Ripper Street

They managed to reach Scotland Yard only after luncheon, when the fog had once again descended upon the city and all the morning freshness had evaporated as if it had never been. Having hastily taken a bath and changed his clothes, Raven, freshly bathed and changed, was all smiles, in stark contrast to Abberline, who remained gloomy with contemplation, still unable to come to terms with the storm of events that had descended upon him during the visit to the Lodge. “When we go into the Yard, try not to talk too much,” Abberline said for what must have been the dozenth time in the past few hours. “Good Lord, Frederick, are we plotting a conspiracy?” “Knowing you, I would not be surprised. But no, I simply do not wish for rumours to spread through the offices that such high politics are involved in the Ripper case. It is quite enough that the entire city has been teetering between riots and Jewish pogroms for two months now.” “Have no fear, Inspector,” Edward gave the man a sympathetic pat on the shoulder before beginning his ascent up the front steps, “I was planning merely to ask Swanson a few questions and then return to Baker Street. Thanks to Gould's efforts, I now have something to occupy myself with. But were I in your position, I would give some thought to which version of today's events to feed Anderson — he will not leave you in peace regardless.” Having thus established a tenuous plan of action, they both entered the building, finding themselves once again the perpetual crush and stench of the Yard. The reception hall, as usual at this hour, had gathered a crowd of people comprising a motley assembly of complainants, witnesses awaiting interrogation, reporters hoping to be the first to catch some news, and sundry other idlers who had come in to warm their hands and, if luck held, their ears as well. Some of those waiting recognised and greeted Abberline, who by that point had already been successively glorified, exalted, and excoriated by every London newspaper. Raven drew a few sidelong looks as well: he stood out, and that alone made him interesting. Having successfully navigated the crowd, both finally ascended the stairs and after some time found themselves in the relative safety of Swanson's office. The Chief Inspector sat at his desk as usual, surrounded by ever-growing piles of reports and dispatches, which had already formed a small labyrinth in the room with narrow paths, sharp turns, and dead ends where, Abberline suspected, one might already stumble upon the skeleton or two of some unfortunate constable. The Chief Inspector, upon seeing the visitors, set aside his papers: “Gentlemen, any news?” “And of what kind,” Raven briefly relayed the information from the Lodge. “We need to find everything you have in your records on Silas Morrow. An Irishman, around forty years of age, possibly his name has appeared in cases connected with occultism or religion.” Swanson pondered: “Morrow… That does ring a bell. Mitchell!” he called into the corridor. “Bring the records under the letter M from the archives!” The young constable saluted and ran off to carry out the order, giving all three the opportunity to exchange the day's news. “George Godley submitted a report,” the Chief Inspector cast a long look first at Abberline, then at Raven, who pretended not to understand what he was referring to. “Told of a drunkard detained this morning, wandering about Whitechapel in the middle of curfew. Would you happen to know anything about this?” “Haven't seen such a person,” Edward replied with feigned seriousness, watching from the corner of his eye as the detective, having moved to the window, pretended to smoke while attempting to disguise his own laughter. “But rest assured, had I stumbled upon anyone of the sort, I would certainly have reported it to the night patrol.” “I would prefer, Raven, that at night you remained in the apartments allocated to you and did not 'stumble upon' anything except the chamber pot beneath your bed!” The Chief Inspector's weary rebuke was interrupted by Mitchell, who burst into the office with an enormous wooden box filled to the brim with file folders. Abandoning his attempts to give the consultant a dressing-down, Swanson indicated with a glance where to deposit the documents and, rising from behind his desk, began sorting through the cards: “So, Morgan, Morris, Morrison… Ah, here! Morrow, Silas. Just as I thought!” He extracted a yellowed card: “Silas