The Dickens Mirror (15 page)

But he was awake now, and helping Elizabeth was something he
must
do. It sounded mad, considering he’d known her … how long? A week? Two? Ten? He wasn’t sure—blame the Peculiar—but deep in his bones he was certain he was
supposed
to get her out
of this place. That saving
her
was the reason he was here in this accursed asylum.

Which was enough to make a stuffed bird laugh, it was that ridiculous.

“DOING HER DON’T
have to be nuffin’ fancy.” Weber’s lips parted in a wide grin that was more gap than tooth. “If you need instruction, I can always do with a dog’s rig. You could watch. Take notes.”

He was
this
close. Weber was bigger and heavier, but he was a touch taller. He
could
pull it off. Let Weber have it with a quick snap of his elbow behind the ear, in the throat, the jaw. It didn’t matter. Anything to put the cove down.

So, thank God, the surgeon picked that moment to return with the starched and disapproving Graves and Kramer in tow. Thank God for Graves, who turned that one gimlet eye and suggested he had work to do. Thank God for Kramer, who only stared daggers. Thank God. If he never again saw that gob Weber, that would be too soon.

Strange Ink

IF BATTLE’S POCKET
watch was to be believed, Kramer had kept them safely off the ward and out of the way for more than two hours. (The doctor was all apologies: Elizabeth to look after, a new admission to assess, yet another patient who required his immediate attention, and blah, blah.) Now, having cleaned away dried blood with a carbolic acid wash, Kramer ran a thumb over Black Dog’s slavering maw. “What strange ink,” the doctor said. “The color of the eyes is astounding. So
red
. These eyes are coals. Exquisite workmanship. Did you specifically request a Ghost Dog?”

“Ghost Dog?” Doyle had no idea what that was, and he was distracted. The acid had made his raw flesh sing with new pain. “Not that I recall. What is it?”

“Devil Dog,” Battle answered. “Bearer of Death. Or Hellhound, a guardian of the Underworld, depending. Cerberus was of the same ilk, and there’s, of course, the Barghest of Yorkshire.” He ticked it all off with the boredom of a teacher who’s taught the same lesson more times than he can count. “It’s a very common image and superstition.”

“Oh.” Doyle shifted uncomfortably on Kramer’s examination table, which occupied a corner of the doctor’s boxy office. When Kramer had finally deigned to appear and asked him to shuck his uniform coat, he’d done it by halves, shrugging out of the right arm, worried about his decidedly nonregulation
sgian-dubh
in its black leather sheath. His shirt was the next hurdle, but Doyle had gotten by with simply rolling up his sleeve to expose both a fleshy four-inch rip and Black Dog, who had so captured Kramer’s interest. He was sweating again, although a chill draft feathered through a gap in the office door, which sagged on its hinges. A rank of floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lining three walls had gone off-true and made Doyle a little ill if he looked too long.

“I just wanted something”—he floundered for the word he wanted—“unusual.”

“Well, this qualifies.” Running a magnifying glass over the tattoo, Kramer angled Doyle’s arm closer to the sputtering flame of an oil lamp. “You know, he even initialed it and inked in a date? Here, along the tail.” Kramer squinted. “
F
. I think that’s an
S
or perhaps a
J
. Hard to tell. And an
M
, I believe, or
N
, followed by a
7
and
4
.”

The initials didn’t ring a bell, but he recognized the year. “Yes, six years ago. Joined the whaler when I was fourteen.”

“Really?” Battle said. “How many years?”

“On board?” Something in Battle’s tone Doyle couldn’t decipher. “Six.”

“And then you came south, to London?” the inspector asked.

“Yes, sir, I …” He stopped at a light knock. A moment later, the door opened, and the girl, Meme, came in with a small tea cart.

“By my desk, Meme, if you please.” Clapping a linen over
Doyle’s still-oozing wound, the doctor said, “Keep pressure on this, Constable, if you will. Inspector?”

All right, so he obviously wasn’t invited to take tea. Pressing the linen cloth to his cut, he watched Kramer shuck his soiled vest and hang it on a coat tree. And the bottle … 
Ah
. Doyle’s eyes zeroed in on a bulge in the right front pocket. How to get it?

“So.” Clearly impatient to get on with it, Battle perched on a red leather wingback. “You were going to explain.”

