The Hollows: A Midnight Gunn Novel Read online

  Constable Rowe shook his head,

  “I ain’t no mind for poetry. I have to process these murders. The commissioner wants a report as soon as possible. I have yours and your housekeeper’s statements, not much else I can do right now but wait here for the resurrection men to come and collect the bodies.”

  “Of course, thank you constable. I must go and check on poor Clementine again before I begin. She has suffered such trauma this night.”

  “She took quite a blow to the bonce your Housekeeper.”

  Midnight felt a surge of anger course through him, making the shadows twitch excitedly. He quickly suppressed it. It wouldn’t do to let that side of him show with a house full of strangers, especially policemen. Constable Rowe was familiar with him in the sense that he knew him as Gredge’s preferred case consultant, and they had met several times but Midnight had been careful never to show the full extent of his powers to anyone, even Gredge.

  Midnight found Mrs. Phillips upstairs in Polly’s room. She sat on the bed with her back to the door weeping. She turned when she heard him enter.

  “Oh, your lordship! Forgive me? It’s all my fault!”

  “Calm yourself dear Mrs. P. None of this is your fault. Who was to know that maniac would be watching the house? I should have been more vigilant and not left you alone. I should have waited for Rowe to arrive before Giles and I went out. There are a lot of things I should have done.” He thought back to the mime artist at the asylum, to Chinese Mary whose mind he’d made so addled she could not defend herself against Nightingale, Kim who had died by his hand...Polly whom he’d promised to protect. “Damn him! If he has hurt her I swear I will not be responsible for my actions.” His outburst caused a new wave of sobs from the distraught housekeeper.

  “Oh Sir! I’m sorry I couldn’t save them, any of them...He hit me see...and tied me up.” There was much sniffing and gulping of air as Clementine attempted to relay the story amidst her crying. “I shouldn’t have let him in... He said he was a doctor and you’d sent for him to attend to Miss Sally and Mr. Bromley before the nurse came tomorrow and...”

  “Wait! He knew of Miss Carstairs appointment?”

  Clementine gulped again.

  “Yes Sir, that’s why I let him in. I thought he must be who he said he was. I feel such a fool! I heard her screaming for me...and I couldn’t save her!” She broke down and he comforted her as best he could. Midnight knew she had been referring to Polly. The thought of the girl being so scared when he had promised to take care of her made him frantic. He must find her and Arthur and then he would...

  There was a knock at the door.

  “Sir? Your copy of Keats. Sorry to disturb you but I know it is urgent.”

  “Yes, thank you Giles. Could you accompany Mrs. Philips to the kitchen and make her some cocoa with brandy? I need some time to think.”

  “Of course, Sir. Come now Mrs. Phillips, let me help you.” Giles came around the bed and held out his arm for her, she took it and rose shakily from the mattress.

  “We must give them a proper burial Sir, no paupers graves...please? They deserve better.”

  “They will have the best of funerals dear, kind Mrs. P. I promise you.”

  “There’s something else, Sir.”

  Clementine held out her hand to him, something was curled inside her fist, she dropped it into his open palm. It was Polly’s bracelet.

  Midnight sat at his desk and poured over his copy of Keats’ collection of poems. The Labrodite bracelet that had once belonged to his mother was in his pocket. He patted it and made a silent promise to Polly that he would find her and never let her out of his sight again.

  Constable Rowe entered and informed him the resurrection men had arrived to remove the bodies.

  “They will be kept at the mortuary until you can make the necessary funeral arrangements,” he said.

  “Thank you, Constable. I’m much obliged.”

  “Any luck with the note?”

  “A Little. I need some information from you if you can?”

  “What sort of information?”

  “I need a list of names of men who were associated with the British Medical Association, ones who have been discredited or struck off in the last five years or so. Is that possible?”

  “I should think so. What is it for?”

