The Alchemist in the Attic (12 page)

With the help of Stokes and the others, Atwood took up lodgings in the small fifth floor apartment below Dr. Valencourt. He wondered if Collins had gotten the room under a similar arrangement. This time he was the bait on the hook, and he didn’t like it. At least he was rid of Mrs. Bucket’s incessant nagging. He had prevailed upon Stokes to pay his outstanding rent. It had been a test more than anything, but Stokes had agreed. For a magician and a con man, he had unexpectedly deep pockets. Someone was bankrolling them, someone with an interest in Valencourt. There was an angle there, if he could find it.

The other residents, apart from Madame Valli, still knew him as Mr. Dupin. He enjoyed the deception, the knowledge that he hadn’t lost his touch. The living conditions, however, left a great deal to be desired. Atwood had lived in worse places, but not by much.

It did not take him long to confirm that poor, nerve-stricken Collins had not been exaggerating. Something strange was, in fact, occurring upstairs. It began with the noises. The creaking of floorboards, the rumble of furniture, the bubbling, boiling, shrieking sounds of tortured science and alchemy invaded his already troubled dreams, until he could sleep no more. They haunted his long, wakeful nights. Already prone to insomnia, he would lie there imagining what those strange sounds could mean.

Atwood had a particular sort of imagination. It had a terrestrial bent, full human depravities and foibles, but it was not given to flights of fancy. There was nothing fantastical in him, but his days spent in morgues and courtrooms gave his mind ample fodder for theories and nightmares. Then there were the smells—putrid and sickly sweet—seeping down and poisoning the air. He was forced to keep the windows open, despite the autumn chill.

Worst of all was the accompanying dark, angry stain that grew ominously day-by-day in the far corner of the ceiling, implying some terrible secret that plagued his mind. He tossed and turned all night. The sounds of Valencourt’s work were above him and, from across the hall, Madame Valli would sing out in her terrible voice, butchering her operetta of choice. He was certain that she was singing just for him. Night after night, he pulled the pillow over his head and tried desperately to sleep. His nerves were already starting to fray and it hadn’t even been a week. Compared to him, even the opium eater downstairs appeared the picture of health. And despite his best efforts, Valencourt continued to prove elusive and distant.

*

Atwood was stretched out on Madame Valli’s couch, studying her with a long, considering stare. She remained as impenetrable as ever. Everything about this investigation was becoming frustratingly opaque. Valencourt, Valli, the occultists, they were all circling one another, fighting on a stage Atwood was only starting to glimpse. It was infuriating and distinctly unnerving. He knew people, understood their petty cruelties, grand dreams, and great greed, and at this stage in an investigation he usually had his teeth in deep, but so far it felt as though he was still flailing about, searching for something to grasp. Every case had a center, a core, but this time it kept slipping through his fingers. He needed Walter to help steady him, to see what he was missing, but his partner was proving as elusive as everything else.

His hostess’ cloying incense didn’t bother him as much as it had the first time, but it still affected him. There was a throbbing in his head that wouldn’t go away and it wasn’t due to all the incense. The pressure was starting to get to him. The long sleepless nights weighed on his mind.

Madame Valli caught him staring and smiled broadly. “See something you like?” she asked and waggled her eyebrows suggestively.

Atwood barked a short laugh. He couldn’t help himself.

“You’re not going mad are you, Atwood?” Madame Valli asked. There were notes of genuine friendship beneath her flippancy. Atwood distrusted it instantly.

“I hope not,” he said, rubbing his forehead. “Though I am hearing things.”

“Pity,” said Madame Valli, drawing her faded grandeur back around herself like a costume or a disguise. “I like a little madness in my men.”

Atwood blushed despite himself and took a sip of his tea to cover his nerves. When he looked up, Madame Valli was grinning at him.

“You must have been very fond of Collins then,” he said before he could stop himself.

Her grin faded. “I was,” she said. “I
am
.”

“I’m sorry,” Atwood said.

She gazed at him for nearly a minute. He struggled not to fidget under her gaze. “I believe you really are,” she said at last. “Are you sure that you’re not going mad?”

“It’s just the exhaustion talking,” Atwood replied. “It’ll pass.”

