lilac and vanilla.

  "What's the situation, Mr. Bartleby?" Undersecretary Johnson asked. "What did your father want?"

  "Murder." Bartleby paused for dramatic effect, standing back, a finger lain across his lip. "Most foul."

  "Murder?" Inspector Abel said. "Who've they killed?"

  "The hospital director, Paddock, has been slain, but my father maintains ignorance of the crime's commission. He claims they hold the asylum to assure that a proper investigation be conducted."

  "Bully for him, then." The inspector pounded a fist into his palm. "Now that Miss – that Doctor Teague is safely out of harm's way, my men can take the asylum by force."

  "You will do no such thing. I've agreed to take on the investigation, Inspector."

  "You can investigate to your heart's content after we've locked up the lunatics and freed the staff."

  Bartleby set his cup down on Undersecretary Johnson's table. "After your men have run roughshod over the evidence? I think not."

  "Lives are at risk, Mr. Bartleby. That trumps the concerns of your madmen."

  "Your taking of the asylum would only put the staff at greater risk, Inspector," I said. "They're already locked up, at the mercy of the mad."

  Bartleby stepped forward, nose to nose with him. "A lot of harm could be done them for what my father would see as a betrayal."

  The inspector glowered down at him. "That's a risk I'm willing to take!"

  Undersecretary Johnson slapped a hand onto his camp-table, almost jostling Bartelby's cup off of its edge. "It's not a risk I'm comfortable with. Not without a sincere effort at a peaceful resolution."

  Bartleby turned dismissively from the inspector. "They've agreed to stand down should I discern the murderer's identity."

  "And you trust their word?" Abel said.

  "You speak of them as if they're criminals!" Doctor Teague spoke with fire in her voice. "They're not! They're the unwell, the unfit, the ill, not convicted thugs."

  Inspector Abel's eyes widened and he sprea
d his hands. "They're... mad!"

  "Enough." The undersecretary's words were quiet, but they carried with them an official finality. "There is a person of interest to the crown in treatment at Bedford, and I've been instructed to avoid placing him in undue danger if it's at all possible."

  "A person of interest? Who might that be?" Bartleby asked.

  "That's not for me to reveal, or I would simply instruct you to remove him, and send Scotland Yard in after. No, this is a circumstance requiring the utmost discretion."

  "Even from us?"

  "Especially from you, Mr. Bartleby."

  "With all due respect, sir," Abel said, "public safety mandates--"

  "With all due respect, Inspector, I represent the Home Office, and I will tell you what is in the interest of public safety. Mr. Bartleby, you have ten hours to get the patients to stand down, after which I will loose Inspector Abel to take the hospital by force. Do you understand?"

  Sweat beaded on Bartleby's forehead from the effort of forcing back whatever rebuttal he had been forming. "Yes, sir. Very good, sir."

  "Excellent. Inspector, send one of your officers to escort Doctor Teague home."

  "Do you mind if my partner and I escort you?" Bartleby stepped to the door. "I've some questions about the hospital, its patients, and its staff."

  "Not at all," the doctor responded, wrapping the blanket around herself more snugly, linking her arm with his as they stepped out into the rain.

  I checked my pocket-watch and moved to follow. As soon as I'd stepped out of the tent proper and under its awning, Aldora slipped with grace to my side.

  "James, a moment, if you please."

  I regarded her with dull disinterest.

  "Have I offended you in some way?" she asked.

  "I'm afraid I don't know what you mean," I said.

  "You're a frank man, Mr. Wainwright, so I shall speak to you frankly." She glanced past me, but we were out of earshot. "You seem to hold some sort of resentment against me, and I'm not entirely sure why."

  "I'm sure you're imagining things," I said.

  She cocked her head. "No. I don't think so. We've had our tensions before, but since the wedding--"

  "It's nothing I care to discuss," I said.

  "Another time, then," she said, as if the matter was of no import.

  The very fact that she had broached the subject belied her concern. I cannot recall having exchanged more than a few words with her at once in all our years of acquaintance. "Perhaps."

  I moved to go and she stopped me again, this time with a single gloved hand in my path. "There is another matter I would care to broach."

  "Quickly, if you please." Bartleby and Doctor Teague had almost reached the carriage.

  "It would not be proper of me to accompany Alton inside the Hospital," she said, "but he faces a grave danger that he may not be consciously aware of."

  "Oh?" I asked, suppressing a sneer. "His father, do you suppose? Bartleby seemed to handle his old man well enough."

  "It's not a simple issue," she insisted. "I'm asking you for your help, James."

  The rarefied Aldora Fiske deigning to not only rub shoulders with the working-class Mr. James Wainwright, but to beg a favour? This was interesting. I bade her continue with a curt nod.

  "Do you know how it came to pass that Alton had his father declared unfit?"

  "Just that he had." Bartleby, for all his prattle, touched ever only lightly on the subject of his past, and I never saw fit to pry.

  "It's not my tale to tell. You must ask him some time, but for now, let it suffice that he's ample reason to resent the man."

  That wasn't unexpected. "Many men resent their fathers."

  "Perhaps so. I won't pry, James, but I will ask you to consider how you might react to your own father, if you once more found yourself beholden."

  The smirk left my face at the thought.

  "Please. Just watch him where I cannot." Aldora stepped back into the tent, leaving me with my thoughts, and a new concern for my partner. I hastened to join him.

