by Sam Gafford
“To what purpose? I have not even had my breakfast yet, sir.”
“My apologies. I represent someone for whom you have recently done a great service, and he wishes to thank you.”
I paused. “That is very kind. But I am not in the habit of accepting rides from strangers.”
The man’s face clenched. I could see a fancy carriage waiting at the curb and thought again of Netley, whom I had not even tried to find since our adventure.
“Would it help,” he continued, “if I said that these would be royal thanks?”
My mind spun. How was this possible? The Brothers would not have said anything to the princess. It would have placed them in a very bad light—and yet, how else could anyone have known?
I realised that my mouth was open. I closed it while trying not to look too foolish.
“In that case,” I responded, “I shall be happy to join you.”
I smiled at Mrs. Hutchins, who I was sure had heard every word, and walked out the door.
Dr. Ackland led me to the carriage and opened the door for me as I climbed inside. It was a glorious coach! Soft, pleasant cushions and fancy moulding around the windows. It was cleaner than any carriage I’d ever seen, and I felt ashamed to be riding in it in my cheap, humble suit.
Silently, Dr. Ackland settled into the seat across from me and put his hat on the cushion beside him. He never said another word.
As the coach rattled over the roads, I tried to engage the doctor in conversation, but he rebuffed all my efforts. I sensed that, having said all he needed to say, Dr. Ackland did not consider me important enough to talk to again.
I had no idea where we were going. I supposed, in my foolishness, we might be going to the palace, but that was not the case. Through the window I could see that we were somewhere in the West End, because the houses had become mansions. Gone were the ramshackle buildings of the East End and even the shabby gentility of my neighbourhood. Now all I could see were large estates and fancy people walking in the street. The coach pulled into an entranceway and up to a large, impressive house.
Dr. Ackland climbed out and held the door for me. Looking at the building before me, I could feel the awesome weight and power pressing down on my head. “This is not just a house,” I thought, “this is not simply a building; this is ENGLAND itself bearing down on me.”
“If you would follow me.” It was not a request. It was a command—and I, being lost in unfamiliar territory, could do nothing but follow.
We walked through the front door, where Dr. Ackland gave his hat and coat to a butler who looked as if he had been standing there for hours waiting for this moment.
“This way.” We walked down corridors, past rooms of vast opulence and wealth. I had never seen such rooms in my life and could not have imagined such things existed. This was foreign country to me, and I felt the poverty of my clothing and upbringing more keenly than ever. We passed vases of astounding elegance and craftsmanship, paintings of such beauty and power that I scarcely believed they were paintings at all, and furniture that I would not have been surprised to find kings and queens using in earlier years.
Dr. Ackland turned to his right and opened a door. I stepped through and was amazed.
I was in the greatest study that I had ever seen. Even the library that Arthur had taken me to at the Golden Dawn was nothing compared with it. Three walls were filled with overstocked bookcases, while large windows that overlooked a quiet garden covered the fourth wall. A fireplace crackled with an inviting warmth. A large desk dominated the room and was filled with several neat and ordered piles of papers and letters. There were several leather chairs in the centre and a small sideboard nearby.
“Wait here,” Dr. Ackland said and left the room, closing the door softly behind him. I looked over some of the bookshelves and found examples of virtually every subject on hand. I truly felt as if every book that had ever been printed was in that room. I was in a booklover’s paradise.
There was a bookstand with a large volume open on the top. It was an old surgical text from the look of it, although I couldn’t understand the language. It did not appear be ancient Greek or Latin but some odd dialect. I flipped through the pages and found that there were several plates showing various sorts of surgical procedures. They were horribly explicit and displayed patients with their intestines hanging out and skulls being opened.
