He pounded his crimson fist upon his thigh. “So put aside your juvenile judgments, William James Henry. I am no more accountable for this tragedy than the boy who witnessed it. Less so-yes!-if one applies the same cruel criteria to my actions!”
I did not reply to this passionate outburst, for it was not so much directed at me as the peculiar demons that plagued his conscience; I was but a witness to the exorcism. I was keenly aware, as he must surely have been, of the sickening odor rising from our clothing, the toxic tincture of death clinging to our skin and hair, the tart taste of it tingling on our tongues.
Upon our return to Harrington Lane, the doctor descended to the basement, where he stood, motionless, before the suspended corpse of the male Anthropophagus. Was this immobility a mere illusion? Below the surface of this calm facade did a cyclone rage? I suspect, like the whole and wholesome sunlight splintered by the shards of colored glass inside the little church, Warthrop’s psyche had been split, and though now far away, a part of him was still present at the morning’s holocaust, kneeling, as it were, before the hollowed-out skull of the good reverend Stinnet. I could hear him muttering variations of the argument couched in the coach, like a composer struggling with a difficult bridge, seeking to impose melodic balance to the discordant chords of his recalcitrant remorse.
His muttering petered out. For several minutes he did not speak; he did not move. Statue-still he stood, the maelstrom within as well-veiled as the winds of a hurricane seen from space.
“It is she,” he said finally, in a tone tinged with wonder. “The matriarch blinded by Varner. By some malevolent twist of fate, she has come here, Will Henry. It is almost as if…” He hesitated to give voice to the proposition. It ran counter to everything he believed. “As if she has come looking for him.”
I did not ask to whom he referred. I did not need to ask; I knew.
“I wonder,” he said pensively, addressing the monster hung before him upon the hook, “if she would be satisfied with his son.”
NINE.“There Is Something I Should Show You”
The constable returned to Harrington Lane later that afternoon, his reappearance predicted by the monstrumologist.
“We must to work tidying up, Will Henry,” he said. “The good constable will be arriving shortly to petition- or re-petition, I should say-for our assistance. When his frustrated hounds give out or his incredulous shooting party gives up, he will call again.”
There was a great deal of “tidying up” to do after the doctor’s frantic foraging from the previous day. He went to the study while I tackled the library, shelving books, stacking papers, and throwing away the blackened fragments of the old grave-robber’s hat and the heat-warped spine of his father’s journal, which had escaped the fire. I felt rather like a malefactor cleaning up the scene of a crime, which, in a sense, it was. No sound emerged from the study as I worked. I suspected the reason for this silence, and when I ducked into the room to inform him I was finished, my suspicion was confirmed: The doctor had not been cleaning. He sat in his chair, an island in a sea of rubble, lost in reverie. Without a word I set to work while he watched, his gaze not unlike the inward stare of Malachi Stinnet, seeing me, but regarding something altogether different.
The knock came at a quarter past three. The doctor rose and said, “You can finish later, Will Henry. Just close the door for now, and show the constable to the library.”
Morgan had not come alone. Standing behind him was his driver, silver badge gleaming on his lapel, and revolver conspicuously strapped to his side, and Malachi Stinnet, whose dejected countenance noticeably brightened upon my opening of the door.
“Is the doctor in, Will Henry?” asked the constable in a rigid, formal manner.
“Yes, sir. He’s waiting for you in the library.”
“Waiting for me? No doubt he is!”
They followed me to the room. Warthrop was standing by the long table upon which I had left the marked-up map with its bright intersecting lines and sloppily drawn circles and stars, rectangles and squares. I had neglected in my haste to roll it up, but the doctor seemed unaware of it lying in plain sight, or he did not care.
He stiffened when we entered, and said to Morgan, “Robert, I am surprised.”
“Are you?” rejoined Morgan coldly. His attitude was one of barely contained contempt. “Will Henry said you were expecting me.”
The doctor nodded toward the deputy and the lone survivor of that morning’s massacre. “You. Not them.”
“Malachi asked to come. And I asked O’Brien.”
The constable tossed something onto the table. It slid a few inches on the slick surface of the map and came to rest beside Warthrop’s fingertips.
It was my beloved little hat, the one lost at the cemetery, now found.
“I believe this belongs to your assistant.”
Warthrop said nothing. He was not looking at the hat; he was looking at Malachi.
“Will, is that not your initials on the inside band there, W.H.?” asked the constable, though he had not turned his impeaching eye from Warthrop.
“Will Henry, would you take Malachi into the kitchen, please?” said the doctor quietly.
“No one leaves this room,” barked Morgan. “O’Brien!”
With a knowing smirk the burly deputy stationed himself in the doorway.
“I think it would be best if Malachi-,” began the doctor.
Morgan interrupted him. “I shall decide what’s best here. How long have you known, Warthrop?”