by Clive Barker
(And part of my mind flashed back to what Mrs Spencer had said, what she’d told us about the aftermath of the vagabond’s visit – the sound of flapping wings.)
Lemarchand then tossed the bird into the air, as if expecting it to magically take flight – and for a moment or two it looked like it was going to do exactly that, hanging in mid-air, catching whatever breeze it could find in the room. Perhaps it would even escape, fly out through the top of an open window and into the sky where it would soar through the clouds like a real bird.
Then it dropped like a stone to join its kin on the ground, upturned and lifeless. The man grunted and snatched up another piece of paper.
“Origami,” Henri said. “I saw such paper-folding when I was in the Orient. I learnt a little, and showed it to Simon.” It was the first time anyone had used Lemarchand’s first name, and it seemed oddly fitting. “But he can now do things with the paper that I can only dream of.” I could hear the admiration in his voice; could sense that he really cared about this man. “One of his ancestors used to be a toymaker, I think. Indeed, I was told that Simon himself used to make trinkets out of wood and metal for his own children. It must have been in his blood.”
Along with the madness Malahide had spoken of, I reflected.
“We cannot allow him his tools now. It is too dangerous.”
“Dr Malahide said that he was doing much better, though?” I said. “That he was no longer violent. No longer a threat.”
“Not a danger to others, Dr Lane,” Henri replied seriously. “To himself. The medication he is on calms him, but the risk cannot be taken.”
“I see. Do you mind if I speak with him?”
Henri shrugged. “Go ahead, he speaks good English.” But I noticed the orderly kept close by as I approached. “Hello,” I ventured, halting by the side of Lemarchand’s table. He did not even look up at me, but continued with his labours, folding the new piece of paper over and over. “Simon, isn’t it? Would you mind if I talked to you for a little while?”
When I got no reply to this either, I pulled out the spare wooden chair round the side of the table and sat down. “That’s really very clever, you know. I wish I could do something like that, but I’m hopeless at crafts. I can write, though.” I took out my notebook and my pencil to illustrate this, and there was a twitch of movement, the slight raising of an eyebrow. “Simon, I know this is difficult for you, but I’d like to ask a few questions; about yourself, about this place. Is that all right?”
Another twitch, almost imperceptible. He suddenly stopped folding the paper, placing the half-finished creation on the table between us – and affording me a glimpse of his arms, the sleeves riding up as he did so. The man’s flesh was a mass of scars – some of them quite recent, in spite of what Malahide had told me – which reminded me more of Holmes’ self-inflicted wounds. I couldn’t help letting out a gasp, and looked over my shoulder to see if my guide had spotted them, too. Henri was now deep in conversation with a colleague, however, so I had no way of knowing whether the information was new to him or not.
Turning back to Lemarchand, I asked, “Are they treating you well here, Simon? You can tell me if they are not. I’m a friend.”
He raised his head, staring straight at me for the first time and giving me a look that said he didn’t have any friends in the world. Then his eyes flicked downwards; not once, but twice.
“Dr Malahide –” Another twitch, at the corner of his mouth. “He tells me that your particular affliction runs in your family. That they have an association with this place, with the previous occupant?” Lemarchand’s lips parted, and I could see that his teeth were gritted. I risked another question. “Do you know anything about a pillar, Simon? It was sold by someone here, to a gallery in London a short while ago. The receipt says it was sold by you.”
He continued to gape, and I could see in his eyes that he was trying to fight the medication he was on. Laudanum? I wondered. I was familiar with its relaxing effects – but also sadly with its addictive nature. I continued, hoping to give him the extra push he needed.
“There was a hole in the pillar when we found it – in a place where it looked like a ritual had occurred. A ritual involving a sacrifice, Simon. A human sacrifice. Do you know anything about that kind of thing?”
His lips drew back further, teeth more prominent.
“The hole in the pillar looked square, looked –”
“Box!” Lemarchand managed through those gritted teeth. “The... the L-Lament... Con... Configuration.”
