Ghosts by Gaslight - Jack Dann [74]
Only when investigators found Margaret’s charred skeleton in the remains of the house, the back of her head apparently staved in by a hammer, and he was formally accused of murder—only then did Doctor Gordon emerge from the catatonia that had gripped him since his discovery. But he remained stubbornly mute. Even when he was charged, he said nothing. He was transferred from the hospital to Exeter Vale and has remained here ever since, sleepless and to all appearances unrepentant, pending a proper psychological examination.
On the fourth day, he seemed at last ready to talk.
“And here we are,” he said when he had finished his sorry tale. “What do you think? Am I deluded? Depraved? Both?”
I refrained from commenting on his condition. It seemed clear to me that the man had suffered a major breakdown. Perhaps he truly believed that someone else had killed Margaret, but the facts of the case are plain. He was alone in the laboratory when Margaret entered. He admits that himself, invisible spirits notwithstanding. She came upon him unexpectedly while he was in the midst of demolishing his recent work. Who knows what he imagined, in the grip of such ungovernable emotions? She intruded; he was discovered. So Margaret Gordon died a violent death in the house she had shared with her husband for twenty years, and only her husband could have killed her.
I believe he understood my conclusions without requiring me to declare them. He was merely deluded, not deprived of his faculties. I knew that, Inspector Berkeley, but I nevertheless allowed him to get the upper hand.
“If you will not release me,” he said, “then I would like to see Margaret. Where she lies, anyway. She must have been buried by now. We have adjacent vaults reserved in the Catacombs of the Lower Cemetery, and I hope to lie next to her when this grisly business is over. Do you think that might be arranged? If so, I will go quietly—plead guilty and of sound mind, confess whatever you like. You have heard my story, and if I cannot convince you of the truth of it, then I have no wish to cause further inconvenience to you or anyone else.”
The request was not altogether surprising, nor the granting of it wholly unjustified. I will defend that conclusion to the grave. For a dangerous madman, there would have been no question of release. But he, who seemed sane enough, lacking only the honesty and good character to reveal the whole truth about what happened that ghastly night—him I could not deny. It seemed certain to me that, in a deranged state brought on by insomnia, and by romantic circumstances he was naturally wary of revealing, he had murdered the one person he had ever been a danger to, and that I or anyone else was therefore safe in his presence. Granting his request could ease the conclusion of his trial and leave the resources of both judiciary and asylum free for those in greater need.
“Tell me just one thing,” I said, before taking my leave to obtain permission from Superintendent Gilfoyle.
“Anything, Michaels.”
“You said you felt something when you came here—an intangibility, a profundity, or words to that effect. What do you think that might have been?”
He studied his hands as though looking for bloodstains.
“Perhaps no more than my imagination,” he said. “I shouldn’t have mentioned it. You will think it the nearness of the Creator, perhaps, or fate’s cold hand upon me, some such nonsense.”
“Hardly,” I rebuffed him. “I am, as you say, a scholar, and I read extensively in the new theories of mind. My speculations on such matters lead me in very different directions—inward, not outward. The feeling came from part of you, I would say, from some unnoticed