Thursday 24th July 1879: The Coffee House

Silas and Jack are regular visitors, though I have not yet tempted Jack back below; but I can see the time approaching in his restless eyes. We have yet to see Daphne, though it cannot be long before he reappears now the heat is gone from the Colopinto affair. I look forward very much to seeing (and thanking) him, vexing though he could be.

At some point the Baron provided us each with additional one-hundred pound cheques, despite no formal request for service coming from him. I left mine uncashed, still smarting at his easy dismissal of my character.

With summer in full swing, Silas arrived one long evening to report the receipt of an letter from an old friend. This friend, one Joseph Chamberlain, also a Doctor, has invited Silas ‘and your beleaguered associates’ for a visit to the Birmingham countryside. It seems they were students together, evidenced by the ridiculous nickname he assigned to Silas ('Spikey') and himself ('Potters'').

Dear Spiky,

I hope this letter finds you well. It seems an age since we were interned together under that cantankerous oaf Morecombe at St. Barts. I do hope that you too have managed to claw your way free of that wretched place. Knowing you, you’ve probably set yourself up in a nice cosy private practice somewhere in Mayfair or Kensington with plenty of rich old widow patients. Good old Spiky!

I was mortified to hear you name in connection with the deplorable events of the last several weeks and was greatly relieved to see common sense eventually prevail. I for one never held any doubts. None the less I can’t imagine that you’re finding the consequent attention much to your liking. With that in mind I thought you might find a brief spell away from the prying eyes of Fleet Street to be a welcome change. I find myself in need of your council in regards to a matter of scientific enquiry in which I believe you will find some interest. You’re equally beleaguered associates are of course also invited and I’m sure you will all find the Birmingham countryside far more agreeable than the constant murmur of the London gossips. I won’t hear of equivocation, you simply must come, if not for my sake, then for yours.

Let me know of your expected date of arrival by the earliest post.
Yours in fevered anticipation,
Joseph Chamberlain, Doctor

PS. I do hope it’s not an awful faux pas to call you Spiky, you’re probably terribly respectable now (except when you’re trying to steal the crown jewels!), trusted with all the old dears’ boils! Ha, we did have such fun, I can’t wait. Potters.

The invitation was social but also teased Silas’s attention to a ‘scientific enquiry’.

“Science would be a nice change,” Jack nodded approvingly.

“As would a turn in the Midlands, Spikey,” I grinned.

Silas groaned and laughed. “Then it is agreed: to Birmingham!”

Friday 1st August 1879: En route to Birmingham

Alas Daphne was unable to join our short holiday, preferring his hounds over our company. Typical. In brighter news, the several hour train journey provided the first real opportunity to trap Silas and get the story of his betrothal.

Silas, being Silas, didn’t give any flowery details nor history. But the reason for his secrecy was soon revealed.

“Why is she living with her father and not you, Silas? You simply must tell us!” I demanded.

Silas sighed. “Hana is moving to London shortly.”

“Ah ha! And why now?”

“She is coming…with my son.”

“Your SON?! First a secret wife and now a secret child?!”

Silas had the good grace to blush.

“How old is he?”

“He is five.”

“Of course he’s five—just as long as you have been married!”

“As I said, Gideon, it’s complicated.”

“And what is his name?”

“Akira.”

“Akira?”

“It means ‘Shining one’ in Japanese,” Silas said proudly.

I stared at Silas for what felt like minutes. Who was this man?!

Jack explained that Birmingham was known as the Black Country, the furnace of England, thanks to its factories and embrace of manufacturing. There was some ugliness to the city, and it sprawled in an unpleasant fashion when compared to the grandness of London. But once we were outside the centre the countryside quickly re-established itself and I could feel myself relaxing.

An hour carriage ride south led us to the impressive iron gates of Doctor Chamberlain’s estate. A man with a lamp met us and accompanied us inside to a very grand seventeenth century house. Attached to one side was an equally grand greenhouse, some two stories high to the house’s three.