  Midnight related to Rowe the contents of the vision he had seen inside Mary’s head,

  “I believe your Spring-heeled Jack to be a Doctor of some sort, Hemlock Nightingale is a ruse, an alias he uses to get close to his victims. This poem holds the key to finding the Inspector and Polly, I am sure of it. I feel like he wants me to find him, although I don’t know why, yet. I need to know his real identity. It’s a starting point at least until I can decipher the message within this poem.”

  “Consider it done. I’ll go myself. We need to catch this bugger and hang him.”

  “Agreed.”

  “I’ll go now, let you get on with that,” Rowe pointed to the note on Gunn’s desk. “The sooner I get that information, and you decipher that poem, the better. I’m sick of this bastard getting the better of us.”

  Midnight nodded and Constable Rowe retreated, leaving him alone with his thoughts. He read the poem a third time, hoping something might leap out at him. He listed what he already knew; Hemlock Nightingale is an alias, he frequented the Rainbow Club, he used opium, he’s harvesting souls, he’s connected with the medical association, he’s familiar with Keats...

  “What else...what else?” He muttered, tapping his pen on the desk.

  He’s an entertainer, a mesmerist, well spoken, a gentleman...

  Something about that fact still irked him; what was an educated gentleman doing working as an entertainer? Even if he had been discredited or lost his profession, most gentlemen had money, land and family to live off. Why would a gentleman lower himself so, deliberately place himself among the common folk of Southwark?

  The same reasons that I do?

  But that didn’t make any sense; Midnight shunned polite society in favour of the rowdy taverns, the filthy streets and the common folk because it gave him purpose. He found solace in the fact that he could build a hospital and dedicate his time and money to worthy causes. He knew how and where his money was best used because he placed himself amongst those in need. He aided Scotland Yard, tracked down murderers and solved crimes because it validated his uniqueness. He could be useful and do good things with both money and his powers.

  “What are you up to Nightingale? What is your purpose?”

  Midnight looked at the poem again, lines in the sixth and seventh stanza caught his eye,

  ‘Now more than ever seems it rich to die,

  To cease upon the midnight with no pain,

  While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad

  In such ecstasy...

  Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!’

  An idea was forming in Midnight’s mind, he read on and back again, looking for clues within the text.

  ‘Here, where men sit and hear each other groan;

  Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last grey hairs,

  Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies...

  Away! Away! For I will fly to thee,

  Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,

  But on the wings of Posey...

  And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,

  Cluster’d around by all her starry Fays’

  “Giles!” He jumped up from his desk and pulled hard and impatiently on the bell cord. “Giles? Hurry!” He paced the room until he heard nearing footsteps and then began chattering enthusiastically even as the butler entered the library. “Giles! Look, I think I have something,” he scurried back to his desk and pointed to the poem. Giles stood next to him, his head bent to read it. “The first stanza is obvious; he talks of a higher state of consciousness, the use of Hemlock as a poison like the story of Socrates.” He glanced at Giles who looked lost. “Socrates was put to
death for corrupting the youth. He committed two acts that condemned him to death; he wouldn’t acknowledge the Gods recognised by the city, and he introduced new deities. For this he was made to drink a brew of hemlock and died. In Nightingale’s case, he swaps hemlock for opium. I believe the gods in the poem are Hemlocks’ peers in the medical profession. And here in this line, ‘One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk’, Lethe is one of the five rivers in Hades. In Greek mythology if you drank from this river you lost your memories. Lethe was also the god of forgetfulness and oblivion. Are you seeing it yet?”

  “Seeing what Sir?” Giles shook his head.

  “Lines nineteen to twenty, it speaks of wanting to drink the wine and fade away into the forest with the nightingale, to forget about all responsibility, society and work. The entire poem alludes to the Nightingale being otherworldly; a spirit of the night, a symbol of beauty and immortality. Again, in Greek myth, Philomel the king’s daughter was mutilated before the Gods turned her into a nightingale to set her free. In Keats poem, he laments the nightingale’s freedom and envies the immortality of its song. Do you see now Giles? This is why Hemlock Nightingale is harvesting souls, he thinks he can become immortal!”