“I hope so,” Madame Valli said. “You’d be no fun with a conscience.”

He threw her a half-hearted glare. “I’m glad I can amuse you.”

“You should be,” she replied. “It’s one of the reasons I’m helping you.”

“And the other?”

“We’ve been over this. Collins was our friend.”

“Yes.” Atwood sat up. “Stokes mentioned that. Several times. But Collins was already looking into Valencourt,” Atwood said. “On your behalf.”

“He told you that?”

“Not in so many words.”

“So you don’t know.”

“I know,” said Atwood, “and so do you. The whole lot of you, circling Valencourt. You sent Collins in and now you’re using me.”

“That’s not true,” Madame Valli said but stopped when she saw Atwood’s expression. “Well,” she said, “not exactly.”

“Then what, exactly?”

Madame Valli put her teacup down gently and sighed. “I suppose you deserve to know,” she said. “My friends and I are…interested in Dr. Valencourt’s work.”

Atwood raised an eyebrow. “Why would any of you care about a madman in an attic?”

“Because he might not be mad,” Madame Valli said.

Atwood blinked. She appeared to be perfectly serious. He had never distrusted her more.

“So?” he asked. “You’re charlatans and table-rappers. What would you need with an alchemist? Unless you think there’s gold to steal?”

“No,” Madame Valli said. “Not gold.”

Atwood snorted. “That’s all you’re going to give me, isn’t it?”

Madame Valli sighed. “I don’t have all the answers,” she said.

“You have most of them,” Atwood replied. “Certainly more than Stokes.”

“Why, darling! I had no idea you had such a high opinion of me.” She rested her hand on his shoulder.

“It’s not an opinion.” He removed her hand carefully. “It’s the truth.”

She leaned back and stared into his face. It was her turn to study him with her dark, piercing eyes. “You’re sharper than you look,” she said finally.

“That’s what I’m paid for,” Atwood said. “But don’t think you can flatter or flirt your way out of this one.”

“I don’t,” she said, suddenly serious. “But you’re not ready. You’d laugh in my face, and probably end up getting yourself killed.”

“As opposed to locked up in the nuthouse?” He regretted it as soon as he said it, and felt himself to be the worst sort of hypocrite. He wasn’t innocent either. Swifty was still nowhere to be found.

A flinch of pain and guilt crossed Madame Valli’s face, but she maintained her composure. “If those are the only two options available,” she said. “Then yes. That is preferable to seeing you dead.”

“Lucky I’m not going mad, then.”

Madame Valli nodded, but her eyes were still hooded. Neither of them seemed entirely convinced. “I invited you here for another reason,” she said.

“Not just the pleasure of my company? You wound me.” It was a feeble jest, and Madame Valli responded with a feeble smile. For all their banter, a pall lay over the conversation.

“I took the liberty of writing to Dr. Staalman on your behalf.”

“Oh?” Atwood frowned. “To what end?”

“He has agreed to grant you an interview with Collins.”

“That would be helpful,” he said. “Though, I don’t suppose he did this out of the goodness of his heart.”

“No. Staalman is not a generous sort. He’ll want something from you in return, and from me.”

“Quid pro quo.”

“Precisely.”

“And does Stokes know?”

“I doubt Staalman would tell him.”

Atwood raised an eyebrow. “Did you?”

Madame Valli met his gaze levelly. “No,” she said simply.

“Well,” he said with a smirk. “What have you got me in the middle of?”

“Be careful with Staalman,” Madame Valli said. “The doctor can be prickly and his enemies have a tendency to end up under his care.”

The warning was genuine, but she had reasons of her own for helping him. There wasn’t a philanthropic bone in her body. Atwood would need to learn those reasons soon, before they got him killed. He wondered if Collins had known them. Perhaps he would ask him, assuming the poor man could answer.