“Do let’s not spoil our tea, Inspector. We’ve so few pleasures these days,” Kramer said as Meme poured from a squat pot into cups arrayed on a silver tray. An aroma of black tea laced with bergamot bloomed. Beneath a napkin, a miracle: a lemon, impossibly yellow in the gloom. Doyle hadn’t seen something that beautiful in … well, ever so long.

“Oh.” Meme’s eyebrows drew together in a frown. “I am sorry. I forgot a knife. Let me fetch …”

“Nonsense.” Kramer looked over at Doyle. “Constable, might I trouble you for that knife of yours?”

“Sir?”
Shite
. He managed to look confused. “I’m afraid I’ve no fruit or penknife on me.”

“Oh, come now, Doyle.” Kramer twitched a forefinger. “That nasty business on your left hip. I saw the hilt when you unbuttoned your uniform coat.”

Blast
. This was just
so
his luck. Conscious of the questioning look Battle tossed him, he let go of his bleeding arm, reached beneath the folds of his coat, and pulled the knife free of its tooled leather sheath. Turning the steel blade, he pinched the business end between two fingers and extended the knife so Kramer could grasp its stag-horn hilt.

“Ah.” Kramer arched his one functional eyebrow. “Scottish,
isn’t it? A
sgian-dubh
? Isn’t a black knife meant to be worn in a boot or long stocking?”

“Yes, sir,” he said through clenched teeth. “But that’s only good if you’re wearing a kilt. Not much use to me if I’ve got to fumble.”

“And the hip is better?” Battle said.

Doyle couldn’t tell from the inspector’s tone what he thought. Knives were against regulations. So was his Webley, for that matter. “Not the way the uniform’s designed, no sir.” He chewed over how best to say this, then just came out with it. “I modified the coat. Picked the stitching of the pocket.”

“Ah. Transformed it into a slit then.” Battle cocked his head. “So you could reach your blade without having to unbutton your coat.”

“That’s right, sir.” He’d done the same with the right, too, the better to get at his truncheon in its long trouser pocket. In his opinion, whoever’d designed this uniform ought to be hung. Too many buttons, and except for his bull’s-eye—his policeman’s brass lantern which sported one huge lens that focused light to a tight beam and which could be strapped to a belt—he was forced to cart his cuffs, rattle, keys, and snips in pockets. By the time he might pull his truncheon or rattle, any self-respecting criminal would be long gone.

“Very resourceful, Constable.” Kramer showed a sliver of a smile that revealed the man’s blue grub of a tongue. “Black dog, black knife … your young man’s full of surprises, Battle. Scalloped filework here is first-rate. Wicked sharp. Something your father bequeathed, Doyle?”

Yeah, you could say that
. “Yes, sir.”

“Well, quite the useful tool.” Handing the knife to Meme,
Kramer tweezed chunks of sugar with silver tongs. “One or two?” he asked Battle.

“None for me. You’ve kept us waiting for hours. One might even suspect this was deliberate … yes, yes.” Battle held up a hand. “You’ve your duty. I’ve mine as well, and it does not include taking tea.” With a pointed glance to the girl, who was readying a cup for Doyle: “That extends to my constable.”

Speak for yourself
. The scent of that fruit had made the spit pool under his tongue. Hell with the tea or a biscuit; he’d settle for a juicy slice or two. “No, sir,” he said, with a tight rictus more at home on a corpse. “Of course not.”

“Sorry,” the girl murmured as she returned his knife. Her skin smelled of lemons, and so did his black blade. Her eyes brushed his face. “I did not mean to cause you any trouble.”

“You didn’t.” Her concern touched him. “Thank you for …”

“Meme,” Kramer called. “That will do. Come stand by me.”

“Yes, Doctor.” The girl backed away, but not without shooting Doyle a look of apology.

“We’re going to talk about this in front of your servant?” Battle said as Meme came to stand behind Kramer’s left shoulder.

“As I’ve made clear, she is my apprentice,” Kramer said.

“Highly irregular.” Battle favored Meme with a long look. “And a little indecent, if you ask me. She’s a girl.”

And you’re an arse
. Doyle dodged his eyes away, embarrassed for her and furious with Battle.
If you weren’t in charge, if this was any other place and time …

Yes
, Black Dog simpered.
You keep telling yourself what the gallant you could be
.