Morrow, born 1846, native of Dublin. Arrested in 1880 on suspicion of murder. Case dismissed for lack of evidence. In 1881, committed to Colney Hatch asylum with a diagnosis of 'persecution mania and religious psychosis'. Date of discharge…” Swanson looked up, “Not indicated.” “A lunatic asylum?” Abberline let out a low whistle. “We should pay a visit there. The medical records might contain far more information than we have.” “First thing tomorrow,” Raven nodded thoughtfully. “Gentlemen, this changes everything considerably. Since the entire day tomorrow is to be spent travelling, I should like to take my leave and spend the remainder of the day at Baker Street. I shall occupy myself with deciphering the documents from our precious Grand Master. Any objections?” “Go on then,” Swanson nodded. “And do try to survive this night without adventures, Raven.” “And leave all the entertainment to the bobbies?” he began, but noticing the Chief Inspector's stern gaze, capitulated: “Very well, very well, I shall be a good boy. Warm milk and straight to bed. Frederick, I suggest we meet at Finsbury Park station at ten o'clock — we'll catch the morning express to Southgate.” Having received an agreeing nod from Abberline, the consultant departed, leaving the detective and the Chief Inspector alone. “You look tired,” Swanson broke the silence. “Has something else happened, apart from Raven's antics?” “Has His Heretical Reverence brought low the flower of Scotland Yard's constabulary?” came Anderson's voice from the doorway — he had somehow managed to slip into the office unnoticed. “What is this business about an arrest?” “It’s been an eventful day, all right. The arrest is nothing. Our consultant took it upon himself to wander about the murder sites in the middle of the night. What's worse, we appear to have a suspect.” “Worse? But that is splendid news!” “That depends… The circumstances grow ever more complicated, and the case threatens to take a political turn.” “Enough riddles, Abberline.” Anderson closed the door behind him and moved closer to the desk. “Or I shall begin to believe that this consultant's company is doing you harm.” Abberline rubbed the bridge of his nose, gathering his thoughts: “The murderer is presumed to be one Silas Morrow, a member of the Quatuor Coronati Lodge. According to the Lodge's Master, he stole some manner of magical tome from them and set about bringing to life some abomination described therein.” Anderson slowly sank into the armchair by the wall. “So there really is… occult business in the matter, after all?” “Worse.” The detective shifted his gaze to the window, beyond which dusk was gathering. “The Royal Family may be implicated in the matter.” Gould did not say so directly, but he hinted that the reason for Morrow's admission to the Lodge was the patronage of his benefactor. And one of their patrons happens to be Her Majesty's grandson Prince Albert, known for… certain of his predilections.” Silence fell, broken only by the scratching of pens from the neighbouring office. “Such things ought not to be spoken aloud, Frederick.” Anderson's voice sounded hollow. “One ought not even to think them!” “Have no doubt, Robert, I am well aware of the consequences of such statements.” Abberline finally turned from the window. “But it does provide a good explanation for why Ponsonby decided to bring in an occult consultant from the States. After all, you were not the only one to have the brilliant idea of placing the blame for any potential scandal on an outsider.” Swanson, who had been silently observing the exchange, cleared his throat: “Does Raven know?” “Yes, and he does not appear particularly concerned.” The detective shrugged. “I would not venture to guess what cards he might have hidden up his sleeve for such an occasion.” The Assistant Commissioner drummed his fingers on the armrest, pondering what he had heard. “And what of the search for this Morrow?” “We have his likeness, and Donald's archives turned up a mention of his name. Tomorrow we shall try to dig up more details.” Anderson half-rose from his chair, evidently seized by an idea: “If there is a portrait, would it not be simpler to post it throughout the city? Within half an hour the citizenry will drag him in bound hand and foot.” “Him or every vagabond who bears even a remote resemblance. Or none at all!” Abberline shook his head. “No, if there is a chance to catch him without raising a commotion, we had best take it.”

