Time to open the office door, slip swiftly down the hall, turn into the rear passageway leading to the back exit.
As he did so, grateful relief gave way to the bitterness of disappointment. He was safe, but he had failed. And because he’d failed, there was no safety — not for himself, for Eva, for anyone. No safety at all with the Ripper still free.
For a moment it had seemed so simple, so easy. Find the log, check the entries, go to Abberline and play the hero. Dr. Hume, I arrest you on the charge of murder—
He smiled ruefully at the thought. Sheer melodrama, a scene from one of Mansfield’s plays. But this wasn’t make-believe; the Ripper was real, and so was the danger. Whether Hume was their man or not didn’t matter now. Whoever the Ripper might be, he had his freedom. Freedom to walk the night, knife in hand, searching for fresh victims…
Midnight chimes sounded from a church nearby, and Mark’s smile became a scowl. So many churches here in Whitechapel, so many prayers going up to God, and for what? Prayer had proved no protection against mass murder. There was no protection possible as long as Jack the Ripper prowled. He could be anywhere now, even here.
Mark moved into Bedstead Court, toward the shadows of the trees and shrubbery surrounding the rear gateway beyond.
And then, out of the darkness, the figure loomed.
Before he could move it was upon him — the hunched, bent figure in the black cloak, scuttling forward into the pale moonlight of the courtyard, its feet encased in baglike slippers, its head covered with a huge shapeless cap. Hanging from the brim was a gray flannel cloth, masking its face save for a glimpse of eyes glowing through a slit.
As the figure advanced, a wave of stench swept before it, and from beneath the concealing curtain came a panting sound.
Then, as Mark watched, the left arm rose. For an instant his eyes widened, waiting for the gleam of a knife in the moonlight, but the delicate fingers were empty. They grasped the hood, swept it back and removed the cap to reveal the face beneath.
But it wasn’t a face.
Mark stared in horror at the misshapen skull striated with a few strands of lank hair growing down over a bony mass protruding from a bulging brow which covered one eye almost completely. The other peered at him from beside the formless lump of flesh serving as a nose. Beneath it was a pink stump projecting from the upper jaw, twisted to turn the upper lip back above the slitted mouth.
The mouth moved now, gasping for breath, and from the opening between the twisted teeth came muffled sounds only remotely recognizable as words.
“Don’t be afraid,” the creature whispered. “I’m John Merrick.”
“Who?”
“The Elephant Man.”
~ THIRTY-SEVEN ~
Sudan, A.D. 1822. Muhammed Bey, commander of an army of Turkish invaders, killed fifty thousand natives and captured thousands of others. All male prisoners were emasculated. The breasts of the women were cut off. To slow their dying, he had their wounds filled with boiling pitch.
As Mark reentered the hospital and followed the shuffling figure down the rear corridor, recollection stirred. Somewhere he’d heard or read about the Elephant Man — a deformed unfortunate, exhibited by an unscrupulous showman as a freak and rescued from his fate by an outraged physician. But what was he doing here?
The apparition in the cloak halted before one of the hall doors and its left hand turned the knob. “These are my quarters,” the voice wheezed.
Now the door swung open on the lamplit interior of a bed-sitting room. Mark saw its meager furnishings — the bed itself, a small desk, several tables, a few chairs. There was a bookcase near the fireplace, and a door led to a bathroom on one side. Pictures hung on the walls, but no mirrors.
Their absence was understandable as Mark followed John Merrick into the room and watched him shed his cloak.
“Thank you for coming,” Merrick murmured.
Mark nodded, secretly ashamed. It had not been compassion that caused him to accept the invitation, only professional curiosity — a curiosity which was shockingly satisfied as he saw the Elephant Man’s face and form fully revealed in the lamplight.
From his bowed back rose a huge lump of cauliflower-like wrinkled dermal tissue hanging between protuberances on the shoulder blades. A similar sacklike growth dangled from waist to mid-thigh. Another brownish mass covered the chest. The right arm was swollen and shapeless beneath the weight of bulging flesh which terminated in rootlike fingers. The lower limbs were stunted and misshapen, thus accounting for Merrick’s limp. In contrast, his left arm and hand were quite delicately formed and covered with smooth white skin.
Merrick used that arm now as he moved to the bed and adjusted the pillows, then leaned back upon the coverlet with a grateful sigh.
“Please sit down.” The husky voice seemed more intelligible once Merrick reclined. “I’m sorry I can’t offer you any refreshment—”
“Don’t trouble yourself on my account.” Mark found himself secretly wishing that a drink had been available — not to temper his shock but to combat the fetid odor of festering flesh which filled the tiny room. He noticed a window overlooking the courtyard, but it was tightly closed. Sitting uncomfortably on the edge of a hard chair, Mark broke the silence.
“How long have you been here?”
“Two years now, thanks to the kindness of Sir Frederick Treves. He’s Surgeon Extraordinary to the Queen.”
Surgeon Extraordinary? Mark thought of Gull’s title — Surgeon Ordinary, wasn’t it? Try as he may, he couldn’t get used to the British custom of conferring titles and honors.
“He obtained permission from Mr. Carr Gomm, the chairman of the hospital committee, who arranged for my room and maintenance here.”
Mark listened, marveling at Merrick’s command of language. Buried within that monstrous malformed mass was an alert, articulate human being.
His eyes wandered to the bookcase, noting that the shelves were filled with volumes; prominent among them was an oversized Book of Common Prayer.
Merrick followed his gaze. “I read a great deal to pass the time,” he said. “And they’ve been kind enough to provide me with material. Particularly the picture books, so that I can learn about the outside world. I would love to visit your America, Dr. Robinson, though of course it isn’t possible for me to travel such a distance.”
“I’m sorry,” Mark said. “It must be lonely for you here.”
“At times, yes. But I do have friends.” The finely-formed left hand pointed toward the wall, indicating a framed photograph of Alexandra, Princess of Wales. To Mark’s surprise he saw that it was autographed.
Merrick noted his reaction and nodded. “She has visited me, you know.” He spoke with obvious pride. “Many noble ladies have come here. You can see some of their photographs and gifts there on the mantel and side-table. The silver-headed walking stick in the corner — that too was a gift. I never cease to give thanks for such kindness.” The soft voice deepened. “Still, it’s hard to accept that I am a prisoner here, condemned to live out my life in this miserable body of mine.”
Mark nodded. “If there’s anything I can do—”
“Your presence is enough.” The huge head bobbed, struggling to convey appreciation which could never be shown by a smile. “The days are not difficult but often I find the nights an ordeal. You see, because of my affliction”—and here the left hand gestured down across the bulging body—“I cannot sleep lying down. I must sit up against the pillows here in bed with my legs drawn up, and rest the weight of my head on my knees.”