“Michael?”
My heart nearly stopped. The man removed his hat slowly, staring at me through eyes I’d seen glazed and closed so few days in the past. He didn’t seem to see me, not really, and yet he reacted to Silverman’s words with perfect understanding. The dazed, haunted expression of those eyes burned into my mind, and I had to shake my head to clear the sensation of—something—something dark and deep. Something wrong.
“This is quite impossible,” I stated. “There is no way this can be the same Michael Adcott that I examined earlier in the week. That man had sustained a direct stab wound to the back, penetrating a lung, and he lay dead in the street at least an hour before I arrived on the scene. There was a constable on the spot—Johnston was his name.”
“And yet,” Silverman said, holding up one hand to silence me, “Michael Adcott stands and breathes before you, a very alive, and suddenly destitute, man. Only your intervention, Dr. Watson, can prevent a horrid miscarriage of justice.”
This was a strange situation, to be certain, but I fancy that I’ve acquitted myself well in any number of odd happenings over the years. Without hesitation, I stepped closer and stared at the man before me. He wavered back and forth, as if his legs barely held him upright, and I squinted, trying to find some fault between my memory of the dead man and the one who’d disturbed my evening.
“Impossible,” I muttered, stepping back. “Preposterous.”
Silverman eyed me coldly. “And yet, a fact that is difficult to deny, I suspect,” he said shortly.
At this, the plump man, who’d remained silent until that moment, stepped forward, fumbling a monocle from his breast pocket and perching it on the bridge of his nose with a palsied hand. The lens teetered, and I was nearly certain it would drop from its perch before he could steady it, but miraculously the man got it under control. He lifted a small sheaf of papers, bringing them closer so he could glance at them through the lens.
“It would seem,” he spoke, the words slow and forced, “that we have a situation before us requiring the utmost in haste and discretion.”
“You would be Mr. Jeffries,” I stated, not waiting for an answer. “I would expect, sir, that of all gathered here, you would be first to note the absurdity of the claim laid before me. Dead men do not pry themselves from the grave, no matter the fiscal windfall it might provide themselves or others. This man cannot be Michael Adcott.”
Jeffries glanced up from his papers quickly, nearly sending the monocle flying. “I assure you, Dr. Watson, that he is. I have served the Adcotts for the past twenty years as solicitor, and I know my client when he stands before me.”
“Which would lead me to believe, sir, that you have mistakenly pronounced Mr. Adcott dead.” Silverman folded his hands in front of him and peered down his nose at me.
I must say that I would rather admit to an error in judgment than to the possibility of the walking dead. All evidence and proof aside, I needed them gone just then.
“Return here tomorrow at four sharp and I’ll have the answers you seek,” I told them, shoving the papers at Silverman and marching them forward.
Holmes had grown contemplative; his eyes were focused, but not, I think, on any point in the reality we shared. Leaning forward in my chair, hands on my knees, I gazed at him anxiously and finished.
“With the house again empty and my heart still beating a savage rhythm in my chest, I could think of only one thing to do, and that was to bring the matter to you.”
Holmes eyes shifted, and he rose suddenly. “And well you did, my dear Watson, well you did indeed.”
He was already walking toward the door, wearing an uncharacteristically distracted expression. “I must see to some things, Watson,” he said suddenly. “And you must rest, old friend. When the sun has risen a little higher in the sky, we shall see what we can find.”
“But, have you no thoughts on this matter?” I cried.
“Thoughts are often all that we have, Watson. There is nothing that I can say for certain, but I do have—thoughts. That is for tomorrow. Go and get some rest.”
With that, he opened the door, and I could think of nothing to say or do, other than to stumble out into the night and off toward home, wondering if my old friend now thought me daft. The sky was already stained a deep bloodred with the sunrise.
Silverman glanced furtively to either side, then slipped through a massive wooden door and into the depths of the squat, monolithic building beyond. The exterior was dingy brick; even the soot and grime seemed soiled, and there was an oily sheen to the place, gleaming sickly in the early-morning light.
He carried a case under one arm, and he’d come on foot. No coach waited outside that door, nor did anyone spot his entry. There had been precious little traffic through those doors in recent years, and what there was, men tended to ignore. Such knowledge was best left to others, or to no one at all. It was a dark place, and the screams of those who’d entered and never been freed echoed through the air surrounding the place like a hum of electricity. So it seemed to some.
The Asylum of St. Elian had been closed for reasons never released to the public. There were rumors of dark experiments, of torture and sin, but they were not often repeated, and usually died before reaching the level of greatness. There was nothing good in the building, and if it hadn’t required actual contact with the place, most would have been happy to wield one of the hammers that would bring it down.
Silverman had found no trouble at all in renting a portion of the fading edifice, and with Jeffries handling the legalities and paperwork, had managed to do so with near anonymity, the solicitor having been granted the right to sign on Silverman’s behalf. The laboratory of St. Elian’s, and the ward nearest that foul place, had come under Silverman’s control easily and without contest. Even the homeless and the drunks had avoided the place. It was empty and lifeless as a tomb, and that suited Aaron Silverman just fine.
Now he made his way down the dark main corridor and fumbled a large skeleton key from one pocket of his jacket, balancing the leather case precariously under one arm. He’d cleaned up as much as was possible—or necessary—but the old lock ground its metal tumblers together in a sound near to disbelief at the intrusion of his key. St. Elian’s hadn’t welcomed him gladly.
Once inside, Silverman wasted no time. He moved about the room, bringing the dim lights to life and placing the wooden case carefully on a bench just inside the door. The laboratory was much as he’d found it. There had been a great deal of equipment left behind when the building closed, and none had felt the urge to return and clear it away. The thought of the use it might have seen was enough to slap away even the greediest of fingers. Silverman had carted in, late at night and under cloak of the deep London fog, the last remaining bits of what he’d dragged from his father’s home—his inheritance.
Despite the hum and glow of the lamps, shadows clung like swamp lichen to every surface and bit of furniture. Silverman shivered; then, irritated with himself, he drew forth a box of matches and lit the large oil lamp on the table beside his case. Turning up the wick, he watched as the flame licked upward, flared, and settled. Standing in the pool of light this created, he felt a little of the spell of the unease lifting and drew a deep breath.
There was little time, and there was no room for delays, or hesitation. Silverman flipped open the case and stared down at the contents. The interior was lined in rich velvet. In slots manufactured to accommodate their exact shape and size, a line of six vials rested. The first three were empty. In the next two slots, a greenish liquid roiled. It was not quiescent, as it should have been, sitting still on the table. It swirled and curled toward the edges of the vials, reaching up the sides and falling back down—as if trying to escape. The sixth and last of the vials contained a flat red powder. Silverman stared for a few moments longer, as if mesmerized.