Sunday 3nd August 1879: Highbury Hall, Birmingham

Despair.

We were poised to strike, and struck we did…and nothing came of it. Nothing but tears (for me), a huff (for Silas), and, well, indifference (from Mr Blackwood).

Where did we go wrong?

We started in a state of high excitement, returning to Highbury Hall from Druid’s Heath in a flurry of conversation. Mr Blackwood went as far as to hypothesise that the Orchid may be a ruse, a fake, a red herring planted to distract our attention whilst the true villains went about their work. He had no proof nor really a hint of theory, but such was our alertness that anything seemed worth considering.

To my astonishment Silas changed his position on Mr Watson mid-journey, or so it seemed to me. “You know, we don’t know Watson is dead,” he said almost as an aside. I set about reminding him that it was he who had first proposed this eventuality upon seeing the loupe and a splash of water. Flimsy grounds, but he had been so certain. “Oh yes we do, Silas!”

“Minds change, Gideon, that is the hallmark of a scientist.”

“Minds may change but facts to not Silas. I was the sceptic and now I am the believer!”

“We cannot know for certain Gideon, and until we do we must tread carefully before flinging accusations of murder.”

“Oh Silas you are such a stick-in-the-mud!”

Silas merely smiled. “If nothing else I want to compare the handwriting between this letter,” he said holding the smoking gun aloft, “and the letter I have inviting us to stay. If they are one and the same then you may be right.”

I had to concede this was quite a good idea. Exasperating man!

The house was quiet on our return; we had evidently missed dinner, much to Mrs Macbeth’s barely-hidden annoyance. She grudgingly agreed to make us some sandwiches, so I quickly slipped upstairs “to freshen up.” I had something I wished to find: a sample of the orchid-sourced medicine Chamberlain was using to treat his malaria (if that was indeed what ailed him; I had my doubts).

I beelined for Chamberlain’s lab, relieved to see it empty. To my frustration I could find no obvious treatment; breaking into the sample room was no help, everything therein quite clearly labelled. Then I realised that this was where Silas and Chamberlain’s attempts to clone the orchid heart must be brewing. I soon found a row of circular glass dishes that contained a concoction of some sort. They all looked identical, yellow and pallid, except for the last in the row which had changed to a darker, murky brown. Knowing no better I grabbed that sample and secreted it upon my person.

My heart was racing at the thought of what I was considering, but at least I now had the means if it came to that.

In the kitchen Silas and Blackwood were ‘entertaining’ Mrs Macbeth. Silas had found a way to soften her bristles, bonding over their shared affection for the old country; Loch Lomand and the splendid wilds of the highlands. I could barely understand a word they spoke such was the thickness of their brogue. I couldn’t resist a jab: “Does your wife know you talk to other women like that, Silas?”

He didn’t even blush. Unlike Mr Blackwood! Mrs Macbeth, overheated perhaps by the strong scotch she was swilling, was going to work on the big man, obviously to her taste. “You’re a man who knows how to use his tools, Mr Blackwood,” she purred. “I don’t mind getting my hands dirty, madam,” Jack replied. “Och I can see that,” Macbeth said as she almost fell into his lap, “You know a thing or two to be sure.”

“I have recently been reading up on the electric current,” Jack nodded uncertainly.

“Oh aye, I’m sure you know a lot about electricity.”

Jack chewed on his lamb sandwich with vigour as Silas and I did our best to maintain our equilibrium.

Seeing Macbeth was in a state, I decided to try my luck. “Tell me, Mrs Macbeth, has Dr Chamberlain retired already? His ailment has returned?”

“Indeed, madam.”

“I would like to deliver him one of your fine sandwiches. He must be famished it being so early.”

“Would you then.” Macbeth closed like the orchid at night.

“Can you tell me where I might find him?”

“His bedchamber.”

“And where is that, pray tell?”

“Upstairs, madam.”

