The Cabinet of Dr Blessing (The Dr Blessing Collection Parts 1-3): A Gothic Victorian Horror Tale Read online

  The Cabinet of Dr Blessing

  Comprising the following Dr Blessing titles, by Jack Rollins:

  Dr Blessing’s Curse, Or, The Baby In The Bell-Jar

  Dr Blessing’s Rapture, Or, The Beast And The Bell-Jar

  and

  A Christmas Blessing

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  Dark Chapter Press

  20 Royal Oak Gardens, Alnwick

  Northumberland, NE66 2DA

  www.darkchapterpress.com

  Copyright © Rob McEwan, 2014

  The moral right of the author has been asserted All rights reserved

  without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the copyright owner of this book.

  Dr Blessing’s Curse, Or, The Baby In The Bell-Jar first published in 2011

  Dr Blessing’s Rapture, Or, The Beast And The Bell-Jar first published in 2012

  A Christmas Blessing first published in 2013

  The Cabinet of Dr Blessing first published in 2014 by Rob McEwan

  References to De Omori and Owen McEwan made with the kind permission of David Basnett

  Cover art by Mark Kelly, Grim Ventures

  The Cabinet of Dr Blessing comprises the following:

  Title Page

  Copyright Information

  Part 1

  Dr Blessing’s Curse, or, The Baby In The Bell-Jar

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Part 2

  Dr Blessing’s Rapture, or, The Beast And The Bell-Jar

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Part 3

  A Christmas Blessing

  Niamh

  Giles

  Edward

  George

  Blessings

  Correspondence

  About the author

  Part 1:

  Dr Blessing’s Curse, or, The Baby In The Bell-Jar

  In which we are introduced to Doctor Blessing, and learn of his most unusual, and horrifying predicament.

  One.

  Margaret and I were entertaining a group of friends one evening in July 1859, these being the accountant Francis Flanders and his wife Annie, the catholic priest Father Haddon, (a recent acquaintance who was blissfully unaware that I was completely aware of his hopeless addiction to card games in various nefarious dens in our grey city) and finally the art dealer Edward Summerscale who was joined by the latest muse of his latest victim (that is to say, client), a French girl by the name of Dominique.

  The dinner itself was given for no particular reason, the guests largely unremarkable in that they had become our regular company. Francis had tended to my finances for six years. Edward was always hoping to shift paintings and prints at the various dinners he attended but relaxed the selling at dinner in this particular company and with good reason. This reason being, chiefly that myself and Francis were only too aware of the “brand new works by the fine artist Alexander Pond, fresh from Paris” that Edward had been shovelling onto collectors in London, Manchester and Newcastle a year after Pond was stabbed to death in a robbery on the street in Paris.

  It seems wise to point out at this stage that, at the time of this dinner, Margaret and I had been married for a little under five years and remained childless, and of equal note is that in all of those five years, and all of the gatherings, dinners and parties we have held, not once have I invited another doctor. That is to say that by day, I, Doctor George Blessing, am a general practitioner, but in my leisure time I do not care to consort with others of my kind nor discuss in any great detail the activities engaged in, while ministering to my duties.

  As the maid of all work cleared away downstairs, we retired to the drawing room. After half an hour, Edward and Dominique, Francis and Annie took their leave. I had noticed that Father Haddon had been particularly struck by Dominique. I suppose some would consider her beautiful, some as ravishing, but I have long since had my desire for the pleasure of a woman’s thighs dampened. At my age of thirty-one this might seem out of the ordinary, especially given the lack of children and at the risk of sounding self-satisfied, Margaret’s considerable beauty.

  Margaret dismissed Lily, the maid, for the night. Lily stayed down the hall from Margaret and I, in the room that would, in any other home, perhaps be a nursery. Then Margaret took herself off to bed. Her hand had lingered at the doorframe; her eyes had taken on a longing, a deep sadness, and I knew that she would slip into a laudanum-induced sleep before long at all. Her health had held during the dinner, but the truth of the matter was that she had become a deeply troubled, melancholy woman.

  This left Father Haddon and I alone in the drawing room. I poured us each a heavy measure of brandy and took to my chair. Father Haddon considered the drink. He seemed phased, almost a little frightened by it as though afraid that upon drinking it, he might be reduced to some base, drunken monster to be cast out on the street. It occurred to me that perhaps he hovered about us so in the hope that should Margaret and I bring a child into the world, the family might be a further addition to his parish. Then again, I thought, Father Haddon had never seen me so much as set foot in a church, so would he expect me to raise a child with such ties?