  “Is such a thing possible?”

  “It shouldn’t be. But then neither should I be,” he replied in a serious tone.

  “I can see your point Sir. So, why has he taken Miss Polly and Inspector Gredge? Does he intend to have their souls too?”

  “Polly is his Philomel, ‘Thou wast not born for death immortal Bird!’ I’ve no doubt he sees her amputation as representative of the loss of Philomel’s tongue. When he harvests his victims’ souls he leaves them mute, devoid of personalities. They are mere hollows of their former selves. Their souls are his gateway to immortality. How? I don’t know yet. As for Arthur, I don’t believe he has any other use for him than a bargaining chip.”

  “And what is he bargaining for exactly?”

  “Me I think... although I’m not sure why.”

  “What else can you glean from the poem?”

  Midnight’s attention went back to the text.

  “Here: ‘Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last grey hairs, where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies.’ He’s not just referring to the bleakness of the physical world around him, the poverty, disease and death, Keats often speaks of time as his enemy in his poetry and this is what these lines refer to- the cruelty of time.”

  “Mm-hmm, I see that. Immortality once again?”

  “Exactly, Giles! This line here is interesting too, look: ‘Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards, but on the viewless wings of Poesy’ Bacchus is Dionysus; god of the grape harvest, wine, madness and theatre! Keats is saying that he will not ride on Bacchus chariot to the afterlife but will reach it by his own means- his ‘Posey’ or poetry. I think this is what Hemlock is trying to do; construct some means of using harvested souls in exchange for immortality. Ever heard of the cult of Dionysus? They worshipped the God in ancient Greece and Rome. They would partake in ritual, theatrical dances and music. The aim of it was to free the souls and minds of people marginalized or shunned by society; they were also referred to as ‘The Cult of Souls’.”

  Giles took a moment and then asked, “But is it the souls of his victims or his own he wishes to free?”

  “Perhaps both? Who knows but it’s starting to make sense now. Ode to a Nightingale is all about how Keats laments the immortality and beauty of the Nightingale and his song; how it’s song transcends the realms of everyday life and reaches far beyond. I’m convinced Hemlock sees himself as a martyred victim. If Rowe can give me names of Doctors who have been discredited, I’m betting we can find our Hemlock, or whatever his real name is, on that list!”

  “But aside from trying to make himself immortal, what is his motive? Why would a mesmerist, discredited doctor or not, want to become immortal?”

  “This is something we need to uncover, Giles and we need that list of names to begin.”

  Midnight hated waiting. He hated feeling helpless. Rowe had still not called with any news from the British Medical Association and it had been nearly eighteen hours since last night’s murders and Polly’s kidnap. He hadn’t slept. Mrs. Phillips had been put to bed and he’d given Giles instructions to tell her to stay put and rest. Giles had seen to breakfast- tea and scones, not the usual feast but it was most welcome all the same. The butler had kept him company until just after one o’clock and then retired himself, leaving Midnight alone. He had dozed off in the parlour’s fireside armchair sometime after four but was awake again an hour later and then spent the next few hours either pacing the room or pouring over the poem. He could find nothing new amongst the lines of text, no clue as to where Hemlock might be holding his captives or what personal message he may be trying to send Midnight. By lunchtime Mrs. Phillips had risen and was insisting on continuing with her duties, despite Midnight’s protestations she declared that no invader would prevent her from going about her daily business and so she trotted off with a determined step to the kitchen to prepare a late lunch. Soon after, Giles had brought the afternoon post, which at least contained some good news, although Midnight felt it little consolation considering the more immediately pressing matter of finding Arthur and Polly.

  “Construction of our hospital is to begin next week.” Midnight’s flat tone emphasised his lack of enthusiasm.

  “That is a good thing Sir.”

  “I suppose so.” He sighed.

  “You’ll be helping many of London’s poor and needy, of course it’s a good thing. You should be proud.”