“Upstairs…where exactly? I could not find him when I went to change.”

Macbeth’s eyes were pinched and glaring at me now. She knew she would have to answer, but it cost her dearly to do so. “The fourth floor,” she snapped.

“Fourth?”

“Fourth.”

After some more sulky responses I dragged from her that there was a stairway (that we had all somehow overlooked) that led to a rooftop retreat, and that was where Van der Valk treated Chamberlain. Success!

“The handwriting matched,” Silas said quietly as we ascended.

“Then we must act!” I cried softly, and no-one disagreed.

I knocked on the (locked) door at the top of the stairs. There was no answer so I knocked again. “Mr Van der Valk? I have a lovely lamb sandwich for Dr Chamberlain, he must be hungry.”

Heavy footsteps, then the door opened. “No need madam,” Van der Valk said eyeing us all with deep distaste.

“As I am sure you know, there is nothing better than good food to treat the sick,” I smiled.

“No, thank you. I treat him well enough.” Van der Valk started to close the door. I looked to Silas, begging for help.

“Mr Van der Valk. I am one of Joseph’s oldest friends, and I am also a medical doctor. Whilst I don’t doubt your care, I insist that I be allowed to examine my friend. His life could be in danger and I may be able to help.”

Van der Valk was about to answer when a weak voice sounded from within. “Oh let them in, Neils, let them in.”

Inside we found Chamberlain abed, looking pale and weak but alert enough. Silas immediately went to his side and started fussing, which Chamberlain allowed, whilst Van der Valk scowled. After some time and questions, Silas looked over to us. “His symptoms are consistent with malaria,” he declared with medical solemnity.

“Of course they are, Spikey. Why would they not?”

“It is just we were concerned there may be a secondary condition,” Silas explained. “Are you confident your new treatment is working, given your state?”

“As I have explained the treatment causes relapses, but I emerge from those stronger each time. The cure works, but there is a period of reduced efficacy.”

“You mean it becomes less effective over time?” I asked, mistaking his meaning. “Like an opioid might?” I added, fingering the sample dish in my dress.

“No Madam, simply that I am reduced to the state you find me in. Reduced efficacy, not effectiveness. It is a complex concept that perhaps only men of science can follow.”

I rolled my eyes, and Silas started to defend me before I stopped him with a look. He met my eyes and I nodded: it was time to confront them.

“Joseph, we have known each other a long time and it pains me to say this, but we must talk frankly.”

“Must we? About what, Spikey?”

“Mr Watson.”

“Mr Watson? What of him—can it wait until morning? I am rather exhausted as you can see.”

Silas glanced back to Van der Valk who had the blank stare of a man about to commit a heinous act. He sighed and nodded. “It can, Potters, it can. You rest up and we will talk over breakfast.”

As we left I paused on the threshold. “Dr Chamberlain, may I ask, the letter you asked me to deliver to Watson—what did it say?”

“It said that he should leave and that I wanted no further business with him or his organisation. Why do you ask, madam?”

“Idle curiosity,” I smiled.

We had him!

Downstairs, I turned on Silas and Blackwood. “We should act. Now! They know we know something and if we give them the night to plot and plan I fear we will not see the morn!”

Silas snorted. “If you fear for you life you can sleep in my room, Gideon.”

“Why Silas! I thought you would never ask!” I laughed. “And I ask again, what would your wife think?”

“Gideon please. I should tell your something more: I rifled Dr Chamberlain’s study earlier—”

“Silas!” I interrupted, “I am so impressed!”

“Yes. Well as it turns out I found something.” He pulled out a crumpled sheet of paper. “A second letter, this one contradicting the one we found: ‘Dear Mr Watson; your impertinence and arrogance leaves me no choice’ etc. It continues: ‘I will not acquiesce to your demands. Tell your colleagues I will present as planned with or without their behest.”

