Part 3, where we learn where blood is supposed to be

Tuesday, 13th of november, 1883

All our investigative travails have left us with a yearning hunger. Hunger for answers, and for cold cuts and cheese. And maybe some nice wine to go with it. Our appetites whetted, we retire to the Higgins estate, where we gather around the luncheon table. The questions abound: What is the real relationship between Geoffrey "The Knife" and our mysterious mad physician? Most of the victims are young women, why is one of them a small orphan boy? Why, after subjecting his victims to horrendous experiments, does the masked "doctor" then in an apparent fit of consideration spend inordinate amounts on placing them in care homes? Are we dealing with one masked culprit or several, since the victims' descriptions vary so much? What is the best wine pairing for slices of cold turkey?

The answers are scarcer, it must be admitted: The Knife, capable of violence as he obviously is, is no mastermind, and probably just does the menial work for his hidden master. The mysterious "medical fellow" must have access to substantial economic means - just the upkeep for the victims in care homes is considerable. And champagne. Obviously, champagne. Preferably the frog stuff, but Spanish or Italian in a pinch.

Reggie-boy's dogsbodies down at the Yard prove not to be entirely incompetent, and we are delivered a list of medical practitioners bearing the initials B.L. A varied lot, it must be said, but Major Whitcombe recognizes one of the names - one Benjamin Leslie. Apparently, there was some kind of scandal he was involved in some years back. Unseemly experiments on patients and the like. Certainly a promising lead. Reggie and the Major take themselves to the library to dig for old newsclippings or the suchlike to find more information about this Leslie-fellow, while I grab a much-needed constitutional on the Higginses couch. Philip, poor man, has taken the disappearance of his old man rather heavily, and has descended into one of his bouts of prolonged inebriation. I suspect he won't be much use for a day or two.

Properly rested, I join the research-team at the library, just in time for a missive from the police, informing the detective that the results of the post-mortem examination of poor Adhira, who sadly expired under our relentless questioning, is ready. That sounds quite a lot more exciting than digging into a mountain of paper, so me and Reginald head over to Ottohaus (queer name for a hospital if ever I heard one!), leaving Whitcombe to pore over the ink by himself.

I suspect the architects of hospitals are ardent conoisseurs of mythological texts. The matters of death and corpses are, hence, relegated to the dark subterranean chambers, far from the light of sun. Stinks like an abbatoir, too, one notices. The subject matter turns out to be utterly fascinating, though, if also rather horrifying. The doctor tells us he's never seen anything like Adhiras remains - a statement which is rather superfluous once we get to see it. All her innards are liberally coated in some disgusting black matter, thick and viscous. The scars she had on her chest and back were apparently connected to her veins and arteries, and the horrid black sludge had all but replaced her natural blood.

According to the doctor, her inner organs all seemed to be of differing age. Her liver, kidneys and lungs seemed old, bordering on ancient, whereas her guts were more appropriate for her age. Worst of all was her heart, it was positively shrivelled. Seems we weren't much to blame for the poor wretch's demise after all, her heart was set to pop at any moment. More mysterious still, when the doctor cut open her skull (yes, they actually do that, with a saw, I'm told), he saw small black protrusions inside it. At first he'd taken it for some sort of parasite, but it seemed to be growing out of her bones. Whatever that "medical fellow" was doing to these people, I got a distinct hankering for prescribing him a solid dose of lead, administered at high velocity at short range. Fortunately, I have quite the correct equipment handy.

Back at the library, we managed to dig the Major out of a veritable mountain of paper. However, his exploratory quest into the forest of papyrus had been a success. He returned clutching an actual article about that Leslie-fellow. As it transpires, what he supposedly did was make some infernal contraption to pump a "patient's" blood out of the body and back again. He also managed to unearth the address of Leslie's parents, their abode being in the vicinity of Notting Hill.

A quick carriage-trip later, we pulled to a stop outside a nice enough place. Separate gardens, two or three chimneys, the kind of place where a family of decent, but not outrageous means, would live. Reginald probably has several qualities, but his impeccable charm and etiquette are not necessarily among them. Still, him being the actual policeman among us, he insisted he should be the one to approach the Leslies. I at least managed to concoct a decent cover story for his inquiries: He would pose as an old university chum of Benjamin, wanting to get in touch as he was now back in London. That should get the information flowing, if delivered with any sort of finesse. Unfortunately, finesse isn't really old Smythe-Higgins's forte, so he properly cocked it up, to the point where he had to striaght up confess to being a plod. The mother swears blind that she has absolutely no idea about where her only son is in this world, but Reggie smells something off.

So we camp out in our carriage outside their house, and sure enough, after a while her ladyship emerges and gets into a coach, which we promptly follow. Discreetly, naturally. The oh so proper lady takes a detour to a dingy part of Soho, alighting by a crummy-looking tenement building. The kind of place one such as her wouldn't be caught dead at. As she goes inside, I naturally sneak in after her, taking a discreet position by the stairs, as she goes up to the first landing. 

Me being a naturally stealthy person, she doesn't notice me at all, which means I'm in a prime postiton to hear everything, as she knocks on a door on the first landing. And who, of all people, answers the door? Why, of course, it's the charming voice of Geoffrey "The knife" I hear. Jackpot! She pleads with the brute to tell her where her son is, which he doesn't. Then she tells him to get word to her son that the police are after him. That certainly precipitates our actions. We'll have to confront this bladed guy as soon as her ladyship has left, or risk him rousting our prey!

As she leaves, I rejoin my fellows outside and explain the situation: We need to beard the lion in his lair pronto, and squeeze him for any information he has about this ungodly Leslie-character and the whereabout of poor Higgins. Thankfully, the others don't argue. However, they insist we do it calmly. I'd rather just show up at his door and point my Webley in his face, get answers sprightly. The others, though, go off at some length about the need to not use firearms. A fateful decision, as it turns out, but I acquiesce.