  I took a deep, burning swallow of brandy. I wondered if upstairs, Margaret would be making ready another attempt at seduction, trying to lure me from the fascinations of my study. Poor Margaret, if only she had seen the things that I have seen, then she might understand. It is not the lice and the discharges, not the pustulous dribbling sores, the slobbering madness of diseased whores, nor the liquefying, tumour-knotted breasts that have made a monk out of me. I have seen horror such as would make a surgeon, battle-hardened in the Crimea, turn out his guts.

  I got to thinking of that night, and it seemed appropriate to talk about it, looking over at that hypocrite with his white collar and crucifix. Perhaps he might like my story. I drained my glass.

  “Quite a drinker, eh?” Haddon muttered.

  “What’s that?” I asked him, snapping out of my reverie.

  “I say, you must have been thirsty.”

  I nodded. Yes. Yes, Father Haddon would like to hear the story. Yes, he would like it. He might even have some theological insight, some angle or notion that my science can not detect. Perhaps my pragm
atism is insufficient to free me from the slavery and wonderment of the gruesome marvel that has burned all desire and lust from me. “Drink,” I told him. “Drink, Father. We shall have another, but in my study.”

  “Pardon me, George, but I don’t usually drink brandy. I’m not accustomed to drinking it quickly,” Haddon protested.

  No, I thought, cheap gin in the slums is your tipple. “I have no communion wine, Father. I recommend you drink that brandy, however, to steady your stomach. I’ll find an alternative for you in my study for the next charge.”

  I detected then a nervousness in Father Haddon. At first I had mistaken it for wounded religious sensibilities at my communion wine comment. Was he afraid of what I might tell him? Had my tone changed? Had I flushed? Was I becoming overly-belligerent? Was I bordering on the aggressive? I made for the door, empty glass in hand, and looked back over my shoulder. Haddon took two big gulps of the brandy and contorted as though struck in the abdomen.

  “It’s good drink, eh Father?”

  “I-I can appreciate the quality of the liquor, George. But as I say… it’s not really my tipple.”

  I led the priest to my study, which was locked, the lock to which I alone held the key. We entered the room in darkness, the gaslight from the drawing room enough for me to find the safety matches on the side table with which to ignite the gas jets to either side of the mirror behind my desk. The bulk of my study now suitable illuminated, I motioned for Haddon to take a seat while I closed the door.

  “Does whisky take your fancy, Father?”

  Haddon’s smile was sudden and broad, his eyes glistened in the gaslight. “Now that I can drink.”

  “I have no water in here, Father.”

  “No, to water it down’s a sin,” he replied. Did I detect a hint of a Scottish accent? I wondered if this particular notion of a sin had been handed down to him by a father or grandfather.

  Haddon cast glances around the study, the walls mainly hidden behind bookshelves, the corners and wall behind him still dark where the active gas jets could not throw their light. The bookshelves he could see closest to him were stacked with medical texts, old copies of the Lancet and such. Those shelves closest to me, to my left, contained far less conventional literature. One book from that collection sat open on my desk, but Father Haddon did not appear to observe it for more than a moment. I wondered then if he wondered at my interest in “The Anatomy of the Blood-Fiend”, by Dr Samuel Brown, III. Then I wondered at his lack of wonder, given the nature of the diagram that would have greeted his eyes.

  Haddon’s attention then shifted to the various bell-jars he could make out on top of the bookshelves. I could see that the contents caused him no little discomfort. His jaw firmed, his eyes moving from one jar to the next, I then had the notion that he might have been looking for something rather than being interested in the collection in general. Perhaps he had heard tell of the shrunken head sent to me from Peru, or the lamb, born inside-out, perhaps the iguana, possibly the monkey foetus. I considered telling Haddon of the inverted lamb, which was still considered living when the veterinarian plunged it into the brine.

  I resisted that urge, but was forced to assess my loose-mindedness. Why did I want to horrify Haddon? Had I the urge to tell because of the drink, or had I drunk so much to drum up the courage? How to frame the tale – ask for help or wait for help to be offered? Could the priest offer help and advice on such matters, or would I be causing him needless discomfort? And could he keep a secret? And what if he couldn’t?

  Haddon seemed trustworthy, seemed nice. Well, as agreeable as any other fellow.

  Then again, I thought, he is a priest.

  Two.

  Three years ago, I was indulging in a guilty pleasure with a friend of mine, Henry Burton. Both of us enjoyed ‘roughing it’, as we used to call it, which involved, chiefly, our going to various low-class drinking and gambling dens around the city.

  On that particular night, we had selected Charlie’s Gin Palace, one of the more tame establishments, but still one where fights over between whores were commonplace.

  Henry was a practical man, a man of business and trade. It was his line of business that rendered him something of an outcast in polite society, and it was not considered normal for a doctor to fraternise with a trader frequently, without my being attached to his business in a practical way. Our friendship was all the more controversial as various parties became aware of our ‘rough’ trips. There were many married men who tutted in judgment and sensationalised our behaviour over tea in various parlours with their wives, while secretly wishing they were out in the darkness with Henry and I, drinking heavily and talking at length about subjects avoided in polite company.

