That Which Should Not Be (16 page)

“Well,” Braddock said, flipping closed the little book on which he had been keeping notes.  “I think I have heard enough.  Like I said, we appreciate your keeping us informed when something like this happens at the hospital.  But it sounds to me as if there is no evidence this was anything more than a death by natural causes, even if it was caused by the victim’s own unstable mind. 

“It is my understanding the boy, known only as Robert, had no family to speak of, so there will be no one to ask any more questions after I leave.  I’ll report back to the Captain, but I would be very surprised if anything more comes of this.  Now, if you will excuse me, I’ll be getting back.  Doctors,” he said as he raised his cap.

Dr. Anderson walked out with him, leaving only Dr. Winthrop and me to answer whatever questions Dr. Harker still possessed. 

“Dr. Hamilton,” he began, “please understand no one blames you for what happened to poor Robert. But I must ask if you said anything or did anything that may have helped to cause this unfortunate accident.”

“I can’t imagine I did, sir,” I replied.  “It was a very simple introductory interview.  He did most of the talking, explaining what he saw and why he was having trouble sleeping.  Dr. Winthrop and I prescribed a sleeping draught to help him, but nothing out of the ordinary.  If I had any idea something like this was going to happen . . .”

Dr. Harker raised his hand.   “As I said, no one is blaming you or Dr. Winthrop.  These things happen, and more often than not, when a patient dies no one bats an eye.  It was only because of the . . . unusual circumstances we even went through this formality.  Don’t worry.  There will be no inquest, no notation on either of your records.  It will be as it sadly always is — as if poor Robert never existed.”

I am ashamed to say it now, but there was comfort in that.  Comfort in the fact I had dodged the day’s disaster without permanent damage to either my psyche or my career.  But the day was not over, and even more wicked things were coming my way.

Chapter

24

I passed the remainder of the day as best I could, but it took most of my energies to keep that final image of Robert out of my mind.  I finished my rounds quickly, seeing the last of my charges just as Tom, our resident handyman and jack of all trades, loaded Robert’s body into the rear of his cart.

“Lucky in a way,” he said as he climbed into the driver’s box next to me and Father Weatherby, the priest who lived at the asylum and ministered to its doctors and residents.  “Another week, and the ground would have been too hard.  Frozen solid.  Then, we’d have to store him somewhere in the sub-tunnels till the dirt was soft enough to make a hole.  Bad fate, that.”

“Yes,” I said simply. 

We rode out into a somewhat warm, but nevertheless winter’s day.  The snows had held off for the past week, and what had come before was largely melted.  As I looked up at the hard gray sky, I felt this was as good a day as any for a funeral, particularly for one so young.  It was only the three of us, and I suppose it would normally have been only two.  Doctors didn’t normally attend the funerals of their patients.

It was, I had been told, better not to grow too attached to them.  Their lives tended to be violent and short, and many of them were given to dangerous tendencies.  A doctor who grew too close to one of the insane was likely to let his guard down, and death could come quickly.  But Robert was different.  He was a young man, a child, really.  And even though I had only known him for a short time, one visit in fact, he had made an impression on me.  That impression was set forever because of how he died. 

We reached the hole Tom had carved, a large pile of frozen dirt sitting next to it.  I took a moment to appreciate how difficult it must have been for Tom to make that hole, and despite his nonchalant attitude only a few minutes before, I think if its future resident had not been a child, the hole would have remained un-dug till spring. 

Tom climbed down from the front of the cart, and I followed him.  Normally, he and the Father would have served as the deceased’s lone pall bearers, but today I gave the old priest a deserved break.  We carried the wooden coffin to the front of the gaping wound in the earth, and with two sturdy ropes, we lowered it down into the blackness below.  As Tom began to cover the coffin with hard clumps of dirt, Father Weatherby spoke. 

“Lord, we commend this child to you.  In your loving bosom will he find the peace he always lacked in life.  There will be no weeping, no mourning in the world to come.  So, too, will the visions of darkness that haunted him throughout his young days pass away into a brighter morning.  His fate is the same as all men, for from dust we come, and to dust we must return.  May we all do so in the grace of the Father’s love.  In the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit.”

