Steampunk Omnibus: A Galvanic Century Collection (54 page)

Dennis peered at Alton's partner as if seeing him for the first time, looking down his nose at him with the contempt that his son remembered he had for the working man. "There has been a murder."

"Oh, is that what this is about?" Alton snorted. "Sorry, father, but you appear to have been misinformed. My successes have not endeared me to the Met, and I am afraid I have no pull with them when it comes to asking for lenience. I cannot save you from the gallows."

"I didn't kill anyone, idiot. I woke to a clamour several hours ago to discover that the door to my room had been unlocked. All of our doors had been; aegis of hospital or no they operate like cells, with a master mechanism to open and close them, hidden within the walls. The staff were busy trying to get my fellow patients back into place, and I heard word that someone had killed Director Paddock."

"If you maintain your innocence, then--"

"The ears of justice are ever deaf to the lips of the mad – in the court of public opinion we are already convicted, of this crime and any number of others. I know. Know that Scotland Yard would simply pick from among us a scapegoat to hang the murder on, and consider the matter ended. No one thinks twice when a lunatic is blamed for atrocity, or even cares if it's the wrong lunatic. There are a dozen of us here, men I've been living with this past decade. Therapy does wonders for togetherness. I do not want to see any of my new family punished for a crime they did not commit."

"And the one that did commit it?"

"Let him take the punishment due."

Bartleby fell silent. His father was obviously paranoid and suffering from some sort of persecution complex, but that didn't mean that he was wrong.

"So you want James and I to uncover the identity of the killer?"

"Discover who murdered Director Paddock and we will surrender, release the staff, and return to our rooms peacefully."

"You can speak for your fellow madmen?" James asked.

"Of course, good man." Dennis rapped the desk. "I am the acting director, after all."

Alton rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Very well, father, we shall perform in your masquerade, should Scotland Yard agree to let us."

"It's all we ask."

"Begging your pardon," James said. "But there was some mention of a released hostage should we meet with you?"

"Quite right," Dennis said. "You've a sharp batman here, Alton."

"He's my partner. An engineer of some renown and no small skill."

"Even better." Dennis produced a brass bell from the underside of his desk and gave it a single lazy ring.

Moments later a pair of inmates entered. The large mute who'd been guarding the door had been joined by a lean lunatic with an almost weasel-like face. His eyes were wide set and practically bulging from his head, and his rictus-smile never wavered. Standing next to him, Alton was acutely aware of the ragged quality of his breathing.

"Mr. Bartleby has agreed to investigate the murder of Director Paddock," Dennis said. Weasel-face's nasal breathing nearly doubled at the mention of murder, a spark appearing in his eyes. "You will escort him to Doctor Teague's cell, release her, then escort the three of them to reception, where they will be allowed to leave. Understood?"

The weasel's breath-rate had increased again at the mention Doctor Teague, and he nodded vigorously, a long lanyard of drool stretching from his lower lip, his smile never faltering.

"We were told that you would be releasing one of the nurses--" Alton began.

"We told the police we would release a female staff-member," Dennis said. "Doctor Teague is a capable alienist, and very much the only woman employed by Bedford. Will you be beginning your investigation immediately?"

"After we return Miss... Doctor Teague to the authorities. I'll need to let them know that there's been a murder as well."

"I needn't tell you what will happen to the rest of the staff if you do not return to investigate, or turn matters over to Scotland Yard."

"I can imagine."

"Good. I do not wish to see anyone hurt, Alton, but this is the only avenue towards justice that we have."

Alton made towards the door, then stopped and turned back towards his father. "You do realise that you will face dire consequences for this act of revolt? Kidnapping?"

"Oh, yes. I am fully prepared to pay the price for what I have done. I refuse to pay for what I haven't. There's a lesson there, boy."

Bartleby turned away. "You had taught me all I had to learn of your ways a long time ago, old man. This business is all we have left between us."

20 September, 1911 - 10:40 am

The Giant lead Bartleby and myself back to the reception hall, accompanied by the Weasel and his giggling. We found ourselves confronted by a host of lunatics who had gathered there, sitting on the desks and benches, holding the candles and watching as we passed them by. Several had appointed themselves in ill-fitting orderlies' slacks and shirts, a few had draped themselves in doctor's coats no doubt scavenged from wardrobes and the laundry room.

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."