He smile seemed less than genuine, even to me.
She pointed at the flasks. "They're glowing."
The test tubes were emitting that peculiar greenish phosphorescence of N-Ray energy, tinting the entire laboratory along the spectrum towards the emerald. I crouched alongside them, my gaze casting between them to gauge their relative luminosity.
"Do they match?"
"Well enough," I said. There was some room for error, but not significantly. Still, I made a mental note to create a visor capable of precisely measuring visual wavelengths of radiant energy for future comparisons. I estimated that I could have a working prototype by the time such expertise was needed for the trial of whomever the culprit was.
"So it is the murder weapon."
"Yes."
"What does this tell us? About the killer, I mean."
There was that inquisitive mind. "Precious little on its own, but now that we know it to be the murder weapon we can attempt to discover if the killer left any finger prints on the handle."
"Finger prints?"
"It's a recent development in forensic technology," I explained, wrapping the knife in linen. "Pioneered in Calcutta, and adopted by our own Metropolitan Police this last decade. Each person's fingers possess a unique structure to them, and it is possible to capture the pattern of oil left behind by the bare fingers. The technicians at Scotland Yard will be able to compare what we find on the knife to the patterns on the inmates' fingers."
"I had no idea," Doctor Teague said.
"It isn't something they advertise," I said. "Or I suppose all criminals would simply wear gloves."
She held out her hand. "I can take the knife to Scotland Yard. You should return to Bartleby."
"We can hand it to an officer at the barrier in front of the hospital," I said. "Besides, you'd only get your own prints on it, and that would muddle things for the technicians."
She withdrew her hand, eyes widening, staring at her fingertips. "I suppose you're right."
I smiled. My reaction to the forensic development had been much the same. I'd studied my own fingertips for weeks.
In Which Alton Bartleby Assists
"Primary laceration from sternum to right hip," James said.
Primary... laceration... Alton wrote in the little notebook he carried. He was not in the habit of taking his partner's dictation, but when the man was elbow-deep in Director there was little one could do but accommodate him.
"Wound is deep enough to gouge the hip-bone, and lacerated the large intestines. If he had lived he would have been facing significant septic shock."
"Fortunate he was spared that then," Doctor Teague said from across the room.
She was leaning over one of the wash basins, facing away from the corpse. Alton couldn't blame her.
Lacking the madmen's permission to remove Director Paddock's body from the facility, James was forced to perform his exploratory autopsy in the asylum's bath, primarily because its stone floor would be easier to clean afterward, and it was the only chamber with a drain in the floor.
"Puncture wounds to the heart, lungs – both – and left kidney."
"Poor man was used as a pin cushion," Bartleby said.
"This is ghastly," Teague said.
"You can go if you like," James said. "Wait in the hall."
Alton couldn't help but find his partner's infatuation adorable.
"No, I... I owe it to Arthur."
James nodded, then went back to his gruesome task. "One thing to note."
Alton tapped his pencil against his lip. "Yes?"
"These wounds are very neat."
Doctor Teague risked a glance over. "They look rather bloody."
"No, I mean controlled. Clean. Precise. There isn't the ripping and tearing I'd assume from a knife-wielding psychotic."
"Have you much familiarity with the handiwork of knife-wielding psychotics?" she asked.
Both detectives replied in unison. "Yes."
Doctor Teague adjusted her glasses and rose to join them, eyes averted from the gore. "The classic psychotic is not, as one would assume, driven by a boundless rage."
"No?" James asked.
"No. Their compulsions are as varied as their diagnosis, but they're more rational than emotionally driven."
"Rational," Alton said, bemused.
"If you understand the motivation. Pathology is a puzzle, gentlemen. If you understand the drive behind our patients, their actions make a good deal of sense indeed."
"Really."
"What I mean to say is that they are consistent."
Alton snorted. His personal experiences spoke to the contrary.
Doctor Teague frowned. "Mock me if you will, Mr. Bartleby, but the precision of these strikes is not something a sane man could easily manage."
"I can't argue with that," he said. "I bow to your superior education, Doctor."
Her frown lessened. Slightly. "Some of our patients have minds that are so orderly and structured that it is almost impossible for them to cope with the chaotic unpredictabilities of the world we live in."
Alton shifted, suddenly interested again, the disdainful fop disappearing from his manner. He gestured towards the body. "Is such a mindset consistent with these injuries?"
"It isn't inconsistent," Doctor Teague said. "I can give you a list of the patients who might manifest in such a way, if you like."
"Excellent," Alton beamed.
"I'll need to access my files."
"In your office then?"
James waved a crimson hand. "Give me a bit to get Director Paddock sorted and clean up, and I'll catch up with you."
"Fine. We'll wait for you in Teague's office."
James nodded, and the pair departed.
20 September, 1911 - 3:00 pm
Aldora landed behind me with a soft pat. I'm proud of the way I refrained from turning to look.
"You've just missed your husband and the doctor."
"I do not care for that woman," she said.
"No? It seems you'd have quite a bit in common."
"We do not." The frost in her voice consumed whatever good will I'd earned earlier.
I finished drying my hands and tossed the hand towel into the basket. "What's wrong with her?"