“I don’t understand,” I told him, but nevertheless wrote down the words.
“A... a puzzle,” he said, as if that explained everything. “And... and a gate... gateway. S-stolen...”
I continued to scribble down Simon’s words, asking him for more details as I did so, as much as he could impart. “It was stolen from you? The pillar, the box?”
“No... not from me... G-great... grandfather...” The effort must have been tremendous, the veins standing proud on his neck and his temples. “Tricked... H-he muh-muh-made the b-box... Made it easy for... for them. To... to control.”
“For whom, Simon? Who’s behind all this? Malahide? Is he working for someone?”
“The Order,” he said plainly, and I started to speak but Simon hadn’t finished. “O-Order of the Gash!”
An order? Some kind of religious sect? Though clearly they had their fingers in other pies as well. And their ultimate aim? Well, Lemarchand had said it himself: control.
“We... we are all j-just... toys...” he hissed, but when I shook my head in confusion he added, looking downwards. “Be-be-below... Kept... kept below... Beneath!”
I was furiously scribbling away when he reached out with his right hand and grabbed my arm, pulling me in close. “H-help,” he pleaded. “Help free... Please! Freedom...” Before I could do a thing, he snatched the pencil I’d been making notes with – which I’d only just been using to get his last words to me down; which was still sharp from my time in Malahide’s office – and he brandished it like a weapon at me. Now, I’ve been threatened many times, and by some of the best in the business of intimidation; I’ve known when my life was in jeopardy. And at that moment I felt Lemarchand meant me no harm.
I realised he would rise from the table, his aim to use that pencil on himself, raising it to jam the thing into his own jugular – to escape, to taste the freedom denied to his origami birds.
But it was not to be. Orderlies were upon him, Henri grabbing his wrist and pulling the pencil downwards again – but also looking over at me and frowning. Just how much of all that had the young man heard? I saw Lemarchand’s eyes, wild now, gaping past me to the doorway. I traced his gaze and saw Malahide standing there, looking coolly across at the scene. Other patients were getting agitated now, whipped up by the excitement – and more orderlies and nurses were entering, some armed with syringes, Malahide issuing instructions. Gerard was there too, wading in and gleefully restraining people who had been peaceful only a few moments earlier.
Before too long, it was Simon’s turn – one of the nurses injecting him in his upper arm, through his clothes. Then his eyelids grew heavy and he was a dead weight in the arms of Henri and the other man.
Malahide wandered over, through the chaos, with his hands behind his back – tutting. “Oh dear, oh dear. What a fuss! And he has been so well behaved for so long. Pity.” He turned to me as I was getting out of my seat. “I am so sorry, Dr Lane. I do hope he did not hurt you in any way?”
Regaining my composure, I shook my head. “No, no. Your... your staff were most efficient.”
“As they are trained to be,” Malahide responded with a curt nod. “I wonder if I may ask a favour of you.”
“Of course, Doctor.”
He reached over and took my notebook from me, just as Simon had relieved me of the pencil. Malahide opened it up, flipping through the last few pages – which he tore out. “I wonder if I could prevail upon you, when the tim
e comes to write your paper, not to mention this little... incident. I’m afraid it might put the Institute in a bad light.”
The doctor handed my notebook back to me, the jottings I’d made during our time in the office still intact. Then Malahide ripped up the other pages and tossed them onto the floor, where the birds with clipped wings lay in droves. “The ramblings of a lunatic,” he said with a hollow laugh. “Whoever would believe them anyway?”
“Quite so,” I agreed, placing the notebook back in my pocket and smoothing down my jacket. “I will respect your wishes, obviously. After all, you have been gracious with your time and with your hospitality.”
Malahide seemed content with that, or at least acted as if he was. Then he apologised once again, and said that he would arrange for Gerard to run me home early – the staff of the Institute apparently had access to a number of Hansoms – whereby I could notify my original driver that his services would not be required. My visit, it seemed, was being cut short.
