Abberline nodded. “Then I can count on you if I need medical information?”
“By all means.” It was Mark who answered. “If anything turns up, please let us know.”
“I’ll be in touch.” The inspector turned and moved down the hall, the sound of his footsteps mingling with the faint clank of metal from inside his bag.
Trebor waited until he disappeared around the corner at the far end, then turned to Mark. “Why did you volunteer?”
“For the same reason you did. I want to help.”
“That may not be wise.”
“How so?”
“Consider the circumstances. All this unrest here in Whitechapel, fears of a mass murderer roaming the district, suspects being mobbed in the streets. Every foreigner is under suspicion — Jews, Poles, Russian anarchists — even Americans.”
“But that’s ridiculous. No one would accuse me.”
“Don’t be too sure,” Trebor said. “Suppose someone asked you where you were on the night of the last murder?”
“I’d refer them to you. We were at the theater together—”
“And afterward you took off alone.”
“I went to my lodgings.”
“So you said. But can you prove that? Did anyone see you there?”
Mark stiffened, eyes wary. “What are you driving at? Do you think I killed those poor unfortunates?”
“Others might.” Trebor nodded. “So it’s best not to get involved.” He reached into his vest pocket and consulted his watch with a frown. “Past three — I must be on my way. We’ll discuss this later.”
He started down the corridor, leaving the younger man behind. As he turned he glanced back and saw that Mark was no longer alone. Now he stood deep in conversation with a young woman in a probationer’s uniform. As she raised her face to the light he recognized Eva Sloane.
~ TWELVE ~
Milan, A.D. 1354. Bernabò Visconti, ruler of Milan, disposed of prisoners he considered criminals against the state in tortures prolonged for forty days. On the forty-first day the victim, completely disabled and dismembered, was torn with pincers and then broken upon the wheel.
Eva had taken a shortcut through the library on her way to the infirmary. When she opened the door to the hall she saw Mark Robinson standing before her.
“Miss Sloane!” he said. “I’ve been hoping to run into you. Where’ve you been keeping yourself all week?”
“They posted me for infirmary duty.”
“So that’s it.” He smiled. “Well, no matter. You’re here now and I’m taking you up on your promise.”
“Promise?”
“Don’t you remember? When you postponed our dinner together you said you’d be available later. What do you say we dine this evening?”
Eva avoided his gaze. “I’m afraid that won’t be possible.”
“You’ve made other plans?”
“Yes.” She spoke rapidly. “As a matter of fact my time is not my own.”
“But I don’t understand. Is there some reason for you to keep putting me off like this?”
“A very good reason.” Now she hesitated, then took the plunge. “If you must know, I’m already spoken for.”
“Spoken for.” Mark’s smile faded. “You mean you’re engaged?”
“That’s right.” Eva forced herself to meet his glance. “It’s my fault, I should have made that plain to you from the beginning—”
“Indeed you should.”
“I’m sorry, truly I am. I oughtn’t to have led you on this way.”
“But you did.” Mark’s voice was strained. “Who is this fiancé of yours? Do I know him?”
“I don’t think so.” Eva took a step forward. “Really, there’s no point discussing it any further.”
“That’s for me to decide,” Mark said. “Forgive me for reminding you, but I did you a service.”
“For which I’m grateful. But that doesn’t entitle you to pry into my affairs.”
“Maybe it does.” Oddly enough Mark didn’t seem angry now; his tone was thoughtful. “The Chinese believe that if you save someone’s life you then become responsible for their welfare. I have a feeling they’re right.”
Eva shook her head. “I must say you’re a strange one.” She softened her words with a smile. “But I’m truly sorry. If only—”
“Yes?”
“Not now.” She turned away quickly. “Please, I have to go or I’ll be late.”
Mark didn’t reply; he stood staring silently, and no hint of any reaction was visible in his intent eyes.
But as Eva hastened off down the corridor she could feel those eyes boring into her back.
~ THIRTEEN ~
Romania, A.D. 1462. Vlad Tepes (Vlad the Impaler) had a somewhat special sense of humor. When oriental visitors to his court refused to doff their headgear in his presence, Vlad ordered that their turbans be nailed to their heads — with short nails, so as not to kill them instantly. He often dined while surrounded by his victims impaled on blunt stakes to prolong their agonies. When a guest complained of the stench, Vlad thoughtfully impaled him on a higher stake, above the source of the odors.
The lamplighter had just completed his task as Mark rounded the corner and stepped into the circle of golden glow.
He paused momentarily, staring down the street into the darkness beyond. The gas flame flickering above him lent luminance, not heat, but the illusion of warmth was there and he welcomed it.
Illusion.
Why do we seek light and shun the dark? Is it because our primitive ancestors huddled around fires in their caves as a protection against peril prowling the night? Light lends us security.
Mark shrugged. Security is an illusion too, he told himself. There never was a time when we were really secure, not in the rocky refuges of the past or the stone streets of today. Sunshine still gives way to darkness and in that darkness the beasts still prowl. Only now it’s the human beasts we fear.
Perhaps our longing for light is just an instinctive reaction. But what is instinct? Trepan the skull, then open it fully and examine the gray glob within; you won’t locate the seat of instinctual reaction there, any more than you’ll find the source of what we call the soul. Our sophisticated labels are no more exact than the fantasies of the phrenologists.
That much I’ve learned, Mark reflected. He’d come here hoping to master his physical repulsion at the sight of blood, the first requisite for objectivity in medical research. But the mechanics of surgery would never reveal what he sought; the brain could be dissected yet the mind withholds its secrets.
Mark moved forward into the shadowed street, his thoughts still churning. Secrets. Out loves, our hates, our dreams and desires — how are they formed and why does what we call intelligence give way to animal impulse? The human beasts out there in the night — what drives them to rend and tear and raven for the sight of blood which he so dreaded?
You’re a strange one. Now Eva’s words echoed in his ears. She was right, of course, but then all of us are strange, even to ourselves. Strange because all of us harbor secrets we cannot comprehend.
He thought of what he’d learned earlier in the day; of Dr. Hume haunting the shambles of the slaughterhouse and Trebor perching like a vulture over the lifeless flesh of those corpses at the inquests. Was it really the quest for knowledge that concerned them or were they prompted by darker needs? Strange ones indeed.
And Eva. She too was a strange one. He could have sworn she felt attracted to him from the first, just as he was to her, but now came this abrupt dismissal. She said she had a fiancé, but was she telling the truth? Behind her words he’d sensed a deeper import; it was almost as though she’d been afraid to reveal the real reason for rejection. If so, what did she fear? That was her secret.