"I did some investigative work of my own. Spoke to some of Teague's classmates at Girton."
"You do get around."
"There were rumours, James, of misconduct between her and one of her professors. That she had exchanged... favours for her certification in Psychiatric Evaluation."
I tsked. "You of all people should know how threatened by an intelligent woman men can be. And how gossips will rag."
Her lips drew taut. "Perhaps, James, but listen carefully. She later made allegations that this professor had stolen the credit for work on her thesis. When the academic council rejected her claims, that same professor was later found murdered, a fountain pen thrust through his eye."
"Was there no investigation?"
Aldora shook her head. "Scotland Yard's notes indicated that while she was questioned, she was dismissed as a suspect on account of being, and I quote the report, "A simple, scared, and helpless woman."
"Well, there you have it," I said.
"James. Have you known Teague to be simple, scared, or helpless?"
"No, but I've not known her to be a ruthless killer, either."
"All the same, I strongly suggest you not write her off. But listen, James--"
"I find her quite amicable."
"James. Listen."
I turned to face her, and noted the grave look upon her face.
"There's an inmate in the tunnels below the baths--"
I glanced at the drain. "There are tunnels below the baths?"
"Pay attention, good lad. He's wandering there, covered in blood. Not his own, I'd wager."
"What were you doing in the tunnels below the baths?" I asked.
"Being thorough," she said. "And it's a good thing I was. He seems an
apt candidate for your killer."
"Fetch him up, then," I said.
She blinked. "Me? No, dear boy, I'm afraid that this task falls to you."
I looked at the drain again. "I'm not going down there."
"I'm afraid you'll have to."
"I'm too large! You'll have to do it yourself."
"You'd refuse a dangerous task and instead ask a woman to--"
"I know what you're capable of, Mrs. Fiske," I said.
She folded her arms. "Fine. Then accept that I'll be busy watching my husband while he cavorts about with that woman."
"You can't think that Bartleby is endangered by--" I stopped. "You're jealous."
"What?" she said. "Jealous? Mr. Wainwright, you forget yourself. Or rather you forget the arrangement my husband and I have. We do not... meddle in one another's affairs."
"Of course not."
Perhaps it had been that way, in the beginning. Aldora and Bartleby's wedding had been arranged out of convenience, neither interested in giving up the lifestyles they'd grown fond of, yet forced to bow to London's social pressure. It was enough of a fiction to satisfy the wagging of social tongues; such a thing was not even unusual enough to be remarkable. In place of affection and possession, they'd fostered a mutual respect, and during the years of their engagement had been permissive of one-another's extracurricular activities.
Things had changed after the wedding, though, and not so either would freely admit it. Aldora had withstood a cascading series of emotional blows leading up to the wedding, beginning with the death of her brother, and ending two years later with his death a second time. Bartleby had – perhaps uncharacteristically – put his selfish hedonism aside to care for her.
That's the way their nuptials had commenced. His care had been healing for her, and perhaps doubly so for himself. Neither seemed willing to acknowledge it, and perhaps in time they would both still indulge in their own adventures once more.
But not yet.
Not so soon.
And Doctor Teague, under the lab-coat and professionalism, was an attractive woman. I saw Aldora's distaste for the jealousy that it was. Perhaps Aldora's concerns were not quite so misguided.
I looked back down at the drain in the floor, rimmed red with Paddock's blood. "Very well. But if I get stuck--"
"I do so appreciate it, James," Aldora said, and when I glanced over, the words hanging in the air were all that remained of her.
***
I did not, as it turns out, get stuck.
It was a close thing, perhaps, but between removing my shirt and waistcoat and the decades of accumulated algae on the sides of the drain I was able to work my way down quite ably. How Aldora managed without a smear upon her dress is something I cannot fathom. That woman missed her calling as a master burglar.
It was as black as pitch below, but I'd brought a galvanic torch with me, and the dank tunnels were soon lit by its crackling glow.
It wasn't much, to be honest. More a toy than a tool, but I was fond of the torch, as fond as I'd ever been of a device not of my own design. It had been mine since I was a child, and perhaps better replaced than repaired, but it had been the first thing I'd purchased with my own money. One of the few things I owned for sentimental, rather than practical reasons. A good thing. That sentimentality was the only reason I had a light source on my person at all.
I waded forward through the cramped tunnels, up to my ribs in unpleasantly warm sewage, holding the torch above my head to avoid getting it wet. As I've said, it was old, and I had little desire to test the limits of 1890s waterproofing.
I could tell there was someone down there with me. The psychotic. I could hear him breathing when I held still. It was steady, but ragged, and loud.
Was that how my own breath sounded? I'm not proud of it, but when challenged or when someone I care for is threatened I have the propensity to slip into a frightful red rage, a fury knowing neither intellect nor mercy.
What would Doctor Teague make of that, I wondered. Would she shrink from me in revulsion? Regard me with fear? Or approach me with a psychiatrist's intellectual detachment. I didn't know which possibility was worst.