A grand three-storey estate house with towers on lush green grounds with a large attached greenhouse

Highbury Hall

We were greeted at the entrance doors by a rotund and wizened woman who introduced herself in a strong Scottish brogue as Mrs Macbeth.

An aged woman smiles mischievously, her round face surrounded by a cook's bonnet. She wears simple kitchen clothes and holds a large silver serving spoon in one hand and a serving cloth is draped over the other

Mrs Macbeth

“An auspicious name,” I smiled, receiving only a cold stare in return.

Silas had rather more luck breaking her ice, his heritage and accent (which suddenly became rather more pronounced) helping no doubt. “Could you kindly take us to Doctor Chamberlain, Mrs Macbeth?”

“Oh no, not tonight. I’m afraid the Doctor is rather indisposed of the moment.”

“Ah, that is a great pity. What ails him, may I ask?”

“It’s just the malaria come back,” Mrs Macbeth said matter-of-factly. “I will take you to your rooms if you will follow me.”

As she led us upstairs she noted various rules of the household. “The house is carefully temperature controlled, so if you would close all doors behind you that would be much appreciated,” she explained. “Stay out of the greenhouse until meeting Dr Chamberlain, if you please, and don’t roam the grounds after dark—some of Mr Chamberlain’s pets are rather dangerous.”

“Dangerous pets?” I said curiously.

“As I said, stay inside of an evening,” was all Mrs Macbeth would give on this topic.

We each had rooms, the gentlemen on the second floor and mine on the third. It was a fine room with views over the garden and the roof of the greenhouse. Darkness had settled in so I could see little. I flopped onto the bed and dozed off—I was more tired than I had realised. I woke with a start when someone thudded several times on my door.

“Who is it?” I said warily.

“Your luggage, ma’am,” a gruff voice announced.

“Leave it at the door, thank you.”

I heard a thunk as my cases were dropped, then the tell-tale sound of a limp as whoever it was departed. I retrieved the bags and set about unpacking, and before long another knock came. “It’s Silas, Gideon. Can I interest you in a game of billiards?”

We retreated to the games room, also on the third floor, and Silas was soon doing his best to educate me in the ways of this ridiculous game. There were far too few balls for far too large a surface.

It was a pleasant evening, Silas plying us both with whiskey, and the tension soon left my shoulders—and the tension between Silas and I over his secret also soon vanished.

I pulled aside the curtains to look over the grounds, hoping to catch sight of one of these terrible ‘pets’, but it was far too dark. “Do you think we should venture out there, Spikey?”

“No Gideon, we should not.”

“But don’t you wonder what we might find?”

“I do, but we are guests here, and we have been asked to stay inside. So stay inside we shall.”

I sighed, but Silas was of course right.

“I met the manservant, Mr Van der Valk—an old sailor by the looks of him,” Silas said.

A weathered fellow squints into a pale sun, a barren rocky shoreline at his back. He wears heavy clothing, the better to stay warm, in neutral grey and seaweed green

Mr Van der Valk

“He explained that Chamberlain has had malaria since ‘we came back’.”

“Back from where?”

“Ecuador.”

“And where or what is Ecuador?”

“It’s a country in the South America’s, rather jungle filled I understand.”

“Ah. That might explain the danger. Tigers, Lions, that kind of thing,” I said glancing out into the dark.

In the middle of the night I was awoken again, this time by a scream instead of a knock.

I sat bolt upright in my bed, traumatic memories of Blackburn Lodge and Jessica flooding my sleep-addled mine. The scream repeated, this time more strangled and softer. A cry of suffering more than terror I realised with some relief. It must be poor Doctor Chamberlain, fighting his dreadful illness.

I soon fell back into a fitful sleep…

…only to be awoken a third time by a dreadful banging at dawn. Unlike the other disturbances, this one I sensed heralded bad tidings: it appeared our ‘holiday’ was to be cut dramatically short.