The King's Beast

by Eliot Pattison

  When Duncan had been unable to respond, the captain had looked around to assure there were no eavesdroppers in the inn’s sitting room, then made an impressive confession. “You’re a lubber from America, lad, but after what those coves did to ye on my ship I mean to see things right. I had my start on the sea smuggling whisky from Cork to Cardiff and London. Let me help. You were murdered on my ship after all.”

  Duncan grinned. “And resurrected with your help.”

  “Which makes me feel an obligation of a kind,” Rhys said. “I sense you still may need friends to throw ye a rope from time to time.”

  Captain Rhys and the bargeman did indeed seem to be old comrades, and as they coasted up the Thames with a light breeze on their black sail, the silence was often broken by the soft laughter of the two as they stood at the helm. The captain had brought the indomitable Darby and three of his crew, insisting that Duncan would be glad to have the use of them and that otherwise they all would just be losing their coin in some bawdy house.

  “Not a murmur, lads,” the captain cautioned at they passed the Billingsgate customs wharf, “and nary a light.” They glided by a handful of men in dark cloaks huddled under a streetlamp, who were busy speaking with two women in bright red dresses.

  “Excise men.” The bosun spat the words like a curse. “They’ll be glad not to take your shilling for the king so long as ye put a half shilling in their own pocket.”

  Duncan felt an unexpected thrill as they glided along under the black sail. His grandfather had been a smuggler’s smuggler, gathering whisky from small boats in his sleek ketch. For an instant he could hear the old man’s deep guttural laugh as he patted the rail of his beloved boat and outsailed one more revenue cutter.

  A north wind had cleansed the air and the moon now escaped the clouds, reflecting off the river, revealing the small wherries, the river cabs, that hauled late-night revelers and others on dark business.

  “There they be,” the bosun announced as a low stone pier appeared below a set of steps. “Temple Stairs. The captain knows his business. The excise men stay away from the Temple Stairs because above here be the Inns of Court, where the lawyers be thick as rats.”

  The two wagons Rhys had promised were waiting at the top of the stairs. Duncan had somehow not been surprised when the captain had solicited the help of Mrs. Laws’s pious porter. Sinner John now paced by the wagons, holding his quarterstaff with a stern, hungry expression, as if hoping someone would interfere.

  The atmosphere was that of a midnight raiding party, with lookouts from the Galileo posted and each man carrying a weapon in his belt. They worked with silent efficiency and soon they had the bones loaded in the wagons, their only interference being a drunken man in a long barrister’s wig who arrived in a wherry and expressed irritation at having the stairs so crowded as to impede his passage. Sinner John politely asked the men to pause and bow for the noble knight of the law, then escorted the tottering lawyer up the stairs and summoned him a link boy.

  Captain Rhys insisted that his men accompany the wagons to their destination, which Duncan appreciated until the bosun renewed Ishmael’s London education by calling out descriptions for the surprising number of working women they passed. “A Genteel,” Darby said of a woman in a stylish dress being escorted by a watchman. A woman standing in front of a pub with a pint in one hand and an umbrella in the other was a “Bunter.”

  Duncan learned, with Ishmael, that the apparently popular profession of what some just called women of the night actually had a complex structure, with ten categories of “particular specialties,” with the lowly Bulkmongers at the bottom rank and well-heeled Women of Fashion and Demi-reps, who would never be seen at this time of night, at the top. Duncan was beginning to believe reports he had read in The London Gazette months earlier: that what was termed the “companionship industry” was the largest in the city.

  Sinner John led them down empty alleys and did not let the wagon party cross larger thoroughfares until he had checked them, twice handing coins to watchmen who seemed too interested in their party. Duncan was beginning to admire the talents of the taciturn porter, suspecting that he too had once found profit in evading excise men.

  Franklin anticipated Duncan’s annoyance at seeing him as soon as the wagons arrived at their shadow-strewn location. “I have written repeatedly of the importance of getting a full night’s sleep,” Franklin announced in a self-important tone. “The entire city knows I retire early. No one would waste time watching Craven Street at this hour. I am safe, I assure you.”