I crossed myself silently and mouthed amen.  Father Weatherby closed his Bible with a thud. We stood quietly as the pile of dirt grew steadily smaller while that covering Robert’s body climbed higher and higher, finally reaching the level of the ground before forming a small mound.  The mound was all that was left to mark Robert’s existence — that and a small stone that read “777.”

I heard the rumble before I saw it, the sound of a heavy carriage being drawn quickly by several powerful horses.  The three of us turned and looked as it roared around the bend.  It was a police wagon, the kind with a covered and barred space in the back for carrying criminals. 

There were two policemen in the driver’s box.  One I didn’t recognize.  The other was Officer Braddock.  There was a third man, a well-dressed gentleman, older than I, but not by much.  He had a familiar look about him, and I knew I had seen him before.  But after only a few seconds, the carriage curved back around the bend and was gone.

I looked to Tom and Father Weatherby and said, “I think we should get back.”  They nodded in agreement, and I added, “Quickly now,” though if Tom heard me, I’m not sure he cared. 

We rode the cart back up the hill towards the Asylum, but it was slow progress.  As the horses plodded along, I began to grow more impatient to learn what event was transpiring above.  Were the police here for someone?  Or were they bringing another patient?  The presence of Braddock had convinced me this had something to do with Robert’s death, though I couldn’t know or even imagine, really, what that connection could be. 

Finally, after what seemed to be an intolerable amount of time, the cart arrived at the front door of the asylum.  As I leapt from the cart down to the gravel rock below, Dr. Winthrop burst through the doors. 

“There you are!” he yelled as he approached.  “Dr. Harker needs you at once.”

“Why?  What’s going on?”

“I wouldn’t even know where to begin,” he said.  “I’ll say only you should brace yourself for a shock.”

Dr. Winthrop’s words were as alarming as they were cryptic.  We walked quickly inside and up the stairs to Dr. Harker’s office.  As we entered, I saw Braddock and the officer I didn’t recognize.  Braddock had a strange look on his face, and he simply nodded to me.  The young gentleman I saw before was also standing there, while Dr. Harker was hunched behind his desk, looking as if he had aged a decade in the few hours since I had last seen him.  His face was buried in his hands, and when he looked up at me, he appeared as if he were gravely ill. 

“Ah, Dr. Hamilton, please sit down,” he said weakly.  “I am afraid we are going to need to call upon you for a most difficult assignment,” he continued as I took a seat next to Dr. Winthrop.  “Dr. Winthrop will supervise, of course, but it appears that most of the burden will fall upon you.”

“What is this about?” I asked.

Dr. Harker just stared at me.  Whatever it was, he didn’t have the strength to tell me. 

“Perhaps I should take over from here,” the heretofore unknown policeman said.  After a moment’s hesitation, Dr. Harker nodded. 

“Dr. Hamilton,” Braddock said, “this is Inspector Davenport from Boston.  He contacted me earlier today about an incident.  I’ll let him explain.”

“Yes,” Davenport said curtly.  “Dr. Hamilton, are you familiar with a Dr. Atticus Seward?”

“Of course,” I said with a nervous chuckle.  “He was my professor at Miskatonic, and I would count him as a friend.  Is he alright?” I asked, looking from Davenport to Dr. Harker.  Dr. Harker simply averted his eyes. 

“Physically,” Davenport said, “he is fine. This gentleman here,” he continued, gesturing to the man at his right, “is Professor Atley Thayerson.  Professor Thayerson found Dr. Seward early this morning.”

“Around two in the morning,” Thayerson interjected.  “I couldn’t sleep.  I often can’t, it seems,” he said, his eyes wandering with his mind.  “In any event, I often take walks around the campus at night.  The cold air calms the blood.  I was passing by Huntington Library when I found him.”

Thayerson paused for a moment, and it allowed me to ascertain where I had seen him before.  He was a young professor, one that had been hired to teach at Miskatonic a few years prior to the beginning of my studies there.  I did not know him well; he was a history and folklore professor, and a man of my particular interests rarely found need to engage the disciplines he taught. 

“Dr. Seward . . . ” Thayerson began again, though once more he couldn’t find the courage to finish his thought. 

“When he found Dr. Seward,” Davenport interrupted, “he was covered in blood.”