“Good gracious! So our supposition is right: he was controlled by the plant, in a fugue state, to send the letter we found instead. Inviting him to his death! We must confront them! Why take the risk of them escaping, or worse?”

“No Gideon. He is my friend and I will give him the respect he is due. You will have your wish: in the morning we will confront him with what we know.”

I spun to our silent companion. “Jack, please! You must see the sense in what I am saying?”

Blackwood pulled out his hammer and tapped it. “We will be safe until morning. We should wait.”

“Oh! You…you…men!” I cried, spinning away and locking myself in my room.

Alone at last, I felt the pressure of events overwhelming me. And, I realised with a shudder, the lack of available ‘treatment’ was getting to me. It had been a month or near without a taste and I felt weak at the thought of going too much longer without.

It was time.

I pulled out the sample dish, warmed by my flesh, and stared. It seemed to shift beneath my gaze, alive with possibility. Molina’s story of the hive-mind played on my thoughts: a unified, communal mind that acted as one, no pain, no conscious thought, driven and certain. Something beyond human knowledge. An escape.

I opened the dish and a soft, earthy aroma wafted forth. It was alive. Before I could reconsider I quickly wiped my finger through the thick sludge and lifted it to my lips.

It tasted fresh. And sour. And dark. And wrong. I rubbed it into my gums, knowing how quickly they could absorb, and lay back on my bed. I closed my eyes and let it take me where it would.

Sunday 4th August 1879: Highbury Hall, Birmingham

I awoke alive.

And unchanged.

No murdering; and no plant-brained euphoria nor revelation.

Alas.

I joined the gentlemen at their breakfast. As we had come to expect, Chamberlain was in full flight and seemingly recovered. Perhaps he spoke true about his miracle cure.

“Nice to see you, Silas—I didn’t expect to,” I deadpanned to an eyeroll.

We ate, it was fine, and the tension inexorably rose. Glances between Silas and myself, and Blackwood for what it was worth (he remained utterly unreadable to me). Eventually the time came.

Silas laid it out before Chamberlain, watched over by the dark presence of Van der Valk who barely moved an inch throughout. The letters we had found began proceedings, produced as tark proof that Chamberlain had lied to us. He exchanged a glance with Van der Valk then set about explaining himself.

“It was disingenuous of me Spikey, I will concede.”

“It was dishonest,” Silas scowled.

“Yes, yes. The fact of the matter is I had a change of heart. I felt I needed Dr Watson on my side; hence I rewrote the dismissal and instead invited him here. There is nothing more to it than that. I apologise for misleading you all.”

“I require more than an apology, Joseph.”

As Chamberlain explained I felt my resolution suddenly waver. Chamberlain seemed to know about the two letter; yet if he was controlled by the plant, as I thought, he should not have known anything of the second letter. If he truly did not know his actions then why was he defending himself?

“Did he turn up?” Blackwood said suddenly.

“Who? Watson? No, no he didn’t.”

“Then what is this?” I said, dropping the loupe onto the tabletop; the second of our traps sprung.

Chamberlain lifted the gold trinket and studied it. “It appears to be a magnifying glass, madam.”

“With what initials carved upon it?”

“WW,” Chamberlain read with another glance to Van der Valk. Their shiftiness and discomfort was plain.

“Could that perhaps stand for ‘William Watson’, Dr Chamberlain?”

“It might, but it might equally not,” he said rather weakly.

“Oh come now, do not treat us like fools. That is quite obviously Dr Watson’s loupe, found at the rear pool in a mess of water and disturbance!”

At this, Van der Valk took a step closer, looming behind Silas. “Please, Mr Van der Valk, take a seat. You are as much a part of this as Joseph.” Grudgingly the hulking manservant obeyed, uncomfortable and upright.

“Now, Joseph. As Ms Harrow has said, please do not treat us like children. It is quite obvious to all that you are hiding something and it is beyond time that you reveal what that is. You have misled us and lied. Dr Watson is missing, presumed dead. You invited him to your house shortly before he vanished, and we have found evidence that he was indeed here.”