  Duncan was not convinced. “It is not just your safety that concerns me,” he replied, “but that of every man here and whoever lives in this house.”

  Duncan could see Franklin’s frown in the light of Ishmael’s dimmed lantern. The inventor glanced at the house with the open cellar doors, and with an awkward rumble in his throat gestured to the hooded and cloaked figure behind him. “Mademoiselle Dumont insisted on coming. Surely you understand I could not let her go out unescorted.”

  Duncan fixed the colonial agent with a skeptical gaze. “I see. And how would you defend her if assaulted? With witty predictions of the weather?”

  Franklin raised his walking stick. “This is good Irish blackthorn, with a hard knob at the top. A rap on the skull with my shillelagh will stop any assailant,” he added tentatively.

  “It was very noble of the esteemed doctor to join me,” Olivia interjected, breaking the tension. “And since he is here, we can show him his treasures this very night!”

  All chance of arguing the point was banished as Franklin gave a cry of delight. The men were lifting the huge rib out of the first wagon. “Oh, the joy! Bless me! Bless me!” He repeated the litany as he followed the rib down into the cellar.

  As Duncan carried another crate down the stone steps, he heard a frightened gasp. Olivia took a hasty step behind him as if for protection. A row of human skulls was staring at them.

  “Deepest apologies,” came a refined voice from the darkness. The speaker lifted the screen from the lantern he held, though the increased light only seemed to add to the macabre scene, for it lit a fully assembled skeleton hanging from a rafter peg, looking very much like the remains of a prisoner in a dungeon. Beyond the first row of skulls were more skulls on shelves along the cellar’s stone wall. Most of these were human, but several were apparently of apes. Assorted arm and leg bones dangled from the ceiling.

  The stranger stepped forward. “I conduct anatomy classes here. These represent, you might say, my curriculum.” He made a slight bow, then introduced himself. “William Hewson. Dr. Franklin and I share both a deep affection for the daughter of his landlady and a deep interest in the natural world. When he described his particular problem, I was more than happy to offer a solution.” Hewson nodded to Duncan. “I am honored to serve the cause of—” He hesitated, glancing at Franklin. “Natural philosophy,” he finished. “Bones come and go from my residence on a regular basis. Those of the incognitum will not be particularly conspicuous to the untrained eye, especially once we cover them with canvas and stack my other bones on top. I found that even the most curious of watchmen tend to shy away from questioning my specimens.”

  “But no canvas yet, William,” Franklin put in, unable to contain his boyish excitement. “Tonight the incognitum shall reveal itself!”

  Duncan tipped their helpers generously and the wagons soon disappeared into the darkness. When he returned to the cellar, a trestle table had been erected in the center, and Hewson had brought wine and bread. Ishmael, Duncan, Franklin, Olivia, and Hewson opened the crates in a spirit of lively celebration, Franklin proclaiming each one a “priceless gem” or “the key to unlocking the ancient world.” Words finally failed the effusive Franklin when Olivia produced her brother’s journal, which included the drawings he had completed in Philadelphia. The lightning wizard donned his spectacles, then energetically matched each bone with a drawing, reading aloud Pierre Dumont’s description before offer
ing his own speculation about the creatures they derived from.

  Franklin paused over the Frenchman’s description of the tooth. “The incognitum is a member of the elephant family?” he read, lifting his voice to turn the sentence into a question. “A sizable leap for Pierre to make based on one tooth.”

  “The evidence is more than just a few molars,” Duncan said. He picked up an iron crowbar and opened the last of the large crates. Ishmael helped him lift a long tusk onto the table.

  Franklin sighed. Hewson’s eyes went round.

  “The jewel in the crown!” Franklin cried in his astonishment.

  “It was to be my brother’s surprise to you,” Olivia explained to Franklin. “A vital piece of the incognitum puzzle, he called it.”