  Henry and I had developed a business together, long after our friendship was cemented. I was chief of the staff at a hospital that he and his wife had helped me to create.

  Other friends of mine would ask probing questions to gather intelligence on his means. I knew for certain the fear in their enquiries – for Burton had started out with nothing, and was now a man whose fleet of clippers were making handsome returns for his investors. The wonder was where that first clipper had come from. Some said he had mutinied and seized a ship and begun a lucrative opium run. Others say that the pirate known as the Bilbao Devil was none other than Henry Burton, stealing ships, cargo and silver only to leap into legitimacy and, (Heaven forbid!) polite society. He was a man who made his own waves, and who had every chance of seeing his children or grandchildren firmly established in the upper class.

  His wife Charlotte was a delight and managed his house well, however, she was a source of amusement to society too, for no other reason than she had been a housekeeper to Burton’s father who had been, until the day he died, a respected editor on Fleet Street. She was considered to be a commoner, living far and indecently above her station. I found her lovely though, and Charlotte’s happy disposition and kind nature always made me wonder at why the family were up to that point, childless.

  Henry had intimated to me that this was purely a matter of economics and that he expected, upon increasing his fortune to a sum he never disclosed to me, to raise a large family on that capital. In some ways, this seemed a sensible position to take, but I did wonder if he was, perhaps, lacking the ability to father a child rather than preparing his finances – after all, childbirth quite naturally followed marriage and, at thirty-six years old, Henry was not getting any younger.

  This too, of course, was the subject of much speculation in the dining rooms and drawing rooms of Tyburnia. I could easily imagine that similar conversations were held about Margaret and I, so I never dwelt on the subject for long.

  There was another aspect of Charlotte that society ladies found strange: she never spoke ruefully of her staff, nor would she treat them badly nor was she overly demanding. I personally, being one of few regular guests to the home of the Burtons could see that there was a direct correlation between the gentle nature of the lady of the house, and the order of the staff, their dedication and attentiveness.

  Charlotte prided herself on being able to take a girl from a workhouse and turn her into a servant worthy of the gentry. Only once had she relieved a servant of her position, when she caught the girl stealing silverware. Even then, Charlotte ensured that the girl left with enough money to get back to her family, or for lodgings for a couple of weeks. Such charity was unheard of. Charlotte had confided in Margaret of this affair – it was not for Henry’s ears – and had said the act of stealing itself was an act of desperation, and the response to it was compassion not wrath.

  On the night in question, while Henry and I took our gin and smoked cigars, laughing raucously at the drunks and whores around us, our wives enjoyed each other’s company in the drawing room at the Burton home.

  Someone screamed at the far end of the bar and several glasses shattered on the floor as Henry and I chatted about the difficulties of his industry and of Henry’s suspicion that the British government we
re planning to outlaw British carriage of opium. He revealed that this would upset the balance of his business as the only way to wrangle tea from the Chinese was with silver, and the only way to wrangle that amount of silver was to carry opium from India, to China to satisfy the Chinaman’s unquenchable thirst for that narcotic.

  I turned to Henry with all curiosity, myself a man who had little contact with those from foreign shores. “Tell me Henry, does the Chinaman think like us?”

  Henry took several thoughtful puffs on his cigar, but his train of thought was broken when we saw a flustered-looking fellow in a top hat and riding cloak pushing his way through the crowd at Charlie’s.

  The red-faced man approached us and I recognised him as Henry’s coachman.

  “Henry, Charlotte has asked if both of you would return to the house. A girl came to your door, bringing news of young Judith,” the coachman announced.

  Henry frowned and puffed on his cigar. “Judith? The servant girl?”

  The situation was so out of the ordinary, neither Henry nor I thought to question it and we immediately climbed into the coach. I wondered on the way back to Henry’s house, if the girl in question was not the servant girl who had been relieved of duty.

  When we arrived at the Burton house, Charlotte was the image of concern. “Doctor Blessing, do you have a medical bag at all?” she asked.

  “Yes,” I replied. “I always carry a small kit with me. I left it here after dinner.”

  Judging by Charlotte’s urgency and the pallor of the young girl who had brought the message, something was obviously gravely wrong with this Judith girl of whom, it would seem, Charlotte was clearly very fond.

  “Doctor, would you be so kind as to accompany me? This girl is in terrible trouble, she isn’t far away.” Charlotte’s eyes pleaded with me so, I could hardly deny her request.

  Henry cleared his throat and grumbled, “Charlotte, this is highly improper. George, please excuse my wife’s impertinence.” Henry’s gaze was fixed on Charlotte, his expression one of fury, his eyes flashing like rifles of rebuke.