The Thirteenth Gate Read online

  The Thirteenth Gate

  Dominion Mysteries #2

  Kat Ross

  The Thirteenth Gate

  First Edition

  Copyright © 2017 by Kat Ross

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This story is a work of fiction. References to real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales are intended only to provide a sense of authenticity and are used fictitiously. All other characters, and all incidents and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.

  Cover design by Damonza

  ISBN: 978-0-9972362-8-6

  For Mom

  Contents

  Part I

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Part II

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Part III

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Epilogue

  Afterword

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Kat Ross

  Part I

  I trembled, and my heart failed within me; when, on looking up, I saw, by the light of the moon, the daemon at the casement.

  ― Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley, Frankenstein

  Chapter 1

  Saturday, December 15, 1888

  Rain drummed on the roof of the carriage as it raced up Wickham Hill Road. Just ahead, the Greymoor Lunatic Asylum crouched at the end of a long, treeless drive, its peaked slate roof silhouetted against the sky. The black brougham drew to a halt before the wrought-iron front gate. Following a brief exchange with the occupants, two officers from the Essex constabulary waved it through, immediately ducking back into the shelter of a police wagon.

  The asylum made a grim impression even in daylight. Now, in the darkest hour of the night, with water coursing down the brick façade and thunder rattling the turrets, Greymoor looked like something torn from the pages of a penny dreadful, hulking and shadowed despite the lamps burning in every barred window.

  “I told them to watch him,” Lady Vivienne Cumberland muttered, yanking her gloves on. “To keep him isolated from the staff and other patients. Clearly, they didn’t listen. The fools.”

  The carriage jolted forward down the rutted drive. It had been a little over a month since her first and last interview with Dr. William Clarence. Afterwards, Lady Cumberland had taken a hard look at those bars and strongly suggested to the asylum superintendent that he move Dr. Clarence to a room with no window at all.

  Her companion, Alec Lawrence, gripped the cane resting across his knees. He had been present at the interview, had looked into Dr. Clarence’s eyes, a blue so pale they reminded him of a Siberian dog. The memory unsettled him still, and he wasn’t a man who was easily shaken.

  “We don’t know what happened yet,” he pointed out. “Superintendent Barrett can hardly be faulted considering we withheld certain information. I rather doubt he would have believed us anyway.”

  Vivienne scowled out the window at the rain-blurred grounds. “You may be right, but it was only a matter of time. I’ve known that since the day Clarence was brought here. The S.P.R. made a bad mistake entrusting him to Greymoor.”

  “We still don’t know for sure—”

  “Yes, we do. The killings stopped, didn’t they?”

  “That could be for any number of reasons,” he said stubbornly.

  “Including that the creature who committed them is behind bars. Or was, at least.”

  Alec Lawrence buttoned his woolen greatcoat. This was not a new debate. “Perhaps. But there’s not a scrap of hard evidence against him. Nothing but a single reference in a report by some American girl and Clarence’s own odd demeanor. Had there been more, he would have been locked up tight in Newgate Prison.”

  Vivienne turned her obsidian gaze on him. With her unlined skin and full lips, she might have been thirty, or a decade in either direction. Only Alec and a handful of others knew better.

  “That American girl is Arthur Conan Doyle’s goddaughter and she seemed quite clever to me. It wouldn’t have mattered anyway,” she added quietly. “Walls don’t hold Dr. Clarence’s sort for long.”

  “Look,” he said, softening. “For what it’s worth, I think we did the right thing taking him off the streets. I just....” He trailed off, unsure how he meant to finish the thought.

  “You don’t trust my judgment anymore. Since Harper Dods.”

  “That’s not even remotely true. I simply think we need to keep open minds on the matter. The signs aren’t there, Vivienne. I’m the first to admit Dr. Clarence is an odd duck, perhaps worse. But that doesn’t mean he isn’t human.”

  Vivienne arched a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. “And yet here we are, summoned by Sidgwick in the middle of the night. I wonder if he’s regretting his decision?”

  The note from Henry Sidgwick, president of the Society for Psychical Research, had arrived in the form of a small, bedraggled messenger boy pounding on Lady Vivienne’s front door in St. James an hour before. It was both vague and ominous, citing an “unfortunate incident” involving Dr. Clarence and urging all due haste to the asylum.

  “I suppose we’ll find out in a minute,” Alec said, turning his collar up. He swiped a hand through chestnut hair and jammed a top hat on his head. “Off to the races.”

  A gust of rain shook the carriage as it slowed at the front entrance. A six-story tower capped by a Roman clock and white spire anchored two wings extending on either side. Unlike most asylums, which had separate annexes for men and women, Greymoor’s residents were all male. The north wing housed those poor souls suffering from garden-variety disorders like dementia and melancholia. The other was reserved for the so-called “incurables,” a euphemism for the criminally insane. Violent, unpredictable men deemed unfit for prison.