***

Abberline arrived at Finsbury Park the following morning at precisely ten o'clock. The station was already humming with morning bustle — passengers hurrying to the platforms, porters hauling luggage, while from the refreshment room wafted the scent of fresh pastries and coffee. Steam from arriving trains billowed above the platforms, mingling with the morning fog and creating an almost spectral, mystical atmosphere. The detective pushed his way through the crowd of clerks and commercial travellers, searching for the right train. Raven was already seated in a first-class compartment, having unfolded a fresh copy of the Daily Mail. The headline, spanning the entire front page, proclaimed: “Jack the Ripper Revisits His Murder Sites? Killer Spotted Again on Dorset Street!” “Admiring your handiwork?” Abberline grumbled, settling himself opposite. “I am considering lodging a complaint. A frighteningly inaccurate description!” Raven set aside the newspaper. “Good morning, Inspector. I trust you are hungry? I have ordered breakfast to our compartment — omelette and toast with jam.” “You are my personal saviour!” Only now did the detective realise he was indeed ravenously hungry. The housekeeper was not due until evening, and his wife had been feeling unwell again for the past couple of days, spending most of her time asleep after taking her medicine, with the result that the only food remaining in the house was stale crusts of bread that even the mice disdained to gnaw. “Any success with deciphering the book?” “Much of interest, but nothing unambiguously useful. The bastard who wrote it clearly had no intention of making his readers' task any easier.” “Bastard? A rather colourful characterisation.” “A deserved one. Believe me, Detective, what is described therein is utterly vile even by my standards. The author certainly made an effort.” The train jerked and slowly set off, emerging from the smoky bowels of the station into the light of day. Beyond the windows, the soot-stained houses of north London began to drift past. “Will you tell me about it?” “Wish to acquaint yourself with the everyday life of a simple warlock? Very well, as you please.” Raven began spreading jam on his toast with the air of a professor delivering a lecture. “To begin with, the text is written in a mixture of Latin and ancient Sumerian. Do not even ask how I came to know it. The main description is nothing remarkable — all that 'take up thy sword and wield it' and other such pompous drivel. Sorcerers are a very sentimental lot, you know. Read enough of such books and you will understand that in every one of their authors there died, unborn, a Matthew Lewis or an Ann Radcliffe. But when it comes to the practical matters, things become more interesting. You are familiar with the basic rules of demonology, Detective?” Abberline choked on his toast, coughing: “Ahem… can't say I've had the occasion.” “Not to worry, there is a first time for everything.” Raven 'reassured' him with saccharine sympathy. “Now then, if one disregards the pomp and paraphernalia, all summoning rituals reduce to merely three components: the true name to designate the target, a magic circle for the summoner's protection, and a command that you set before the spirit. Do everything correctly — and there you have your departed uncle's ghost telling you where he buried the family jewels. Bungle it — and in the best case you will sit there like a fool, smeared with chalk and chicken entrails; in the worst — something far more unpleasant than your uncle will answer your summons.” “Well, so far it all sounds rather straightforward indeed.” Abberline decided to play along. “Splendid. There are yet several more rules. For instance, one must know precisely that your request is within the powers of the entity you are summoning, and furthermore — under no circumstances may one interrupt a ritual once begun. Stumble in the middle — and the spirit will be summoned without purpose or will find a loophole in your protection — and then you are done for. In the best case, all that remains of the unfortunate warlock is a pair of smouldering slippers. In the worst — the same fate awaits his house, his neighbourhood, his city — everything within reach of the entity now unbound by obligation.” “You speak as though all this actually works,” the detective shook his head. “Very well, let us suppose for a moment that I believe all of this. Why not summon only peaceful spirits then? Surely not all of them seek to destroy everything around them?” “Would you be pleased if, in the middle of the night, while you stood in nothing but your undergarments, some blood-smeared idiot with dreams of world domination yanked you from your bed? Were I in the place of these spirits, I too would annihilate every warlock along with their entire bloodline. But there is another aspect: no one stoops to black magic out of a desire to save a few pennies on the purchase of a meat pie; everyone wants power, money, the death of a rival or a lover… And such things can only be granted by the most malevolent and dangerous demons, those unaccustomed to submitting to anyone whatsoever. And they, you may be certain, have no reason to love you. And here we come to the ritual that your Ripper has undertaken.” “He is no more mine than yours. Are you saying this ritual is worse than others?” “Far worse. First, five souls as sacrifices — unprecedented extravagance! Second — five protective circles. And third — the scale. What Morrow or Jack, or whatever he calls himself, has undertaken requires months of preparation and extraordinary skill. As for the possible result… Imagine that summoning a demon is like trying to push a terrified elephant through a wooden gate: one wrong word, one poke with a