My Clockwork Muse (26 page)

"Laudanum?" I asked, hopefully. "Of a
certain, specific variety?"

"Oh, no. What I found is far worse—perhaps
even beyond our understanding."

~ * * * ~

"So what am I looking at?" I asked.

"Hematite ore," Witherspoon said. "You will
also find there trace elements of mercury and gold. You should have
consulted a geologist and not a chemist!" Witherspoon sniffed with
laughter. He looked up from the microscope and surveyed the little
group gathered around my stool. When no one shared his mirth, he
adjusted his pince-nez and turned his attention back to my
observations.

"I will have to take your word for it," I
said, looking up with my uninjured eye from the eyepiece. "It is
all a meaningless jumble to me."

"Oh, it's far from meaningless, Mr. Poe. Go
ahead, have a look." He motioned to Gessler and Olimpia and they
each took a turn examining the substance through the microscope.
"There are traces of other elements there as well. But I'm afraid
our sample is too small and degraded to make anything more than
broad observations."

"You have detected no opium," I said. I
needed assurance that what he had already told me was true: the
substance was not laudanum.

He shook his head. "No opium. The label on
the vial is an obvious attempt to mislead."

"To hide the substance in plain sight, no
doubt," Gessler said. "One laudanum vial among many."

"And to frame me," I added. "That is, after
all, my handwriting. Inexpert, yes, but an attempt at forgery all
the same."

"Then what is it, if not laudanum?" Olimpia
asked.

Witherspoon blushed as he did whenever
Olimpia addressed him directly. He busied himself by removing the
glass slide from the microscope and placing it in a flat dish. He
covered it with a lid, and then turned. "If my suspicion is
correct, gentlemen," he began, avoiding Olimpia's eye, "the
substance in that vial goes by many names: Liquid Gold; Pool of
Nectar. The Hindus call it Amrit." He surveyed our puzzled
expressions, and then intoned in a hushed whisper, "The Drink of
the Gods."

No one spoke for a moment as we tried to
digest what we had just heard. Witherspoon seemed to think the
names would mean something to us. They didn't. Finally, Gessler
broke the silence.

"Hindus be damned! What is it?"

"The Elixir of Life," Witherspoon said,
clearly awed by his pronouncement.

Gessler threw up his hands. "By God, the man
speaks in riddles!"

"Not a riddle, Inspector. Immortality!" With
a stiff, bent-legged gait, Witherspoon ambled across the room. He
stopped at a ceiling-high bookcase where he pulled a thin, ragged
volume from the shelf. "The riddle of the ages. The ultimate riddle
of Mankind. Immortality, sir. The Elixir of Life."

Gessler guffawed. "Really, Witherspoon! Are
we supposed to believe that vial contained the secret to
immortality?"

I agreed with Gessler. "The context in which
I found it may be more firmly established as belonging to the realm
of the dead, Mr. Witherspoon, and not of eternal life."

"Oh, it doesn't work," Witherspoon said. "But
that never stopped anyone from trying." He held the moldering
volume up for us to see. It reminded me of one of those from
Coppelius' laboratory. "My own ancestor." He paused, thumbing
through the brittle pages. "Old Elias. Escaped Cromwell's England
only to run afoul of the Inquisition on the continent. Quite a
colorful fellow. The Witherspoons have always been men of science.
These are our notes, begun by the unfortunate Elias and elaborated
upon ever since."

"And there is something of this elixir in
that volume?" I asked.

"Oh, yes. I have the recipe right here. That
is how I was able to piece together the nature of the substance. As
I said, the sample is too degraded for one-hundred-percent
certainty, but I am satisfied that this is what we have here."

"Based on your ancestor's notes?"

Witherspoon nodded. "Once I found one or two
of the elements, I was able to predict the others based on Elias's
formulas. I would find more still if I had a better sample. I know
what to look for, you see
—
now that my suspicion has been aroused." He glanced at
Olimpia, blushed and averted his eyes.

Gessler was still shaking his head. I don't
think he had ever ceased. "Well, if it doesn't work, then what is
the point of the substance at the murder scene?"

"I cannot deduce a reason for it, Inspector.
I can only tell you what it is. And believe me, it is what I say it
is."