As said, so done, we politely knock on the blackguard's door. As the door opens, mr. Beckett, bless his soul, tries to reason with him to cooperate and give us information. Predictably, his inclination is not thus, rather, true to his moniker, he pulls out a knife with a blade easily a foot long, brandishing it in our faces, violent intent clear. The situation deteriorating quicker than a monk's vows of celibacy after the third bottle of wine, I dive past our opponent, grabbing a nearby stool and swinging for his oafish head.

But damn and blast, the blighter possessed speed belying his considerable heft, dodging my wild swing and bringing his cleaver around in a wide arc, slashing my chest like a butcher having a go at a prize hog. Blood spraying the wall, fine tweed jacket in tatters, I fall backwards. Completing his swivel, he hacks next at Beckett, who has the presence of mind to jump out of harm's way.

With a harrumph worthy of an enraged walrus, the Major next body-slams into Geoffrey, forcing him down into a kneestand, trying to employ a bit of the old Greco-Roman on the brute. The detective piles on. As they struggle to conatin the raging ox, Beckett tries to twist the knife from his grip, but gets a bad cut in response.

At this point, I decide I've rather had enough. Unholstering my revolver, I proceed to fire a bullet through his hand, making him drop the knife and surrender. The beast subdued, I proceed to collapse on the nearby excuse for a settee.

While I lie there, leaking precious bodily fluids, Beckett wraps some makeshift rags around my torso to stem the flood. Jolly nice of him. Reggie, meanwhile, has put Geoffreys hands in irons and proceeds to question him, rather impatiently. After getting some rather bogus assurances of leniency, he spills the beans: His job has been driving the ambulance, collecting the victims for the "medical fellow", Benjamin Leslie. He's been doing this for about six months, and he doesn't have the foggiest what Leslie wants with the people he delivers. All he knows is that apparently, Leslie must have some serious backer or backers, because he has access to inordinate amounts of money. He also tells us that the latest "patient" - Ellen, the reason for old Higgins' involvement - didn't make it, and lies in a shallow grave in Hyde Park. I was sorely tempted to just shoot the fellow in the head right then, but thankfully, he also had useful information: An address. Leslie has set up shop in Mannet Street 12 in Soho.

Our detective fetches four strapping young constables to manhandle our prisoner, and we set out to Mannett Street. But wait, I hear you say - did I go with them? In my grievously injured state, wouldn't it be natural to seek medical treatment, rather than dash forward into more danger? Yes, that, I suspect, is how most people would think. But I am of a character completely immune to the vagaries of cowardice. I see not danger, feel not fear, but rather the thrilling rush of action. I could no more pass up the opportunity to see this through to the end, than I could turn into a swan and fly away.

Mannett Street 12 does not look like the lair of an evil mastermind. Rather, it looks like a hovel inhabited by the lowliest whores and dregs of society. We waste no time, but burst down the door. Inside is hardly better. A short corrdior leads to dilapitated rooms, and a set of stairs leading down. I can clearly, with my sharp senses, hear some sort of weird noises down the stairs, as of machinery or something, but also some sort of bubbling. The constables are hesitant to enter, but get a stern talking-to from Reginald, and accompany us as we descend the stairs, into the inferno.

The cellar looks like the storage room of a mad scientist. Chemical bottles, tubes, copper pans and tools. And a door, from whence the noises come. Inside, we get a glimpse inside a madman's brain.

Higgins lies strapped to an infernal contraption. Apparently, Leslie has graduated after graduating, he has made a new apparatus, which pumps blood out from the body, and some horrible, blackish goo in. The sight is, to put it plain, disturbing, and I see mr. Beckett go a bit green around the ears.

Higgins is completely out of it, and we quickly decide we cannot risk decoupling him from the monstrous machine without proper medical expertise on hand. Reginald dispatches a constable to fetch a doctor post-haste. Meanwhile, we decidew to keep watch over the house, in the hope that the monster responsible for this torture shows up.

We position ourselves discreetly in alleys leading to the house. After a half-hour or so, our patience is rewarded, as a very strange-looking fellow approaches the house.

Our "medical fellow" at last. As he goes towards the house, the Major accosts him, telling him to stop. Of course, he does the opposite, sprinting the other way, straight towards where I was standing. I, however, was prepared, with my gun out. A well-placed shot straight to his leg felled him like a tree. I may have imagined it, but I think I actually heard the Major call it an "excellent shot". A compliment? From him? Wonders never cease, I suppose.

Under the mask, as expected, is Benjamin Leslie. He turns out to be a proper raving lunatic, madder than a hatter. He's ranting and raving about "creating eternal life". When we press him on who he's working for, he just babbles nonsense about "the one" who comes "from the ocean". Naturally, we're not letting him anywhere near old Higgins, so he's carted away. In the cellar, we find lots of documents, a ledger of some sort, and barrels of that vile black stuff poor Adhira was clogged up with.

Finally, the doctor arrives, and manages to free poor Higgins sucessfully from the machine. He is promptly taken away to hospital.  As we leave the filthy place, Smythe-Higgins exchanges words with some scandal-seeking journalist from one of the morning papers. Reggie feeds him some balderdash about gangsters kidnapping an upstanding member of the community, and justice being served and blah blah blah. Finally, we leave the hell-hole behind, retiring to the Higgins estate, where I proceed to finally collapse on a sofa, quaffing a quart of Higgins' best Scotch to numb the pain from the horrible chest-wound.

Lesson learned twice this evening: Blood is supposed to be kept inside the body. Not bled out butcher-style or transported via devillish scientific methods.