  20 September, 1911 - 11:20 am

  Doctor Teague lived in a well-appointed two-story semi-detached home not terribly far from the asylum. Her serving boy cleaned the mud from our boots in the foyer while her housemaid assisted her change of clothing in her chambers.

  "I thought psychiatric doctors made a good wage," I said.

  "Hmm?" Bartleby asked, watching the houseboy's work for scuffs.

  I craned my neck to look past the foyer into the parlour. "Doctor Teague's home is more sparsely decorated than I would have anticipated."

  "Did you see the shoe tree when we entered?" Bartleby tapped it with his walking stick, his eyes never leaving his shoes. "Mahogany. As with the bookcase next to the mantle in the parlour. The basin in the washroom off of the hall there is marble. None of it decorated, but quality and utilitarian."

  "Functional rather than aesthetic," I said.

  "I thought you'd appreciate that."

  Our boots clean, we availed ourselves of Doctor Teague's parlour while we waited.

  "It's not entirely devoid of decor," Bartleby said, nodding towards clay vases sitting on a shelf. They were painted with some sort of geometric abstract imagery in brown and red. Near them, a blue and red patterned rug hung as a tapestry on the wall.

  "African?" I asked.

  "Perhaps?" Bartleby said. "American Indian? Australian Aboriginal? I never took you for much interest in art, James."

  "Always broadening my understanding of the world, Bartleby."

  He smiled sideways at me. "I see."

  Doctor Teague's voice called down from above. "If you gentlemen are hungry, I can have Karen fix you something in the kitchen?"

  "Thank you, but we're fine," Bartleby said. "The madmen--"

  "Patients."

  "Patients. Didn't treat you too roughly, did they?"

  "It was dreadful," came the response. "They didn't take liberties with me, but they took no pains to be gentle. I quite honestly feared for my life, and now, hearing about poor Director Paddock..."

  "I can imagine," I said. "You weren't injured, were you?"

  I cringed as the words left my mouth. Of course, not. Johnson had asked the very question just prior. She would think me a muddle-headed fool.

  "Just a few bumps and scratches. Nothing serious."

  Bartleby clapped me on the shoulder. "If it isn't too traumatic for you, Doctor, would you mind recounting for us the events of your capture?"

  There was a moment of silence before Teague appeared at the top of the stairs. She'd dressed in a pigeon-breasted blouse, high collared, and below it a simple black pleated skirt. It wasn't very flattering, and much like her home, was utilitarian, the clothing worn by washerwomen and seamstresses.

  More to the pity, her hair, stunning when loose, had been pulled back into a simple knot. Her delicate features were obscured by the pale-green lenses of pince-nez spectacles clamped onto the bridge of her nose. She looked like a far different woman from the one we'd rescued only moments before.

  And Bartleby questioned my sense of aesthetics.

  "I was in the hospital study when they came for me." She strapped a broad-brimmed hat atop her head as she descended towards us, further hiding the brilliant gold of her hair. "I have difficulty sleeping some evenings, and spend late hours in research. Their arrival was the first sign indicating that anything was amiss. They held me fast, shrieking and gibbering as they hauled me down the corridors to the cells. I could see that some of the other doctors and staff had already been taken, but after they shoved me inside and locked the door I was left alone until you arrived."

  Bartleby seemed to consider. "Did you notice what the other patients were about while they were bringing you to your cell?"

  "I was a bit pre-occupied, as I'm sure you can understand."

  "Anything you noticed might be pertinent," I said.

  Doctor Teague slowed as she reached for her coat, her lip jutting out. "Only a fe
w of the patients were focused on the task of locking us up. Several were wandering the grounds, seemingly as disoriented as I was. I did get a quick glimpse of one – I'm not sure whom – with what may have been a knife of some sort."

  "How many patients does Bedford treat?" Bartleby asked.

  "It varies. Far fewer than it did when it was a state asylum. Where before it housed hundreds, now we treat dozens."

  "That's a significant decline." I said. Well put, Mister Speaker of Things Obvious.

  Doctor Teague wrapped the coat around herself. "Decline is not the word I would choose. It's simply a different focus in treatment of the mentally ill. Bedford used to treat only the worst of the criminally insane, in conditions that would be horrible for the sane. For the mad... it was a nightmare that never ended. Less than a decade ago, asylums were simply places to store the undesirable, with physical treatments designed to soothe the public into thinking that something was being done. Attitudes were just beginning to change while I was at Girton – I was fortunate in that one of our lecturers was on the forefront of moral therapy."

  "Moral therapy?" I asked. Psychiatry was not an area I had studied to any great degree. "Are they saying that madness is an ethical lapse?"

  "The implication is not that the sufferers are themselves immoral, Mr. Wainwright," Doctor Teague said. "In the past century it was believed that the mad were as wild beasts who had lost their reason. While not held responsible for their conditions, they were treated with scorn and ridicule, subjected to the most horrendous of treatments."

  "As Locke said, there is a little madness in all people," Bartleby said, whatever that meant.

  "It is the treatment itself that is or is not moral. At Bedford we staff live, work, and dine with the patients, rather than locking them away in restraints. The entire facility was remodelled, larger windows installed to allow more natural light, the grounds sculpted for a more peaceful aesthetic, the restraints done away with."