I continued slogging, trying my best to track by hearing, trying my best to keep track of where I'd turned when the pipes made a junction. Patterns were Bartleby's forte. His was the eidetic memory. I did not fancy getting trapped down below, but I seemed to be making progress. Or at least, the ragged breathing was getting louder.
The galvanic torch fizzled. I thumped it with the heel of my other hand in an affectionate sort of way, and the light flickered. When had I last changed the galvanic cells? How much charge did they hold? It flickered again, I thumped it again, and the light went out.
For just a moment.
And then it went back on again.
I did not suddenly see the madman there, lunging out of the filth, a manic gleam in his eye. I did not see the glint of his knife as he attacked. I was not suddenly assaulted by a miraculously appearing horror because of a moment's distraction.
This time.
I did spot him, though, or rather his shadow. The dun of his filth matched the wall next to which he huddled quite well.
He remained still as I approached, and though I could hear his breathing, he did not move as I prodded him.
"Sir," I said.
He did not respond.
"Sir." I prodded him again.
No response. Whatever malady he suffered left him insensate.
It was going to be a devil of a time getting him back up the pipe.
***
After taking the opportunity to shower off both myself and the mystery psychotic, I had the inmate guards summon Bartleby and Doctor Teague to join us in Director Paddock's office. A vaguely man-shaped stain was left in the carpet where the body had lain, but my catatonic friend didn't respond to it.
"Do you recognise him?" I asked as Doctor Teague gave the man a quick examination.
"Yes, it's Doctor Vogle," Doctor Teague reached out to his arm. "Doctor Vogle? Joost? Do you know where you are?"
Doctor Vogle reacted violently to her touch. I moved more quickly, pulling her away and interposing myself between the two of them, taking a powerful series of rabbit kicks to the lower ribs for my trouble. Slipping between two kicks I brought the broad of my forearm across his throat, pinning him to the ground until he stopped struggling.
"He's a fair sight different from when he'd examined me before." Bartleby said, unbothered by the sudden outbreak of violence. "What's wrong with him?"
Teague stared at the pair of us, shock naked on her face. "Depends on the day. He suffers from alternating fits of mania and melancholia. This appears to be one of his melancholic phases."
"He was down in the tunnels below the baths," I said.
"Good Lord," Bartleby said. "However did you find him?"
I turned back to the stain on the floor so that Bartleby couldn't read the lie on my face. "I heard him below. In the tunnels."
"Ghastly!" Bartleby said. "But a man like this – I can see him a killer. It's a pity we can't question him."
I bit my lip. "Perhaps we can?"
"I'm afraid he's entirely unresponsive in this state," Doctor Teague said. "And with the trauma he's been exposed to--"
"That he's been exposed to?" Bartleby scoffed.
"It doesn't matter who the perpetrator was," Teague said. "Violence is one of those great stresses on the human psyche."
"He was lucid enough when examining me."
"With a case like Doctor Vogle's you can sometimes see a delayed reaction to the stress, as his mental defences collapse in a cascade. There's no telling how long he'll stay in this melancholic fugue. Coaxing him free of it is a matter of weeks – months – of therapy."
"There's no time," Bartleby said.
"There's no need," I said.
"What do you mean?"
"I've had the opportunity to read up on Director Paddock's machine in his journal," I said
. "His therapy, you may recall, is predicated on interacting with a subject's dreams. Even in his fugue state, we should be able to reach Vogle's thoughts through the Director's dream apparatus."
"You found the Director's notes?" Teague asked.
"You can't have had time to read through them," Bartleby said.
"I've skimmed them." Questioning me on a matter of technology? Alton really should know better. And science is science, even when that science is the pseudoscience of psychology. "Enough that I believe I can interface Mr. Vogle's dream-scape."
Everyone save Vogle slowly turned to look upon the mass of brass and electrodes that was Director Paddock's magnum opus.
"Connecting your brain to his... it doesn't sound safe, James."
"It absolutely isn't." Teague grasped my hand, her flesh cool against mine. "The Director himself only used it with outside supervision, and he had hundreds of hours of practice."
I closed my fingers around hers. "Then it's fortunate I've got you to watch over me as I descend into madness," I said.
She turned away.
"I'm sorry," I said. "I really don't see another way to question Vogle."
Bartleby stepped to Teague's side. "I don't like it any better than you, but James is right. He usually is, about this sort of thing."
"It's not anywhere near safe," Teague said in a near whisper.
"It's not," Bartleby said. "But I've never known a man with a greater knack for technology. If anyone can discern the workings of Paddock's dream machine, it's James."
Doctor Teague did not look relieved.
We strapped Vogle into the reclining chair of what Paddock had christened the Somatic Communion Engine.
"The way it works is fairly innovative," I said, sitting on the stool next to Vogle and securing the chin-strap on the metallic dome that covered my head. "It reads the electronic activity of the restful mind and relays those impulses into the therapist's sensory cortex. In this way I can perceive the inner workings of the patient's psyche."
"Electric impulses to the brain doesn't seem like a sound idea," Bartleby said.
"Paddock's notes indicate that it is a perfectly safe process," I lied.
"James, I urge you to reconsider," Teague said. "There's got to be another way."
Steampunk Omnibus: A Galvanic Century Collection Page 44