“Spikey! This is absurd. Maybe it is his loupe but he might have dropped it any time. And to suggest that we had any part in his disappearance is patently false!”

We had Chamberlain on the backfoot and Silas was not to be dissuaded. But it was here I fear he made a fatal mistake in our strike. He suddenly changed tack: “What can you tell us about the mill in the dovecote?”

I glanced quickly to Silas with a short shake of my head, but it was too late. Even Chamberlain was surprised. “The mill? What of it?”

“What is it used for?”

“I should hope that it obvious, though you are not a man of the land. But Mr Blackwood surely is? In any case: we use it to mulch and grind waste from the farm to compost and feed the animals. Nothing more.”

“Then why would I have found copious blood in said mill,” Silas said, playing his trump. Inside I groaned. Unlike the letters and loupe, and Watson’s certain disappearance, this was pure speculation.

“Field mice?” Chamberlain frowned. “What on earth are you…you are suggesting that I ground up the body of Mr Watson to hide his murder? You are working in the wrong hospital Silas!”

“What do you mean by that?” Silas snapped.

“With this madness you should be working in Bedlam!”

The slight was too much. Silas slammed his hands onto the table, making the crockery jump—and me too. The two old friends proceeded into a slanging match the like of which I have rarely seen, accusations of impropriety and worse flying at high velocity; they were two intelligent men and neither was able to outsmart the other but that wasn’t going to stop them.

It was an ugly scene. I stood and raised my voice. “Gentlemen! Gentlemen please. Calm down, this is most unbecoming and will solve nothing.”

Silence met my declaration, followed by both men slumping back in their seats.

Chamberlain sighed. “My apologies, madam. We let our worse selves show. But I am afraid I shall have to ask you all to leave. It is quite obvious that you do not trust me, and I am afraid I cannot countenance having suspicion and doubt following my every step.”

Silas stood immediately. “Very well, Joseph. I am sorry it has ended this way, and I hope we can one day be friends again. But now is not the time.” He nodded to Van der Valk, glanced at Blackwood and I, and left the room.

“Dr Chamberlain, thank you for hosting us. I wish you well with your recovery,” I said, excusing myself.

Blackwood remained at the table, forcing both Chamberlain and Van der Valk to do the same. This was the only good outcome of the entire affair, or so I believed.

I hurried away, seeing only one remaining course of action.

The greenhouse was quiet, the humidity hitting as soon as I opened the glass door. I felt quite overwhelmed, anxious, and still shaken by the breakfast debacle. I urgently wanted the drug I could not find, but this was the next best thing—returning to the work I so loved and so missed.

Ahead stood the isolated chamber that housed the Velvet Wraith. My aim was to steal the orchid, take it to Molina and hope that he, finally, could put this sordid affair to rest.

As I approached the door I heard a rustling noise from above and froze. Maximus! I had forgotten entirely about the simian terror! He swung down from above and landed with a thump atop the glass roof of the orchid house. I stared at him, remembering Van der Valk’s instruction: don’t give them anything to chase.

I swallowed and took another step. Maximus tilted his head curiously. Another step, and suddenly he leered forward baring his prodigious teeth. There was nothing for it: I lunged forward and revealed my rather pedestrian collection in response!

To my surprise the great ape jerked his head back in surprise. I took my chance, reaching for the door and rattling it: locked! I cursed and fumbled my picks free from my hairbun. But my panic, the stress, and the sweat coating my hands all conspired to thwart me: the pick snapped cleanly in the lock, leaving it unpickable. Such a simple lock!

I could stand it no longer. Ignoring Maximus I slumped to the edge of the small pond and put my head in my hands. A moment later I was sobbing uncontrollably.

Poised to strike, now doomed to failure.

We had failed. I had failed.

I glanced up at Maximus. If I didn’t know better I would have said he looked sorry for me.