Seward prayed that death would come quickly. He had willed his
body to science, to be used in a classroom at his alma mater. He took
comfort from the fact that in death he would help to inspire future doctors
and scientists.
After a time, he remembered the watch, still nestled in his left hand.
He turned it over. Half past six! For an instant, panic overtook him.
Damn it to hell. He had overslept. Seward staggered to his feet. An
empty glass syringe rolled off the table and shattered on the grimy
wooden floor. A small, smoked brown bottle of morphine was about to
follow the fate of the syringe, but he quickly caught the precious liquid,
untying the leather belt from his left bicep with a practiced movement.
Normal circulation returned as he rolled down his sleeve and returned
the silver monogrammed cuff link to his frayed dress shirt. He buttoned
up his vest and slipped on his jacket. Wallingham & Sons were the finest
tailors in London. If his suit had been made by anyone else, it would
have disintegrated ten years ago. Vanity dies hard, Seward thought to
himself with a humorless chuckle.
He had to hurry if he still wanted to make the train. Where was that
address? He had put it in a safe place. Now, when he needed it, he could
not recall where exactly that was. He overturned the straw-filled
mattress,
inspected the underside of the wobbly table, and peered under the
vegetable crates that served as dining chairs. He sifted through piles of
aged newspaper clippings. Their headlines spoke of Seward's current
preoccupation: gruesome stories of Jack the Ripper. Autopsy photos of
the five known victims. Mutilated women posed, legs open, as if waiting
to accept their deranged killer. The Ripper was deemed a butcher of
women—but
a butcher is more merciful to the animals he slaughters.
Seward had reread the autopsy notes countless times. Loose pages of his
theories and ideas written on scrap paper, torn cardboard, and unfolded
matchboxes fluttered around him like windblown leaves.
The sweat flowing from Seward's brow began to sting his bloodshot
eyes. Damn, where had he put it? The Benefactor had taken enormous risks
to get him this information. Seward could not bear the thought of disappointing
the only person who still believed in him. Everyone else—the
Harkers, the Holmwoods—all
thought he had taken leave of his senses.
If they could see this room, Seward knew, they would feel justified in that
belief. He scanned the crumbling plaster walls, which bore the evidence
of his morphine-induced
rants, his wild insights handwritten in ink, coal,
wine, even his own blood. No madman would be so obvious. He was
certain that these writings would one day prove his sanity.
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