James McGee - Resurrectionist

“I believe that sense of awakening is so intense that the fabric of the delusion begins to expand backwards and forwards in time, forming a kind of framework, an explanation, if you will, for events that took place long before it existed, perhaps as far back as childhood. It’s the same going forward. Whenever a new experience is received, that too is perceived to be an intrinsic part of the framework.”

Hawkwood’s head was starting to ache. It occurred to him that the colonel wasn’t the only one whose brain was spinning. “So to the colonel this moment of enlightenment would have been like some kind of

…” he searched for the word “… revelation?”

“That’s as good a definition as any.”

“And this revelation gave him the idea to escape?”

“I see that you have begun to follow my reasoning.”

“So to us, killing the parson was cold-blooded murder, but to the colonel it would have made perfect sense.”

“Yes.”

“Cutting the priest’s face off made sense?”

“To Colonel Hyde, yes.”

“So escaping may not have been his sole ambition. It was only the beginning. And unless we discover the nature of this… revelation, we won’t know the form of his delusion or what he might be planning to do next?”

“That is so, broadly speaking.” Locke leaned forward, his face earnest. If he was impressed with Hawkwood’s apparent grasp of the situation, he gave no indication. “And that, of course, is the problem, for the colonel’s delusion is his reality, no one else’s. Only he does not know that. You recall, I told you about Matthews and his Air Loom, the thing that he believes controls people’s minds?”

Hawkwood nodded.

“Let me show you.” Apothecary Locke opened a drawer in his desk and took out a sheaf of documents. He began to sift through them. Hawkwood moved to the desk to look over Locke’s shoulder.

“Here,” Locke said. Extracting four sheets from the bundle, he spread them out on the desk.

Three of them were clearly architectural drawings.

“These are Matthews’ plans for the new hospital. As you can see, they are of a very high standard. And this — ” Locke said, passing over a fourth sheet “- is his Air Loom.”

Hawkwood stared down at the drawing in front of him.

It looked like a piece of furniture, a large box with a set of four large organ pipes protruding from the top. On the left-hand side stood three barrels which were connected to the box by flexible hoses resembling the tentacles of some strange sea monster. Seated in front of the mechanism was the figure of a man. His arms were manipulating two huge levers. Three other human figures were also shown, one standing, the other two lying down. Each one appeared to be transfixed by what looked to be a beam of light radiating from the device. The drawing, like the other two, had been very skilfully fashioned. Each component of the device had been designated a letter of the alphabet. The key to the letters was written in a neat copperplate.

“What are these?” Hawkwood pointed at the beams, which were tinted a pale yellowish-green.

“Magnetic rays. They are controlled by the man you see seated at those levers. He is using the beams to manipulate the thoughts of his victims.”

“And he really believes all this?” The whole thing was preposterous, Hawkwood thought.

“Most assuredly, and yet this is the same man who produced these splendid architectural drawings. If you knew nothing of Matthews’ circumstances, and someone else had shown you these plans, I’d wager that you’d never for one moment suspect the artist was of unsound mind. Am I right?”

Hawkwood stared down at the designs. There was little else he could do except agree.

“You understand what I am saying?” Locke said.

“I think you’re telling me,” Hawkwood said, “that, unless you happen to know the colonel’s history, to look at him there’s no way to tell that he’s mad.”

Locke nodded. “Essentially, yes. He can formulate ideas and arguments, but in his case it’s as though — how can I put it? — his thoughts and feelings, even his memories, have been taken over by an outside force. To the colonel, it would be as though messages are being forced into his brain.”

Hawkwood hesitated, trying to grasp the implications. “Messages? You mean he thinks people are talking to him, telling him to do things? Like… what? Voices in his head?” Even as he posed the question, he thought the idea sounded ludicrous, but to his surprise the apothecary nodded.

“And these… voices… told him to murder the priest?”

Locke made a face. “A simplification, but, yes, I do believe that might account for his actions. Not unlike Matthews and his revolutionaries.”

“Tell me about the priest,” Hawkwood said.

The apothecary’s face seemed to sag. He suddenly looked older than his years. “There you have me. The Reverend Tombs was here because I chose to disregard the hospital’s regulations.” He looked up. “Ironic, wouldn’t you say?”

“What are you telling me, Doctor?”

Locke sighed. “A hundred years ago, the superintendent thought it would be a good idea if visiting days were introduced, allowing the public to interact with patients. The scheme proved very popular. The crowds flocked, the patients flourished. But then the gawkers began to arrive, and with the gawkers came the pedlars and the pickpockets and the pulpit bashers, not to mention the doxies. Come to Bedlam, pay tuppence and watch the lunatics perform. What fun! It wasn’t long before Bethlem became just another attraction, like the Tower and the Abbey. So, the visits were stopped. No more sightseers, no more pedlars, and no more preachers. It was the governors’ fear that their sermons were as likely to inflame the patients as pacify them.”

“But you didn’t agree?”

Locke steepled his fingers. “On the contrary. At the time, they were probably right. It’s hard enough trying to keep the poor devils quiet as it is, without having some irate Wesleyan ranting up and down the corridors. But there are preachers and there are preachers. I am not a particularly God-fearing man, Officer Hawkwood, but I’m quite prepared to believe in the efficacy of prayer and contemplation as a means of calming the fevered mind. Not that it works in every case, of course. But, in certain instances, I would consider the taking of counsel to be very therapeutic. And they do say, after all, that confession is good for the soul, do they not?”

“They might also say that ten o’clock at night was an odd time to be hearing someone’s confession.”

The apothecary flattened his palms on the desk. “The governors’ ruling still applies. Although I personally saw no harm in the Reverend Tombs’s visits, I felt that a certain amount of discretion was advisable. At that time of night there are fewer staff around, not so many eyes to see or mouths to spread idle tittle-tattle. Though I understand that on this occasion Reverend Tombs was a little later than he had intended. He told Attendant Leech he’d been attending to parish matters. A burial, I believe it was.”

“His parish is St Mary’s, correct?”

The apothecary nodded.

“We dispatched constables to his house,” Hawkwood said. “Not that it’s done any good, seeing as we sent them after the wrong bloody man.” Hawkwood paused to let the point sink in. “Which prompts me to ask you how the two of them came together in the first place. How did they meet?”

“It was purely by chance. We had an application, about a year and a half ago, to admit a patient who was suffering from the most distressing and quite violent fits. His family arranged his admittance, as they were no longer able to cope with his condition. They were fearful the poor devil would harm his children. The commissioners accepted the petition and we took him in. He was later transferred to our incurable department. Sadly, his condition continued to deteriorate. When it became clear there was no further hope, the family asked that he might receive visits from the Reverend Tombs. The patient had been one of his parishioners and it was hoped that, in his final days, he might derive some comfort from the reverend’s presence. I took it upon myself to arrange for the Reverend Tombs to visit him. I do believe it helped. Towards the end, there were moments when he was able to converse in quite lucid terms and bid his family goodbye. It was a very sad case for all concerned. The patient, incidentally, was a former soldier, an infantryman who’d fought in the Peninsula. It was my suspicion that his condition also harked back to his time on the battlefield. Not that it could be proved, of course, though Crowther’s examination of his brain did at least confirm it had suffered morbid damage.”