The carriage clattered dangerously down the dirt road. Inside, Atwood rubbed his hands together, shivering slightly in the autumn chill. There was a bitter bite to the air, but it was fresh and clean and smelled of winter. Atwood breathed deeply, even as the cold gnawed at his throat and lungs. It was a relief after the encroaching stench of the city. He stared out at the steep, rising hills and the red and gold of the falling leaves. In contrast, the streets of the city had become stark gray places of late, leached of all color and vibrancy. Atwood could feel the horse’s sense of freedom matching his own. There seemed to be an extra spring in their canter, away from the noise and the onrushing crowds. It was as though a fever had lifted, if only for a moment. Atwood felt more alive than he had in weeks, possibly months. He doubted it would last.

The St. Benedictus Home for the Incurably Insane was atop a sloping foothill, amidst the looming redwoods. The wrought-iron gates opened onto a welcoming lawn with orderly rows of trees and flowers. In the spring and summer it must have offered a menagerie of sweet fragrances and false hope. Above it on the very crest of the hill was the asylum itself, a gloomy bastion of red brick and barred windows. There was nothing welcoming or sweet in its grim visage. The masonry spoke less of healing than confinement. The truth was plain to see. St. Benedictus was not a home, but a prison.

Atwood climbed down from the carriage and paid the driver. He had intended to ask him to wait, but one look at the driver’s pursed lips and the spooked horses changed his mind. They were kicking the dirt and constantly turning their heads, as if expecting a monster to suddenly emerge. The carefree liberty of the journey was gone, like it had never existed. There was an uneasiness in the air. Madness had sunk its roots in deep behind the gates of St. Benedictus. Atwood found himself wondering if it could spread like a contagion, infecting him. He shook those thoughts away, but they clung to him stubbornly, like his dreams.

Sister Constance was waiting for him at the top of the stairs. She had a pinched, dour face and sour expression. She peered down at Atwood from behind her owl-rimmed glasses, and turned up her nose at his attire. For his part, Atwood had never had much time for religion, although he maintained a healthy fear of nuns.

“Welcome to St. Benedictus,” she said curtly. “Dr. Staalman is expecting you.”

“Thank you,” Atwood started, but Sister Constance had already turned and disappeared inside. Atwood took a deep breath, steadied his nerves, and followed her into the asylum. A small part of him whispered that they might never let him out again, but he crushed the thought ruthlessly.

Sister Constance led him through a labyrinth of chilly corridors. There were patients in striped uniforms, doctors hurrying about their business, hiding frowns behind their beards, and nurses with strong arms and unkind eyes. They all parted before Sister Constance, pushing themselves as far out of her way as space allowed. Atwood followed in her wake, trying not to flinch at the expressions around him, or at the mysterious screams that erupted at random intervals from the bowels of the asylum.

Finally they reached a nondescript door at the end of a long hallway. The sign on the door read: Dr. Staalman—Deputy Superintendent.

“After you, Sister,” Atwood said, forcing a grin.

Sister Constance merely glared.

*

Dr. Staalman’s office had a peculiarly Spartan extravagance. Despite the air of wealth and ostentation, the room was neatly, almost ruthlessly organized. Everything was in its proper place. Everything had a function. At first glance the globe in the corner appeared to be a luxury, but on closer inspection it doubled as a drinks cabinet. The walls were lined with leather-bound tomes from floor to ceiling, every one of them expensive, and every one of them necessary. Dr. Staalman was seated behind a massive mahogany desk laden with papers in sharply delineated piles, and what appeared to be pieces of brain encased in wax. He was clearly a man of means, or at least the appearance of means, but there were no personal touches, no photographs or lithographs, not even a framed copy of Staalman’s diploma. Atwood wondered what the good doctor needed to hide so fiercely.

Dr. Staalman looked up over the rim of his glasses. “Ah, Mr. Atwood,” he said, putting down his pen carefully. “Please forgive me for not meeting you at the gate. There was an incident with one of our more…intransigent patients.”

“I understand completely,” Atwood said. He felt awkward and ill at ease hovering in the doorway. This whole place was like an itch under his skin, crawling inside him, and Madame Valli’s warning echoed in his ears.

“Thank you.” Dr. Staalman nodded stiffly. “That will be all, Constance.” The sour-faced woman graced him with a curl of her lips and then left without another word.

“Lovely woman,” Atwood commented.

“She has her uses.” Staalman gestured to the chair. “Now, I have arranged an interview for you with Mr. Collins.”