switch — and the beast will smash through your fence, your house, and leave of you yourself only a wet smear. Now imagine that your gate is the size of the East End, and the elephant can breathe fire, fly among the clouds, and hurl lightning from its eyes.” “You speak as though you believe such a thing is truly possible. By the way, you have never said whether you yourself have ever encountered anything supernatural?” “Every morning in the mirror, when I have overdone it with whisky. But in all seriousness, Frederick, during my travels through America I chanced to witness one rather remarkable ritual, performed by the shaman of one of the Indian tribes. This occurred in a little town called Silver Creek in Arizona. An ordinary mining settlement, one of millions. One day the local sheriff's son and a couple of friends decided to head out to the prairies to shoot at bottles, having first emptied all their contents — a common amusement in those parts. But that time luck was not with the lads — a stray bullet from one of them struck an Indian girl in the shoulder; she had merely been walking to town to trade beaver pelts for flour and tobacco for her tribe. One might think the misfortune could have been avoided, but by that point the boys had already drunk quite a few bottles, so by way of assistance they decided to rape the poor girl and continued to do so until evening, after which they threw the body into a ravine and went on their way.” “Damn it all…” “It gets better. The shaman, naturally, learned of everything and was none too pleased when the hunters brought him the ravaged body of Talula — that was her name. He demanded that the chief hold a just trial over the outsiders, which for the tribe would have effectively meant a declaration of war. The chief deliberated for several days but, of course, refused. His reasoning was understandable — the miners outnumbered them and were armed — the Indians would simply have been slaughtered. And so the shaman took matters into his own hands. On the evening of the third day he kindled a great fire and began his dance. A mesmerising spectacle, I can tell you. Only a man who is dancing for the last time in his life can dance like that.” “And then? What happened next?” “The shaman's dance continued all through the night. By morning the town was dead: in the wolf hour every inhabitant, young and old, began vomiting blood, and by morning most of them had suffocated, while others died later from blood loss. This could have been explained by simple poisoning, but here is the tricky part: the local doctor and federal marshals subsequently examined the bodies of the deceased, as well as the food, water, and everything else that came to hand, but found no trace of poison. And I had the opportunity the next morning to see the shaman himself: overnight his body had withered and his skin was peeling off in strips like old rotted parchment, as though he had aged fifty years all at once. He died at dawn, with his daughter's name upon his lips.” “You know, Raven,” Abberline said slowly, “when I joined the police force, I was told that the most frightening thing I would have to face would be drunken brawlers and pickpockets. At worst — a murderer with a knife in an alleyway.” “They lied, as usual.” The consultant gave a bitter smile. “However, do not despair — murderers with knives are still encountered far more often than warlocks, and to be honest, are capable of inflicting nearly as much damage as all the sorcerers put together.” The detective sat in silence for a long while, turning the cold cup in his hands. Finally he said quietly: “I have a wife at home. Emma. She has been ill for several weeks now; the doctors say the consumption may have returned. And three miles from us lies Whitechapel, where a mad warlock roams, capable of wiping half of London from the face of the earth…” “Forgive me, I did not know about your wife.” There was genuine concern in Raven's voice. Abberline sighed: “Few do. My first wife, Martha, died of the same affliction just six months after we were wed. And now Emma. It begins to feel like ill fortune, does it not? Anderson, when he learned of it, as I recall, said there was a curse upon me and advised me to enter a monastery.” “A statement entirely in his style. By the way, Frederick, since we have begun speaking of intimate matters… what would you wish for, were you given such an opportunity?” “What would I wish for? Banal as it sounds, to spend more time with my wife, even just a couple more years.” Abberline, noticing the silent question in Raven's eyes, hastened to answer: “Emma may improve, but hardly for long.” “My condolences. I wish I had the power to help.” “What, you will not try to find a suitable spell?” Bitterness showed through Abberline's smile. “Though at least that is honest.” “I do not like to make empty promises, Frederick.” Raven replied, looking the detective straight in the eye. “But rest assured, if it is within my power to grant your wish, I shall do so.” For a moment, something in Edward's words made Abberline believe in the utter seriousness of what had been said. Trying to conceal his discomfort, he attempted awkwardly to change the subject: “So how did the affair in Silver Creek end?” “In nothing, as is almost always the case. The tribe departed, the bodies were burned, and the story was hushed up, blamed on poisoning by underground gases. They changed the town's name, I believe, to avoid scandal. To Tombstone, can you believe it? Some official had a peculiar sense of humour. Within three months new miners were already moving in. People there continued to die like flies, by the way, but personally I would blame not sorcery but dubious hygiene, wretched moonshine, and rather too many firearms.”

