The Angel of Highgate

33 DEATH AND RESURRECTION

Robert Greenley staggered up from the horsehair couch and shambled stiffly to the small writing table. A week had passed but his face was still swollen and bruised from the beating he had received at the hands of Mordecai Fowler. He drew out the chair, wincing as he settled into it. He grabbed a stack of correspondence and began shuffling through the letters, reading the return addresses.

Knuckles rapped at the parlor door.

“Come.”

The door opened and Thraxton strode in. Greenley looked up and saw who it was, but did not acknowledge him and went back to perusing the letters. Thraxton stood looking down at Greenley, waiting for him to speak. When it was clear he did not intend to, the Lord addressed him: “Mister Greenley, sir.”

The older man gave no indication he had heard anything.

“You know what I have come here to ask you.”

“The answer is ‘no,’ to any question or favor you may ever ask of me… no.”

Thraxton seethed, but held his tongue, trying to compose himself. After a long pause Greenley seemed to feel the weight of his stare and looked up. “Oh, I have no doubt you feel I should be grateful to you, but it was your interference in our lives that precipitated this whole affair. Aurelia was coming to see you in wanton defiance of my express command. The other night — your daring rescue — changes nothing. I fully intend to seek satisfaction against you in the courts.”

“Aurelia is not your property,” Thraxton said, anger rising in his voice. “She is her own person, born with free will and her own mind. And you are not God to command her, me, or anyone else!”

The letters spilled from Greenley’s quaking hands. “You dare to speak to me like that in my own house?” Greenley hauled himself up from the writing desk, snatched a poker from the fireplace and shook it at Thraxton. “I’ll cut your black heart out! To think that you were creeping into my house, using my daughter for your whore while I was sleeping in my bed!”

“I cannot undo what has been done… but I can make it right.”

“Make it right? You have stolen a flower from my garden. I should beat you to a bloody mass, but I know that dragging you through the courts will injure you more.”

Thraxton faced him calmly. “Now I know who you are. The quick fists. The explosive temper. The fact that there is no liquor of any kind in the house. You once were me, weren’t you? At a younger age? A bare-knuckle fighter. A drinker. A whorer. You see in me everything you once were. That is why you hate me, because I am everything you despise in yourself. No, not despise… fear.”

Greenley’s face turned black with rage. “By God, I will smash you!” He lunged at Thraxton, swinging the poker, but Thraxton grabbed it. Greenley strained to wrestle it from Thraxton’s grip, but the younger man held firm. Finally Greenley gasped, let go, and staggered back, glaring at Thraxton with pure hatred.

“She carries my child,” Thraxton said in a quiet voice.

Greenley’s head tremored, all color drained from his face as the words knocked the fight out of him. He staggered back and fell into an armchair, suddenly very old and frail.

Thraxton stepped nearer. “I know the man you were, because I was that man, also. But I have been changed by a woman who saved my life — your daughter. I understand your jealousy, because it is born of the love you have for Aurelia. But consider this, a woman once saved your life — Aurelia’s mother. I ask now that you allow your daughter to save mine. Will you give us your blessing?”

Greenley’s head had drooped as he listened to Thraxton’s speech and now he shook it slightly. “Never!”

“Not even to protect the reputation of your own daughter, to spare her the disgrace?”

“No!”

“To ensure your grandchild is not born into the world a bastard?”

Greenley’s hands shook as he covered his face.

“Will you give us your blessing?”

Greenley did not move or speak for several minutes, until he spoke a faint, barely perceptible, “Yes.”

Thraxton swallowed and drew in a long breath. “Thank you.”

He turned and left the room.

Greenley slumped in the chair for a long time, unmoving. But then his shoulders began to heave and a keening sound ripped from his lips as he broke down and wept.

Augustus Skinner’s heart was about to burst. He had just hobbled up four flights of stairs, leaning heavily on his cane, and in his weakened state he was sweating and dizzy. Fortunately, some kind soul had positioned an old and lopsided chair at the top of the dark stairway and now he dropped heavily into it, gasping for breath as he waited for his heartbeat to slow. From the chair, he had a clear view down the hallway to the door of Doctor Garrette’s office. Skinner had made the journey out of desperation, after the doctor had ignored his repeated summonses. Although his pride balked, Skinner’s craving for laudanum was the stronger.

He would beg if need be.

Just then, the door opened and Silas Garrette stepped out into the hallway. He drew a key from his coat pocket and locked the door, then turned and walked straight toward Skinner. For a moment, the critic thought of calling out to the doctor, but something held his tongue and he leaned his face back into the shadows. Garrette walked straight past, oblivious to his presence and tripped down the stairs, settling the white top hat on his head. Long after he disappeared, a distinctive odor swirled in the air — a choking chemical whiff.