  “I put great faith in the testimony of Ezra,” Duncan explained, “who grew up among elephants. He had been to great funeral grounds where elephants go to die and would have seen dozens of tusks and jaws like those we found.”

  “Will you ever stop taking my breath away?” Franklin exclaimed, reaching out to stroke the cool, enameled surface of the tusk.

  “How extraordinary!” Hewson exclaimed. “The rarest of things!” He too ran his fingers over the smooth, ancient ivory. “Imagine, from a living creature,” he whispered in an awed tone.

  Franklin looked up, breaking his reverie. “Tell no one!” he instructed Hewson. “I must keep the surprise for the—” He caught himself. “I must keep the surprise.”

  Once more Duncan resisted the urge to press Franklin for his intentions, but instead answered Hewson’s questions about the nature of the Lick and how the bones had been situated when discovered. An hour had passed, much of it taken up in completing measurements in various dimensions of the tusk and the great rib. “Pennsylvania can at last offer up a solution to the mystery of the incognitum!” Franklin exclaimed as he poured himself more wine.

  Hewson looked up from the curvature of the rib, which he was now measuring with a pair of calipers. “You could fit a team of horses inside!”

  “If all these came from the same creature, what a wonder it must have been,” Franklin observed. “Why some of the bones seem to indicate the sturdy strength of an ox, others the nimbleness of a cat.”

  As if on cue Duncan lifted the last crate, an iron-bound cube. “One thing we know for certain,” he said, “is that not every bone in the Lick came from the same creature.” He gestured for Ishmael to open the crate. The young Nipmuc clearly relished the drama, slowly releasing the latch, then withdrawing handfuls of straw and crumpled paperboard. When he finally withdrew the fanged skull, Franklin was capable of only a surprised whimper. He sank onto a stool.

  “Pierre and Ezra died,” he said in a choked whisper, overcome with emotion again. “Warriors lost in our war for knowledge.”

  At last they painstakingly hid the Lick’s treasures and a weary Franklin bid farewell, but only after making Ishmael and Duncan promise to be at Craven Street later that afternoon when he returned from meetings at Whitehall.

  “You’ve been most generous with your time, Dr. Hewson,” Duncan said to their host, “but I wonder if I might beg a bit more.”

  “Only if you join me for an early breakfast,” Hewson replied. “No hope of sleep this night. I have patients to call on, and I asked my housekeeper if she might cook up something with eggs and last night’s leftover ham.”

  Duncan liked the man’s good-natured, modest intelligence and was impressed to learn that the physician was engaged in detailed research into the lymphatic glands. When Hewson learned that Duncan had studied at Edinburgh, he erupted with fresh questions about professors of mutual acquaintance, then eventually turned to the practice of medicine in the colonies.

  “I am honored to say I have learned much from both the wise medical men of Edinburgh and the wise healers of the Iroquois,” Duncan declared, raising new wonder in Hewson’s tired eyes.

  “I beg you, sir, prithee, you must speak to me of this! The miracles of the human body can be interpreted in so many ways. How wonderfully rare it would be to hear of how an entirely different world interprets them.”

  The reaction brought a smile to Duncan’s face. “I confess that if I were suffering a battlefield wound I would much prefer to be under the care of an Iroquois healer than that of an army sawbones. But to explain in any meaningful way would take hours, which I fear neither of us have at present.”

  “Then we must set a time to do so!” Hewson said, then paused. “But I have usurped our breakfast with my own questions and I believe you had a request of me.”

  Ishmael, who had quietly consumed several servings of the delicious breakfast, put down his teacup and gazed pointedly at Duncan, who was not sure how to make his request. “As a medical man,” Duncan began, “I thought perhaps you might offer insight into—”

  Ishmael would not let him finish. “My uncle is incarcerated at Bedlam,” he blurted out.

  The lingering joy on Hewson’s face evaporated. “Then I am most sorry for your uncle,” he replied in a tight voice.

