Ghosts by Gaslight - Jack Dann [75]
He regarded me with a critical eye for a good minute. I felt that he was surprised, and perhaps even slightly amused, by my claims.
“You may be right,” he said, finally. “I was wrong to belittle you, Michaels. I’m sorry.”
I dismissed his apology as unnecessary, but was secretly pleased to have earned it.
ON THAT ENCOURAGING note, I left him to see about the visit to Margaret’s resting place, in the hope that this would put the dreadful affair behind him for good, little knowing how complicit I was about to become in the conclusion of these events.
I wish you to understand and accept, Inspector Berkeley, that I acted unknowingly, and in full faith of Doctor Gordon’s good intentions. I will swear before any judge you name, in this world or the next, that I thought him resigned to his fate, that this last concession would see him walk to the dock and ultimately to the gallows. He spoke no more of his work or of the woman he felt had betrayed him. When I returned to his cell with the escorts assigned to him, he was already on his feet, his head bowed and his attire as neat as he could manage, given his circumstances. He seemed a gentleman fallen on hard times, not a villain.
Constables Teale and Collison secured his wrists with handcuffs and led him from the cell. A small steam carriage awaited us at the exit from the administration wing, where the patient’s temporary release forms were properly signed and witnessed. I rode with the driver, while my unfortunate companion sat between the two constables in the locked cab. We made our way down the long drive and through the main entrance under a sky as gray and leaden as granite, its featureless expanse broken only by the oval silhouette of an airship rising in stately fashion from the station with propellers deeply droning—one of Gordon’s own designs, if I am not mistaken.
The journey to Longbrook Valley and the catacombs of Exeter proceeded uneventfully. We were met, at the steps leading up through the Lower Cemetery to the entrance in the grim hillside, by the priest and, rather disconcertingly, the catacombs’ bricklayer, who was of the impression that we required his services. On the discovery that all of our party were living and no vaults needed to be sealed that day, he left muttering under his breath while Doctor Gordon and I ascended.
The arrangement was that the two constables would wait without while I accompanied the patient to the vault. The priest unchained the gate and allowed us through, then secured the entrance behind us. The air was cool and close within the catacombs themselves, and I longed for more light than my meager lantern provided. The walls were made of heavy, dark stone and fashioned to convey a sense of Egyptian antiquity. I was reminded of Gordon’s alchemical fantasies and wondered what he made of them now.
“I feel it again,” he told me, on that sepulchral threshold. “And I know now that it is fate, after all, brought me here.”
He seemed feverish to my quick inspection. “Do you wish to proceed? There would be no dishonor in turning back.”
“No,” he said. “I must see her. And I know now that I shall.”
We walked into the catacombs and followed the priest’s directions to the Dissenters’ section. There we scoured the sealed vaults, looking for fresh brickwork and a new brass plaque. I found Margaret before he did and stood in silence before telling him, reading the graven message that marked out the record of her days.
“Margaret Josephine Gordon, beloved wife, 1842–18—.”
It seemed very little to me then, and still seems so now.
“This is it,” said Gordon. He had come