Skinner limped to the office door and stood looking at the name stenciled on the glass: Dr. Silas Garrette. Even though he had watched the doctor lock the door, he took hold of the knob and tried to turn it. Locked. He felt a surge of heat as the sweats overtook him. A single pane of glass separated him from the laudanum he panged for. A giddy notion seized him. He raised his cane, ready to smash the glass.

“Waiting for the doctor, are you?”

Skinner started, nearly fell, barely managed to get the cane beneath him. A large woman with a face like a bulldog and asthmatic breathing to match wheezed in the hallway next to him.

“Yes. I’m a tad premature for my appointment.”

The porcine eyes rolled up and down Skinner, taking in the crooked stance, the way he leaned painfully on the cane.

“Bad leg, I see. Touch of the rheumatics?”

“Shooting accident,” Skinner lied. “Quite painful.”

“Ah, very regrettable.” The woman chuckled inappropriately. “Can’t help much standing about then, can it?”

“Especially after all those stairs.” Skinner rubbed his right hip for emphasis.

The woman laughed again, eyes vanishing into slits in the doughy folds of her face. She nodded several times, and then seemed to reach a decision, producing a brass ring jangling with keys. “I am Mrs. Parker. I have the pleasure of being Doctor Garrette’s landlady, don’t you see? I am certain the doctor would not mind if I let you in. Therein you can rest your leg while you wait.”

“Very civil of you, madam.”

Mrs. Parker unlocked the door and led the way inside. She waddled around the office which bore all the trappings of the medical profession — a desk, an examination table, a skeleton dangling from a hook in the corner — having a damned good snoop, obviously as curious as Skinner to see the inside of the office.

“I understand the doctor mostly makes house calls as I don’t ever recall seeing any patients come to the office. Do you not think that is… unusual?”

“Is that correct?”

“Yes. As a matter of fact, you are the only patient I have ever seen.”

“How interesting.”

The landlady chuckled, her eyes roving around, taking everything in. Finally she seemed satisfied that her premises were not being destroyed or dismantled and bumbled out, chuckling to herself. Augustus Skinner waited a few moments to be sure she was not going to return and then limped around the office, exploring for himself. It looked pretty much the same as any doctor’s office he’d been in before, but then he noticed the smell: that same chemical aroma that clung to the clothes of Silas Garrette. His nose led him to a door at the back of the room. It was locked, but in his haste to leave, Silas Garrette had left the key in the lock. Skinner felt sure he would find medical supplies within, including the laudanum his body ached for. He turned the key and stepped into a dark room that reeked dizzyingly of chemicals. Fumbling in his pockets he drew out a box of matches.

When he struck the Lucifer, he was not prepared for the ghastly things the flame summoned from the shadows.

Dust motes twirled in shafts of supernal light filtered through the faces of saints and angels hovering on the stained glass windows. Tenuous wraiths of smoke from the many candles that burned twirled up to the vaulted ceiling to join the dance. The organ groaned into life and sprung open the church door, throwing in a slab of light. Constance Pennethorne stepped from the glare, dressed in a glowing gown of white shot silk fashioned by Worth in Paris, a bouquet of Night Angels clutched in her hands. The music swelled and the congregation surged to its feet as the bride glided down the aisle on the arm of Mister Wakefield.

The bridegroom, Algernon Hyde-Davies, waited at the foot of the altar, his blonde curls shining in the light. His Best Man, Lord Geoffrey Thraxton, stood by his shoulder. All eyes followed the bride’s majestic progress down the aisle — all except for Thraxton’s, which stole a furtive glance toward the rear of the congregation where somewhere, invisibly, Aurelia watched, marooned in the deepest, darkest shadows the church could offer.

“Constance looked so lovely,” Aurelia said.

“Yes,” Thraxton agreed.

Both she and Thraxton were seated in the shadowy interior of his brougham. Both side curtains were tightly drawn to shut out the brilliant day. Thraxton cracked his curtain slightly and peered out.

Constance and Algernon were just climbing into an open landau outside the church and waving goodbye to the throng of well-wishers.

Aurelia drew in a shaky breath and then spoke in a trembling voice — a speech she had obviously practiced. “Geoffrey, I release you.”

He dropped the curtain and turned to look at her.

“Release me?”

“I… release you from any promise you might have made or implied… any obligation you may feel toward me.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You belong in the light, with your friends. In the real world. I am condemned to live in darkness. I could never ask you to share my fate. I am sorry now that we ever met. It would have been better never to dream of happiness—”

Her voice strained to finish, but ended in a sob as her composure collapsed and she turned her face away.