As the doctor walked me out of the room, with a view to walking me out of his facility as quickly as possible, I looked over my shoulder one last time – at Henri, and at the unconscious Simon.
And his words – his entreaty – echoed my head: H-help... Help free...
Please!
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Locks & Keys
FORTUNATELY, MY MEMORY is not so bad that I could not remember the key details of my admittedly brief conversation with Simon Lemarchand, and these I sent in a telegram to Holmes immediately upon my arrival back at the Hôtel Meurice (and after letting their driver know that he would not have to return to the Institute, for which he appeared extremely grateful). I felt that the rest of it, what I’d gleaned from Malahide and the tour, could be summed up in one two words: something’s amiss.
The business with Lemarchand’s ancestor, the ‘stolen’ pillar, the box he had called the ‘Lament Configuration,’ the Order of the Gash – it all went into a short report that he could peruse before returning to me with his thoughts. For my money, we were dealing with another organisation, like as not originating on foreign soil, that was out to wrest control of the city (whether its current caretakers deserved it or not, after what I had witnessed, was another matter – it was always better the Devil you knew). It was an organisation that had the capacity to overshadow that awful ‘House’ Holmes once scuppered; that might have a reach and ambition beyond that of even Moriarty and his empire. It was a serious business indeed, and one which – to my mind – demanded urgent attention.
I did not know yet how Cotton fitted into things, but Spencer was a soldier, Monroe had the means to blackmail half the government – maybe even members of the aristocracy and Royal Family – and Thorndyke, his lackey, was a policeman. Already it was looking quite grim. But I did not want to make a move without consulting Holmes, for I did not know how his own investigations were proceeding.
Try as I might, I found it hard to settle that evening – even after partaking of a few glasses of the drink I always turn to when particularly rattled, whisky and soda (in this instance, a particularly fine twenty-year-old single malt the manager recommended). I was not hungry, nor could I sleep very well, and when I did close my eyes all I could see was Lemarchand’s face, those cuts on his arms (and elsewhere?). It was pure torture.
In the end it took almost two full days of waiting to hear back from Holmes – and even then it was a simple instruction to remain where I was and do nothing until I heard from him again. No explanation for this, no update on what was happening to him at all! Clearly I was the only one who thought time was of the essence. For Lemarchand especially, I feared that it might be running out... if it hadn’t already.
I could count on the fingers of one hand the times I had gone against Holmes’ wishes, and in every single instance afterwards I wished that I had not. Nevertheless, if that man died, his blood – the legacy of his entire bloodline – would be on my hands. I felt the urgent need to act, and so act I did that very night.
Amongst the clothing that I’d packed, I’d squirreled away some darker-coloured items: trousers, a sweater and a pair of gloves. Not the dress of a gentleman at all, more that of a thief, but where I was going I did not wish to be spotted. I had also packed my trusty pistol. (I was favouring the Webley Bulldog at the time – quite popular with the police and private citizens alike – although in the past I had also used an Enfield and Webley Mk I, as well as my original service pistol, an Adams Mk III .450 caliber... I know how critics of my work and the stories do so love to argue over details such as these; a shame, then, that this document will be going up in flames eventually.) If I could, I would have gone to that Institute with an army and all the guns we could lay our hands on, rifles and pistols. Every time someone came into the lobby of the hotel, I expected it to be Holmes – showing up to help – or in disguise as someone else? But no; there was only me, and I had to do something.
