She responded stiffly, “I’ve no idea what you mean, Dr. Warthrop.”
“Regrettably that very well might be so,” acknowledged the doctor icily. “And all the more appalling if it is! To view your shameful neglect as altogether fitting and humane is beyond deplorable-it is inhuman. You may inform your master that I am not finished here. I am not finished, but Motley Hill is. I shall personally see to it that he is punished to the full extent of the law for the homicide of Hezekiah Varner.”
He stepped toward her. She flinched, shrinking back in the fiery face of his righteous indignation.
“And I pray-as he should not-that the law shows him-and you- the same mercy you have shown these poor souls entrusted to your care.”
He brushed past her cowering form without waiting for a reply. He threw open the heavy front door with such force that it slammed into the wall with a reverberating crash. Halfway across the overgrown lawn, the doctor drew rein and turned in his saddle to regard the old house with its peeling paint and sagging roof, brooding in the bright morning light.
“Though Varner himself might argue it about his life,” he mused, “it cannot be said about his death, Will Henry. His death shall not be in vain. There will be justice for Hezekiah Varner and all those who suffer inside those accursed walls. I will see to that. By God, I will see to that!”
*
*
FOLIO II.Residua
SEVEN
“You Have Failed Me”
I did not know what to expect upon our return to 425 Harrington Lane, beyond something for my empty stomach and a pillow for my weary head. From the curt summons I had posted by express mail the day before, I suspected the doctor intended to await the arrival of John Kearns before proceeding against the Anthropophagi, but I dared not ask him, for he had quickly fallen into one of his taciturn moods, growing more uncommunicative with each passing mile.
He left me to stable our horses while he disappeared inside the house. Once they were watered and fed and the dusty miles brushed from their coats, and after a brief visit with ol’ Bess, I dragged myself inside, indulging in a tiny, flickering hope that the table might be laid with something of passing palatability. It was a vain hope. The basement door hung open, the lights below burned brightly, and ascending the narrow staircase was a clamor of slamming drawers and heavy objects being dragged or shoved across the stone floor. After a few minutes of this violent upheaval, he came bounding up the stairs, gasping for breath, cheeks ablaze. Ignoring me, he barreled down the hall and into the study, wherein another ruckus of slamming drawers began. When I peeked through the doorway, he was sitting at the desk, rifling through a drawer.
“Must be something,” he muttered to himself. “A letter, a bill of lading, a contract for services, something…”
I jumped when he slammed shut the drawer. He looked up with a startled expression, as if I, his sole companion in life, were the last person he expected to see.
“What is it?” he demanded. “Why are you hovering there like that, Will Henry?”
“I was going to ask-”
“Yes, yes. So ask. Ask.”
“Yes, sir. I was going to ask, sir, if you’d like me to run to the market.”
“The market? Whatever for, Will Henry?”
“For something to eat, sir. We’ve nothing in the house, and you haven’t eaten since-”
“For the love of God, boy, is that all you ever think about?”
“No, sir.”
“What else, then?”
“What else, sir?”
“Yes, what else. Besides food, what else do you think about?”
“Well, I… I think about many things, sir.”
“Yes, but what are they? That was my question.”
He glowered at me, thin fingers drumming on the polished desktop.
“You know what gluttony is, Will Henry.”
“Yes, sir. And hunger, too, sir.”
He fought back a smile. At least I told myself that; he may very well have been fighting an urge to hurl the handiest heavy object at my head.
“Well?” he asked.
“Sir?” I asked.
“What else occupies your thoughts?”
“I try to… understand, sir.”
“Understand what?”
“What I am to… the purpose of… the things you are trying to teach me, sir… but mostly, to be honest, sir, for lying is the worst kind of buffoonery, I try not to think of more things than the things I try to, if that makes sense, sir.”
“Not much, Will Henry,” said the doctor. “Not much.”
With a dismissive wave he added, “You know where we keep the money. To the market if you like, but straight there and straight back, Will Henry. Speak to no one, and if anyone speaks to you, all is well; I am busy with my latest treatise, whatever seems most natural to you, as long as it is not the truth. Remember, Will Henry, some falsehoods are borne of necessity, not foolishness.”
With a much lighter heart I left him to his rummaging. Glad was I for this brief respite-it was not an easy thing, being an apprentice to a monstrumologist of the doctor’s temperament-and doubly glad for the very mundanities that most laymen take for granted and even bemoan in their shortsightedness. The simple chores and errands that filled my days were welcome reprieves from the nights’ dark business, filled with unexpected callers and mysterious packages, midnight sojourns in the laboratory and pilgrimages to farflung forgotten regions of the world where the natives had not suffered to be civilized to the point where they forgot to fear what might lurk in the dark. The everyday drudgeries of life were not so to me. After cataloguing the internal organs of a creature from a nightmare, washing the cutlery was a joyous exercise.
So I fairly bounded up the stairs to wash up. I changed my shirt. (It smelled faintly of Captain Varner’s room, a peculiar and distinct amalgamation of bleach and decomposition.) But one small item was missing, and before leaving I sought out the doctor. I found him in the library, pulling books at random from the shelves, flipping through the pages before tossing them helter-skelter upon the floor.