  “How far have we gotten with sourcing potential staff and doctors?”

  “I have informed the board of directors at St. Thomas’ that we will be needing nurses potentially within the next twelve to eighteen months. The Nightingales complete a year of training at the new nursing school there and then they are usually allocated positions post-graduation. I felt it best to...”

  “Stop!” Midnight shouted and sprang from his chair, eyes wide.

  “Sir?”

  “Repeat what you just said, about the nurses.”

  “That I have informed...” Giles began

  “No! What you called them, the graduates?”

  “The... Nightingales... oh!” Now it was Giles’ turn to stare open-mouthed.

  “Exactly!” Midnight slurped down the rest of his cup of tea and set the cup down with a satisfied grin. “Send a runner to Constable Rowe, I think we may have just discovered a lead!”

  The doorbell rang. Giles looked at Midnight.

  “Perhaps that’s Rowe after all! Good, now we can get on with things without waiting any longer! Go let him in please Giles?” He waited eagerly for the appearance of the constable so he could tell him what he’d uncovered but it was not Rowe that came back through the door with Giles, it was a woman. Midnight stared blankly at her. Giles coughed and introduced her.

  “Miss Carstairs your Lordship.” He announced with raised eyebrows.

  “Carstairs... Carstairs?” Why did that name ring a bell?

  “The nurse, Sir.”

  “Oh, dear god! Of course. I am so sorry Miss Carstairs, please forgive me, I have rather a lot on my mind of late. Do sit down.” He flustered a little as he pulled out a chair, he had completely forgotten she was due to arrive this morning.

  “Pleased to meet you your Lordship.” She had a pleasant, calming tone to her voice and a no nonsense, polite smile.

  “Um...” said Midnight, not sure where to start. “I am afraid you have had a wasted journey Madam.” She gave him a questioning look. “You see the patients we hired you to care for are no longer with us.”

  “Oh,” she said simply, “I see.”

  “They passed away yesterday you see and... well, I’m afraid I forgot to send word to your erm... your...” he turned to Giles. “Where is it exactly that we hired Miss Carstairs from?” he felt slightly abashed that he didn’t know- he’d left the hiring to Giles and
Mrs. Philips. Giles held a very odd expression, as if he had suddenly realised something.

  “St Thomas’ hospital Sir, from the new nursing college of Miss Florence Nightingale.” The silent look that past between himself and Giles was loaded with understanding, Midnight addressed Miss Carstairs once more.

  “Dear lady, might I ask you how long how you been in training at the nursing school? It may seem a little impertinent but I assure you it is of the utmost importance.”

  “Well, I was a nurse at St Thomas’ for two years before Miss Nightingale opened her school this past July, I enrolled as soon as it opened. Miss Nightingale is a pioneer in her field, her methods and theories on hygiene have transformed the nursing profession. We girls never got proper training before. All we did was mop floors, change bedpans, bedding and bandages. However, I was allowed to assist the doctors on their rounds,” she said proudly. “I was given special dispensation to take this position on account of my experience. Matron said I could train on the job.”

  “Indeed, I hear great things about Miss Nightingale and her work in the Crimea. So, you have worked at St. Thomas’ for a little over two years?”

  “Yes Sir.”

  “And in that time, did you know of any doctors who were involved in any scandal or were struck off the register?” Miss Carstairs looked shocked at the impropriety of his question so he did his best to reassure her. “I understand the question is somewhat odd, please be assured it is relevant to the passing of two of the patients you were hired to care for. I fear they may have fallen victim to one such doctor and you may have vital information that could help us. Can you think of anyone?”

  She sat in thought for a minute or two before she made her hesitant reply.

  “Why, in truth, I can think of only one and his termination of employment was not particularly scandal, more a quiet push out the door if you will.”

  “His name?” he breathed,

  “Doctor Giling. I worked on his ward for a time. It wasn’t open very long though on account of... well, I don’t rightly know in truth but I heard the governors weren’t happy with some of his practices. But that was only hearsay.”