“Why, you know”—Kramer twisted round to give Meme a look of exaggerated astonishment—“Battle, I believe you’re
correct. She
is
a girl. How astonishing. No wonder you’re an inspector.” Kramer dropped a lump of sugar into his tea with a small
plik
. “Now, shall we get on with this, or do you wish to chide me further on my choice of assistants or how I run my asylum?”

“Very well.” Battle’s expression went stony. “Perhaps you would care to explain what happened to your patient.”

Kramer took an experimental sip of his tea. “It was an abreaction.”

“An abreaction.” If Battle knew he was being baited, it didn’t show in his face or tone. “And that is? Pretend I am a student and you, the master mesmerist.”

“Think of an abreaction as a catharsis,” Kramer said, the tail of the word rattling in a snaky
ssss
. As he settled into his wingback, the chair let out an ominous creak, and Doyle saw that one of the arms had split from its rails. “It’s the mind’s way of releasing unwanted emotions.”

“But why attack you when you’re trying so very hard to be helpful? Unless she sees you as the enemy. You did, after all, fail her parents.”

A faint purple blotch stained the underside of Kramer’s jaw. “An intractable patient is not a failure, Inspector. It is a tragedy. The mother’s melancholia was unremitting, and she persisted in the delusional belief that her daughter had died. The father was driven to despair by his wife’s condition, and the lot of them descended into this”—Kramer made a vague gesture—“contagious insanity. Psychotics can be quite charismatic. You saw the effect Elizabeth had on that young attendant, Bode? He may mean well, but he’s suggestible.”

“Really,” Battle very nearly drawled. “And here I thought the
boy might like the girl and want to help. How does that apply to Elizabeth McDermott now? She
is
ill, after all.”

“Because she’s no different from, say, Meme here.” Kramer tossed an airy wave in the girl’s direction. “Meme is an orphan, no family, no friends. No one cares for her, so to whom should Meme turn for guidance? Why, to me, of course.”

God
, Doyle marveled,
you are a bastard
. He’d seen her flinch and the color climbing her cheeks. She kept her eyes down, but her fingers knotted. He could swear something glimmered at the corner of an eye.
She’s not a damn dog
.

“What’s your point, Kramer?” Battle asked.

“Only this.” Kramer put a finger to his lips. There was the tiniest
tick
as his nail struck tin. “If you grew up on a remote island with only your parents for company and no other influences—no friends or teachers or companions, nothing to read but what your father allows and half that his own wild writings—is it so hard to imagine that you would fall victim to the same unshakable beliefs?” Warming to his subject, Kramer laced his fingers together as if forming a web. “
That
is the McDermott family: a father, mother, daughter knit together by a singular, elaborate, and bizarre delusional system. Travel between
Nows
; the idea that every moment in time exists as a separate
Now
forever, that there are multiple versions of us all in an infinite array of possibilities. That
only
a select few could access relics from an unknown and far more advanced civilization, quite possibly beyond Earth. And the notion that there’s an energy source from which one may craft characters and fictions that might come to life? Yet McDermott could be
so
persuasive. His writings, even the fragments”—Kramer’s face grew intense, and he sat forward as if to better make his point—“quite compelling. You could
feel
how you might easily slip inside and become lost in those stories. Of course, he was mad.”

“Stories. You mean, the novel McDermott was working on when he escaped?”

“Indeed.” Kramer busied himself with tearing a lemon slice into quarters. “The title was absurd. An imaginary novelist with imaginary works in possession of a magical mirror and assorted other fantastical devices—glass pendants, all-seeing spectacles?” Snorting, Kramer slid juicy bits into that fissure of a mouth. “Ridiculous.”

Spectacles
. Doyle felt a tiny start of recognition. His eyes jumped to Kramer’s breast pocket.
Those purple glasses
. And hadn’t the doctor confiscated Elizabeth’s glass bauble, that pendant on its queer chain?
If it’s all so absurd, then why?

“And yet McDermott was
absolutely
convinced that this novelist actually existed. He always said the name as if we should all know it. But I ask you, Inspector, really,” Kramer said, around lemon, “who the bloody hell was Charles Dickens?”

Monster of My Mind

EMMA CAME TO
consciousness with a glassy smash, as if brought to life on a surge of electricity like Frankenstein’s monster.