I was about to close the book when I heard the door open behind me and expected to face the princess. Except that the person facing me was not the princess at all. Nor was it her son. I understood, with a shudder of fear, that it was the same man who had visited the morgue when Arthur and I had gone and confronted Dr. Llewellyn. It was the man whom I had not known but whom Arthur had identified for me later. It was Dr. William Withey Gull, and I now recognised Dr. Ackland as the man who had accompanied Gull to the morgue that morning so long ago. Neither man appeared to recognise me at all.
Dr. Gull smiled as he strode into the room with Dr. Ackland behind him. But it was the smile of a cobra, contemplating the helpless mouse that would be his next meal. He looked older than the last time I saw him, but he still commanded the room. Ackland deferred to him in every way.
Holding out his hand, he spoke in a soft, almost detached voice as if this meeting were already completed and his mind was focused on something else.
“Hello, I am Dr. William Withey Gull. Thank you for coming to see me, Mr. Besame. Oh, we do have a lot to discuss, don’t we?”
Chapter 35
By seeing London, I have seen as much of life as the world can show.
—Samuel Johnson
September 9, 1888, late morning
I shook Dr. Gull’s hand and tried to sit down calmly as he sat across me. I felt that there was a very good chance I would not be leaving this building alive. Not for the first time, I wondered where the hell Arthur was.
“Would you like something to drink, Mr. Besame? Coffee? Or perhaps something a little stronger?” Dr. Gull asked.
“No, I’m fine. But I am a little confused.”
“Oh?” Dr. Gull asked. “How so?”
I tried to take a deep breath but not show it.
“I had been given to understand that my presence had been requested by a royal personage.”
Dr. Gull looked sternly at Ackland.
“Really? Theodore, you overstep yourself.”
I took no small pleasure in the silent rebuke which Gull threw at Ackland but had no time to relish it.
“Mr. Besame,” Dr. Gull turned back to me, “I do apologise. Doubtless my son-in-law felt that such subterfuge was necessary. Although I can tell you that the discussion we are having has been . . . encouraged by such a person, he will not be here in person today.”
Which meant that I would not be seeing the princess or, worse yet, her son.
Dr. Gull moved closer to me.
“Do you know who I am, Mr. Besame?”
I decided to feign ignorance, or at least try. In truth, all I could think about was Sickert’s story about the unfortunate Annie Crook. Looking in Gull’s eyes, I could see nothing there but pure malevolence.
“I must confess that I do not.”
Dr. Gull sat back. I could not tell if he believed me or not.
“Well, then, let us dispense with the pleasantries, shall we? I gather that, like myself, you are a man who prefers to speak bluntly, and so we shall. Although now retired, I have served as Physician Extraordinary to Her Majesty, Queen Victoria. I have also, from time to time, been of service to other members of her family.
“I am speaking to you on behalf of one of those members now.”
I could not keep myself from moving closer to him.
“Recently, you recovered a certain item which belonged to a family member.”
I was stunned. I had just returned the diary to The Brothers yesterday. Had their communiqué to the prince been intercepted?
“How did you know this?”
Gull waved with his hand.<
br />
“Irrelevant. Suffice it to say that I do know. I also know that your efforts in this regard have been extraordinary, and I wish to express our thanks.”
“Royal thanks?”
Ackland snorted. Gull paused and then spoke. “It would be unseemly to answer that.”
I sat back and nodded. “I do not seek any reward.”
“Nor will you receive one, Mr. Besame. Any public recognition would call attention to what must remain a private matter. I trust you understand?”
“Completely.”
“And that your request to ‘meet’ a certain individual cannot be accommodated?”
“How did you know about that?”
“Again, Mr. Besame, suffice it to say that I do know. I can tell you this, however. Your name is now known to several people in high places as one who can be counted on both to keep a secret and to act as an honourable Englishman. The item in question has been returned and is now in a secure place. You need concern yourself about it no longer.”
And with that, the only evidence against the prince was gone. Just as Arthur had said would happen. I began to feel my shoulders sag with the realisation but brought myself up quickly. The question still remained how anyone else even knew about the existence of the diary, much less the need to suppress it.