How I would get inside without being seen, let alone free the poor wretch who had spoken to me, was anyone’s guess. With the aid of Henri, perhaps? He had seemed like a good man... although I hadn’t known him long, and had no idea if I could rely on him. I contemplated going to the authorities, but what would I say? Malahide had been right when he said nobody would listen to the ramblings of a lunatic, much less care what was happening to him inside there. I had no proof anyway, only my own notion that something didn’t sit right in that place and a few mumbled utterings that didn’t make sense to me, let alone anyone else. Not even officers who knew me would act on so little. I could perhaps impose upon our friend Inspector Abberline, with whom Holmes had worked closely on the Ripper case the previous decade – and, along with his assistant Thomas Lloyd, had gained a reputation for unusual cases since, such as the Gods of Rome affair, or the business with the Just King... But it would have taken too long to bring him here.
It was decided, I had no choice but to go on my own. Fortune favours the bold and all that. Although, looking back, all things considered, it occurs to me that on this occasion perhaps I did more resemble that bumbling idiot the movies would later present me as.
I secured the services of a cab driver on the street, one who would be a little less squeamish about our destination – especially if the price was right. The only problem was his lack of English, but then my money spoke for me on this occasion. He dropped me on the outskirts of the estate, so I could make my way on foot – and seemed to understand when I pointed at the ground and said, “Wait. You wait, s’il vous plait.” The man nodded and held out his hand for more money, which I reluctantly parted with.
No sooner had I done so, than he grinned and started up the horses again – driving off into the night. I was about to shout after him, but thought better of it given the circumstances. So I stood there, contemplating what to do. Even if I began the long walk back again now, it would take me forever – and I wasn’t even sure of the direction. I’d come this far, so the best bet seemed to me to carry on with the mission. If nothing else, I knew there were Hansoms at the Institute – I could always ‘borrow’ one.
Thankfully there was some light from the half moon above, and before too long I spotted the Institute, which looked even more imposing and run-down at night-time. In fact it appeared just as deserted as that gallery back in London; I hoped I hadn’t left it too late and – as incredible as it might seem – they’d moved the whole operation somewhere else, as they had then.
The only light I could discern emanated from the back of the large house, spilling out on to the gardens beyond – suggesting that the curtains were not yet drawn – so I crept around the side and pressed myself up against the wall, risking a quick peek through the window.
It was a room I hadn’t seen before, larger than the patients’ wards, but much smaller than the ballroom. Inside were a handful of orderlies I did not recognise, though what they were doing in there was anyone’s guess – there certainly weren’t any patients around that I could spy. But there was something in
the centre of the room; I shifted my position slightly, standing on my toes to get a better view, and then I saw it.
The box.
Not a box like the one that had once nestled in the pillar back at the Vulcania, the puzzle box, the Lament Configuration. No, this was much larger, more like a crate. Another statue that didn’t belong to the man who ran this place, something else for him to sell on? Whatever the case, the orderlies appeared to be guarding it – never taking their eyes off it. Just what on Earth was going on?
I had to wait a little while to find out, when Malahide appeared in the room. I didn’t even see him enter, but then my angle didn’t afford me a very good view of the door. I was close enough to the glass to hear him telling the orderlies to leave, however, and I heard the distinctive click of a lock being turned. Whatever he was up to, he needed complete privacy to do it.
Glancing about him, though thankfully not in my direction, Malahide bent and patted the box. When he rose again, he had a blade in his hand that he used to lever open the top. The sides fell away, revealing what was inside.
It was a person. Curled up into a ball, hugging itself, arms clasped around its body. There couldn’t have been enough room in that crate to even move – and I had thought it confining in that damned lift!
Callously, Malahide kicked the shape.
“Get up!” he shouted at the thing (in English, I noted... I was beginning to wonder if Malahide was a Frenchman at all). Then, sick of waiting, he hauled the figure to its feet. It was only then that I saw why it was hugging itself: it was wearing a strait-jacket. And it was only now that I recognised the man: none other than Simon Lemarchand: a toy released from its chest.
“I hope you have had sufficient time to think, in there; to repent,” Malahide said to him. Good Lord, I thought to myself, had the man been in that contraption all this time? Since I was forced to leave? Was this one of Malahide’s ‘treatments’? To correct Lemarchand, punish him for his behaviour with the pencil?