Scowling, John Chanler’s father turned to Byrnes. “Inspector, isn’t it the usual procedure to handcuff persons under arrest?”
“Dr. Warthrop is not under arrest.”
“I think the mayor may have something to say about that.”
“He may indeed, Mr. Chanler, but until he does . . .” Byrnes shrugged.
“Oh, he will. I assure you he will!” He whirled on Warthrop. “This is entirely your fault. I shall do everything in my power to see you prosecuted to the full extent of the law.”
“What is my crime?” asked the monstrumologist.
“That question is better put to my daughter-in-law.”
“Then I shall put it to her—the moment she is found.”
Chanler stared at him, and then looked quizzically at Byrnes.
“Mrs. Chanler is missing,” the chief inspector informed him.
“John has taken her,” Warthrop opined, “but I have hope that he will not harm her. If that was his intention, he would have done it here.” He addressed Byrnes urgently. “Time is of the essence, Inspector. We must get the word out immediately.”
“The word, as you say, will most certainly not ‘get out,’” snapped Chanler. “And if I see a single mention of the Chanler name in the obscurest fish wrapper, I shall sue you for everything you have, do you understand? I will not have the name of Chanler besmirched or sullied in any way!”
“It isn’t a name,” answered my master. “It is a human being. Would you have her suffer the same fate as those we found in this house?”
Chanler brought his face close to Warthrop’s and snarled, “I don’t care what she suffers.”
The monstrumologist exploded. He seized the larger man by the lapels and slammed him into a bookcase. A vase toppled off and shattered on the floor.
The object of my master’s wrath did not fight back. His cheeks glowed, his eyes danced wickedly. “What are you going to do? Kill me? That’s what you so-called monster hunters do, isn’t it? Kill what frightens you?”
“You mistake disgust for fear,” said Warthrop to Chanler.
“Pellinore,” von Helrung pleaded. “Please. It solves nothing.”
“She deserves it, Warthrop,” growled Chanler. “Whatever she receives she has earned. If not for her, my son never would have gone on that hunt.”
“What are you talking about?” the doctor demanded. He gave Chanler a violent shake. “What is her fault?”
“Ask him,” said Chanler, with a jerk of his head toward von Helrung.
“All right now, boys. Let’s play nice,” rumbled Byrnes. “I don’t want to shoot either of you—much. Dr. Warthrop, if you please . . .”
Warthrop released his captive with a frustrated groan. He whipped away, took a few steps, then turned back. He punched his finger in the direction of Chanler’s nose.
“I am not frightened, but you have every reason to be! If there is any credence to our notions of heaven and hell, it will not be me who spends all eternity wallowing in shit! May God damn you for loving the precious name of Chanler more than the life of your own son! Explain that upon the Day of Judgment—which may come sooner than you expect.”
“Are you threatening me, sir?”
“I am no threat to you. What visited this house is the threat, and it remembers, Chanler. If I understand what drives him at all, you are next.”
We returned to the von Helrung brownstone, where the doctor washed the filth from his face and hair and disposed of his ruined riding cloak. Von Helrung was clearly shaken to his marrow, burdened with guilt—if only we had made our expedition earlier when Muriel had failed to call—and with grief—Bartholomew had been with him for years.
Warthrop was nearing the end of his considerable endurance. Several times he literally stormed the door, vowing to search every avenue and street, backyard and alleyway, until he found her. Each time he made as if to flee, von Helrung pulled him back.
“The police are her best hope now, Pellinore. They will spare no man to find her; you know this, mein Freund.”
The doctor nodded. Despite—even because of—Archibald Chanler’s influence, no man would remain idle while John was loose. And Chief Inspector Byrnes had a reputation for ruthlessness. It was Byrnes, after all, who had invented that special form of interrogation called “the third degree,” which some critics rightfully characterized as torture.
“What was Chanler talking about?” the doctor asked von Helrung. “That nonsense about this being her fault?”
Von Helrung smiled weakly. “He was never very fond of Muriel, you know,” he offered. “He wishes to blame anyone else but John.”
“It brought to mind something Muriel said,” the doctor continued, his bloodshot eyes narrowing at his old mentor. “She told me it was my fault. That I sent him into the wilderness. It is exceedingly odd to me, Meister Abram, how everyone involved in this matter blames someone other than the person who actually did send him there.”
“I did not tell John to go.”
“It was entirely his idea? He volunteered to risk his life in search of something that he had no faith existed?”
“I showed him my paper, but I never suggested . . .”
“Good God, von Helrung, can we quit these silly semantic games and speak frankly to each other? Is our friendship unworthy of the truth? Why would Muriel blame me and why would Archibald blame Muriel? What do either of us have to do with John’s madness?”
Von Helrung folded his arms over his thick chest and bowed his head. He swayed on his feet. For a moment I feared he might keel over.
“All seeds must take root in something,” he murmured.
“What the devil does that mean?”
“Pellinore, my old friend . . . you know I love you as my own son. I should not speak of these things.”
“Why?”
“It serves no purpose but to cause pain.”
“That’s better than no purpose at all.”
Von Helrung nodded. Tears glistened in his eyes. “He knew, Pellinore. John knew.”
Warthrop waited for him to go on, every muscle tense, every sinew taut, steeling himself for the blow.
“I do not know all the particulars,” his old master went on. “On the day he left for Rat Portage, I asked him the same question you now ask me: ‘Why? Why, John, if you do not believe?’”