***

Colney Hatch greeted them with grey skies and drizzling rain. Southgate station proved to be small and unremarkable in appearance — a wooden platform, a listing awning, and a watchman's hut from which wafted the smoke of damp firewood. Few passengers alighted: a pair of traders with bundles, an elderly lady with a basket, and the two of them. Abberline raised his coat collar against the wind and looked about, searching for a cabman. “Over there.” Raven nodded toward a solitary cab by the station building. The horse was listlessly chewing oats from a nosebag, while the driver dozed on the box, covered with oiled tarpaulin. It took a more generous payment than usual to convince the old man to take them to the asylum in such weather. He agreed reluctantly, muttering something about “barmy doctors” and “even barmier visitors,” and cracked the reins. The road led north through heathland and sparse copses. The landscape was dreary — bare fields, crooked fences, farmhouses scattered here and there with smoking chimneys. The farther they drove from the station, the more deserted it became. The rain intensified, becoming a proper downpour that drummed on the cab's roof and turned the road into a mire of mud. “A cheerful little spot,” Abberline muttered, peering into the grey curtain beyond the window. “Ideal for a lunatic asylum.” “Look at it from another angle,” Raven replied. “At least the screams of patients being doused with ice water will not disturb the peace of respectable citizens during their supper.” The detective shuddered. Something in the consultant's tone suggested he wasn’t joking. At last the outline of a massive building appeared ahead. Colney Hatch presented itself before them in all its grim majesty — an enormous complex of dark brick, stretching along the hill like a gigantic prison. The central block was crowned by a clock tower with a dome, from which endless wings extended in both directions with hundreds of identical windows. Many of them were barred. A high brick wall surrounded the grounds, and the massive gates with their wrought-iron grilles looked as though they were meant for holding prisoners rather than treating patients. By the gates stood a guardhouse, from whose window a watchman peered out warily. The cab stopped at the gates. The driver clearly had no intention of going any farther. “Shall I wait for you here or head straight back?” he grumbled. “Wait,” Abberline said curtly, climbing out into the rain. “We shan't be long.” “Aye, that's what they all say,” the old man muttered under his breath, but did not argue. The guard, a heavyset man with the red nose of a drunkard, reluctantly emerged from the guardhouse and slowly unlocked the wicket gate. “Who are you here to see?” he grunted, eyeing the visitors with suspicion. “The head physician.” Raven produced from his pocket a visiting card and some document bearing seals that Abberline had never seen before. “Scotland Yard consultant Edward Raven and Detective Inspector Frederick Abberline. Regarding the patient Morrow.” The guard squinted distrustfully at the papers, but the seals made an impression. He nodded and pointed to the main building: “Administrative block, straight down the path. Ask for Dr. Charlton, he's the senior man here. Only…” “What?” Abberline asked sharply. “Oh, nothing.” The guard hesitated. “Just be careful in there. And don't stray far from the buildings. Things happen here.” Raven smiled: “We shall bear that in mind.” They passed through the gates, and the wicket clanged shut behind them. A gravel path led to the main entrance between bare flowerbeds and sickly trees. The grounds appeared well-kept but lifeless — not a soul about, only the rain and the wind. Abberline involuntarily slowed his pace, looking around. In some windows shadows flickered; from somewhere far off came a drawn-out cry — whether human or avian, he could not tell. The place weighed upon the mind by its very existence. “You know, Raven,” he said quietly, “if I were sound of mind, a few months in a place like this would certainly drive me mad.” “And thus are Rippers born.” The consultant ascended the steps to the massive door of the main entrance. “Welcome to Colney Hatch, Detective.” He pushed open the heavy door, and they went inside.