  Despite his doubts, Alec Lawrence would have happily had the lot of them over for tea rather than spend five minutes in the company of Dr. William Clarence. In his heart, he wondered if Vivienne’s instincts were correct. But he wanted her to be wrong because the alternative was far worse.

  The jouncing of the wooden carriage wheels ceased. A pocket of silence descended, broken only by the steady hiss of the rain on the roof. He watched Lady Cumberland compose herself, smoothing a stray curl into place. The pearl grey gloves seemed to glow against her dark skin. They had been together for many, many years, and frequently disagreed, but he’d never grown tired of looking at her.

  Vivienne unclenched her jaw and took a long breath through her nose.

  “Shall we, Mr. Lawrence?”

  He nodded once, girding himself for what waited inside. The young coachman, Henry, jumped down and opened the carriage door, offering his hand to Vivienne. Freezing rain swept sideways across the heath, soaking them both despite Henry’s best eff
orts to subdue a wildly flapping umbrella. Alec ducked his head against the downpour and used his cane to clamber down. The winter damp always worsened his knee, but he limped swiftly up the stone steps to the welcome shelter of the portico. A tall woman, Vivienne’s stride matched his own. Henry snapped the reins and the carriage moved toward the rear stables. Somewhere off in the darkness, Alec heard the mournful baying of a hound.

  Moments later they stood dripping on the carpet of Greymoor’s small entrance hall. The sour aroma of mutton and boiled cabbage emanated from a distant kitchen. Through the door of an adjacent parlor, Alec glimpsed a fire crackling in the hearth, but the air in the hall was still uncomfortably cold.

  A knot of police stood at the end of the corridor. They turned at the newcomers’ arrival. Alec recognized the shrewd gaze of Detective Inspector Richard Blackwood. He acted as the liaison between Scotland Yard’s Dominion Branch and the S.P.R., of which Alec and Vivienne were members. They’d worked together on several previous cases of a delicate nature, and Alec liked D.I. Blackwood. He was discreet and open-minded, embracing modern methods of investigation while at the same time accepting there were things in the world the general public would be better off staying in the dark about.

  “Lady Cumberland,” he exclaimed, rushing forward in his usual energetic manner. Blackwood was small and wiry, with prematurely thinning black hair parted on the side and a faint Yorkshire accent. The buttons of his navy uniform had been done up crooked, as if he’d put it on in a hurry. “Mr. Lawrence. I’ve been waiting for you.”

  Blackwood steered them into the parlor, which was marginally warmer, and closed the door. Fading rose-printed wallpaper provided the only color in the room. The rest of the furnishings were dark wood, and the paintings arranged above the fireplace—all of bearded men with somber expressions who were either alienists or benefactors of the asylum—did little to enliven things. Alec assumed the parlor served as a waiting room for the patients’ relatives, although the place had such an untouched, almost desolate air, he suspected visitors to Greymoor were a rare event.

  Alec shrugged off his coat and hung it on a rack. Vivienne leaned against the mantel, letting the heat of the flames dry her sodden cloak. For an instant, he envied her ability to bask in the warmth and light. It was an experience he would never share.

  “I have a dead orderly upstairs,” Blackwood said unhappily. “And if you two are here, I suppose I can expect things to get worse. Barrett says the patient who did it was voluntarily admitted at the personal request of Mr. Sidgwick.”

  “Has Clarence escaped?” Vivienne asked.

  Blackwood nodded. “Through a window. He must have used a prying tool. We have bloodhounds combing the grounds, but the rain isn’t helping any. Time of death was about eleven o’clock. The body was only discovered two hours ago. He’s had a head start.”

  Alec and Vivienne shared a look. “You must tell your men not to approach Clarence under any circumstances,” she said. “Should they find him, we’ll deal with him ourselves.”

  “I already did, as soon as I heard the S.P.R. was involved. We know the protocols.”

  Alec nodded approvingly. Commissioner Warren had been astute to put Blackwood in charge of the Dominion Branch. He didn’t take chances.

  “What have they told you?” Vivienne asked. “About Dr. Clarence?”

  “Practically nothing,” Blackwood muttered, dropping heavily into an armchair. “Only that he was admitted four weeks ago after complaining of migraines. No one seems to have an adequate explanation of why he was placed in South Wing. He was the only patient there without a criminal record.” He gave them both a level look. “If this is a matter of interest to the S.P.R., I would like very much to know why the Yard wasn’t informed earlier.”

  “The short answer, Inspector? Dr. Clarence is a surgeon with the New York Police Department. Or was, until a few weeks ago.” She paused for dramatic effect. “It would cause them a great deal of embarrassment should the newspapers learn he’s a suspect in the Whitechapel killings.”

