Ghosts by Gaslight - Jack Dann [76]
“Of course,” I said—and that is the last thing I remember. Constable Teale found me unconscious on the floor of the catacombs with a large bump protruding from the back of my skull, struck from behind just as Margaret had been—by her husband, Doctor Gordon.
YOU MIGHT SAY that, if what I tell you is true, I am lucky to be alive. I assure you that I curse the error of my judgment with every breath, and I wish I could explain what happened that day with any more clarity than this.
Certain facts are indisputable. The catacombs were sealed; the only entrance was attended by the two constables and the priest. No one entered or left until sufficient time had passed for them to come in search of us. When they found me unconscious and alone, reinforcements were summoned and the catacombs meticulously searched. Even Margaret’s vault, the most recently sealed, was opened, but her body was the only occupant.
Of Doctor Gordon there was no sign. He vanished that day as thoroughly as any ghost, my notepad and pen with him, and I believe you when you assure me, Inspector Berkeley, that no trace of him has been found.
I maintain that I had nothing to do with his disappearance, although I do not blame you for reaching the opposite conclusion. The only material way for the accused murderer to escape from the catacombs was with the assistance of an accomplice, and the constables’ solemn oath that they let no one enter or exit is supported by the priest’s eyewitness account. If these three are excluded from the list of possible collaborators, that leaves only me. Furthermore, I had the obvious opportunity to concoct this scheme, while supposedly interviewing him in Exeter Vale.
I am, however, sanguine about my confinement, for it has provided me with the opportunity to write this full and frank testimony—and to make one small but possibly critical discovery that escaped my attention in the catacombs.
In the inside pocket of my coat, folded carefully in four, I came upon a note written on one of my own notepapers, but in a hand very unlike my own. I enclose it with this account as evidence of the fugitive’s state of mind, and its bearing on the matter of my innocence.
Your conclusions must be your own, Inspector Berkeley. I have nothing left to reveal, and no further speculations to offer. (I presume, however, that you have interviewed the bricklayer, along with the porters of the asylum, and are doing everything in your power to find the woman Abiha, about whom Doctor Gordon speaks so vehemently.)
Yours most sincerely, et cetera,
John Wesley Michaels, M.D.
Michaels—
I am sorry to have used you in this despicable way. On entering the catacombs, I find that hope has returned; for the attainment of another possibility, the one that has thus far eluded me, is now within my grasp.
How much you believe of my story, I may never know. Perhaps none at all—in which case this short missive will provide yet more evidence to support a diagnosis of madness. If, however, you have detected the faintest ring of truth in my account, then you should attend carefully. The import of what I have to tell you has repercussions for not just this great Empire, but all humanity on this world.
Abiha told me that my experiments were flawed, and perhaps they were in application, but not in essence, for what else could possibly have drawn her to me? My machines sent ripples through the ether between worlds, alerting her and her allies to the existence of my work. They came to investigate; they misunderstood what they saw; they approached me, thinking me like them, free to wander the wondrous Helioverse she spoke of. Perhaps they hoped to recruit me. That I do not know—but now I know their cause, I can safely swear that I would never ally myself with such beings.
You see, Michaels, it occurred to me that night to wonder: if so many alchemists in our world had made the same discoveries—how they could possibly have been forgotten. Why, when their conclusions are so openly discussed