***

Inside, the asylum proved even gloomier than without. Long corridors with walls painted a dingy yellow, dim gaslight, the smell of carbolic acid, mould, and something else — of sickness, despair, of time grown stagnant. From somewhere on the upper floors came muffled voices, the creaking of beds, someone's monotonous groans. A gaunt nurse in a grey dress with a faded apron led them up the stairs to the second floor, to the administrative wing. Here it was cleaner and quieter, but the atmosphere pressed down no less heavily. The woman silently indicated a door bearing the plate “Dr. H. Charlton, Head Physician” and departed just as wordlessly, as though afraid to linger near the visitors a second longer than necessary. Raven knocked. From within came a dry: “Enter.” The head physician's office was furnished with ostentatious solidity — an oak desk, bookcases lining the walls, a portrait of the Queen above the fireplace. But even here the same smell of carbolic acid was perceptible, and the windows bore the same bars as in the rest of the building. Behind the desk sat a man of about fifty with a neatly trimmed grey beard and cold grey eyes behind the lenses of a pince-nez. Dr. Horace Charlton gave the impression of a man who had long since ceased to be surprised by human madness and had learned to view his patients as statistics in medical journals. “Gentlemen from Scotland Yard?” He surveyed them with an appraising look, not rising. “How may I be of service?” “We require your assistance, Doctor.” Raven lowered himself into the visitor's chair without waiting for an invitation. Abberline followed his example. “We need information from you regarding one of the patients of your esteemed institution, Silas Morrow. He was committed here in the early eighties for compulsory treatment, after which his trail goes cold in the police archives.” “Ah yes, I remember him. I had expected his name to resurface sooner or later.” Charlton set down his pen and interlaced his fingers on the desk. “Silas Morrow. Admitted to us in March 1881 by court order. Diagnosis — religious psychosis with persecution mania. Claimed he saw demons, heard voices demanding that he perform some 'great deed'. A typical presentation for such cases.” “How dangerous was he?” asked Abberline, taking out his notebook. “Initially — quite. Fits of rage, attempts to attack the staff. We kept him in an isolation ward for nearly a year. But then…” Charlton pursed his lips, “his attending physician achieved a significant improvement. The patient became calmer, began to engage. We were even considering the possibility of his discharge.” “Attending physician?” Raven leaned forward. “Do you have a name?” “Of course.” The doctor opened a desk drawer and extracted a worn folder of records. “Frederick Warwick. A young trainee from London, a most promising specialist in mental disorders. He completed his placement with us in 1882–83. It was he who took on the treatment of Morrow when everyone else had already despaired.” “And what happened?” There was tension in Abberline's voice. Charlton fell silent, studying the records. When he spoke, his voice was noticeably dry: “In August 1883, Morrow escaped. During the evening rounds the orderlies discovered that the bars on his ward window had been torn out and he himself had vanished. How he managed it remains a mystery to this day. Our bars are sturdy; the patient had no tools.” He removed his pince-nez and began polishing the lenses, clearly playing for time. “Dr. Warwick was on duty that night. He was found in the corridor of the hospital wing, unconscious. Claimed he remembered nothing of what had happened.” “Remembered nothing?” Raven narrowed his eyes. “How convenient.” “I thought so too.” Charlton replaced his pince-nez. “An internal investigation was conducted, but no evidence of complicity was found. Dr. Warwick was suspended from practice pending the inquiry, and then…” he hesitated, “then the Rochester incident occurred.” “What incident?” Abberline asked sharply. The head physician leaned back in his chair, and something like relief flickered in his eyes — as though he was glad he could honestly say: “I have not the slightest idea. After Morrow's escape I received an inquiry from the Rochester police — they were interested in our former patient and Dr. Warwick. I forwarded them all the information I had. A week later an official reply came: case closed, no further inquiries required. That was the last I heard of it.” “You did not try to find out more?” There was scepticism in Raven's voice. “I tried.” Charlton looked him straight in the eye. “But I did not succeed. At every turn I was given to understand that my curiosity was unwelcome and could