“Much obliged.” Atwood took his seat cautiously.

“Please understand, Mr. Atwood, that this is highly irregular. Mr. Collins is in a delicate state.”

“I’ll be as gentle as I can,” Atwood replied.

“I appreciate that.”

“Though I did find it curious, doctor,” Atwood ventured after a moment.

“Oh?” Staalman steepled his hands in front of him. “What would that be?”

“Well, it is quite a coincidence that after he suffered his…unfortunate collapse, poor Collins just so happened to find himself in your care.”

Staalman smiled. “I assure you, there was nothing coincidental about it. I had to call in a large number of favors, and pull quite a few strings.”

“Why?”

“To ensure that Mr. Collins would be treated by someone who could truly understand.”

“And do you understand?” Atwood asked.

Staalman paused. “Madame Valli tells me that you have moved into Collins’ old apartment,” he said finally, in lieu of an answer.

“Yes, what of it?”

Staalman leaned forward and fixed his dark, fierce eyes on Atwood. “My point is that I do understand Collins,” he said. “But probably not as much as you do, Mr. Atwood.”

“And what do you mean by that?” Atwood frowned.

Staalman held up his hands placatingly. “Forgive me,” he said. “I meant no harm. But you and he do share a common neighbor.”

“Do you mean Valencourt or Valli?”

Staalman acknowledged the point with a wry smile. “Collins was a quiet, fastidious man when I first met him. He had a first-class mind for numbers, and, like you, he was curious.”

“A useful trait in my line of work.”

“Yes, but it was not a desirable trait in a clerk. He needed to find alternative avenues to explore.”

“The occult,” Atwood said. It was not a question.

“I believe that is how he first met Madame Valli, at one of her séances.”

“Not at Pretorius Street?”

“No.” Staalman nodded as though one of his less able students had unexpectedly answered correctly. “Not at Pretorius Street.”

Atwood leaned back frowning. “Just how many downstairs neighbors has Valencourt had?”

“Only the two of you.” Staalman shrugged. “So far.”

“Your faith in me is touching,” Atwood muttered.

“You’re a clever man, but so was Collins. He was very eager to please.”

“And Madame Valli?”

“I’m sure you’re aware of her fondness for younger men.” Staalman’s beard tried and failed to hide his amusement.

“Are you suggesting…?”

“I’ve found it safer not to pry into her affairs.”

Atwood couldn’t deny the wisdom in that, so instead he asked the question that had been bothering him for some time now. “So what exactly is your lot’s interest in Valencourt?

“You first.”

“I’m after a story,” Atwood said simply. “Nothing mysterious about it. You and Madame Valli, though…”

“Why don’t you ask her?”

“I have. She wouldn’t give me a straight answer.”

“And you think I will?” Staalman raised an eyebrow.

“Yes,” Atwood said simply. He was on firmer ground here. “Because you haven’t lied yet. And because you want something from me.”

“Do I? And what would that be?”

“You tell me.”

Staalman said nothing for a minute or two. Atwood could feel him thinking, weighing the possibilities. He kept silent. Staalman’s decision was never in any doubt. Atwood knew the look of someone caught in a vice. He saw it every day in the mirror, at the newspaper, and he even caught a shadow of it on Madame Valli’s face sometimes. He didn’t know what she and Staalman were facing, but he knew that Staalman was more desperate.

“Valencourt has a notebook in his possession,” Staalman said finally.

“A notebook, I see. And you would like me to acquire it for you?”

“Yes.”

“And not for Valli or Stokes?”

Staalman hesitated. “Yes.”

“Is it valuable?”

“Depends who you ask.”

Atwood nodded. He had leverage, finally. “What’s inside?” he asked.

Staalman shifted uncomfortably, but said nothing.

After a moment, Atwood barked a laugh. “You don’t know!”

“Valencourt’s work has interested a number of powerful people, and they want to know what he’s doing.”

“And the notebook will help?”

“Perhaps.” Staalman sighed. “As you can see,” he said, waving his hand to encompass his office, “I can afford to pay you a great deal more than the opera singer or the con man.”

“But can you pay more than their…
patrons
?” Atwood tasted the word on his tongue, watching Staalman closely for his reaction. He was not disappointed.