  “What?’ Blackwood sat up straight. “The Ripper? I hope you’re joking. We’ve been tearing the city apart for weeks—”

  “He’s not an official suspect,” Alec interjected, shooting Vivienne a quelling look. “There’s no physical evidence. None at all. Only circumstantial, and of a nature that cannot be made public, if you get my meaning.”

  D.I. Blackwood took his cap off and sighed. “Let’s have it then.”

  Vivienne withdrew a cigarette from a silver case and tapped it twice on the lid. Blackwood waited with barely suppressed impatience while she produced a Magic Pocket Lamp, then took a long drag and exhaled a wreath of smoke. “There’s a connection between Dr. Clarence and the Jekyll and Hyde case in New York.”

  “I heard about that,” Blackwood said thoughtfully. “Nasty business. They caught him with a little boy in the Beach Transit Tunnel. But I thought it was solved?”

  “The man’s name was Leland Brady,” Alec said, taking a seat on a sofa by the window that was about as cozy as a slab of granite. Lightning flashed in the low skies outside, followed by a rumble of distant thunder. “A perfectly respectable real estate agent who killed five people. Dr. Clarence was present when Brady took his own life. He was treating the suspect’s gunshot wound. Shortly afterwards, the doctor quit his post and boarded a ship for England.” Alec hesitated. “He arrived just before Polly Nichols was butchered on August 31st.”

  D.I. Blackwood said nothing. He knew there was more to it than that.

  “Before he died, Brady wrote a letter to his wife,” Vivienne said, flicking ashes in the general direction of the fireplace. Alec, ever fastidious, tried not to wince. “It expressed his belief that he was possessed by a demonic entity, and contained the words ‘From Hell.’ The letter was written in early August. You do see the significance?”

  Blackwood rubbed his chin. “Aye. The note with that same phrase from the Ripper wasn’t sent until weeks later. Christ, it was the one with the piece of kidney, wasn’t it? What else?” He rested his hands on his knees. “Are you saying Clarence is a ghoul? That Brady somehow infected him?”

  “He passed the iron test,” Alec said quietly.

  “Definitively?”

  “Yes. He also spoke to us quite normally, although he admitted to suffering from headaches. What about the dogs? How did they react to his scent on the bedclothes?”

  “No frenzied barking, not like they would for a ghoul. One or two did whimper rather strangely. I wasn’t sure how to interpret it. But you say Clarence passed the iron test. And he carried on a conversation. Doesn’t that settle it, then?”

  “Not for me,” Vivienne said. “There are too many oddities in the Brady case. Evidence that doesn’t quite add up. And now we have another killing.”

  Blackwood stared at her uncertainly. “But if it’s not a ghoul and it’s not a man…what is it?”

  “Something different.”

  “Such as?”

  “I’ve no idea, Inspector.”

  Vivienne’s tone remained level, but Alec sensed her frustration. This was essentially the same conversation she’d had with Sidgwick a month ago.

  “All right.” Blackwood pressed a hand against his forehead as if it pained him. Alec understood. It was a lot to digest in one lump. He still wasn’t sure what to make of it all himself. “You say there were oddities in the New York crimes.”

  “A few. The report claimed that fingerprints were burned into one victim’s throat,” Alec said, earning a grateful look from Vivienne. “An actress named Anne Marlowe.”

  The inspector leaned forward. They’d caught his interest. “Have you seen anything like that before?”

  “Never,” Alec conceded.

  “Who wrote the report?”

  “An amateur detective in New York named Harrison Fearing Pell.”

  “Fearing Pell? As in Myrtle Fearing Pell?”

  “Harrison is the younger sister.”

  �
�I’ve heard of Myrtle. The Yard called her in last year on a rather bizarre extortion case involving the Duke of Argyll. Solved it in record time, apparently. Is the sister any good?”

  “Well, she managed to catch Mr. Brady, so I’d say she’s quite competent,” Vivienne said. “Her summary of the case came to us through Arthur Conan Doyle. He thought the Society would be interested because of the occult features.” Her mouth tightened. “Unfortunately, Miss Pell’s report sat under a heap of papers on Mr. Sidgwick’s desk for nearly three weeks before he read it and passed it on. Had we known about it sooner, Mary Jane Kelly might still be alive.”

  They were all silent for a moment. Kelly had been the last of the Ripper’s victims, and the most savagely treated. She’d died on November 9th, bringing the number of confirmed murders to five. Fear still gripped the city of London, although the man who called himself Jack appeared to have vanished as suddenly as he’d arrived.

  “We found Dr. Clarence on November 12th in Cheapside,” Alec said. “He wasn’t hard to trace. The lodgings had been rented under his own name.”

  Alec had a sudden memory of that night. Kicking open the door of a squalid room. William Clarence sitting on the edge of his bed, neatly dressed in a dark suit, black leather bag between his feet—the same bag Leland Brady had seized a scalpel from to cut his own throat.