"The Elixir of Life."

"Yes."

"Well, let me ask you this, Mr. Witherspoon.
What would be the effect of this elixir if administered to a human
being?"

"As constituted per Elias's formula? Death,
most likely."

"Well, there it is, then!" Gessler exclaimed,
turning to Olimpia and I. "A dead end."

Olimpia raised a finger as a thought occurred
to her. "Mr. Witherspoon," she began, "could the formula be altered
in some way so that it might cause a kind of deathlike trance in
the subject—without actually killing him?"

"But Miss Coppelius," Gessler objected, "you
heard the man. He said himself that the substance is fatal."
Gessler seemed relieved to be rid of Witherspoon's elixir.

If so, then it was Witherspoon himself who
disappointed him. "I had not considered that. But now that you
mention it, there was one thing..."

We all looked at him, but he seemed lost in
thought. "Well?" I asked at last, snapping Witherspoon from his
reverie.

"Yes," he said. "Curious. I did find
something strange, but I dismissed it as a mere contaminant.
Considering the circumstances under which the vial was found, I
naturally assumed—"

"What did you find?" Gessler prompted
impatiently.

"Human blood, and ... well ...
lymphocytes."

"What's a lymphocyte?" Gessler asked.

"White blood cells," Witherspoon answered.
"Killer cells. These are produced by the lymph nodes. They protect
the host from infection and what-not."

"And you found that in there? Mixed in with
the elixir?"

"Yes. But in quantities far greater than
would occur naturally in the blood." Witherspoon replied
meditatively. "Oh, goodness..."

"What is it?" I asked.

"I had not taken into consideration that the
biological materials may have been introduced intentionally."

"And what effect would these materials have
on the elixir?" Olimpia asked.

"That is what I must find out, Miss ...
Olimpia." His excitement had made him bold. Not only could he meet
Olimpia's gaze but could call her by name as well. "This will
require more study."

"Then study this, too," I said, pulling
Coppelius' vial from my pocket. Witherspoon raised his eyebrows and
I told him what it was. "It is the vial I took from your father's
laboratory, Olimpia. And you were right, Inspector Gessler. It was
hiding in plain sight, one vial among many."

Gessler smiled. "'The Purloined Letter', Mr.
Poe. You forget: I have learned from the master."

"An investigation should always start with
the obvious. Don't you agree, Inspector?"

"That I do, Mr. Poe! But I must say I rather
prefer the obvious to this lunacy about magic potions. God only
knows where we will end up."

Witherspoon had taken the little bottle and
was holding it up to the light of a lamp, examining it closely. The
liquid inside was a translucent red, a color only hinted at by the
dried crescent in the base of my original vial. The chemist then
took it to his table and, carefully drawing out a sample with an
eye-dropper, prepared a slide for his microscope. His hands were
shaking as he slid the glass plate onto the viewing stage and
clamped it down. He removed his spectacles and squinted into the
eyepiece. We gathered round him as he began rotating the focusing
mechanism.

He abruptly raised his head. "Please!" he
snapped. He must have felt us breathing down his neck. We
straightened and took a step back. He peered into the eyepiece
again and soon began cooing with satisfaction.

"Well, what is it?" Gessler prompted
anxiously.

But Witherspoon only continued turning the
focusing knob with his knobby fingers. In the absence of a reply, I
prepared myself for disappointment. "Best not to get your hopes up,
Inspector. I had believed we were dealing with some sort of
home-brewed laudanum. But we have strayed so far afield, I rather
doubt much will come of this now."

Witherspoon looked up suddenly. "Oh, it's not
laudanum," he said.

"Then what is it?" I asked.

He held up my original vial with its torn
label and crescent of dried liquid in the base. "It is this," he
said, smiling broadly. "The substances in the two vials are
identical, Mr. Poe, lymphocytes and all."

Olimpia gasped.

"Coppelius!" Gessler exclaimed angrily. "I
knew I should have paid more attention to that rascal!"

"But Father could have had nothing to do with
this."

"It is only where the evidence leads," I
said. "The substances from the murder scene and your father's
laboratory are the same, Olimpia. What does that tell you?"

"It tells me there has been a mistake!"