have consequences for my career. I have two children, Mr. Raven, and an ailing mother in Islington whom no one else would care for. I am no hero.” A silence fell. Abberline exchanged a glance with the consultant. “And where is Dr. Warwick now?” asked the detective. “I have no idea. He vanished somewhere in Rochester. He no longer practises, at any rate not under his own name. I made inquiries — he was struck from the medical register without explanation.” “Struck off without explanation?” Raven repeated. “That should have been a medical scandal!” “It should have.” Charlton spread his hands. “But it was not. Everything was hushed up very quietly and very quickly. Gentlemen, I have told you all I know. And more than I ought to have. If Morrow is truly involved in something — catch him. But do not expect to find answers here. Whatever happened in Rochester four years ago, someone very influential has a very keen interest in ensuring that no one finds out.” He opened the drawer again and took out two photographs, laying them on the desk. “Morrow at the time of admission and Dr. Warwick. You may take them; I have no need of copies.” Abberline picked up the photographs. Morrow in the picture looked haggard, with eyes burning with feverish intensity and dishevelled dark hair — practically a ready-made illustration of a madman for a medical textbook. But Warwick… A young man of about thirty, with regular features, a neat beard, and a calm, almost cold gaze. On the lapel of his jacket one could make out a large fibula of oval shape with a large stone in the centre. The ornament looked rather old and incongruously expensive. “A curious little thing,” Raven remarked, studying the stone closely — which even in the black-and-white photograph seemed to possess depth and appeared almost to shimmer in the light. “Hardly the adornment of a mere doctor.” “The Warwick family was quite wealthy, as far as I know.” Charlton shrugged. “But you are right; such a display of riches unsettled the staff. Warwick claimed the clasp was a family heirloom, a gift from his late great-grandmother. I have nothing against such sentimentality, but the sight of the stone distressed some of the patients. After several incidents I persuaded Warwick to wear it beneath his shirt.” “Thank you for your assistance, Doctor. You have been most helpful,” Raven rose. “Should you recall anything else…” “Remembering is a dangerous occupation in this matter, Mr. Raven.” Charlton also stood, indicating that the audience was at an end. “But if you absolutely must dig further — I advise you to begin with Rochester. And be careful. People capable of silencing the police of two counties will not hesitate to silence you as well.” He escorted them to the door, but on the threshold added more quietly: “One more thing. Before his escape, Morrow said a strange phrase to an orderly. The man dismissed it as ravings but recorded it in the log.” Charlton paused. “'A thousand minds shall become one, and the city shall find a new master. Every inhabitant — his eyes, his hands, his voice. Many bodies, one will!' I do not know if this will help you, but… it has haunted me ever since.” The door closed behind them with a muffled click.

***

Once beyond the hospital gates, Abberline could finally draw a full breath. Only then did he realise that on the way back he had been unconsciously holding it, eager to put the asylum walls behind him, and now his lungs burned as he struggled to steady himself. “A cheerful little spot, is it not?” Raven took the detective sympathetically by the elbow. “Makes one long to spend the summer holidays here.” “I marvel at your ability to jest, Edward.” The detective finally caught his breath. “What do you make of all this?” “I think that if we hurry, we shall catch the train to King's Cross. How would you feel about extending our excursion to Rochester? I hear it is particularly gloomy and rainy there at this time of year — just right for an investigation.” “As though we have a choice.” Abberline adjusted his coat collar. “Find a cab; I shall catch up with you in a moment.” Raven nodded and headed toward the guardhouse, where their driver dozed. Abberline watched him go, then took from his pocket the photographs Charlton had given them. Morrow stared out at him from the card with burning, half-mad eyes. And beside it — the calm, almost cold face of Dr. Warwick with that same elusive half-smile. “A thousand minds shall become one…” The detective shuddered, thrust the photographs back into his pocket, and hurried to catch up with the consultant. The rain had intensified, becoming a downpour, and the grey building of Colney Hatch behind them dissolved in the curtain of water, like a bad dream.