“Blood!” I exclaimed, nearly rising from my seat.  “Was he injured?”

“It wasn’t his own,” Dr. Harker said, finally speaking.  I let myself fall back into the chair, the consequences of his words washing over me. 

“Not his own,” I said, more in statement than question. 

“No,” Davenport continued.  “Not his own.  He was covered in it from head to toe, and whoever it came from has most assuredly shuffled off this mortal coil.”

“But this doesn’t make any sense,” I said.  “Dr. Seward wouldn’t hurt anyone.  He is one of the nicest men I’ve ever known.  Surely, he offered some explanation for what happened.”

“He hasn’t said a word,” Davenport replied.  “Other than to say he would only speak to you.”

“Me?” I replied, completely befuddled.  “Why me?”

“How can we know?” Davenport responded.  “He would give us no answers.  Frankly, given the circumstances, we would probably have brought him here anyway.  But we are most interested to find out the whereabouts of Professor Thacker.”

“Professor Thacker?” I asked.  It was yet another name in this morbid play about which I knew nothing. 

“Professor Thacker,” Thayerson said, “is a colleague of mine.  He is an expert in ancient, near-Eastern languages.  A genius, but not one with whom I would expect Dr. Seward to have an acquaintance.”

“Then, what does he have to do with this?” I asked, still not comprehending the totality of the situation.

“We believe,” Davenport answered, “it was his blood.”

“His blood?”

“Professor Thacker left his house late last night.  When he did, he told his wife he was meeting with Dr. Seward.  He hasn’t been seen since.”

“But what do you want me to do?  I’m a doctor.  I know nothing about being a detective.”

“We understand that, Dr. Hamilton.  But Dr. Seward is quite mad.  Find out what you can.  We have every expectation Professor Thacker is dead, but we would like to recover his body if possible.  It will make the legal proceedings, which surely must follow this incident, much easier.”

“I’ll do what I can,” I said, looking around the room.  “But understand Dr. Seward was more than a teacher to me.  He was a mentor, an expert in his field, and a brilliant man, as well.  If you expect me to somehow trick him into giving away information, it won’t work.  No matter what game we play with Dr. Seward, he will always run the show.”

“I’m afraid the young doctor is right,” Dr. Harker said.  “I’ve known Atticus all my life.  He will give us nothing he doesn’t want to give us.”

“Understood,” Davenport replied.  “Just do your best, Dr. Hamilton.  We will leave Dr. Seward in your care for as long as I can manage.  We will delay the investigation to the extent we can, but at some point Seward will have to stand trial, if for no other purpose than to confine him to your care for the rest of his days.  Good luck, gentlemen,” Davenport said as he placed his hat upon his head.  “Wire me if you learn anything.” 

A moment later, Davenport, Braddock, and Thayerson were gone. 

“I’m sorry, Dr. Harker,” I said timidly.  I knew Dr. Seward was his oldest friend, and Dr. Seward had often spoken lovingly of him in our meetings together. 

“It goes without saying,” Dr. Harker said without acknowledging my comment, “we have a difficult situation on our hands, gentlemen.”

“Yes, it does.  A strange one, too,” I replied.  “None of this makes sense; from a man like Dr. Seward committing murder, to this Professor Thayerson and his story of how he found him.  And now bringing him here?  It just doesn’t add up.”

“No,” Dr. Harker said, “it doesn’t.  But all we can do is attempt to discern what did occur.  As you are no doubt aware, Dr. Seward had many friends in Boston.  This whole incident is an embarrassment to them and Miskatonic University.  If Dr. Seward were anyone else, he would be sitting in a jail cell right now.  No, it’s not just about finding out the truth.  They want an excuse, a way to cover this up.  But that’s not what we are going to do.  Dr. Hamilton, I want answers.  I want to know how we came to this.”

“But, why me, sir?  Why not you?” 

Dr. Harker frowned.  “I do not believe Dr. Seward is a murderer.  But he is deeply involved in this.  He will no doubt attempt to gain an advantage over you, to use your friendship and admiration of him to his advantage.  As you so accurately told the detective, Dr. Seward has the edge.”

I looked from Dr. Harker to Dr. Winthrop, but there were no more words of advice.  This challenge was my own, and I would face it alone.