"The only mistake was when I didn't arrest
the old coot when I had the chance," Gessler retorted.

Olimpia turned and bolted for the door. We
gave chase and caught up with her in the sales room. One of the
cops who had accompanied us to Witherspoon's shop had been reading
a newspaper. He looked up with a start. The other, leaning placidly
on the counter, turned and regarded us coolly. "Don't touch me!"
Olimpia snapped when I grabbed her arm to stop her.

"Now, don't do anything rash," I warned.

"Rash? Like convicting a man on the basis of
strange vials and microscopes? I will talk to him. As my father, he
deserves that at least."

"You don't mean to confront him?" I asked,
aghast.

"Of course," Olimpia said. "Do we not owe him
the opportunity to explain the coincidences of these vials?"

"I cannot allow you to go. It might be
dangerous."

"Dangerous? But he's my father, Eddy!"

"Mr. Poe's right," Gessler said. "When
Coppelius discovers that we're on to him, who knows what he'll do?"
He clapped his hands and both cops straightened. "You men accompany
Miss Coppelius to the doctor's house. See that no harm comes to the
lady—and arrest that scoundrel when you get there. Then we'll let
him talk all he wants."

Olimpia started to protest, but then, perhaps
sensing on some level that we were right, relented to have the
policemen escort her home. I wanted to accompany her as well, but
Gessler had other plans.

"Miss Coppelius is in good hands, Mr. Poe.
And as soon as the doctor is clapped in irons, that old scoundrel's
not going anywhere."

"And us?" I swallowed, scarcely wanting to
hear the answer.

Gessler eyed me gravely. "We have an
appointment at the 'Berenice' house." I wished he had not decided
to call it that. The name sent a chill through me. "I want to have
another look—now that I know what we're looking for."

"What
we're
looking for?"

"Of course." Gessler winked. "You, me and
Dupin."

"Oh, joy," I said.

~ * * * ~

Two hours later in Gessler's carriage, we
found ourselves bouncing along a dirt road through the village of
Fordham. Once past the campus of St. John's College—a brand new
collection of squat stone buildings enclosed by an iron picket
fence—traffic had diminished to such an extent that we soon found
we had the road all to ourselves. Gessler urged the driver to
hurry. We sped along the dusty track, following it down into a
gloomy wooded vale through which ran a swift stream banked on
either side by craggy rock bluffs. The air was noticeably cooler as
we passed under a leafy canopy of hickories and oak and across the
little stone bridge that spanned the waterway. I had taken walks
along this very path on many an evening during Virginia's illness.
For me, the route was full of melancholy, a feeling unrelieved by
the purpose of my return. I had never ventured further than the
bridge and no sooner had I commented upon this fact than we had
surmounted the incline beyond and, arriving back in the sunshine,
spied the manor house of a large agricultural estate in which,
Gessler informed me, the 'Berenice' crime—for even I had begun
calling it that now—had been committed.

We rang the bell and were greeted by a
servant and shown into the parlor. We were soon joined by the
master of the estate, a Mr. Landor, a broad, weathered-looking man
perhaps twenty years my senior. His wife—whose name had indeed been
Berenice, a fact that had far more meaning to Gessler now than when
he had first learned of it—had recently died of consumption and had
been laid to rest in the family crypt built into the cellar of the
house. It was her remains that had been disturbed by the unknown
intruder.

The clockwork Burton, if I were to have my
guess.

"Facts have come to light, Mr. Landor, that
the defilement of your wife's remains may be connected to other
crimes that have been committed in the city."

A shadow passed over Landor's face. "A
lunatic grave robber on the loose?"

"Far worse, I'm afraid: a murderer. Connected
to your case, nevertheless."

Landor knit his brow. His graying side
whiskers grew profusely along the lines of his jaw above a high
collar. Though careworn, he looked a vigorous and healthy man,
despite his age. "I am at your service," he said after a pause.
"Whatever I can do to help." He clasped his hands behind his back
and paced in thought, before turning. "What I don't understand,
Inspector, is that whoever did this would have had to break in and
find his way down into the crypt. This was no crime of opportunity
committed by some passing madman. But a deliberate, calculated
act." He shook his head in disbelief.