Thraxton took her trembling hand in his.

“Until you came along, I stumbled in the darkness for years. Now, you are my light.” He pressed her hand to his heart. “For you burn like a candle… in here.”

After a few moments, she dared to turn her head to meet his gaze.

“Aurelia… you and I are all the world we need.”

“Really?” she asked in a tremulous voice.

Thraxton smiled. “Forever.”

Silas Garrette was full of smiles as he entered the room. “I understand you are ready to move forward with the lawsuit?”

Greenley shook his head. “There will be no lawsuit.”

Garrette’s face dropped in disbelief.

“I fail to understand. I received a communication from you just this morning—”

“Circumstances have changed.”

“Since this morning? How is that possible?”

“They are to wed. There will be no lawsuit.”

“Wed? We are talking about the same man? Lord Thraxton? The blackguard? The seducer?”

Mister Greenley did not answer. He opened a strong box atop his desk and counted out a stack of bank notes, setting them on the desk top. “You will find here full payment for all your time plus an additional sum for your inconvenience. Please consider this matter and our relationship at an end. I wish you a good day, sir.”

Garrette did not move. He had not worked so hard to have Thraxton slip the noose this easily. “You are pleased about this marriage?”

“My daughter’s happiness is my sole concern.”

“I do not understand. Just the other day—”

“My daughter carries his child.”

At the words, excitement stirred in Garrette’s heart.

“But your daughter’s condition…”

“An illness of the blood. Her mother suffered from the same malady. She cannot stand the touch of the sun and must live her life in a darkened room. In truth, she may not—” Greenley’s voice broke. He cleared his throat. “It is unlikely she will enjoy a full life.”

“I am familiar with such cases.”

Greenley glared suspiciously. “You cannot be correct, sir. I have searched all of Europe for such a doctor. None exist. The condition is exceedingly rare—”

“Not in some parts of the world,” Garrette interrupted. “I learned of the condition and of its cure while serving with the British army in Crimea.”

Greenley gasped. After years of disappointment, hope was extending a hand toward him, but he was almost too afraid to take it.

“If so, then this is miraculous news!”

“Yes, it is a condition caused by an imbalance of the humors, remedied by a simple operation. However, the procedure must be carried out as soon as possible — before your daughter’s pregnancy advances any further.”

For a moment, hope danced in Robert Greenley’s eyes before he reeled it back in.

“Operation? You speak of an operation?”

“It is a rudimentary procedure — one that requires no hospitalization — so simple it can be carried out in her room.”

He turned and strode toward the door. “I must fetch my medical instruments and some additional… apparatus. After I return, your life and your daughter’s will never again be the same.”

Silas Garrette showed himself out and hailed a cab. As he settled himself on the leather seat he wore an expression of smug pleasure. He was giddy with thoughts of the life forming inside Aurelia Greenley. What a child that might be. He imagined it even now, pale and ethereal as the mother, a ghost floating in its amniotic darkness. Fate had just delivered a new sibling for his children and an opportunity to teach the insolent Thraxton an excoriating lesson on the respect that death commanded.

Silas Garrette clomped up the stairs carrying a large jar under one arm, an enormous bottle of chemicals under the other. He had to set everything down to unlock the door to his office. But upon turning the key in the lock, he was alarmed to find the door already unlocked. He entered and looked around, his spine stiffening as he noticed the door to the windowless room slightly ajar, and the glimmer of gas light within. He moved like a man walking against a hurricane as he approached and shouldered the door wide.

Augustus Skinner sat in the leather armchair. He was holding a black revolver, and now he leveled it at Garrette’s chest.

“Come in, Doctor Garrette… or whoever you are.”

Silas Garrette hesitated, then slid into the room. His eyes could not help but dart to one side, checking that his beloved brood still slumbered safely in their glass jars.

“Your so-called ‘children’ I take it?” Skinner mocked disdainfully.

Garrette said nothing. The Gladstone bag sat atop the bench. Inside, his medical instruments: bone saw, cleaver, and his wicked sharp scalpel. He eased a step closer. “I am a doctor. They are part of my studies—”

“Studies into what? Depravity? Tricksterism?” Skinner lifted his cane and pushed open the cabinet door. Inside, the two phrenology busts topped with theatrical wigs and whiskers.

“Wigs. Disguises. Who are you really?”

No response.

“I also found this pistol,” Skinner said, brandishing the revolver. “Hardly something I would expect a man in the medical profession to possess.”