“Now, Mr. Besame,” Gull continued, “may I ask if there is anything which I can do for you in a personal capacity?”
I thought a moment, but nothing came to mind. I looked around the room, wondering if I should ask for one of the books from this stunning library. The right choice could mean a volume that I could sell for a great deal of money—enough not to have to worry about work for several years. But as my eyes scanned over the spines, I knew what I truly wanted.
“Yes, there is. I would like four tickets to see the new play Jekyll and Hyde at the Lyceum Theatre in a private box with all the amenities. A private coach and a meal at Romano’s for four beforehand.”
I could tell that my request surprised Dr. Gull, but he smiled that half-smile again. I began to wonder if perhaps he had suffered a stroke recently, as half of his face seemed to be incapable of moving.
“Indeed? Well, it shall be yours, Mr. Besame. And now, I believe that our business is concluded. My driver will take you anywhere you wish to go in the city. I trust that we can depend upon your discretion regarding the item?”
I nodded. “Of course.”
We both stood up and shook hands. Dr. Gull moved behind the desk and pulled on a rope. A servant appeared almost immediately.
“Bates will show you out, Mr. Besame. Thank you again for your understanding in this manner.”
“Not at all, Dr. Gull. I am always at the service of my Queen and country.”
I started to walk out the room but stopped in the doorway.
“By the way, Dr. Gull, did you ever find out if the killer had taken something away from Polly Nichols’ body?”
Ackland and Gull were stunned and stared at each other.
“How did you know about that?” Gull asked.
Slowly, relishing every word, I responded, “That is irrelevant, Dr. Gull. Suffice it to say that I do know.”
I walked out of the room on legs that threatened to collapse under me.
Chapter 36
London, thou art the flower of cities all!
—William Dunbar
September 9, 1888, afternoon
The horse and carriage were waiting for me outside in the drive, and I hurried into it before anyone could rush out of the house and seize me. I slumped into the cushion and quickly told the driver to take me home. I looked through the window, but no one came running down the front steps or blocked the horse. I allowed myself to breathe a sigh of relief as the coach exited the outside gates.
I had an inspiration and shouted to the driver to change our destination. We would be going to Arthur Machen’s house instead. If he were not there, I would turn over the East End itself to find him.
*
I was out of the coach and up Arthur’s front steps before the horse had even come to a complete stop. I knocked on the door furiously as Dr. Gull’s driver efficiently reined in his horse and climbed down to shut the coach’s door. Perhaps he was taking a note of the address to report it back to Gull, but I couldn’t be bothered with that as I continued to pound on the door.
After a few minutes, Arthur opened the door. I was not prepared for what I saw. He looked haunted. He was not dressed, but was wearing a robe over sleeping clothes. His face was pale and ashen, and his normally neat hair was uncombed and wild. Worst of all, his eyes were glazed as if he were seeing something different from this world.
“Arthur!” I cried. “Where the hell have you been?”
He looked up at me dimly as if he were seeing me from a great distance or through a haze of fog.
“Albert?” he said. “What . . . what day is this?”
“Day? Arthur, today is Sunday. What’s the matter with you? Where’s Amy?”
Arthur walked back inside and I followed, closing the door behind me.
“Amy is . . . out. I think.”
“And your maid? Where is she?”
“Who? Oh, yes. Ah, she is not here.”
Arthur walked back down the hall towards his study. I tried not to look at the receiving room, which carried echoes of my disturbing vision. As I walked by, I shivered as if the eyes of those ghosts were still watching me.
“Arthur! I need you to answer me! I’ve been looking for you for days. Where have you been?”
We walked into his study which, I was surprised to see, was clean and in order. It was yet another sign that Arthur had not been here for several days.
“Albert . . . I don’t know. I don’t know where I’ve been or what I’ve been doing. These last two days are a blank. I can’t remember anything.”