“W-where did you…” Staalman sputtered. “How do you know that word?”

“From Ms. Peake,” Atwood said. “She called Madame Valli my patron, and I thought it was an odd choice of words.”

Staalman groaned. “That was very indiscrete of her.”

“Whereas you have been the soul of discretion.” Atwood smirked. He was enjoying himself for the first time in months. “Relax, doctor. I’m not interested in your little secret society, not yet anyway. I don’t want to kiss the ring or learn the secret signs. I had enough of that with the masons.”

Dr. Staalman did not appear reassured.

“I’ll consider your offer,” Atwood said. “But now I think it’s time I saw Collins.”

“Yes,” Staalman said. “I suppose it is.”

*

Staalman led Atwood deeper and deeper into the asylum. Through an open door, Atwood glimpsed a man with an electrical device attached to his forehead, being attended to by an overenthusiastic young doctor who appeared to be enjoying himself immensely. Through another, he saw a row of women with dull eyes, encased in steam, enduring the sauna treatment. Atwood felt Staalman’s eyes on him, but kept his expression studiously neutral. He wouldn’t give the doctor the satisfaction of seeing his true feelings. Atwood had lived his life amidst all manner of squalor, was familiar with degradation in its myriad forms, but this chamber of horrors with its patina of science was something else entirely.

“I will be joining you for the interview,” Staalman said as they approached the back wing of the house.

“That was not the arrangement,” Atwood said.

“My hospital, my rules. I need to care for the health of my patient.”

“You’re a true saint,” Atwood muttered.

“Don’t let the sisters hear you say that,” Staalman said.

Atwood ignored him. “I have already spoken with Collins, you know,” he said.

“Yes, but that was before. I don’t know what Valencourt did to him exactly, but he’s a changed man—if he is a man anymore, and not a husk.”

They reached a locked door, flanked by two orderlies.

“Either I go in with you,” Staalman said firmly, “or this was a colossal waste of both our time.” Atwood sighed. Staalman wasn’t bluffing.

“Very well,” he said. “If you must.” He had hoped to see Collins alone. There would have been a better chance of getting real answers, though if he was as far gone as Staalman suggested, that might have been a forlorn hope. The door creaked open and Atwood followed Staalman inside.

Collins was seated in a straight-backed wooden chair. His arms and legs were strapped down, and his head was locked in place by a metal brace. It looked like some ancient medieval torture device, more at home in the Inquisition than in a hospital. He watched Atwood and Staalman closely, unable to move save for his eyes and his fingers, which beat out a nervous rhythm on the arms of the chair. Tap. Tap. Tap.

Atwood sat in front of him in a rickety wooden chair. Staalman loomed behind him, silent but unmistakably present. The uneasy feeling had returned, crawling across Atwood’s skin and itching inside his head, trying to get out. Looking at the gaunt, twitching creature Collins had become was akin to staring at a premonition made flesh, the shape of things to come for him. Atwood had to remind himself that he had dealt with mad men before and not gone mad himself. This was different, though.

“Good evening, Mr. Collins,” he said.

Collins’ face twisted and contorted before settling into a rictus grin. “Atwood,” he greeted. “Atwood the liar!”

“We’re all liars here,” Atwood replied calmly.

“You lie,” Collins agreed. “And that doctor behind you is made of lies, but I never lie. I’m a good boy.” His grin widened.

“You lied to me the last time we met,” Atwood said.

“Did I?” Collins’ voice seemed lost, as if it came from far away.

“Several times that I noticed, possibly more.”

“Well,” Collins said after a moment, “that was then, this is now. I’m a new man.”

Atwood tilted his head ruefully. “You’re definitely…different,” he said, and it was true.

There was a coy intelligence in Collins’ eyes now, unmasked for all to see. This was the face of the talker inside, not the quiet, careful man on the outside, the clerk with a stifled imagination and a squandered intellect. He had been on the edge last time they spoke; now he was broken and cracked. There was a freeness in that. His tongue was certainly looser and less guarded, but Atwood could still see Valencourt’s strings, and hear his voice in Collins.

“You don’t understand,” Collins said.