“My army revolver. I was a surgeon—”

“In Crimea,” Skinner interrupted. “Yes, you have spoken of it. Or is that another lie?” He gestured with the pistol. “Take off the hat.”

Garrette seemed reluctant, so Skinner aimed the pistol at his face. “Go on.”

As Garrette removed the white top hat, he noticed that he had left the bottle of chloroform on the bench, loosely corked. Next it to it was a white handkerchief. He casually reached to set the top hat down on the bench, pushing the bottle with the brim of the hat so that it toppled. Chloroform gushed around the loose cork, soaking into the handkerchief.

“Now the wig.”

He eased off the wig, revealing a scalp traced with jagged red scars.

“And the rest — the full disguise.”

Garrette glared hatefully. He peeled off whiskers, eyebrows, mustachios. The creature named Silas Garrette evaporated before Skinner’s eyes, leaving a bald, gaunt face staring down at him.

“Doctor Garrette. My stalwart surgeon. You never did remove the pistol ball, did you?”

The doctor grinned morbidly. “No… and by now it is likely gangrenous.”

Skinner shuddered at the man’s venom. With his free hand he lifted a bottle of laudanum he had discovered, his hand tremoring as he fumbled it to his lips.

“You’ve imbibed a good deal of laudanum, haven’t you, Augustus? I can tell by your pupils. You probably could not shoot straight if you tried.”

Skinner flung the bottle at the doctor’s feet, smashing it, splashing laudanum across the doctor’s trouser legs. He drew the hammer of the pistol back and centered the muzzle on his adversary’s face. “On the contrary. I think I’ve had just enough to steady my aim. Shall we see if I can shoot straight?”

Doctor Garrette’s lips tightened to a slit. The sickly sweet odor of chloroform billowed in the air.

“How many atrocities have you committed under the guise of healer?”

“The public would not understand my work.” Garrette lifted one of the glass jars. Inside, his special child — Janus, the double-faced baby — nodded gently in its chemical currents. “As a surgeon in Crimea I probed the mysteries of death. With a scalpel I could tease apart the tissues of life until I cut away the fibers binding the soul to the body and liberate it. Now, I am probing the nexus where inanimate matter receives the quickening and is shaped by the forces of nature.”

Doctor Garrette’s voice trembled with passion as he spoke; his eyes gleamed in the flickering gas light.

“With those abominations? You truly are deranged!”

By now the aroma of chloroform, slightly sweet in small quantities, soured the air.

Skinner gasped, suddenly breathless. “What is that infernal smell?” He tried to rub his face with a clumsy hand but missed.

“The smell is chloroform. I tipped the bottle over and it is dripping into the white handkerchief next to where you sit. I am quite inured to breathing chloroform — a result of my addiction these many years — but I am sure that you are feeling its effects quite strongly.”

Garrette’s words seemed to rattle down a tin chute into his mind. Beneath it, Skinner became aware of a deep susurrant respiration — his own breathing. His eyelids seemed suddenly heavy and he realized with terror that he was on the verge of lapsing into sleep. He fought to stay awake, but found himself gripped by a dreamy paralysis. Although he fought it, the hand holding the pistol sank slowly into his lap. His eyelids drooped shut for what seemed like a moment but when he opened them he found the gun had magically vanished from his hand. His eyes fluttered and closed again. And this time when he opened them Doctor Garrette was seated on a stool in front of him, a scalpel clutched in his hand; unrolled on the bench next to him the leather holster of surgical instruments.

“To a surgeon,” Garrette said in an echoey, underwater voice, “the human body is little more than a puppet made of meat: a collection of sticks, the skeleton, animated by the contracting forces of muscles working against ligaments and tendons. For example, if I sever the tendons behind your knees…” He leaned down, drove the scalpel into the back of Skinner’s right knee and sliced upward, severing the tendons, and then did the other leg. “…you lose the ability to stand up.”

Skinner’s eyes widened. He realized with horror what was being done to him. He could feel pain, but only distantly. The outer limits of his body had dissolved, leaving him a passive observer — a balloon floating in a cloud of chloroform.

“And lastly, there’s that tongue of yours, which is sure to begin wagging.” The gaunt face swam up close, filling his vision. The reek of chemicals was gagging. He felt his jaws being spread as Garrette reached in and seized his tongue, drawing it out of his mouth, stretching it.

“Yes,” Doctor Garrette said. “I’m afraid it’s going to have to come out.”

He caught the glitter of a scalpel and then his head jerked as the doctor sawed away at the meat.

Unfortunately, Augustus Skinner remained conscious, his soul trapped in its prison of suffering flesh for the duration of what proved to be a long and horribly tedious operation.