Arthur slumped down into his chair and for all the world looked like a puppet whose strings had been cut. If I hadn’t known better, I would have sworn that he had been the victim of one of Stoker’s vampires.
I sat down in the chair next to him. Surely this wasn’t the same man who had rescued me from the gutter what now seemed like years ago.
“Arthur,” I began slowly, “are you ill? Should I call the doctor?”
He waved me off with his hand.
“Right, then,” I said. “When was the last time you ate or drank something?”
He shook his head at me. “I’ve no idea.”
“That’s what I thought. You stay right here. I’ll bring you something.”
I went into the kitchen and managed to find the coffee and got a strong pot brewing. I also found some biscuits and bread, which I lightly toasted. I had to wonder where Arthur’s wife was. Why would she have left him in such a state?
I brought a tray out to Arthur, who I found had not moved an inch. I would have thought he was asleep, but his eyes were opened and glazed.
Forcing a cup of black coffee into his hand, I made Arthur take several strong gulps that made him cough almost as much as if it had been the strongest whiskey. After he had taken a few bites of the dry toast, I ventured to question him again.
“Arthur, what’s the last thing you remember?”
He looked at me vaguely again. “I remember . . . I remember us going to Sickert’s studio. Yes. And we talked . . . we talked to him about the prince. About Eddy! Yes?”
I smiled. “Yes, Arthur, that’s right. Remember how he told us about how Eddy had fathered a child with the Catholic store clerk? Remember her name?”
He looked at me slightly more intently, and even his eyes seemed a bit clearer. “It was Annie, wasn’t it? Yes, Annie something or other—like a thief she’s named. Yes! That’s it! Annie Crook! Her name was Annie Crook!”
“Right, Arthur. Her name was Annie Crook. Now after we left Sickert’s, we took a cab and you dropped me at home. Where did you go, Arthur? I know you didn’t come home. Where—did—you—go?”
He leaned back i
n his chair, and it was as if a dark shade fell over his face. “I don’t know.”
“Think, Arthur. You’ve been gone for two whole days. What happened to you?”
He began to shake and sweat in his chair. “I don’t recall. The . . . the cab left and went . . . it went somewhere.”
I grabbed him by the shoulders and tried to steady him. “Where, Arthur? Where did it go?”
His eyes widened and he looked through me.
Gasping, his mouth moved up and down like a fish. When he spoke, it was not in his voice but something I had never heard before. It was a voice that was old, older than time, older than anything in this world. It cracked and scratched as no voice should. Even now I can hear the sound of that voice, and it chills my soul as it did that September day so many years ago.
“Magna Mater! Magna Mater! . . . Atys . . . Dia ad aghaidh ’s ad aodann . . . agus bas dunach ort! Dhonas’s dholas ort, agus leat-sa! . . . Ungl . . . ungl . . . rrrlh . . . chchch . . .”
Arthur’s entire body stiffened, and I was afraid he would bite through his tongue; but suddenly he went limp as if someone had cut a cord within him. He fell back into his chair, heaved a great sigh, and looked as if he were dead.
“Arthur!” I screamed. I shook his body, but that had no effect. His skin felt clammy. Frightened, I did the only thing I could think of and slapped his hard across the face.
He gasped and his eyes opened wide, but it was the same old Machen eyes as before: full of life and a little mirth. He blinked a few times and looked at me incredulously.
“Albert? What’s going on? Did you just slap me?”
I started laughing like a madman and fell back into my own chair. Arthur rubbed the large, red, hand-sized bruise on his face and became quite agitated.
“Albert! Answer me!”
I stopped laughing and looked at him. “Do you mean to say you have no memory of our conversation just now?”
Arthur looked confused. “Conversation? No, none. In fact, I’m not even sure what I’m doing here. The last thing I remember I was in Whitechapel—and now I’m home. Where’s Amy?”
“Arthur, what day do you think it is?”