  “I was hoping you might give us some insight into the working of the hospital,” Duncan ventured.

  “Those who run Bethlem Hospital have the best of intentions,” Hewson offered flatly.

  “But?” Duncan asked. “But they can’t resist the temptation to run it as a public entertainment?”

  Hewson clamped his jaw, then sipped at his tea, weighing the unwelcome shift in their conversation. “The government encourages all the physicians of London to provide support for those unfortunate souls. I did attend some patients there, but after they passed away I never took on new ones. I stopped going.” He turned to Ishmael with a melancholy air. “What floor?”

  “The top floor.”

  Hewson’s face twisted in a grimace. “What wing?”

  “East wing.”

  The doctor hesitated over the news. “That seems unlikely,” he said.

  “We saw him there.”

  “But those rooms are quite different from most of the others. Some are reserved for truly deranged criminals. And others are”—Hewson searched for words—“under the authority of Whitehall.”

  “I am not sure I follow,” Duncan confessed.

  “Patients usually undergo review by a panel of physicians before being committed. But some are reviewed instead by a committee of officials, though they must evidence some degree of mental instability.”

  “You’re saying lords and ministers can just send their enemies to Bethlem Hospital?”

  “No. Not exactly. Only a handful of very senior men, men entrusted with very substantial responsibilities for the safety of the government, I assure you.”

  “Meaning what?”

  Hewson was growing uncomfortable and now carefully chose his words. “Meaning their decisions take into account factors not always obvious to those on the outside or to medical men. If a high-ranking lord were showing signs of mental stress in a way that could harm the government, Bethlem might be a convenient way to deal with the problem.”

  “If I gave you my friend’s name, could you discover who sent him there?”

  “You don’t understand, McCallum. These are men who do not react well to anyone looking over their shoulder.”

  “Don’t react well?” Ishmael asked in a heated tone. “You mean someone might get sent to Bedlam for doing so?”

  The question hung in the air. “If a medical man asked in a suspicious way,” Hewson replied, “the War Council might suddenly need a doctor in the fever isles and soldiers would escort him onto a ship.” He sipped his tea. “I assure you, all of those special patients do have a genuine infirmity of some kind.”

  “Then you could at least check to see if my uncle is one of those,” Ishmael pressed.

  Hewson just stared into his empty plate.

  “We have imposed too long on the doctor’s hospitality,” Duncan said, pushing back his chair and rising.

  Ishmael slammed a fist on the table. “He is not insane!�
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  Duncan pulled the angry Nipmuc up and gently pushed him toward the door. “We will disturb you no further,” he said to Hewson, offering a short bow in farewell.

  The doctor forced a lightless grin. “It is only fair that I reciprocate for the lessons you will give me on Iroquois cures.” He gestured to a paper and writing lead on the sideboard. “Write his name and I shall see what I can discover. But do not build hopes of welcome news. Men are sent to those chambers to be forgotten by the world, but soon they forget themselves.” He watched as Duncan wrote on the paper, then accompanied him to the door, where he spoke in a near whisper.

  “On my first visit three years ago I was eagerly trying to diagnose patients, believing that some suffered from mere physical disorders. One of the senior doctors cautioned me, saying that if a patient is in Bethlem more than two or three weeks then the diagnosis is fulfilled in any event. I asked him to explain, and he said by then they are lost, and all a medical man can do is make them comfortable. He had been attending Bedlam for thirty years, he told me, and that if I sought a diagnosis for the hospital itself it was that Bedlam is where the human soul goes to rot.”

  Chapter 13

  DEAR LORD, LOOK AT THE grime!” Mrs. Laws declared as they tried to pass the parlor to reach the stairs. She softened as she noticed their grim expressions, then herded them toward the chairs by the hearth. “Whatever calamity has struck ye, the world will be brighter tomorrow,” she insisted. “And meanwhile there’s tea!” She headed toward the kitchen, her peg leg rhythmically tapping the floor.